There's a Hole in the Table

When I was a little girl, I would often hear “Pacer, come here. QUICK. I need your help.” My Dad, Mr. Larry “Why pay a repair man when you can fix it yourself?” Mirous, much to the chagrin of my mother (who eventually did call the repair man to fix the off-centered ceiling fan) was seemingly always working on a home “improvement” project of some sort. Sometimes when the tools started flying even the dog couldn’t be found, possibly cowering somewhere in a corner. While cuss words were exclaimed (words, as kids, we thought no adult knew), we understood one of Dad’s missions was not going as planned.

Whenever my Dad needed an extra hand to lift something back into place, hold a screw in position, or simply to watch what happened as he flipped a switch in the other room, never having the son he always wanted, he settled for second best—his Staceypacer—known to the rest of the world as his oldest daughter “Stacey”. I never quite knew what I was getting myself into and I can’t say that over the years I was all that helpful (especially the teenage years when talking on the phone with your girlfriends was way cooler than helping your Dad figure out why the toilet wouldn’t flush), but alas my kids know who to hand the plunger to when the pots spilling over with too much poopie-paper.

These days my Dad is the first person I call when I need help figuring out the joys of being a homeowner. Here is a list of some of the things my Dad has helped us with:

~~Putting in a garage door opener (Dad did you ever get that receipt I sent you for the replacement garage door?)

~~Putting the water line in for the refrigerator’s ice maker—which flows ranging from slow to super-slow

~~Hanging shelves in my son’s room which really can support the weight of a 40 pound boy—well almost, you can only see the head wound if you look really hard (just kidding Dad)

~~Hanging a picture on the wall and trusting me to calculate the distance—soon to find we were off about 2 feet—on each side.

~~Hanging window treatments while at the same time drilling a hole in the kitchen table.

And as I lightly wipe over the hole in the kitchen table on a daily basis, more than once, I think to myself I am so glad it is there and he is still here. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

I love you Daddy.

Bloggin Blogger

Does anyone else think it's ironic that blogger doesn't have "blog" in their spellcheck?????

First Official Day

Well, it's my first official day "off" since I finished student teaching and the long-term substitute position that ended on Friday. I had fully intended to lay around the house all day, eating bon bons and watching Jerry Springer; however, my husband decided he would begin major house reconstruction.

Last week while moving the desk, in order to hook up my much-beloved wireless router, my husband holding one end while I lifted the other and....opps "Sorry, it got too heavy" I exclaimed as the desk began to fold like a house of cards. This desk dilemma had hubby at the office furniture store quick as a whip.

And, you know, you can't put a "new" desk in an "old" office. And since we are going to paint the walls and put up a chair rail, might as well put in the laminate floors too. And since he's going to do the laminate floors in the office, might as well do the kitchen too, since that's what we had originally intended to do when we bought the house. So up into the wee hours of the night, I could hear the whoosh, whoosh of the roller up and down the walls. And he guarantees me it will be done by my daughter's birthday party this Friday or my money back!

I'm the type of person that when someone is working around me...I can't just sit back and chill. I think it's rude as someone intensely labors to kick back and observe them, perhaps that's also why I find myself perturbed when others are sitting around just watching me work my fingers to the bone.

So, this morning I was up at five and began the major spring cleaning that was very well needed. My bedroom and bath are done, as is the kids bath....I had to get something done after waking up at 5am on my first day off. There's just something impossible about sitting around in a house when there is always work that can be done, especially when just coming off the go, go, go mode.

So as for the bon bons and trashy T.V., well maybe it will happen on the Second Official Day.

Maternal Desires

I sit with my 8-week-old, newborn niece on my lap, flipped over my leg belly side down, while my two-year old tries to be a part of my blog and a permanent part of the baby's head--by sitting directly on top of it. I, as the wonderfully helpful sister that I am, agreed last night to take Baby LeLe (as my two-years olds tongue cannot form the vowel sounds to say Alyssa) to my house for a sleep-over.

This decision--to spend my day off with a fussy newborn--had nothing to do with the fact that my sister has watched my kids a thousand more times than I have ever watched hers, it has nothing to do with the guilt I am still carrying around because of that one time I was really rude and made my sister cry because she wouldn't watch my kids--you would think that two hours was ample advance notice. Nor was it to become the final test for the silent voice that asks me...Are you sure you don't want another one??? No it has nothing to do with these facts, but rather the wonderful kindness and goodness of my heart--because, ladies and gentlemen, that's just the kind of girl I am!!!

After my mini-breakdown last week, of which I'll spare you the dramatic details (none of which require you reporting me to DCFS--I'm not that psycho), my four-year old looked me in the eye and said, "Mom, you need to let go of your anger" and he was right. Apparently, I may need to learn preschool lessons by watching Veggie Tales with my son instead of using it as the babysitter so I can get my housework done. I was a little worried over this last break-down, but ready to redeem myself with an act of kindness.

I found myself on the couch with the baby sleeping in the carrier on the floor (I didn't want to disturb the rest of the family). My sister was beginning to feel a bit stressed out because the baby was keeping her up all night crying. That little girl slept soundly for me, so sound in fact I kept waking up and looking in her little car seat to make sure she was still breathing. Isn't that the way it goes, the minute you give her to someone else she's a perfect angel?

This little bundle of pink flesh has made me smile, made my kids absolutely delighted with a new toy in the house, and even surprisingly made my husband melt with a softness I forgot was there. Even though she is a really good baby and really cute; I have solidified my previous decision to discontinue the "be fruitful and multiply" command in my own personal life. It's final, no more fruit multiplying in this womb thank you very much!

Honey, here's the info, your appointment is scheduled for Thursday at 3:30.

Drive-Thru Disaster

Each and every single time I actually convince myself: This is the last time I take my kids through the drive-thru. Each and every single time, I lie.

There is a small family-owned hotdog stand right on the corner of my block. They make all their food fresh to order and, for the convenience of the mother with two small kids, they also have a drive-up window. The other day cooking dinner just did not seem like an option I wanted to consider, so I enthustically asked the kids, "Who wants chicken rings and french fries???" After the shouts of "MEEEEEEEEEEEE" subsided long enough for the microphone to hear our order, the girl on the other end told us to drive on up!

It was a nice enough day and knowing we would have to wait about five minutes at the window, I kept the window rolled down at a comfortable level. I paid the woman, using my bank debit card (another reason this place is the preferred choice), and waited patiently--after all I'd rather wait five minutes for a fully cooked meal, than the 60 minutes it would take for me to make it at home--not including the clean up. So the voice screamed and won: DRIVE-THRU!!!!

As we were waiting, the woman disappeared to deep fry my fatty food, my son spoke up softly from the back seat, "Mom, what's her name?" I replied, "I don't know honey." "Well, Mom you have to ask her her name." And for some reason, this day, this time, I did not want to ask her her name. And for some reason, this day, this time, I could not ask her her name. It was as if my mouth was stapled shut, wrapped in plastic, stamped, and already placed on the truck for delivery. Going to the drive-thru was not the only voice that won that day.

As we sat in silence, waiting to get our fried feast, I talked myself out of all the reasons why asking her name was so simple--so simple, in fact, that disobedience would haunt me longer than a simple act which would slip away like words against the backspace. I talked myself out of all the reasons that people are really good deep down and care about others. I talked myself out of all the reasons why it was important to be a good example in front of my kids. I talked myself out of humility and into pride. I talked myself out of courage and into fear.

I grabbed my bag of food, humbled a meager "Thanks," quickly rolled up the window and drove away. My glance in the rear-view mirror reflected the face of a little boy who somehow understood he had just lost a part of something he would never be able to replace. Innocence.