Uhhhhh...

so it's not really been my week.

Tonight the dryer was still running after I put a large load of whites in it this afternoon. We got our used Maytag W&D from a girl who had them in storage, complete with a packed lint trap and a load of her clean, dry clothes. When we moved, we found out our washer had a small oil leak that apparently wasn't big enough to worry about, according to our appliance-handy friend, but was still big enough to leave a ghastly mess behind. Our handy friend did say the set was probably on its last leg(s). And I'm growing more skeptical of the washer every week. Two days ago it was lub-dubbing along, and then some pesky GRUNGHs and skaweeeeeeeeeeeeeks began issuing forth. It's been awhile since it's done my favorite noise, though, the--KACHONK-KACHONK-KACHONK-KACHONK--that signals an unbalanced load. That's a fun noise. That means I get to drop whatever I'm doing, run to the laundry room, push the washer back into place and sit on top of it until the cycle is over. It's of no use to try to redistribute the load; the machine is too picky. So tonight I was extremely bugged by my dryer as well, until I remembered that I had never reset it to "High Heat," and it was still churning away on "Air Fluff." Grrrrr. However, lest anyone be smirking, last week, with all the right settings, that old almond Maytag DID take over an hour to partially dry a load consisting of two bath towels, a hand towel, a couple of kitchen towels and a handful of washcloths.

****
This week I called Jason while he was working.

"Hey--you know how we're always so busy?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, I went ahead and took care of one thing for us."

"What's that?"

"Uh, well, I deleted our e-mail program off the computer."

Yes, our computer lied its hiney off to me. I was trying to clean up some programs that we never use, since we are running out of room on our hard drive, thanks to all the pictures I've been taking. I thought I was deleting some other stuff, and somehow, Outlook Express got thrown into the mix. And seeing as how our good ol' computer friend Leo is in China for this right now (Congrats, Jon & Kimberley!) , we're up the creek without a paddle.

In feel-good news, I made a chocolate peanut butter pie today for Jason and he loved it.

Need Hangers?

Last summer when Helen was still a bean, I had a fabulous wardrobe. Maternity clothes used to be just awful, but thanks to our friends at Old Navy, Gap and Motherhood, a woman can now carry a child to term in style. Thanks to Lynette who let me borrow her preggy clothes, and to a few other women who offloaded their wardrobes on me, I had some cute, fashionable clothes to wear during a time most women don't feel cute and fashionable.

And I snickered to myself the whole time, comparing the up-to-dateness factor of my maternity clothes with my regular clothes. My normal clothes lost. Big time.

When we moved, our closet space was cut at least in half, if not more. I was forced to go through my clothes. With much glee, I tossed. Out went the old stuff that I hadn't worn for a couple of years. And the stuff that was just hanging there, good for nothing, not even paying closet rent, that I knew I wasn't going to touch again. I didn't listen to the voices in my head that said, "Oooooooooh, you'd better keep that... maybe some time it'll be just what you need to make a perfect outfit." Yep, I ignored that voice. Because if I felt stupid wearing it the last time I wore it because it was (slightly faded, slightly out of style, a bad cut, the wrong color, all of the above), it for sure wouldn't be enhancing my feelings about myself the next time I wore it EVEN IF it gained back the privilege of gracing my body. I also got rid of some of my *gulp* favorite things that I found out Jason HATED.

What I had left wasn't much. So THAT'S why Joyce kept wearing that purple T-shirt! And I discovered something. I thought I was going to feel like I had a hard knock life, like I was greatly wronged or mistreated by not having a closet full of all the right clothes, poor lil ol' me. I was so wrong, misled by my emotions or by culture or by all the lies I'd been believing about what I HAD to have to be happy. And interestingly enough, I felt a new freedom. Freedom from stuff. And a very practical freedom, too. For instance, if I had to get ready to go, I didn't lose time picking out clothes. (Guess it'll be the purple T-shirt. That was a good buy!) I even found myself able to genuinely compliment others on their new cute clothes and not be jealous, but to truly be happy for them. (For me, that's a wow.) I also didn't panic about getting new clothes or have what-if-I'm-stuck-with-this-purple-T-shirt-for-the-rest-of-my-life visions, because I knew that God would provide what I needed when I needed it.

Well, I really didn't have very many clothes, and Jason knew it. I couldn't believe it when he sent Owen to me the day before Mother's Day with a card, and a hundred dollar bill fell out! And Helen gave me a card too--with another chunk-o-change!!

Being the thrifty shopper that I have come to be, I first let the money rest up in a cupboard for a while until I was able to plan a good shopping day. For a girl who usually uses her debit card, large denominations of cash are elative but sobering, inspiring awe and trepidation. (Do I really want to break my $100 on this?) Then I visited various and sundry places of business, scouring the clearance racks. I finally spent the last of it a few weeks ago. All the clothes I bought with this money were new. I got:

a white eyelet lace skirt--very cute
a white Liz Claiborne polo shirt
an orange tank top for layering
a black tank
a white tank
a black/white sleeveless top
brown dress capris
a polka-dotted top with frilly sleeves that make me feel pretty darn cool
casual brown capris
a Nike t-shirt
a supercute sundress with coordinating sweater
2 necklaces
a brown t-shirt
a red Reebok tank top
green shorts--that new really cool shade of green that I'm in love with
black running shorts that even have built-in undies in 'em
a swim suit (a sort-of halter top and a skirt bottom)
a black t-shirt with some cute feminine detailing
a black floral dress top (which I'm planning to return because I brought it home and decided it was a no-go)

I bought all that and even dipped into the cash for some babysitting money! And with some other money--a very paltry sum--I bought a few clothes at the good ol' Economy Shop and a few things off Lynette at her garage sale and a pair of gold sandals at a big box store that starts with W. I'm enjoying my new clothes, but my closet is pretty tightly packed. Soooooo, what can I get rid of now?? I'm trying to be discriminate.

Really, I believe that clothes should make you feel good about yourself when you wear them. But true happiness can't be found in your closet, either!

Kidbits

Today Helen pulled herself to a standing position (repeatedly). She just turned 9 months old on the 3rd.

Helen still hasn't put together your standard issue hands-and-knees crawl, but she is doing an adaptive army crawl which consists of her pudgy arms hauling her legs n' belly forward by sheer might. I'm sure the hardwood floor assists her. (And if we had wall-to-wall carpeting, could we say "carpet burn"?) She nearly went down the stairs the other day, because I didn't realize how fast she was getting at her army wriggle.

Helen reaches for people and squirms to get down.

Helen is giving kisses. Sloppy, open-mouthed, a little toothy, right on the kisser.

Owen and Helen can make each other laugh like nobody's business. They are quite the tag-team with their belly laughs. Owen splits a gut like nothing I have ever heard before. That boy can hardly maintain a standing position when he gets into it. It's like he loses all muscle tone and just melts into a puddle of funny. I'm sure he's wet his pants multiple times while laughing, because he sure has lost his manners (i.e. shot a bunny, stepped on an African barking spider) a few times during an especially great laugh. If I could find a way to bottle that laughter and market it, I'd be turning my thermostat down to 72! (see following)

Owen and Helen had their first swim of the summer at Ms. Kaiser's pool on Saturday. They used swim rings and LOVED it. We were able to let go of Owen, and he could handle the water by himself. Helen was irritated when we took her out of her floatie, and squirmed to get back into it. She loved Blueberry the dog until his overly aggressive doggy kisses knocked her over backward and her head met the cement--just after I grabbed that picture.

Owen loves music and request-demands it most of the time. He listens to his VeggieTales Christmas CD 3 or 4 times a day. He loves all musical instruments. He loves when Grandpa W. plays his violin, and makes pleading requests for encores. He loves to be in the worship service at church, and thinks it is his right to go up on stage afterward, because after all, his daddy plays bass. He loves our old piano and can pick out all the C's. His keyboard, a lovely handmedown from Aunt Les, finally ran out of battery juice--YES, thank you LORD!!

Owen likes to help me empty the dishwasher. However, for various reasons, I've only run it once since we took our Indiana trip. (One reason was an unmentionably high electric bill, which is also why our thermostat is set on 80.)

Owen loves thunder and roosters, both of which get a hand clap to imitate. Didn't you know a rooster clapped? Paw Paw's battery-operated, noise-activated rooster needs a nice, loud clap to make him crow.

Owen also has a fascination with all things mounted on the ceiling and walls. Lights, fans, doorbells, air fresheners, thermostats. Clocks and smoke alarms are his specialty. I'm seriously considering making his next birthday cake in the shape of a smoke alarm. He would love it. Tonight before bed, he gave Helen and me kisses and then trod right past us to stare fixedly at the smoke alarm. His dream came true when I set it off baking cookies today. (No comments from the peanut gallery.)

Owen got tucked into bed tonight with Elmo and a Little Tikes pipe wrench.

Night-night or "Naht-naht!" as Owen says.

Free Lunch

I think that my garden has an invisible sign that welcomes all wildlife to come and taste thereof. My one lone canteloupe that withstood my bad gardening habits met an untimely end and became a gourmet meal for something with a small mouth. It was nibbled perfectly in half. I suppose I could play CSI and take a bite mold. Ha. CSI:Garden of Desolation. I had such high hopes for my garden. Unfortunately, earlier this year when I planted 3 rows of beans and 3 rows of zipper peas, I planted them too deep, and only a quarter-row of beans came up and 3 pea plants raised timid heads. Our tomato plant is doing all right, but everything else is merely half-hearted.
I spent some therapeutic time in the kitchen yesterday, baking whole wheat bread, banana bread and veggie pie. I even snipped fresh herbs into my pie dough--thyme, to be exact. I diced all my vegetables, cut up some more fresh herbs--thyme, rosemary, sage--and cooked it all up with a Parmesan sauce. It's a surefire way to get Owen to eat his vegetables. (In a pie, go figure. With a cup of sweet tea, too.) Is this like adding applesauce to cookie dough and calling it a serving of fruit?




The "GVP" on the crust stands for what else but Garden Vegetable Pie. Yummy. After sharing it with the in-laws for lunch today, it is gonzo.

Mom glamour

The other morning after breakfast, I heard the sliding door open and a loud, excited voice announcing, "Himey! Himey!" (Owenspeak for Kitty) Owen somehow managed to grab the kitty, and then, misunderstanding? my instructions, brought it inside and sat in his booster seat to hold it more adequately and securely. My, what big arms you have, Owen.






And yesterday afternoon, I gave Helen a drink. She's now weaned to formula, and we're experimenting with a sippy cup specially designed for transitioning from bottle to cup (sippy cups are NOT created equal). After her afternoon nap, she usually gets juice in her cup, but I tried good old cow's milk, vitamin D, homogenized, pasteurized. On a side note, one brand here now is selling for a whopping $6/gallon. We need a cow. Helen guzzled her milk happily, albeit a tad messily.



















And then I nearly stepped into a suspicious liquid and realized why her level of milk went down so fast. Not only was she drinking the milk, but she was also spilling it, in all manners-- spurting down her front, dripping down her neck, pooling under her head and back. Nasty. She was delighted. A genuine milk bath. What's next, honey and lavender? (It's good for the complexion, Mom!)














So while supper was in the oven, I abandoned kitchen clean up for kiddie clean up.














Along came big brother and stated that, in his opinion, Helen should not be alone in the tub, and he was the exact person needed to bring her companionship, and shame on Mommy for almost allowing Helen to be so abandoned by her big brother. How generous of him. He really just saw her playing with HIS bath toys, and jealousy took over. This was Owen's second bath of the day.

Before bedtime, he needed yet another bath, because we slaved in the flower beds after supper, removing white rocks to replace with pine straw. We got a small section done. And only encountered one ant bed. Blast those stupid things. At least I got away with only about 5 bites this time. These are not the sweet little sugar ants I knew as a girl in Indiana--the ones I loved to watch industriously building their homes. These are fire ants, the kind that bite, make you jump up and down, think bad words, create instant fury. The bites itch for days. Blast them! They so ruin a picnic.

Life on the Back Porch

Along with some great vegetables, I nabbed these flowers from my mother in law's garden while they were away. (With prior permission/suggestion/request from her.) I have always loved zinnias. They are such friendly flowers. And they're easy to arrange.









The other afternoon, Owen was doing his best to get the kitty, who was doing her best to hide from his clutches. It is amazing to me how the cats let Owen haul them around, not even giving him a warning scratch. He will carry them in various backwards and upside down positions, almost squeezing the life out of them. When he finally gets one, he climbs up into a chair and holds it tightly--Owen gleeful, cat quietly panicked. They've learned to stay away from him now.














By the way, this sweet little thing needs a home. She is learning to catch live things and turn them into dead things. (That's a good thing if you live in the country.) Can you mail a cat?















I was so sweetly touched when I saw Owen's treasures in the trunk of his car--two withered petunia blossoms. (Never mind the fact that I have been working with him NOT to pick flowers.) He saw me picking some zinnias and some hydrangeas and talking about how pretty they were. I'm glad he appreciates them, but we can't just go around picking any flowers we like now, can we? If I did that, I'd be in serious trouble with the city.















And the other day, I saw a butterfly resting on the outdoor tile. I wonder if it had seen better days? It had some apparent battle wounds. (Maybe it met up with the kitty?) I saw the butterfly again today, or maybe it was another one, and I saw the kitten scoping it out. I held my breath as the cat pounced--I didn't want to witness the murder of a butterfly--but fortunately the butterfly was quick enough to save its own life.

What’s your reaction when someone unknowingly inserts a huge high-heeled foot into her mouth when talking to you? My gut reaction is an ugly little feeling that wants to speak words that will make that person feel like an idiot worm. Nice, huh? Polite too! Right.

For instance, “That kid just has a really funny look—big bug eyes and a wide mouth--he looks like an alien. (Confidingly)--You know he has some kind of syndrome or something. He’s just weird. Bless his heart.” Doesn’t that make you want to lie and blurt, “My husband was born with three eyes, 12 fingers and pointy ears, and he had to have multiple operations, but not before other kids made fun of him constantly, so badly traumatizing him that he couldn't stop wetting his bed until just last week,” and watch her backpedal as fast as she can? “Really? I’m so sorry, etc, etc.” And then maybe you gently (or guiltily) counter with "No, not really, but what if?"

It is sobering to me how quickly a person’s true thoughts and attitudes come out in speech. You may have met someone 5 minutes ago, and already you can pick up that they are prejudiced or self-centered or lazy or uncaring—the list can go on. All by what they say and the way it is said.

I know I have stepped on more than my fair share of toes. How embarrassing. And how awful to know that what I say can reveal something ugly that’s in my heart, and that that ugliness can hurt someone else deeply even without me even knowing it.