Van conversations are always interesting when you have a lot of children.  Innocent questions asked in order to redirect conversation from who got to sit in that seat last time, or questions asked in order to avoid hearing a group chorus of the latest ear-worm sung by pretend Yodas, often yield unexpected information.

After church Sunday, in order to prevent the two youngest from spending time explaining to me the finer points of a video game that they were hoping to play,  I asked my youngest man-child what he had learned in Sunday School.

"There's a really mean kid in my class."  he commented rather cheerfully.

"Oh," was my brilliant reply. "Um, how do you know he's mean?"

"He likes to randomly hit people.  When I walked in the room and was going to the table he punched me in the stomach."

"Oh," double reply from me and his fifteen year old brother. whose ears had suddenly perked up.  Brilliance runs in the family and the fifteen year old has proprietary rights over messing with his little brothers.

Fifteen year old gave a better try, "Don't you think he's just trying to play around like we do when we punch at each other to have fun.  Maybe the kid just doesn't know how to let you know he's trying to be friendly."

Pause from the back seat, "No, he's just mean.  He punches other kids too. "

I jumped back in, "Where was the teacher?"

"She wasn't there yet."

Hmmmm.  I'm thinking fast.

"It's o.k. though," my nine year old explained with a bit of world weary confidence.  "The kid does NOT know how to throw a punch properly AT ALL.  So it doesn't hurt."


I know what I said- but I'm curious; what would you have said to your nine year old, especially if you have a nine year old who does know how to throw a punch properly?


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"How did this happen?!?"

"Who did this?!?"

"Why were you even touching this?!?"

"What is that?!?"

I might as well make these sentences into permanent signs, affixed to foam core,  ready to flash at my younger children as the need arises.  But then I would need to take pictures of blank faces to flash back at myself.

However, as I searched for a non-scavenged package of chocolate chips to bake into cookies I came across this:

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Laundry morning.
13 yo son does all the boys' clothing  I conquer sheets and towels.

That night a 13 yo son pitching a housewife's fit from the boys' bedroom as he tries to get ready to go out, "Where are all the underwear?  Who has them!!!  I washed and put everything away!"

Time to ponder.  Who is lying in the living room and just what, besides the soccer ball did the 7 yo son use to fill out its flesh?




IKEA can't beat this underwear storage idea.






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After martial arts classes or open mat I like to jot down things I learned or things I didn't understand and I especially write things down that I sucked at.   Note-taking after the fact was always my best learning strategy in college.  Doing a mind dump onto paper solidifies and makes real the subjects I'm studying.

Unfortunately, when I get home from martial arts class and everything is fresh and ready for writing I often don't get a chance because of that pesky little thing called Real Life.

Which leads me to the built in note-taking of jiujitsu and sometimes even karate.  Visible reminders.  Those identical bruises on each ankle? Oh yeah, we worked on ankle locks.  The bruise below my clavicle?  Oh yeah, I tried for a triangle but forgot to shimmy up first and my training partner accidentally got me with their elbow.  The Gentle Art may be gentle but accidental hard knocks are part and parcel.

I find it amusing.  My husband less so.  Especially when people look askance at him because of my "visible reminders".

Last night in karate we were training in self-defense, working on blocks.  I have the amazing  lightning response time of a sloth.   A slow sloth at that.  A slow sloth that all the other sloth relatives consider awkward and uncoordinated.

Our sensei mentioned trying to practice, building reflexes as much as possible; I immediately pictured Cato.  He would be a great aid to my martial arts journey but I'm pretty sure I couldn't afford him or the extra drywall repairs.  Instead, I told my 13 year old son, and fellow martial arts student, to please randomly strike at me during the day.

Then we laughed because a lot of caveats have to accompany that instruction.  I pictured standing in line at Starbucks, sporting some jiujitsu bruises, when my 13 year old suddenly throws a punch at my head.  Not exactly socially acceptable; DHS might be notified, or even worse; I might spill my coffee.

But I am renaming my homeschool.

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Since the end of the school year my two youngest boys have not wanted to play in the backyard.  This coincided with the warmer weather and with the unrealistic but eternal hope that the vacuum created by the absence of school work would be filled with unlimited video games.  A hope that cannot come to fruition from the backyard.

The excuses were slightly varied but with a theme.

"There's a mean dog that keeps jumping out of the bushes at us."

"It's too hot, we might get heat exhaustion."  -they learned that phrase after a visit to their Texas grandmother.

"We are afraid of the dog."

"We need a snack."

"That dog might be hiding out there and try to bite us."

"I'm thirsty."

"It snarls."

"I  have to go to the bathroom."

"That dog chased us again."

I couldn't figure out what dog they were talking about at first; when I realized they were describing a tiny Yorkie I was less than impressed.  I had seen an older Toy Yorkie loose in the neighborhood, and wondered about the kind of person that would allow their dog to roam.  But really, afraid of a Toy Yorkie?  I never saw it anywhere near our yard- and I did look, multiple times.  They just really really wanted to lay their bodies across sofas and play video games.

Annoyed with the exaggeration and laziness I told the boys to get over it and kicked them back to the back yard.  When I found them playing, not on our huge play equipment or in the trees but huddled on the porch,  I was annoyed.

A morning or two later I decided to do a walk-through of the back yard picking up toys and boy-detritus (you know, the odd work glove, goggles, an old box, an unauthorized wooden addition to the trees) and was enjoying the general quiet of a yard at rest.  Suddenly, I felt a horrible sting to my bare calf.  I whipped around and there, charging out of the depths of our foundation bushes, was a snarling growling Toy Yorkie.  In My Backyard.  He charged me a second time then upon spying my raised foot slipped away like a ghost through my neighbor's picket fence.

A Toy Yorkie!  It's bite broke the skin and badly bruised my calf.

Hiding in the bushes.

Jumping out.

Snarling.

A Toy Yorkie.

The dog days of summer- when you have to apologize to you sons for not believing them.   Being rather savvy of mothering-guilt they worked the apology into some extra video game time.



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Some nights our dojo's schedule means that it's just my 7 year old son and me taking classes.  This means he does his karate class and then sits and waits for my two adult classes to be over.  He's good about waiting, though sometimes he hears more gory chitchat about the best ways to dislocate random body parts than the average boy his age.  The other night my last karate class was an unusually small group, all of us jujitsu enthusiasts, so our sensei asked our jujitsu coach to lead the work.

I learned several lessons, not all of which were actually part of the drill-work.

1. Kimura's are fun, and working them from the bottom is a great tool.  If your partner is a StrongFirst Kettle Bell instructor who is at least six inches taller than you- forget about trying for a Kimura because except for during drill-work, it's not going to happen.
2. When rolling to get the mount and your partner weighs considerably more- always remember where your kneecap is, and where you would like it to remain.  Seriously, this was an injury-free aha, during a moment of sloppy technique, where I realized just how badly things could and would go if I didn't learn to pay closer attention and apply leverage properly.  
3. Play is work and my youngest child is growing up.  This takes more explaining.  When class ended I realized my 7 year old had sidled up next to our sensei and was sitting on the mat watching the class intently.  We had time for some free rolling so I invited my son to roll with me before I rolled with the other adults.  He leaped at the chance and we started rolling, complete with my verbal encouragements and occasional sound effects, just like we do when we play grapple at home.  After a moment he leaned close as he worked for an arm-bar and whispered, with a glance to the other groups of working students, "Mom, please don't make noises, you're kinda embarrassing me." As his request was politely and rather vulnerably made I complied.  It made me a little sad for how seriously he takes himself, but at the same time I felt like I got to know my youngest a little better.  I think I may have a budding fellow enthusiast.  And our "playing" at jujitsu at home?  - It's all important work to someone growing up on the mat.

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I have a 6 year old that's in a state of "disequilibrium" which, for the uninitiated, means he's got a short fuse and a chip on his shoulder with blinking letters which read, "Unfair".  What's unfair, you ask?  The fact that my son's brain and body have gotten out of alignment in their growth spurts and he suddenly realizes that he is not master of his own domain.... or any other domain... anywhere.  Sometimes it's hard to be six, especially if you have older siblings whom you incorrectly assume have it all together- after all, the 8 year old sibling NEVER loses at Sorry, ergo life is fundamentally unsound.

I took him for a mommy morning; sometimes time away from siblings is good for the soul.  We stopped at the auto parts store and bought a new tail light and red tape and ordered a tail light assembly.  He held the parts while I yanked the old bulb out.  He compared the new light to the old.  He helped me put red tape over the hole in the old assembly.  He walked in the parts store ALONE to return the scissors and say thank you.  He swaggered out.

Next we went to Starbucks.  He bought an Izzy that he coddled the rest of the day.  All his.  No need to gulp.

The County Clerk's office was fun too.  Lots of strange people to look at, and he got to hand the papers to the registrar.  She chatted with him.  He swaggered some more.

Cosco.  The crowning glory.  Inexplicably full of samples early in the day.  Even dropping the free smoothie didn't dampen his mood though they dampened his clothing.   We chatted and chatted and he thought up a menu for the household.   A very alarming man with one bulging eye handed him a small American flag while we were in line.  He thanked the man and self-consciously waved it slightly while I payed.

In the van, I asked him if he had had a nice day with me.  He answered in an uncharacteristically shy voice, "This was the best day ever because for my whole life I have always wanted one of these flags!"

I choose to believe that the flag, in the grand tradition of flags,  represented something more- and even if it didn't, there is nothing more precious than a 6 year old day.






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I once caught my 6 year old riding two scooters, worn as skis, down the hill by our house.  Why?-because one scooter just isn't dangerous enough.

Today I was at the doctor with 3 boys.  Only one actually had the appointment, the other two were dragged in for good measure.

"Doctor, could you look at my 12 year old's hand and shoulder; it's not healing well.  Somehow he keeps mangling himself on his scooter, I'm not sure how."

At this point the weak-link spoke up.  You know, the youngest- the most likely to spill the beans sort of weak link.  Actually, he didn't speak up he sort of sang-up.  "Dumb ways to die.... hmm, hmm hm hmmm."

"What's that?" I stupidly asked.

"We were playing (again he sang the rest) Dumb Ways To Die," was the matter of fact response.

12 year old vainly claimed that he wasn't playing the game.  6 and 8 year olds agreed- "Well he wasn't actually trying to be one of the die-ers but we were crashing into him while we died."

I'm so glad my pediatrician is a mom.

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There exists almost nothing cuter than the Little Dragons class at our martial arts school.  Think of fifteen 4-6 year olds dressed in black gi imitating ninjas.   Then think of fifteen fuzzy kittens dressed in black gi imitating ninjas.

Same difference.

I was kneeling and belting my 6 year old prior to his class.  He was so adorable that I couldn't help myself; I leaned in and asked for a kiss.

An abashed quick look to see who among his fellow students might be watching- then, "Mom, dragons don't kiss, they spit fire."

Combining imagination with diplomacy, good save Son.



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Never underestimate the power of a young boy's brain to make connections other than the ones you expected.

Out errand running and treasure seeking in the china isle of a thrift store my 12 year old son found a navy blazer in perfect condition and the size of my 6 year old.  Now generally speaking when I'm thrifting for china my boys are thrifting for nerf guns not church clothes so I was a little surprised by the level of excitement engendered by the discovery of the jacket.

When we got home my 6 year old raced inside and changed from brown cowboy boots and jeans and a tee-shirt to black cowboy boots, jeans and a dress shirt.

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Sometimes it makes no sense:

Well o.k. then.  Glad I cleared that up.  I haven't even had my coffee yet.

Speaking of coffee, why is anyone kicking before coffee when that's clearly a violation of morning energy output regulations?

Oh, and who's whining now?





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Sometimes the end of summer comes with a crash.  Or a crash followed by a smash and then a shoulder sling.

The two minutes of, "Go to the car and wait for me to lock up," is a time rife with danger.  More clothing, shoes, and body parts have been damaged or lost in that tiny window of opportunity than during all other parts of the mothering day.

I need an immobilizer ray gun.  Picture it: I have all the kids dressed and holding required backpacks for whatever outing we are attempting... Then, ZAAAAPPPPP!  There my children stand, frozen to the spot in the driveway, until my purse, cell phone, calender, snacks and keys are in my bag. The house is quietly and efficiently locked behind me.  Then, ZAAAAPPPP! My children are unfrozen, and enter the vehicle in an orderly fashion while calling me blessed.

No muss, no fuss, no fractured coracoid apophysis* on a last frenetic trip down the slide.  No chance to inexplicably lose a shoe or leave a backpack resting behind a car tire.  No chance to engage in a "discussion" over who gets to climb in the car first.

Beauty is a ray gun. Schematics and proposals now being accepted.





*Pain generally precedes learning the name of obscure bones.

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My 5 yo ran into the house with a gleeful skip or two.  "Look what I made and we put on big brother's back!"  7 yo ran in behind 5 yo probably trying to prevent the show-and-tell before it had a chance for uncomfortable ramifications.

My first thought was, "Wow, It's spelled correctly." And then, "Wow, repulsive."  As I looked up at my apprehensive 7 yo and my smiling 5 yo all I could say was, "Let's not put any more of these on people's backs; I need to go into my room now."

As I shut the bedroom door I heard the 7 yo saying, with not a small measure of surprise, "I think she went in there to laugh."






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Unfairness is part and parcel of life.  Just ask the post office.
Sorry, bad pun.

Anyway, I've never been a big believer in overly protecting my children from unfairness.  It's just too big a job and I'm lazy.  I figure that the sooner they internalize this concept the earlier they can get over it and I'll spare the world 7 new adult-whiners.

Sometimes unfairness turns around and bites me.  My chronically ill 6 year old son has to have lots of portable snacks.  I try to stay away from processed (read expensive and full of junk) snacks but I do keep Extend bars around just in case.  I don't share them with his healthy siblings- they don't need them and see above mentioned- expensive.  Sometimes if we hit a time snag as we are out errand-running this means my 6 yo gets a snack tossed to him in the van but no one else does.

Yes, it is unfair.  But then again none of my other children will go into a coma if they miss a snack.  So we roll with it and mostly the older kids take it in stride.  Mostly.  The 11 yo complained with a quiet groan of, "Man, I'm hungry too." the other day.  I was too- but traffic had slowed us and we were way out of schedule and I have to admit I was perhaps a wee bit grumpier than normal.

I snapped, "Life's not fair- you may not get a snack but you don't have to go to the hospital either, so deal."  Yes, I know, stellar handling.  I am expecting my mothering award in the mail any day now.

What I didn't expect was the 6 year old's serious response.  "Yeah, life isn't fair because when I'm sick I get to go to the hospital and play awesome games on their computers and get go to the play room and get frozen yogurt from Ben and Jerry's and he doesn't."

Thankfully the 11 year old was wise/kind/precious enough to not respond other than smiling at me.



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