How to Clean the Fridge When you don't Want to

There are certain jobs connected with living that are secondary jobs.  If they are not done, your world does not fall down.  Things like... mowing the lawn, organizing your craft section and one of the most glaring of secondary jobs, cleaning out the fridge.  I hate doing it.  The doing is gross, sticky, pickle-mixed-with-chocolate-sauce and chicken-blood gross.  Unfortunately for me, I do NOT have anyone else in my home that has an OCD-need to keep a pristine, well oiled, defrosted and spiffied-up refrigerator   So.  The only one to notice that it is gross enough to require attention is... me.  If you are like me, you may need a little encouragement to attack this disgusting task.  I hereby offer up my solutions for attacking this unsavory secondary job.

#1 - The first step in attacking this truly disgusting task is to KNOW that you need to do it. That means that you *need* to first take an afternoon off, go over to the cupcake store and really soul search on what your "disgusting" level is.  Exactly HOW bad does it have to get before you just can't stand it anymore? At what point are you moved to action, - and does that level of mold perhaps need adjusting?

#2 - After you have found, and met, your disgusting level quota, and KNOW that you need to do it, grab your phone.  I did this very successfully today.  I dialed up my darling friend Mish (when I say that name, you should automatically think to yourself, "Oh I LOVE her!").  As I sat there staring down my gross fridge, we started talking about THE grossest fridge we have ever had to clean - in great detail.  I pull up my bra strap, and wedge my phone in there so that I am "hands free." As you continue this very vivid description of former filth, it should encourage you to grab the 409 and a cleaning rag.  Ya know, the rag that is actually a small towel.

#3 - After your have a good discussion of disgusting fridges rolling, your 409, and a towelrag, just start taking stuff out and putting it on the counter.  Don't look at it.  Just put it on the counter.  Unless it is leaking.  Put that in the sink.  As the conversation moves to gross people you can't believe live in such squalor  just take out one shelf at a time, scrub it good, and leave it out to dry. When it gets to the bins, scrub inside and out, then turn them like a cake you are decorating while spraying down each side.  Turn the bin, not the sprayer so that you are always spraying IN to the sink, not on the counter, or the floor.

#4 - With your towelrag, and an empty fridge, start to spray the insides of the fridge, and then wipe and start to work your way down.  When you hit the bin area, just spray like you're putting out a fire.  Scoop up all of the fridge crumbs, dried milk and unspeakable dross into the rag until there is nothing left but clean plastic. If you describe this part in detail to your friend, she will start to clean her fridge as well.

#5 - Then, it's time to just enjoy yourself as you start to restock.  Toss the moldy yogurt(s), group all 4 bags of bread that were breeding in the back shelves, and you may discover that you now have 5 bags of carrots that you keep buying because you can never remember if you have them while grocery shopping.  You just always remember that you need them and were gonna use for a roast/snack a couple of weeks ago.  As you start to put everything back into happy groups, (how did I get 6 blocks of cream cheese and 7 sticks of butter?) you may discuss new recipes to put the carrots in, or, just as a random suggestion, talk about those self-righteous cleaning nuts who clean their fridge every week.  I plead the 5th, and admit to nothing here.  However, if those topics don't suit you, you can move on to other important topics like food storage, and whether or not you need a solar generator.

But the simple fact will remain - you have just cleaned the fridge.  And as you swing the door open and a choir of angels sing, you can smile each time you gaze into your sparking fridge.  And should someone need to borrow some butter, you will now know whether or not you actually have some, and encourage them to go fish for it themselves.  This is so much better than having that shifty-eyed look of a car thief when someone asks to get something out of your semi-disgusting fridge.

And always, always, thank your friend for their help. Spread the love, and celebrate your success by reminding your husband that its time to mow the lawn.....

Empty Pages

In a rush to a symposium where I would need to take notes, I grabbed the nearest notebook I could find.  A few days later, I went to review my notes.  As I flipped from the pages to figure out which way was front and back, a page caught my eye.  At the top was a page labeled, "Ultimate Secrets of my Life."  As I scanned the page, I realized that it was blank.

This notebook is my daughter's.  I found her drawings up near the front.  And as I looked at that page, I began to wonder about her.  What ARE the "ultimate secrets" of her life?  The very fact that there is that title makes me believe that there are secrets.  But the fact that it is blank reminds me of myself.  And of you.  There is, in the dungeons of my heart, thoughts and experiences that have been locked away that will most likely not see the light of day.  They are mine.  They have shaped who I am, how I see the world, and the statistics of my life.  Some are interesting, many are not, but they are the essence of who I am when no one else is looking.

Will you ever find them here?  Maybe.  Everyone has a bit of transparency to their life.  Scars, habits, accents, and even genetics tell you something about each person you meet.  There are the standard stories we tell each other, "About the time that....".  But there are those that we don't tell as well. The questions of whether or not we feel valued.  The hopes and aspirations we have that some may not understand. We keep them guarded in our own little tower with vigilant guards set to protect them.  I will give you an example:

 When I was young, I wanted to be a world champion ice-skater. I didn't know then, as I know now, that I did not have the ideal physique for ice skating.  But oh how I loved the movement, the costumes, and the amazing spins, jumps and choreography that I saw on the tv.  To dance, jump, and spin with abandon and show physically what the music makes you feel internally. To fly and move in a way that can only be accomplished with very little friction. Which is also why I seriously enjoy watching Spider Man when he is flying between buildings. Mostly it was the costumes though.  The twirly skirts that catch the air.

I never did turn out to be a world class skater. Of the few times that I did go ice skating it was NOT what I had imagined in my mind.  The bird-flapping arms trying to stay balanced with feet that never seemed comfortable on top of a blade.  And I never got the costume either. Ice rinks are cold anyway.  But it did teach me to listen to the heart of my each of my children. Know their desires and let them try to follow their heart.  I didn't succeed where I wanted to, but I did became a wicked air-hockey player.  With a competitive edge so fierce that the puck often flies off the table.

Not much of a secret, huh? But even if you have known me for years, you would most likely not know either of those things about me. Like the way I just found out that the man I've been married to for over 14 years played the trumpet in his youth.  And those don't even come close to being any of my "ultimate" life secrets.  Those might strike fear, pity, or shock in your own heart.  But even if you were curious, you would not find them, or  know them.  I have not written them down anywhere, for anyone.  Nor will I.  Those are ultimately in an impenetrable part of me that even I rarely visit.  But it reminds me that there is an interior life to every person.  I don't think that there is enough time to know each other as well as we might like.

I reached up to pin down the slivers I had caught from Heaven.
They were hammered down between my heart and mind
To remind me of what I was and what I was meant to do.
Somewhere in the night I forgot where they were
Fear caught a hold of me and ravaged my soul
Cold fingers, lost eyes, and uncertain heart collapsed me
Til I found the first sliver I had hammered
And traced the it back to where it first fell.

Yep.  Now I gotta go move like Jagger and get some cleaning done.  I will be dancing where you can't see me, and singing where you are most likely glad you can't hear me.  And I suspect, that many of you are doing the same. There are so many empty pages to fill.

Mothering. Eternity's Japanese Game Show

My sister, Reagan, made a post the other day asking, "What does God sound like?" and one of her friends mistakenly posted, "I think God sounds Asian" instead of "I think God sounds like Aslan (of C.S. Lewis' "The Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe" fame)".  We all fell apart giggling about what an Asian God would say to His children, "Why you no repent?"

Asian God.  How silly.  And today, as I wandered around my home, I was of two minds; the devilish - "Holy Crap - this mess is insane!" and the angelic - "I chose to be a mom, ... and its not like this is hard.  Its vacuuming, picking up, rinsing out pots and pans etc."  As I numbly went about doing "the pickup" of unloading the dishwasher, switching over the unending load, shifting piles of paper "to go through" so that I could wipe off the counter.  I got distracted by a separate mess, and have not yet wiped down the counter, but hey, the kids got fed.  And I just had to think, "Is this really worth it? I mean.  Yah.  I "get" to do this, in the sense that there are people out there who can not have children.  I"m sure they would cry with joy at the possibility of... picking up after a kid." And then my sarcastic side slipped in, "Yes.  But you are not picking up after A kid, you are picking up after FOUR kids. Four kids who can undo a room such record time, its almost Genus Book of World Records - worthy."

Asian God.  Aslan God.  You know - I believe in God.  And of all the things I had to learn on my turn on earth, is this really it?  Patience?  Cuz that seems to be the only thing that is stretching around here except my butt.  And then I had the thought of a Hunger Games Arena.  The part where there's a group looking down into the arena at the controls, giving urgent messages about how things are unfolding in my micro controlled environment:

 "They have been home 1.2 minutes.  Deploy the toddler to find the new plaster teeth mold and destroy it. Let the 4-yr old see the new box of Lucky Charms.  With proper hand placement, explode the entire bag like cereal confetti in the front "guest" area..."

and me... with what is left of my wits, left alone to try and defend against it.

Heaven forbid that I have tidy kids!!!  And I gotta say, I am not really winning this game.  They undo faster than I can redo.  For example; Sam's ride came to the door yesterday.  Two little girls were sent to retrieve him, and after I opened the door, one little girl said to the next, "Wow - its really messy in there."  What did she see? Oh, the broken chair that hubby has been "going to fix" for almost 2 years now.  Freshly torn out curtains from my son's room. Gross carpet, (because the spot bot just ain't cuttin' in anymore), a very dead aloe plant that "I don't know" keeps stabbing with a fork, my microfiber couch that has been peed on a number of times, and the remnants of yesterday's cereal escapade. There's more, but I just can't list it all here.  All it would take to put right is a team of professionals and two hours to get it back into shape.

However.  I don't HAVE a team.  The team of professionals is me.  And the timer for cleaning really only starts when kids are not being their creative selves or NOT in the house; a narrow window between 12:45 and 3:20 which is naptime + schooltime - Tues-Fri.  There is an INSANE number of things to do in a ridiculously short amount of time.  And then... I got it.  Suddenly the idea of an Asian God didn't seem so odd.   Mothering. Eternity's Japanese Game Show.  Hear me out.

If you start off on the premise that you are going to be asked to do absolutely ridiculous stuff, in an insane environment, with a benevolent set of onlookers "Ohhh'ing and Awww'ing" with noisemakers at each level, well you have it about right. In my imagination, there are a bunch of bored, but perfectly happy angels, who have nothing but holy things to do.  I think I help them feel a lot better about things on THAT side of the mortal veil.  I suspect that they have many tapes that they can rewind of my kids driving me bonkers for their heavenly free hours -

 "I love this part where she is working on her daughter's project and she's just about to see what that boys have been up to! OOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHH!  Peanut butter on the Jesus picture!  Classic!"

I have a HOST of friends that feel better about their lot after hearing about mine.  Its great to be in the stands, "Oh, that's too bad - oh gee, I bet you'll laugh about it later!"  They don't want to enter the arena.  They just want to watch the show.  Like old people who tell you to enjoy it - but never offer to babysit...

Today's obstacle course, "Make sure daughter leaves with map of "Treasure Island" with attached book report notes.  Your printer does not work, and you have only seconds to send it to the print shop, to have it picked up, and glued on, before school.  You must keep the laundry rolling through, decide what to do with the now-dried-out angel food cake that you found, and clean up the crumbs. You must scrub all the pots and pans and run the dishwasher TWICE because the children broke the interior of the door and the spigot doesn't work half the time.  There are clothes, both dirty and clean, that need to be sorted and refolded/tossed in that huge laundry pile because you went to a "How to train your children to handle Money" symposium last night, and they didn't get their clothes put away. Dinner will require that you start thawing the meat NOW or your entire dinner/evening will be messed up.  You still have 6 banker boxes to fill with items for the "Build a Knight" Blue and Gold banquet that you are putting on for the Cub Scouts on Tuesday. You must mark that your daughter attended "World Thinking Day" in order to pass off her PA pin, and make arrangements with your spouse to get some things cleaned on Saturday since you will be loading up Girl Scout cookies. Your son's dental appointment is in 10 minutes and the place is 15 minutes away."

I'm sure this will be hilarious.  Some day.  To someone else.  But that last statement is true, and its a snowy day, and I put my toddler down for a nap that I now need to snatch him up from. Ready.  Set. GO!

Good luck to you, fellow mothers.  I get it.  It is such a crazy ride, and once on it, you can't really opt out. There is an Asian God, and he needs good ratings.  I'm sure it will be high humor to someone.  May you be strong to fight your daily battles.  And may the odds be ever in your favor!! Next question, "Why you no repent?!"

A Startling Confession

I know.  It has been forever since I wrote.  And there is very good reason for it.  I am usually cleaning up the mess that I am now ignoring in order to vent my frustrations about take-home reading plans.  Has anyone else read these "books" that are really just laminated pamphlets?  In the words of Gru, "This is literature?  A two-year old could have written this!"

I hate "Take Home" books.  There it is.  I said it.  Well. Wrote it.  I wrote it out loud that I despise the take-home system that involves a tiny paper "book" that they want to charge me $7.50 for when they put it in the care of a 4-8 year-old little boy.  HOW STUPID IS THAT!  I swear, its gotta be how they fund Area 51 or something.  Along with $500 hammers the government uses. But in the hustle and bustle of "Where is your coat?  And your other shoe?  Did you go potty yet this morning?  Let's get that peanut butter out of your hair...", I despise hunting down that stupid plastic bag! Every now and again I also see where they have sent the SAME book and circled the crumpled paper that is lacking my VIP initials.

I hate that bag.  It is not for the benefit of my children, it is a torture device to parents.  It is YOUR homework.  I can open the bag, read the book with my child, sign off on it and tell them to put it back in their backpack.  And I will find it tossed in the back of the car, or under a seat where NO ONE would ever find it who wasn't looking for a dead body!  I believe there to be a group of individuals that come together and hold meetings about how they can lower the classroom size by forcing more kids into home school.  Their dialogue goes something like this,

"But what can we do to utterly send them over the edge?  We've been trying to get them with the cookie dough sales - but mandatorily sending home a packet that must be returned or they will forfeit $20 is just not enough.  The mom's yank those from the backpack, and they return unopened 4 weeks later.  UN OPENED."

"Yah Bob, I think we need to have something that doesn't look that packaged. We need to make them open it up, something small.  Something fragile.  And just do it over and over and over.  Like a whole Alphabet's worth of tiny annoying things.  But I love the back and forth.  I am seeing some progress on the seriously stressed out mom front. We're looking at projections of 6-10 kids per class next year..."

Do I believe in reading? YES.  Do I think that my 4 year old now understands what a "Qq" is by reading about a Queen, a Quail, and a Quilt that were Quirky?  No.  No I don't.  I think my kid will learn what a Q is because he wants to read the instructions to his RC helicopter.  Or Calvin and Hobbs.  It has got to be a conundrum for the Elementary school folk how these poor depraved kids don't seem to have an "active" reading exchange program, yet can still reprogram an unattended computer to display random poop smears.

And where is the book they last sent home?  Well, tell 'em Gru... "[Explaining why the girls can't find their book "Three Little Kittens"] That book was accidentally destroyed maliciously... 

Wild Hare

About this time last year, I got a "wild hare" to do something a little nuts; donate a large Christmas Tree to the Festival of Trees - a charitable benefit for Primary Children's Hospital to help indigent families that cannot afford their child's health care.  Now, I say "wild hare," because the term seems especially fitting here; "It's an American expression meaning to do something at the spur of the moment without really thinking, spontaneity. It originated from "had a wild hare up my ". If you had a wild rabbit in your backside... you'd probably jump without thinking." Yep.

  From the outside, it seems pretty simple.  Get a tree, some ribbon, ornaments and some friends, and set it all up to donate. Sweet! But it is so very much more. Verging on the bonkers.  Kind of like a gateway creativity drug.  

  After attending the Festival of Trees, you get lulled into a sense of simplicity and fun and jump in, then somehow you find yourself knee deep in glue guns, latex paint and floral wire and wondering where it was that you went wrong.  It is a detail heavy, expense laden, frustrating adventure in competitive creativity that will take every ounce of your, and your family's, patience and ultimately leave your self-esteem crushed to powder on the convention center floor.


   It starts... with the tree. In my naivete, I thought about how I would go about this little adventure with four small kids in tow. So I formulated a plan; shop the after-Christmas sales, use someone's tree and do a kind of "decorate-as-you-go" approach that is slow, easy paced, and thrifty.  I got my tree right off the bat off of ksl.com.  It was too big for their apartment and they were happy for it to go to a happy home, especially if it meant freeing up space at the beginning of the year.  Come pick it up!  It was being stored in a large screen tv box. Since all of the branches were NOT attached to the center pole, it all fit in the box! Yes yes yes! I "high fived" myself. BAM!  Tree is DONE.  This is so easy. What a euphoric rush!

  Then I did what many addicts do, start "pushing" to the unsuspecting friends around them.  "Hey Lisa, Reagan and Mish - y'all are fun and creative!  Wanna help me with a little project? I'm thinking of doing a Scottish themed tree for the Festival of Trees.  I already have the tree so it won't be very expensive! This will be fun!"  Poor things never saw it coming, and soon, they were in.

   I hit the after Christmas sales.  I only had an idea vaguely in the back of my mind what I was looking for.  But hey!  For 90% off, you can splurge a little here and there.  Spend a quarter for a couple of boxes of candy canes, some ribbon... preferably in something that matches, some plaid of this, tree skirt for a buck there, and add some huge plastic bells.  Mish can do something with those. Easy easy. Little did I know then that we would only use 2% of those items. And zero plaid ribbon.

  The website for the Festival remains dormant until about June, the earliest you can register with your theme. We tossed around some ideas of what would be fun and settled on, "The 12 Scottish Days of Christmas."  Because that would have some fun variety, and logically follow a triangular, few-items-gradating-to-many-items pattern, and I hadn't seen anything like it at the festival.  It would stand out against all the elf and red/white candy cane tree white noise.  Perfect!  I registered us online, and wavered, for just a second, before I hit the "send" button. In a flash, we were in. Committed to the Festival of Trees 'til donated tree do we part.

I said to myself, "Just follow the pattern, make it Scottish, maybe get a few signs and a "Wee kirk o' the Heather" birdhouse, and hand out assignments. Easy" And my little brain said, "Use a bagpipe as a star on the very top!" and my internal creativity meter said, "Oh yeah! We're strong enough to handle that, with some tiger blood and Adonis DNA, this will be a SNAP!"  That was the highest point of self confidence. Then we got the packet.  And that feeling that you get at the most tippy top of the roller coaster where instinct tells you to suck in a lot of air and grip the bar in front of you hit: The Official Rules and Regulations. And things started to unravel. The feeling that you desperately want to get out, but you feel trapped was settling in.  Just when you think you can get out... they pull you back in!


  Your tree must be new. *eyes bulge*  All of the branches must have been attached to the center pole at the factory. It must have pvc pipe the length of the interior pole.  The outside part of the trunk must be reinforced with rebar, and clamped down with vent hose ties. *sweat springing to forehead*  Each section of your tree must be bolted together at the joints.  And if it breaks, you agree to come and fix it.  At your expense.  Oh... and little note there towards the bottom, the tree stand, must be an official Festival of Trees $30 metal wonder that we will need to pick up at the Decorators workshop.  Where you will be given further instructions...  "Further... instructions?  There's more?"  *acne breakout*
  I nervously started calling and texting everyone, "Uh, hey, um.  We should probably start figuring out what ornaments we're each going to do, so... ah, anybody got any ideas?  I'm starting to get pressure from da guys up there, and its all signed up, ya know? We need to have a good product..."  I was becoming fidgety, and irritated.  Scottish things, Scottish things.  Like, like the bagpipe and plaid... and ah, well, the flag, which is blue and white... not very Christmassy... and kilts maybe? So I researched the daylights out of Scotland... trying to match up the 12 Days song against items that might be considered a Scottish counterpart, and that would ultimately end up with a bagpipe in a Christmas tree.  

   Then I let everyone pick which ornaments they wanted to do, because if everyone took 3 off the list, no one would get overwhelmed.  Because, as I was discovering, there ARE no Scottish ornaments in Utah. Especially not in the summer/fall. And when you add up The 12 Days of Christmas... you find yourself in need of a total of 78 custom made ornaments. "Pick which 3 you feel like your have the creativity and inspiration to do," I cheerily texted with sweaty palms.  I'll just take what's left over at the end.  I can do this.  I'm in control. No sweat.

Which turned out to be 11 bagpipers piping, 9 kimmers (ladies) jigging, and... the one bagpipe. "No one... no one else wants to go find a bagpipe? Its the easiest one, cuz you just have to find one, just one..." Surely someone has one in a closet somewhere that they aren't using, because if I had to buy one, it'd be over $5oo.  I'll just use Facebook, and ask around. *crickets chirping.* Apparently there are NOT a lot of bagpipers out there with an extra set of pipes they want to donate. Weird. 

In the crafting world, everyone knows that there are limits to what you can take on, and 3/4 of our decorators had 4 kids. EACH. And now I found myself scrambling to find a tree topper bag pipe. In a Festival of Trees approved, rebarred and clamped, metal stand, with a surge protector 8 foot outlet cord, and skirted, branches-attached-to-the-core tree. Each ornament would have to be wired to the tree with any wood and/or paper being sprayed with flame retardant.  Oh, I'll just go pull out my stash of flame retardant!  Retardant indeed. "Full Scale Panic" doesn't quite describe how this easy little project started to make my heart thump and anxiety to settle in. "I'm in over my head!  How did this happen?! Why didn't someone have the good sense to warn me about this!?" I needed a crafters rehab facility to detox and get my head straight.


  What saved me in the end was not an escape, but rather an intervention by my friends and family.  And a glue gun and my sewing machine.  And an angel of mercy bagpiper named Brian who ordered a "set o' pipes" from Pakistan that were supposed to have ebony pipes, but which turned out to be painted wood, so he donated them. And Spot Technology Inc. that was willing to front the cost of the tree after Craig Johnson pled my cause.  As I clawed my way back from the brink of crafters oblivion, everyone stepped up to my wild hare cause and donated time, talents, ornaments, vinyl, the tree, a quilt, signs, frames, pearls, an original signed comic strip, and yards and yards of plain red ribbon to counterbalance all of that plaid.

  Its all set up now. We are the little 8' tree in slot O-02, next to the Brighton Ski Resort panoramic double-occupancy space with the ginormous custom built dog house, tree full of Snoopy dogs with Woodstock topper, against a faux mountain backdrop and miniature ski lift with airbrushed waist-high cutouts of all of the Peanuts characters. Yep, that's us.  And its the only one with a bagpipe. 

And: 12 Drummers Drummin, 11 bagpipers pipin', 10 Lords a Golfin', 9 Kimmers Jiggin', 8 Argyle Stockings, 7 Loch Ness Monsters, 6 Scots Grey's layin', 5 Scottie Dogs, 4 Shortbread Rounds, 3 Plaid kilts, and 2 Wooly sheep on a Spot Techonology's donated Christmas tree. 

The Festival of Trees will be in need of someone to fill that space next year.  I've learned my lesson.  This hare is now tamed, subdued, and properly humbled by the sheer goodwill of friends, family, and community that do this successfully year after year.  I think its a worthy cause, and the lessons I take away from this are valuable and unexpected.  Nollaig cridheil huibh everybody.  That's a Gaelic "Merry Christmas."   Peace out!
 

Musical Chores

Parenting, for me, has been an evolution of "figuring it out."  It took me a while to understand that a mom without a game plan is just about as useful as a poopy flavored lollipop.  Recently, I have become more philosophical about the whole process of raising a family of 6, and making some informal inquiries about the way different people cope with raising their children.  I have learned a few things about expectations and technique.  

First: You can not just "get along go along," with four small kids.  Or at least MY four kids.  Though running and crying in the bathroom often seems like a good option, the problems that sent you there will still be waiting for you when you emerge from that sanctuary.
Second: You need a game plan.  And a flexible one at that.
Third: Good habits are hard to make, but easy to live with.

As a stay-at-home-mom, or SAHM, I am offended by the general malaise out there that says that all we do is lounge around in pajamas and frizzy hair.  Not so.  This is the nitty gritty of living and raising humans. You have to be on top of your game. All day. Every day.  In essence, to keep it altogether, you must become like the plate spinner who must keep an eye on a lot of things simultaneously to keep it working smoothly, lest it all come crashing down on you. Not for the faint of heart.

So I am trying something new. I am trying to transition my children from simply resource consumers to participating citizens in our household.  With good habits.  And I'm using music.  I happened upon this technique after observing a number of parenting style options and an ad from http://choresgetdone.com/.  I have been evolving through these parenting styles:

1) Mom Does It All: This model is one that looks at children as mere consumers of mommy and daddy's time, patience, and other resources.  Kinda like Veruca Salt of Charlie's Chocolate Factory fame.  Since birth, the only expectation is that they will come when called, and maybe eat the broccoli off their plate.  They are pampered and frequently peppered with suggestions about what they want, and begged - more than asked - to do things to help themselves out. This works with a small child or two. This does NOT work with crowd control.

"Would you like some milk? 2%, 1%? Skim?  Want some chocolate milk?  How 'bout I get you some chocolate milk, hmm?"

These kiddos are not expected to help out, and wake up with everything having been done for them.  If left unchecked, they tend to operate independent of any understanding that their upkeep requires a lot of work. And when they enter the big wide world on their own, they have nary a clue how to take care of themselves because Mummy did it all. A bad egg indeed.

2) Mom Supervises It All:  This model is a hybrid of the Consumer/Citizen.  And this is where we have been living most recently.  Some kids are old enough for chores, and some are not.  The children outnumber me 4:1.  They have chores that they are expected to complete, but if no one is going to check up on it, then the children scheme for how to have an "out." The modified rules are,  "You have to do what mom asks you to if you are directly under her gaze, but if a request is sent from a distance, like, "GO BRUSH YOUR TEETH!" you can weigh the probabilities that you will ACTUALLY get checked on to have to complete the task."  Multiple requests from mom for the same task become a "cat and mouse," game to see who will last, who will get it done, and who will get caught.  And the more children there are in a family, the safer it becomes to just wait for the request to blow over.

After all, dinner will still be on the table, and if you feel like bowing out of clean-up time, just dawdle, and maybe stay in the bathroom for a while until someone notices that you are gone.  There is the occasional time when mom's frustration mounts to the point that the children see their mother's face become detached from her skull, and at that point most kids will just get out of the way.  But even that will, more often than not, only get you sent to your room - NOT on the road to completing the task.

Though not ideal, this is a workable plan for moms, but something usually gets lost along the way: Mom's personality.

Much like "Bootstrap" Bill Turner who became enslaved on The Flying Dutchman, "I am the ship, part of the ship, part of the crew," running a household can suck you in and remove any traces of your former identity. There is more work to do, than time to do it in.  And it is relentless, unchartable, and unstable. Sickness, forgotten homework, emergencies, and kids bouncing on the bed can throw a typical day onto an ad hoc schedule.

When you have many young children, there are also a lot of needs, but very few helpers.  The tedium really starts to drag you down, and there is no quick fix.  The work you just completed is undone moments after you thought you were finished. Cheerios, in the hands of a toddler, can become everything from glue to a hail storm of pellets and powder.  You mournfully think back to the days when you would read a book, take a karate class, or do ANYTHING creative and fun.

After all, that's what you were when you got married!  Fun, vivacious, full of ideas and energy.  Now, you feel like a warden-banshee roaming through the house, and you hardly recognize yourself anymore. You think back to the time when you would say to your friends, "Hey! Lets get some popcorn and go see a movie!" With so many things to stay on top of, that gives way to a lethargic, "Get your shoes out of the living room... please.  Now. NOW! *wait* Right NOW! I've already told you THREE TIMES! Just move them for heaven's sake!"

I don't want to stay in this mode.  So I am trying to transition to a new mode.  The, "You are a citizen of this household," mode.  And we will all be doing things to contribute to keeping it running.  "Many hands make light work."

3) Family Citizenship: In this model, you are able to train with positive reinforcement, and self-guidance.  And it involves a playlist, a routine, and a reward.  The children help you select songs that are associated with a specific task.  When that upbeat music plays, each family member completes that task.  If you finish all of the tasks before the music ran out, you get a point that will cumulatively count towards a reward.

We started on Sunday, and I gotta say, I am ELATED with the results.  The kids are racing against the clock.  And since each task is completed each morning, there isn't a huge mess build up.  Laundry is dealt with in a timely fashion, and after the kids skip merrily off to school, everyone is dressed down to the shoes, and I can walk down the hall and peer into one tidy room after another.  I start feeling like myself again.  Contemplating what would be fun for the day, not just how to deal with the overwhelming mess.  Things will evolve when the kids get older.  But for now, this is working for me:

So, for your pleasure here is our first playlist and the tasks we ALL complete before the songs are finished:

"You are my Sunshine" - Get up and meet in the living room
"The Queen of Mars" - Kids take meds
"Good Mornin'! " - Make your bed
"Birdhouse in Your Soul" - Pick up your room
"Vogue" - Get dressed
"A-G-L-E-T" - Get your shoes on
"Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini" - put any stray laundry away
"Scripture Power" - Meet in the kitchen for scripture study/ get your scriptures out.
eat breakfast while dressed and do WHATEVER YOU WANT until its time to go. Parents shower and get dressed in a tidy room with kids all ready to go.
"Ray of Light" - Brush your teeth
"So Long/Farewell" - get your backpack/coat/jacket on, and get out to the car.

We still need to get a "vacuum your room" song, but what has gotten us this far has me just over the moon with delight.  No shouting.  No having to say "HURRY!" a bazillion times in the morning. No being left with a trashed house and a depressed momma.  *pats heart* Everyone just gets ready, and does it themselves to be-boppin music.  Am I willing to give my kids a play date every once in a while to maintain this?  OH YES.  Hopefully it will sink in for each child, that the small and frequent things that they do in a day help to contribute to happy home, a happy living space, and a happy mama. Wish me luck.

The "Real" Christmas Letter

Every year about this time of year, I begin to compose, in my mind, a Crane Family Christmas Letter. A general, "Hey this is what's going on in our lives" kinda catch up for those that don't live near, don't visit, and assume that we are living life from vacation to vacation, party to party, and grace to grace.  So in my mind I try and bridge the gap between that imagined reality and my reality.  But the truth just keeps getting in the way.

I wish I could write the "real" Christmas letter where the peek into our lives leaves you with a sense of my day to day and what REALLY goes on behind these closed doors.  Not a horror show, but the real scratch your butt, half pajama wearin', we are-SO-not-perfect - kind of letter.  Why?  I dunno.  Hopefully so we can climb down off of your pedestals and have you say, "HEY LOOK!  They're just like us!"

During the 13 years we've been married there have been rough years, and it never fails that when you are at your lowest ebb that the Christmas cards come in.  They come from those whom you only marginally like, and don't care to vacation with. You can spot the soul crushing Christmas Cards among the bills, notices and fliers because they are so much bigger than the rest.  You kinda use it as a mail platter to carry in the rest of the mail into your hum drum life.

Somewhat out of curiosity, and the realization that you don't have anything else to do, you grab it.  The glittering silver envelopes with embossed paper, embellished stamps and hand written calligraphy making your residence seem akin in importance to The White House.  I get these and I run a dialogue in my mind that can only be considered sarcastic.

"Dear Katrina and Family!"   (why does the wife of my ex-boyfriend insist on keeping me on their card list? I don't think he told her about that one date where a lot of spit was exchanged....).  Well, hooray for you Kristin.  You figured out how to make every form letter look personalized.  Just like the credit card companies and Publisher's Clearinghouse. And the "signature" at the bottom is in the exact same ink as the letter. You're not fooling me!

"Happy Holidays to our friends living near and far..." Oh gosh - please no. Here we go.
"We hope your year was a blessed and delightful one."  OH Shut up.  It has been the year from hell.
"As we ponder the significance of the season, we decided to spend our Holy Day holiday in the Holy Land! It is going to be a Magical Christmas in Bethlehem. We'll be staying in the Inn, and our nanny is so delighted to try out the stables."   Awesome.  Annnnnd I..... hope y'all don't get shot or kidnapped or both.

"After a whirlwind tour of Jerusalem, Mr. Johnson and I will be surprising our 7 children as we usher in a bright 2012 as special guests of the Monte Martre Sailors club to watch the ball drop for the New Year atop the Eiffel Tower!  Oui! PARIE!"

You spelled that wrong idiot. Its Paris.  Even when you're saying it pear-ie.  Why on earth are you allowed to travel to places that you can't even spell correctly?  Too busy having 7 kids and sailing, clearly. Life is SO not fair.

"But right now we are all a flutter! Our 5 girls will be dancing in 'The Nutcracker Ballet with the Chekoslovakian Orchestra and Ballet Troop, with Yale as first alternate for the role of Clara."

Yale.  Seriously? And there's a "z" in Chezech.. Chezk...  There's a "z" in there somewhere!  Idiot. And its a "troupe" not a "troop" like a bunch of scouts.  Still can't spell.  Where is your spell-check woman? Five girls in ballet.  That's a lot of tutus.  And hairspray.  Better keep all of them away from an open flame or they'll all spontaneously combust. *evil giggle*  I don't even know if Czechoslovakia has a decent orchestra.

Reading line for line stops, and then you  start to scan, "boys, in band... electric guitar... blah blah, debate, chess club, Honor Society... perfect perfect, kids memorizing "The Family, A Proclamation to the World," awesome, and she is keeping up with everything by running. A full marathon. Every month. Freaking Awesome. I only run when chased. OH!  Designing a new house with 4 car garage for the new boat.  Of course.  Skip to the end.

I used to lay on the floor after getting these letters and just drift into a full-on depression until some child stepped on me, "MAM! Where's the JUICE?!"
"Your sister drank it all.  We're OUT of juice."
"Why are you on the floor?"
"Mommy's just looking for... something."

Then one day, I lamented this very sentiment to my friend, Melanie Steele, who gave me the perfect solution: Burn 'em!  She said to me, "Just take all of those cards and burn 'em in the trash. It's very soothing and cathartic to watch those glitters go up in smoke!  Just don't do it around the smoke detectors... You'll be letting in subzero air to try and get those smoke detectors to turn off again."

*sob!* Oh soul sister!  You understand!  You understand that when you think of all the wonderful and truthful things you could say about the family this year, you realize that it is not exactly flattering Christmas Card material!  "We went up to Yellowstone and saw a big brown bear sleeping on top of an Elk carcass!"

I mean, how can you put a good spin on the fact that your 3yr old eats boogers and laughs his butt off when you scold him not to do it because it is SO GROSS!?  He may, in fact, be doing it TO gross me out!  Or that one of the kids cut their own hair up to here, and the other had a picture perfect bedroom suite until they flung pulled pork on the fake peau de soie curtains and melted laffy taffy on the light bulb of their reading lamp just to make the neighbor kids laugh?  And even the good news has a rotten side, like the fact that even though you set up a tent for the first time in a decade, you waited too long to take it down and now have a perfect square of dead grass in the back yard! You can't really spin that! 

But everyone else seems to be doing it.  And effortlessly.  If someone asks me one more time if I'd like to contribute my creative genius for projects, and have a super good camera to blog about my amazing kids birthday parties that I was supposed to have planned with antiques, a Cricut machine, a riding saddle and .... TAPE, I think I'm just gonna LOSE IT!  Melting into a puddle of my own mediocre shame, I have had to devise a plan to get me through this year. There is only only one way out.  TO LIE.

"We are having a banner year!"  Maybe we could do a Christmas card theme with banners. Abigail won first place.... for .... ARBOR day for her short story about a TREE.  Benjamin can spell 90, no 900 words PERFECTLY, and Sam and Za play... EDUCATIONAL games together.  Because Dora the Explorer enhances a child's learning of the world around them and... Spanish and ... SWIPER NO SWIPING!!! Ethics!  And then what do I say about me?

Oh man. Truthfully I am at a stage in my life where my car and appliances are just about the most dear and important things in my life - like next to air.  I can not have a vacuum break, or a fridge, or a dishwasher, and heaven forbid it, my washing machine and dryer go out on me.  It would only take 3 days to go from "tidy-ish" to "Hoarders - Buried Alive!" candidate. 

What did I do this year? Well, I've worked my appliances like galley slaves. They run a couple of times a day, every day. Its not like those young married days, or I assume Old Farty days, where you can just go without one if it breaks until you save and/or research to get exactly what you want.

A clink under the bumper makes me break out into a cold sweat, and finding a hammer in the dryer is actually a relief because at least I know how to fix that.  It is a 180 degree difference from what it was like when we first got married.  I didn't need a vacuum.  I think it was actually years before I actually bought a vacuum.  We just borrowed our neighbors vacuum once a week to get the dust bunnies that collected around our apartment since we were both gone all the time.

Now.  Now we vacuum daily, and if someone is coming over, we start to vacuum HOURLY. Instead of sucking up dust bunnies, this powerhouse has to take down legos, cereal, dry wall, play dough, ribbons, yarn, shredded paper, pencil shards, screws shaken from various chairs and chunks of food that the baby could not be coaxed into eating and the children could not be imposed upon to pick up. With a severely skewed ratio of messers to tidiers, it is a marathon of picking up, loading up, cleaning up, and putting up with a lot of crying. When I go to the bank and they offer suckers, I say, "Yes, just please make them all the same color!"

*siiiiiiiiiiigh* And after all the angels are in bed, and my brain tells me that, "ITS NOW OR NEVER!  JUST WRITE IT! WRITE THAT CHRISTMAS LETTER!!!" Suddenly lying about it all seems like such an effort. And I wonder, can I do the OTHER option, and just not send any at all... is it possible to GET cards without sending them?  My brain hurts thinking about it, and now that I need to get that next load of laundry out, I think I will just have to pull a Scarlett O'Hara, "I can't think about that nawh. I'll think about it tomorrah..." But in the meantime, please don't kick me off your Christmas card list just yet.  We're running low on tinder...