We are a household that tries to limit technology.

That’s not to say that we don’t own video gaming systems, cell phones, or laptops.  We have our fair share of those things.  But there are time limitations on the TV watching and the playing of aforementioned video games.  Even the educational ones.

Jayce is allowed to watch one show each day.  And he uses the computer to explore Playhouse Disney dot com every couple of days or so, for about twenty minutes at a time.

But he doesn’t own a DS.  Or any other handheld gaming system.  He’s only three, after all, and we figure the longer we can hold out, the better.

Older sister–on the other hand–does have a gaming system.  Albeit a Leapster.  We encourage her to play it because it’s sort of a sneaky way to get in more reading and arithmetic practice.

Does anybody even say arithmetic anymore?

Back to my point though.

So Jayce, apparently, is sort of envious of big sissy’s Leapster.

He sees her playing her princess game.  And Ratatouille.  And Diego.

He wants a piece of the action sometimes.

Instead of boring old alphabet floor puzzles.

But the game is off limits.

This he knows.

Which, I’m guessing, is precisely why I found him like this, this morning:

In case you can’t make it out, he’s in a bathroom cabinet.  With the game.

This bathroom is positioned in between the playroom and Cassidy’s bedroom.

I heard the game, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out where the noise was coming from.  I must have walked past it a half dozen times, the most confounded look on my face all the while.

I looked at the cabinet and thought nah, no way.

Then I opened it.

And sure enough.

It was so stinkin’ cute I didn’t even make him turn off the game.

I just let him be.

“Shut the door please”, he asked.

And then, his voice muffled by the cabinet door, “and turn out the light.”

Yes sir.

Will do.

I took my four children to the mall today.  And yes.  I would like a round of applause thankyouverymuch.  I mean, I’m no Kate Gosselin, but still.  Four children.   To the mall.  C’mon.  You know that’s harrowing.

We were in search of some school clothes.  I’m blessed in that Cassidy could care less what she wears to school.  Or anywhere for that matter.   As evidenced by her choice to wear mismatched socks to her eye doctor appointment yesterday.  Not that I’m complaining.  Because if she’s happy letting me pick up the majority of her school clothes at Old Navy and Kohls…well, atta girl.

The older two?  Not so much.

The older two insist on shopping in those seriously unpleasant stores at the mall.  You know the ones.  First of all you can smell them a mile away because they honest to goodness pump cologne from the eaves of their storefront.  So much cologne that your stomach turns upon approach.  And they’re dark inside.  What’s up with that?  I’m certain that they dim the lighting so that parental types can’t see how skimpy the clothing is.  And then there’s the music.  Please don’t even get me started on the music.  There must be a reason that they blare it so loud, effectively making it impossible to communicate inside the confines of their darkened chambers.  Subliminal messaging probably.  Or maybe they just do that to tune out the employees.  Because.  Well.   They aren’t exactly valedictorian material if you know what I mean.  Honest to goodness, a salesgirl at Hollister greeted me today with, “hey, what’s up?”  And not a perky and bubbly “hey, what’s up.”  No.  It was as though I’d bumped into her at a party and she was about to offer me a smoke.

Um.  Yeah.  Hey.

I always wonder what those saleschildrenpeople think of me.  Today, for instance.  I slapped a pair of denim Daisy Dukes down on the counter while Torri sat nearby, though out of view, with her two younger tornadoes of siblings.  I hadn’t showered since Sunday yesterday so my hair was ponied up and slung through a baseball cap.  It took me a minute to find my wallet as I dug through the abyss of my anything-but-youthful purse.  And when the young man (whose impressive physique clearly had nothing to do with his being hired) announced my total I may have gawked a little.

I know I’m a mom of four.  But many people don’t.  Jeff has a picture of me and the kids sitting on his desk at work and people frequently mistake me for one of his children.  So I’m wondering if these mall employees do the same.  Are they eyeing the shorts I’m buying and thinking to themselves, “uh, really?”

“No,” I feel compelled to say, in spite of the fact that they didn’t actually vocalize their disdain.  “Those aren’t for me.  I swear.  They’re for my daughter.  She’s a freshman.  Whereas I would look like the covergirl for Age Denial Weekly, she can totally pull those off.  For real.”

Not that their patronizing expressions matter for long.  Because it’s certainly not as though I can calmly and collectively gather my entourage of children and inconspicuously take exit, leaving the salespeople snickering in disbelief behind their counter.  Oh no.  Cassidy surely will bust free of my hand on the way out and knock down a rack or twelve of clothing.  And then there’s Jayce who’ll sweep his arm across any and all surfaces low enough for his reach.  So that pristine pile of perfectly folded shirts that joint girl just spent hours folding?  Ruined.  Which wouldn’t be so bad if we could escape quickly enough.  But as soon as we step foot out the door I’ll realize that I left my receipt.  Or something more pertinent.  Like the red-head.

That, of course, is when I make good use of Torri.

Run back in there and fetch your sister why don’t ya?

And she’s always so happy to oblige.

Just wait til school starts and she realizes that those salespeople are the upperclassmen.

Then she’ll really love me.

It’s okay though.

Those clothes ain’t cheap.

I consider it payback. :)

I took my two oldest daughters to see My Sister’s Keeper at the movies today.

Yes, I’d read the book (and subsequently sobbed my way through the ending mind you).  I’d also seen the previews.  And of course there was the fact that adorable little Abigail Breslin played a starring role; I loved her so much in Little Miss Sunshine that I was excited to see her on screen again.  All of these things were among my reasons for wanting to take my own girls to this movie.

But I have a confession: I had ulterior motives.

I don’t have a sister myself, though I’ve frequently found myself wishing I did.  If you only knew how many times I’ve coveted those sister relationships, when I hear about them through the grateful mouths of my girlfriends.  When I was younger, stories of secrets kept and jeans shared and late night alibis given to questioning parents always made me jealous.  And as the years have changed us, those tales have turned from girlhood frivolities to meaningful bonds: sisters who stand as Maids of Honor in each others weddings and later go on to share in the pushing and panting of childbirth experiences.  They meet for happy hours and sit on the phone each night spilling the day’s exhausting frustrations and tiny triumphs.  And then of course they also trudge through ugly things like divorce and breast cancer and the loss of a parent.

Who wouldn’t want a sister of her own?

My girls are lucky ones.  They each have not one, but two.  Two sisters!

Unfortunately their sisterhood doesn’t always resemble the dreamy tales of the sisters I’ve heard tell.

My girls bicker.  And fight.  They’ve even scratched a time or six.

I admit that I took them to this movie to show them a different side of sisterhood.  A side that I pray they never know firsthand: the loss of each other.

My mom had a sister.  She died well before her time.  Well before any of us were ready to let her go.

In the years since then my mom has told my girls stories of how she used to force her sister to eat pancakes as a form of cruel and unusual punishment.  She always ends the story, though, by saying how much she wished she had her sister, still.

I (thankfully) don’t have any stories like that.

I wish my mom didn’t either.

And I pray that my girls never will.

So yes.  I took them to this movie because I wanted it to paint a picture for them.  I wanted to trick them into seeing just how valuable they are.  Not only to me, but to each other.

Because pain in the butt or not – there’s nothing quite like having a sister.

Or so I’m told.

There are plenty of reasons why I like to shop alone.

1. I don’t have to search for my children as they hide within the racks of clothing.

2. I’m free to take all the time I want in deciding between two shades of the same shirt.

3.  There are no strollers to impede my maneuvering in tight spaces.

4. If I am inclined to stop for an iced chai at Starbucks I don’t have to break the bank in buying four creme frappuccinos.

All great reasons don’t ya think?  But the number one reason I prefer to shop alone?

So that when I go into the fitting rooms to try on a bathing suit (which, if I’m being honest, is brutal enough already thankyouverymuch) I don’t hear snickers coming from the other dressing stalls in response to my toddler son proclaiming, “those your boobs mommy?”

Yes son.  Those are my boobs.  I’m so glad we had this talk.

Remind me not to take you into the bathroom stall with me, m’kay?

Today will go down in history as the day we wore out our welcome at church.

Didn’t think it was possible to wear out one’s welcome at church didya?

Apparently you haven’t met Cassidy.

Little backstory here: A couple of weeks ago I read a post written by the fabulous Michelle at Scribbit.  In it, she debated the merits of the word ’stupid’ being labeled a “bad word” in households across America.

We happen to be one of those households, though I do agree with Michelle that there most certainly is a time and place for the use of the word.  The reason we’ve outlawed its use in our home is mostly due to Cassidy, and her inability to understand the use of the word in context.  Cassidy, for those of you who don’t know, has Down syndrome and among the issues she struggles with is determining what is and is not socially appropriate.  While I don’t see anything wrong with remarking that something is stupid, calling someone stupid is something else entirely.  And since Cassidy has a tendency to pick up bad habits, we’ve just found it easier to avoid saying ’stupid’ at all.  I’ve also been sure to address it as a “mean word” when she does hear it spoken on television or on the playground.

So.  Back to church.

Guess what word worked its way into our Pastor’s sermon this fine Sunday morning?

Uh-huh.  Stupid.

Not once, but twice did he say it.  And it wasn’t as though he just let it slip.  He used it (twice) for emphasis.  For effect.  To get our attention.

It worked.

The first time he said it Cassidy drew in a sharp breath before leaning in to tell me that “he said a bad word.”

The second time, her eyes grew wide with disbelief, shocked that the pastor, of all people, would have the nerve to say ’stupid’ right there in God’s living room.  This time, she turned to Jeff, gasping and throwing her hand up over her own mouth in shock.  Jeff whispered to her, telling her that he’d have a talk with the pastor after church.  Cassidy seemed satisfied with that.

The rest of the sermon was uneventful.

It’s really a shame that I can’t say the same for communion.

We filed up to the altar as we always do: Cassidy sandwiched between Jeff and I.  I accepted my wafer and wine and made my way back to the pew, completely unaware of what went on in my wake.

Apparently, when it came time for the Pastor to give Cassidy a blessing, he bent down to make the sign of the cross on her forehead as he always does.  Never one to ignore the opportunity for reprimand, Cassidy grabbed the Pastor’s arms and pulled him down to her level.  Seeing as how his hands were full trying to maintain balance of the body and the blood he was left pretty much at Cassidy’s whim.  And Jeff, thinking that she was trying to give him a hug, didn’t react immediately.

He wishes he had though.  Boy does he.

Because Cassidy, let me assure you, was not trying to get a hug from our Pastor.

Once she had his attention she said to him, in a voice as stern as she could muster, “don’t you ever say stupid again.”

Of course, as soon as he realized what was happening Jeff took control of the situation.

Assuming, that is, that a silent prayer for immediate invisibility can be considered taking control of the situation.

God wasn’t in a prayer granting mood apparently because Jeff was anything but invisible.  Rather, he turned a lovely shade of cherry red.

Based on our Pastor’s bewildered look we’re guessing he either didn’t hear or didn’t understand Cassidy’s sharp scolding.

And that, my friends, is worthy of thanksgiving.

I’m contemplating starting potty training with Jayce.

He’ll be 2-and-a-half on the 14th.

In preparation I purchased my very first package of baby boy boxer briefs.  They are a size 4 and I have to say that even the frilliest lace bottomed girl panties don’t compare with the cuteness factor of these things.

I tried them on my little man and wouldn’t you know he is the spittin’ image of Marky Mark.  Only smaller.  And way cuter.

I’ve been really playing them up to Jayce, telling him that he won’t be able to wear them until he goes peeps on the toidy just like everyone else in the family.

And while I’m at it I diss on the diapers calling them stinky and yucky and ick, ick, ick.

Jayce seems to be diggin’ it.  Of course right now it’s all talk.

So, somehow we got on the subject of potty training at dinner the other night.

Previously Jayce and I had been the only ones present for discussions of peeps related things.

You can imagine then why I was taken aback when Jeff nearly spit his dinner across the table at the mention of Jayce’s big boy panties.

Yes.  You read that right.

Big boy panties.

Apparently I made a cardinal mistake in teaching Jayce the term ‘big boy panties’.

Big boy panties, it seems, do not exist.

Who knew?

Big boys wear underwear.

Or undies.

Boxers is an acceptable term.

As is briefs.

Big boy panties though?

Not so much.

In my defense I’m the mother of three girls.  And just one boy.

I guess I’ve got a thing or two to learn in that department.

There was a fleeting moment today during which I second guessed God’s decision to give me four children.  It came to pass as I scrubbed a toilet.  My nine-year-old special needs daughter soaked nearby in the bathtub after a very messy accident left her, and the entire bathroom, in desperate need of my prompt and undivided attention.

Equipped with my tired old rubber gloves and a scant roll of paper towels I went to work.  Hunched over the lifted lid of a toilet I’d scrubbed only days before, I couldn’t help but envision a lifetime, both already spent and yet to come, taking care of someone else.  It was in that instant that I felt my spirit bow from the weight of momentary despair.  I fell apart not outwardly, but within, sure that one more soiled diaper or overturned plate of spaghetti, or smeared hand print would surely send me over the edge.

Thankfully these moments are few and far between.  Regrettably though, when they do occur I feel as if I’m teetering on the edge on insanity.

I knew going in that motherhood would not be glamorous.  Everyone knows, after all, that minivans and diaper bags don’t exactly scream sexy.  What I didn’t know was that it in spite of the constant companionship of my children, it would get lonely up here on the front lines.  The keeping up and keeping on is a necessary, but completely exhausting reality.  And in the height of the chaos–in the tangle of it all–I tend to lose bits and pieces of me.

Sacrifice and motherhood go hand in hand. Play dates rank above happy hour, parent teacher conferences come before pedicures.  I can deal with that.  Much more difficult to accept, though, was the loss of a social life, the giving up of all things girlfriend.  In spite of the teachers and neighbors and random other people in my life, I sometimes felt like a mom without a country.

Today’s encounter in the bathroom left me itching to get to my computer, not to post the gory details (and believe me they were!), but to commiserate.  To hear words of reassurance from a blog friend who, like me, has cleaned one too many toilets this week.  To be lifted up by a funny story.  To gain perspective from an inspirational post.

The blogosphere, it seems, has become my community.

Blogging is my constant.  My go-to for a split-second of sanity amid the commotion.  I turn to blogging friends when my toddler does something completely worthy of a laugh.  Or when I’m wondering what brand of washing machine to buy.  Or when I’m at my wit’s end with my mother-in-law.   I blog a gamut of emotions without fear, without restraint, and without regret.

Why?

Because time after time, comment after comment, I find acceptance.  I find understanding.  I find friendship.

Within the tangible parameters of my daily life there are but a handful of people with whom I connect.  My virtual life, though, delivers a daily dose of me time.  It opens up a world of women, not bound by geographical location, whose struggles and triumphs echo my own.  Our stories resonate; our lives intersect.

On the familiar blogs of friends I’ve come to know, I’m met with that which I, as a mom, as a wife, as an individual, long for: a compassionate group of like-minded women who share in this blissfully chaotic journey.

So what rewards have I found in the blogging community?  I’ve regained myself.  And, quite honestly, I missed me.

Torri had an after school dance today.

Today’s after school dances are different from the middle school dances of yesteryear, seeing as how today’s versions take place, well, after school.  Back in the day it was a nighttime thing.  Not that I’m opposed to the after schoolness of Torri’s dances – sneaking past the chaperons into the corridors is much more difficult in the light of day thankyouverymuch.

When we went to pick her up (at 4:00 by the way – SCORE!) I was asking Jeff if he thought they bring up the lights in the gym at around 3:45.  You remember how those gym lights take about fifteen minutes to warm up and they get progressively lighter?  It was always rather awkward because by the time that last slow song ended, the lights, in all their flourescent glory, were up and at’em, fully exposing last dances that seemed so much softer in the dark.

Ah, but I digress.

This afternoon when Torri walked out to the car she did so with a certain bounce in her step.  A bounce that I didn’t so much care for quite honestly.

And at home?  She came and sat at the bar while I began the prep stage of dinner.  She blushed when I asked her how the dance went.  I swear to you she blushed and I totally called her on it.

She deflected and made an excuse to run off to her room.

Oh friends.  I’m not sure God gave me the innards to handle this sort of thing.

Attitude?  I can deal with attitude.  Dirty clothes on the floor?  I’ve mastered.  Texting and the iPod?  Check and check.  The boy thing?  Oy.  Lord give me the wisdom I need because I know not how to handle the boy thing.

This girl of mine?  She’s always been mine.  I’ve not had to share her.  I don’t want to share her.  Not yet.

You remember that little lesson I gave you on how to manipulate your man into doing what you want him to do?

Oh no, no.  Please don’t send payment.  I insist.  It was my pleasure.

Go ahead and grab a pen though because I need you to jot down a few very important things.

The ‘do it myself method?’  Seems it doesn’t work so well on teenagers.  Apparently there’s some sort of miswiring in their brains that prevent them from comprehending guilt or any conscience feeling remotely associated with it.

Weird, I know.  I don’t know all the specifics but it has something to do with self-absorption and vanity.  That’s not important though.  What is important is what I’m about to tell you.

There is a way to coerce the teen species to comply with the needs of the household at large.

The teen in my house, for instance, without fail frequently discards her dirty clothing on the floor of the bathroom.  She steps over her wrinkled t-shirts and jeans to exit the bathroom after her shower.  She steps back over them in the morning (time and time again actually) as she goes about applying her make-up and vowing to shave her head so as to avoid bad hair days.  There her expensive name-brand jeans remain, piled in a heap at the base of the sink (or worse yet but I’ll leave that to your imagination).

How do you remedy this problem?

You hit her where it hurts, of course.

Over the course of this past week I’ve begun collecting said teen’s clothing from the floor.  I’ve deposited them into a large bag in my closet.  One day soon she will run out of clean underwear jeans.  And when she does she will search high and low through the shelves in her closet and the drawers in her dresser.  When she does not find them there she will, as a last resort, rummage through her hamper, willing to wear a pair from the depths of it if only to save herself from having to wear a clean, no-name brand.  But alas, her search will be fruitless.  The jeans, you and I know, will be safely tucked away in my sealed bag, withering in filthy stench with the rest of her haphazardly discarded clothes.

Eventually she’ll come to me, as she always does, and ask if I know what has happened to her clothes.

(Insert sly smile and evil laughter here).  This is where we come to the coercion.

When she comes to me, I will hint that I might know a guy who knows a guy who could arrange for the safe return of her cherished Abercrombies.  It’ll cost her of course.

I’m thinking along the lines of a quarter for her unmentionables.  Fitty cents for the t-shirts.  A buck for the sweatshirts.  And the jeans?  I’ve really got her by the cojones there.  Even second-hand market demand says that I could probably go as high as ten, fifteen bucks a pair.  But since I’m sorta partial to her I think I’ll cut her a break.  Two bucks a pop sounds fair, yes?

That should solve the clothing problem rather quickly I think.

The makeup and assorted styling accessories that clutter the bathroom counter tops?

Hmmm.  Perhaps a cell phone ransom is just what the doctor ordered.

I hope Martha is taking lessons.  Because this?  This, my friends, is how you manage a household.

Sheesh.  Who’da thunk that the hint of a poop on the ceiling story would elicit such a response?

Ah, but I set the ball in motion so now I’m obligated to see this thing through.  You ready for this?  It’s a doozie.  Or a poo-zie, depending on how you look at it.

C’mon.  You know I had to say it.

So as moms we’ve all dealt with our share of poop right?  In the diaper, the training pants, the occasional accident in the bathing suit maybe.

But how many of you can say that you’ve experienced poop on the ceiling?

Nary a one, I venture to guess.

Unless you were a guest at Torri’s 11th sleepover birthday party.  Then you may have been witness to the flung dung, the squishee up above.

But don’t go jumping to conclusions.  Torri would certainly have a massive coronary if I were to let you believe that the poo in question had anything to do with her.  Or her friends.  Or anyone she considers remotely socially apt.

The poo, as you may have guessed, hailed from my youngest daughter: the burping, farting girl.  I suppose after this story you can add poo-flinging to her claim to fame.

It was early evening on the night of Torri’s party.  Her friends were to be arriving shortly.  As is quite common for me, I was in the midst of a last-minute cleaning frenzy, putting the finishing touches on the party decorations.  As is also quite common, I had put Jeff to work, washing dishes, taking out the traash, or doing another form of meanial labor in preparation for the receiving of guests.

Cassidy was in the midst of a two-year-long attempt at potty-training.  She was on the verge of success, though we were still battling those unexpected accidents, of both the numbers 1 and 2 variety.  Her older sisters were quite helpful in our potty-training quest, assisting Cassidy in the bathroom to the extent they were able.

Such was the case on this day in particular.

With both Jeff and I busy with party prep, Kennedy took it upon herself to answer Cassidy’s calls from the toilet.  And really, how can you not love her for that?

Apparently, Cassidy had done the deed in her panties.  She ran to the potty to remedy the situation but alas, she arrived too late.  So she did what any red blooded American girl would do and took off those nasty drawers.  The story gets a bit fuzzy here so excuse my blurring of details.  As Kennedy reports it though, she walked into the bathroom right on time to see Cassidy throw her poo-filled panties into the air.

I couldn’t begin to guess as to her reason for doing so.  Long ago I learned not to question Cassidy’s nuances, but just to accept them unconditionally.

It’s really better for us all that way.

Back to the story though.  Kennedy arrived mid-panty fling only to see them hit the ceiling.  They stuck there for a moment, before gravity had it’s way with the soiled chonies.  Apparently though, the poo itself possessed enough sticky qualities to defy the pull of nature, and remained there: a pile of poo adhered solidly to the ceiling.

It was about this time that Jeff caught wind, via Torri (who, at the time thought the situation was hilarious though she would never admit to it now), of the mishap occurring in the bathroom.  The guest bathroom by the way.  The bathroom which Torri’s tween guests were expected to use.

Jeff’s quick survey of the area left no room for doubt that a thorough scrub down of both the offender and the offendee (in this case the surrounding floor and exterior of the toilet bowl) were in order.

He acted quickly, (gotta love that military training), and stripped Cassidy down before tossing her into the bathtub.  He then donned my yellow cleaning gloves and furiously scrubbed, sanitized, and sanctified, all while Cassidy soaked in the tub.  Apparently though, the water he drew for Cassidy’s bath was a tad too warm and warranted complaint from our little dung flinger.  Before you go rushing to her defense I should tell you that Cassidy has an aversion to warm water.  She would be much happier bathing in a mountain stream than a natural hot spring.

Jeff began explaining to her that in situations where poo is involved, the water has to be warm enough to kill the bacteria contained in said poo.  At the mention of the ‘p’ word, Cassidy, whose perspective gave her a clear view of the ceiling poop, pointed up towards it and said, “poop like that?”

Jeff turned towards the direction of her pointed finger when what to his wondering eye should appear, but a suspended dung pile from Cassidy’s rear.

You can imagine the bewilderment.

What you cannot fully grasp, without having been there, is the sight of my husband standing on the toilet, reaching up with his gloved hands to remove turds from the ceiling.

No.  You just can’t imagine.

I can tell you though that crunches or any other ab exercises were unnecessary for me for a period of roughly two weeks after because I laughed harder that day than I possibly have ever laughed before.

The laughter, though, was not only in response to the scene that unfolded before me.

The laughter was, in part, in response to the possibility of what very well could have happened.

You see, the poo was stuck directly above the toilet.  The toilet which Jeff was bent over scrubbing and sanitizing for at least a good five minutes.

Do you see where I’m going with this?

Imagine for a moment the possibility of that dung losing it’s adhesive quality at precisely the right second.

It would have been like manna from the heavens, only not as welcome a surprise.

And words cannot convey the sheer hilarity of just such an inopportune event.

Can you even imagine?

Oh friends.  I can.  And I have.  Many a time.  And to this very day just the thought brings me great joy.

I’m not the least bit discriminatory when it comes to gross things happening to my husband by chance.  I’d never intentionally set up such an event, but had a pile of dung unintentionally landed upon his unsuspecting head? well, now there is just no denying the humor in that.

He’s a lucky man, this husband of mine.

So there you have it.  The poop on the ceiling story in all its glory.

Boy.  After yesterday’s post, and now this, I bet you’ll all be extra careful should ever you find yourself needing to tinkle while visiting my home.

That’s probably a good idea, fyi.