It's POOL Time!

Pool "opens" Saturday, and no matter how many times I have done this, it is always stressful at the beginning of pool season, with this year posing its own set of new challenges:

-The threat of broken bones: Last summer, I took my eyes off Ana, and she broke her tibia on the diving board, and now it is time for me to let her get back on the horse. Clearly, this will amount to a severe nervous condition for me.

-The urgent need for canned chili: There was a chili cheese dog from the snack bar per day per member of the family Those dogs don't come cheap, but they do count as dinner if bought after 4 pm. However, I do need to budget for all this snack bar activity, as last year it wiped out my personal slush fund, also known as coffee money. This should be avoided at all costs.

-The urgent need to protect red heads even in the shade: Last summer, Mary Kate defied all SPF research. Therefore, this week, I must locate SPF 350, and I must find a floaty baby thingie with a large canopy for the newest of my translucent children.

-The urgent need for swimwear that fits: Mary Kate's bathing suit from last year now stretches over her like a weightlifter's leotard...pictured here... And then there is my no longer being able to play the pregnancy card: rubbing my stomach and tilting my head all coy, "I'm expecting." Now I get to rub my belly and say, "Hot dogs are good." So, I need a new suit; I believe they call them "Miracle Suits," and I am going to need a major intercession...

Slowing Down

Two and a half years ago, my husband and I shared a small basement apartment with our - then - four children. He was recovering from a health scare, and I was recovering from picking up the pieces around the scare. He couldn't work, and we were together alllllllll dayyyyyyy everyyyyyyydayyyyyyy. I thought about working, but Steve needed me at home, so we lived there, in a tiny space, with no idea what the next day would look like. We didn't have a yard. We didn't have extra money. We didn't have any space. We were literally hiding in a basement.

In search of space, I got in the habit of walking on trails for miles and miles every day, with all my kids, of course; pushing them in a stroller; pulling them in a wagon; letting them ride ahead on bikes. They'd straggle behind, moaning and groaning when they got tired. We walked for miles and miles, while I sorted out all the events and confusion and questions that were swirling around in my head. If I was walking really fast, it was because I was working through something that made me very emotional. Ana would ask me, "Why are you walking so fast?" I took the time one night to explain to her that when I got upset, I walked faster without realizing it. After that, on a walk, if I started to leave everyone in the dust, Ana - almost 9 at the time - would then call me on it, "Mom, You're upset!"

I remember turning around and looking at my kids, way behind me at one point, and I realized - in that very moment - that I should try to walk more slowly when I am upset. In fact, maybe I should occasionally just sit down altogether, bow my head, and LISTEN.

Our walks became much more relaxed after that - they became prayer walks. I am going for a prayer walk right now, and this time I am not praying for answers or direction; I am praying in thanks. I am going to walk and walk and walk, very slowly, and I am going to say, "Thanks."

I hope Ana notices.

The Chickens Would Like to Talk to Us about the Flea Situation

About a month ago, I told Steve I noticed a flea problem, and he - as usual - brought home chickens. Yep. That's the solution. (It really isn't...he just waits for a way to get poultry into our backyard...this isn't the first chicken solution he's sold me.) In any case, there are chickens. About two weeks later, Mary runs into the house and blasts me with twenty sentences about an injured dog in the neighbor's backyard (the house is vacant...for rent; wanna be neighbors?). I yell, "Don't touch it!" I could only picture a hurt dog biting off Mary's arm when she gets all St Francis on it. I scoot out the back door, and Ana is carrying a very small dog, a Yorkie mix. She plops it down on our sun porch - it cannot walk on one leg. The chorus of "Can we keep him" begins, and I looked down at the mutt thinking, "more fleas...get the chickens on this stat." That night, Blue, our 12 year-old 100 pound coon hound, who hasn't moved past her food bowl in years, runs away. She runs away - to the country club. I am not kidding. The dog went a half-mile away, to the fanciest house in Portland. I can hear the dog muttering the entire way: "First they pull a cat out of an engine; then they bring in more birds, and now they plop this three-legged freak on my dog bed...I've got fleas, and I'm too fat to reach the itch...." And she ran off to find a wealthy family who gave her a bowl of food under a palm tree. (Seriously, we picked her up under a palm tree...she had IAMS, a definite upgrade from her Pedigree chicken flavor.) A few days pass, and the three-legged dog (whose picture we plastered all over the place - LOST DOG...LOST DOG...seriously, come get this LOST DOG!) starts attacking the chickens. It was a massacre: chickens flattened; children aghast, and three-legged dog proud to have provided a service of chicken elimination. We have had more chicken funerals than Perdue. Fast forward a few more days, and Little Kitty (the kitty from the engine, you'll recall) starts twitching next to her litter box. Water comes flying out of her rear end. I cup my hand over my mouth...I struggle to call out, "Annnnnaaaaa! Something is going on with your cattttttttt." All the kids come running, and little kitty gives birth to a littler kitty. Yep. She had just one kitty. We hadn't gotten her fixed because Steve told the kids she could have one litter. We were going to plan it and have a nice little "birthing" experience with an itty bitty kitty nursery and warm towels and blah blah blah blah BLAH. Uh. There it was. The three legged dog came rolling around the bend ready to pounce; Blue, the coon hound, rolled her eyes and called up the country club; the chickens complained about the flea situation, and Spray Cat - yep - he is still here - lifted his tail and soaked Little Kitty's food bowl. I think I could hear him say, "Tramp."

Um. So, the moral of all this is just buy Frontline.