When New Friends Become Old Friends

We've been taking turns getting sick around here. The Cold Plague, as it seems. I am much better myself now, thank you very much for asking. But Olivia's ears started hurting yesterday, so naturally her little brother determined we should listen to her heart.We did take her to a real doctor today, and it turns out she has a double ear infection. Poor thing.

Before she started feeling so poorly -- or at least started complaining about it -- we had a wonderful time with some friends from Germany and their beautiful bilingual girls.We knew Stephanie and Doug while we were living in Italy and hadn't seen them in over two years -- they left Italy several months before we did. Doug has since retired from the Air Force and they now live near Trier, Germany, Stephanie being German herself. And we couldn't have been more pleased that they made it work to see us during their latest trip to the States.

The last time their Emma and our Olivia were together they were three years old, the best of friends.This month they each celebrated their sixth birthday, within one day of each other. And within minutes of their reunion they resumed their friendship as if the last two years had never existed.A couple of years ago, Maya and Sean-Peter were a couple of drooling mischief makers.
Now settled into each other with a friendship in its own right.
In a lifestyle such as ours, when regular moves make relationship building a rather tenuous endeavor, it's friendships like these that can stand the test of time. Which is why I am so grateful and glad they made the effort and took the time and energy to come our way. Only time will tell how our children will relate to each other as the years pass, but I really hope to continue to give them the opportunity to find out.

***
The second night they were here we had some other friends come by, another family we had also known at Aviano, who came for dinner and added two more girls to the mix, both around the same ages as the other four.The kids all played, really, exceptionally well all evening. With only one noticeable complaint from Sean-Peter early on, "But I don't want to be the monster!" Poor guy was dreadfully outnumbered.This is Autumn and Paul. A beautiful couple if there ever was one. They PCS'd to Wright-Patt from Italy a couple of months before we did. Before Italy we were both in Las Vegas at the same time, too. (Although we didn't know each other then.)

Do you notice a trend?

Like us, they came to Ohio with orders to stay at least four years. EXCEPT -- Paul tested for Chief and got it on the first try. That like, never happens. He's some kind of genius superhero or something. The catch, though, is that he had to find a new job: There are only so many positions available for Chiefs. Chances were slim that he would find one at Wright-Patt, so...

John and I were all like, "Get us somewhere good!"

Sure enough, they just found out they have to PCS this June -- to Hawaii. Gee, that's rough.

Except I actually wouldn't want to move to Hawaii. I've heard the schools aren't any good. Anyone want to share anything they know about that?Here we all are, Stephanie, Autumn and I. And I really do feel like I must explain. Because I am not that short, honestly. Yes, we are all standing. But it's just that they're so tall. Both Stephanie and Doug are over six feet. Seriously. I feel like a munchkin. Here they are, for instance, doing my dishes, of all things.Are these friends, or what? I didn't know whether to kiss them or take away their passports.

And they are the most beautiful couple as well, I just have to add. For some reason I never took a photo of them side-by-side. But isn't Stephanie just glowing? She should -- not only did they just come from vacationing in Florida, she's also baking a new little bun in the oven. A little, "Whoops, what a surprise! but isn't it wonderful?" addition to their family. I'm so happy for them.


This photo is completely gratuitous, but I just think Emma's outfit complete with stockings is too, too adorable. To me, this totally speaks German.And for your viewing pleasure, I give you about a minute of mindless chatter of five little girls -- and one little boy desperately trying to hold his own and make his voice heard.


And just for the record, Stephanie? If you guys found yourselves getting sick after you left here I am really, really sorry. I'm still so glad you came.

I seem to be confusing New Year's with Spring.

The Vietnam Veterans of America organization cold-called last week to ask if we had anything we might like to set out for donation right before the New Year. I eyed the bag of clothes meant for the thrift store that'd been sitting by the front door for over a month and told them yes, we'd have at least a little something. They sounded grateful. I gather these calls don't usually end so successfully, if they even start in the first place. We are, after all, like the only people in this country who don't have caller ID.

The day before the pick-up they called to remind me and verify our address. That was just the motivation I needed to gather more stuff. I started with the storeroom under the stairs where I'd been collecting items meant for the thrift store. Items which, in all honestly, would probably wither and die before ever finding new friends through consignment; the thrift store's schedule simply doesn't jive with my life and I'm finding weeks turning into months before I make it there with another load.

Besides, truth be told, all that money I've made consigning? I just tallied it: in the past year I've commissioned $473.68. And it's probably all gone right back into the thrift store. Much of it on needed items, yes -- shoes and clothes for the kids, for instance. But much of it? Meh, not so much. Just impulse buys that were such a bargain. It's one thing to get Sean-Peter some snow boots when he's outgrown his old ones. It's another to get him a cute shirt because it's such a bargain at $2.75, when he's already got a drawer full of cute shirts that were such a bargain. That's a weakness of mine, one I am going to work on this next year. A resolution, perhaps?

Repeat after me:

"Just because it's a bargain doesn't mean you can afford it."
"Just because it's a bargain doesn't mean you need it."

Even when it's for my kids. Especially when it's for my kids.

Let's all stamp that on our debit cards, shall we?

I gathered a decent pile rather quickly, but this was just the beginning. I decided to tackle a daunting, neglected task: my room.
You can't really tell from this photo but that pile is double deep. You might notice the tag still on at least one of the items. The bag is a backpack I bought in Sausalito some 15 years ago. I still love it, but it's frayed at the ends and I probably haven't used since three moves ago. One of the sweaters is from high school. More than a few shirts I've had since college, over fifteen years ago now. Another sweater has a tag from Montgomery Ward. Did you know Montgomery Ward's going out of business after 99 years? I hadn't realized they were still in business.

And no, those are not my dinosaur footy pajamas. The little ones' outgrown clothes often camp out in my space while they wait for me to find them a new home.

I've been carrying around so many things mindlessly, move to move, place to place, pregnancy after pregnancy... I always lost the weight after each baby, effortlessly, by breathing, it seemed. But in the last two years I've gained almost ten pounds that seem to be here to stay, and I don't mind, actually; I always wished I could gain weight but I'm one of those people who never could, until now. Comes with age, I suppose. I only wish it would redistribute itself a bit (why couldn't it all go to my boobs?) but that's another topic.

So I aimed a critical eye at everything I owned, figuring out what no longer fits and being honest with myself that it never will again. And fessing up about the things I simply don't wear even though they're perfectly good clothes. If I said to myself, "I might have a use for that someday," I got rid of it.

Then I moved to the linen closet. That most wondrous of American inventions and something I so took for granted when we moved here that I just threw things in there willy-nilly. And there those things have sat for almost a year-and-a-half.John was concerned when he saw this pile. "What about towels for when we have guests?" I told him to go look, just go look, at what is still in the linen closet and then try to explain to me exactly why do we still have so many towels? Why? Why? And where on earth have I been keeping them when we didn't even have a linen closet? I think that's what happened: they were stuffed somewhere so elusive they survived by evasion.

And three solitary fitted sheets. What happened to the matching flat sheets? And how long have I been carrying around half a twin? Another mystery for the ages, like the socks that disappear in the dryer, things just up and walk away (sometimes with a little help) with every move. The only question is, how many moves ago.Pillowcases. All of them. No, we don't own this many pillows. Yes, everyone already has pillows on their beds with pillowcases on them. I really can't explain this. Does anyone else have a problem with abundance?The final pile, gathered in one day. There's more back by the cat that's not quite visible. Although the cat's a keeper. Even though he still tries to sneak out the door every chance he gets. Look at him there, just waiting. Like he knows all this stuff has to go outside. Stinker.

I didn't stop once they carted this stuff away. I tackled the entry way closet next, Sean-Peter's closet ... wonderful inventions, these closets. Very dangerous. And we've never had so many before. About the time I get around to utilizing them effectively it'll be time to move again.

And I went to Goodwill today, to take back some jeans that didn't fit Olivia. She does need jeans. Just one more good pair will help get her through the winter, but I got her two. Oh, and a dress.

Which she didn't need.
But this is one little girl who loves her dresses. The sparklier the better. And for $2.19? Come on.
This is why I don't make New Year's Resolutions. I already fell off the wagon.

Home Improvement Take One: Basement - Check

I'm well overdue in showing off the fruits of my painting labor, which came to a halt rather abruptly when we found out for sure that we aren't moving again next summer. (At least, we think it's for sure.) I put away my brushes and declared a moratorium on home improvement, for the time being. I did finish the basement, though. Mostly. (If you look real, real close you'll see some edging areas that require some taping, no problem.)

I wasn't exactly on top of the whole before picture taking, thang. But this gives you an idea of where the basement began.
The ladder obviously indicates that I was already beginning the work when it occurred to me to try to document what I was dealing with, looking a little closer...Reams and reams of wallpaper border.Miles and miles...

I have decided that people who put up wall border should be fined. Kind of like the Italian Financial Police (yes, there is such a thing) who go sniffing around knocking on doors checking to see how many radios and Tv sets you own so they can tax you for them. "And how many rooms in your home have wallpaper border?"

Or maybe a little cash compensation come closing time when you buy a house that has the stuff in it -- unless the buyer is in agreement that it's in good taste, which it never is. Wallpaper will make a comeback someday, I do believe. But wall border should just slink away quietly and acknowledge that it had a good run while it lasted.

Removing the border took weeks and weeks. A mile here, a mile there. The more time I spent on that ladder, the less time I concerned myself with what was underneath it. The basement looked more and more like this...
...and I couldn't bring myself to care. I was on a mission; there was no time for parental oversight.

But all that's behind me now, I'm sure of it. Once the border was finally gone I could paint, and that is gratifying. Because I love my basement, I really do. Love love love!

And don't you? I mean look at it! The space! The opportunity! The color! (That's Sherwin William's safari for you fellow paint freaks out there.) Alles in Ordnung now, thank you very much.

We've lived in apartments with balconies a quarter the size of this basement. We've lived in "stairwell housing" with no direct outside access at all. We've had houses with yards the size of postage stamps. We've never had a basement before -- a livable one, that is.

This affects your entire life when you have small children. No "sending them outside to play", or "go downstairs if you're going to run around like that" when it's dark or rainy out. Even though I still find my little ones inexplicably under my feet whenever I'm in the kitchen making me wonder why we're paying the taxes or the size of our mortgage to have all this space if they're not going to use it ... at least I have the option to threaten them with banishment.

And really, they love the basement, too. It's their very own romper room. Perfect for rolling around and relishing the fresh just-vacuumed of it all...

Or for pretending they're animals...
Like deers butting heads (or maybe it was rhinos?)... Or just standing on those heads...
And don't forget the dancing. We mustn't forget that...
Or the bowing...
And the trains. Oh, the trains! Even though I got this great deal on a train table at the Thrift Store a few months back, Sean-Peter still prefers to spread out a big track on the floor.

His passion for them has not waned in the slightest.

Olivia's interest is a little differently motivated. "Look, I made a C!" Oh, and then there's the laundry. *sigh*
Basements may not do the laundry for you, but at least it's a place where you can put it out of your sight. Even if sorting is a foregone endeavor when the kids make like it's fodder for building a fort. At least that means they're not under my feet in the kitchen. Because now that it's cold again? They won't can't stay outside forever, catching snowflakes. Or just looking cute.

But there's always the train way station our basement, a place I will never take for granted, no matter how long we end up living here.
(Have you ever known a kid so lucky?)

Waiting for Results, Announcing Some Results -- If Only I Could Have Voted

Every time I've been out driving around hither and yon on errands and to appointments I have slapped my wheel and said, "Now why didn't I bring my camera?" Ohio's Fall Foliage is like a postcard everywhere you look, yes. But the foreground of the photo I would have taken and posted here would have shown a McCain sign facing the street at one house, and an Obama sign on the property right next to it.

That is pretty much par for the course around here where there are tons and TONS of signs, though truth be told the McCain signs outnumber the Obama ones probably two-to-one. I have no idea how much this Dayton suburbia reflects Ohio's neighborhoods in general. Or if the number of signs accurately portrays the number of voters for each candidate here. But if the polls are to believed then it's still not going to make a difference in the outcome of this election.

I am just sick, though. Sick, I tell you. Sick, sick, sick. Because I never received my absentee ballot from the state where I am registered. I received it for the primary, I know. But only belatedly have I realized that I never got it for the general election which means I never voted. How could I miss that? I don't know. I'm trying to remember what mailing address was on the last one -- it must have been our APO Box from Italy, because it would stand to reason that they never updated my mailing address to reflect the one in Ohio. And we have now passed the year mark for our time here and therefore exceeded the post office's statute for forwarding mail. I would like to say I'm certain I updated my address directly with the Texas voter registration powers-that-be. But quite honestly, I can't recall that for sure, either.

Sick, sick, sick.

My one consolation is that the state I'm registered to vote in is Texas, where the outcome should be a foregone conclusion. One little vote from little old Jolyn wouldn't make much of a difference there. But still. It is my right and my duty to vote, and I missed it.

I heard on the radio earlier today (I've mostly been avoiding the news since then.)(mostly.) that the number of registered Democrats showing up at the polls was outnumbering the registered Republicans by two-to-one in some places, even more in others. I could make some bad jokes in really poor taste here, but I'll stay serious and say that, if Obama does indeed win, the ones who didn't vote brought him into office just as surely as the ones who voted for him directly.

Unfortunately, that now includes me. Drat.

Did anyone else notice an overwhelming sense in the air today? This morning, before my day got busy, but just as it was getting underway, I felt a very real spiritual presence and it stopped me in my tracks. It very clearly came to me that it was the power of prayer, of thousands upon thousands of prayers being offered up in the face of this monumental election. I could feel it, so profoundly, in the room with me, and it was very calming. It reminded me what I already knew about this country, that we are a nation founded on the power and truth and will of God. And no matter the outcome of this election, He will not abandon us so long as we continue to seek Him. And I felt at peace.

The power to vote is important, yes. Vital, even, to a democracy. But the power of prayer will never leave us, long after the polls are closed and the winner announced. I have been told that it would take an Act of God for McCain to win, because he sure didn't make it happen on his own. I'm guess I'm saying that, whoever takes office, the power of prayer will still be there. And miracles do happen.

*****

For as long as we've been married, John has aspired to join the military's foreign area officer program -- or whatever the nomenclature happens to be any given day. I have alluded on this blog that we may be leaving sooner rather than later; and my family and friends (like, live and in person) have known that he had put in an application several months ago for the Air Force's RAS program, something that he met all of the qualifications for and then some.

We found out today that he didn't get it, and we were both very surprised. Time will tell if he's able to find out why, because honestly, we can't think of a reason. Everything on paper was strong. The initial part of the program includes attending a graduate school full-time and earning a Master's ... could be that they were looking for candidates who already have their Master's. Sounds illogical, but that's how the Air Force often works.

I am very disappointed for John, of course. He has wanted this for so long. And I was really taken off-guard because I was the one telling him all this time that I thought he was going to get it. But after I processed it for a bit I have to admit...I was relieved. This takes so much pressure off, knowing that we're not moving again already next summer. It literally changes the way I can think, now that there's no longer the possibility of having to put this house up for sale so soon, or prepare for an interruption in Sean-Peter's therapy and having to start advocating for him from scratch in a new state, with new doctors, new therapists, a new school district...

And Conner is happy, of course. What thirteen-year-old wants to leave his friends? And yes, we're open with him about the possibilities in our lifestyle. He's already moved eight times (yes, eight times) so he knows the deal. But he's older now and that only makes it harder. A bit of stability is certainly not a bad thing.

But no, we did not burden the little ones with any abstract nonsense of a possible move to another state in the equally abstract future. Olivia still dramas on about Italy, for pete's sake. Just today in the car she says, "Just think, me and my friends Emma and Catherine and Chloe and Grant all used to live in Italy all together!" And then she sighed, audibly, and so very poignantly. Good Lord Almighty that girl can pine.

As for me, now I will paint that rainbow mural she's been wanting in her room after all. After taking a break from painting in general, if only to relieve my painter's wrist. And I will check out this women's chorus group that I just found out about, though I haven't sung in a proper choir in years let alone auditioned for anything. And I will think about living in this house, just for me, without thinking about what projects I need to get done in the interest of staging for a hopeful sale in which we just as hopefully won't lose our shorts. In general, in so many ways, I will allow myself to settle rather than tell myself why bother. Until he got the results, I hadn't even realized how much I was doing that.

It's almost difficult to imagine staying in one place for four years. We've never done that. (Yes, we're psychotic.) I've always made myself at home wherever we've lived. But four years? This might actually start to feel like home. A couple of weeks ago I had finally ran out of checks -- you know, the kind you write out by hand for the occasional order of firewood or the payment to your daughter's dance lessons at the small family-owned studio... (as opposed to the ones the bank mails for you on bill pay). Now I'm thinking, I might actually use the whole box before we move!

I'll tell you one thing for sure: I am going to go ahead and register to vote. This absentee business is for the birds -- or for people who move more than every four years. At least if I show up in person I have a half-way chance of remembering I did it.

Meet The Huckster

We finally succumbed.

Actually, we rescued him from a ditch off the highway after The Storm. He was wet and hungry and meowing pitifully, we couldn't just leave him there.

That's not really true, but it's a nice idea. In reality we got him from a vet who did rescue him. They named him Huck Finn, hence The Huckster. And we decided to get a cat to commemorate our one-year anniversary in Ohio.

That's not actually true, either. Although we did close on our house exactly one year ago, so that would be a nice idea, too. In reality, the kids have been begging for a dog, but since we already have Sean-Peter we told them a cat would have to do.

Okay, okay. Sean-Peter's not really a dog. But he did pee on Conner's bedroom carpet today -- again. So that sort of qualifies.

The truth is, the kids have been wanting a dog and a cat, and since we don't have a fence, and we might not be here this time next year (another story) making it fiscally impractical to get one right now, and cats are generally easier pets to transition to...

Meet, The Huckster. He loves his carrier, and is generally laid-back. Already seems to be the perfect moving cat. And that may be important sooner than we thought.

a PUNCH and People That Rock

I was planning on posting a word about Ohio people, because they rock. At least the ones that live by us do.

But Conner came home from a Scout campout today and when I went to pick him up he told me that another kid punched him on the bus. So that's kind of on my mind right now.

Because, huh? Punched him? My Conner?

Conner's okay. The other kid is smaller and his fist basically glanced off of Conner's cheek; there's not even a bruise. And I met this kid yesterday, who's also coincidentally named Connor. (I'm just assuming he spells his name with the "o", since, like, everyone assumes Conner's name is spelled that way, so I guess every other Conne/or is spelled with an o, too. We had to go and be different. Lucky Conner.)

The other Connor is younger than mine and, I thought when I was around him, kind of goofy. Now I think a little differently. Now I'm worried for him and wondering if he's headed down a bad path. After hearing more about him from my Conner (they were paired up as tentmates) he sounds like at the very least he is a bit of a social misfit. At the worst he might be a sociopath. Just kidding. Just a little mama bear sneaking out. But he does remind me of those kids with symptoms of watching too much tv and playing too many video games: their minds struggle to differentiate between electronics they either passively watch or actively control and the social reality around them. Connor is the type of kid who would just pop into an active conversation and say something inane, leaving everyone standing there blinking and unsure of how to react, but usually by just ignoring him. And, ultimately, going out of their way to avoid him.

I try to be so careful of there being two sides to a story: after all, how many times have I heard my own son give his subjective version of an incident that I personally oversaw and heard quite differently?

Thing is, anyone who knows my Conner cannot conceive of anything he would do to justify someone hauling off and hitting him. This is the kid whose preschool teacher once told me that she waited to intervene when Conner and another kid were having trouble, because she wanted to allow time for Conner to stand up for himself so the other kid would learn that he couldn't get away with doing that to him (whatever it was, I can't recall). This is the child who, in Italy, came home at one point last year because he had stood up to one of the bullies in the playground, and the other guy had backed down. That was huge for Conner, and I could tell a difference in his confidence level after that incident. He also learned the valuable life lesson that bullies are usually just scared little people. Although I don't think he appreciated that at the time.

It has taken me much of the day to digest what really happened on the bus and what I think should be done about it. I have my ideas, but I am respectfully waiting to see what comes from the Scout leaders once they have had a chance to discuss it among themselves. Apparently it had happened just before they arrived back in town, and once they did it was the usual chaos and disarray of unloading and meeting up of parents and scouts and making sure all the gear was taken care of and no one had a chance to really get a grip on what had transpired, including myself.

I am learning some valuable things about this and am having things I already knew further cemented in my brain. I was standing there near my Conner at the gathering while they were making final announcements (Lord help me, this is a large Scout troop and can these things take forever) and watching the other Connor and his mom across the way and thinking, I can't believe she hasn't even said anything to me, her son going and hitting my son like that. Even if there were a good reason shouldn't she offer up an apology or something? At least come to me to talk about it? And there she is, standing there like she doesn't have a care in the world.

So I'm standing there stewing and turns out that she didn't have a clue that anything had even happened. Which I found out when she came up to me later and said something about "next time" to which I replied that I didn't think it would be a good idea for our sons to tent together again. And when she said, "Why, what happened?" I immediately turned to her Connor and said, "You mean you didn't tell your mom about what happened on the bus?" And when he just looked down I told her that her son had punched my son on the face, and he was okay, but she might want to talk to her son about it and find out what happened. She just turned directly toward him and kept saying, "You hit another kid? You hit another kid? You hit another kid?" (I resisted the urge to wave and say, Yoo-hoo! Over here! Um, that would be MY kid.")

But when her Connor finally looked up and said, "Yea, I did. But he made me really, really mad." I knew there was nothing more for me to say. He seemed so...disconnected. Oh, yes, Boys Will Be Boys. But did it ever occur to this boy that if he hauls off and hits someone that that someone might hit him back? He clearly acted like, I was mad, so it was justified. Now, they weren't in a heated argument; they weren't having a political debate or arguing over who was better at whittling a stick, or whatever. According to my Conner, the other Connor had grabbed something out of Conner's hand, and Conner had grabbed it back. A grabbing war ensued and within seconds Conner felt the punch, which was so random and sudden that he felt his hand ball into a fist, but (luckily for the other Conner) instead of hitting back he raised it into the air, which called a scout leader to come help.

A little part of me almost wishes that Conner had hit him back. But the grown-up in me is so glad he didn't, not just because it was the right thing to (not) do but also because it wouldn't be so clear who was in the wrong if he had: it would have become more of a he said/he said and been translated into "Conner and Connor got into a fight" instead of one boy clearly starting it by hitting the other.

This is one of the hardest things about moving around, when your kids are in activities in a new city and no one knows you from Adam and you have this balancing act of advocating for your child without sticking your nose in where you don't belong. Conner is still a child. On the cusp of teenagehood, but still a child. I will follow through on this to make sure that my Conner is treated fairly and not just lumped in with the other kid as being equally involved in an altercation. But dang if I'm not out of my element with this Boy Scout Thing, what with my being a girl and all.

And I was a little bothered by the reaction of the one volunteer adult leader whom I approached before we left, who said that they would both probably get a "strike" simply because they were both involved, but acted like it wasn't a big deal; you know boys will be boys and all. At the time I couldn't quite put my finger (or my words) on why that didn't seem right, but when I called John later to tell him what happened he said it best, "It sends the message that you'll get in the same amount of trouble whether or not you hit him back, so you might as well hit him back."

I got a different impression from a scout leader who called to talk to me this afternoon about what happened. This "kid" is quintessentially what Scouts is all about, in my opinion. Here he is, a high schooler, taking charge of an incident that could potentially be volatile, what with hot-headed soccer moms and all, and doing it with maturity and sincere concern for the people involved. In Scouts, see, it's the Scouts who are in charge; the adult volunteers are really there just to facilitate and oversee things to make sure that, you know, no one gets punched, or anything.

This Scout seemed to be getting a grip on the situation and was very concerned that this was going to taint my Conner's experience and cause him to give the whole Scout thing up. And very well it might have: certainly if you had asked him right after he got off the bus if he wanted to keep doing Scouts it would have been a resounding No -- he was quite upset, after all, and really, really mad himself.

But I am learning that, Boys Will Be Boys and all, that you really shouldn't hold back when it comes to doing what you feel is right by your own child. I do have concern for this other Connor: I'm worried that his mom might react by pulling him from Scouts, when he is really one boy who could really benefit from it. My Conner told me later that the other Connor's dad died (when, I don't know) from cancer, and that he had a twin brother who died at birth. For a boy to share this with another over one weekend? You know there's pain there. And what struggles a mom faces raising a son alone after suffering such loss, I can't imagine.

I will stand up for what I believe is right by my son, and I hope to convey to them to somehow encourage the other Connor to face -- to recognize -- this with the responsibility that is his, while still encouraging him to stay involved with the troop himself. Just maybe not in the same tent as my son.

So. I'm not going to go on about how my neighbors rock. How Darlene behind us called and asked if I would like to get out Saturday afternoon by myself? You know, since my husband's away? These are the neighbors who already have been taking Conner to his Scout meetings for me, which would be difficult for me to do what with the little ones needing to go to bed in the evening before it's done and all.

I was like, "Well, I don't know. I mean, I don't even know how to think about that!" because, truly, I am simply so used to not having a life. And it turned out that it really was more important that the little ones and I go hang out at the Scout campsite with Conner for awhile (and in retrospect isn't it good I made an appearance? besides, Olivia couldn't get enough of "exploring in the woods", no matter that stupid mom only put sandals on Sean-Peter because he has an owie on his toe so "No gocks, mom" only it's a miracle that his trying to keep up with big sister didn't take off his toe altogether) so I didn't take her up on it -- this time.

And I'll just barely mention how my neighbor Bob across the way ended up mowing our whole yard with his awesome riding mower after I asked for his help to start our little push one which has been dormant all winter and I can never start a cold mower and Conner (so far) is just as pathetic as I am. And not only did Conner so luck out because he was charged with tackling it but so was I because I was going to have to make him do it and listen to him gripe and moan and complain even more when I make him go over the big swatches he misses so obvious to the naked eye yet I can't tell where I've been! is what he always insists.

So I'll spare you, because this has gone on long enough as it is.

One of the most annoying things about moving around regularly is always having to find a new hairdresser. I finally got a very overdue haircut the other day, and it went a bit awry. That is, I ended up getting a whole new hairstyle after the stylist tried to correct her mistake on one side...

...and the "trim" turned into a hack job.

See? Now I know, I don't usually post pictures of myself, so if you don't know me personally you really don't have a comparison. Oh, wait -- let's see if I can find a before photo......Yea, so here I am with Olivia banging around on my nephew's drums. I didn't exactly know what I was doing, which wasn't surprising since I can't recall having ever picked up a set of drumsticks before in my life. Except the kind you eat.

It was surprising, however, that this hair stylist -- the manager of the salon -- didn't seem to know her way around a head of hair. My hair. To her credit, it seemed to surprise her more than it did me, almost to the point of mortification, as the "fix" turned into inch after hacked-off inch.

See? It's even shorter in the back. Although Sean-Peter doesn't seem to mind, gazing up at me so adoringly with those beautiful blue eyes and pouty chapped lips.

But where was I. Oh, yea, so after I got home and freaked out a little bit -- I mean, I told her it was no big deal, it's just hair that will grow again blah-blah-blah...which I did believe at the time, until I got home and saw how Lord almighty it is short! I actually started liking it a bit. And in a couple week's time when I can better tuck it behind my ears again I think I might even love it. But what do you think?

I'm really, truly, not fishing for a compliment. I'm genuinely curious. Because I haven't had my hair this short since ... I'm not sure, like another lifetime ago?

In the meantime, here's Olivia again in her new dress. Yes, it's from the thrift store. Really, truly I have been doing a pretty good job of not spending money nor bringing unnecessary stuff into this house, but Olivia actually needed some clothes, and I made a point to avoid the women's sweater rack.

She does love her dresses. And she looks so, I don't know, all prim and proper-like, or something. Boots notwithstanding. Which were also a thrift store purchase, by the way, since she's outgrown her others.

Oh, wait. Something is missing.

Ah, that's better. You can almost smell the attitude.

Tithing and Vegas

*Author's Note: I just retrieved the post below from draft form where it has been languishing for a week or two ... for those of you who have been privy to our struggles with the Vegas house ... IT IS NOW RENTED! Can I get a w00t?!

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Have I ever mentioned that we're really rich? What? You say I haven't? Hmmm ... well, maybe that's because WE'RE NOT. At least not in the fiscal sense. But we've been pretending like we are: We've been going around like we're All That and A Bag of Chips and it ain't no thang to pay on two houses -- yes, TWO -- and still keep the shirts on our backs.

It really hasn't been our fault, completely. We’ve had this cute little house in Las Vegas that we bought when we moved there right after 9/11, just the three of us, since this was pre-Olivia and Sean-Peter. And it suited us just fine, this little house, and the Vegas market took off and we were so pleased that we had taken the Homeowner Plunge, what with our lifestyle of moving around making that kind of scary. God Was Good and All That. And when it came time to move, not quite three years later, we decided to rent it out, you know, "just for awhile". The market was on fire and it seemed like there was no stopping it.

Yes, yes, I know. It's easy to hear the fire alarms going off now. Because stop it did, as we all know. And while hindsight is 20/20, I do feel I have to defend our lack of prescience by explaining how we had decided to go ahead and sell, the summer of 2006, at a time that we now recognize would have been the last possible good time to sell. But literally two days after we gave ourselves the nod and contacted our property manager to talk about the next step -- John got his orders for deployment, and we decided to put it off until he got back. Heh-heh. God was chuckling. Or maybe just shaking his head, those poor, poor fools.

Because John got back last Spring and we all know what was happening with the housing market by then, all over the country, but especially in the places (like Vegas) that had seen such tremendous -- and ridiculous -- skyrocketing property appreciation. We should have just left well enough alone, of course. The house was rented out just fine, after all. But as my grandma used to say, "Some people are just meant to learn from their mistakes". So we very naively decided to put it up for sale, "just to see what would happen".

What happened was a big, gigantic snowball effect that started out as a query to a realtor and reassurance to our tenant that he could stay there until the place sold, if it did -- no one was getting booted to the street or anything ... but resulted in an empty house that has steadily been draining our resources ever since.

The amazing thing, really, is that we have been able to financially support that house for as long as we have. A big reason we were able to for so long was because of the additional living allowances that you get when you're stationed overseas, not to mention the financial compensation when you're deployed (which isn't nearly as significant as most people think).

When John got his first pay after moving to Ohio, I was looking at our account and I said, "You need to check your LES, because this can't be right." I had known we were in for a pay reduction after moving Stateside, but I hadn't actually sat down and spelled it out, so to speak.

Indeed, we hadn't been in Ohio long when I spoke to my friend Ruth, who had moved from Italy to the States the same time that we did. How about that sticker shock? was what I clearly remember her saying. Thing is, Ruth and Mark had actually bought a house in Texas while still in Italy. (Yes, it was a headache, but so is house-hunting with preschoolers. I'm still not sure who suffered more.) So they pretty much landed on American soil with their first mortgage payment in hand. Sitting in our hotel, I was still just musing that our pay seemed awful low...

Just to spell it out a little more clearly: John's take-home pay went down almost two thousand dollars. A month. He did bring home an LES, and there was no mistake. Um, living in Italy is more expensive, but...

After we bought our house here in Ohio that whole thing with the house in Vegas started to hurt. Really bad. It was clear that the housing market had tanked. We were liking our realtors but they just didn't have much to work with: no one wanted to buy houses, and if they did they wanted one of the brand-new ones with the free pools and cash allowances and three-years-with-no-payments perks that builders in Vegas are now offering because they can't sell their houses, either.

So we took it off the market, and we got with a new property manager, and we signed a new contract and put it out for rent. And that sentence doesn't quite illustrate the slow and arduous torture it has been to deal with this Vegas house while moving from another country and buying a house to live in and finding our way around a new city whilst unpacking boxes and feeding and caring for three children and otherwise keeping them alive.

(Oh, and have I mentioned that John has been consumed with SOS?)

A couple of weeks ago, shortly after we got everything squared away with our new property manager, John got online and told me that there were many, many (many-many) houses just like ours for rent in the MLS system. I don't remember how many he said because I gave him the wave-off: I really didn't want to hear it because I wasn't worried. Even at the time I wondered if I was just putting my head into the sand, but I simply wasn't concerned. No matter that we had reached the end of our financial tether. What would happen would happen. Fretting about it wasn't going to help, though Lord knows I did throw up many a prayer along the lines of, "Uh, help?"

And thank God, because there really is something I'm trying to say with all of this. Two things, actually. The First Thing is that our house rented!! Hallelujah!! Can I get an amen? And just in time for Christmas! -- can it get any better? And the second, and Greater Thing, is that through all of this we never stopped tithing. And don't think that I didn't think about it. Because I did.

But to the credit of both of us, when we sat down and looked at our mutating financial situation and tried to get a grip on our responsibilities in our new home and were faced with the fiscal reality of the Dollars That Don't Be, neither one of us suggested not tithing for awhile. At least not out loud. And now that I look back, I don't think for a minute that Thing One and Thing Two are unrelated.

This whole tithing thing does freak me out. It's not a word I grew up hearing, possibly because I just wasn't paying attention, and it totally takes me out of my skin and makes me want to hyperventilate. Over the years I have been hearing others' inspirational tithing testimonies, and eventually I realized that they had something to do with me: I already knew what the bible said about it, after all. It took a bit longer for John and me to be in sync, and when we finally took the plunge to tithe, to really tithe, not just "give an offering", it was pretty scary, but ultimately uneventful. The roof didn't fall in and the heavens didn't sing out. But we were being obedient, and it felt good.

My favorite passage about tithing is from Malachi in the Old Testament:

"...Bring all the tithes into the storehouse,
That there may be food in My house,
And try Me now in this," Says the Lord of hosts,
"If I will not open for you the windows of heaven
And pour out for you such blessing
That there will not be room enough to receive it..."

I've been told that this is the only place in the bible where God challenges us to test him. It's like he's saying, "Just try me, and see if I don't take care of you better than you could ever think to take care of yourself". The beginning of the passage starts out with a little fear, by the way, but I'm okay with that: More people could stand to have a little fear of God put into them, what with God Is Love being preached and harped about everywhere you look. God is Love, but He is also Sovereign and Holy and Just, and a little reminder of that is not a bad thing.

But I don’t believe we were testing God so much as simply trusting Him: That He is who He says He is and He will do what He says He will do. At the time the house in Vegas rented we had just reached the point where we were hanging on by a thread and something needed to be done -- we were down to the wire where decisions needed to be made and plans needed to be waylaid. If tithing didn't go, something else had to. I mean, those tithing dollars could sure take care of a lot of expenses ...

But it just felt like, if we stopped tithing, then we would be getting rid of the only thing we could be sure of in this unsure world. Continuing to tithe despite our dwindling balance felt more like we were saying, "Okay, God, we're doing what you told us to ... uh, now what?" I guess this is my little way of shouting out to the world that It's Real and It's True. Now, we were never starving, people: It wasn't a matter of putting basic food on our table. But we decided to be obedient, and I guess we took God up on His challenge as well. And I feel like, a couple of days ago, when we found out our house rented so quickly it was like a little wink with a thumbs up and a nudge in the ribs: Good job staying on track ... it does matter, and it does make a difference.

And if anyone is interested in buying a cute little house in Vegas, just let us know. I'm sure we could work something out.

The Washer and Dryer Challenge

Now that the closing for this house is right around the corner and it actually looks like we are going to get out of this hotel room, I can think seriously about getting a washer and dryer. John and I went to Sear's the other day to get an idea of what's out there and it is seriously overwhelming. Then it occurred to me, what better way to get tips and recommendations than through this blog?

Calling all readers (you are out there, aren't you?): Help me!

What brand is best? What brand to avoid? Kenmore. Whirlpool. Maytag. More brands. Brands I've never heard of.

The stackables are out, simply because this house does have a laundry room and I seem to recall there are built-in cupboards up above. They're an unnecessary expense, it seems, unless you really need the space-saving.

The front-load washer option also seems to automatically add several hundred dollars. Is it worth it? Why would I need to have that? One woman I ran into -- at the hotel's laundry room, fittingly -- said that those front-loaders take longer for their cycles, though not as long as the European-style we had in Italy (a whopping two hours for one load). She also said you don't have the option to soak. Well, I've never soaked a load in my life: I guess I'm just not attached to my T-shirt and jeans and clothes that my children are just going to outgrow. But I'm certainly not anxious to have longer wash cycles again, either. Especially for no good reason. Even lugging our laundry across the hotel grounds has seemed like bliss because I can do a week's worth of dirty clothes in one evening! You have no idea.

But I digress.

We are not going to be in this house forever --maybe four years -- and it is a fair chance that this washer and dryer won't go with us when we do leave. Then again, they might. But it is also a fair chance that we may rent the house out when we're done with this place and leave the washer and dryer for the tenants, which means they need to be good enough to keep doing the job even after we're gone. The washer and dryer need to be good enough, that is. I don't really care if the tenants are good at doing laundry or not.

Please attach your comments to this post. All you have to do is click on the comments link at the bottom of the post. And go ahead and get over your lazy bums and create a log-in, for Pete's sake! It's really easy, I promise! Even you geriatric-types, you can do it! You can! (Sorry, mom, I'm including you in that, too.)

If you stumbled across this site and have no idea who I am but you just happen to do laundry, I'd love to know what you think, too.

It'd also feel real nice not to look like a loser-blogger who has no readers.

Bubbles and Puddles

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream at Sean-Peter

We took the kids to Young's Jersey Dairy outside Yellow Springs, not too far from the base. It was in the interest of self-preservation that we take a break from our relentless house hunting and get out of the hotel for a few hours. We'd heard of this place from Ruth and Mark, who were stationed here years ago, and then recently from our realtor. But we were still surprised at the size of the business this family has set-up for themselves: a little petting zoo; miniature golf; a driving range; a makeshift "train" ride for the kids as well as a tractor playground they can climb on ... and, of course, "the best ice cream around". Leah, our realtor, told us she decided to stop there once on her way back from Columbus late one night. It was almost midnight and she had to stand in line for ice cream. It was good, but sheesh. Wasn't Conner a good sport to pose for this picture? And the one below epitomizes Sean-Peter: in the nanosecond it took me to raise the camera up and press the button, he had climbed the fence and was halfway over to the other side. Now, I did notice his ascent as I was aiming, but I recognize a photo op when I see one. Note his two siblings standing there, calmly watching the cows -- not trying to join them.

And, yes, he's like this all the time.

Drumroll, Please...

John has been given his new assignment! We will be moving to...





Ohio!

Wright-Patterson AFB, specifically, in Dayton, O-hi-yo. Now, for you non-military folk, being told an assignment is not the same as getting orders for the assignment. It's a bit akin to ordering a meal at a restaurant and then waiting to see what actually shows up on the table: The waiter might not bring you exactly what was on the menu because the duck was too lean that day, or maybe the mushrooms were out of season, but the chef substituted it with something just as good. Really. See if you don't like it. And oh, by the way, that's all we have and we already cashed your check.

Wright-Patt wasn't exactly on our radar as a strong possibility, to say the least. But it was out there, along with all the other possibilities. And while it did make it on John's list of preferences, it was down there a ways and not seriously considered. Kind of like the Presidential Election when you're presented with all the candidates you have to pick among, and you're not real keen about any of them, so you sort of go with the one the least undesirable and hope it jives with what everyone else is choosing, too, so you're not wasting your vote. But, lo and behold, once the majority voted it left you with the candidate that, while maybe not the least desirable, was the least considered, if for no other reason because you didn't think he stood a chance.

That being said, I'm finding I'm quite happy with what's been handed us. Returning to the Midwest is quite appealing: nice people; decent schools; all four seasons; respectable cost-of-living...

In the meantime, I'm taking on a whole new appreciation for the beautiful scenery around us now, and I'm reminded that Ohio will be our first home in six years with no mountains as a backdrop, though we're told that part of the country is beautiful in its own right. Neither John nor I have actually even been to Ohio, we have realized. (Unless you count driving through in a bus, at night, on choir tour my senior year of college.) (I don't.)