Happy Birthday, WDF

Thirty-three years ago today, through a complex series of small miracles, Paul landed in the world. And today, in commemoration of that blessed event, we ate hamburgers as big as our heads and took a monster nap right in the middle of the afternoon.

Actually, since today was Sunday and already filled up with church and Bible study and all good things, we did the bulk of our merrymaking yesterday, in celebration of both Paul’s birthday and his safe return from a week of teaching at church camp.

Can I just tell you how much I missed my husband last week? A whole long week of no warm body next to me in a bed as big and as empty as the Sahara. A week of watching movies alone and turning around to share my pithy observations with someone who wasn’t there. A week of killing my own spiders, doing the Icky Spider Dance of Girliness to a non-existent audience. A week of missing the love of my life keenly, and realizing (even more than usual) how blessed I am to have someone so wonderful to miss.

Halfway through the week, I sat down with the birthday wish list I had pried out of Paul’s brain before he left and tried to decide what to get him as a gift. Usually, I ask Paul for a bunch of ideas, settle on one, and buy it. He likes it, he thanks me, and everyone is happy. But this year, for some reason, it just didn’t feel like enough. Scanning the list, I considered the possibilities: disc golf equipment, computer software, gift certificates. Any of them would be met with sweet gratitude by my easy-to-please husband. But none of them seemed right.

Let me tell you about my birthdays. Every year, I make a wish list. Paul takes it, reads it over carefully, and throws it away. Then he searches my heart and mind to discover the one gift that I want more than anything but would never dare to ask for because it’s too expensive, too impractical, too extravagant to even be committed to paper. And he buys it. Like my laptop. Like my digital SLR. Like my scrapbooking desk.

For once, I wanted to be a scandalous gift giver. I wanted to make Paul feel like I feel when I tear open the wrapping and my unspoken dream thingy is sitting there. I wanted him to know that he is loved beyond all reason, beyond mere practicality.

So I searched his heart and replayed our recent conversations in my head until I came up with it. The thing he would never ask for, but I knew he really wanted: a Nintendo Wii. Giggling with glee, wild with anticipation, I picked up the phone and started calling around town to locate the gaming system. Target, Walmart, Game Stop, Circuit City–all were out of stock! I was starting to feel a little desperate. It was Saturday morning and I was nearly resigned to having to order one online when my last call, to Best Buy, hit pay dirt! They had just received three that morning, but they expected to be sold out within the hour. I loaded up the kids and burned rubber and before I knew it I was finally holding the prize in my hot little hand. Having completely abandoned myself to the spirit of wild giving, I didn’t stop there. After a brief consultation via phone with Paul’s brother, who also has a Wii, I threw extra controllers, a recharger, and several games he recommended into the cart as well, and before long we were driving home with the precious treasure safely in our possession.

I can’t remember when I’ve been more excited to give someone a gift. And I don’t know which was better: his amazed reaction, or simply having him back — to kill spiders, to be the big spoon, and to make the joy of living twice as sweet in the sharing of it.

Happy Birthday, love.

May you always bii as happii as you have made mii. (Hii hii!)

The Green Police

Given the current political climate, I should probably be confessing this in a darkened studio from behind a clown wig and a pair of dark glasses, using one of those electronic voice modulators to disguise my identity. But here it comes, anyway:

Up until very recently, I did not recycle. (*brief pause for collective gasp of amazement*) Nope, not one little bit. Like the thoughtless savage that I am, I tossed newspapers, glass bottles, and plastic bags alike in the bin, caring not that I was bloating the world’s landfills with evidence of my own conspicuous consumption. And the cans–oh, the cans! Do you know how many cans a Diet-Coke-aholic can go through in a week? Well, neither did I, until it happened.

We discovered a member of the Green Police living in our very own home.

I remember it clearly. It was Earth Day. Katie returned from third grade that afternoon full of information about environmental conservation, the white hot fervor of newborn activism burning in her eyes. As an assignment, her teacher had asked the class to find one thing they could personally do to help the environment. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t hide. Suddenly, I was cowering in the glare of the spotlight, answering uncomfortable questions like: “How many bags of garbage does our family make in a week, Mom?” and “Why do we throw everything away instead of recycling it?” and “Isn’t taking care of the earth important?” Suddenly, my oft-repeated excuses for not recycling–that our apartment complex doesn’t provide recycling bins, that we don’t have enough room in our small living space to collect recyclables, that a few cans didn’t make much of a difference anyway–began to sound a little flimsy.

I saw my daughter, standing shining-eyed before me, bursting with youthful optimism, completely convinced that even one person’s actions can have an effect in the world–and it made me remember that I believe that, too.

***

So here I am, a recalcitrant recycler, rinsing out a Diet Coke can (my third today) in preparation for adding it to the stash under the sink. Then, when that bag is full, we will drive it out to the recycling bin in front of the school, where the drop box recycling program brings in welcome extra funds for classroom supplies. I can’t say it’s not a hassle, but it’s not nearly the hassle I expected.

Sometimes I do slip up. The other day, for example, I had gathered up our full-to-overflowing kitchen trash bag and was just tying it closed when Katie appeared and pointed to the aluminum evidence of a couple of my absent-minded infractions. (A pox on those translucent trash bags!) “Mom,” she said in a tone of voice usually reserved for my sole use, “did you forget to recycle those two cans?” Caught. Under Katie’s approving eye, I sheepishly fished them out of the muck and placed them in the proper receptacle.

I admit, I’m still not totally green. I haven’t traded in our dependable Ford for an eco-friendly hybrid vehicle. I use the air-conditioner with wild abandon. And I can’t seem to bring myself to buy 28 reusable canvas bags for our monthly groceries. But, thanks mostly to Katie, I do recycle cans. I’m saving the earth, raising money for education, and getting Al Gore off my back, all at the same time. And I know my kid is proud of me, and of herself, for making that happen, which is the best reward I could ask for.

The faintly virtuous feeling is just a bonus.

Borrowed Bliss

Of the myriad tiny joys embedded in my day like so many Easter Eggs in the green grass, one of the sweetest occurs in the early evening, when my route home invariably takes me past a little wooden-faced building nestled in the heart of Coeur d’Alene, a place called The Hitching Post. Often, especially in the summer, the golden rays of late sun illuminating the small brick and clapboard structure also fall upon a wedding party milling around on the lawn outside, where a bride and groom and their retinue of devoted friends are either coming or going from the short and intimate ceremony inside the small chapel.

Sometimes the bride is in full regalia–veil, train and all–resplendent and rapturous beside her tuxedoed groom and matching taffeta-encrusted wedding party. Many times, though, she is less formally attired. Passing by the Post day after day, I have seen a Western themed wedding, a Medieval wedding, and even a wedding where everyone involved, including the happy couple, wore matching tee shirts. Whatever they’re wearing, they usually stop and pose for photos in front of the Hitching Post’s famous sign, sharing hugs and smiles with gathered family as passers-by honk and wave their congratulations in the spirit of bonhomie.

Even when the whole wedding party is dressed in jeans, it’s easy to tell which ones are the bride and groom: look for the couple that is gazing intently into each other’s eyes, giddy and slightly off-balance, as if they’ve just been hit over the head with a pillow-encased anvil. Glancing at them is like glancing into the sun. The joy lingers, radiates, spreads out in concentric circles from its source to wash over even me, driving by in my dusty red car, and suddenly I’m grinning like an idiot.

I do love a wedding.

Phew!

I just burned a graham cracker in the microwave.

Remember in college how one bag of microwave popcorn, scorched on the altar of inattentiveness, could clear the whole dorm with its stink? It smells kinda like that. But worse.

You see, I had this chocolate craving. And when I say craving, I mean an unstoppable force, a madness, a desire so strong that ten minutes ago I was shamelessly ransacking my child’s closet in search of an eight-month-old bag of carefully hoarded Halloween candy. No luck.

Then I found the chocolate chips. Just a few, in the bottom of a twisted plastic bag in the back of the cupboard. Right next to the marshmallows. And I had an idea.

Oh, yes. S’mores. In no time, I had laid hands on a graham cracker, which I set on a napkin before arranging the chocolate chips and the marshmallows in a sweet layer on top. Salivating, I placed the whole construction in the microwave and pressed ‘Start’.

I’m not sure what happened. By the time the smell reached me from inside the microwave, it was much too late to stop its putrid tentacles from creeping into every nook and cranny of the apartment. I tried. I whisked the smoking mess, napkin and all, into a trash bag, which I tied up and removed immediately to the dumpster outside. When I came back in, the smell almost knocked me over, and for while I was very busy–lighting candles, opening windows, spraying air freshener, and mentally adding graham crackers to the List of Things Not to Put in the Microwave.

Then I called Paul and asked him to bring home some ice cream.

See? I do have some good ideas.

Shots

Caleb got his five year immunizations this week. There were three of them, each a miraculous cocktail of disease prevention in a giant syringe tipped with a glistening needle.

He’s fine. And, well, I’m recovering.

I hate the moment when the needles break that pristine baby skin, and, despite all the preparation and the hand holding and the assurances that “it will all be over in a second, sweetheart”, those big blue eyes widen–first in shock and then in pain–and the wail that cannot be contained pierces the air and mommy’s heart at the same time.

The nurses weaseled their way back into Caleb’s good graces with cartoon bandaids and a Spiderman sticker, and after a visit to Doctor Mark’s treasure chest, he was well on his way to forgetting the grievous injury so recently visited upon his person.

On the way home, we stopped at McDonald’s for a couple of bracing vanilla ice cream cones (small for Caleb and large for Mom), a treat which completed the healing process.

For Caleb, at least.

I might need another cone.

Skin Deep

I had a lovely Mother’s Day.

From Katie, I received a clay pot in the shape of a cat that she had made for me in art class because “I remembered cats are your favorite.” Thanks to Caleb, I was deluged with hugs and kisses and hourly declarations of “Happy Muvver’s Day, Mommy!” And all day long, from the moment I woke up until the moment I closed my eyes to sleep, Paul did every single thing that I usually do for the kids, from getting them up and dressed for church to preparing their meals to fielding the usual bedtime crises of lost Tiggers and parched throats. I wasn’t allowed to lift a finger.

It was divine.

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, Paul announced that he was buying me a present: a Skinit for Penelope*! A Skinit is a sort of giant vinyl sticker that is applied to the top of your laptop computer (or cell phone, or iPod, or electronic-device-of-your-choice) to endow it with super powers, or at least with a little bit of its owner’s personality. It’s flair for your tech. Plus, stickers are cool. In that geeky way.

The best part? Not only does Skinit have an extensive library of possible skin designs for your gadgetry, they also offer you the option of creating your own unique skin with any digital image you upload. A photo of your family, a child’s drawing, even the original album cover art from the one and only CD ever cut by the ill-fated garage band you formed in the tenth grade to get Jesse Ackerman to notice you: the sky’s the limit.

I promptly immersed myself in a Google Images search for the Perfect Penelope Picture, sweating and studying as if I were choosing a tattoo for my face rather than a design for my notebook.  I searched through free desktop wallpaper, unique works of art, movie posters, anything and everything that tickled my fancy. The problem? My fancy is very ticklish. I wanted to express myself; I just couldn’t decide which part of myself to express.

Did I want to be feminine?

Whimsical?

Disturbed?

Edgy?

Melancholy?

Dangerous?

Or just cute?

After three days of searching and sorting and pondering the eternal questions (”Who am I?” “Why am I here?” “Are LOLcats just a passing fad, or the profound expression of a timeless truth?”) I finally settled on one of the stock images provided on Skinit’s website:

And this is what it will look like on my machine:

Penelope will love it.

It’s a Webkinz World

Two weeks ago, the Coach House Gifts store at the mall celebrated its highly anticipated Webkinz Extravaganza! Normally, this event would have passed under my radar, but my friend Kathy called me Sunday afternoon to make sure I knew that the ‘Buy One, Get One Free’ selection of Webkinz was running out. You see, up until that weekend, my kids (according to them) were the last two children in America without at least one of these fuzzy, endearing, cyber-savvy critters to call their own. I decided to take advantage of the sale and make two children happy for the price of one. Bargain parenting, I call it.

I dashed out to the mall that afternoon intending to snatch up the first two fuzzballs I encountered and get back in time for a robust round of power napping (What can I say? I’m a party animal!) First mistake. I should have known that, when presented with the manifest cuteness of five thousand different species of Webkinz, it would take me roughly an hour and a half of picking them up and putting them down and rubbing their fur and choosing first this one and then that one and changing my mind over and over and over again to decide which lucky beasties to take home with me. In the end, I picked out an elephant for Katie and a tiger for Caleb. And would you believe it: I actually felt bad leaving the rest of them behind. (Clearly Ganz has implanted some kind of brainwashing microchip in them to make them fly off the shelves so quickly.)

The reception I received at home would have made the conquering Attila green with envy. I was temporarily crowned mother of the year and showered with hugs and kisses for about seven seconds–the exact amount of time they were able to contain their anticipation before scampering off to the computer to formally “adopt” their new pets and embark on their maiden voyage into Webkinz World.

Webkinz World. I have to tell you, internets, it’s surprisingly cool. In Webkinz World, you can build your pet a house, furnish it, and invite friends’ pets over to play in it. You can feed your fuzzy friend delicious foods, dress him in dazzling threads, and take him to the doctor when he’s sick. If your pet is into exercise, you can take him to work out at a Webkinz health club, and if you just want to play, you can meet up with other Webkinz in a game room. The booming Webkinz economy runs on KinzCash, which you earn by picking up odd jobs at the Webkinz Employment Center, by answering educational trivia questions at Quizzy’s Corner, or by playing games in the Webkinz Arcade.

And here comes the confession: I love playing in the Webkinz Arcade. I love Cash Cow and Picnic and Operation Gumball. But my favorite game is called Home Before Dark, a timed brain teaser in which you have to rotate pieces of a maze into place in order to create a path for trapped Webkinz to get back to their houses before the sun goes down. I accidentally played it for two and a half hours the other day when I meant to be doing housework. Oops.

And that’s my other confession. I secretly log onto my kids’ Webkinz accounts to play arcade games while they’re gone. I don’t think they’d like it if they knew, but I can’t help it. I suppose now I have to stop making fun of Kathy for buying herself her own Webkinz.

I think I might start with a Cheeky Monkey…

Bits and Pieces

I seem to be on the cusp of developing a raging non-blogging habit. Can’t let that happen. Let’s do a little catching up!

*Ever since Paul pulled the board out a few weeks ago, Monopoly has been all the rage around here. Every time I turn around, one or the other of the kids is waving paper money under my nose and begging me to take a few spins past the Boardwalk. It’s a great family activity, giving us a chance to teach Caleb important lessons, like: “Jail is bad. You don’t want to go there.” And: “The bank is not for personal loans.” And: “Never let Katie get a monopoly or you will end up not only losing your money but owing her all your desserts for a week.” Seriously, Paul and I have instituted a Monopoly Trade Commission; its sole mandate is to keep Katie from taking unfair advantage of her brother, who will agree with cheerful good nature to absolutely anything she proposes. (”All of Caleb’s greens plus Park Place in exchange for B&O Railroad? Sorry. Overruled!”)

*Paul and I have a hot date planned to go see Ironman in the theater this week. I can’t wait! I love superhero origin movies, and this promises to be a fun one, with plenty of delicious special effects, and Robert Downey Jr., to boot. I have a soft spot for superheroes who achieve their “super-ness” through superior technology and sheer determination. After all, if I’m ever going to be a superhero, that’s pretty much the route I have to take, not having access to vats of industrial waste or irradiated laboratory creatures.

*Katie’s class will be taking buses to a local pool to take swimming lessons in a couple of weeks. I’m trying not to be all overprotective-mom-ish about it, but I’m this close to disguising myself in a Hannah Montana bathing suit and a pair of water wings and infiltrating the class so I can keep an eye on her.

*Last weekend, the Women of Faith conference came to Spokane, and, thanks to the generosity of a friend, I was able to attend. When the voices of twenty-thousand women singing “How great is our God!” spiral upward in unison all around you, it’s like a long, cool drink of water for your soul. Over the two days of the conference, I was uplifted, entertained, and touched. There were plenty of laughs and tears to go around. Anita Renfroe stopped in to give a special performance of “Mom’s Overture”, and we heard Sandi Patty (Sandi Patty!) sing and share her story. We rocked out to Nicole C. Mullen (and had to admire her finely chiseled arms–that girl has some guns!) But by far, the most affecting moment for me was listening to Sheila Walsh talk about prayer, and the struggle a Christian faces when God says no. Oh, how I have been there! She reminded us that even Christ Himself heard “no” from His Father when He was praying in the garden. The grace to accept God’s answer to prayer comes from resting in His will instead of mine. To be honest, I’m still working on it.

Well, that’s all I have written on my napkin for now. May your week be blessed (and may you land on Free Parking!)

Attack of the Robot Roaches

I shaved a few years off of Paul’s life last night.

First, let me say that it wasn’t my fault. You see, I have this problem. There’s a communication breakdown between my brain and my body, wherein the little part of my brain whose business it is to crank out dreams sometimes forgets to alert my body that the sensory input is not real and that its (the body’s) services will not be needed for the night.

To put it more simply: I sleepwalk. And sleeptalk. And sleepfight evil aliens from the planet Krakkavid with a flamethrower I built out of household cleaning products.

My college roommates used to think it was hilarious. How they loved to regale me in the mornings with tales of my midnight lapses into pirate-speak and treks into the dorm room closet in search of the lobster people. Even Paul, who has to share a bed with the spaztastic night wanderer, finds it amusing when I spring upright in bed and insist that the puppy (the nonexistent one that we can’t have because of apartment regulations) has to get down off the bed, and I mean NOW.

He wasn’t laughing last night, however. I really scared him this time. The weird thing is that I remember most of it. I recall waking up to find that there was a swarm of giant half-robot half-cockroach creatures (no doubt spawned by some nefarious mad scientist) invading the apartment. I could hear them clickety-clackering around in the living room, and skittering up the sheets from the floor. When one of them leaped onto my chest, I smothered it quickly in the bedclothes and bolted from the bed like an avenging angel, determined to clear a path through the apartment and somehow get the kids to safety.

Well, I made it as far as the hallway, where I flicked on the light and peered around the corner into the kitchen, listening intently for the tap-tap of robotic insect feet. That was when I heard Paul’s voice.

“Katrina.” Firm. Loud.

I turned on the bedroom light. “What?” I asked impatiently.

“What are you doing? Are you awake?”

“Of course I’m awake,” I snapped, irritated. Paul told me later that the really scary thing was that I looked awake. And totally, utterly insane.

“What are you doing?” he repeated.

“I had to kill a…thing, in the bed, over there!” I spluttered, that sense of urgent danger making it hard for me to think. “We have to get the kids, babe. Because…there was a thing…a bunch of things…and…we have to…uh…” My voice trailed off. As usual, the rational act of explaining my delusion woke up the part of my brain that had, heretofore, been asleep at the switch. Reality reasserted itself slowly, laughing its butt off.

“I was dreaming, wasn’t I?”

“Yes.” He still looked worried. “Are you okay now?”

I promised that I was, and after a moment’s poking of the duvet “just to make sure”, I lay back down.

A few moments passed.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes!”

We slept.

—

I think Paul’s fear is that I’ll actually make it to the kids’ room one of these days. So far, my episodes have been brief ones. It usually only takes a few moments after I burst out of bed for me to awaken enough to realize that, in fact, the apartment isn’t flooding, nor is my pillowcase filled with spiders*. Soon, I’m tucked back into bed, sleeping soundly. The occurrence rarely repeats itself within the same night. I’ve heard of some people who prepare and eat food in their sleep, and a few unfortunate somnambulists who wander out their front doors or drive themselves around in the car only to wake up miles away from home with no memory of the trip. This is nothing like that. Still, I imagine it’s disconcerting to the outside observer.

I apologized to Paul this morning for scaring him so badly. “You remember that?” he asked, surprised. Many times, most times, I don’t remember. I’ve even accused him of making this stuff up. “Yes, I remember. And believe it or not, I was making perfect sense before you woke me up,” I teased.

He shuddered a little at the memory. “Your eyes were bloodshot, you know. You looked…” Words failed him.

Eventually, we’ll look back on this night and laugh.

But until then, I have to sleep in the laundry room.

—

*Spiders, more than any other dream object, get me moving. It’s a recurring theme. I can’t tell you how many times I have awakened Paul with the thrashing and squealing that accompany killing imaginary spiders. I’ve dreamed of them covering the duvet like a pulsating second blanket; I’ve dreamed of them dropping down from the ceiling on a thousand gossamer webs; I’ve dreamed of a giant, scabby, hair-covered one creeping around under the sheets. Ick. I loathe spiders.

Double-Oh-No

Stepping out of the shower this morning, towel wrapped around my head, I heard the low, thundering, now-familiar rumble of sibling angst echoing down the hallway. It didn’t sound dangerous, so I took my time getting dressed, hoping that when I finally emerged from the steamy refuge of my inner sanctum, the combatants would have called a cease-fire and agreed on terms.

Alas. Though I couldn’t make out actual words, the volume and tenor of the gathering storm told me that things were escalating. Sighing, I opened the door and stepped into the fray, only to hear Caleb shout with conviction: “I don’t WANT to be a spy, Katie!” before huffily stomping past me to join his Backyardigans confederates where they were singing and dancing in the living room.

His desertion was duly noted by the older sister in question, who flew in his wake, nearly knocking me over as she hurled this loud and plaintive retort down the hall after him: “But you have to, Caleb! If you don’t accept the mission, my cover will be totally blown!”

I found out later that I was the subject of this hush-hush surveillance project.

Secret Agent Katie missed a few days of spy school, I think.  Like the one where they learned about volume control.