Crayon-Eaters Anonymous

In light of the recent story here in Chicagoland in which a mother accidentally forgot her baby on a Metra train in a stroller (you can read about it in the Chicago Tribune here), I wanted to think of some places I might like to forget my kids:

 

1. In the grocery store, on the floor of the frozen food aisle, screaming.  Most likely in front of the Popsicle display.

 

2. The dentist.  Call in the stunt mom- I’m taking the afternoon off.

 

3. My mom’s.

 

4. Playing in the car.  Seriously- did you ever know a steering wheel could bring someone so much joy? 

 

5. At the park.  If I never carrying a kicking screaming toddler over my shoulder while pulling a wagon several blocks again, it will be too soon.  Laughing neighbors, I know who you are and where you live.

 

6. In the car while I walk 10 feet to pick up the dry cleaning.  Is it really necessary to unbuckle two toddlers, lead them into the dry cleaners, pay, attempt to lead them back to the car while simultaneously carrying the dry cleaning and holding both their hands, only to buckle them back in a minute and a half later?  It’s anticlimactic for them and exhausting for me.  No one is happy, unless you count dad, who really enjoys those pressed shirts. 

Laundry

Typically, I do laundry on the weekends.  It is not my favorite activity, but I know that if I do not want my children to look like orphans, it must be done.  So I do the laundry. 

 

The process of collecting the laundry is one of the more labor intensive parts of the job.  Maybe in some households collecting the laundry would simply mean locating a few hampers and consolidating.  Here, we apparently have a looser definition of a hamper, and by loose I mean non-existent.  My husband and I have a hamper in the corner of the bathroom, and when I go to empty it for the purpose of doing the laundry, I find about 4 articles in it-- all of which are my underwear.  I am disciplined about the underwear, generally speaking, because if left unattended, it is likely to become an unfortunate victim of the dogs.  And a girl only needs so many pairs of crotch-less undies.  But I digress- we’ll leave that phenomenon for another day.

 

The point is my husband and I, who are otherwise fine upstanding citizens, are incapable of depositing laundry in a proper receptacle.  We each have respective favorite spots to deposit our clothes- for example, he favors his side of the bed.  As I do not have much occasion to venture to his side (“his side” perhaps sounds forbidden and mysterious, but really, it’s only a space of a few feet between the edge of the bed and the wall), I am always in awe of the veritable cornucopia of black socks that has built up there in the last week.  Also, many white t-shirts are known to gather there.  I am arguably less consistent, but tend to favor corners.  Noting this habit, I devised a plan to defeat my inner slob by putting a hamper in one of my favored corners.   Interestingly, the hamper-containing corner instantly becomes less attractive to me and I switch to another corner.

 

While we clearly maintain our own laundry habitats, we also have one location where our dirty laundry mingles together- I know, romantic.  It’s a chair in our bedroom, and it’s where anything we don’t want to get too wrinkled gets put- we don’t want the nice stuff slumming with the black socks or the undies.  This behavior is undoubtedly motivated by the fear that one morning we will be running late and not have anything to wear and we might be able to salvage something from the chair- provided it passes the sniff test, of course.  We’re not totally barbaric.   The chair operates a little like the rings in the trunk of a tree- layers near the top are newer younger layers while those close to the bottom are, well, old wood and best avoided. 

 

My husband, apparently appreciative of the fact that the chair is no longer a great place to maintain a shirt a dress shirt that could be legitimately worn again without washing or ironing, has begun draping his shirts over almost any flat surface in the house.  Chairs, the back of the couch, over the edge of the bath tub- anywhere he perceives as safe from kids and dogs.  Understanding what he intends for the shirt is sometimes difficult.  Does he want it washed? Is it in cue to be worn this week?  I study the placement of each article, trying to decide what he intends for it, like a farmer studying crop circles.  Sometimes I scoop a shirt or pair of pants from their respective perch only to be later rebuked, “Did you wash my pants again??  I was going to wear them tomorrow.”  As if I wash things with unnecessary frequency (uh, no) and as if washing something precludes it from being worn the following day. 

 

If you’ll excuse me, I think the dryer just buzzed.

Boxing Out

As a fixture on the basketball "B" team, I never had much appreciation for the life skills I was learning.  Sure, the reverse layup was an elusive concept, and setting a pick was a little beyond me, but I like to think I had the fundamentals down. Dribbling.  Passing.  Boxing out.

If there was anything I was built for on the basketball court it was boxing out.

The simple act of knowing when the ball was shot by the opposing team and simultaneously turning and throwing my posterior into the closest opposing player was both simple and satisfying.  It was an uncomplicated communication implicit in the mighty thrust of my backside:  "Worthy opponent, we both know there is little to no chance I will get this rebound.  But if my rear end has anything to say about it, neither will you."

No question it was a handy skill to have on the court, but when I retired after my sophomore season, I saw little to no use for my skills.  Left to atrophy all these years, it's safe to say the give and go are gone.  The passing is past.  But to my great surprise, I have found an application for the boxing out. 

Not long after my older daughter became mobile, I discovered, quite by accident, the continuing utility of boxing out-- many years after the last of my erstwhile opponents were thwarted by my considerable rear.  The oven, it turns out, holds a certain amount of fascination for the average toddler.  Accordingly, as kid fascinations generally have a proportional relationship to relative  danger, a hot and open oven represents a veritable Eden.  Therefore, as I opened the oven to turn my Tandoori chicken or to stir my schnitzel (okay, let's be honest, most of the time I was flipping my fish sticks) and both hands were not only occupied, but also housed in mitts intended more for approximate movements than for precise one (is anyone's thumb really that big?), I was left with two tools to prevent my kid from testing the Hansel and Gretel theory:

1) My very best authoritative mom voice

2) My butt

Using a precise combination of both of these devices-- namely, screaming "NO! NO! HOT!HOT!HOT!" while also swinging my backside from left to right while making what I can only call alarmingly precise lateral movements, I was able to not only simultaneously save my offspring from certain catastrophe, but also prevent the heartbreak of burned fish sticks.    

So, while my basketball career is long over, some of my best moves live on.  Because nobody wants a burned baby.  And unevenly cooked fish sticks are just a bummer. 

Fundraising Letter: Bike MS 2009

Dear Friends and Family,

It’s that time again- by which I mean it is literally that time. In about 72 hours, I will be getting on a bike and not getting off until MS is cured! Ha ha, just kidding. We all know I will be stopping for lunch.

And, actually, we will be riding about 120 miles over two days, Saturday 6/13 and Sunday 6/14. This is the Bike MS event, also known as the “Tour de Farms” and this is my second year participating-- the venerable Team, consisting of friends and family is turning 4 this year. We will start and finish at Northern Illinois Univeristy where we will also be sleeping in dorms. Yes, dorms.

Now is the part of the email where I offer you three very noble options:

1) You can join the Team and ride with us to raise awareness of and funds for MS research. (I know, you’re probably wondering “how would I have time to prepare?” Well, let me assure you, if you start now, you will be as prepared as I am by Saturday).

2) You can make a donation to support me and  the team.

3) You can send me a nice note of encouragement. If you would like some handy euphuisms to use when offering a boost to someone about to completely overextend herself I would like to suggest rugged and benevolent.

Actually, I have made some investments in my success this year including several training rides- I do have scabs on my knees to prove it. Good thing I was wearing a helmet. Also, I did get my very own bike to ride this year after borrowing the bike of a very kind but also very short friend last year, so my knees will not be hitting my chin this time around. I believe this will improve the overall experience a bit.

Thanks for reading and for your consideration!

Best,

Cate

Two Dogs too Many- Fur Real

We are a two dog household.  A two Golden Retriever household, to be more accurate.  If you know anything about dogs, your first thought should be- wow, that's a lot of fur.  If you have any doubts about the veracity of that statement, let me move my refrigerator for you.  Our morning ritual includes each spouse taking turns standing spread eagle in front of the other, rotating slowly like a pig on a spit while the other spouse, the "spotter" if you will, watches carefully for conspicuous dog hairs, armed with a lint roller.  If only I could knit, I could knit quilts from the collection of fur in the lint trap of my dryer.  I seriously believe it is a fire hazard.  My two daughters, ages one and three understand the danger of dropping food on the floor in our house.  There is sort of an order of operations for dealing with this type of potential tragedy:

1. Your best bet is to throw yourself, like a selfless solider onto a live grenade,  as quickly as possible onto the floor on top of the aforementioned treat. It doesn't matter what it is- if it is edible, it is in danger. 
2. Assuming you beat the dogs to the morsel in question, maintain your defensive position on top of the item until someone, your wing man, if you will, can pull the dogs away. 
3. As you begin to lift your body off the item, stay alert.  These dogs are not above feigning defeat only to turn on you as soon as your guard is down. 
4. As soon as the item is visible beneath you, make your move.  Cup your hand over the item until you can maneuver enough to maintain a firm grasp.  As soon as possible fully grasp the item.
5. This step is optional, depending on the nature of the treat.  As necessary, peel or scrape the item from your clothing.  This step, for example, would not be necessary for say, an M&M, but might be required for your standard marshmallow.
6. Hold the morsel in good light and squint to bring any fur on the item into sharp focus. 
7. Decide, based on a rough parts per million estimate, whether the item is worth salvaging. It is worth including several variables in the calculation including relative availability of the item (ie the Godiva versus Snickers assumption) and the ease with with an item could be purged of dog fur by an easy method such as a quick rinse in the sink (ie malted milk ball; yes, ice cream cone ; no). 

I like to think of these as basic survival skills that my kids are learning that will continue to benefit them throughout their lives.  It is, however, somewhat embarrassing, when your kid drops a bagel in the Starbucks's and reflexively throws themselves on top of it.  Or, when they triumphantly recover an item while a guest in a pet-free environment, such as the local pizza place and announce "Look, no fur!"

Maybe someday we will get one of those hypoallergenic dogs, the kind that don't shed.  Or a nice turtle.  Until then, just let me know if you're interested in a dog fur quilt.

Doomed by the Bell

Every household should have a disaster preparedness plan.  I don’t mean to scare you, but a number of potential calamities can befall a homestead at any given moment, and we should do our best to be prepared.  Every good American has the usual laundry list of scary stuff- fires, tornadoes, floods, earthquakes.  Hurricanes too. 

 

Here in the Midwest tornadoes are probably one of our major, let’s call them class A, fears.  As soon as we’re old enough, we’re crouching in some hallway, heads between our knees, posteriors pointed skyward, elbows over our heads.  There, hunched in the hallway with blood rushing to your head, you whisper jokes about Ms. Woodrick’s backside to your neighbors and giggle uncontrollably.  And we do that into adulthood-- minus the buttocks banter, of course, because you know the HR lady is also in that hallway somewhere-- once or twice a year being led into the dank basement of an office building, into a windowless interior hallway, chatting nonchalantly with colleagues as if we are clearly too cool for tornadoes.    

But we are not too cool.  I bet 7 out of 10 Midwesterners keep a jug of water in their basements, just in case.  And the other 3?  Those are the poor souls without basements.  They claim to love their crawlspaces and slabs, but when those sirens go off, guess who’s at the door with a jug of water?  But I digress.

 

So let’s classify natural disasters and acts of God as class A fears.  Then you have your class B fears- these maybe less cataclysmic but more personal.  Without a moment of hesitation I can tell you my number one class B fear: the unannounced visitor.

 

The unannounced visitor saunters up to your front door casually, like everyone vacuums and dusts weekly, at least.  These are people who are oblivious to the fact that in order to vacuum and dust, you have to first locate these surfaces beneath layers of stuffed animals, sports equipment, books, and socks.   

 

The dogs begin to bark uncontrollably-- this is the first sign to the hapless victim that something is amiss.  If situated near a convenient window, the victim will gingerly pull back the blinds in an unassuming way so as not to be noticed from the outside.  On a lucky day, the potential victim will note a squirrel across the street, breathe a sigh of relief, and shush the dogs.  On a bad day, the victim will observe a well-meaning visitor approaching the house, possibly bearing baked goods.  In the moments before the visitor actually arrives at the door, a number of things must be assessed:

1. Do a visual sweep of the immediate interior.  Pay special attention to dog fur tumble weed in corners, excessive amounts of dust on immediate surfaces, and general crap accumulation.  If you have to physically move toys, sports equipment, or automotive parts to open the door to receive your visitor, try to do so before he or she arrives at the door.

2. Try to determine a plan of action once the visitor has arrived at the door.  Will you invite the visitor in?  If so, where will you seat the visitor?  Assess the furniture situation, by which I mostly mean remove piles of unfolded laundry (clean or otherwise) and other impediments such as moldering sippy cups from seating surfaces.  If this task can absolutely not be completed prior to the visitor entering the house, do so in front of the visitor while saying something like, “I was just doing some folding.” 

3. Finally, assess your personal hygiene situation.  Are you wearing clothes?  Half credit for pajamas.  Have you recently bathed?  Any zit creams, face masks, or other beauty applications still on your face? 

Depending on the circumstances, your best option may be to pretend you are not at home.  Assess obvious signs such as cars in the driveway, open doors and/or windows.  Is it possible the visitor has actually seen you through the aforementioned apertures?  If not, consider staying low and heading for the basement door.  You can wait it out from your safe house bunker and later claim to have been cleaning the basement and not have heard the door. 

As for you folks with crawlspaces and slabs, you may want to reconsider your situation.  Imagine yourself, well-hydrated and safe in your basement, while your unannounced visitor rings your door bell and squints through your sidelight while wondering to himself, “is that a four-day old waffle on the coffee table?”

 

Makes a tornado seem tame, doesn’t it?

An Open Letter to Our Neighbors

We would like to begin by sincerely thanking you for your kind offers to participate in your garage sales.  While we are somewhat suspicious of your motivations (what, you want us to have room in our garage for our cars?!)  we completely agree that two garage sales are better than one and that it definitely makes sense to combine advertising efforts.  We are totally with you and feel that your commercial instincts are right on. 

However, while we undoubtedly have loads of beautiful, salable and exquisite crap which we might be compelled to market to the unsuspecting, we regret that we cannot participate because we cannot currently locate most of our crap.  Kind neighbors, we must admit that although we have lived here almost two years, the majority of our crap remains boxed in various locations.  These locations include (but are not limited to) our attic, our basement and our garage.  Also a certain box sitting th the corner of our bedroom, but at this point we consider that particular box to be more of a handy end table. In fact, these boxes contain not only our crap but presumably also contain several items we am still looking for including the better part of my vast shoe collection.

So dear neighbors, we regret to inform you we will not be participating in your upcoming garage sale.  However, depending on your shoe size, we may be coming shopping.

Best,

The Collins Family