Class pig

Most of the sticky candy and gumballs have been eradicated as we edge closer to Alison's potential 2.5 years of braces. She has brackets on her teeth. Wednesday we get her all wired up. She had four teeth extracted last week to get ready.

Her lower lip had swollen last week to what seemed like 100 times it size, but she's all good now. Other than her ban from popcorn, gumballs and Laffy Taffy, she's fairly excited about the braces.

This weeekend was a first for us. We babysat for the 4th grade class's pet guinea pig, Cocoa. It was an experience that I missed in part due to Book Club and Bunco (thank the Lord.) Apparently at one point, it pooped either on or near the girls. Later, on Captain Reed's watch, the pig was out and crawling on the girls, who were zonked out on the couch.

Alison and I changed its bedding (ick) today and let it crawl around on us a while. It did not pee or poop on us, although it did nibble on my book. We fed it a carrot and that was kind of fun. I'd had a piece of peanut butter toast (4 points) and I think I had a little bit left on my fingers because the little pig liked me a lot. It kept crawling on my lap and nibbling on my fingers.

Ali wants one now, of course. While we were buying the new bedding, I wondered out loud what kind of clear ball it might like if we were so inclined to buy one so it could roll around the house without fear of flinging poop and pee and fur. Alison was totally affronted. "Cocoa is not an 'it,' Mom," she said.


On Saturday, she and Madison broke out a little chemistry set I'd bought her a while ago. They made a beaker full of some kind of flavored bubbly water and some other concoction that involved sugar and vinegar. Then, they were inspired and came up to the kitchen.

"We're going to make a volcano," they informed me.

"Uh," I said. "Where's the recipe for that?"

Alison rolled her eyes and kept gathering equipment. "Mom. It's a classic. We don't need a recipe."

Lo and behold they did it. Ali dragged out the vinegar and baking soda and they erupted about 10 volcanos in a row in the kitchen sink. It was hilarious.

The previous weekend, Ali and Amanda made a wreck of the family room with Littlest Pet Shops. Alison hasn't played with her Pet Shop village in I can't remember how long. But they had a blast.


When we took Amanda home to her (I'm not kidding) palatial estate, she and Alison were both bemoaning the return.

"I'll trade you houses," she said. "Your house is so fun."

I know the sentiment was rooted in going into a home where she wouldn't have a friend along, but Madison later said something fairly similar. And I'm vain enough to take comfort in it.

Don't tell Alison I'm that shallow....

Life rocks

I bought my husband a red velvet bag of rocks for Valentine's Day. Lest you look askance (as he did) at my selection for our anniversary/Valentine's Day celebration, I will explain.

The rocks are polished and etched on both sides. One side said, "I love you" and the other said, "because...." and gives pithy little reasons for said emotion. I grew up with a band of Pentecostals. They try to teach you how to talk to God; communicating well with the rest of the world is sort of left to you to figure out.

I remain a slow learner in this regard and I believe it's possible that my verbal expressions are sometimes interpreted as more strongly felt than is the case. In any event, I needed the damn rocks.

I'd been eyeing them for weeks. They're from Red Envelope and representative of the silly but sweet products the company often offers.

One Christmas, I gave Jeff a similar gift of metal collar tabs -- he'd been using the plastic ones that come with his shirts. These have little romantic messages, and it's one my all time favorite gifts to him. He's hard to buy for and this satisfied my desire for whimsy but met his need for practicality. (The hat rack I bought him in 2002 ranks high in my gift-giving infamy...)

In any event, I bring up the rocks only because they've got me thinking about all the different reasons for why I'm loving life these days. Here goes:

I love my friends because:

...We can disagree vehemently about immigration, whether country music rocks or not (it does), politics, religion and whether the need for good grammar has expired (it hasn't) and still love each other when the shouting quiets down.

...they know all of me and love me anyway.

I love my family (both sides) because:

...while they may shake their head from time to time, they haven't disowned me yet...

...they let an Indiana girl into their Down East circle and seem to want to keep me...

I love my daughter because...

...she is 100 percent herself, even when she sees that she could try to conform to fit in better...

...she likes hanging out with me and will even still reach for my hand on occasion...

...she makes me work harder to be the person she thinks I already am...

I love my husband because...

...he makes me slow down and appreciate the beauty around us and within that little girl...

...he is a wonderful (if somewhat discipline-fixated) father...

...he doesn't turn the station when I'm listening to country music...

...he's carrying around a polished rock in his pocket, laughing ever so quietly at his silly, often inarticulate wife...

The photo today is of Ali and her friend, Amanda, who's new to school this year. They had a play date Saturday that turned into a sleepover. We capped it off with a visit to BR Nails. It's tough to be a little girl these days. I'm sure I was at least in my 20s if not 30s before I had professional nail care. And I had to walk uphill in the snow (both ways) to get it, too!

2 sloths, a work horse and some expired squirrels

I joked yesterday that Alison and I were sloth-like. We morphed into slugs on Sunday -- neither of us feeling very well. Which I guess might explain our Saturday behavior, too.

Jeff picked up the slack for us, though, and our neighbors, too. While a bit of water is already seeping through our foundation, he spent most of the afternoon and evening digging ice trenches so the melt would have reason to go away rather than inside the house. He dug a trench down the drive and along the street, even digging out the storm drain.

He's going to deserve a very nice anniversary/Valentine's gift. Maybe he'll get it early if my apparent recovery actually takes hold.

Tomorrow starts Alison's foray into braces. I take her for a consult to the tooth-puller and on Tuesday Jeff takes her to the orthodontist for spacers. On the 21st, she'll have four teeth pulled. In early March she'll get her braces. Sounds fun, aye?

In a non-dental aside, Alison was passing by the wall of pictures the other day and brought up one from my very early years. It's my siblings and me with my Dad showing off a squirrel harvest. Each of the kids is holding a dead rodent by the tail as if they were Christmas or birthday presents. It's straight out of Appalachia.

She questioned why we were holding dead animals and I tried to explain that it was a big deal and that the picture was representing what a good hunt and a good day it had been.

"It wasn't a good day for the squirrels," she muttered.

Yeah. She's a city girl....

Snow on the roof; fire in the belly

There's a reason I buy Jeff Cap'n Crunch breakfast cereal: no matter what the calendar says, he's still a 12-year-old boy.

Take today, for example. He heads off to basketball, I dawdle in bed a bit (Ali was at a sleepover) then head to the grocery and the gym. The gym doesn't open until 11 or I'd have gone there first. I left a note for him to call me when he got home, thinking two things: 1. I want to be sure someone's here to receive the girl when she returns and 2. I want to be sure he's not going to do anything dumb.

Like climb upon on the roof when no one is home to call 911 when he falls. The whole state of Indiana is covered in ice, so there was no safe place to put his fancy new birthday ladder. But he's been itching to use it and he's been eyeing the 4-6 inches of snow that landed on top of the ice layer yesterday, wondering if our roof can take the abuse.

Sure enough, I call him back to learn he's on the roof. Yeah. He's home alone. And he's talking ON THE PHONE from the ice-covered roof.

I sigh. I step on the gas. I get home to find Alison has returned only to go next door to help the little girl there scrape a circle in the snow. They're not practicing witchcraft; they've uncovered an ice rink and are skating happily around.

I go back home after answering the, "Come over here, Mom, you gotta see!" call. I'm three steps down the walkway to the porch when I hear overhead, "Oh shit!"

And down comes Jeff. Luckily, he'd used his three seconds of realization that he was in a free fall to land, cat-like in the huge pile of snow that we've been adding to over these last few frozen weeks. Lucky for him it wasn't one of the one with ice blocks from the driveway.

I look at him. He looks at me. And grins.

I think he wanted to do it again! I waited just enough time to learn whether he'd shattered anything before I turned around and got my own shovel. While I considered piling up a perimeter of snow cushions around the house, I decided he'd probably learned his lesson. I just cleared the piles he'd been pushing from the roof.

While up on the roof, Jeff was still wearing the body armor he's taken lately to wearing at basketball. It helps shield his back and other tender parts from the young guns he plays with. I think he'd taken off his knee brace, which is high tech but squeaks when he moves.

Because he doesn't play with his hearing aids in, he's not fully aware of just how squeaky he is when he has that brace on. He has an inkling, though, because they've taken to calling him "Tin Man" on the court.

I think they should come over and watch his roof dismount. I wonder what they'd call him then....

Puzzle Please

The other day, Alison asked me if I wanted to play with her. Like a good mom, I dropped what I was doing and said, "Of course I do!"

We put a puzzle together. That led to another puzzle. And then another. And before you knew it, we had nine puzzles laid out in a colorful pathway along the family week.

It's not that we're puzzle freaks or anything. The puzzle boxes have been stacked up neatly, ignored for months. But circa Puzzle No. 6, as we passed pieces back and forth and, well, puzzled over where this one should go and whether we'd lost a piece, Ali murmuerd, ""I like hanging out with you like this, Mom."

That easily got me through Puzzle Nos. 6-9. In fact, I wish we had a couple more. As Alison pointed out, we do have room.

It took us a couple of weeks to finish them all. Along the way we had help from Alex and Hannah and even a little bit from Dad. We finished the last one tonight. Today's ice day helped. She was off all day. I got released at 2 p.m.


We're going to snuggle a little bit now and I'm going to hope the whole city is shut down tomorrow and no one has to go to work.

If I get to stay home tomorrow, I don't know that I'll tear up the puzzles and start all over again just to keep her engaged with me instead of the television or the Wii.

She beat us both at SlapJack after dinner. Maybe I'll teach her euchre...

F is for what?!

The very first time Alison got a report card at Christ the King, she greeted me with tears in her little Kindergarten eyes. She'd gotten an "F" she confessed, trying hard not to cry.

I remember dropping to my knees in the hall outside the school cafeteria, which doubles as the Aftercare nerve center. I held her close and said, "Oh that just can't be."

"It's right THERE," she said, pointing to it and just starting to wail. "Under gender!"

I didn't laugh at her, but I know I smiled as I explained how to properly pronounce 'gender' and what it meant. I hugged her tight.

Fast forward to today and 4th grade. I picked her up tonight and she was despondent.

"Mom. We got our reports cards today and I just don't know what that woman expects of me," she said.

"Uh, what?" I said. I'd lost track and hadn't realized it was report card day. "Did you get another 'F' in gender?"

She did not smile.

"I just don't know what she expects. I pay attention. I listen. I do my work! Dad is gonna KILL me."

She'd gotten a 'B' in Social Studies. It's one of her best subjects, and she'd dropped from a 97 to an 88. I don't know about all schools, but these days, you have to earn a 95 (out of 100) to get an 'A." Ninety-one to 94 gets you a 'B+.'

Back in my day, 90 and above got you to that stellar level. I told her not to fret and that we'd look more into it.

"Maybe your teacher made a mistake," I said.

The expression on her face made it clear that she had no faith that a miracle like that was headed her way.

We got home and after a momentary panic, I remembered that I'd put the code to look at her grades online on my pantry door so if I ever needed it, I'd have it right there. Either Jeff or I review her work every night, so I'd never used the online monitoring system.

I couldn't remember a time when Social Studies had tripped her up. She likes the subject and she recently even stepped outside her little box to lead a skit performed IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE CLASS!!!! (She's bossy; but prefers to lead from behind the spotlight...)


Turns out, she'd been given an 'F' in presentation. It sat right there on the screen. A big, fat 'F', screaming at us.

We stared at it in shock. We looked at each other and started talking about at the same time. If she's weak anywhere, it's in Religion class and I know I should push her more there. But hell, she got a 96 in Religion this term -- up from a 90.

We talked about it. She was devastated. Just couldn't figure it out.

After thinking it over a bit, I sent a very reasonable note (not helicopter parent at all) to her teacher asking if there could possibly be a mistake, thinking all the while that a 'B' isn't the end of the world. Sadly, I think I would have accepted it in Religion. Even Conduct, maybe. But not English or Math or Spelling or Science or Social Studies!

Now here's where I have to say I LOVE Christ the King School. I hadn't expected an answer tonight. Ali's Social Studies teacher is out on maternity leave and I didn't have an email for her substitute. I sent the note to the new mom/teacher and copied Ali's homeroom teacher, thinking she'd pass it along in the morning.

Within an hour, the sub, Katie Zimmerman, replied that not only had she gotten the email, she called Mrs. Marciano (yes, the one home with a newborn) and discovered that....drumroll.... there was a MISTAKE!!!!

Alison scored her usual "A" in Social Studies after all.

You should have seen her face. It was priceless.

I'm going to start putting more emphasis on Religion class...

Doing the math

So it's been a year since I buckled down and joined Weight Watchers.

The short story is that I'm 40 pounds lighter and have dropped down to a solid size 8, though my new best friend, Ashley at the Portland Maine bridal shop, claims my measurements make me a 6. (I'm pretty sure she's even more math-challenged than I am.)

I'm proud of myself for finally shedding the weight. But I'm also kind of ashamed that I let myself get so out of hand in the first place. It's so easy to ignore that extra size that sneaks up on you or to think that a little extra here and there "since the baby" isn't such a big deal.

I was kind of a Nazi about the weight loss in 2010. I really tried hard to keep to the good foods and stayed away from the booze. I think my buttprint is permanently embedded in one of the staionary bikes at the Angie's List gym. I'm sure I sweated enough to fill at least a koi pond.

This year, I'm trying not to get all crazy about a pound here or there. But I know I can't eat pizza and chocolate and real ice cream like I want. Ever. It's the "like I want part" of the equation not the pizza, chocolate and ice cream. And that's something I don't know will ever go away. I have 540 months of bad habits to overcome, and only 12 months of good habits in.

I blame Religion for most of my issues, and this one is no different.

My parents were Pentecostal, a religion that sucks the fun out of life like a family of leeches on a femoral artery. A good Pentecostal doesn't smoke, drink, swear, dance or think lustful thoughts. Otherwise, you're on the express train to Hell.

All that's left to the Pentecostals is Bible study and food. Even masterbation (not that we were taught that word) was a sin, too. Sex had to be sanctified, which is why, I'm certain, they all got married so frickin' young.

Admit it: if you were Pentecostal and lived in fear of Hell like I did, you'd turn to fried foods, too.

So it's no wonder my eating habits were a bit off. But truly, growing up, if my dad or brothers hadn't shot, caught and skinned it, and my mom hadn't fried it to within an inch of its former life, in Crisco, we probably didn't eat it.

But I'm more than 20 years away from that lifestyle, so I can't fairly blame the size of my ass (formerly) on anyone but me and my bad habits.

I've kicked most of them. I did fantasize about liposuction and plastic surgery as I trudged over to the gym, though. It just seemed like it would have been so much easier. I'm too cheap for that option, though.

There were also moments when I considered taking up smoking because I thought it might curb my hunger. Under the same premise, I also considered cocaine (I'd heard good things) and either crank or crack. I can never remember which is what, and one of them makes you really crazy and messes up your skin. But I'm too chicken to buy or do drugs. First, I'd shoot myself if I ever got arrested for anything, let alone drugs. Second, I know I'd be an instant addict. It was hard enough to give up chocolate.

Instead, I followed the plan and hit the gym a lot. I might be boring now, but I'm thinner than I've ever been, and better, I'm actually healthier than I've ever been.

The only real downside to losing weight is you don't get to choose from when is falls. For instance, my calves are smaller, but still not normal-sized and my rings fly off if I'm not careful. But I also had to restock my lingerie drawer.

I miss the cleavage. I have a new magic bra that will let me pretend if I get really lonesome for the girls, but I'd rather have kept that and lost some more of my calves.

But I'm not complaining. I worry that I can't keep it off. I'm afraid to trust that it's real.

But I have a beach trip coming up in March and a family wedding in July. Jen will kill me if I don't fit into the dress, so I should be in this general shape at least another 7 months at least. I'm supposed to lose 10 more, and I'll keep trying.

I'm officially a fan of Weight Watchers, even with its new Points Plus plan which is something of an adjustment. I'd just gotten used to living within a certain limit only to have them expand it. I'm not sure I can maintain (or lose those last 10 pounds) and actually eat more, but I'm trying to trust them.

Like most things, it's a simple solution: Eat well + exercise = the right size for life.

Even I can do that math.