Susiej

The first child up in the morning, (this varies by day) pulls the blanket off his bed, and drags it through the hallway and down the stairs to sit on the hottest spot in the house — the hot register. This black grate sits at the bottom of the stairs, just inside the front door. The blanket on top ensures no heat will escape, and all that warm toasty air will stay wrapped around legs, feet, and a chest that is not quite ready to take on the world.

The second child up makes his way, with his blanket, to the second hottest spot in the house — the hot register in the dining room, just off to the left from the front door. The third child is stuck with the living room, which billows heat with the least force of the three. The fourth child couldn’t care less. He’s just worried that everyone else is going to make him late for school — and he yells at them to hurry up and eat their breakfasts.

But they are eating their breakfasts. They’ve managed somehow, without losing their spot, to pour a bowl of cereal and milk, grab a spoon, and run back to their spot where they are eating, concealing their bowl under the blanket so that I won’t know; because I’d tell them to go sit at the table.

I discover this has happened after they’ve left for school, and I find the bowl with my foot, the spoon clinking against the pottery, as I walk by to pick up the blankets. I say nothing later, because I know how it feels to be drawn to that heat. I did the same thing when I was a girl. It’s almost irresistible.

I have been known, on particularly rushed mornings, to turn off the heat, just to get them to move. Sometimes, it’s the only way. Then, later, around 10, wondering why it’s so cold in here. Once, I mistakenly turned back on the A/C, and found myself with an unfamiliar air of chilliness.

In the afternoons they will do homework in these respective spots, and by the looks of the inside of the registers, lots of Lego’s and Bionicles have been built here too. It also looks as if some chess games have been won and lost on these spots.

On snow days, they congregate together on the hottest register with every blanket, stuffed animal and sheet they can find and build one huge billowy fort. There are lots of screams about territory during these turf battles.

Once the weather warms up (let’s hope in just a few weeks), these registers, these thrones, will recede into the walls of the corners where they sit, and they will go unnoticed until that first frost comes in the fall.

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Filed under: Laugh, boy by SusieJ - 4 Comments →

It’s all I can do to not share this scene with you via You Tube. But I’ll have to wait until next Friday. For now, you’ll have to guess. This should be fun. Below is the dialogue from a scene in a movie. See if you can recognize what movie this is from:

“Let’s not go out for dinner. Let’s stay in.”
“We have to eat.”
“We can eat here. I’ll cook.”
“I thought you didn’t like to cook.”
“No, I don’t like to cook. But I have a chicken in the icebox and you’re eating it.”
“What about all the washing up afterwards?”
“We’ll eat it with our fingers.”
“Do we need any plates?”
“Yes. One for you and one for me.”
“Mind if I have dinner with you tonight?”
“I’d be delighted.”

You have until next Friday, March 5, 2010 to email me your guess, to sjotest AT (spelled out to avoid spam) yahoo.com.
If you’re correct, you’ll be entered to win an Amazon Gift Card and this gift.

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Update: My son’s preschool teacher sent me these pictures — her daughter proudly made this dragon out of snow,

using green food coloring to make the stand out. (She said it was OK to publish these photos.) Puff is nothing but delightful.

I hope she sends me an email to explain how she got that neck to stand up so tall!

A snowman in the front yard is a testament to the mother inside (and you can bet she’s savoring a moment of peace over a cup of  tea) who has successfully managed to instill in her children the inspiration to make something out of the white powder that the kids are nothing short of sick of by now.

Snow, at this point, has lost a bit of its novelty, and dare I say it, its pristine beauty. Now that the earth has been covered in a blanket of white for so many weeks, our landscape looks more like a white desert than a Winter Wonderland. Snow has, due to the passage of time, inherited different shades of white.

1. Pure white: Freshly fallen, or untouched snow.
2. Gray white: Snow that has melted and refrozen, leaving big dots behind.
3. Yellow snow.
4. Horrific black white. This is snow melted under the pressure of salt and automobile tires, and then thrown in chunky blocks, via splashes along the side of the road.

This year’s crop of snowmen have been unusually large. They dot our streets like familiar faces, and like pets, have taken on the character traits of the inhabitants of the houses where they sit. Their scarves and hats peek out at odd angles, as the sun has melted and re-frozen their bodies, while Mother Nature rained down a few more inches on top, after snowman-birth.

The arrival of spring is a tricky thing. The sun warms up the earth, and in a matter of 24 hours, reveals the wet grass beneath the snow. We are lulled into believing this is it — we pull out our spring lightweight jackets, and then bam– an ice storm shows up wrecking havoc on our schedules once again, and we can’t see our grass.

The snowmen are too smart to fall for that spring trick. They stick around long after the snow has melted on the grass. But when they do melt, that’s a sure sign that spring has arrived.

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The package arrived just as we were leaving to go back to school after his afternoon lunch break. There was no time to sit down with the box and open it, and bless his heart; he didn’t even ask if he could.

He simply said, “Can I tear off the packing label and bring it to school for show and tell?”

“Of course,” I said.

He had to sit at school for another three hours and wait, knowing the package was waiting for him at home.

Toa Mata Nui is quite large, and he has a special place in our home, along with the box — up high.

This is his favorite stance — he places him parallel to the box.

In these trying days, it’s nice to be able to do something that means so much.

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Four 10-second swabs was all it took to see if I’m a potential Bone Marrow donor for my friend Seth. The lobby was filled with people filling out forms of their own medical history, a table laden with a big iced-chocolate cake stood by, and stacks of sterilized swabs sat waiting in their envelopes. Over 350 showed up for the event, a visible outpouring of love. The nurses are shipping the packets out Monday, and then, there is the 10-day waiting period to find a match. If we aren’t able to help Seth, we’re all in the BeTheMatchRegistry to help someone else. Just knowing that fact gives me a marvelous feeling.

If you’re considering it, but afraid of what it entails; please know that the procedure was quick and painless. Four 10-second swabs. More details about the procedure can be found here.

Our celebration is mixed with our anxious and patient wait for Seth to wake up. Please remember his family in your prayers.  Let’s just hope that Seth is giving himself a much needed rest before he embarks on his next phase — the bone marrow transplant.

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As I grow older, I notice that my body is beginning to react to stressful situations in uncomfortable ways. There is the tightness in my stomach, the heavy pounding of my heart – I don’t think my heart race increases, it just beats harder. My fingers suffer from lack of circulation, my arms and legs feel weak, as if they are devoid of blood. There is heat, and an inability to speak. The stomach fluttering is the worst part. It overrides the mind, and I am unable to think — or decide things.

Case in point. Today, I walked into the post office to file a claim for my son’s Ipod, sold an ebay, but lost by the post office. I’ve had less anxiety over blue-book essay exams in college than I do about this form. It’s worth $75. In the blue-book, you’re free to “wander around” with your words, and eventually you’ll hit the mark. The professors always figured out what I was trying to say. When you’re filling out a postal form, you’ve got one blank. One-shot baby, to make your claim and provide the “correct” answer.

The claim couldn’t be filed for 21 days after the mailing date – the post office figures they might find the Ipod within that time frame. Do they mean 21 days after the date I mailed it – or from the day?

So, I walked into the tiny lobby of the post office, form in hand, praying that I had all of my “i”s dotted and “t”s crossed.

Did I mention I had three boys with me too? The minute I walked into the lobby I saw another mom who said, “You’re a much better mom than me! I left my kids in the car.” The line was snaking all the way out the door, and as she spoke, I looked around at all the people and thought. “I’m just afraid of what the kids would do to each other if I did leave them in the car this long.”

We wait. We wait. And we wait. Finally I’m in front of the postal clerk. I hand her all the papers and she simply says, about three times. “I don’t even know what to do with all of this stuff.” Followed by “I’ve never had a form like this before.” Finally, I open the form for her, and show her where the postal employee is supposed to sign, and fill in the blanks. She finally does this, gingerly.

My kids are beyond antsy. We’ve been standing here for 20 minutes now. They pull off the hand sanitizer from the clerk station next to the one we’re on. He’s not there to stop them. I put my head down, and catch the eye of my oldest son, and shake my head and mouth the word “Stop.” But his little brothers are all lined up for a squirt.
My stomach hurts. I feel weak in the knees.

Then my phone rings. My kids pull it out of my pocket, answer it and begin hatching a plan of a “can we take him along to a basketball game/dinner event.” While I’m nodding to the clerk, and saying “Uh-huh” thinking that whatever my son has planned will be fine. Next, he shoves the phone into my ear, as the mom needs me to clarify a few details. The clerk looks me directly in the eye and begins to ask me questions. I can’t hear a thing she’s saying.

”I’m at the post office, “ I say. “Let me call you back.” As I say these words, I feel every eye in the entire lobby glaring at me – what am I doing talking on the phone at a time like this? Just as I’m ready to slam the phone shut, the mom says, “What? I can’t hear you!”

I hate to be rude. But I can’t bear to repeat myself in front of everyone. Just then, the clerk points to the sign in the lobby and proceeds to say, loudly, “We have a sign on the wall right there that says, “No cell phones.”
I slam the phone shut.

It’s getting hot.

The clerk is beyond slow. This form seems to give her the same kind of anxiety it gives me. She reads each question three times – interrupts the clerk beside her to ask what it means, and the clerk responds, “Today’s date.” Or, “Staple the receipt.” Every eye is on my back. I realize that for some time, my coat has been jerked, several times. My shoulders feel uneven, and the balancing effect of the yoga I did this morning is running out of me, drip by drip, and puddling onto the floor. I reach my hand back to smooth out my coat. The jerking continues. It’s my kids pulling on the back of my coat. “Stop,” I say. “You had this sticker on your back.” They’re laughing at me. I study a white tiny fleck of a name sticker. What else is on my back?

Now the kids are climbing up the counter. “Stop,” I say. The clerk is oblivious to the fact that I need to get out of here. She goes to the back room… for something. She’s left me alone for over four minutes. I have no idea what she’s doing. I want to turn around and make it clear to all of those people behind me standing in line that “I am the victim here. They lost our package.”

I wonder if there is a line item on that form for “emotional trauma.”

Then I find out I don’t have the right receipt. I have the “postal” receipt. But not the “transaction receipt.”
“But this is the post office receipt. It has your tracking number on it.”
“Yeah, but the transaction receipt has more detail on it.”
Why wouldn’t the post office print everything they need on their own receipt? What “other information” besides the date and tracking number do they need? Again, if it’s that important, why not print it on your own receipt. This is the trick question I was waiting for.

I could be out $75.

Seriously. That other mom is way better than me. Leaving them in the car would have been much easier on everyone. Being a good mom, I’m learning has less to do with what you do, but more with learning what your tolerances are.

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