Voodoo Theories

I plucked a white hair from my head the other day.  Not just gray, WHITE.  Joel was snoring snoozing peacefully, the boys were tucked in their beds, and I stood before the bedroom mirror in shocked silence at the fat, long and stark white thread that clung to my scalp.

Cael in the daisies, summer 2010

Oh, heck no.

I thought about trimming it so as not to damage the follicle but I immediately had visions of my backyard daisies.  Two summers ago, they grew tall enough to block the sun from reaching the black-eyed susans behind them.  With my garden shears I selectively trimmed the long and gangly stalks to reveal the younger, healthier daisies within.

In two weeks' time, the daisies were four feet tall, eight feet wide, and yelled profanities at me whenever I walked by. 

So here, many months later as I stood in front of the mirror contemplating follicide, I remembered my past mistakes, dropped the scissors and yanked the sucker clean out with my hand.

And I swear I heard a tiny whimper come through over the kids' monitor. I could have yanked another out to test the theory, but I didn't need proof.  I already knew that every time I pluck a gray, a tiny piece of Cael's essence dies along with it.

Kind of like a twisted take on "It's A Wonderful Life", without the life-altering moral and warm fuzzy feelings.

But what is it about young children that makes them find such delight in others' misfortune?  I have a theory.  Earlier this week I wrote about my kids' unnatural attachment to their stuffed animals, and an epiphany I had over the weekend may explain why. 

Maybe, late at night, when I think they're asleep but instead they are playing Blackjack or doing some amateur electrical work in the basement, they pull out their stuffed toys and plan out the day ahead.

"How will we torture Mommy tomorrow?" Cael might ask.

"Paint on Mommy's favorite shirt?"  Graham would suggest.


So then they would yank out Bloose or Barker, or maybe even one of the lesser-loved plush "pals" in their arsenal and subject it to that day's selected infraction, willing it to happen to me.  And then, sure enough, as we complete a "paint by number" that I lovingly selected as a fun activity to reward them for good behavior, bright blue paint gets splashed all over my cream-colored sweater.

I think this Mommy voodoo might also be to blame for the random and seemingly unrelated problems we've experienced in the last year.  Kitchen flood?  Stuffed animal in the toilet.  Crashed hard drive?  See aforementioned electrical work.

I could be wrong, of course.  Maybe it's pure luck, or maybe it's part of being a parent.  But one thing is for sure-- the cat is definitely out to get me.  Cross my heart and hope to die.

Well, I'd better not.

Ism of the Week

Cael has been contemplating his future a lot this week.  Whether it be in reference to his future career or what he'd like to name his children someday (Toot and Cheekerbottom), he has definitely adopted a long-term approach to living.  And just yesterday, Cael considered that the rest of us may have a future too.

"Mommy, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

"I am already grown up."

"But what do you want to do?  I want to be a train 'ductor.  Or a train builder."

"That would be cool, honey.  You can do that if you want."

"But, Mommy, what do YOU want to be?"

"I'm a mommy.  That's my job."

"No, Mommy.  You didn't hear me.  What do you want to DO?"

"Cael, my whole job is to be a Mommy to you and Graham.  I cook your food, clean the house, play with you and teach you things.  I take you to school and to church and with me wherever I go.  I get you up in the morning and put you to bed at night.  That's my job."

"Oh.  That's all you do?  Maybe you should build trains too."

Duplicity

I've heard before that the best reason to have a second child is to make up for the mistakes of the first, and I think there's some real merit to that theory.  For example, we knew to allow Graham to sleep in his crib from the very start rather than hold him all of the time as we had with Cael.  The nonstop "go to sleep" dance wore a path in our bedroom floor and shaved a good year or two off of my life expectancy.  We also learned that, for our children, fruit as a first food was a parenting misstep and guaranteed vegetable rejection down the road.  We offered up homemade "pea" baby food to Graham and it has remained one of his favorite foods to this day. 

But through all of our mistakes and in our infinite parenting wisdom, the best thing I ever did for Graham was to purchase a back-up Barker.

And now for a brief public service announcement:  I would advise all parents to take this step and ward off the nightly search and rescue effort when a stuffed animal is missing.  But do be sure to purchase them at the same time and follow a rotation to create even wear on both animals.  Because if you don't, your back-up who has been waiting idly for his moment in the spotlight will look shiny and new, while the well-loved friend will look worn down and deflated.  Here's a visual of my poorly executed Bloose duplicate in case you need further evidence.

This is your friend.

This is your friend on love.

 Any questions?  No?  Moving on.

You may remember the co-dependent nature of my boys' relationships with their stuffed friends.  Cael can't sleep without Bloose.  Barker doesn't leave Graham's side.  And Bloose and Barker themselves have gotten involved.  A little too involved.

But when Barker #1 went missing a couple of weeks ago, I checked the obvious spots.  Not in the toy basket.  Not under the couch.  Not behind the toilet.  I shrugged my shoulders and traipsed upstairs to retrieve his doppelganger and tuck Graham in, confident that he would go quickly to sleep clutching his blue dog.

All was well until last Friday when, at bedtime, Barker número dos was unaccounted for as well.  Where had he gone?  Bloose was in Cael's bed, so we quickly ruled out a late night rendezvous under the pool table.  As we continued searching, I noticed that Bear and "Cheeky Monkey" were also missing in action.  As long as Barker is present, these friends are expendable.  But because his right-hand dog had gone AWOL, Graham mourned for each one of them, and it broke my heart.

I pulled him out of his bed and instructed him to tear apart his toy closet in case Barker and the gang had been thrown in the stuffed animal bin with his other less-loved friends.  While he sniffled and searched, I picked up some clean shirts off of the floor that Cael had crammed inside the closet rather than putting in his dresser drawer.  When I opened the drawer to put them away, I saw each of Graham's bedtime pals, snuggled amongst Cael's warmer weather clothes.

As I called Graham back to his room, I felt like a rock star.  Not in the wildly promiscuous/drug-induced head-shaving/two-day marriage kind of way, but more like the "I kick bottom" kind of way.  And as amazing as I felt, Graham saw me in an even more glorious light.  He looked up at me, eyes sparkling by the nightlight, and said, "Mama!  You find mine friends!"

I tucked him under his covers and he held each one tightly and told me their story.

"Bubbut (Barker) is happy.  Bear is funny.  Cheety Muntey is stinky!"

We laughed together and Graham rejoiced in his friends' return.  Forty-five minutes later, when it was time for Cael to go to bed, I tucked him under his covers like I'd done for Graham not long before.

"Mommy?"

"Yeah?"  I whispered.

"I want to tell you about my friends like Graham did."

"Okay, but be very quiet."

"Puppy is goofy.  And Bear is kind of mad.  But Bloose is very, very naughty."

"Why is he naughty?"

"Because he hid Graham's friends in my dresser and told me not to say anything."

"Oh really?  I think Bloose might have had some help doing that.  What do you think?"

"I guess so."

"And who do you think was the helper?"

"Back-up Bloose.  He's even naughtier than first Bloose."

On second thought, stick to a blanket.

The Best Medicine

When I woke up yesterday, I was sick.

By noon, Cael was sick.

At bedtime, Graham was sick.

Our house is a petrie dish of germs that each of us seems to pass to the next irritable, achey, not hungry sneeze factory that passes by.

But it's not all bad.

When Cael awoke from his nap with a relatively high fever, I buried him into the pillows on my bed for what turned into a movie marathon while I did some housework.  As soon as Graham rose from his nap with the same telltale watery eyes, I tucked him in alongside Cael.  They nuzzled up against each other while they watched "The Polar Express".  And "Tangled".  And "The Lion King".  And "Cars".  I peeked in on them and smiled as they shimmied closer together and patiently waited on them when they begged for medicine and blankets.

As soon as I was done with my to-do list, I squeezed between the two and tried to savor the sensation of holding both of my boys; knowing that they still needed me and longed for me to provide comfort.  In that moment, all was forgiven.  Every time they said things to me in anger and every time I was treated like a maid was nothing but a memory.

And then Graham sneezed and shot a booger across the bed that landed on my forehead.

Oh, well.  You win some, you lose some.

Losing My Marbles

It's Monday morning, and I'm sick. 

I think I've come down with one of those when-the-heck-will-it-be-spring colds that is potent enough to make me feel like I'm talking with a trash can over my head, but weak enough to prevent me from waiving the white flag of surrender and going back to bed.  I'd really like to, but I know how these kids behave when I'm not looking.  And I really don't want another house flood or for the boys to conjur up any long-dead spirits.

As is the case with most Mondays, the boys are restless and bored with the lack of entertainment and activity taking place at the house.  If I were feeling better, I might have more ambition to provide an activity that would captivate their attention, but every time I go out of my way to do so, it seems to backfire.

For example, a few weeks ago, I gave in and decided to let the kids play in the backyard during an unseasonable warm stretch for late January.  Aside from my kids' extremely low tolerance for extreme heat or cold, we don't play outside often this time of year because the melting snow creates a mud and slush pit so intense that the WWF would very quickly send out a bus load of scantily-clad women to roll around in it.

Why can't us ladies ever catch a break?

When I set them free in the yard, they immediately gravitated toward the muddiest spot available, dragging their boots, coats and hands throughout the sludge. 

"Mama!  Dirt here!"  Graham yelled as he held up a pile of mud across the yard.

"Nope, that's poop!"

So much for outdoor play.

Other sources of entertainment seem to yeild a similar result.  If I set up the pop-up tents and tunnels for the boys to build and explore, I can guess with great accuracy that, within 8 minutes, either the dog or the cat will be trapped within its polyester walls and subjected to experimental procedures involving tongue extraction or crimped whiskers.

With this playtime history, I shouldn't have expected perfect behavior from Cael and Graham when I pulled out one of my favorite toys from childhood, Marbleworks.  We purchased a similar set for the boys when Cael was Graham's age, but not suprisingly, the quality of the newer and flashier set paled in comparison to the sturdy contruction of Marbleworks.  Even the box reminds me of my house and when I hold it, I can see where it sat on the shelf in my basement.

I pulled the pieces out and assembled a structure that would be sturdy enough to withstand being pelted with marbles like a tornadic hail storm, and I sat back to supervise and make sure the dog didn't eat any marbles.

After a few minutes, however, my Dad arrived after picking up my repaired computer (hallelujah!) and we chatted for a few moments before he left and I returned to the living room and noticed that something was different.  The boys stood still and looked at each other, trying to devise a way to play with the toy sans marbles.

"Where are the marbles?"

"By the couch."

"I don't see them.  Are the under the couch?"

"Nope."

"Show me where you put them."

Cael started peeling the cushions off the sofa before I realized that they had not only shoved the marbles under the cushions, but forced them back so far that they fell behind the coil innards of the furniture and were suspended below the couch by the fabric that covered the underside.

"This is unbelieveable.  Why would you put the marbles in there?"

"The marbles were popcorn.  'Member that time we had popcorn and I put it in the cushions?"

"Unfortunately, yes." 

I guess I can add watching a movie to the list of forbidden activities.

I flipped the couch over and retrieved a pair of scissors to slice open the protective fabric and reach inside to blindly locate the lost marbles amongst an obstacle course of sharp coils and rough-edged wood.  I excised as many as I could and sealed the sofa up again, deconstructed the marble tower and stowed the pieces away in the box. 

I collapsed on a chair, tired out and mentally exhausted from the most recent of a string of fiascoes, ready to relax.

"Mommy, can we paint with our fingers and our tummies?"

Fat chance.  I didn't lose all of my marbles...

iDeath Notice

Perhaps I cracked too many jokes at my kids' expense.  Or maybe I tempted fate by promising not to miss any more days this week after Monday's Presidents' Day debacle.  Who knows.

The only thing I'm sure of is that I am paying the price for some unknown sin today, as I type to you on a borrowed laptop that sits on the desk that once cradled my beloved iMac.  She rests entombed, unceremoniously, in a large cardboard box; her cord wrapped around her neck and her screen as dark as our grieving hearts.

There's really only one thing left to do.

iMac Foreman, age 1.75

iMac Foreman passed away on the afternoon of February 22, 2012 after a brief and unknown illness.  She was beloved by all who knew her.

iMac was born in an overseas factory in early 2010 and at an early age, was adopted by an Iowa couple, Joel and Mary Foreman, the following May.  iMac displayed a strong aptitude for graphic design, music and file storage, and delighted everyone with her big and bright screen.  Over the next year and a half, she continued to process a great amount of data, and enjoyed spending time with her companions, iPhone and iPad.

On Saturday, February 18, iMac began acting very lethargic and displayed other symptoms such as the "spinning wheel", freezing pages and error messages.  After rallying for several days, iMac froze completely and her hard drive was pronounced "unable to be fixed" by the disk utility diagnostic feature.

Preceeding her in death are a string of lesser computers, one iPhone, a Sony CD player, several missing television remotes and a large bin of tangled and mismatched cable cords.  iMac leaves behind two brothers, Cael and Graham, as well as a household full of electronic devices and small appliances.

The body will be transferred to a certified Apple service provider where iMac will undergo a complex hard drive transplant.  Service times have yet to be determined.  In lieu of flowers, the family is accepting donations of food, money or free babysitting hours.

Our hearts will go on.  RIP, iMac.

Ism of the Week

It is with a heavy heart that I retire the "Caelism of the Day".  But let's face it-- I'm only posting an "ism" once a week anyway, and Graham's vocabulary is increasing daily from the Joey Lawrence-inspired "whoa" that he was balking when I began this blog.  So from now on, you can look forward to the "Ism of the Week" and the often ill-advised ramblings of either Cael or Graham.

Or you can dread it.  I sometimes do.
And speaking of dreaded things, the unthinkable has happened.  My computer has crashed in a most grandiose fashion, and encased within it are all of the photos of my children, every video ever taken and a lot of blog archives that, depending the sense of humor of whoever may get ahold of them, could land me a book deal or get my children confiscated by CPS.  Cross your fingers for me.

So, to christen the new "Ism of the Week" feature of the blog, enjoy Cael's commentary on my technological debacle.

"I'm bored.  Can I watch 'Thomas the Train'?"

"Cael, I can't put Thomas on for you because Netflix isn't working.  The computer is broken, so I can't get wireless internet."

"But I want to watch it!"

"I'm sorry.  But there are lots of other things to do.  Sometimes I like to draw a picture, or build a fort.  I always love to read a book, too."

"I know what I want to do!"

"Okay, what?"

"I want to eat ice cream and watch TV in your bedroom.  You always like to do that, right?"

Wound.  Salt.  Rub. 

I'm ready for the weekend.  Anybody with me?