I’m not talking about the blood-curdling screams, Werewolf  and awful gurgling noises that come from the soundtrack we play as we give out treats. (I’m sorry in advance to all the little ones it scares.)

From last year's haunting.

These are the scary sounds of Halloween in my house:

• The slurping drool of children chatting wearing vampire teeth.
• The scream as I dive to prevent one child from putting another child’s wet teeth in his mouth. (Ahhhh!)
• Cries because coats have to be worn over costumes.
• My own muffled swearing as my bobbin jams up in the sewing machine. Again.
• Me, chasing and shooing the giggling baby off the fabric I’m attempting to cut.
• The eerie crinkle of me opening another Reese’s peanut butter cup only to find, alas, it’s the last in the bag. And it’s not even Halloween. Oops.
• The squeal as I accuse someone of traipsing in the house with grease on his or her feet only to discover those black spots on the tan berber are little nests of ‘fro hair that have been shed from Henry’s Weird Al wig.
• Me accusing Henry of losing the same wig only to discover my dear spouse hid it because, Henry was donning it and acting … well … weird.
• Sighs of disappointment when it is discovered that I have confused wanting to be Pocahontas with wanting to be a generic Indian (as in Native American) girl.
• Sighs of disappointment when I confuse wanting to be Jesse from Toy Story with wanting to be a generic cowgirl. (Actually, both completely ploys, but I’m sticking with my story.)
• Howling because the buy-20-for-$1 Halloween pencil lead won’t stop breaking.

The scariest sounds are yet to come in response to: No you can’t have that Laffy Taffy because of your retainer.

Happy howling.

That’s what life is. No surprise to any reader, I’m sure. There’s so much to do, and so little time. And of late, so little extra energy. I’ve sworn off coffee after 2, so I can get a better night’s sleep. And, it’s working. Sort of. Because, I’m not always so great at reading the actual clock versus the I-could-use-another-cup-of-coffee clock. But, I’m trying.

Balancing act

We had a smashing weekend. Busy, busy. To say the least. I hit the hay at 9 p.m. last night, exhausted. Took Mary Claire out for a date with just Richard and me. Sang at a wedding and two masses, cheered at two soccer games, sold popcorn, cleaned the garage and closets, and a attended a very enjoyable party at a recently renovated Frank Lloyd Wright house at which my dear spouse is part of the design team. It was a beautiful afternoon party. And a much-needed time out.  But exhausting just the same.

And now, here it is, Monday. And I’m feeling unprepared for the week. I am always balancing (more like teetering) on the edge of the darn sin called sloth.

Strange, but true.

In my life it’s really the sin of productive procrastination. Here I am, blogging (productive) when I should be working (procrastination). I could pretty much re-roof the house eagerly before I sit down and do some of the stuff I HAVE to do. Hence: therein lies the sin.Yes I’m productive (and then some) but there’s still undone stuff that HAS to be done. And coffee isn’t going to cut it.

So, now that I’m no longer in denial, I’m going to finish this post and get to work … after I make myself another cup of coffee … and re-roof the house.

Okay. No he doesn’t. Not with actual words. He is still the silent (in words, not noise) thinking man. But he speaks in so many other ways.

The eyes of a thinking man

Yesterday, I took Lillian and Cliff for a quick trip to the zoo.

I thought he was going to explode when he saw the giraffe. He pointed, he babbled his long monologue babble. During which, he was apparently telling me all about what he saw. Nodding at me, with a don’t-you-agree-with-me expression.  I talked back. (I, on the other hand, was actually using words.) He listened. Agreed, nodding. Looked into my eyes and told me more. Leaned his head on my shoulder briefly and loved me for showing him the giraffe. He also loved me for the kangaroos. The zebra. The rhino.

When we got home, we told daddy all about what we saw. Cliff listened intently, smiling. He walked over to me and leaned his head into my legs and loved me some more.

Without words, that boy speaks volumes.

Weekly, Henry is charged with some creative writing assignment using about half of his spelling words. This week he saw two: one was make a comic using seven of the 15 words, and the other was to write a friendly letter using eight. The comic wasn’t so bad. There was initial complaining, but Henry didn’t have high expectations of the comic being a brilliant tale. He gets comics. They are just a tidbit of fun.

The letter, on the other hand, was a completely different story. No different from last week’s story, which also stumped him. Henry, up until this point, has struggled with creative writing. Last year I had him write in a journal each day, the 20 minutes before lunch. I’d give him a topic and say go. He struggled and complained and did the absolute minimum possible to get me off his back.

Now, in school, there’s someone else reading his work. So there’s another element of pressure for him. His MO has been to do the minimum. If the assignment is write a story using eight words, you can be darn sure that story is not going to have a sentence more than eight. In most cases, he’s been able to use more than one word in a sentence. He’s all about conservation.

He finds the task difficult. Not because he’s not creative. He is pretty much an all-around hilarious and quick-witted kid. The task is difficult for him because his brain has some kind of automatic siphon that filters out words he cannot spell. Which, in third grade, boils down to about 99.999% percent of the English language. So he’s stuck with a list of seemingly unrelated spelling words and the puddle of words he’s confident (or at least semi-confident) he will spell correctly.

I’ve watched him become almost paralyzed in this processes during these first weeks of school. We always get through it, with a few thought starters from me. And I will say, in some cases, even I would have had a tough time coming up with an actual story using the word list. Henry likes good stories. His expectations are high. But yesterday, we turned a corner.

Richard originally helped him with the assignment. Half way through, Henry approached me and said, “I hate this letter. It’s a baby letter. Like a love note or something.” And before my very eyes, he tore the paper in half. “I want to start over.”

Well, that in itself, was a first. Re-doing something on purpose. So he sat down and wrote this letter to his brother …

Dear Clifford,

I promise we’ll play baseball when you get older. I hope you do not strike out. I can’t wait until the moment when you’re in your uniform. That’s a while from now. But now you’re barely human and we keep in a cube in the cellar. That doesn’t mean I do not like you.

Love Henry

That’s my boy! The spelling words were: we’ll, strike, moment, that’s, human, cube, cellar and doesn’t

It’s a direct hit! Baby sunk my battleship.

1. I sit in a restaurant waiting for my breakfast companion. From his highchair, Cliff chucks his toy ambulance, and it hits the only thing on the table (paper-napkin-rolled silverware sets aside): my coffee cup. Direct hit! Complete coffee explosion. Reinforcements have to be called to wipe up the spill.

2. I sit with Lillian and try to help her find a picture in a Marian art book. It’s a painting of the slaughtering of the Holy Innocents. (Yes. I know. I’m stashing money for therapy.) We quietly look at the pages. Then smash, out of no where, baby boy whips a triangular block at me. Direct hit! Right in the nose. Split skin. Blood and everything.

3. In the bathroom, cleaning up the split nose. Viewing damage. Cliffy comes in  blowing booger bubbles from his nose. Sparing the details, it’s disgusting. I grab a tissue, pick him up, his head thrashing to avoid the wipe (he’s had his nose wiped enough for one day). Lickity split. Direct hit! He has a death grip on my glasses. Rips them off my face. I’m dodging his flailing arms for fear one of the temples is going to end up in my eye. Try to save glasses. Nose pad flies off. Spend the rest of the day with a band-aid wrapped around the remnant metal that still gouges a hole into my already wounded nose.

4. Cliff, with all of his excited and apple-cider-full belly pukes on the chenille sofa. Direct hit! No details necessary.

Battle weary, battleship sunk. Never, ever buy chenille furniture, no matter how comfortable it is.

The other day, dear spouse came home and asked this loaded question: What did you do today?

Okay, that sounds innocent enough. Right? Like inquiring what interesting things we did during the day.

I think the question was a little more motivated by the unloaded grocery bags sitting on the kitchen floor. Defenses: ON.

I needn’t be defensive chimes in dear spouse. He just wanted to know … so, I told him.

Fed children. Made lunches. Said goodbye to children who dress themselves. Dressed baby and toddler. Dressed self. Had to redress baby after he threw up on himself from bouncing on the bed while I dressed. Stripped bed. Rushed to school to watch biggest boy at assembly. Took toddler to school. Came home, unloaded dishwasher. Put baby to sleep. Wrote a thank you note. Played with baby for 45 minutes. Packed baby back in car and drove to fruit market. Shopped. Was delayed by baby’s insistence of me counting as he put things in bags (16 mushrooms!) and long-finger-nailed-but-very-sweet new cashier. Met dear spouse with toddler at home for lunch. Made lunch. Unloaded refrigeratables. Read to toddler and baby. Tried to deal with crying, questionably  miserable toddler. Put children down for nap. Folded laundry. Moved laundry. Loaded dishes. Parents stopped by. Visited with them for 20 minutes. Had to wake baby and toddler to load in car to pick up children who dress themselves. Drove to school one. Waited. Picked up one child. Drove to school two. Waited five minutes. Walked in. Picked up child two. Waited with arguing children in parking lot until it was my turn to exit (15 minutes). Came home. Left children in car while child one dressed for soccer. Took said child to soccer. Took other three children — one that dresses himself, one toddler and one baby to grocery store. Shopped. Came home. Left said children in car and unloaded newly acquired refrigeratables. Put other bags on floor of kitchen with the still unemptied bags from early excursion to fruit market. Got back in van and drove to soccer field. Picked up soccer-playing girl and took her to piano lessons. Drove home. And … there was dear spouse … inquiring … what did you do today?

Nothing much. And you?

(Please note: Showering and personal hygiene are not accidentally omitted  from this list.)

Not so much.

I went up and took Helen out to dinner on Friday night. It was great. She brought a bunch of her music from classes with her. Showed me these “beautiful chords” from a big choir piece. Some jazz ensemble stuff. Very exciting. She told me stories that made me laugh my bar-room laugh (n’er a dainty giggle from me). We ate. We shopped a little. I drove her back to her dorm. Then, drat, we said goodbye.

Moving in

Um. Excuse me, but is this going to get easier? I cried the whole way home. I’m sure it didn’t help that we were listening to that Taylor Swift song, “The Best Day with You” …

And now I know why the all the trees change in the fall
I know you were on my side even when I was wrong
And I love you for giving me your eyes
For staying back and watching me shine
And I didn’t know if you knew, so I’m takin’ this chance to say
That I had the best day with you today