My husband talks in his sleep. A lot. And lately, when I come to bed (usually a while after he's already asleep) he sits up in bed and starts rambling random sentiments about driving or music or... "and then"... "if you"... "but it's".......
On Saturday night he decided to give me an unconscious lesson in hunting technique, which I responded to with laughter because his words were jumbled and made no sense.
"You can hunt it just like that."
"Hunt what?"
"It's not hard when you make choices."
"What choices?"
"Any time you hunt you have lots of choices, and you have to choose a choice."
"Yeah...?" I couldn't keep it together throughout his nonsense.
"What's so funny about that?
This seriously frustrated him and he adamantly refused to admit that he was not fully awake. Even the next morning, he continued to deny his incoherent words. So last night, when I climbed into bed and he sat up and greeted me with, "You found it, that's right!", I knew I was in for another bizarre conversation.
"You found it, that's right!"
"Found what?"
"Found the spot."
"What spot?" I asked with a giggle, furiously typing his comments on my phone.
"Why are you laughing?"
"You're not making any sense, that's why."
"What didn't make sense? It's in the corner."
"What's around the corner?"
"You walk around the corner and there's the smile."
"There's a smile?"
"Well, when the sun is shining on you there is."
"You must be having a really nice dream."
"I'm not dreaming. I'm finding the smile."
At that point I told him to roll over and go to sleep because I could tell that he wouldn't let this idea go, and I was ready for some much-needed sleep. But right as I was drifting off, I heard him mumbling.
Cael is starting to get wise to my mommy tricks. Graham still has a twinge of baby left in him, and when I tell him that he must take a nap because the cookies we just baked will magically vanish if he doesn't sleep, he stares wide-eyed at me and promptly shuts his eyes.
"I want those cookies and in my belly and if I have to sacrifice Barker to get them, I will."
Okay, so he didn't say that exactly, but I'm pretty sure his eyes said it.
Cael, on the other hand, is smart as a whip and old enough to realize that he might not be the only manipulative body in the house. The main difference between us, of course, is that he manipulates those around him to get what he wants and to get out of trouble. My manipulation stems from a desire to keep him away from the things I want and to keep him from getting into trouble in the first place.
Uh-oh. Maybe we're more alike than I thought.
But one mommy trick I've milked for more than it is worth is the decoy casserole. Before my sister's family moved to town and I wasn't cooking meals for more than 3 adults at any given time, I didn't get into the casserole recipes. I've always liked them and they were a staple in my childhood home, but their simplicity often left me bored and not inspired in the same way a batch of homemade pasta or fresh produce left me. So a couple of weeks ago when I made my first casserole in years, Cael was up in my grill wanting to "help" (put his dirty fingers on the ingredients before deciding it didn't interest him). Once on his stool, he discovered that I wasn't constructing an elaborate dessert or treat and promptly announced,
"That casserole is boring me."
And thus, the casserole trick was born.
At first, I used it sparingly and only when it was important that I finish cooking quickly and without interruptions of the four year-old variety. But I quickly found that casseroles could be constructed from almost anything-- like pens, rubber bands and mismatched batteries.
"What are you doing, Mommy?"
As I was organizing the kitchen junk drawer, I paused to consider the ramifications of telling the truth before making a silly remark.
"Oh, I'm just making a casserole."
"Ugh. I don't want to do that."
And with that, Cael wandered off to make a train out of balled-up socks. How easy was that?!? I knew that I would have to be careful not to overuse the casserole not only because it was such a valuable tool but because as effective as it was, I didn't want him to catch wind of my lies and think I couldn't be trusted.
And then I let that thought go and made casseroles all day long. I made casseroles when I wrapped Cael's birthday presents and again when I decorated his cake. I made casseroles while I helped my nephew with a school project and I made casseroles when I painted my nails.
I was flying high. I had the holy grail of child repellents, and it was 100% reliable.
Then yesterday a normal task like putting away groceries became an exercise in agility and patience as I tripped over tractors and dodged flying whiffle balls.
"What are you doing, Cael?"
"I'm being a circus!"
"Okay, but could you please be a circus downstairs? I'm trying to get these things put away and you're not in a safe spot."
"Can I play with the groceries?"
"No, sweetie... they need to be put away now."
"But look, I could make those boxes a train!"
I can't shake the kid. Time for desperate measures.
"I'm sorry. I'm just gonna make a casserole anyway."
And with that, he plopped down from his stool and headed to the basement. I imagined how many casseroles I could buy with the money made from my best selling parenting book. I reached for my phone to text Papa about my fool-proof methods when I realized my phone wasn't in my bag.
I searched quickly around the kitchen and walked downstairs to see if I'd left it at the computer desk. And that's when I saw Cael, watching train clips on You Tube under the pool table, his favorite place to hide out when he knows he's breaking the rules.
"Cael, may I please have my phone?"
Silence.
"Cael Foreman, I need my phone and you didn't ask my permission to use it."
It happened. It took a few weeks, but the inevitable has happened.
Cael got a time-out at preschool.
I went to pick him up from school last week, and as the children filed out according to whose parent/guardian was there to retrieve them, I noticed that Cael was not being called even though I'd been noticed by the teacher. When there were no other children to be released, Cael was summoned and I was informed that there had been an "incident".
I'm SO proud.
"Cael had to have a time-out today."
This is where I probably should have said something like, "Oh, I'm sorry!" or "Oh, no. What happened?" but my sarcastic and cynical side just may have taken the conversation another way.
"Haha, great. What was it this time?"
Probably not the best way to start our parent/teacher relationship. And while I'm sure I pinned myself right then and there as "that mom", we moved on to the nature of the infraction.
"Cael was knocking down towers."
I was waiting for more. Cael was knocking down towers AND... broke a window? Cael was knocking down towers AND... punted a piece across the room and into a friend's tooth? Cael was knocking down blocks AND... passed gas loudly and said, "Did you hear THAT"?
"Okay." I said, trying to think of a diplomatic way of saying, "If that's the worst thing he did today, you best be jumping for joy!" until she laid out the rest of the story.
"Well, Cael was knocking down towers. But I had to give him a time-out because he thought it made it better by saying 'I'm sorry'."
Wait a second. Isn't that what "I'm sorry" is for? Making things better after you've made a mistake? Sure, there are times when an apology doesn't come close to righting a wrong like grand theft auto or arson, but since when is block-busting a federal offense?
I thanked the teacher for letting me know, and assured her that I would talk to him at home, but for the entire ride home I was confused and thought that a time-out in reaction to an apology was seriously out of line. I thought about it as we had lunch and I thought about it as I let the kids play for a few minutes before naptime while I washed the dishes.
"Ahhhhhhhh!" I heard Graham wailing from behind the sofa.
"I'm sorry!" Cael shouted in a playful, upbeat tone.
As Graham recovered from what appeared to be a faulty vault attempt over the couch by his highly motivating coach, Cael announced that he needed to go potty and headed off the in direction of the bathroom. I heard the door latch and immediately there was a loud thud followed by a tiny, muffled cry. I walked over to the couch where Graham had been but he was not there. Opening the door of the bathroom, I saw Cael perched on his crown and Graham curled into a quivering ball on the bathmat.
"What happened here?"
"I needed to move Graham because he was in the bathroom and I needed to pee."
"What did you do to him?"
"I pushed him into the tub."
"Why would you do that!?" I said, scooping up Graham.
"I don't know. But I'm sorry!"
"You know, Cael, saying you're sorry is a good thing to do when you've made a mistake, but it's not an excuse to be mean."
"Okay. I'm sorry, Mommy!"
It was becoming clear to me that Cael has a case of "I'm-sorry-will-get-me-out-of-murder", and his preschool teacher saw it coming down the pike much earlier than I did.
So in the future, when one of my son's fine educators gives me a heads up to one of Cael's undesirable behaviors, I'm going to do my best to take it to heart. But until then...
For Graham's birthday, he received a Mickey Mouse placemat with a map
of the United States to catch the buckets of food that don't make it
into his mouth or hair. Today, as we were eating our honeycrisp apple
for dessert, we had a little geography lesson.
"Cael, we live here in Iowa. Papa, Sarah and Amy all live here, but Bamma and Bampa live waaaay over here in Washington."
"Do they do it two times?"
"Do they do what two times?"
"In the morning and before bedtime?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Washing their tongues. Do they do it twice?"
"No, Cael. They live in Washing-TON, not Washing-TONGUE."
Standing in my water-less kitchen, I decided to make a plan for
Cael's birthday cake. With Graham's, I had a basic photo as my guide
for Mickey's face, but nothing I saw on the internet quite captured my
vision for Cael's cake, which I wanted to be really special. And what
does Cael love more than anything else in the world?
Trains.
Cael
loves trains more than a fat kid loves cake. Train cake, even, which
is exactly what I set out to make. I saw a number of Thomas the Train
cake ideas online, but I wanted to make a cake that would bring to life
the basic train I draw for him every time we are out at a restaurant. I
thought it would be more special and personal to him, and if I screwed
it up royally it would be less obvious than if I made a Thomas cake that
depicted Thomas as having experienced a botched facelift or overzealous
Botox.
So
I sketched out my plan. I wanted a two-tiered round cake, which I knew
would require two cake mixes (two 9" round cakes and two 6" round cakes)
to get the height necessary to fit the train facade. I decided on
chocolate cakes for the larger, bottom layer, thanks to an ambush from
family after Graham's birthday and my loyalty to marble cake. For the
top tier, I stuck to my guns and made a marble cake for some variety.
My
plan was to begin decorating the cake Saturday afternoon while the boys
slept, but that plan hinged on the assumption that Cael and Graham
would actually sleep. While Graham is a reliable napper, he could hear
me clunking around in the kitchen and tripping on the exposed
dishwasher, so he did little more than doze for an hour or so. Cael has
been abandoning his nap schedule in the last few weeks, often sleeping
only 2 or 3 days out of the week, and for less than an hour each time.
I
crossed my fingers and put them both in bed and assembled the layers
and mixed up some buttercream frosting and tinted it to a pretty shade
of sky blue for the background. Just then, Cael emerged, woke up
Graham, and the two began reenacting battles scenes from the civil war
in the living room. Between the screaming, hitting and severed limbs, I
had to give up on any progress I might have made and pick it back up at
bedtime.
The problem, however, was that I'd already
planned to do the prep work for his birthday dinner (five different
homemade pizzas) at bedtime, so I knew I was setting myself up for a
very late night. When the kids were in bed, Graham snoozing with "two
babbets!" (two Barkers, thanks to him discovering my stashed
back-up-Barker just in case the original is misplaced) and Cael dreaming
of train sightings, I went to work on the cake.
I cut
the shapes out of fondant and pieced the train together really.
reeealllly. slowly. One the train was in place, I cut out fondant
letters for the "Happy Birthday, Cael" message that would scroll across
the side of the second tier, interrupted by the steam that I made as
fluffy as possibly from some buttercream frosting. (I also discovered
that while frosting spread on graham crackers is good, buttercream
frosting on Ritz crackers is absolutely divine. Sure, it's possible
that it was 3am and I was up so late that my stomach was hungry again,
but either way I recommend you run-- not walk-- to the pantry.)
After I stuck a big ol' four on top of the cake and outlined it
with some pearl sprinkles, I finished up with a railroad crossing sign
and a few other little touches and put the cake away. I thought (and
still think) that there are a few blank spots that needed something, but
it was 4:00am and I was hallucinating squirrels and double rainbows. I
climbed in bed, frosting-covered shirt and all, and enjoyed a restful
two and a half hours of sleep before the big day.
We
enjoyed a fun day together and feasted on pizza for dinner. When we'd
all filled our bellies, we headed to the gift pile to open presents, the
step that always causes problems. During Graham's party, Cael was
barely able to hold himself back from the loot, but knew that if he
could wait a few moments, his brother would move onto the next package
and the last would be available for testing.
Graham,
however, does not have that patience. He was a constant presence
around the gift pile and hovered over Cael's shoulder all night.
Consequently, Graham was in tears most of the night as I tried to keep
him from unveiling the next gift while Cael played.
And then Cael opened this.
And this.
It
was all over from that point out. Joel and I tried to excite him with
Thomas the Train books, walkie-talkies and his own digital camera. No luck. As we reached the end, he opened a wrapped helmet which did nothing but confuse him as he does not have a bike. Until now, that is.
Joel
made a valiant effort. Even using all of the theatrics he cold employ,
Cael was glued to his trains. Throughout the night and even into the
next morning, he continued to tell me that he did NOT like his bicycle
and only wanted to play with his trains.
So I missed
the mark, I guess. But I had yet to reveal the cake, and I hoped it
would be a winner. I uncovered it, checked to make sure I didn't label
his age incorrectly, and stuck in four candles.
Wait, let me check again. One, two, three, four. Okay, I'm good.
We
sang to him, ate our cake and ice cream, and everyone told me how much
they enjoyed the dessert while Cael informed me that it wasn't very
good. Thanks, Cael.
(Watch video for a wrap-around view of the cake.)
The truth is that I could have made a 10-tiered cake and
stuffed it with candy and cash and wouldn't have mattered-- the kid has a
one "track" mind, and that track leads to a train.
My brain has to track a lot of things at once. But on Sunday, my big
boy turned four years old, and I was happy to see him in the spotlight.
(This post is a continuation of yesterday's story. Click here to read part one.)
I was expecting a phone call Friday morning around 7:30 - 8:00am from the plumber alerting me that he would be at my house soon. Eight came and passed, and when the phone finally rang at 9:30am I was already worked up but grateful that help was on its way.
"Hello?"
"Hello, this is (some lady) from (really bad) Plumbing. I hear you need a plumber?"
You don't say.
"Yes. We've had quite a flood and need someone to come check things out so that we can get up and running again."
"Okay. We will try to get someone out there today."
"Can you give me a window of when that will be?"
"I'm afraid not. Will you not be home all day?"
"Well, I have three small children here that will need to nap at 1:00pm this afternoon and I'd like to coordinate this if I can."
"I can tell them to come after 1:00pm today. They will not begin a new job after 3:00pm, so you should expect them during that time."
Sounds like a window to me.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. Your plumber will call 30 minutes before he will arrive."
So what was intended to be an early morning repair quickly became an afternoon disaster. I did my best to get through the day while juggling overflowing dehumidifiers, cooking lunch with no water, and continuously sopping up puddles of water from under, behind and in front of the dishwasher. I wasn't sure which pipe (if any) was the source of the problem, but I was anxious to get it resolved.
So anxious, in fact, that I was willing to forgive the plumber for not calling in advance of his arrival, which didn't take place until 2:45pm. When he came to the door, I invited him in and explained the problem, and how I was unable to use the dishwasher or the sink, as water seemed to leak from the dishwasher when the faucet was turned on.
"What the &% #$ do you want me to fix then... the dishwasher or the sink?"
"I want you to fix whatever is putting water on my floors all the time."
"Well I'll check your pipes but if it's a dishwasher issue I won't be any help. I'm a plumber. I'm not an appliance guy."
Nice to meet you too, jerk.
As he worked, he continued to swear and huff every time water began to pool on the floor again.
"TOWELS!"
I called Papa to assist me with Plumber McRude, since I wasn't comfortable alone with three small children in the same house as a wrench-wielding plumber on a power trip. After checking the water lines and replacing some copper lines with new flexible ones that can better fit behind the dishwasher, he announced that he was right and the problem was, indeed, the dishwasher. He collected $145 of my money and sauntered out of the door to torment another unsuspecting and desperate water-less woman. I hope she isn't trying to bake a birthday cake, too.
Many phone calls later, we made arrangements for an appliance repair technician to take a look at the defunct dishwasher, but no appointments were available until Monday morning, so my baking, decorating and pizza ambitions would either be put on hold or would require some creative efforts. Sure, there was water in the bathroom, but who wants to eat a cake that I made while sitting on the toilet?
The weekend came and went, and I did manage to create a cake that impressed my family and Cael was willing to eat. Monday morning, a much friendlier man knocked on my door 10 minutes early and asked to take a peek at my problem.
Let's see. Would that be Cael? Graham? My checking account? The scale? The plumber?
I guessed that he was more interested in the appliance than the others, so I told him the whole story, from start to finish. He was incredibly apologetic and got right to work diagnosing the problem.
"The good news is that I know what is wrong, and I can fix it. The bad news is that I have to order the parts and they will probably not arrive until Friday. Or Monday at the latest."
So here I sit, in my wet, likely molding basement, slowly typing this post with as many fingers crossed as I can while typing. The spare bedroom floor is dried out, but I am planning to reposition the carpet and furniture until the repairs have been made. The ceiling in the spare bedroom is in stable but critical condition. The spots which had been wet now appear dry but have left a yellow stain behind as a snotty reminder of our crappy luck.
But the real kicker is that our hardwood kitchen floors are all but ruined. They were slightly uneven from a previous dishwasher leak, but several days of puddles sitting undisturbed overnight have led to hugely warped spots, split boards and unstained sections. The trim to the left of the appliance is completely rotted and chipping away; a sarcastic metaphor for our savings account after this disaster.
Maybe this is some kind of life test. If I can get through this trial, maybe God will decide that I'm ready to win the lottery. Or perhaps someone important will read this blog and you'll see my tired face on television tomorrow morning.
Or maybe it's just bad luck. But either way, better times are ahead...
Cael's birthday is over, and looking back on it, it was a semi-success. Everything seemed to go wrong, but today he IS four, so that in and of itself was an accomplishment. But to fully explain what went wrong, we have to look back to Thursday afternoon...
I was in the kitchen with my nephew Keaton making homemade chicken soup and trying to create a plan of action for Cael's birthday dinner and cake. I knew that I wanted to make pizzas and a train cake, but there were so many possibilities and so many palates to please, so the decision would require some thought.
As I always do before launching into a cooking binge, I loaded up the dishwasher and started a cycle so that I would have a clean sink and could load in the dishes I'd use to be cleaned when I was done. I washed the counter tops and sat down with Keaton to talk about pizza toppings and what everyone would like.
"Do you like sausage?"
"It's okay. I really like cheese." Keaton said.
"Okay, I can..."
Before I could finish my thought, I noticed that my socks were wet. Like, really wet. I had to quickly analyze the situation.
Did I just wet myself? I like pizza, but I'm not pee-my-pants crazy about it. Strike.
Did my water break? Nope, not pregnant. Whew.
Am I having a psychotic episode? Plausible, but not likely since the boys were napping and I was feeling unusually clear-headed.
There was no more time to think as my dishwasher started gushing water out all over the kitchen and my hardwood floors. I was frantically trying to control the flow of water, but as soon as we'd soaked 20 towels and there was still an inch of sitting water, we knew we had a serious problem.
I called Papa and begged him to come help me as I didn't know where the water shut-off valve was in the house, and since this wasn't exactly the first time we've flooded our home, I knew he would be familiar with its location. You see, we are flood-prone. Which is especially surprising because we don't live near any bodies of water. But in the three years we've lived in this house, we've had 5 floods, three of which have required emergency efforts to get under control, and three of the five have been caused by this hellish dishwasher.
As soon as Papa arrived, he quickly got the water turned off and we began the process of de-sogging the kitchen. We removed the bottom drawers from around the dishwasher and found several inches of water that was contained there. This gave me a thought.
If there is this much water in these drawers, where did the rest go?
I opened the drawer to the basement spare bedroom, the site of all three flood disasters, but found that everything looked as it should be. Everything did not sound as it should, however. I could hear water pouring, so I checked inside the closet. All clear. I looked at the window and saw water streaming down from the rain outside and thought that perhaps the window wasn't closed properly. But as I neared the window, I found that my very wet socks were squishing into the very wet carpet. It was not until that moment that I realized it was sunny outside and that the water was raining down the inside of the windows rather than the outside. It was also raining from the frame of the closet door as well as from the ceiling fan in the center of the room.
LG, we have a problem.
There was one brief moment of luck throughout this ordeal. Due to the two previous floods in this room, we'd pulled the carpet away from the tack strips and had never gotten around to having it tacked back down. We quickly rolled the carpet back, set up an intricate system of fans and dehumidifiers and stepped back.
PLOP.
What was that?? Was water falling from a new spot in the ceiling?
Unfortunately, our momentary luck with the carpet was tarnished when I began to see chunks of the textured ceiling falling off onto the bed. Just like a Magic Eye book, once I saw one wet, wrinkled spot on the ceiling, I began to see 5 more. And then 10 more. And then 15.
Back upstairs, Joel arrived after I'd placed a frantic call asking him come home as quickly as possible. He quickly got to work on the dishwasher, trying to locate the source of the problem and discover why copious amounts of water were still weeping from the dishwasher even though the water supply had been disconnected. After throwing up our hands in disgust and deciding instead to create a towel fortress around the dishwasher, we packed up our chicken soup and headed to my sister's house to eat it since there was no running water in my home.
Throughout dinner, Joel worked to find a plumber willing to come and tackle our aquatic problem as soon as possible. He made an appointment for very early Friday morning, and we resolved to make it work for one night until the plumber could save the day, and hopefully the kitchen. But when the plumber's first words to me were, "What the &% #$ do you want me to fix, then?" I knew our ordeal was far from over...
