Because She Hates Us

A few weekends ago, the Howler and Missy discovered an evil so perverse, I have to blog about it: a 550 piece Christmas puzzle.

It was a gift from my sister, several years ago. We had managed, until recently, to NOT have it opened. With good reason. Do you know how evil a 550 piece puzzle is? And do you know the chances of keeping all 550 pieces of that puzzle findable in Mumpleland are slim and none?

Well, Missy & the Howler found it. They opened it. On the kitchen table, 45 minutes before suppertime.

Kill me. Kill me now.

They kept asking, "where did this puzzle come from?" and while my answer, "from Hell" probably wasn't appropriate for real-life, it is, somehow, very appropriate in Mumpleland.

The rest of the puzzle based conversation went like this:

M&H: Who gave you this puzzle?

me: My sister.

M&H: Why did she give it to you?

me: Because she hates me.

On Day #1 of Puzzle Hell, the Toad disagreed that my sister hates me.

Then he tried to help put it together.

He announced, "She does hate us."

It took 3 days, two adults, one Toad, and two little sqwacking beasts to put the thing together. And it will NEVER EVER need to be put together again.

I Am NOT His Secretary

As we all know, the Gator is obsessed with the Toad. And she holds the belief that I do not love him. Please remember that the Toad will be 21 next month. Old enough to vote, buy cigarettes, be drafted, drive a vehicle, and drink himself into a stupor.

He is NOT, however, rich enough or important enough to have a secretary. Or an aide, or an assisant.

And, even if he were, he could not afford ME to be his secretary. I do not make appointments, take messages, keep track of him...and the Gator is now, officially, 28 days before the Toad is legally legal, being put on notice:

If you want to know his schedule, call HIM.

If you want to know where he is, where he plans to be, what he was doing, or whether he plans to show up for any given event or activity, call HIM.

Leave me the F* out the loop and talk to HIM directly. I am not his secretary.

I'm Late, I'm Late!

For a very important date! Or so says the White Rabbit.

This morning, in an effort to have a happy Howler, and a warm vehicle to take her to school in, we were late. As in, TARDY, marked on her permanent record. Nevermind that we work very very hard to NOT have that TARDY marked there; sometimes, it just happens anyway.

So, there we are, going quickly, but not rushing, to get her to school as soon as possible. (Yes, the car was warmed up for her.)

I pull in the parking lot. Now, I'm sure you're familiar with the idiocy that is morning drop off at the Howler's school. It's better than it was, but, of course, there are always those people who just don't get it.

Stupidity drives me crazy. Batshit crazy. And this morning, I finally proved it. Self-centered stupid puts me right up over the top of the crazy scale.

We're late, and there are at least 7 other cars there, dropping off, who are also obviously late.

As I'm pulling in, I see a chubby blue coat bobbing along the wall of the school. He's to the sidewalk at the side of the building, headed towards the doors by the time I get my late self into the line to drop off my late student.

The parent in the 2 door black vehicle at the front of the line is jerking her way forward. I say jerking, because, duh, if you continually hit your brakes, even while moving forward at a snail's pace, the car will jerk. I assume that this vehicle belongs with the Blue Bobber.

And, this little family of dolts is the only one in the parking lot.

This genius finally pulls forward (oh, I get that she wanted to be sure Precious gets into the building, but, why didn't she pull into the no-less-than 10 parking places RIGHT THERE by the building, to await the terminally slow child's progress.

Finally, the Blue Bobber is close enough for Mama Blue to move on with her life.

The next vehicle in line is a large, white SUV. Boxy and huge, it could almost qualify as a small third world country. It's huge enough, that even with my glasses on, I can't tell there are children inside it. It's been sitting, with it's brake lights on, awaiting Mama Blue's forward momentum, AT THE END OF THE SIDEWALK that leads directly to the door.

As Mama Blue heads out into the cold cruel world, the 3rd world country SUV's brake lights go off, and the car jerks into PARK. The children who have been snuggled inside it THEN begin to disembark. And I can see Mom unbuckle her seat belt to help the small citizens open doors.

I'm the 8th car, at the BACK of the Parade of Stupidity.

At this rate, it will be Christmas before the Howler enters the building.

I pulled out around the Parade of Stupid, pulled in front of the 3rd world country and let the Howler out.

What I am utterly disgusted with is that these parents have no concept of the dozen other children sitting behind them in line, waiting to unload and get into school. Yes, our children are already TARDY, but this seems above-and-beyond Stupid. Why didn't the Mom in the white SUV unload her children as the Blue Bobber made his way into the school?

I spend at least the last full minute of contact with the Howler during drop-off time telling her to hurry, so we don't hold up the line. And I simply cannot believe that the people in the office, if that door is now locked, would allow children to pile up, in the snow and cold, without hitting the button to release the door, allowing them entrance into the building.

(I'm not even going to ponder WHY the Blue Bobber was tromping his way THROUGH the snow at the back side of the building: if his dolt mother had dropped him off where she was supposed to, he wouldn't have had any opportunity to get lost--it's a straight shot up the sidewalk to those doors! And, while it sounds insensitive, I have to say that if the Blue Bobber is working below level and can't be trusted to make that straight shot up the sidewalk, what in the name of God was this woman doing dropping him off along the backside of the building, into the snow?)

The kids get this procedure pretty well. I have yet, during drop off, to see a child sudden careen off into the parking lot or the field, or even the playground. It's the parents who do not get it--or, as I believe, refuse to get it.

It's not brain surgery: pull into parking lot. loop basketball court/parking lot and get in line. When it's your turn to have your child(ren) disembark, pull as far forward as the parking spots along that sidewalk. have children disembark. by following these simple instructions, 2-3 vehicles may unload their precious cargo at a time. move forward with your life. (if you are late, continue with this procedure. your children will be allowed in the building, even if they have to hit the button for admittance.)

A Holiday Story

That doesn't feature the Howler. Bear with me.

Last week our school had their annual PTA sponsored Holiday Shoppe. Pardon my sarcasm when I say that it's always sooo very much fun to do math in your head in front of school children.

Anyway, I was there for the Howler's class, then elected to stay for the remainder of the afternoon.

I was asked to help this young man (a first grader, I believe.) He had his envelope, duly filled out with names of who he was shopping for.

He says, "I need to find something for my Nana. I like these picture frames."

I respond, "Well, there's none out that say 'Grandma.' Let me look and see if we have any more."

"I need one for my Nana."

"I'm sorry, sweetie, there aren't any left that say 'Grandma.'"

"I already got something for my Grandma. I need one for my NANA."

"We don't have anything that says 'Nana.' There may be some other things that say 'Grandma' over this way."

Holding up his list, he says, "No. I ALREADY bought for my GRANDMA. See? She's up here," points to Grandma's name, "I need something for MY NANA." Points to 'Nana' at at the bottom of his list.

Well, I guess he finally explained it so the simple woman who was not really helping could understand. And try holding that laughter in until the class leaves. Yeppers, just try it.

Nobody Warned Us

Is this a conspiracy? You betcha, and the Mumples are here to de-bunk it. Right now.

Nobody told me that 7 year old girls go into laughing and giggling fits over farts and burps. Boys, I already knew, did this. Why didn't anybody warn me that GIRLS do this also?

Fiends.

The Mumple Mitten

I worked today. 5:45am comes awful early, and even when the day goes quickly, it's still very tiring to deal with Black Friday shoppers, regardless of which side of the retail hell you're on.

But when I got home from work today (still mostly functional) I was still dressed as the Great Pumpkin--L&G opened at 7:30am. That's how deranged Black Friday is.

Anyway, the Toad was flopped on the couch. The Howler was all Christmas Conipption. My Sweetie had begun the Christmasifying of the Mumple Mansion.

Add in Missy, who said, "Can I come to your house and play?"

Then came Blondie, who rang the doorbell and said, "Can I come in and play?"

Urchin came in, and whispered, "Can I come in and play, too?"

Of course, we already have three cats--one black grumpy cat; one sleepy kitten; and one hell-bent-for-leather kitten leaping about the room. And the Great Pumpkin. And the Christmasfying Sweetie.

The doorbell rang, and My Sweetie and I had visions of someone tickling Toad's nose. He'd sneeze and all the little woodland creatures, er, ah, little girls and kittens would be flung out onto the neighborhood lawns, instead of being snuggly warm inside the Mumple Mitten.

The 5th Horseman

And he rode a horse named Mumple.

There's so much to complain and whinge about, each deserves it's own post. And each shall have it's own post...someday. I will begin at the end and tell you that head lice is rampant in the school.

And, dealing with it aggressively means we're doing upwards of 6 loads of laundry a night, since Monday night.

Monday night was 2 freaking hours picking through the Howler's head. While she bitched, and I bitched back.

It also meant that Tuesday we all spent scratching more than is normal--whether we needed to or not.

So far, in the last 40 days, we've had death, famine, and pestilence. I can only assume that war will show up on Friday.

Oh, yes, and you'll wait patiently for those other posts--probably to be named after those horsemen.

Fear

Growing up, I was afraid of the dark. My sister, brother, and cousins made fun of me. There was nothing that was more terrifying to me than the deep darkness that was bedtime at my house.

By the time I went to college, I could sleep elsewhere without a light, but at home, that abiding terror still reigned. I was in my 20's before I could sleep without a nightlight.

But this isn't about the nightlight. Or about the dark. In an entry for Scribbit's Write Away Contest, I'm going to tell you about true terror--undefinable, all-encompassing, terror.

I have no other way to describe it. After the upheaval of the news of what was coming; after preparing, and managing to wrap my head around the inevitable--even after having similar experience and surviving it relatively sane--it's final arrival left me breathless with awe. Dumbstruck. Terrified beyond help.

The pain and stress leading up to the moment was, mostly, normal, given the situation. Even the firm knowledge that modern technology was able to give us as to it's form seemed to help keep the fear at bay.

Ah, the fear. It was merely nervous energy, I thought. Not quite so frightening as it turned out to be for me. And no one uttered a word about it.

It's said that "knowing is half the battle" and "the more you know, the better you can deal." Those are lies. There was no amount of information that could have made it better. There was no way to prepare myself.

Even now, I have found no one who has experienced such a thing. The awe, yes; the terror, no. At least, at this point, years later, I have no choice but to believe that it's not simply the impropriety of acknowledging the terror--that terror does not exist for others.

It is unique to me. This is not a comforting thought.

The pain increased in intensity and frequency. Stubborn to the end, I almost didn't make it. Start to finish, it lasted slightly more than four hours. At the end of that time, they handed me this thing--this terrifying baby girl.

I looked at her...she looked at me. In that moment I was struck with the most primal terror I have ever experienced. She scared me--hell, seven years later, she still does. It's not a fear for her, I've tried to justify it as that, and believe me, that doesn't even come close. There's nothing "wrong" with her--she was, and is, fine, really. I have moments of fearing for her, and it's not the same.

This fear was of her--she was like some deep-into-the-universe unknowable to me. She still is.

Grrrr Argh

This whole PTA thing isn't making me happy.

What now? Well, I typed in 4 freaking pages of meeting minutes and then promptly started typing in something else...and saved the something else. Dammit!

I had to retype the 4 freaking pages.

I may be suffering from PTA induced dementia.

Here We Go Again

Tonight was the first PTA meeting of the year (it's okay to groan, I did!)

We were all nervous as all get out. Except The Dad, who decided to tell me he had a video he was showing, with 6 seconds, just for me. Ha Ha. I'm sure I blushed. There was no video, btw.

For the record: I hate reading the minutes. I honestly think I shouldn't have to do that job. I should be able to pawn it off on someone else, I mean, I'm not invisible anymore, so I should be allowed to compensate for that, right? Especially if I think I sound like a dork.

I don't think they're gonna let me off the hook, though.

I did get a volunteer to do the bulletin board. Hallelujah!

We're gearing up, and it's apparently been noticed that we're trying--or at least the hope is that we will. It's disturbing, to me, really, to be part of this group. The other women use makeup and look pretty good. I sit there, looking like a blump on a log. I'm not gonna compare myself, beauty wise to the guys, but in all honesty, there's only one less-better looking person than I am on the board. Even The Dad is better looking than I am. And he has better jewelry than I wear (I wear none.) Is that shallow and vain of me? It probably is, and I feel bad about it. Not bad enough to put on makeup, but I do feel bad about it.

In the 2.5 years I've been going to these meetings, this is the largest meeting we've ever had. I mean it. Even last April, when we were voting, there weren't this many people. And, they mostly all paid their membership! We even, as of right now, have increased the number of teachers who joined. And showed up.

Scary, scary, PTA stuff and doin's.

The Obligatory Back to School Post

The Howler announced back in August that she needed two more weeks of summer. THEN, she'd go back to school.

School started on September 1, and, naturally, the Howler made her appearance.

The night before the first day of school (Monday, August 31, for those who haven't done the math) she was fiddle-farting her way through the bedtime routine.

I finally announced, in a fit of exasperation, that if she did not do as she was told, and get ready for bed, I would beat her. And then I would beat her in the morning, and she could attend her first day of 2nd grade AFTER a good long beating.

She non-chalantly asking me, "Yeah, you and what army?"

She's a very very brave girl.

Mouths of Babes

Yesterday, my Sweetie went to the doc's to have a thing removed. (No, not my shoe.)

It's called an epidermal inclusion, and it's basically a fatty cyst that's gross.

The doc was nice, and my Sweetie now has 4 stitches in his chest. (and for the record, the Howler's tongue was grosser than this thing, but not by much)

When we got to my mother's house to pick up the Howler, she bounded down the stairs (the Howler, not my mother) and said, "Daddy! Did they put you to sleep?"

My (step) Dad offered to let my Sweetie rest down on the farm, next to a two dogs and three cats.

The Howler Sez...

The other day, I needed to talk with the Howler about something important.

Me: Howler, I have to talk with you about something.

Howler: Lay it on me, babe.

Lost & Found

One of the cordless handsets for my phone has been missing for two days.

Have I told you about the Howler's funny little habit of calling people who are programmed into the phone book?

Well, we're looking for the handset. We hit the "locate handset" button four times (it bleeps and tweets for about 4 minutes, unless you find it and hit the connect button) and stuff the one we can find under a pillow. We get nothin'. Can't find it.

We're actually each taking a floor (yes, Toad is helping, believe-it-or-not) and the Howler is sitting in the recliner, watching the show.

After the 4th time we hit the "locate" button, she says, "I have an idea!" and runs upstairs.

Here she comes, telling us, "I think the battery is dead." Yes, ma'am, the battery is dead.

Later this evening (as in right this minute) My Sweetie is talking to his mom, and she apparently has been getting PLENTY of calls from her precious granddaughter...even at 10pm when the Howler is supposed to be asleep--and her parents think she's asleep.

I had left the phone in her room, so she quietly got up and called her Grandma.

I thank God every day for the "call anywhere in the continental US for one low monthly rate" plan that Verizon has.

There Are Worse Things

Tonight was the "fun" night to end a week of Vacation Bible School.

The Howler loves VBS. She likes the kids. She likes the singing. She likes learning the verses. She likes the games. She likes the themes. She loves her some VBS.

This one was particularly spectacular for her, as her age group was made up of about a dozen other girls from her school.

We were there, on time, for the program. It was cute, but, as mostly these kinds of things are, it was also an exercise in tedium. Thank God it only lasted about 20 minutes.

Our story tonight, though, features the getting ready to go part of the "fun."

The Howler decided she MUST wear jeans. She needs pockets. She must have pockets. Luckily, most of her jeans are actually denim capris (gotta love the waist to leg ratio she's got) and she needed a belt. Now, she has belts, but they don't go 'round her. I don't know why. I buy them only after putting it on her, and yet, by the time she wears it, it doesn't fit. (I'm tempted to just go to the Goodwill and buy some old ties. Seriously.) I loan her my tie belt (it's an actual belt, made to look like a tie) and as I get the belt on her, I notice a puffy pocket. I check the pocket.

Apparently, she believed she'd have an intense need for dental floss during the program.

I just don't get how her mind works sometimes.

Just a Thought

While walking through the mall with the Howler tonight, she pointed to a window display of clothing and said, "Hey, Mommy, do you think you'd look pretty in that if, you know, you were skinnier and ..... uh...."

"Younger?"

"Yeah. That."

I laughed the rest of the way through the mall.

More OPK Ranting

So, last weekend, we finally had it out over the OPK.

The Howler, yet again, invited upteen children to eat at Mumple's Restaurant. (Never mind that there's no such place.) And, of course, Dolly, yet again, decided that since she couldn't choose what I'd be serving, she wasn't going to eat. She promptly disappeared, until serving time.

During the course of the previous two days, Dolly and Waif were a-coming and a-going through my doors much like the fabled Grand Central Station. I was livid, to put it mildly. When I turn around in my kitchen, I expect to NOT see their weasely little faces in my house. Especially when I never got even the slightest chance to utter "come in" in any language.

So, anyway, I'm not happy with what's going on (and coming in) my house; but the Howler, being the Howler, invited them to lunch anyway. I made it clear that I would decide what was for lunch, and, as I said, Dolly announced that she wouldn't be eating at my house. (Can I get an AMEN! to that?)

So, Waif, Blondie, and the Howler come in for lunch. Dolly, just walks in as they're finishing eating. She doesn't say anything--no, she just stands there, already INSIDE my house, waiting for me rush around and act like the thing I've most been living for is to hand feed her with a golden spoon.

Well, anyone with half a brain knows that isn't going to happen. I ask her if there's something she wants. She shakes her head "no," so I tell her to get out. She goes outside on the porch, but continues to stare at me. So I ask her again. She shakes her head "no" again. I walk into my house.

Next thing I know, my phone is ringing, and it's her stepmother. She's calling to find out why Dolly is at their house, crying and saying she got in trouble.

Needless to say, I'm fed up, I'm cranky as all get out, and I'm about done with walking on eggshells because of two children who aren't even mine. I let it all out. I tell her that since May, I have had to be on constant vigilance because her children are in my house, rooting through my cupboards and 'fridge, helping themselves to whatever strikes their fancy. I've caught them going through MY STUFF--in my bedroom AND my basement, dragging out to play with whatever strikes their fancy. And, that, on at least two occasions, Dolly has turned her pert little chipmunk nose up at what I'm serving for lunch...to show up and ask for some anyway. My house is NOT a restaurant or a free-for-all for these children. They're about a hair away from being told to never come back.

(for the record, I refuse to lock my doors when my daughter is outside playing--something that the Urchins' parents don't seem to have qualms about, btw)

The Urchins come up and apologize. I accept their apology, but, in all honesty, I'm not overly hopeful that any real change will be made.

And I was right--to a point. The Urchins decided over this past weekend, to prove just what assholes 7 and 9 year old girls can be. They invite Missy over for lunch (which didn't happen, of course--if their parents don't feed them, what makes anyone over the age of 3 think anyone else will get fed either?) and pointedly rubbed the Howler's face in it.

Then, later, they invited Missy over for an ice cream, and pointedly rubbed the Howler's face in that. Oh, wait--it gets better, and proves just what an evil and horrible person I have turned into: The little snots came up to my house and got fudgsicles.

When I found them with fudgsicles, I took the sweet treats right out of their hands. The looks on their faces was priceless--it ranged from mad (Waif) to hurt (Dolly). The shock on the Howler's and Missy's faces was pretty, too.

I told the Urchins that there's NO WAY they're going to be such ignorant rude little snots to the Howler then come up to my house for treats.

They admitted what they did. I told the Howler, with the Urchins standing there, that these WERE NOT her friends. Friends don't treat you that way, and that she is NEVER EVER EVER to give them so much as a stale goldfish cracker again. EVER.

They wandered home, and when My Sweetie asked me what just happened, I think he was one part happy I did it, and one part mortified and worried that lightning would be striking me dead any second.

Missy was staying for dinner, and going to spend the night. She insisted that she was going to go to the Urchins for dinner, though, because they had invited her. I was still raging (not entirely quietly, though) and asked her how her lunch was. She said they had invited her, but she didn't have any lunch. I asked her if she thought she'd get supper from them then? She didn't have an answer, but was still insisting that she was going to their house for supper. I told her that she could see if she could spend the night with them, then.

She stayed for supper, and the night.

Today, though, we are Urchinless, but instead of being a waitress, I am a butler. The Howler has a CD player on the front porch and all I ask is that they shut the wooden door when they're listening to music. The Howler rang the door bell and pounded on the door, yelling "OPEN THIS STUPID DOOR!" when the screen door was locked (she and I had just gotten home.) So, I opened the stupid door, and she shut the wooden one in my face.

Before two minutes was up, she was ringing the doorbell and pounding on the door again. Why? I don't know. All I know is that I spent 15 minutes opening and shutting the door, on demand.

I lost it. I yelled. I screamed. At my child and at other people's kids.

Am I having a bad day? Not entirely. I just know that at the time, I was able to walk back to what I was doing, only to be noisily summoned again. For no real reason.

The Howler is going to find herself grounded to her room for the next restofthesummer if this crap keeps up.

Ring the Freaking Doorbell!

This is another OPK rant. It's the same OPK, but I'm still ranting, so get over it. I'm not, but someone should.

I've already covered the part where Waif's voice is the equivalent to dragging your fingernails down a chalkboard, right? And I've covered the part where these too urchins from Hell aren't all that nice, right? And I've covered the part about how, two months ago, I caught them rooting through my kitchen cupboards and 'fridge, right?

Yeah, well, now, they're back to JUST WALKING INTO MY HOUSE. Yep. No knocking, no doorbells, no nuttin'. Just walk RIGHT IN, and look surprised when I turn around and see them.

They also, at one point today, came in to use the bathroom. They were rooting through my stuff--MY STUFF-- while down the basement using the bathroom.

OMG! Not only am I declaring my house a whine-free zone, but I'm going to tell those girls tomorrow that UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES will they enter my house, unless I--and I do mean I --tell them they can come in.

If they think I won't throw them out-out-out of my house, they're gonna find out. I hate that these two are the only ones for the Howler to play with during the week, and I hate to tell her that she can't play with them at all, but this is ridiculous. I shouldn't have to tell these children (especially considering that one of them is actually MINE) what the rules are...

Hell, didn't I just spend the winter doing this with a different one?

Kill me. Kill me now.

No Soup for You

We're polluted with OPK again. It's not so bad, really, if we keep the kitchen windows closed. (God, the Waif's voice is sooooooooooo annoying. I just keep wanting to scream, "Shut the f* up!")

But anyway, the Howler arrived home yesterday, and today, we are, of course, overrun.

And, at lunchtime, it was clear that these chicklets think that my house is a restaurant, and I am the Head Waiter.

The Howler came in and asked if two of the four opk could have lunch with her--now, these two, I don't mind feeding so much. Their families reciprocate and nobody's grocery bills go up or down in the grand scheme of things. I'm about to say yes, when I realize that Waif and Dollie, are unaccounted for.

I ask. The Howler informs me that they're asking their parents, but haven't heard back yet.

Great. Just flippin' great. These are the children who spent 3 days at the end of May rooting through my cupboards and refridgerator. These are the children whose parents think that "reciprocate" means that you give-give-give and they take-take-take. They think that two birthday parties this year (one hot dog, one handful of chips, one juice box, a piece of cake) and two popsicles a year are "fair trade" for two dozen lunches, a half dozen suppers, unlimited snacks, and several s'mores.

Part of me feels like a heel--I'm pissed because I'm now obligated to feed these children--children I KNOW probably aren't going to get lunch today. But on the other hand, I know that feeding them is like feeding the stray dog in the neighborhood. It's going to come back to bite me in the ass. Literally.

I end up deciding that lunch will be "on me," but it will also be entirely MY choice. Chicken noodle soup, bologna sandwiches, crackers, and water. Period. Sandwiches can be with or without cheese, and choices of condiments are available.

Dollie says she doesn't like chicken noodle soup, or bologna sandwiches and promptly disappears. Fine. That's one less I'm required to feed. Quoth my Sweetie, "Beggars can't be choosers."

So, two cans of soup, and sandwich "orders" are fixed. Dollie shows back up in time to eat, and asks for some soup. Bitch that I am, I've already divided the soup. No soup for you. I tell her she can have a bologna sandwich, which she rejects. Even after I tell her it can be with cheese, and condiments of her choice. No, thank you.

Waif then asks for crackers--even though she has a plate--a PLATE--of Goldfish crackers in front of her.

Apparently, beggars CAN be choosers.

Two Weeks

The Howler is home from Grandma's.

Tuesday night, Grandma called because my Howler was beside herself in emotional agony. She wanted to "not have to stay two weeks."

Now, for the last month, whenever the Howler said, "Two Weeks," her grumpy parental units said, "OK." That's all we said--OK--and she was the one repeating "Two weeks." Even as the car drove away, she's waving to us, saying, "See you in TWO WEEKS!"

So, last Tuesday night, she calls. She refused to speak to the horrid thing that is her mother--you know, the mean thing that would MAKE her stay TWO WEEKS OR LONGER. She cries to her soft-hearted, loving parent, Daaaaaadddddddddddeeeeeeeeee, and he tells her, "No, baby girl, you don't have to stay two weeks. I can't come get you until Saturday, though."

Apparently her response was that she didn't want to leave until Saturday, as long as she didn't HAVE TO stay TWO WEEKS.

She refused to speak to her horrid, make-her-stay-two-weeks-no-matter-what mother--the woman who spawned her, defends her against obnoxious opk, loves her unconditionally, the woman who NEVER uttered the words STAY TWO WEEKS--until Wednesday night.

But she's home--and she was happy to see me, too.

Toad's Story

So we all know that the Toad works in a fast food joint. The latest and greatest taste sensation from this Joint is a new burger (big shocker there, I know.)

He was in the drive thru two nights ago and this new burger was requested:

"I'd like one of the new anus burgers, please."

Now he truly knows the joys of working with the public.

Your Order Is Ready

*Disclaimer: This post is not about the Howler, or the Toad, but does explain the crazy in their DNA.

Today is the 4th of July--the Holiest of Holiday Picnic days. And, in keeping up our American appearances, we, the Mumples, sponsor a holiday picnic. We invite the usual suspects: my mom and (step) dad. And we encourage my mother to invite her mother and sister.

Grandma and Aunty are the ones who came to New Year's Day dinner a few years ago and ranted on and on about "illegal aliens"--giving me giggle fits because every time either one of them said "illegal aliens" all I could envision is a group of little green men without little green cards.

Aunty calls me up yesterday to RSVP. She says she'll come over and bring containers for herself and Granny, and just take their picnic supper with her. She also, at that time, places her order--one hot dog and one hamburger, each, and all the fixin's, please.

Anyway, Grandma calls my mother back and complains that she won't be able to come because she goes to church at 5pm (I worked 'til 4, and the picnic waited on me.)

I'm dumbfounded. I mention it to my mother, and Mom tells me about my grandmother's call.It's makes a little more sense after that.

Now, we know that even without church, Granny ain't coming anyway--so my mom had suggested that Aunty can come over, eat with us, and bring some containers for us to send supper to Granny for after church. Aunty is Granny's ride to and from church anyway, so it's not like anyone would be put out over this arrangement.

We've spent the day (even while I was at work) chuckling over this, because my Aunt has a tendancy to be more than a little, shall we say, eccentric.

Aunty shows up today with two plastic grocery bags, rattling with empty containers. She sits and chats with us a bit, then, when we're ready to eat, gathers up her bags, heads to the kitchen, fills various reusable containers with "fixin's" and asks for some tinfoil to wrap up her "one hamburger and one hot dog, each."

She repacks her plastic grocery bags, thanks us all for supper, and leaves.

I've been laughing like Muttley for almost 4 hours now.

V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N

Waldameer Park, Presque Isle, Erie, PA

Lake Erie, Beach 6 Presque Isle State Park, Erie, PA

Happiness Is...

having a yard sale.

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5 seven and eight year olds laughing instead of arguing over
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PRICELESS

She Said What?!

So, a nice visit with the fam. Or rather, with Sweetie's fam.

My mother in law was in the chicken enclosure breaking up a fight (cock fightin' is still illegal in their neck o' de woods.)

The Howler watches Grandma whack both roosters with a broom handle, then walks up to the gazebo, where Grandpa is sitting by the fire, watching a rousing game of Ladderball.

Grandpa asks, "So where's she at?"

And the Howler responds, "She's beatin the hell outta the chickens."

Luckily, Grandpa is deaf as a doornail.

Leetle Girls

Can be annoying.

Especially when there's two of them, and they're both shrieking.

We had promised the Howler that when summer came, and Missy was at her Dad's house, and I had the next day off (or went to work late in the afternoon) Missy could spend the night.

Last night was the night.

Of course, My Sweetie was not well--too many hours a week, too many years at a physically demanding job, too old...and he apparently pulled more than one muscle in his neck. He's in intense pain, and is not, in any sense, of being up to dealing with two seven year old girls. Which I happily do, if for no other reason than he deserves some rest, and I did promise.

It's now 12:06pm EST and they're still in pj's, with one wiggling a tooth incessantly and the other asking how soon is lunch.

God, but I'm a glutton for punishment.

Community Relations

Oh, I didn't fill y'all in on the new-and-improved neighborhood fun.

Blonde and Bully have been behaving, and there's been no abusive treatment of any one.

The girls get along. The boys get along, and if they have to pass each other on the green green grass of home, they do it peaceably. No tackling, no crying.

It's all good.

Sunday, the children also had a water battle in my backyard. At first, it was just the girls. Then the boys showed up. Cutie, the youngest, complained every time someone splashed him that his new shirt was ruined (it was water.) Bully didn't want to get wet, so I made the rules clear:

1) You don't want to get wet, you don't get to use a squirt gun or splash anyone else.
2) Don't shoot anyone in the face.

Waif apparently thought that rule wasn't for her, and I spent more time telling her to aim lower than I spent reminding anyone else of anything.

At one point, Bully was effectively shut out and wasn't allowed to load his weapon. Now, it's a water battle, and they're all nailing him right and left, and he's got no ammo? No fair (no matter what I think of the kid, it's still not fair)

I told him to meet me 'round front, and bring the squirt gun. (He arrived looking like I was going to kill him with his own weapon.) I filled the gun for him, and told him, Don't shoot in the face and under no circumstances tell them I did this!

He ran back around the house, shot them all and when the water was depleted, they all found other things to do.

With no fighting and no crying.

I'm not such a terrible wench after all.

Benefits

So, I'm finally feeling the love in my neighborhood.

Dude, from two houses down, needed help getting the swingset and pool ready for summer. My Sweetie, who knows which end of the hammer to use (Dude calls a sawzall a "electric cutting thing") was happy to help, considering how much time the Howler spends at Dude's house.

Last weekend, we planned supper as a cookout--kids, hotdogs, marshmallows--and Dude says, "My mom's been cooking all day." And she cooks for an army. We had the best fried rice, and sweet-and-sour chicken I've ever tasted. (Did I mention that Dude is originally from Taiwan? Oh, yeah, baby!)

I spent last summer hearing about Mom's cooking (and smelling it) but never getting a taste.

Now, she knows we like it, and Friday night, she sent Missy up with a plate....and Saturday....and Sunday, after My Sweetie and Blondie's Mom & Dad spent the afternoon getting the old pool liner out and the new one in, we had a Chinese buffet on the patio.

Fried Rice (with shrimp)
Beef something (with green beans & carrots)
Sweet & Sour Chicken (with that fantastic homemade S&S sauce)
Puffy deep fried shrimp flavored chip things
Sticky Rice
Spicy Filled Pastry things (meat & veggies pan fried in a soft tortilla shell)
and after every was totally full,
Lo Mein.

No headache, no parched and dying too-much salt or soy feeling...just full blown happiness on a plate.

There was enough food to feed, I kid you not, 6 adults and 7 children with plenty left over.

But still, no egg rolls (which I've been told are the food-of-the-gods.) Not that I'm complaining.

My God! It was wonderful!

Seriously

Today was the school picnic. It was fun. Of course, the drizzly rain dampened things a bit, but overall, it was fun.

First graders were in "gold" this year--and they decorated their shirts with a bleach pen--our class had suns created with a "big circle" template and the imagination of every child creating their own sunshine. Adorable. (And I have to say that the each-grade-in-one-color-shirt idea deserves a Nobel Prize. Seriously.)

Magician in the morning, then some sand art and indoor cart races then lunch. Nobody threw up today, and I lost a dollar on that bet. Seriously.

The drizzly rain did NOT keep us from enjoying the Blongo Ball, Body-boppers, bean bag toss or the duck races. And it didn't stop me from getting in the creek to help out, either. Of course, those little ducks were pretty sneaky in getting past me, but I caught 'em all in the end (and the Howler won a prize--the first 3 winners did--so everything is okay.) It's also heartwarming to see Dads at the picnic...especially Dads who are willing to hop on one foot to take off his shoes and socks and get in the creek to help, too. And then even more so, when the Dad in the creek hops on one foot, in the creek, to put his socks and shoes back on (and giggling while waiting for him to fall in the creek entirely) Seriously.

Then, finally, after this entire year, figuring out which kids were which.I couldn't tell the difference between most of the boys or the girls for most of the year. There were 4 boys from the Howler's class last year, so those, of course, I knew. But the rest of them? Other than the two other girls in the class with dark hair, they all looked the same--and all their names, it seemed, began with the letter A. Seriously.

It was fun, and while I'm sad that this year is ending, I can't wait for next year.

Seriously.

She's Actually Doing It!

If you don't know by now, I'm a reader. I lose myself--literally--in books. I set an alarm on my lunches at work so that I know when it's time to pack up and head back. My Sweetie hates books--at least, he hates whichever one I've got my nose buried in at the exact moment I'm ignoring him. I don't ever remember NOT reading, and I have a few memories that are verifiably from before I started school--and I started school at 4 years old.

Anyway, it's been a heartache to me that the Toad refused to read. He can, and he had a high comprehension level, but he's never taken to it quite like I had hoped.

The Howler, however, seems to WANT to read. She wanted to before, mostly because she believed (and still does) that I am lying to her continually. If she can read for herself, she can verify that I am only lying a little bit right now.

A month or so ago, I blogged about the Howler reading Charlotte's Web. On her own, by her choice..and that she was enjoying it.

She then proceeded to refuse to look at or consider reading any other chapter books. Period. No teacher, librarian, or mere mother was going to get her to read any other chapter book.

I discovered a really neat-o way to convince her.

I started talking about books I've read that a little girl would probably like.

Then I refused to take her to the public library.

Then, I went to the said library, and rented the PBS aired movie, "Anne of Green Gables." (and smart as I am, I borrowed the book, too.) Tee Hee.

Guess who is now angling to get "extra time" before lights out bedtime to read a chapter book?

Yeah, baby.

(oh, and I know this is all just a great big fluke, and the other shoe will drop soon, and I'll totally blow the "Good Mommy" thing. I'm just enjoying the great big gushy goodness that is the Howler right now.)

My Poor "Preciousness"

Yesterday, she hurt her foot in gym class. Was given sympathy and an ice pack and she was fine. Really.

Apparently, though, she jabbed a boy with her straw in lunch, and since she's a Mumple, she did break the skin enough to warrant his needing sympathy. Then, to compound the problem, she lied about it.

And was found out.

And ventured back to the nurses office because her poor widdle toe still hurted.

My Preciousness discovered that her powerful Mommy is NOT impressed with the jabbing or the lying.

No, I didn't beat her, or berate her.

I simply decided that she would eat lunch at a table by herself today (which lead to copious tears last night at bedtime, AND she would apologize to the boy AND her teacher or she wouldn't go to the birthday party she was invited to tomorrow.)

Poor thing practically cried herself to sleep last night. I felt so bad for her--whether she knows the words for it or not, she knows what it feels like to make a jackass of yourself, and here was her horrifying mother, making her live the consequences of such a thing.

Poor Poor Pitiful Preciousness.

But, for the record, she did survive the ordeal, and is actually fairly happy this afternoon.

See, I do use my powers for good.

Mom Power

Two weeks ago, I got a call from the school.

The "Health Aide" (hereafter known as The Nurse) was calling. It seems that the Howler got into trouble in her classroom, and in the aftermath, was close to hyperventilating from the crying. "Can I give her a dose of her rescue inhaler?" Oh, by all means, please do.

I also got to speak with the Howler, who was still snuffly with a sad little lilt in her voice. She explained what happened: she was putting her things away, and Mrs N over reacted and didn't give her enough time to put them away. Mrs N was just plain wrong.

Now, what the Howler had, and was playing with, were a couple of things--one of which had been making the trip to and from school for weeks as a pencil case (no pencils were in it, though) and a change purse with a chapstick and her milk money for lunch.

So, Mrs N, following the classroom rules and prior precedent, confiscated the Howler's posessions until the end of the year. The Howler was beside herself, and, as near as I can tell, mostly inarticulate over it.

After I spoke with the Howler, reassuring her that I would NOT be demanding her stuff back RIGHT. NOW. I got to speak with her teacher.

I explained what had probably upset her the most (the milk money) and even when Mrs N said, "Oh, we can't have her not have milk or juice with lunch!" I told her about my evilness. I apologized for this, but there WAS milk money in the Howler's lunch box, because I knew that "soemthing" was gonna happen.

After getting confirmation that the Howler DID TOO know the rules, and had seen others lose their prizes throughout the year, Mrs N was to keep the Howler's prizes until the end of the year. Period.

The Howler sometimes gets it in her head that she is exempt from the rules. There's really no gray area here: she's seen others lose their prizes until the end of the year, and she's LUCKY, really, because she's only got 18 days (at that point) until she gets her stuff back. Some of her classmates have been waiting 6 months.

That evening, she tried to convince her father and I that it was really about the chapstick. Mrs N will use that chapstick (oh, I so think not!) and then, when that didn't work, she worried the money. Mrs N is going to take her money--or worse! give it to someone else!

Gotta love my girl--especially the part where she wanted to throw MY weight around, she almost had Mrs N convinced that I was gonna say, "GIVE MY BABY BACK HER STUFF!"
and she was gonna have to give it back.

I love that the Howler finds me that powerful, but am grateful that we had the opportunity to teach this lesson--and that we got it right.

News Flash

Ringling Bros. is having Clown College rehearsals in Philadelphia, and I have a few questions.

1) How much is a bus ticket to Philly and what would it take to get the Toad on that bus?

2) Do you pay for Clown College with Funny Munny? (boo hiss boo, couldn't be helped.)

Live and In Person...

The Tongue, and the damage done.

And, you can be as grossed out as I am by it.

*Sigh*

We are, after all, the Mumples.

Case in point:

The Howler's hearing problem? Turns out to be non-existant. She did, however, have a large wad of gross and icky black gunk in her ear. The doc's best guess? Ear wax, and possibly blood from when it all ran into her ear last fall when she whacked her head and needed glued. It was, until Wednesday evening, the grossest thing I've seen since the Toad burst his finger like a sausage at church camp and needed it stitched up and the fingernail sewed back on.

Ahhhh, but then, it's all perspective, innit?

Wednesday evening, she was playing nicely with Dude Jr (believe it or not.) On her swingset teeter-totter (not safe, people! not safe!) He slipped, so she slipped, and VIOLA! Something as gross, if not grosser, than Frankenfinger (the aforementioned smashed at camp finger.)

She bit her tongue. Two very deep, very bloody, tooth marks in her tongue. No less than 25 minutes of profuse bleeding (enough blood to make a crime-scene reporter ill) and, in the end, a trip to the doc's office to discuss how quickly the tongue heals and what to do to help deter infection.

Did I mention how easily she gags? Did I mention how easily I gag? Yeah, baby.

It's still really gross looking, and I still get queasy thinking about it.

Mother's Day

For me, Mother's Day is just another day. Believe it or not, I don't care if I get cards, or gifts. And I sure as anything don't want to have to send them to anyone, either.

In part, it's because my mother's expectations for Mother's Day were, when I was growing up, unrealistic. As in, it is totally unrealistic, bordering on insanity, to expect 3 children to NOT argue at least a little, on Mother's Day. It's also unrealistic to expect to go out to eat that weekend in May and not have it be crowded, and stressful. It's also unrealistic to expect your children (or anyone, really) to have any clue what, exactly, you would be expecting as a gift, unless you tell them.

Add that all up, and what you've got is a Hallmark sanctioned holiday from Hell.

There's no one Mother's day that stand out, but honestly, even after I became a mother (no comments from the peanut gallery, please) HER expectations of what MY Mother's Day should be overshadowed any joy I might find on that day.

There was the one in which the Toad (as a smallish child) and I made plans--plans in which my mother DEMANDED that I change because "Sunday is Mother's Day." When pressed for more information, she claimed to not have any plans, and while I modified our original plan to suit her and her cryptic comments, I ended up changing my plans for nothing. Sure, she sent me a card, and I got a card from the Toad, but otherwise, there was no real reason for me to NOT do as he and I had wanted, and originally planned.

It was totally lame.

Mother's Day, much like birthdays, Christmas, and Valentine's Day, is a bigger deal to the greeting card & crappy gift peddlers than it is to me.

But this year, it's been worse than usual. No, not because of my mother, but because I feel like I've been hit by a bus. My entire body aches--bones, muscles, and brain. I have no other cold or flu symptoms, and I've slept for 12 of the last 36 hours. My family, God love them, agreed to give me uninterrupted quiet time, and the Howler has been exceptionally (remember, this is the Howler) well behaved and mostly unwhiney.

So, to those who enjoy the commercialized celebration of motherhood, I hope you had a happy one; to those who would rather not spend the time, money, or energy pretending to be enthralled by over priced ugly pink gifts and cards, come sit next to me.

It's Summer

Or might as well be.

We are, again this year, overrun with the small fry.

Loads of noise, toys scattered everywhere, and bike riding on my patio.

It's gonna be horrible this weekend, though--I'm getting new patio furniture, to go with my new awning. And once the furniture comes out, there's no more riding bikes across my patio.

It's not the fanciest furniture, because we are the Mumples. And it's not what I really want, but let's be serious--what I really want would cost $1000, and not only am I not taking hits off anyone's crackpipe, I know that the really nice set I really want will not hold up to the scrutiny of the 14 billion 5-to-9 year olds that will swarm over it. And, when I look at that set, I have visions of the thousands of ways those wild things will be damaged by the fancy new furniture. I can't bring myself, by cost or corruption, to justify the shrieking I will do, or the bleeding and bruising that they will do.

So, I'll get kinda-sorta what I want--what I can live with--and be happy with it until such time as the noise level and insanity level drops over the coming years.

And, I'll get to not be the shrieking demon at the Howler's house.

Fair trade.

Miss Cleo Will See You Now

Since the PTA election, we've had Miss Thang resign from EVERYTHING PTA related. She's renounced us all as Satan, and, in all honesty, she actually looks like she's getting some sleep. God knows that before the election and her email snitquit, she looked like Hell. And she acted like it. (And her children did too.)

Anyway.

Shortly after Miss Thang took her toys and went home, The AWOL Prez, she of the Royal Uselessness, sent an email to a select few. And I was lucky enough to be a recipient.

While I'm still trying to figure out how, exactly, that happened, considering that since January of '08, she didn't know who I was, got my name wrong (and called me by that wrong name for two months) and only learned my name when she wanted something, and then, STILL refused to return my calls, OR do the one very simple thing she needed to do for me to organize a fun Dad-and-Child activity.

I mention this again, or still, because the last PTA meeting of this year is rapidly approaching, and I want a record showing that I predict:

The AWOL Prez will show up, and berate us all for our "bad behavior," while refusing to conduct the business of the meeting.

I predict that she'll discover that her delusions of grandeur are just that--delusions. And that, if she does decide to claim that her broken leg was the reason for all her lack-of-action, she'll be called on it. Too many people have been treated badly for too long for any of 'em to sit like good little boys and girls and put up with her version of reality anymore.

Dumbfounded, Flabbergasted, and Sad

It's ridiculous, I know, but I feel it just the same.

The Howler's yearly checkup was today. My girl is growing well. She's 49.5 inches tall! Almost as tall as me! (blah blah grammar blah)

Her asthma is under control, doing it my way. I explained what I'm doing, and why...and that we tried the Advair flexhaler and what it did. And how it took fully 2 weeks to get it back under control. Doc F1 was fine with it--basically said that if that's what works (and keeps the side effects away) then that's what we do. I did a smallish happy dance right there, I did.

Then came the Next Thing. And I hate the Next Thing. You will hate it too.

My beautiful, happy, wonderful 7-year-old may have some hearing loss in her left ear. It may have been the machine, but maybe not--maybe not enough to get her evaluated by an audiologist.

Sure, she doesn't always "hear" us, but she's 7, right? And sometimes she says "queer" instead of "clear", and sometimes she pronounces her ending "r's" like she's a Kennedy. And she did hit that left ear this winter and need to get it glued (with a warning from the ER personnel that there maybe-might-be-could-be ear damage from the way she whacked it. Or the 12 pounds of blood that seemed to be in there. Or the swelling from whacking it.)

None of that, nor the fact that there are cousins on both sides of my family who have experienced hearing loss fairly young (somewhere around my baby's age) makes me feel better.

Notice how she's my baby today? Yeah.

I did cry, out of her ear-shot (pardon my grossly inappropriate pun, there.) And I felt stupid and foolish for it--there are way worse things this could be, I know. And it's not the end of her world, either.

How do I know that?

When we got home, she informed her brother, in a rather puffed up with pride at the accomplisment voice, "Hey, Der*, I have hearing loss in my one ear. So speak up, or I will ignore you."

*Der = Toad, to the Howler when she was a toddler.

So, You've Asked About the PTA Elections

First, let me say that I could have lived my entire life without the drama.

Second, let me say that I have tried, for the past 3 days to summon up at least a little guilt, or something similar, regarding how things went, and well, I just can't do it.

Thursday was The Election.

The meeting started out simply enough--a call to order. After that, it was straight out of a Twilight Zone episode. Honestly, it was.

Miss Thang, acting PTA prez, got pissy when asked why the balloting would be done HER way. (There were two ways to do it--all at once, or office-by-office. She chose as a whole. Nominations, close nominations, move on to next office, nominations, etc.) She does NOT like to be questioned, I'll tell you that for nothing.

So, that's the way we did it--mostly because she'd already put in a lot of effort into having those ballots done up, and, honestly, we'd have been there for quite a while doing it office-by-office.

There were no further nominations for President. Closed. First VP was just Miss Thang, and it appeared that no one was going to run against her. So I nominated the Dad. He and I have had several conversations over the past two years (his twins are the same age as the Howler) and he said the same thing I did--without my saying it to him first. She cannot run unopposed. So I dun-did it. Nominations closed. 2nd VP was Dad running unopposed. Nominations closed. 3rd VP--the officer she tried to get rid of--got one nomination from the floor. Treasurer, one guy, no other nominations. Closed. Secretary, mumple unopposed (again with the weirdness). Nominations closed. Vote time.....Miss Thang stressed that write-ins were allowed. Wonder why ~snark~

Business was conducted while we waited for copies of the ballots to be made, and we had a lovely social 20 minutes while ballots were tabulated by 3 non-office running members.

A great deal of what hit Miss Thang's last nerve was that the person who was the vendor for two of the fundraisers we did this year (who is also a member of our PTA) stood up, and in telling us how much was raised, even comparing the fall and the spring totals. She also shared with the group some of HER opinions on how SHE was treated, and what's she's been hearing from others--in email, notes, and conversations. She really blasted the Prez, who is still laid up (I'm still trying to wrap my head around being able to go to Disney World in January--a few short weeks after breaking that leg--but not being able to roll herself in to a meeting) and then turned on Miss Thang. Miss Thang, apparently, really has been upholding the Don't Call Us/We Have No Intention of Calling You policy, and made no attempt to actually step up and do the work her laid up predecessor left her.

Sure, she showed up and did the things that would earn her attention. All efforts, seen in hindsight, show that she basically enjoyed the "being seen" part of the job.

What I've heard in the past few months has been that, overall, she's really done no better, though. I've gotten practically immediate responses from her, but I'm assuming that's because I have what would probably be called Perceived Power. She perceived, back in December, that I would speak up about things I saw as wrong, stupid, or both. She perceived, back in January, that I am (God Help Me) a leader--and, someone who is willing to take a risk. She perceived, last Thursday, that I am willing to stick my neck out, in front of her, to drive a point home (I'll get to that.) She's also pissed that the rest of peons actually speak to each other, and have open and honest conversations.

I've realized that a big part of the problem with this PTA isn't just the funnelling of information to a few people who refuse to share the information or take action themselves, but a lack of trust amongst its members. Who can you trust when the powers-that-be seem to know that you've spoken out against them, and they blackball you?

Well, who you can trust is me. I'm not very nice, deep down, but you never have to guess where you stand with me, and not only will I not repeat what you say to me, I'll let you sit next to me, even if I think you're a nutbar. (Seriously, if we're all in the PTA to make the school a better place for our kids, your--or my--being a nutbar really isn't the point, unless one of us does something really super strange, and even then, I'm willing to forget it unless you get arrested while I'm watching.)

So, over the course of the last few months, more people have been showing up, getting involved and just plain speaking up.

The meeting also involved Miss Thang being informed that her plans for the end of the year picnic were just plain stupid. Ok, nobody said, "Stupid" but it was made clear that if you're going to spend a few hundred dollars of PTA funds on t-shirts, the KIDS should get 'em, NOT faculty and staff. We all appreciate the faculty and staff, and what they do for our kids, but seriously. Spend the PTA funds on the KIDS. It's a no-brainer, really.

The election results were tabulated by 3 volunteers--none of whom were running for office. Thank God.

There were 31 members present--that's DOUBLE what's been showing up otherwise. 16 votes needed to elect.

Miss Thang got 7 votes for Prez; 6 for 1st VP. Of course, everyone else got their 16. Including Dad, who was now in the position of holding two offices. And since that's "illegal" under our by-laws, he had to choose. He tried to be nice about it, and didn't just jump on the 1st VP thing, and while he was talking and saying basically that he wanted to do a good job, and would do which ever one everyone else thought he should. She snapped, "You have to PICK ONE!" So he did. And she lost for a third time.

2nd VP was now open, and she wasn't nominated. I honestly think that she decided before the meeting that she would have president or nothing at all. Her resignation implies it, even though she claims she's been considering it for months now, because we've all been so mean to her. And she was professional the entire time (of course, professionals pitch flaming asshole tantrums all the time, donchano) and that she has to be true to herself.

She says that "I am excusing myself from anymore invalid information about me since I do not deserve it nor did I do anything to provoke it." (and if there's anyone out there who can explain that to me, please please please do so) because, you know, not calling people back, playing the blame game, pitching tantrums, going along with the blackballing, manipulating, lying, and yelling when asked legitimate questions during a meeting, having access to other nominees bio information and writing your bio in obvious response to it, and assuming--and stating so in writing--that since YOU don't know anything about anyone here means no one else knows anyone else either, sending harassing emails to other PTA officers, is definitely not provoking.

Finally, I'd like to say that no where in this entire post did I mention that her speech patterns show a definite need for speech therapy (buy a freaking hard consonant already!), and her "professionalism" extends to bizarre sentence structure, abused punctuation, lack of coherent thought processes, and a generally entitled attitude have earned her a very special place in the annals of would be tyrants.

Toad Not On Road

Last night, I came home to find my Sweetie under the Beast.

It seems that when you have a car that is upwards of 10 years old, things start to wear out on it. Toad is oblivious to the obvious, of course, and spent his hard earned income tax refund on a new DS412, the latest and greatest expensive game system.

Because, you know, having a new video game system is WAAAAYYYYY more important than having money in the bank (or in your pocket) to pay for necessary things, like, oh, I don't know...brake linings on your 10 year old car.

Of course, the money's spent and this is when the Beast decides to blow an artery.

Apparently, Toadwort was driving home from work (or somewhere) and gets to make the choice between on-coming traffic, running a red light --again with the oncoming traffic, or go curbside. He did make "the right choice" in going curbside. And he made it home in time to change his pants.

But now, we're faced with hauling his no-clue-what-his-own-work-schedule-is-self to his place of employment for at least a few days. On top of whatever the hell else it is we claim we do.

Door#1 cannot get to this until next week. Door #2 can get to it possibly this afternoon, but definitely tomorrow. The best part of this entire scene is that in order to get to Door #2, the Brakeless Beast must be driven through a replace-the-thousand-year-old-bridge construction zone (other option: drive all over town to go the 'round-about way to get there. With, did I mention, No Brakes)

I love that in all the years I've had spawn, no one ever ever ever mentioned that it does not not not get easier when they get older.

Standing Up

So, we got home from the holiday trip to the in-laws. It was nice, but it was nice to get home, too.

Anyway, this AM, Missy came a-callin', and happiness filled the Mumple abode. They play well together, mostly because Missy doesn't take the Howler's bossiness crap, and they are "BFF" to the point of making up songs and singing them.

But then, right before noon, Blondie shows up. I refused to let Missy or the Howler go outside to find her--she had to come to us. Shortly after Blondie showed up, Blondie's Mom came over to make sure "she was being good." Apparently GrammyB had tattled on Blondie and her previous visit's performance.

I said, and I quote, "Everything's fine--so far." Mom said that she'd been told and they've had a talk with Blondie about how to behave, and I just couldn't let it go--I told Mom that during Blondie's last visit, between 5pm and 7pm, Blondie had reduced ALL THREE other girls to tears at one point or another.

Oh, and that's not all: I also told her that last summer it was months of name calling and "accidents" and so far this year, it's that the rules don't apply to her. "As long as there's no crying or fighting, there's no problem."

Mom told Blondie she had to play outside.

HAH!

I hope they get the hint. Last year, it was everyone else watching the kids--and when they did come outside, it was them, on GrammyB's front porch, shooting dirty looks at the rest of us.

I stressed to Waif, Dollie, Missy, and the Howler that they do NOT have to put up with her, and that if they stick together, she'll either start to play by their rules, or she'll have to go bully her grandparents or parents.

GrampsB made the comment to my (step)Dad that they don't get involved in the kids' things, because they're kids and they'll be made up, and the grown ups will all still be mad. Okay, there's a point there, and a valid one, but when 2 of their 4 grandchildren show up, and there are tears all 'round ('cept for Bully and Blondie, of course) then grown ups DO need to step in.

Considering that they bus the bullies and brats in, and that the girls who do live in this neighborhood "go along" with Blondie because they are worried she'll report them for "being mean" to her if they don't--well, I don't play that way, either.

I've told each of 4 not-Blondie girls to stand up to Blondie TOGETHER, and to not whine or blame IF Blondie's Mom or GrammyB come out to ask what's going on--just tell whoever's asking exactly WHAT Blondie is doing, and that none of the rest of you want to play that way. And, send 'em to me if they have a problem with that.

I'm Not Very Grown Up

In that I am no longer tolerating Blondie's ignorant bitchiness.

All winter long, when she's over, she does this down on all fours galloping thing--always near the other children--most particularly near my Howler. If not stopped in time, somebody's gonna get clopped in the nose. And she never apologizes, unless forced to by an adult. Then, after the forced apology, she decides she's going to leave, and saying things to other children like, "Let's not play with the Howler."

Then, when called on it (even if an adult has actually heard this come out of her mouth) she denies it.

Today, she pulled this again. After being told off because, of course, the Howler got clopped, and, of course, Blondie refused to apologize, saying, "It was an accident."

Now, how much of an accident is it when the same person is repeatedly clopped on the head or in the face by the same person, doing the same behavior the clopper has been told repeatedly to NOT do? I don't believe it is an accident.

The galloping behavior started when she was pointedly told to stop with the "playing dogs and cats" because the Howler was forever getting scratched in the face.

So, today, when all this went down, and Blondie was told off, she took the captive dog (Gracie the Garbage Hound) and ran off. The Howler came to me in tears, so I went to see what was going on.

Blondie looked at me, with a cutesy face, and kept saying, "She just went to tell on us." And when asked what she would have to tell on you for, Blondie stuttered and couldn't answer.

Finally, she admitted it, in a round-about way.

I offered snacks to the other two girls, and Blondie ran to her grandma. Grandma came over to chat with my Howler, so I stepped in.

I informed her that Blondie clopped my Howler on the nose, claimed it was an accident, but it was done while she was doing that galloping thing she's been told repeatedly NOT to do--exactly because somebody gets clopped EVERY time.

And, I explained, that Blondie refused to apologize. Grandma made her apologize, but I'm sorry, that's not good enough.

An almost 7 year old child who has to be told, every time she plays with other children to NOT call names, NOT hit, NOT gallop at, and to NOT single someone else out for exile simply needs her little spoiled ass beat.

We did this last summer, and we did this all winter. We're headed into summer again, and I am not going to spend it trying to mend the Howler self-esteem, or teach this brat how to play well with others.

And Grandma is simply going to have accept that fact--if Blondie cannot play well with others, she doesn't need to be here. (And, my new goal is to teach the other children and the Howler how to ostracize these bullies when they're here. Maybe if Grandma and Grandpa are up to their asses in their grandbrats, they'll decide to actually help police them.)

Oh, and I didn't blog about the incident with Bully, Blondie's brother earlier this spring (late this winter?) The kids were all outside in the almost spring like weather. Bully decided to get Dude Jr to tackle the Howler--for no reason other than to make her cry.

Dude got hell for it (from me and his dad) and Bully's grandpa was sitting in their living room, and could hear me screeching like a banshee at him and Dude--the man didn't even LOOK to see what was going on.

I rest my case.

About My Girl

She's been attending AWANAs this year. Our church is small, and it's population of ankle biters is practically nil, so, in an effort to continue the fun and spirituality she's picked up in spite of having slackers like us for parents (although we attend church regularly, up til now her share of Bible stories and songs were the one-a-year-for-a-week-in-the-summer variety from Vacation Bible School,) we took her to AWANAs.

Sponsored and run by the same people who lovingly cared for our Howler through day care and preschool, it's a good program. She enjoys it, and has made friends. She wears her vest with pride, and finally decided to tell us she needed change for the collection.

Slightly off topic, last week, I gave her a dollar for AWANAs. She took forever to come downstairs from her room so we could leave, and jingled when she did. A quick search lead me to a secret cache of cash--about $2.58 more than I originally gave her. She was taking her own money (and was quite miffed at me for giving her a dollar, when I knew perfectly well she had her own money!) Upon arriving at AWANAs, she refused to part with the "quiet" money, and only reluctantly coughed up the "noisy" part. When I went to pick her up, I noticed one dad handing a few bills to one of the leaders, and over heard him saying, "Here. Just tell her we found it." Said leader then approaches me and tries to hand me the $2, explaining that she lost it. I told him I heard the "found it" conversation, and that this is really a cheap but good lesson for her to learn. He was adamant that she not cry. I took the $2, and still have it. She found the money the next morning when putting on her shoes to go to school. So, this is the "village" we've chosen for our Howler. How wonderful that we picked right!

Anyway, one of the "homework" assignments for AWANAs is to tell your family about one of the Bible stories they've heard at AWANAs. The Howler is insistant that she cannot remember any. Her father, my Sweetie, is beside himself over this. Is she not paying attention? Is she a slacker like we are?

He's totally forgetting that she knows the Books of the Bible better than we do, and to his chagrin, she insisted that there was a 3rd book of John. He was convinced that no there is NOT. We had to get a Bible and check it out. She was correct. He got to eat crow. (And, for the record, she's much nicer to him about his being wrong than she ever is to me.)

So, he's beside himself, and she's not telling. She can sort-of kind-of tell him stories that she's gleaned from Veggie Tales, but she admits to him that she knows the story through Bob and Larry, not AWANAs.

Yet, last Sunday, during church, she's drawing in her notebook, and whispers to me, "Mommy, how do you spell 'eraser'?" I whisper back, and she explains to me that she needs to know, because "in this picture, it's God's Book of Life, and when He writes your name in it, He does it without an eraser. And it never ever gets erasered."

Now, Mr Mumple, my Sweetie, My Love, put that in YOUR notebook under "Better than a Bible Story"

Welcome To Harper Valley

pop. 1 crazy-assed tantrumming mom

So, the PTA saga continues, and this time, I have a Lifetime Movie quality report. I'm so excited by this, I just wish I was better at writing dialogue so I could actually do the script and get it sold. Short of a murder (which, given what I've seen, may be in the works) I can't think of anything fictional that could be added.

A week ago yesterday (Thursday) the PTA had it's Executive Board Nominations for the '09-'10 school year. Simple enough--a committee had been formed, against Miss Thang's wishes--and they collected a scant handful of volunteers. They did the best they could with what they had, and Miss Thang was not nominated by the committee for the Top Spot. She was left with 2nd place again--and it was obvious that she was NOT happy.

There appears to be a woman, the newsletter woman actually, operating behind the scenes. She issues commands and these other women jump to fulfill them. This wouldn't be a problem, if any of these twits had a clue about the by-laws. She, and they, have operated the past 2 years as if there was no such thing--they are a law unto themselves.

And they think that they and only they, have the right to nominate anyone.

Considering that they have effectively offended, ignored, used, manipulated, and blamed nearly everyone who doesn't fit into their clique, there are more than a few unhappy parents who have just plain given up on the PTA accomplishing anything.

Anyway, during the meeting, Miss Thang jumped up and ran, boobs all jiggling, across the room, to the Behind Woman. They pow-wowed (and yes, it was a whispering pow-wow) and then Miss Thang skittered back to her place, and awaited her nomination for president. And it happened.

During the time they pow-wowed (I honestly think they felt that the meeting should have just stopped and waited for them), they missed several nominations--from the committee AND from the floor. They paid attention, however, when the current secretary/presidential nominee's hubby was nominated for treasurer.

The big stink was that 2 years ago--how we ended up with this collective of idiocy and self-importance--a similar situation arose. It's also how the Behind Woman (she really needs a better nick, but stay with me on this one) ended up not being president--her H, Limp Dishrag Man, got treasurer.

Again, they never consulted the by-laws, which allows this, and they don't have a mature and sensible brain among them, or they'd know that all they'd have to do is not have the president (said treasurer's wife) be able to sign checks, act like adults in any tie vote or conflict, and make sure the books were audited by an outside source every year. It's been done before and it's not a problem.

And it's still NOT a problem--voting doesn't take place until the end of April. By nominating Miss Thang, they've kept it from being a done-deal.

The problem is that Miss Thang, who doesn't know a minute from an agenda, apparently, was counting on being named president, since she's been Acting President. She's gone so far as to just forget that she's the acting president, and identified herself as the president.

The other thing about the by-laws is that she thinks that if she's the default-president, she can get the nominations voided (she's run through every reason she can think of, and has had Limp Dishrag Man threaten to send the by-laws to a CPA--what kind of legal advice does a CPA give I wonder) and name a nominating committee herself. The president, according to the by-laws, has nothing, zip, nada, to do with the nominating and voting. She can nominate, she can vote--just like any member, but she cannot, cannot, cannot, be on the committee(s), or handle the information or ballots.

Miss Thang apparently believes that if she voids the nominations as they currently stand, she will be able to run for president unopposed, and continue their reign of indifference.

They've also begun harrassing the current secretary/presidential nominee, her H, and totally discounted the few of us who are not stuck up their asses in the process. Little does she know that, as My Sweetie pointed out, I love a good fight.

And I have embraced the dark side--I was nominated (a fact which Miss Thang didn't catch or chose to ignore) for secretary, and given the current nuclear wasteland of a tantrum Miss Thang is throwing, have made it clear that "we" cannot have her run unopposed for ANY office. She needs to actually EARN whatever she ends up with, and if she thinks she's going to get on the board again and make life a living hell for the rest of us, she's got another think coming.

Fortunately, in beginning to speak up last January, many other people have also begun speaking up, stepping up, and wanting to make changes.

Basically, I've accepted that my being in a position of responsibility on the PTA is a calling--and that adds it to my mission from God.

*sigh* I just wish He didn't trust me so much.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Okay, not wicked, exactly, but just not right.

Never before have I NOT wanted to be in a seat of power. Apparently, all Mad-Scientist-Taking-Over-The-World tendancies have been beaten outta me of late.

So What?

Well, tonight, it happened. I was nominated for an PTA executive committee seat. With no effort on my part, too.

It's weird. Just plain WEIRD. I've never been nominated before. (Thrown my own name in, yes, nominated on someone else's thinking I'd do a good job, NO.)

I feel sick to my stomach, like I've totally done the wrong thing. I could actually hear those people thinking it, and when they actually said it out loud, all I wanted to do is bang my head off the table.

I've prayed about this--I honestly do not know how I'm going to do it. And, technically, I did not accept the nomination. I told 'em, "I won't fight it."

I am Captain Lame-O, and I have an increasingly upset stomach.

Read To Me

The Howler likes books. She writes her own stories and songs, too.

Anyway, about two years ago, I purchased the book Charlotte's Web, hoping to read it to her. Having never read it myself, I thought it might be a fun adventure for us. She had enjoyed the movie so very much, and I thought this might be a good way to not only bond with the little monkey, but to encourage her early efforts at reading.

She would have none of it. It was boring (I think she was being polite--she meant I was boring.) so after barely two chapters, it's been sitting on one flat surface or another in her room. I was disappointed, in a way, but since she was constantly asking her father to read to her (shorter, not-boring-at-all storybooks) I was comforted that it was a rejection of ME, not of reading.

We spent most of last year listening to her tell us she "couldn't" read something because it was "too long" or had "too many words I don't know." She was shy about reading anything that was not 100% easy for her--in other words, if it caused her to in any way risk making a mistake, she was simply NOT going to do it.

She simply hates sounding out words, not not knowing what they mean. She also hates to look, or feel, stupid (not that we do that to her, but you know what I mean) to the point that even her 1st grade teacher noticed how dependent she would be over any new skill.

My Howler is confident--as long as it's something she's got down cold. If she can do it in her sleep, she's an expert. If she can't do it easily and well, it's simply not worth her time. Period.

Stubborn little beastie, she is.

So, when she decided about 10 days ago, that she was going to take Charlotte's Web from it's dust collecting adventures and haul it to school to read during their free reading time (of whatever the heck it is) I was hesitant. Actually, I told her flat out "No." mostly because I didn't want her to be totally bugging her teacher to help her--there are 19 kids in this classroom, and the Howler is going to start thinking that HER time is the ONLY time, you know?

Anyway, she tells me, at that point that she's already read two chapters. Last night.

I'm all "Say WHAT?!" and she tells me what's happening in the story, even.

Sweet niblets! My girl's a-readin'!

Am I Insane?

I had no intention, ever, of being on any executive committee with the PTA. I still have no intention, but it seems that this is a bullet I cannot dodge.

I've been asked twice now, to put my name down. Sure the nominations process leaves no guarantees--and I've never been elected to hold any office in any club or organization I joined--EVER. (The church thing is a mission from God, and a fluke, and because no one else wanted it. It's not because everyone thought I'd actually be good at it.)

Two different people, on different days. This is getting scary. What if I put my name down and then I actually get voted in? Then what?

I'll tell you what--a full year of actually having to be there. It won't be my choice any longer. And I won't be able to be sarcastic and bitter, either. Do you know how much of my life is involved in sarcastic and bitter? Yeah, it'd be almost like lopping off several fingers or toes. Maybe a whole arm or something.

And didn't I say, just a few months ago, that I would not agree to be nominated? And if nominated anyway, I wouldn't run? And if they ran me anyway, I'd refuse to serve?

Where did that go?

Why can't I just learn to keep my mouth shut?

Birthdays

The Howler's birthday is coming up, and she needs a new bike. The 16" bike she's had is simply too small. Of course, my mother thinks that because she's heard reports of the other girls in the neighborhood getting new bikes, we're "keeping up with OPK."

Far from it. We discussed it around Valentine's Day, when we were still covered in snow, hunting extra pairs of mittens and boots and wondering who would be wearing the other set of children's snow pants, but that doesn't mean anything, I guess.

My Sweetie and I discussed it, and I said to wait and see. Maybe the bike she has would be okay for one more year.

Last weekend, we discovered that I was wrong. Yeppers--I was wrong. The seat and handle bars are up as high as they go, and her knees were about knocking the handlebars. It's too dang small!

Tonight, we did have to make a WalMart run, so off we go, gathering ziploc bags and cat litter...and looking at bikes. LOOKING. Not buying.

We ended up buying. There was a 20" bike, same style, different color, as the one she currently has, for $40. Clearanced priced at $40. Are we stupid enough to "wait and buy it closer to her birthday"? No, we are the Mumples, not the Stupids.

We got her a new helmet--she's outgrown that as well. She wanted a bell, so we got her that, too. She wanted a flag, and remarkably enough, there was one for $4 to match her new bike.

I told her she had to wait to ride it. I didn't really mean that, though. Her father wants a few days to go over it and tighten up all the bolts and things, and get the flag and bell on it.

Pictures next weekend!

I'm a Baaaaaaaad Mommy

So, off to the doc we went yesterday. We see Doc F2 (with her main pede being Doc F1.)

Doc F2 is a good doc, but he mumbles--he seems painfully shy. And I, of course, have a tendancy to overwhelm shy people--bowling them over, I believe it's been called.

Anyway, he asks about her asthma meds. Weeeeelllllll, in all honesty, the Singular (5mg) works superbly, but the side effects are unbearable. She can't rest; her tummy hurts; she cries at the drop of a hat; she whines of headaches. Continually. We switched her to from the Pulmicort Flexhaler (180mg) because it caused nighttime coughing--nothing earth shaking, but it was sleep depriving. Previous mentions of the cough, and the need to "take a break of 2 days" from it on a bi-weekly basis brought no response. The Pulmicort also did not fully control the asthma, and she was still not able to fully participate in gym class.

(As an aside, recommendations on the projectile vomitting induced by tagament for reflux and the augmentin last spring were, and I quote, "So stop giving it to her." The end.)

Doc F2 spent a full minute violently tapping his pen over this revelation. (Doing it my way has the asthma under control and the Howler enjoys full gym class participation--AND the last 2 rounds of viruses has not caused even a squeak from the asthma.)

He does a throat culture (a dangerous proposition with her hair-trigger gag reflex.) No strep. Yes, this is good news, but her throat, even with no complaints about her throat, is highly inflamed. He gives a prescription for an antibiotic. One dose in and the Howler, while still slightly pale, is back to normal. Mouth and all.

Last night she was so hot and sweaty at midnight that I had to roll her around to change her pajamas. And she needed an ASAP shower this AM. There's no more fever--she was warm, warmer, warmest for the past 2.5 days. Fevers worry me something terrible. I am a total spaz in the face of a fever. (Add vomiting, and I'm in total freak out mode.)

Doc F2, though, calls my asthma prevention "unorthodox" and recommends trying a different inhaler. Fine. He brings it back into the exam room, and I ask if it's approved for Under 12. I have to ask a second time, and he seems a little miffed. I think, at this point, if he were the swearing-yelling type, I'd have gotten an earful. Anyway, it's NOT approved for the Under 12 set, so he sticks out his hand, says, "Give it back to me." and brings in another one, Advair, that is approved for the 4 to 12 set.

We're trying it, but I have no high hopes for it--the list of side effects, warnings, and cautions is quite unnerving.

Her yearly checkup is next month, and we should know well before then if the Advair is working. If it's not, I'll be asking for a referral to a pediatric pulmonologist.

I trust these docs, but I don't like the prospects--she misses out on activities she enjoys, and I feel impending doom and an on-coming full blown asthma attack. (She's never had one, and I hope to God she never ever does.)

So, with the antibiotic, breaking fever, and a good night's rest, the Howler will be hitting the streets come Monday AM. Look out world, break time is over.

Rue the Day

I rue the day I showed the Howler how to use the phone.

We have a programmable phone book on it, and there are a lot of numbers programmed. I thought, at the time, that telling her how to use it would save me from being harassed into dialing numbers for her while I'm indisposed (read: in the shower--sure, yeah. Shower.)

Anyway, she's now taken to calling random family members, especially yesterday and today since she's still sick.

Yesterday, I left her with the Toad so I could get more children's tylenol, and I came home to find her talking with Grandma M on speakerphone (speakerphone is the other new toy she's found.)

Today, she nagged me to be allowed to call Grammy (my mom, who has bronchitis.) She got the phone herself, dialed and put my mother on speakerphone. I think my mom fell asleep at one point, with the Howler still cheerfully sharing the details of her ailment.

She's now going through the phonebook, questioning EVERY.SINGLE.ENTRY. that she does not personally know who it is. Just what I need--when she was 3 and hitting redial it wasn't embarrassing enough?

I most humbly repent allowing her to learn to read, and showing her how to use the fancy-schmancy phone. Amen.

It's a PTA Thing

yeah yeah yeah. But read on, it's sooo worth it!

So, I'm poking around the 'net filling my head with fluff, and at Scribbit's post about reading and books. I'm going to spill my Book Beans, and part of why you all hear so dang much about the PTA.

Years ago, when the Toad was smallish, he attended the same elementary school that the Howler now attends (and that, incidentally, is the school I attended, too.) At the time, they had a program called, "Birthday Books."

Birthday Books celebrated birthdays and reading--by allowing families to donate hardback books* to the school's library in their child's name. The books had a book label in the front cover listing the child's name, their birth date, and the year it was donated. The binder had a birthday cake sticker (that part I had forgotten) so that the Birthday Books were easily found on the shelves.

I don't know who started the program, where the idea came from, or why it was discontinued. All I know is that it's a good program, promotes reading, and helps keep the school library filled with books kids like to read (what family is going to buy a book that their own kid won't read?)

Borne of frustration and a desire to have the Howler's name in a book in the library (and looking for a good excuse to buy hardback books for kids) I proposed to the PTA in January that we start the program back up. That's where a teacher who was there when the Toad was there reminded me about the stickers on the binders.

Anyway, the first month saw over a dozen books come in. (Albeit some families seem to have taken this as an opportunity to have someone else throw away their garbage books.) I am excited by this, and the Howler and I had several spirited discussions about what book to give for her birthday--Skippyjon Jones (me) or The Pigeon (Howler). The Howler won.

Either way, the librarian agreed to give me a "Wish List" of books--ideas, or a place to start, for good books that the children love. The school secretary asked that we add "In Honor Of" or "In Memory Of" options that allow families to donate hardback books for almost any occasion--not just for birthdays!

My own personal, secret goal, is for the PTA to have enough funds available to purchase a book in honor of each teacher and staff member on their birthday--and one for the "graduating" class of 5th graders.

*Hardback books are for durability reasons--there are almost 400 kids in this school, and a popular book has a very short shelf life!