Kids can’t do it that way. They need stability, routine, and mine need time to wake up and process the day. Luckily they can dress themselves, mostly, so we do a little planning out and finally got our morning routine more routined.

1. Pick out your clothes the night before, be ready for them. For the eldest it’s just making sure he has something, for the youngest, each piece is chose and put in a small basket with handles.

2. Set wakeup music. I’m very lazy efficient, so I burned a CD of kids music interspersed with the kids’ own voices and my voice reminding them it’s wakeup time. It’s set to go off about 30 min before breakfast every morning, to give them time to slarge down the stairs. I’m also lazy efficient enough to have bought a CD/alarm at Target that can be set only to ring M-F. Go me!

3. Have the ones who pick lunch figure out if they need a packed lunch the night before, so they can pack it themselves the night before. Now to get them to take it every day and bring the containers back …

Not sure about a new moniker or site, but stay tuned.

I’ve spent the last few days becoming re-acquainted with my son. Who has exploded verbally again, of course. Who is missing his daddy terribly, and stuck on his mommy permanently. I’d been down with the flu, and his dad was out of town.

I don’t mind, except for the difficulty in getting him down at night. My mom popped in to lend a hand; except for the tissue boxes in the recycle bin, the place almost looks … normal.

We went to the park Thursday, I got a good photo of him on the slide, and we had fun running around, up and down the ‘mountains’ there. Those little hills are just Wolfie sized; he can feel and see his accomplishment and loves to direct my play as well.

Friday I put him back in daycare after my pre-surgery appointment at the doctor’s office . Everyone at the office was impressed with his manners and behavior. He was just being his usual self in a new place – drinking it all in solemnly. A bribe of milk, graham crackers, and a rare treat, “holding tight” with Mommy didn’t hurt, either.

A while back, perhaps ten or so months ago, he started watching one of those serial kid shows, one episode with a scene where the main players are being sucked into a whirlpool and must “hold on tight” with all of their “viking might”. While singing a clever little tune about the whole escapade. Shortly thereafter, Wolfie and I began to have a few battles of our own as he began to test the universe and the bending of it to his will. This included a dislike of my placing him on my hip and strapping him in place with a sling.

Ever desperate resourceful, I dragged the tune out of my memory, sang the “hold on tight” part, and made up lyrics for the rest. A connection was born. His slings were now his “hold tights” and they were very calming objects to have, even when we weren’t using them to “hold on tight”.

When we shopped for 2×4s for a hurricane, I used the “hold tight” to sling him piggy back style on my back as I loaded my cart and car with eight boards. He knew what horses were by then, so I did a lot of nickering and encouraging him to say “yeehaw” and “giddyap”. When the shopping cart straps are broken and he needs to sit down, it acts as a symbolic, if not escape-proof or safe, strap. When I had to let him go so I could be examined by the doctor, it became his protective seat cover so he wouldn’t have to sit on the chair of evil directly.

Today was a crazy hard day for the both of us. Daddy gone. Grandma here. Schedule all gone out the window. Daddy gone. Grandma here. Rinse, repeat. At one point he was done shopping, though we weren’t – he asked if he could “ride on da back, Mommy” so I strapped him back there and trotted around the store a few times. When it was time to get up from the nap he didn’t want to take in the first place, he went for his “hold tight” and wanted to ride my hip in the house.

We walked around a while all slung up, but he was still in a wicked mood, and I took him outside. He objected. We walked around. He objected. We went around the corner to get the mail. He objected. We took the mail inside. He objected. We went back outside. He objected. I offered to stand around with him slung up. He objected. I put him down. He objected. By this time, I was crying, too.

I righted a lawnchair and sat down. He … objected. He climbed up on me.

“Hold tight, please?”

“Let’s sit on the chair, hon.”

“No sit on da chair. Mommy and Wolfie hold tight. Please?”

“Thank you for saying please, hon, but mommy’s tired.”

“Are you awake?”

“Yes, honey, but I’m tired.”

“Are you awake?”

“Yes, I’m awake.”

“How ’bout hold tight?”

“How about I hold you this way a while?”

We went on in this manner a while until we sensibly decided the only answer to our impasse would be to go inside together and watch some bunnies.

After bunnies, and dinner, he and I headed upstairs for his bath (skipped last night because of time constraints, bad idea). He played, he splashed, he very narrowly avoided certain cleanliness. We dressed in PJs, went downstairs, put on shoes and socks, and I grabbed his hold tight and we went for a walk with grandma. I kept expecting a request to be picked up, but he insisted he was going to hold my hand. That was easier, no crying involved on the outside.

But tomorrow is going to be another one. Big crowded concert hall, music he’ll like, and he’s going to spend the whole time strapped to me and dancing, like it or not. We’re reaching our weight limits on it, and I’m going to drink in every moment of his sweet little self dancing on my hip.

Hopefully when my month-long restriction on picking him up is, well, lifted, he’ll still remember how to dance with his momma’s hip and still want to. Hold tight or no.

He does. We still dance and snuggle, though I can’t get this gigantic elementary-age kid on my hip anymore.

Be that as it may, we don’t have plastered formal looks in our photos from the days of wet-plate photography, and usually a lot of blurry kids moving to and fro. But if you take enough pictures, eventually everyone is smiling and you can fix it in post-production (digitally melding all the smiling faces into one shot).

The trick is getting enough pictures. I do it with the handwashing song, converted into the cheesey song.

First, start lining up the kids. Take some shots as they are getting in place – sometimes you get a keeper. Then start everyone singing the alphabet song, substituting the word “cheese” on every rhyming beat:

A B C D E F CHEESE
H I J K L M N O CHEESE
Q R S T U CHEESE
W X Y and CHEESE
Now I know my A B CHEESE
Next time won’t you Cheese with Cheese.

I’ve found a few stories here and there for the kids, to expand our reading horizons. Though I’ve been careful to pick games and toys that reflect our family diversity, I’ve neglected, a bit, our book diversity. One good thing about the internet, though, is that there are tons of things out there. All kinds of the old tales that I grew up with, Little Three Eyes, and more. Older tales, a lot of which need quite a bit of explaining – some not so much.

One I’ve found that I can’t wait to introduce to the kids: a modern tale published last year by Tor. I’m glad to see it online; I can read it freely to my kids. But it’s had a side benefit – it has introduced me to an author I otherwise might not have heard of. So more pennies in her pocket from me, sometime soon. Click the link – I highly recommend the story for all ages.

His comment came from a spelunking trip into our little library: a discard from a public library called Seven Chinese Brothers. It’s beautifully illustrated, and just his reading speed. He loved the themes of the brothers trading places to help each other, how they played on their strengths, and worked together.

But his comment really said a lot to me – we need to bring more of the color of his real world into his reading life.

My first thoughts were along the lines of, “I dunno, methane sounds great! Use it to power cars, and power plants!” Then I wished I spoke more legislativeeze. Green Florida says this is not a great bill, would end mulch programs, but does it?

Solid Waste / Recycling and Landfills 
 
HB 569 was considered on second reading Tuesday and passed by the full House on Thursday. The bill would allow certain Class I landfills with an active gas-collection system to collect yardwaste. It also requires such a landfill to obtain a minor permit modification to its operating permit from the Florida Department of Environmental Protection which describes the beneficial use being made of the landfill gas and modifies the facility’s operation plan before receiving any yard trash. Its Senate companion, SB 1052, has yet to be heard in the Senate Environmental Preservation and Conservation Committee. County staff will continue to oppose these bills as contradictory to the state’s 75% recycling goal and in an effort to preserve space in Class I landfills.

Further reading seems to indicate what Green Florida is worried about – looks like counties can cut their costs by combining waste and yard waste pickup and just methaning everything.

Hard thing for there to be a quick and easy “right” answer for. Use waste we’re creating anyway by the massive yard manicure industry that is parts needed and parts overdone to create methane/energy, or separate it out and use it for mulching and things. Maybe if this bill had a provision for keeping mulching operations open, through simply requiring it (unfunded mandates?) or through benefits to the counties for keeping existing operations open, or build new ones.

Reminds me of a big version of Sim City, but it’s real. You can’t just “plop down” one methane production facility per, oh, 50,000 people and two mulching operations per 45,000 people and N acres of compost-generating land. Ahhhh.

Click here to urge the Governor to veto the mulch-nixing bill. Meantime I’m going to get back to reducing – recycling is the last thing we should be doing. Reduce and reuse first.

Back when I was still diapering our pair, I’d hang out the diapers to sun the spots* out, and it got me thinking more on the use of the phrase and the word. About old laundry and modern laundry and the pile of folding I’m ignoring.

You’d air dirty laundry if you just want to get some of the smell out, letting it dry out and get out. Much like you air your shoes out by rotating them through a couple of working pairs. And you sun dirty (soiled*) laundry to get the color out. After you wash it through your washer, or smash it on a river with rocks, ymmv.

So I decided** to try it out with a shirt my youngest had spilled spaghetti sauce on. Washed it twice, still had a stain, hung it out on the laundry line***. Stain was gone within two hours. Laundry line only fell over three times (first time I’d set it up and I didn’t have a proper foundation) before I leaned the bricks on it correctly.

Not just the “fresh feeling” of dryish clothes from the air, not just the de-scenting that can be done with some vinegar and airing, but sunning out of stains. Fun****! Got a bunch of work and workout clothes done for me, too.

* poop stains
** dryer conked out
*** don’t tell the home ogres assciation
**** dryer conked out at 5:30 in the morning with my work and workout clothes all tumbling around – luckily it was a dry run day and I didn’t have to actually be anywhere at any set time ..

I’ve had to make too many calls lately for the various buggy germs and more flying around our insides and outsides. More than not, I’ve phoned up for a non-emergency appointment and been told by the specialist’s office staff that the nearest opening for a new patient is between three and six weeks away.

Yeek.

Then something happened – I called up and asked for an after school appointment, as soon as possible for a particular doctor. Those are the most coveted, of course – no one misses school and you miss as little work as possible. He didn’t have anything, but as he shuffled his calendar, he noticed a cancellation for the next day. And if I took it, not only would I get the appointment over with, he’d knock a third off of the cash part of his usual fee. I took it.

The next appointment I needed, this time for both kids, couldn’t be scheduled on the same day (there’s a rule that I won’t complain about now). Although I couldn’t talk them around for same-date appointments two weeks out, but I booked the least-disruptive to my schedule appointments possible. That afternoon, they called me back during the witching hour, and booked the kids back-to-back for the day after.

Finally, I had one more appointment to book. Until this one came up, I’d been operating on luck. These fine ladies clued me in – if I called between 2 and 3 every day, they could move me up into a cancellation slot. Although I didn’t luck out, I now had the trick of it and put it into play for the eye doctor.

Six weeks out for a new appointment for a new patient. Ugh. Certainly the kid’s eyesight wouldn’t get any worse in the interim, but something closer would be nice. I’d called during the witching hour but before I could speak up, she remembered … a cancellation! I’d be in two days from the call instead of mid-summer. Wohooo!

I cleaned out my dresser drawer the other day. Need room for socks; I’ve been wearing loafers but am now back into tennies.

I found a couple pairs of reflective snap-on bracelets and left them out, intending to wear them walking this morning. I got out later than I expected, and was about a mile from the house when I remembered how naked I was without reflectors. But it was sunny, I reasoned. I’d be fine.

I completed my walk, came home to several morning-routine mini-disasters, and hopped in the car to right everyone’s day and enjoy a light lunch with a colleague.

Once I had every lunch, tool, and computer put in the hands of the right forgetful person, I headed back north along Military Trail to my lunch date. As I approached the Glades road overpass, I saw an ambulance and fire truck pulling into the right-hand lane. Three police cars were already blocking two lanes, and a fourth one was pulling up behind.

I slowed down and moved left, and saw a car off to the side and a jogger curled up on the sidewalk, in obvious pain. I haven’t found the report online yet, but I imagine she was struck by a car. There’s no place or reason to cross six lanes of traffic there, so I assume someone just hit her by jumping the curb.

When my lunch companion passed the same spot about fifteen minutes later, two cars and some police vehicles were all that remained.

Broad frikkin daylight. On a curve that I know people take too damn fast.

Go run, but be careful out there.