Captain Me Planet

On our Previa.

I just read our old car tale to the children, and Private Two nearly wept, and cried out, aaaawwww, that’s so sad! I don’t want the new car, take it back, take it back!

I think my daughter rocks. Of course, I’m her mother. But my observation of her yesterday in her co-op classes, as I was teacher’s helper, really makes me proud.

She didn’t listen to one word of the history lesson.

Why?

She didn’t like her teacher’s outfit.

And this, I think, is hysterical.

I saw her. Eying Mrs. Green. Up, down, watching. And I knew she was not absorbing the intimate details of the ancient catacombs under the streets of Rome. Sure, it’s interesting that the first Christians were so persucuted that they had to dig for their lives in an effort to escape. But Mrs. Green’s outfit? Whew.

On the way home, she told me her profound thoughts. First, I asked her if that was the teacher that barked at her once for answering a fellow classmate’s question. Sho’nuff. I could just tell.

Then, she said, Mom, Mrs. Green only has 2 skirts. And they’re both ankle length. One is denim and the other is khaki. And she only wears those to teach each week. Back and forth, back and forth. You think those are the only sort of bottoms she owns? Or does she like them? And today was the first day she wore flip flops with them. She usually wears white walking shoes.

Love it. Other children are absorbing the agony of the days of the ancient Christians. My girl is sizing up Mrs. Green’s wardrobe. And not too fondly, at that.

My old Previa. Aaaah. My paid for car. The car we bought 0 down, paid out over 5 years, from Carmax, 6 moves ago. She has just been replaced.

Oh my Previa. When we first bought you, you were the first minivan I ever drove. And my hatred of such a genre of car swiftly became intense love as I experienced how far back the children could actually get. How many diaper bags and pack ‘n’ plays you could hold. You held me up, high in my captain’s chair, with excellent visibility, and played cassette after cassette after cassette of Arthur stories, and Thomas tales. We driven to Texas and back, 4 times. Loaded you with Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving and beach gear. You brought our new baby home from the hospital, 5 and a half years ago, and drove us out to my parents’ lake house for recouperation time.

You’ve heard a few arguments. Seen some tears. Been present for dream sessions, when we needed to figure out where our life would go next. And you’ve held approximately 1, 260 Happy Meals in your lifetime with us. I did the math.

I’ve changed hundreds of diapers on your floors. Taught my boys how to pee in a bottle when there was no clean restroom on your seats. Taught myself and my daughter how to use a ziploc on the way home from New Orleans, shortly before the devestating hurricane, when we were stuck in rush hour traffic. You helped us travel the city before she would never be the same. Oh, Previa. We owe you so much.

You’ve seen 7 different carseats between our 3 children. Watched us leave 2 of them in dumpsters across the country when they were yarfed uncontrollably upon. You didn’t tell when I just held the children in the back, while they recovered and we found a WalMart to get another. Or when a baby was so hungry, I just crawled back there in your warmth, and nursed them.

I’d like to say you kept us cool and comfy in the heat of the southern summers, but alas, this has never been your forte. Regardless, for all the rest that you’ve done for us, we keep putting the miles on you, happy that you are ours.

But now, you have a replacement. The years have caught up with you. Your little AC motor that tried, is weakening, and we’re told it is obsolete. You need more put into you now, than maybe your financial value is worth, but never more than you are worth. And dear Previa, you’re getting a little rough around the bumpers. Rusty. But still dear to us, all the same.

We know there is a family out there, who really needs you. One that has children to cart, and very little money with which to purchase a vehicle of your caliber. And will recognize that 153, 000 miles of love doesn’t mean you don’t have more in you. You are…a Toyota.

So we bought the Mazda MPV last night. No, don’t fret. She’s not brand new. She is, however, 5 years old, instead of your valiant 15. She happens to look almost just like you. This, I think, is testimony to our fondness for you. She is not better than you, and never will be. But we felt the time had come. As she sits behind you in the drive this morning, I hope you’ll teach her a thing or two. How to not let the children fall out of the back door when they disobediently unbuckle and scramble to find the lost toy. How to keep chugging when it seems you’ve run out of gas miles and miles ago. You never let me down. How to go, and go, and go with so little repairs necessary.

And for you? We have a plan. We will invest a little TLC, and find that family you are destined to continue on with. Just never forget us, and that moment we first saw each other, that early winter evening in 1999, as you sat in the Carmax parking lot, with seemingly a beacon shining upon you.

You have served well. You have been loved. Adieu, my dear Previa, adieu.

My Old Car

Our Motto

Wear and Tear, Private 3 style

Old Mobile Mission Control, and Max

Our miles together, starting at 63K

The New Car

My New Mobile Mission Control

the cup holder that will hopefully prevent so much spillage. right.

the yet undefiled back seat. today.

May we travel the many miles together, as well as our time with my Previa.

The night before Easter. Traditional, somber, reverent, Easter grill out and dance party. The Captain and Private Three. Doing a little disco.

And only a week or so late, our Easter Egg Endeavor pics.

Private Three’s hands took more dye than the eggs…

Can you see the heart?

Heart Egg by Private Two

And just after Easter Day, more new life. I found a butterfly, sitting in the driveway, and brought it inside for the children to see. She stayed on Private Three, just long enough to grab my camera, get a so-so shot, and then we chased her around the house to set her free.

Friday night brought our Karate Kid’s second belt test. Moving on up to second yellow, with an orange stripe.

Blurry, but proud.

And last, but not least. This is my fridge.

And this is the floor beside my fridge.

And this the crawl space, under our house, as seen through the floor, beside my fridge. It’s a gaping hole.

Somebody didn’t seem to think that a constantly leaking fridge would cause much damage. Guess what? Wood tends to rot when wet. And rot spreads. And now we see that the front part of our second floor, the one that happens to be occupied by our children, is resting on an I beam, that rests on 2 2x4s, that rests on a plate of soggy, rotting, wood. Oh boy.

Have a happy Monday. I know we will, while I we try to keep our 5 year old out of the crawl space that is now in our kitchen.

The fart machine that has taken residence in our home (thanks Dad) is completely unnecessary. Between 3 boys (1 man in there, debatable), and 1 uninhibited girl, we have plenty of these, for real, with noxious fumes, to experience. I, of course, do not “pass gas”. I am a “southern gal”, who, thanks to my southern Mama, has been taught ultimate sphincter control. Some would say it is healthy to let it go, I say, tighten those muscles. No need to let it rip, if you can reabsorb, up to the esophagus if necessary. It may even help your abs.

Our youngest loves to leave his mark in any room he’s been in. He’s downright proud. The room takes on something foul that would scare man or beast. Try as we might, he insists on giggling, and announcing after the fact, when we’re wilting. He will not slip out of the room to save our nose hairs. It seems to be one of his strengths, his farts, but I’m not sure how to channel this in his education.

Our middle child, a girl, let’s’em go with no reserve. She won’t even wear panties if I don’t make her, even in a dress. If someone starts to faint, she shyly admits, and apologizes. At least that.

Our oldest. He’s entered the wild world of denial. It is never his fault. He’s not picking his nose, he’s scratching it. That rankness? Must be the dog. That stanky foot smell coming from his room? Has to be his little brother’s sandals. And, he doesn’t need a shower more than every 10 days, as apparently, he does not sweat. Therefore, he can wear that shirt for 4 days running. My mother-in-law warned me about this. Sure, she said at his birth, he’s so sweet now. But one day, that little head will stink. Not my baby, I thought, smothering his downy head in kisses. But dammit, he does. Sour, damp, moldy even. And he’s perfectly content to wallow in it.

So back to farting. I think my father gets perverse pleasure out of this. This insipid little machine has been hidden in my cabinets, behind my head, under the sofa cushion, in the laundry, the dishwasher, the dog food…and fought over, and over, and over. Seems everyone wants the priviledge of sounding off a fart. Something I don’t think I will ever understand. I mean, I have only recently admitted to actually ever having a bowel movement. My husband has thought I’d mastered the art of reabsorption. His favorite moment in our marriage was when I attempted to give birth to our daughter, and I pooed right there on the sheets. He could announce he knew, he knew, that I was human. I made poo. I acted like it never happened, and we didn’t discuss it for 5 years.

So anyway, after all this, I can only say again, thanks Dad. Our life is enriched in ways you cannot imagine. I’ll be hearing farts in my sleep, as well as the bickering to get the ability to make one. I know Mom is on my side. We’ll go down in sphincter-strength history. The last delusioned southern ladies on earth. I’m flexing right now.

(and Corndog, if you happen here, this is not a rip off, I’ve just gone undercover…ssshhhhh.)

Things are shifting in our house. Very recently, although somewhere in my head I knew it was happening, I just really got hit with the fact that A. We are not young parents anymore, and B. We have no more babies. Or even toddlers. What we have is a house of 2 parents gaining on 40, and elementary school aged kids. Kids.

This is somewhat assuaged by the fact that I keep them at home. Which is done largely to shelter them from the world while they are tender shoots, and all it’s inherent evils, and all that, and to give them a superior education upon a foundation of high moral character and spiritual development in our faith of choice, which is to follow Jesus, specifically, not just a general God or Spirit somewhere out there or in your back yard cherry tree, but primarily because I want them to be my babies forever. Mine. All mine. And I think, just maybe, that if I keep them with me long enough, tied to me in an only slightly twisted fashion, they may just forsake all others for as long as they all shall live and love me most forever. And tell me I’m pretty when I wear that brown shirt, and hug me until I can’t breathe, and bring me microwaved toast in bed for breakfast and try to put their tongue on mine because it feels funny (this is just the barely turned 5 year old, I promise, not some weird inappropriate fetish, and after the first and only time, I did tell him he needs to keep that tongue away from mine, so he tried to put it in my ear - but I stopped him, promise).

Private One. Over 10 now. Getting just a bit gawky. Got braces on his sweet teeth, and doesn’t realize when he wets his hair like that in the mornings to get rid of his bedhead he looks like the front man from Flock of Seagulls. Love him. His tennies fit me. He thinks his bright orange Old Navy fleece zip up is so cool, he puts it on every morning, of every day, no matter the weather. He suddenly demands privacy. Says I shouldn’t see him naked, but it’s OK if he walks in on me. I think this is backwards, but there is no arguing with him. Because he thinks he’s smarter than me, and nearly any one else he comes into contact with.

Watching American Idol tonight:

I really think she shouldn’t try so hard to be someone else when she’s singing. Ought to just relax.

Oh yeah, Mr. Man? You don’t know her, so I don’t see how you can comment on how she should or shouldn’t relax and not be something she’s not.

Well, it’s just so obvious. I mean, look at the way she’s pandering to the audience. Surely she doesn’t act like that with everyone all the time.

Oh.

Well, often, he is. But he doesn’t have anything on me, and doesn’t realize he can’t pull anything I’ve not pulled before. But it can be tough with 2 people in the house cut out of such similar cloth who must both always have the last word. Good thing I can pull rank. But that becomes less important when he does stuff like buy me my favorite ever flowers when he hears me mention them in the grocery store. He did. My boy bought me tulips last week. Said, take it out of my allowance, I want you to have them.

Darlin’ Private Two. Tall. Willowy. 8 years old. As beautiful with her teeth all missing and crowded as the day she was born. Mistaken as Private One’s twin occasionally, she’s so mature for her age. She’s sensitive. Dramatic. An artist. Rapid fire quick to tears, and sometimes feel stuck in the middle. She is harumphing now. Put out if she doesn’t like it. Expert eye roller. Begging for wedge shoes and heels and wishes I’d let her bare her bare midriff. Fat chance. She’s so lean and lovely. Yet just this week she said she wanted a body shaper girdle thing like mine to “pull this in” (pinching the one inch of flesh on her upper thigh). I ache to think she would ever think one tiny itty bitty millisecond that she is not just gorgeous. Because she really is. And it’s not just me saying it. So does her Dad, and grandparents. No really. Strangers too. Not that we ask them for affirmation regularly or anything, but sometimes, people just comment. But getting her from here to healthy adulthood will not be easy in the skinny, big boobed, half naked, Hollywood glamore-obsessed culture we live in. It makes me sick. And whether or not it offends anyone else, is a primary reason she is not in public school. Little girls learn all too early how to turn on the sexuality. She is tender. Let her be so until she matures to a ready-stage to take on more. And Lord, let me be able to help her know how to accept and love herself through your image of her.

Bringing up the rear, Private Three. This is the child that makes it all hit home. I have no babies. I watched him today, play outside at his grandparents. As he was coming in another child asked him if he could come back out and play in a bit. As he nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders, tilted his head in consideration, and said so big-like, I dunno, dude, I’ll have to ask, my heart lept. Suddenly I realized there is no baby talk. No toddler talk. No more stutter that he carried for a while. Just kid talk. At 5. I know Private One was less savvy than this at 5. But that’s just the thing about being a second, third or fourth or whatever child. You pick up stuff. You outgrow Elmo faster. You insist on a big boy bed earlier. You refuse to wear Mommy’s favorite blue corduroy john-john with smocked trains on the front a whole lot sooner one Easter morning and instead want to wear some khakis and a white shirt and you’re only 2 and a half, and my last baby and also tell me in the same morning that those little blue white toed Keds are stupid because your big brother won’t wear them anymore either (not that I’m bitter).

This guy, our youngest, is the sort that will either invent a new form of energy to run our planet, and a way to live comfortably in outer space through some sort of molecular disintegration and reintegration travel. Or, he’ll wind up in jail. Some days, hard to tell. But he loves me mostest. Well, probably he doesn’t. But he’s the one that can’t seem to get enough of me, still. Hugs. Snuggles. Kisses. Compliments. Maybe he’s just feeling guilty for something I haven’t discovered that he’s drawn on or broken or taken apart yet. Whatever. It’s yummy. And it does keep him alive. For now.

So. My nest. Full. Busy. Exhausting. Sometimes insane. Never get it all organized, always twigs hanging out somewhere, or grubs ground into the bottom, or poop not scraped away. And it’s at capacity. Right? Isn’t it at full capacity? Didn’t we hatch the last egg like, 5 years ago? Aren’t I overwhelmed with what’s in it right now, especially when the wind blows extra hard and the nest shakes just a bit too much for comfort? Here’s where I’ve lost my ever-lovin bird brain. I could do it again. There. I said it (whatever) out loud. In public. To the internet. Who doesn’t give a rip, but I feel better. And Dad, don’t panic. I’ve had this conversation with Mom. We have no future egg laying plans. Yet. And may never. But I see our life changing. Shifting. Leaving a season to maybe never return. And it makes me think. About the best thing we’ve ever done other than marry each other. The richness of having these children that occasionally make me want to climb in a bottle and never come out (antidepressants, alcohol, zanax, pick your poison) are also the reason I get moving every day. The only eternal thing we’ll ever do. Getting them from here, to there. Whole and ready to fly by themselves.

Maybe you got to be a girly bird brain. Maybe it’s just that estrogen coursing through. But it can be hard to think that who’s in your nest, right now, and rapidly approaching the time to fly, is all you get to get prepared for the flight. Layin’ the egg may not be easy, and Lord knows the baby birds can wear you out. But look how awesome it is to get to watch them start to try their wings.

Having a hair style crisis this last few weeks. Heck, I’m having an everything vanity-associated crisis. Upon turning 35 in December, my clothes don’t fit right, my hair is too 80s, the 10 pounds I’m always trying to lose, just infernal. And my daughter. She. is. just. gorgeous. Really. Other people say that, not just her grandmoms. And I’m starting to get jealous. Sick, huh.

Any way, so I made a hair appointment 911 call to my girl (I never know what the PC term is, kind of like, is stewardess/steward insulting now? Or is it server or waitress, or androgynous food bringing person). I said, girl, you have got to do something with the limp locks adorning my head. And I’m tired of hot rollers. She said I certainly should be, as no respectable in-style woman has used hot rollers since 1989. And even then, only in the south. Oh. So anyway, you’ve just got to do something, said I. So we booked an appointment.

As luck would have it, the three people I normally call to keep the children were all previously engaged, and I had to either A. take all three with me (10, 8 and 5, with really, the 5 yr. old being the issue, he’s like triplets all by himself), or B. Skip my desperately needed Hair Update. I took them. So Privates One, Two and Three were given their backpacks with school work and puzzle books, some change for the vending machine and the statement from me, that I, Captain Mom, would deliver swift and painful sentences if any behavior was displayed that made me look bad. As this, my looking bad in front of other people, was really all I am interested in. And they. would. not. do. that. to. me. And if they commited this heinous crime of mutiny, they would be very very sorry. And don’t distract my girl. She has scissors at my hair.

All the way over we drilled. Will we, for instance, climb all over the going up and going down chair, and fall out, taking a shelf of shampoos and frizz controls down with us? Nooooo mam, we will not. Check. Will we, say, alternately squirt conditioner and curling gel from the $28 bottles while Mommy’s head is under the drier and she can’t beat see you? Absolutely not. Of course not. Or, will we swap the contents of one hair stylist’s cabinet with contents kept under the sink, in the ladies’ room? We. would. never, they say innocently. Sure. Unfortunately, these things have been known to happen.

I park the car. Rapid fire repeat pertinent questions. Gather munitions and move out. As we enter the salon, each child gets one more penetrating gaze, which silently warns you will be sorry. Besides, I’ve said before, do you want to be those wild unsocialized unruly homeschoolers so many people expect? But what am I saying. These are the children that have each, at one time or another, thrown themselves in front of a moving grocery cart, screaming I WANT SUGAR CEREAL, albeit, they were much younger. But we can’t go back now. My girl sees me, and my children, as do the other stylist and clients, and I can feel the eyeballs follow us through the shop. It’s noon, after all, when few respectable children are not sitting at their desks in some school somewhere. Private One said he could actually hear some murmering. I threw out my chin, thought a desperate prayer, and ushered the children up the stairs and to my girl’s room.

And you know what? They. were. perfect. Each did what was brought along for them to do. Each kept their inside voices. Their manners, and their sweet attitudes. There was one minor Coke spill, but it was just an accident. No harm, no foul. Private Three (the 5 year old) even held the dustpan for my girl when she was cleaning up. What an impression that was, let me just tell you. And I, well I just smiled oh, yes, they are wonderful, yes, always a joy, hhmmm, yes homeschooling can just be amazing, well, we have a system, yes, very organized I must be, no, I suppose not, not every one is cut out for this, yes, probably through highschool, no, I just can’t imagine doing anything else, (other than run fast, in the direction away from my home, naked if necessary) just adorable, yes he is. As. if. it. were. ALWAYS. this. way. Ha. But boy, for one 2 hour span of time, they were in their glory. And I couldn’t be prouder. Made me look good. And my hair? Not so bad either. Kind of adds a Jennifer Love Hewitt thing to my look. More bang. Piece-y. Although, I’m much more attractive. Except for these 10 pounds. And the boobs. And the constant squinting when I speak. And oh, the seeing the ghosts thing.