I am running away from home. Don’t try and stop me.

As far as my destination is concerned, I’m not all that picky. Some less-traveled European berg along the Normandy coast, some as-yet-undiscovered-by-tourists island where locals sit at brightly-painted cantina tables swapping stories. Or Morocco. Would I have to wear a burqha in Morocco? Just someplace where the passage of time is unimportant. Somewhere without schedules. And without laundry.

I’m not sure exactly which straw broke the proverbial camel’s back. Maybe it was the child who swore that he’d already unloaded the dishwasher, despite irrefutable evidence to the contrary.

Or maybe it was the shopping cart that rolled off the curb while I was putting groceries in the car, tipping over on its side, leaving two dozen eggs to hemorrage slowly on the blacktop…

…or the myriad cross-county trips in a vehicle with a broken air conditioner…

…or the fact that after an entire winter of complaining about the fact that the cold weather had rendered my garage-door opener  just that—an OPENER, and not a CLOSER, which meant that I had to get out of the truck, pull the release cord, jump up and grab the door and pull it down by hand (no small feat since there isn’t a handle on the outside of the door), and then upon returning home had to squeeze my fingers underneath the closed door and lift it all the way up, then fight to get it back on track so it would stay open for me to back the truck in (inhale)—after all these months, the release cord BROKE, so now the garage door opener is just a big black box o’nothin’ hanging from the ceiling…

…or the dog who managed to wrap her chain around me before bounding toward the yard, nearly severing my leg at the ankle, or the senile cat who’s taken to jumping up on the kitchen counter and drinking out of my water cup, knocking it over in the process.

Or maybe—just maybe—it was the fact that Mason not only learned to say “SHUT UP!” this week, but also how to turn doorknobs, which is oh-so-convenient since I didn’t realize when we built the house that we were going to have another child so I picked the interesting, egg-shaped doorknobs that don’t fit inside the plastic keep-your-child-from-opening-doors covers; OR the fact that I have had it UP TO HERE with packing a school lunch every morning for the 6 year-old who is neither a sandwich person nor a macaroni-&-cheese person, nor a—well, you can pretty much just fill in that blank with anything other than candy, because I have yet to find out what kind of person she is; OR the fact that the 14 year-old has tricked-out her trademark eye-roll by adding a Clint Eastwood-style upper-lip sneer; OR the 10 year-old who agreed to play with the 6 year-old on the condition that she pay him in Easter candy….

You know I could go on….

In the tumultuous years between junior high and high school, I planned to run away several times. We had a heavy, solid wood double garage door that sounded like a freight train when it opened, so I’d prop a tire underneath it before I’d go to bed, thinking I could just slide underneath unnoticed. I always changed my mind. But once I was so mad at my father that I actually snuck down to the garage with my packed duffle bag, only to find the door closed and locked, the tire propped up against the wall. That was the end of my runaway aspirations.

During a summer trip to Europe, I ditched my school group and hopped the train across Germany to visit the blond Bavarian guy I’d fallen in love with in West Berlin. There was something so liberating about being on my own at that point in my life. The next morning, my roommate called to tell me I’d better get my butt back to the hotel, because she was running out of things to tell the chaperone about where I was.

I read a short story once. I mean, I’ve read more than one short story, of course. I’m just referring to one in particular. I think it was in my Good Housekeeping magazine. My mother keeps renewing my subscription. I guess she’s hoping one day maybe it will elevate my housekeeping to the realm of “good,” or at least, “okay.” So far…notsomuch. But I really love the magazine, so I hope she doesn’t give up on me just yet.

I was going somewhere with that…Oh, yeah—short story. Got it. Anyway, it was about this woman who runs away from home. She checks into a hotel, orders room service, goes to the spa, watches whatever the heck she wants on tv without anyone complaining that Suite Life on Deck is on and it’s an episode they’ve only seen 17 times. She actually—get this—puts her dishes out in the hallway for someone else to wash when she’s through with them. And she gets to eat her own dill pickle spear without three sets of forlorn eyes begging her for it. And she can have a glass of wine at lunchtime because she’s not going to have to drive to pick anyone up from school. Her family calls to ask when she’s coming home…and she tells them she doesn’t know.

In the end, of course, she packs her bags and catches a cab to the airport, where I’m certain she must have had a few lemondrop martinis before boarding. She probably convinced herself that her family would have a renewed sense of appreciation for her when she returned, that they would start putting their own dishes in the dishwasher and feeding the dogs without having to be repeatedly reminded over the course of 3 hours.

And I’m pretty sure she was right…for a day or two.

Up until last June,  I hadn’t spent a night away from my kiddos in nearly 14 years. Hadn’t woken up to a child-free house, hadn’t gone a day without somebody calling me from across the house to come wipe at least one body part. So when one of my writing buddies asked if I was going to the Writers’ League of Texas annual Writers and Agents Conference, I couldn’t help but feel that twinge of exhilaration at the thought of going off on my own for a few days. A hotel room. Alone. No noise. Nobody calling me to come wipe anything.

So I went. And it was wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, that when it came time to pack my bags on Saturday night, I was a little sad. I missed my family terribly—I called home several times a day just to hear their voices. But I could have used one more day—just one more day of quiet. I spent a few hours that last night just sitting on the bed doing nothing. It was blissful.

Back at home the next day, I was greeted by an offensive-line worthy rush at the door. There were some shouts of “MOMMY!!!” and “yea!!!” and “I missed you so much!” There were eight arms wrapped around me and a couple of sets of feet trying to climb up me. And somehow I managed to hug all four of them at the same time while dragging them to the couch for some much-needed snuggle time. It’s amazing how much you can miss somebody—a bunch of somebodies. And we haven’t even gotten to the ‘welcome home’ I got from The Hubby yet. And we’re not going to, either.

So maybe I don’t want to run away. I mean, these people might drive me crazy at times, but I love them. Fiercely. I’ve got a pretty sweet gig. Not a day goes by that they don’t prove once again how much God must love me to have planted me squarely in their midst. And while I realize I need some alone time now and then, for the most part, whatever I do is better when I do it with them.

But if I suddenly turn up missing, you might want to check Starbucks….

It is March. I realize that may not be a newsflash for most of you, seeing as how it’s been March for a while now. But I have to stop and think about things like what month it is. I was just wondering this morning why they don’t put a little digital calendar on vehicle dashboards. I mean, my rearview mirror tells me the temperature, which is not only useless—I mean, once I’m in my car, it’s a little late to say “oh, 34 degrees, guess I’ll be needing long sleeves and warm shoes.”—but a little mean-spirited, don’t you think? I’m already stuck in traffic and the only radio station that’s not on commercials is playing Gordon Lightfoot and I can’t reach my Santana CD because it slid down on the passenger floorboard and the baby is screaming because he wants me to hand him Curious George which wouldn’t be a problem if I was all stretchy like Mrs. Incredible and if he wanted Curious George then why the heck did he throw him in the way-back, AND you have to remind me that when I get wherever it is I’m going I’m going to be walking across the parking lot with 4 kids in 34 degrees?

But the date, now that would be helpful. Having “March 8″ displayed on my dashboard all day might allow it to sink into my subconscious—or maybe even into my conscious, although I highly doubt that—so that later on when I need to know what day it is I might just possibly be able to at least get the month right.

But I digress….

The reason that March is so significant is that The Hubby and I first met and began dating in March. At least, I think it was March. I’m fairly certain it was. It could have been February, but it would have had to be late February, because we weren’t together on Valentine’s Day. I’m almost positive it was March.

And this March marks the 24th anniversary of the date we met. Twenty-four years. Wow. That’s considerably more than half my life. Well, not considerably more. Somewhat more. A little bit more.  A smidge, really.

There’s a kind of interesting story behind how we met. And I fully intend to share it with you. Eventually. I’ve been trying to share it for days. A couple of weeks, if we’re going for accuracy here. But every time I try to sit down to the keyboard, someone throws up, or walks in with an eye full of goop that needs to be cleaned, or I go to get Mason up from his nap and realize that he’s nowhere near over his stomach virus. My absolute first priority has been working on the adoption fundraising, but I really haven’t gotten much accomplished, because I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time wheedling and cajoling a certain 10 year-old moppy-headed boy to take his medicine. And once everyone settles down, there’s the growing pile of  laundry that inevitably follows any plague outbreak.

So I still hope to share the story of how The Hubby and I met before our anniversary month is over. Seriously. Eventually….

I had planned to do it yesterday. Actually, that’s not true. I had planned on spending the day with my manuscript, seeing as how last night was my writers’ guild meeting and I hadn’t picked out a scene to bring for critique. In fact, according to my word-processing program, I haven’t touched the electronic version since January 10. Whew—good thing I’d have an entire day to work on it. Then I realized that we were going to the zoo, and “going to the zoo” and “sitting at my kitchen table reviewing my manuscript” are pretty much mutually exclusive.

So, the zoo it was. Now, it is worth mentioning that not only is it Spring Break—and we home schoolers know to avoid public places during spring break—-but yesterday was 1/2 price day at the Zoo. Unfortunately, sometimes having two in public school and two in home school means that you have the worst of both worlds—especially when it comes to taking weekday field trips during the school year. And with the adoption costs looming over our heads, I am loathe to let go of any money on non-essentials, so there is no way I can justify spending $52 to go to the zoo on a full-price day. The only way I let myself talk me into going on 1/2 price day was by reminding myself that we have asked the kids to sacrifice our yearly vacation to visit grandparents and cousins and hang out on the beach—the highlight of any non-Disney year—-so that we can put that money towards saving this little child.

So I decided that if we left early enough, the crowds wouldn’t be a problem. Unfortunately, I figured “early enough” meant “in time to arrive about the time the zoo opens.” In reality, “early enough” was probably about an hour before opening. But I didn’t know that at the time, so we’ll discuss it later, when it fits into the whole storyline.

I already had our food prepared, clothes picked out—hey, for me, that’s some monumental preparedness. Like, Boy Scout caliber preparedness. I got the kids up—–now, in retrospect, this is where things started to go wrong. The child who takes twice as long to do anything—no, three times as long—-didn’t get out of bed when we told him to. This is coincidentally the child that invariably causes some sort of chaos and discord just as everyone else is walking out the door. There is always a grimace, or a moan, or some sort of melodramatic outburst intended to elicit “Oh, gee—whatever is the matter” from the other residents of MoTopia. Either his only pair of clean jeans isn’t comfortable (since-forever-I-have-always-hated-these-jeans-I’ve-told-you-a-thousand-times-I-hate-them), or he can’t find his shoes and yes he put them back on the shoe shelf someone else must have moved them and it doesn’t matter that nobody else has a motive for moving them—–I mean which one of us would want to move his shoes KNOWING what trauma it would inflict on the entire family?—- or oops he forgot to go to the bathroom when he woke up so now we’re all going to end up sitting down and waiting for 15 minutes because for some reason this kid can’t take care of business in less than 15 minutes….you get the picture. And for the record, all of those things happened yesterday morning, plus a few more.

So, finally we got in the car—only 10 minutes behind schedule—and headed to the zoo. Now, I knew the zoo would be crowded. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Spring Break + 1/2 price admission = catastrophe.  But hey—we’d be there around the time the zoo opened. It would be all those losers that showed up an hour AFTER opening who would suffer.

Five miles from our exit, the electronic TxDOT sign over the highway declared, “Expect delays at University exit.”

Guess what exit goes to the zoo….

No, not AT the exit, by the way, but three miles BEFORE the exit, traffic slowed to a crawl, and the two right lanes froze.  And the traffic remained sloth-slow all…the…way…to…the…zoo.

I think we parked in a neighboring city. We hiked 20 minutes to the zoo entrance behind an elderly couple who were all lovey-dovey and wanted to walk side-by-side. I hope The Hubby and I are still all lovey-dovey at that age. I also hope we are cognizent enough of our surroundings to walk single file on narrow pathways. The first chance we had to veer off, we did, beating the crowd to the entrance plaza where we joined about 25,000 other people waiting to get tickets. Funny thing about 1/2 price day during spring break—-families with one or two kids, they figure the savings isn’t worth the headache and go another day. No, only families with four, five, six children—-or extended families who take bring all their aunts and uncles and cousins and grandma and grandpa—those are the families that say hey, we’re all about 1/2 price day. I know this because they were all in front of me in line.

At some point during our visit, the zoo reached capacity. Evidently, “capacity” is Latin for “good luck getting through here with a stroller, Loser.”  

But we really did have a fabulous day. The weather was perfect, and I had girded myself with major prayer on the way there. Chicken Little had a few anxiety moments when the other chickens failed to recognize the difference between situations requiring side-by-side-handholding and single-file-hand-on-the-shoulder-of-the-person-in-front-of-you. But in the end, she rose to the occasion, and I couldn’t have done it without her help. I reminded them all that today was about making family memories—-the good kind, not the kind that come from unplanned trips to the ER (are there planned trips to the ER?).  And we did a great job. We kept our cool, enjoyed each other’s company, and braved the crowds.

By 4oclock, we had seen everything we wanted to see. We’d even splurged an extra $8 to ride the train to save our tired feet from the 10 minute walk across the zoo. Of course, we had to stand in line on those tired feet for 45 minutes waiting to board the train. But Mason loves trains, and was completely blissfully happy for the entire 3 minute ride.

The 20 minute walk back to the car was infinitely more tortuous now that our feet hurt and our bodies were done with walking.  When you have four children, it is inevitable that you are going to hear the words, ”I can’t walk any further! I’m going to sit down RIGHT HERE. I MEAN it!  I (sniff) can’t (snuff) go on (sob).”

And for the record, Riley reminded me that since I’m the only one with a driver’s license, that really wasn’t an option….

Cold.
My fingers, my toes
And especially my nose.

Cold.
The floor, the toilet seat,
The water when I brush my teeth.

Cold.
The air that stings my chapped, dry skin
When I get out of the car—garage door opener’s on strike again.

Cold.
The Hubby’s mood when I wedge my frosty feet
Between his warm (and famous) knees.

Cold.
I can hardly wait till Summer’s here
So I can complain to all who can hear—

—about heat….

Yes, it is still cold. And I am still whining about the fact that it is cold. What’s more, we were supposed to get more snow this week—THEY promised us snow—and we didn’t. What good is cold without snow? Good for getting out of a nice warm bed and dragging the children to school in the cold, that’s what.

I have a lovely contingent of Great White Northward friends (both the contingent and the friends are lovely, in case you were looking for clarification) who say (with what I think is just a hint of sarcasm) “You should move to Canada.”

No, I’m fairly certain I shouldn’t. Maybe I could spend summers there, when it’s…oh, say…113degrees here in North Texas. Sure, then I’d take it.

I mean, I come from Canadian ancestry, tough Kanuck stock. You’d think I’d be genetically predisposed to dealing with the cold. Makes sense to me. The fact that my father drove a race car has always allowed me to believe I’m genetically predisposed to be an awesome driver. Which I totally am. In racing, the occasional wreck is all part of the sport.

But cold, no. Didn’t get those genes. I don’t know that any of my ancestors came from anywhere particularly known for temperate weather. English, Scotch (neat, thank you), German, Swiss, French, French-Canadian… Maybe my French ancestors came from the French Riviera—it’s warm there, right?

Of course, the irony is that I don’t like hot weather, either. When I was younger, I preferrred cold weather to hot—-because, I reasoned, you can always put on more clothes or blankets, but when it’s hot—well, you can only take so much off before it’s just you and your sweat. And then you’re still hot.

But the older I get, the more cold is not just uncomfortable, but downright painful (and evidently I’m getting older by the minute if the fact that I just used the word “downright” in a sentence is any indication). My nose actually hurts. My fingers and toes get so cold that every little stub and bump is magnified a hundredfold. The base of my spine actually hurts when I walk out the door and that first shock of cold air hits me. And my back is in spasms from the constant shivering.

I have tried the “put on more clothes and blankets.” I have slept in a shirt beneath a sweater beneath a heavy winter robe, with thick fleece pajama pants, socks (two pair), and houseshoes, under a blanket (which I wrap underneath my double-socked, houseshoed feet) and a sheet and a bedspread and another heavy blanket, only to realize that the blankets are just insulating my cold feet like a koozie wrapped around an icy Shiner Bock. Not that my feet are bock; they’d be more Shiner Blonde, but I prefer Bock, so I’m stickin’ with it. And no amount of bundling and blanketing has as of yet resolved the icy nose problem.

I happened to have a brainstorm one frosty night, realizing that the rice-sock heating pads (long tube socks. Fill with plain–not instant–white rice. Tie end. Microwave 3 min. You can thank me later.) could be molded around my face, providing much needed warmth in the central area where my nose is known to reside, without actually surrounding me in a carbon-dioxide cocoon of death. But then my kids came over and said, “Cool—you found our rice socks! Thanks, Mom! You’re the best!” So now the 14 year old has my shiny blue iPod AND my rice sock….

…which I am totally about to go swipe now that I’m sure she’s sound asleep….

I am sick… 

and…. Well, you know the rest. If you don’t, then you need to go buy Bill Cosby’s Himself.  My all-time favorite stand-up routine. I’m talking about laugh-until-you-can’t-breathe funny. Doubled-over-in-tears funny. Seriously, if you’ve never seen it, consider yourself comedically deprived. If you have seen it, feel free to post your favorite lines in the comments. 

Image from Amazon.com

But seriously, I am really sick. Major chest congestion, relentless cough. Those of you who’ve birthed a few babies no doubt understand how terrifying the term “relentless cough” is. For the same reason that I no longer jump rope, I live in fear of being caught off guard by a surprise coughing fit before I have a chance to cross my legs. Those of you who have as yet not offered up your bladder as a prenatal trampoline or had a part of your body referred to as a “canal” are laughing at me. Go ahead. Your time will come. And when it does, maybe I’ll be old enough to have finally surrendered to the joy that is Depends, and you won’t be laughing anymore—not because you feel sorry for me, but because then you’ll realize that laughing is right up there with sudden coughing. Not so funny anymore, is it?  

Where was I? Oh, yeah–I was right here, in my fuzzy pink leopard robe, with my unwashed hair (washed my face, though—huge sense of accomplishment) and my Halls throat lozenge.  

In addition to being sick, I am (here it comes…) tired. Oh-so-very-tired. Exhausted, really. Comatose, bordering on lifeless corpse. Yesterday afternoon about 5pm, I was smiling to myself because any minute He of The Cute Knees was going to walk through the door and deliver me. Being the wonderful man that he is, he would surely send me to my room (which is where I wanted to go in the first place… Some of you get that. The rest of you seriously need to watch the DVD…) and tend to the children. Then the phone rang. My bliss-bubble didn’t burst right away, because The Hubby offered to run by the grocery store on his way home. He always calls from the grocery store to find out what I need.

Sometime between my giddy “Hello?” and The Hubby’s heavy sigh, all that changed. Something that was supposed to work wasn’t working, and whatever was supposed to fix it wasn’t fixing, and the remedy for a non-fixing fix is for Mr. Fix-it to find a feasible fix to fix the faux-fix. Which translates into “all-nighter.” So I handled the witching hour—I mean, the evening family time—on my own: dinner, dishes, refereeing, 15 minutes of WWF-worthy wrestling that we call “the diaper change”, and bedtime.When I finally got all the kids in bed, I was exhausted.

I slathered on a dollop of Vicks vapo-rub, popped a coconut Dum-dum in my mouth to ward off the cough (thinking that I could safely fall asleep, on account of while I could feasibly swallow a cough drop in my sleep and wake up dead, I don’t think I could actually swallow an entire lollipop, stick and all), bundled up in my robe and multiple blankets, cursed the fact that I’ve never followed through on my plan to fashion a nosewarmer out of a Breathe-right strip and Polartec fleece, and collapsed into bed. 

About 2am—I know it was 2am only because later, Riley asked The Daddy what time he finally got home, and he said “2am”—The Hubby finally made it home. I didn’t hear him come in. I didn’t realize he was home until he tried to take the lollipop out of my mouth. 

Evidently I screamed. 

 Turns out he wasn’t so sure about the whole not-being-able-to-choke-to-death-on-a-lollipop-on-account-of-it-having-a-stick-attached thing. He has evidently learned not to underestimate my ability to achieve the impossible.

It was sweet, really—The Hubby caring for me, worrying for my safety, making sure I don’t wake up dead.But somehow all I can think about is how totally and completely unsexy I must have looked, wrapped up in my pink fuzzy leopard robe, lollipop in my mouth—do you think it’s possible to fall asleep with a lollipop in your mouth and NOT drool? yeah, me neither. And by the way, I’m sure my mouth was probably wide open, seeing as how I couldn’t breathe through my nose. Which means that in all likelihood I was making some sort of sleep-type noises that if they were to come from The Hubby would be called ‘snoring,’ but which were totally not snoring because I’m a lady, and ladies totally do not snore—even when they can’t breathe through their nose. Oh, and don’t forget the icing-on-the-proverbial-cake, the fact that I reek of eau d’ Vicks Vapo rub.

Oh yeah, he wanted me….  

The really frustrating thing is that I have a laundry list (oh crap—do you have any idea how much laundry is piling up while I’m throwing my little pity party? And you can’t donate dirty clothes and then just start over with new ones. I know–I asked someone once, and they said you definitely can’t do that) of ‘to-do’s  for the adoption, none of which are becoming ‘done’s. There’s nothing funny in this paragraph. I just had to rant for a second. 

Sick and tired; tired always followed sick. I am both.

 And now if you’ll excuse me, I have a Bill Cosby DVD to go watch. With my legs crossed….

I’ve never been much of a rule-follower. Not even a guideline-follower, really. I’d like to say it’s because I’m a rebel like that–and it might have been true, once-upon-a-time. But these days it’s more a product of the fact that while someone is telling me the rule, I’m most likely wrestling my $300 perscription sunglasses away from the Velcro-Monkey, or talking she-of-the-raging-hormones down from an anxiety attack, or keeping the Soundtrack from strangling the Narrator (or vice-versa), and even if it remotely registers that someone is imparting some sort of high wisdom, the chances of me actually processing, retaining, and later recalling it later are somewhat more remote than the chance of The Hubby buying into my whole “I’m not behind on laundry, I’ve implemented a just-in-time clothing inventory system” spiel. Which I’m sticking to anyway, if you’re interested….

What did this post start out as? Oh—rules. Right. I try to follow the obvious ones. Stick a big ol’ reflective sign in my face, and I’m on board. It’s those little rules of life that smack me upside the head, give me a wedgie, and steal my lunch money. Truth be told, my life veers so far from the ordinary that most of the rules out there don’t really apply to me. I mean, if I were in an accident, whether I had on clean underwear wouldn’t be nearly as relevant as the fact that I FINALLY got the mirrors all perfectly readjusted from the last time The Hubby drove the car—and now they’re going to be all messed up again.

One thing I know for sure is that the rules that would have salvaged one day will be, for the most part, completely useless the next, which might just be the single greatest contributing factor to my particular brand of incompetence.

So here are (in no particular order) an indeterminate (what–you think I have any idea how many there are going to be ahead of time?) number of rules I wish I had taken into account in the past 24 hours.

1. Not all drivers will automatically yield the right-of-way to pedestrians. Not even pedestrians with 4 children in tow crossing the parking lot in 25 degree weather.

2. “The Mixer” is not a 2-person appliance. While it might seem efficient for one person to plug the mixer in while the other attaches the beaters, mixer operation should be limited to one person.

3. Always make sure the mixer is in the “OFF” position before putting it away.

4. Always make sure the mixer is in the “OFF” position before attaching the beaters…even if it’s unplugged at the time.

5. When your pinky finger is stuck in the mixer beaters, screaming “OH S**T!!! WHYDIDYOUPLUGITIN???” could result in your 10 year-old son requiring lifelong therapy.

6. God really knew what he was doing when he put on our pinky fingers. He stuck ‘em on there really well….

7. Making 3 pies at once means any mistake in execution (for example, adding whole eggs instead of only yokes…hypothetically speaking, of course) results in 3 ruined pies.

8. “…without making a mess…” means different things to different people. Especially when eggs are involved.

9. When you drop a cookie, catching it between your leg and the cabinet to keep it from hitting the floor is a valid solution. When you drop an egg, notsomuch….

10. Never give a 10 year old boy a skillet as a tool for crushing peppermints. Unless, that is, you always thought that skillet was just a little too perfectly round to begin with.

11. A trailer hitch ball makes a perfect peppermint crusher.

12. Don’t drop your peppermint crusher on your toe.

13. If you are going to wear pajama bottoms and houseshoes out of the house, you need to be aware that there’s always the possibility that your car could break down, and you could be stranded on the side of the road for 2-1/2 hours waiting for a tow truck in pajama bottoms and houseshoes. In 30 degree weather. 20 minutes from home.

14. Always go to the bathroom before leaving the house. You never know when your car could break down, and you could be stranded on the side of the road for 2-1/2 hours waiting for a tow truck.

15. Wear real shoes. You never know when your car could break down, and you could be stranded on the side of the road for 2-1/2 hours waiting for a tow truck, and have to go to the ladies room so bad that when your hubby shows up you have to borrow his van to drive to the gas station to use the bathroom (leaving him there waiting for the tow truck) and end up having to walk into a public restroom in your houseshoes.

16. Even though modern headlights come on automatically, it is a good idea to familiarize yourself with the process of activating them manually in the event that you somehow bump something on the dashboard and inadvertently turn your headlights OFF while driving down a pitch-black, winding country road while being followed by your husband, who assumes your car has completely failed, and jumps to the conclusion that you must have subsequently suffered a heart attackand died, accounting for the fact that you drove across the opposite lane and almost into a ditch before finally smacking the right button and turning the lights back on. Hypothetically speaking, of course….

The Hubby is an amazing father. Much of this owes to the fact that he is—by his own admission—really a 9 year-old boy in a big man’s body.

But being a good play-mate doesn’t necessarily translate into being a good caretaker. Now, let me start out by bragging on this man a little. Did you know that he is directly responsible for saving two lives? Both, coincidentally, from near-drownings.

One of those lives was my own, when I was trapped underwater in the tangled roots of a cypress tree by a monster current. I had given up hope of mustering enough strength for one final effort to extricate myself and force my head above the surface when his strong hand reached down and pulled me up.

The second—well, actually the first: the story I just told you took place about three years after the one I’m about to tell you. Remember: no particular order, right? Anyway, where was I…oh–the other one  was a 6 year old boy. We were camping with friends and had gone in for a swim. The lake’s maddeningly gentle slope meant that you had to walk halfway to the middle before the water even came up to your hips. One minute, My Future Hubby saw this little boy playing in the water with his ball. When he looked back, the boy had disappeared. He launched himself off of the double air raft we were sharing—launching me off the other side, thankyouverymuch— and pounded that water like Michael Phelps (who was probably still in diapers at the time), and as I watched in awe he ducked under and came up with a very scared little boy.

So in addition to having cute knees, this man is a bona-fide hero.

And in over 14 years of parenting, he has proven to be a very good caretaker. Truthfully, he has a more than decent record when it comes to looking out for the safety of his own children. I mean, he’s never lost one of them. At least, not for more than half an hour–which, in guy terms, doesn’t even come close to being “really lost.” And they’ve all lived through various misadventures, both the kind that leave evidence (like the time Ri fell off our bed head-first onto the clock-radio, raising a huge purple goose egg in the middle of her forehead only 15 minutes before I arrived home ready to take pictures of her for the Christmas cards. “No, we meant to wrap the headband so that the bow sat square in the middle of her forehead. We’re starting a trend.”), and the kind that in and of themselves leave no trail, but are nonetheless revealed by little beings who revel in seeing someone else on the receiving end of trouble for a change.

When Mason wasn’t yet mobile (in conventional terms) and not sitting up on his own, The Hubby left him playing safely on the living room carpet while he came into the kitchen to get a drink. I came into the kitchen from the other room about the same time, and we started chatting about the stuff that married people tend to chat about.

We talked for a few minutes before I asked, “Where’s Mason?”   Now, it’s not that I didn’t trust him when he told me Mason was on the rug. I mean, it’s a fairly self-contained area, and the kid was non-mobile…mostly. What could happen? But somehow we mommies find staring at our children fascinating, so I meandered into the living room to take a gander at him.

I walked around the couch….and no Mason. 

“Honey? Are you sure this is where you left him?”

“Of course I’m sure–you think I wouldn’t remember?”

By now The Hubby was standing next to me looking at the empty space that was supposed to contain a Mason, only notsomuch. It’s not a very big area—it’s basically a 5′X8′-ish rug bordered by a couple of chairs on each short end, an entertainment cabinet on one long side and a couch on the other. If he’d been crawling, he could have motored away. But he wasn’t, so he couldn’t.

So there we were, trying to make sense of the situation. It’s not as if we could look any harder—it was one of those “what-you-see-is-what-you-get” kinda moments. Somebody might have said something along the lines of “Oh my gosh—you lost the baby! I leave you alone for fifteen minutes and you go and lose the baby! Who loses a baby in their own house?” I don’t exactly recall….

Then suddenly, we heard it–like the infamous scene in Poltergeist where the mom is shaking her son, screaming “Where is CaroleAnne? Where is she?” And they both turn toward the television, where CaroleAnne’s muffled voice is coming through the static. Only the sound of Mason’s muffled voice wasn’t coming from the television. It was coming from….the couch?

And that’s when I saw it—the telltale flutter of the skirt around the bottom of the couch. I reached under—hoping it wasn’t some ghoul or goblin, because Poltergeist always did scare the pee outta me as a kid—and grabbed hold of a pudgy little foot. One good tug landed a slightly scared, lint-covered, twelve-pound dust-bunny in a blue romper…

…and landed The Hubby a job sweeping under the couch….

The Hubby loves me. And he does his best to show it, honest he does. After 23 years of intense training, he’s learned to express his feelings. He realizes that I need to hear things like “I love you so much,” and “I find you irresistable.” It took some coaching (and by coaching, I mean that I literally had to tell him things like, “Honey, this would be a good time for you to say, That dress looks amazing on you.”) for it to become almost second-nature for him to dole out the loving affirmations. But even after all my patient guidance and all his diligent effort, it doesn’t always come out right…

Presented for your amusement, a list of things that The Hubby meant as compliments, but that somehow got lost in translation.

“I thought that maybe after I pay the mortage I could set aside some money for you to go get your hair done.” What he means is “Gee, I know you’ve been wanting to go to the salon, but you’re worried about spending the money. I’ll make sure to put it in next payperiod’s budget.” But of course, what I’m thinking is that if HE’S noticed that I haven’t been to the salon in a while, it must really be bad. Like, Bride of Frankenstein bad.

Today, I told him a story related to a baseball game, and I made the comment “…left field, or maybe it was right field. I don’t know which is which.” He listened to the rest of the story and said: “Since you’re a walking encyclopedia, you need to know something. If you’re at home plate, THIS (pointing with his left hand) is left field, and THIS (pointing with his right hand) is right field. It would be really embarrassing for you to know everything else and not know that.”  See, what he meant it “I married me one smart cookie!” But what it came out as…well, notsomuch.

And my personal favorite: “Today I was sitting in church, before the service started, and I noticed how all the women had their perfect hair and their expensive shoes, and nice jewelry that matched their outfits, and I realized that I am so lucky that my wife isn’t as high maintenance as that.”

Yeah, that one kind of goes without explanation, doesn’t it?

It’s a good thing he’s a cute man….

“Oh, I’m so sorry….”

No, that’s not what people say to The Hubby when they find out he’s married to me. It’s the response that often follows the sentence, “My child has Down syndrome.”

I’m not here to chastise anyone. I mean, before I had my own little Flexible Flyer, I might have said that a time or two. After all, society tells us that it’s such a tragedy.

And it was, for a time, back when I lived out a lifetime of fears inside my imagination. But it quickly became apparent that I’d been sold the proverbial bill o’ goods, that the people who told me how terrible Down syndrome was had no idea what they were talking about.

I realize it’s still hard for a non-Downs parent to conceptualize. Having 3 non-Downs children myself, in addition to the velcro monkey, I feel qualified to put things in perspective for you. So here, in no particular order (why do I always feel the need to say that? As if you people would honesty expect anything resembling “order” to spring from a blog titled “Chaos Diaries.”), I give you 10 things that are more tragic than Down syndrome.

1. Having a run in your pantyhose

2. The thought that gas prices might rise above $3 again.

3. The fact that I didn’t get my Christmas tree down until after Mothers’ Day, and it’s almost time to put it up again.

4. Baking a hot, fresh loaf of bread–and then finding you’re out of butter.

5. Opening the jewel case of your favorite CD to find that last time you played it, you took whatever was in the CD player at the time out and stashed it in this case—and now you have no idea where your favorite CD is.

6. Having to vent your dryer out into the laundry room because the plumbers who ran the ductwork thought running the duct up through two stories and an attic out onto the roof would make infinitely more sense than running it 6 inches through the exterior wall, so now it’s always clogged and your dryer takes 3 hours to dry (and even then it doesn’t dry, it just slighty-less-wettens), and poses a fire hazard, so now every time you want to dry a load of clothes you have to open the window (which happens to be over the cat litter box) and prop the box fan in it to suck the hot, humid air out, because as posh as the idea of having an in-home sauna sounds, “black mold eradication” isn’t quite as sexy.

7. Peanut allergy. Especially when your 5 year old rushes into your arms crying after school, because one of her friends grabbed her hand on the way out of the classroom and of course, they ate PB&J for lunch and now she’s afraid she’s going to die any minute.

8. Traveling with 4 children.

9. Going to SuperTorture with 4 children

10. Being 14 years old and spending an hour flat-ironing your hair, only to walk outside in the humidity and have it frizz (which, according to my 14 year old, would also make it onto a list titled: “Things that are more tragic than the end of life as we know it on this planet).

I could go on forever. Seriously–you know I could. And what’s more–I bet you can come up with a few of your own. Leave me a comment, and let me know what things in YOUR life are way more tragic than the fact that you have a child with Down syndrome.

In an interview about her long and happy marriage to legendary preacher Billy Graham, Ruth Graham was asked if Billy had ever made her mad enough to consider divorce. She replied, “Divorce? No. Murder….”

I figure The Hubby, being a huge fan of Rev. Graham, might get a kick out of that quote. I hope so, anyway, because I’m afraid I might have hurt his feelings in one of my blog posts (BTW–when I said that I kept the whole if-he’d-waited-five-minutes-for-the-traffic-to-clear-he-wouldn’ta-had-to-wake-me-up thing to myself…well, according to him, not-so-much).

Let me say, for the record, that The Hubby deserves a medal for putting up with me. He prefers anonymity, and I’m not always so invisible. He is perfectly happy to have nothing in particular going on, and when things start moving a little slow I somehow find ways to get into trouble. When one of my infamous “great ideas” sent us skidding to the brink of bankruptcy, The Hubby held me as I cried on his big, strong shoulder and told me “we’re in this together.”

Yes, if this man were any more perfect, he’d realize he was much too good for me. So when I point out the little foibles of daily husbandry (not to be confused with animal husbandry, which is a totally different thing), it isn’t to detract from his character. It’s more to illustrate that two people are going to clash: they are going to see things differently, trip over each other’s toes. They are going to do things that completely defy what the other perceives as logic and sense. And that’s okay. That’s what keeps it interesting. And I’m all about interesting.

So, when I closed my last post, I had just been informed that we would be going over to Tia Sandra’s house for another big family get-together the next day. Gus’ Tia Sandra (who happens to be my age) is one of my favorite people in the world. She’s one of those absolutely beautiful women who also happen to be gracious and sweet and genuinely nice. Despite the fact that she doesn’t speak English and I don’t understand Spanish (clarification: I speak decent Spanish. However, I cannot understand it. At all.) we’ve still managed to forge a friendship. And she has two wonderful boys (who do speak English), one of whom always brings his guitar and plays Beatles’ tunes for me, so it’s always a treat to get to see them.

But Mason-chasin’ at someone else’s house is exhausting. It will be every bit as physically draining as the reunion, but with the added mental toll of keeping him from unpotting houseplants and testing the bouncibility of various knick-knacks.

After several hours of saying “no-no-don’t,” The Hubby (who would willingly take over the Mason-chasin’, but he hasn’t seen most of these people in thirty years) finally comes to tell me that we can leave. I gather our stuff and make the rounds, hugging all the relatives goodbye with the squirming, wriggling 4 year-old on my hip. I’m pretty sure I’ve made the complete circuit when Gus makes his way to my side. I hand the baby to him, and he smiles. Not an I-love-you-thank-you-you’re-the-best-wife-in-the-world smile. More of a you-are-so-not-gonna-like-this smile.

And he’s not taking the baby.

“The guys need me to play quarterback.”

They need you? Really? The early Americans needed George Washington. Johnny Carson needed Ed McMahon. Timmy needed Lassie (or a decent contractor to come fill in those pesky wells). But I’ve known this man 23 years. I could make you a long list of his good points, his talents, all those attributes that make me the luckiest woman in the world.

Quarterback wouldn’t be on the list.

By this time Mason is beyond overstimulated and way past overtired. He’s only interested in moving and creating havoc. He is meeting my efforts to hold him with extreme resistance, in the form of thrashing and screaming, and I am sure the entire family thinks I am the worst mother in the world.

During a huddle, I make my way around to the side of the house, away from the crowd. There’s a wooden swing tucked away there, and isolated from the noise and motion Mason settles down and snuggles up close to me. We swing, and once in a while a breeze will come through, prompting the angel in my arms to say, “Mommy, wind….” I stroke his hair and kiss his head. I hum a lullaby, and he asks me to sing. This is bliss, the poetry of life.

And then BLAM! The world goes black for a moment, and when the lights come back up there are two men I recognize–a cousin and a cousin-in-law–asking if I’m all right. One of them picks up the football, which has come to a rest several feet away from the swing. I assure them that I’m okay–although I have a hard time hearing my own words over the racket of the birds circling my head. “It was your husband!” They tell me. “He threw it!” Mad quarterback skills, I’m telling ya’….

They go back around the house, and I finally let the tears spill over my bottom eyelid. Mason is rattled. My head really hurts, and I’m having a hard time holding him now that he’s getting squirmy again. If I can just keep it together until Gus comes to check on me. He’ll hold Mason just for a minute while I gather my–

“HUT! HUT!”

Hut? Unless two-below rules are vastly different from regular football, I don’t think “hut” indicates that there will be a time-out while the quarterback goes to check on his injured wife.

I have borne this man four beautiful children–that’s 36 months of pregnancy, 48 hours of hard, pitocin-induced labor, and a cumulative 46 months of breast-feeding (the babies). Not to mention the sleep deficit I’ve incurred as a result–and this is the thanks I get? He hits me in the head with a football and not so much as a “sorry”?

Thirty minutes later he looks over and shoots me a casual “You okay?”

I smile. Not an I-love-you-you’re-the-best-husband-in-the-world smile. More like a I-certainly-hope-you-have-big-plans-for-making-this-up-to-me smile.

“They said you were okay.”

Thumper’s whole “if you can’t say something nice…” line from Bambi never really took root in my etiquette arsenal. So when I don’t respond, The Hubby knows it’s not a good sign.

I don’t know how many options he kicks around before trying again, but he goes with: “It was an accident.”

For the guys reading this, you are about to get–for free–a very valuable piece of advice: “It was an accident” is not the right answer to anything. Ever. Ever infinity.

“You didn’t even come check on me.”

“We were in the middle of the game, and…..”

“I am fairly certain that hitting your wife in the back of the head with a football is grounds for calling a time out!”

More free advice: the right thing to say in this situation is “I’m so sorry, honey. You’re right, I should have checked on you right away. I’m really sorry.” Some women might also require jewelry, but if you’ve chosen your mate wisely a tender embrace will complete the apology sufficiently.

It’s at this point that The Hubby adds, “The game’s almost over–” Almost as in not yet. “–we’re winning.”

Oh, yes. Because I’m completely fine with being hit in the head with a football as long as I get to go home with the star quarterback.

Okay, so that’s sorta true. I mean, he’s really cute. And besides, I figure I can milk this concussion thing for a while. I’m all about the leverage….