Last night as I was loading the dishwasher, it occurred to me that “Knee-Deep in the Hoopla” would make a fantastic title for a blog post. Because standing around in my kitchen, singing bad songs from the eighties to myself, and then meditating on the lyrics is something I do well. I realize I could be meditating on Scripture or even Shakespeare, but nothing is more profound than an old Starship single that made it to number 1 despite the fact that it never should have seen the light of day.

So I made a mental note that if I ever found myself knee-deep in hoopla and chose to blog about it, I had a title. Little did I know that that very night I would be presented with a big ole platter of…hoopla.

I’m going to be very vague in order to protect the privacy of my children. First of all, because I had to go and teach them to read. Second of all, there’s the whole Google-factor. I don’t want any of them to be sitting in a job interview someday and the interviewer saying, “So, I was reading your mother’s blog…”

We had an incident last night. It was really a minor one. Kid A got angry about something, and therefore decided to vent his or her frustration by irritating Kid B. Kid B took the bait and then retaliated in an inappropriate fashion. So on and so forth.

Mommy, who was tired (because a day spent analyzing the lyrics from bad 80s music wears a body out), had herself a little Come-Apart and grounded Kid B from everything fun for the rest of his or her life.

Kid A, who felt so horrible about the Forever Grounding being placed on Kid B, knowing full well that his (or her) actions had started the whole thing, ended the evening in floods of remorseful tears.

Good times.

The good news is they got to bond over their common enemy, which is the same strategy behind both Boot Camp and sorority hazing. If I would have thrown a grenade into the upstairs hallway, one would have definitely thrown himself (or herself) down on it to save the other.

You know in cartoons, when the character literally turns into a heel or a donkey? I think as I was walking downstairs, listening to Kid A’s tearful apology and listening to Kid B reassuringly extend forgiveness, I would have felt much better if I could have at least brayed for a bit.

I messed up last night, and I hate it that I did. But I don’t think I will ever forget the sweet words of love between my kids. I know I don’t want to forget.

So today I had to make it right. Kid B is no longer grounded until 2049. Thank goodness for new days and fresh starts.

Subscribe to Writing and Living by email or in a reader.

We might get some snow this weekend.

Might.

In this part of the world, we get a decent snow a couple of times a year. This means it’s frequent enough that people here know what we could be in for, but infrequent enough that everybody freaks out about it.

The forecast is saying that there probably won’t be much accumulation. But back in ’79 they said that and the snow got so high that it was up to the second story windows downtown and Pa and Mary and Laura had to twist pieces of straw together to burn until Almanzo came along in his sleigh and rescued everyone.

Or something like that.

The point is, whenever they call for snow and everyone freaks out and one tries to be reasonable by pointing out that the forecast also says that it will be in the forties by Monday so therefore any snow we get will probably melt, one gets shouted down rather quickly. Because back in ’79 they got 20 feet of snow and everyone was snowed in until after the Fourth of July.

Or something like that.

I actually think it’s a city ordinance that everyone over fifty must mention the blizzard of ’79 anytime there is snow in the forecast.

What this means for me is that anytime snow is predicted, Wal-Mart turns into a madhouse. By the time the first flakes are falling the shelves are bare and people break out into fistfights over the last loaf of bread and carton of milk. It’s worth moving heaven and earth to avoid Wal-Mart in the day or so before a snow scare.

We were okay food wise. If we happen to get snowed in, my family would so be like the family of the Proverbs 31 woman. They would clothe themselves in scarlet and arise and call me blessed. Of course, we might be eating canned pumpkin and garbanzo beans if the snow stuck around for long enough, but I don’t think we’d starve.

But my oldest, you see, needs snow boots. And even though I don’t believe in luck or karma or anything of the sort, there’s the niggling feeling that you probably ought to go get the boots, otherwise you’re going to live the rest of your life hearing about the time it snowed three feet and Peter didn’t have any snow boots because Mom would rather get a root canal than go to Wal-Mart during a snow scare.

I decided to go while the two oldest were at piano lessons. It really wasn’t that bad. Early on Thursday afternoon is always better than, say, five o’clock on Friday evening.

But I succumbed to While We’re Here Syndrome. I got the snow boots. Then I got $180 in groceries just in case. Because back in ’79….

I timed it perfectly. I was in the check out line with just enough time to check out and get the bags in the van and drive to the piano teacher’s house. I was feeling quite proud of myself as the checker scanned my purchases. Arise and call me blessed, indeed.

Then I noticed the cashier examining the boots. It seems that I had grabbed two left boots in my haste. I’m not proud of this, but there was a short moment when I found myself wishing that my oldest had two left feet.

I had timed it so perfectly that I really didn’t have time to go all the way back, get the correct boots, and wait in line again. And if you even tell me that I could have waited there and let an employee retrieve the correct boot, you obviously haven’t been to Wal-Mart in a while. I could have hand-sewn the boots myself from supplies in the fabric department in the time it would have taken an associate to get the correct boot.

And honestly? I was tired. I just wanted to go.

So, the galoshes that we already have that I didn’t think were going to be warm enough? They have been declared officially warm enough. If only I could have made that determination before I spent $180 in groceries.

Subscribe to Writing and Living by email or in a reader.

Every Tuesday, the two older kids have a homeschool P.E. class in the next town over.

We live in a little town. And if you’ve never lived in a little town, let me just say that little towns are not often known for their fine grocery shopping. Friendly neighborhoods? Yes. Low crime? Yes. Grocery shopping? Not so much.

It would be okay if we had a locally-owned grocery store with a nice butcher who knows you by name, but no. We had that at one time, but Wal-Mart put them out of business. Now we only have a smallish regional chain that’s kind of on their last legs. Since that’s the store where I shopped when we first moved here, which was kind of a dark time (well, as far as my sunshiney life goes. Darkish, for most people), I don’t like to shop there.

What I’m taking an awfully long time to say is that I take advantage of the time to go grocery shopping at the nice grocery store the next town over.

Because this is a fancy-shmancy grocery store, they feature grocery carts shaped like trucks. This is loads of fun for the child. It makes me feel like I’m trying to maneuver my minivan through the aisles (sorry, Becky, I totally stole that line from you), but it makes it fun for the child.

It can also allow a three-year-old to shoplift without the mother catching on until she’s halfway out the door, but that’s a whole separate post.

So Samuel (who is now five and hasn’t stolen a bag of Cheetos for a couple of years, now) and I walked into the store. I smiled kindly at the Salvation Army bell ringer so he would know I’m really a generous person who just doesn’t happen to have cash on me right now. I walked over to the truck-shaped carts, waiting for Samuel to pick which one he wanted. Sometimes the green truck versus yellow truck decision takes a while.

He frowned at the trucks. “I don’t want to ride in the truck this time, Mom.”

I was still distracted by the bell ringer, so it took me a minute to catch on. “What do you mean you don’t want to ride in the truck?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t want to. I want you to get a regular cart, and I’ll just walk.”

Most of the growing up stuff I seem to be handling okay. I know they’re supposed to grow up. But sometimes I get caught off guard.

I took the regular cart, and we walked into the store. But there was a little lump in my throat as we walked side by side through the produce section.

Subscribe to Writing and Living by email or in a reader.

So.

Yesterday I was looking for some paper cups. I don’t even remember why. The kids needed them. A project? Invention? I don’t know. But as I climbed up to take a peek in that useless cabinet over the refrigerator, I caught a glimpse of a red-orange candy wrapper.

It was a 100 Grand bar.

A forgotten 100 Grand bar. Sitting all by itself in the cabinet. I know not how it got there. I think I remember keeping some candy up there last year. It couldn’t be too terribly old.

Well.

I shut that cabinet, quick as a rabbit. I didn’t want the kids to see. Because I am a bad mom. And they have bags of Trunk-or-Treat candy still in their room. They don’t need any more candy.

Especially not a 100 Grand bar.

I waited all day. I smiled when they took the last of the pudding – I had a 100 Grand bar sitting in the cabinet waiting for me.

All was well with the world.

Stop calling me a bad mom. They don’t need any more candy. Trust me on this.

I put them to bed. I waited a respectable amount of time, then I got up to retrieve the 100 Grand bar.

I pushed the chair across the room. I stood on the chair and reached up. I plucked the red-orange wrapper from the cabinet.

And it was just the wrapper.

No chocolate. No caramel. No crispies. Just a wrapper.

I am crushed.

Subscribe to Writing and Living by email or in a reader.

So, we bought the kids watches this week.

It SEEMED like such an innocent purchase. They’ve had watches in the past, but they’ve all gotten lost (and as I lose watches…like clockwork (sorry, couldn’t resist), I couldn’t give the Good Steward lecture without being quite the hypocrite.

But these watches, unbeknownst to Thedore and me, have alarms.

Both the older children think that having an alarm clock with an alarm to wake them up in the morning would be the greatest of things. Only a homeschooled child would think this way. I’ve tried to explain to them over and over that having to wake up to an alarm is not a pleasant thing, and that schoolchildren all over the country would plead with them to discard such a notion. By the time I was ten, I had learned this lesson well, and my ten-year-old self would have pleaded with them to discard such a notion. To tell you the truth, my thirty-five-year-old self has tried to plead with them to discard such a notion.

Nope. No avail. They want to set an alarm and wake up early.

The irony of all this is the times that we do have to wake them up early, they complain. But they will not be swayed. They insist that waking up to your own alarm clock will be much different.

Whatever.

So when the watches presented with an alarm, I decided that this is the type of lesson one just has to learn on one’s own. Fine, set the alarms. I told Theodore it would take a week for the new to wear off, then we could go back to business as usual (i.e., Mom drinking coffee all by herself in the mornings).

And lest you think Samuel is being left out, he got a watch, too. His is an analog watch, because he needs to learn to tell time the hard way. He also has no interest in alarms, because this child hates to get up in the morning and knows it.

Day 1: I am awakened at 3 a.m. by an electronic beeping. In my book, everything that happens at 3 a.m. is Theodore’s fault. I’m not proud of that, but there it is. I nudged him and told him to either turn off his alarm or get up. Never mind that the beeping sounded nothing like his clock radio. I’m not sure what he mumbled, but somehow I picked up that it wasn’t his alarm, but one of the kid’s.

I walk into Camellia’s room. Her watch is beeping, but she is sound asleep. I push buttons on the watch until it stops and carry it downstairs. Why did I carry it downstairs? No reason.

Ten minutes later, the watch goes off again. I remember when digital clocks and snooze alarms were new, but now a six dollar child’s watch from Target has a snooze alarm. I walk back downstairs and fiddle with the watch again. I’m so tired that my eyes aren’t able to focus. I get the alarm switched off.

The next morning Camellia walks downstairs at eight o’ clock and says, “I wonder why my alarm didn’t go off?”

Day 2: Both kids wanted to set their alarms for six, but I quickly nixed that. They decide on seven. They come downstairs and try to talk to me while I’m drinking coffee and reading my Bible. I don’t like this, but feel that screaming at your kids to go away while you’re reading your Bible is wrong. I’m having a hard time mustering Jesus’ “let the little children come to me” attitude, though. Perhaps I need more coffee.

Day 3: Peter wakes up on his own at 6:58. This is pretty common, actually, but since he’s generally the only kid up he goes and reads. Camellia follows at 7:15, saying that her alarm didn’t go off again. They both go off and read.

Yep, I give it another week.

Subscribe to Writing and Living by email or in a reader.

Subscribe to Writing and Living by email or in a reader.

Saturday night, I stayed up too late, which is nothing new.

I read for a while, then when I decided I was sufficiently sleepy, I turned out the light and lay down.

And couldn’t sleep. And couldn’t sleep.

Then, just as I was feeling that warm, heavy feeling that immediately precedes drifting off, my eyes flew open with a start.

I remembered that camp registrations were due that day. (This was around 2 AM, so it really was that day.) I wasn’t sure if it was the whole form or just the deposit, but I knew that the registration form was going to take some doing, so I better get up and do it.

You see, the registration form requires the immunization record, and since Camellia has always been homeschooled and has never been to camp, I have never, ever had to prove to anyone that she has had all of her immunizations.

(Peter’s were easy: he’s been to public school AND camp, but getting the records for his school registration was a nightmare, because we had moved and his doctor in St. Louis had moved and his local pediatrician has been with three different physician groups and it took some doing. And I swore that I would keep better track of this stuff for the other two. Ha.)

(Actually, Peter’s kindergarten registration was fraught with complication, because two different people told me when I called that I didn’t need his actual Social Security card as long as I had the number. They were wrong. I spent an afternoon when I was supposed to be at work searching for his card and then driving to the Social Security office for the right form to prove that this child who looks just like Theodore and acts just like me was really my kid. I was eight months pregnant with Samuel then and was NOT very gracious about it. No wonder we started homeschooling.)

ANYway, guess what? Camellia’s immunization record was completely filled out except for the very last round that she got when she was five. First I spent a while kicking myself, because my friend B mentioned on Thursday that she had to get her daughter’s records and I thought to myself at the time that I had better look into that.

Then I sat at my kitchen table in the wee small hours of the morning and remembered with uncanny recall the appointment when she got the shots. I even remember seeing my friend M pass outside the window, and wondering if her kids were sick, although I didn’t see her in the waiting room when we walked out.

Don’t be too impressed, because I usually can’t tell you what we had for lunch the day before. But for some reason, this particular doctor visit really stuck out in my mind.

All the form needed was the date. No signature from the doctor (although he goes to our church so that would have actually been possible), just the date. Even though I knew the shots occurred, and I knew they were in the spring or early summer (we always do checkups near the youngest child’s birthday), and I knew that all they wanted to know was if my child had really been vaccinated and they were never going to call and check, and even if they DID check the only error would have been the date being off by a week or so, well, I couldn’t do it. It’s the INFJ in me. I’m not organized enough to have this taken care of, but I just can’t let myself write down a date if I’m not sure it’s correct.

I spent a moment with my head in my hands. Then I remembered my calendar. I save all my old calendars.

Sure enough, in June 2004, we had a check-up scheduled with the pediatrician. It was on Sister # 3′s birthday, and I can even remember telling my children in the exam room that it was Aunt Sister # 3′s birthday that day.

The next week my friend M was written on the calendar. She and her kids came over to my house because we were teaching in VBS together that year. I remember talking about how her kids had been sick and telling her that I had seen her while I was sitting in the doctor’s exam room.

I also managed to find the EOBs from the insurance. I was just being cocky at this point, but I was feeling really triumphant about it all.

I wanted to wake Theodore and tell him how I had pieced all this together, but it was after three by then and I didn’t think he would share my enthusiasm.

It took a bit to wind down after all that excitement, but I did eventually get to sleep. Then a child who shall remain nameless needed sheets changed at five so I was up again.

Theodore took the kids to church. I was a bit late.

BUT, I turned in two registration forms, beautifully filled in, complete with correct immunization dates. I still don’t know if I really had to have the form in by Sunday, but I’m not going to ask because I don’t want to know if that was all for nothing.

I spent the afternoon as a lady of leisure, napping on the couch and watching Pride and Prejudice while Theodore took care of things. He’s quite a guy. He felt sorry for me for my lack of sleep, but I think he also realizes that earlier in the marriage I would have woken him up to share in the middle-of-the-night record-searching extravaganza, and he’s so thankful that I now have my pseudo-crises alone that taking care of the kids for the afternoon sounds like a cakewalk.

Or something like that.

Subscribe to Writing and Living by email or in a reader.