pieces and ponderings

I like lists.  I’m not an obsessive list-maker, but I do find that lists help me remember things that need to be done.  I keep a running grocery list and Sam’s list.  They are not the same.  There are certain items that our family purchases at our local Sam’s Club and other items we purchase at grocery stores.  The bad thing about these lists is when I return home from a shopping trip only to discover that I need an item that was not on the shopping list and have to begin a new list while I’m still putting away food items that were just purchased from the old list.

I also make lists to remind me what needs my attention for the day…“to do” lists.  Sometimes my memory needs help remembering an errand that needs to be done or a project that needs completing.  I don’t keep these lists every day but occasionally I need a “to do” list to keep me on track.

I have also found that it is helpful to make chore lists for my children.  They just seem to respond better when their task for the day is written down.  They see it…they do it…I’m happy and therefore they are happy.

But my favorite thing about the lists that I make is when my children sabotage my lists and add their own list items without my knowledge.  I like it because it makes me laugh.

There have been times when I’m in the grocery store adding milk and bread and cereal to my cart and I look at the next item on the list and it reads, “Pony.”  I know immediately that child number 2 quietly and sneakily has gotten hold of my list.

There are times when I’m extra-forgetful and a regular list on the counter simply won’t do and I tape a note to my back door so that I won’t forget to do something and then find a note next to my note that says, “Play Monopoly,” and I know that child number 4 has been at work.

Today I came home and found that my children were baking chocolate chip cookies, which I realized as soon as I saw the cookie dough melting into delicious cookies that I NEEDED a chocolate chip cookie.  I asked child number 3 about the cookie-baking and he told me that baking cookies had been right there on the chore list that I had left this morning.  I looked and sure enough…there it was…written in an almost mom-looking-handwriting, “Bake cookies.”  I smiled and laughed and then ate three of those chocolate chip cookies…compliments of the day’s chore list.

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Our home went through some major re-arranging this past weekend.  Late Thursday night, a wonderful three-piece sectional sofa was moved into our living room.  On Friday, man-sized children, child number one and child number three moved various pieces of furniture around the house as their mother (me) directed.  It was much like a symphony being played by an orchestra…I waved my conductor’s baton and movement would begin…ok…not quite, but maybe it was a little like that.

Old sofas were moved, chairs were moved, desks were moved, our computer was moved, a china cabinet was moved, sundry cabinets that I don’t know the official names of were moved, and pictures that hung on walls were moved.  Lots of moving.

At the end of the day on Friday, I looked at all of the work that had been done and  declared it “good.”  I liked it.  Not only do I love the sofa that can seat our entire family if we so desire, but I like where our computer now sits on its desk, where I can write blog entries and stuff.  I like the china cabinet in its new home.  I like the pictures on different walls.  All of this change, which I behold as good, seemed to send our golden retriever dog, Ellie, into a mild depression.

As new furniture entered our house and old furniture was shifted around and her favorite couch was moved into the entry-way of our home and then out of the house completely, Ellie looked a bit dazed, somewhat confused and at times a little panicky.

As my celebratory exclamations grew louder and louder over the few days of re-arranging…Ellie began looking sadder and sadder.  My husband brought home a nice, soft, fluffy doggie cushion to give her a place that was all her own…a refuge in the furniture re-arranging storm.   She has laid on it a few times…when one of my children or I have knelt down by the cushion and patted it to indicate it was time for her to lie down.  But a few moments later, we would find her lying in front of the cushion…seemingly mourning the loss of her favorite sofa.

I can relate to her feelings of attachment…usually I don’t like change either…I tend to push against change in my life.  But, I love the new sectional sofa…have I mentioned that already…and I had awaited the day when we would wave good-bye to the three-person-used-to-be-an-off-white-color couch that turned into a sort-of-a-dingy-gray-and-stained couch (Ellie’s favorite).

I think that Ellie will eventually adjust to our household re-arrangement…probably about the time my oldest two children head off to college next month.  Then I’ll  join her lying on the floor in front of her cushion…lamenting the change.

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I went through a patriotic stage as a child.  I don’t think this is a typical childhood stage that most pass through, but I could be wrong.  I have  never heard other moms talking about their children being the in “patriotic stage,” where they only wear red, white and blue clothing, and put posters of presidents and national monuments on their walls, but this is what my mom had to deal with.  My own children haven’t followed suit, though there have been replicas of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution on a bedroom wall at one time.  (I just went and looked and the Constitution replica is still on the wall.)

Anyway, sometime between the ages of 9 and 10, I was very patriotic.  I wore a lot of red, white and blue.  It was the ‘70’s, so I even had striped red, white and blue pants AND red, white and blue suede shoes.  Oh, I almost forgot, I also had a red, white and blue bowling ball as well.  Yes, it was extreme…possibly obsessive.  (My kids are going to tell me that I was weird.)

I visited our nation’s capitol twice as a child and there are pictures somewhere of me standing in front of national monuments, decked out in my patriotic everyday wear.

I loved reading biographies of U.S. presidents and other historical figures…I found them interesting and inspiring.  (My kids are going to call me a “nerd” also.)

I don’t know where this love of country came from that grew in me, but it was there…and I’ve always loved the Fourth of July…Independence Day…the birthday of  the United States of America.

I was reminded of all this the other night, when my family and I attended the Freedom Fest celebration at Fort Rucker, near our south Alabama home.  The Lieutenant Dan Band, with Gary Sinise, performed a good concert and there were fireworks that my family enjoyed, along with a few thousand other folks.

As the band played their closing song, Lee Greenwood’s “I’m Proud to be an American,” the crowd rose to their feet and sang along.  I felt a little awkward at first and then  I looked at my husband standing beside me singing…and the crowd of servicemen and women and their families that surrounded me…and I thought about my husband’s military service and that of his brothers and our nephews…and I sang a bit louder.

Then the fireworks began with oohs and aahhs from the spectators.  I was sharing a chair with child number 5 and we commented on the size and colors of the bursts of light at first…then we just sat in silence, as we drank in the beauty of the display.

I was thankful to be sitting close to my family, celebrating our country together.  I am proud to be an American, though I don’t wear red, white and blue very often any more.  I am thankful for the nation in which I live and the freedoms we enjoy here.  We are a blessed nation!

  Happy Birthday, United States of America!

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My children, numbers 3-5, helped me with grocery shopping at our local Sam’s Club this morning.  I bribed, or rather, enticed them by offering to stop first for breakfast at Chick-fil-a…this usually works.  As the four of us munched on breakfast food, the older two began a tongue-in-cheek conversation about being the middle children of our family.

Child number 3 claims that he is the “true” middle child, having two older siblings and two younger siblings.  They decided that child number 4 is really the “lower middle,” not quite as “middle” as number 3.

They went on and on about how tough life is as middle children (they’ve had it ohh so rough…yeah, right).  They spoke of all the privileges of the oldest child, not understanding of course that child number 1 is the test pilot of the children in a family.  Firstborns are the ones that parents begin learning about parenting with…and they often carry more responsibility when the younger children come along.

Then there is child number 2 in our family.  The two middles say she doesn’t even count, because she is the only girl in a family with 4 boys…she’s like an only child, they say (yeah, right again).

They continued to joke about their older siblings’ advantages and their suffering.  Then they turned their diatribe on their little brother, child number 5…the baby of the family…poor guy.  Of course, just my saying, “Poor guy,” in reference to their little brother, would in their eyes back up their argument of the youngest receiving special treatment.

It would seem that no matter how hard we try as parents, there will always be times when a child sees their place in life as unfair and wonder if the grass is actually greener on the other side, or sides, of the birth order fence.

As my “true” middle and I were waiting at the check-out line for little brothers to return with ice cream (see, I told you they suffer), child number 3 looked down at me from his 6’4’’ point of view and said, “Mom, I finally know what the 2.5 children per family means in all of those statistics you hear about.”

“Really,” I replied, because I’ve always wanted to know how you can have 2.5 children.  “Please, tell me,” I asked.

“The 2.5 is really 3 children, but the .5 is the middle child because they only count half as much,” he said with a smirk on his face.  I laughed at his clever thinking and wry sense of humor.

“Yeah…right,” I said.

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This is the scene that greeted me this morning at 6:15 when I opened our front door to let out our dog, Ellie.

A four foot purple flower just happened to grow in our flower bed overnight.  It was a good morning surprise planted by an unknown, but highly suspected, prankster some time in the night.

It made me smile…I love it!  The flower’s usual home is in a stand in the room of child number 2.  I sort of figure she must have had something to do with it having been transplanted into the front flower bed.  I’ll just leave it there for others to see.

Opening my door and my eyes to such a funny sight was a great way to start the day.  Good morning, world!

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