Seven Days

One week from now, at about this time, I will be going to bed. I will need to go to bed, because one week from tomorrow I will be at the airport, at quarter 'til daybreak, to see the tornadoes off.

This weekend has been a circus of birthday parties and guest tornadoes and very little opportunity to complete a thought, because someone needed something or injured somebody or just plain wanted me in the room while they watched Camp Rock for the four hundredth time. You know, the usual. It was tempting to complain. Especially about Camp Rock.

But I didn't. Okay, I did a little. There's only so much flipping around a mother can stand to watch - especially when Flipper (aka Second Grader - who will have to be Flipper now, since Second Grader will no longer apply) has begged this mother to watch the Jonas Brothers with her over and over again but has forbidden her from commenting that Joe's a real looker, and now can't even admire Joe in silence because Flipper is flipping in front of the screen. That had to be addressed. Otherwise, I am trying to be appreciative of their attention.

That's not to say that I haven't started compiling a list of things I can do while they're gone. I can:

- Go for my run outside instead of in the basement
- Go to a movie not Imagineered By Disney
- Eat crackers and cheese for dinner. Actually, I do that anyway.

It's a wild and crazy list so far, I know. As I mentioned, hard to complete a thought around here today. Here's what I won't have to do:

- Get kicked in the stomach in the middle of the night
- Protect my face from flying feet during the day
- Drive anyone anywhere
- Cook anything out of a blue and yellow box

I am now being summoned to Pleeeaase Come Play Guitar Hero With Us, so I will have to stop there for now. Rock On.

Psst...There's a Fly In Your Purse

Miss S. called me a few days ago. She was en route to visit her parents, a mere nine hour drive away, with her two-year-old on board. We have a difficult time connecting, Miss S. and I - our voicemails have grown quite chummy - but it was reasonable of her to think that a nine hour drive might provide some chance of mutual availability.

Well, she was wrong, of course. She left me a message, inviting me to call her back and question her sanity on the whole "nine hours in a car with a toddler" thing.

Before I had a chance to respond, Miss S. called a second time. Or more accurately, her purse called me. Either way, a second message of considerable length was deposited into my voicemail.

After the first few seconds of garbled and distant radio noise, I realized the error at hand. And proceeded to listen.

There is nothing like hearing your highly educated best friend coo and giggle at her two-year-old like a two-year-old. They shared a robust round of "Weee!", mockingbird style (first him, then her, a harmony of echo) - at least I think it was "weeeee!"...It could have been "treeee!" I'd buy that, since they also marveled at trucks passing by, Miss S. apparently having never seen them before herself.

SON: Truck!

MISS S: Look at that truck!

SON: Truck!

MISS S: That's a big truck!

I clamped a hand over my mouth (as if she might hear me, giggling in her purse), stuck around for another round of "Weee!" and quite a lot of Miss S. chuckling to herself, telling the little observer in the back seat that he is silly. Then I started to feel a little dirty and sneaky. So I deleted and dialed Miss S.

Naturally, I caught her during the sole ten minutes of her nine hour drive that she couldn't talk, taking a break at the Chick-Fil-A PlayLand. I didn't have a chance to come clean about my eavesdropping before her son got lost in a tunnel and she had to go.

So consider this my official 'fessing up: You, my friend, were silly. And I was there.

And of course, I should be forgiven completely, because you called me.

She'll Thank Me Someday, Right?

We are on day four of the new braces, and I am not adjusting well.

We have already been back to the office for repairs - a wire popped out of its bracket yesterday - and may I remind you there is only one road in and out of our town linking us to civilization, so the one hour commute from work to Twornado's school (at the far end of said road) to the orthodontist (in civilization) for a thirty-second appointment made for a less than soothing afternoon.

Add to that the high decibel lament of Second Grader that she didn't want to go to the "stupid braces place" and anyway she thinks her sister looks "hideous" now, followed by the requisite sibling physical retaliation, and any lingering notions I may have had that country roads make for peaceful drives were completely shattered.

I am definitely taking this harder than Twornado, who actually has to wear that mess. Every time I look at her I am reminded that I gave this the green light, I authorized the installation of a medieval torture system in her teeny little mouth. The girl has eaten nothing but noodles for four days, and I did that to her.

Fortunately, she returns my gaze with nothing but her standard mixture of love and "are there any more noodles?" Fortunately, her friends think she looks "cool". Fortunately she is her same snitty little pre-teen self, with the exception of a brief window of oral discomfort every five hours or so, during which she temporarily becomes a puddle of child again. These windows provide me with an opportunity to dole out hugs and ibuprofen, a powerful combination known for its guilt-alleviating qualities. A mother can never have enough remedies for alleviating guilt.

Countdown to Panic Attack

Tornadoes and I are now a mere two weeks away from a three week separation - our first major separation ever. I suppose it's only fair that they see their dad, so I have maturely agreed to allow them to fly far away from me for a prolonged visit.

I've avoided bringing this up here, mostly because the thought of it makes me nauseous. Also because some childish part of me wants to believe that if I don't think about it, it won't be true. But it is, and it's coming, so there's that.

Last Monday at bedtime, Second Grader informed that she was feeling a little anxious about the whole thing herself. Her main concern was the abstract idea of three weeks' time. "How long is that, really?" she asked. Not knowing how else to answer, I informed her that she would be getting off the plane exactly three weeks from that bedtime to begin her visit. "So from tonight until you leave is exactly how long you will be away."

That cleared it all up. Suffice it to say, the week has been riddled with intermediate markers of the passage of time. And we still have two weeks to go.

Now that I've brought it up, expect that I'll probably bring it up again. I'll try not to vomit on you. No promises, though.

Gotta Love The Spring Spectacular

I am very disappointed in myself. Last Thursday was Second Grader's spring concert, and I totally intended to write about it. And then Friday came, and Saturday...and here we are all the way at Wednesday. And I still haven't bragged about what a mighty fine square dancer Second Grader is.

Yes, indeed. Queen of the Do-Si-Do, that one. Which is a good thing, since there was no singing at the spring concert. Though why I would go in expecting such a novel thing at this stage is an excellent question - and the answer is: because they call it a concert. Duh. But hey, I can't say it wasn't fun to watch.

Also, so very relieved that the "audience participation" element, about which Second Grader forewarned, was scratched from the program of the K-3 Spring Spectacular, especially since certain relatives in attendance felt it necessary to sit in the front row. The front row! Are you people mad? Do you not understand the shenanigans of which this performance-driven student body is capable?

Please note that the Spring Spectacular, like its counterpart, the Winter Musicale, was split in two. For those of us with tornadoes in Grades 4-6 Plus Band, welcome back. Have a seat. We are the big kids, so our theme for the evening? Rock 'n Roll, my friends. Rock 'n Roll.

But FIRST, the band. Which means the Band Instructor. I think I love the Band Instructor. He's just so into it, and he uses the word "arrangement" a lot - which is just a great word, people, I don't know why - and he makes Twornado smile and play music. How can you not love a man like that? I think Twornado loves him a little, too, because all of a sudden she has decided she doesn't want to quit band...

Let's move on now. Miss Music Teacher informed that the upper grades have been learnin' them some Rock 'n Roll history, and we will now perform for you a selection of ditties which will make it clear why you had to dress your boys in white T-shirts with the sleeves rolled up, and pin poodle cut-outs onto your daughter's skirts, and by the way, you're welcome for making the girls all wear ponytails but sorry again about the white T-shirts, they do look kind of sloppy now that you mention it. (She only actually said the learnin' part, by the way.)

Then a large group of children at various stages of early puberty sang songs by Elvis Presley and Little Richard. And they clearly had no idea what these songs had to do with anything. They squirmed and lip-synced and generally looked bewildered. My favorite number was the Beatles' selection, "I Want To Hold Your Hand" - you want to see some grossed-out kids, make them sing "And when I touch you I feel happy inside" in front of their parents.

I was glad to get this whole "where it all began" medley out of the way, actually, because now they have opened the door to bigger and better themes. I propose Bon Jovi night, or maybe Hair Bands: the Early Hits.

No? Too soon?

Just Another (Five Thousand Dollar) Rite of Passage

Fourth Grader's dentist advised at her recent cleaning that I should take her for a Braces Evaluation.

More words to shudder by.

It appears, explained the sage dentist, that Fourth Grader's little mouth has gotten ahead of itself.

To which I said, Tell me something I don't know. But apparently he was not talking about her sassiness.

The dentist, who seemed taken aback - judging by the way he kept blinking and staring at Fourth Grader in mild disbelief - began to worry me. I pay pretty close attention to my kid, but what the heck is she hiding in there? Teenage boys? Anyhow, he was so kind as to not only recommend an orthodontist, but to arrange for him to call us. How helpful.

Admittedly, I pretended at first not to get the voicemail message. I couldn't help it. I never had braces. Why does everyone need braces nowadays? When I was a kid, we walked five miles uphill just to buy a toothbrush...Wait, wrong litany. Anyway, she's's ten, remember, and ten seems a bit young for this, no?

On second thought, many things about her don't seem ten-like to me these days. The sassiness, for starters. Every day I tell her to stop this growing up business, and every day she grows up a little bit more anyway. It's so annoying.

Well, if she insists on continuing this routine, I guess it's only fair that her pretty smile be included. So we went for the Braces Evaluation - Fourth Grader, unfazed and wondering aloud about color selection (naturally), and Mama silently hoping for a First Visit Acquittal -something along the lines of "There's no work for us here" would be fine. And free.

Setting foot in the office, I was instantly put at ease. Not by the collage of satisfied patients smiling down from the waiting room wall. Not by the sweet, lilting voice of the receptionist. No. The magazine assortment. Nothing but rows of glossy, heavy-papered, luxury travel magazines.

So at the very time I should be pondering concepts like Orthodontia Coverage...Deductibles... Installment Plans... instead I was adrift in Island Living. Spa Cruise. Dominican Getaway.

Oh, I want to come back here, I thought.

Oh, you're coming back, said the nice orthodontist a few minutes later - though he said it more officially, with his fancy orthodontist words and his fancy pictures of Fourth Grader's mouth. He, too, dropped the phrase "advanced for her age" numerous times - again, not a reference to her attitude, but to the fact that her ten-year-old mouth is housing twelve-year-old teeth, and the garage ain't big enough.

So braces it is.

On the positive side, the increasingly thorny Tooth Fairy missions are apparently now behind me - at least with one child. Also, it looks like I will have plenty of opportunity to read those travel magazines in the waiting room.

You know, since I'll be contributing to the subscription fund.

Hey, I Work Out...

For lunch today, I packed grapefruit slices and pita with hummus, and a bottle of water.

And that's it.

And the reason I packed lunch for a parakeet? Because there's half a bag of Cape Cod potato chips (Robust Russet, with their delectable slightly burnt flavor) and onion dip at home, and I WANT THEM. In fact, it's totally possible that they are tonight's dinner.

Is that bad?

To clarify, they are possibly my dinner. I will feed the tornadoes actual dinner-like food...if you consider Day Two-Hundred-and-Twenty-Thousand of macaroni and cheese, coupled with tomato slices, or possibly peas if they are sufficiently mushy, to be dinner-like. That's for Second Grader, who lately proclaims herself a vegetarian. Which means pretty much only the aforementioned three food items.

Twornado, on the other hand, thinks every night should be Gourmet Night, yet she is not so much with the patience (hmm...) for such a scenario. For her: leftover spaghetti squash, green salad, and the remaining grilled shrimp from last night's kabobs.

For me...chips and dip. And I can't freaking wait.

So I will go ahead and say it for you: might this wayward dietary choice play a role in my gripes of yesterpost? More so, maybe, than alleged pubescent-sized clothing?

To which I say: shut up...