Right Writing

Over the past several months, I have been attempting the writing of a novel.  What was I thinking?  A great great novel is not likely to come off my hard drive unless the laptop is stolen by some thieving, but oddly articulate and verbose would-be author.

My issue is not time.  Strangely, I have been able to make plenty of time to write.  At least one hour per day - check!

Nor is the issue the children.  I have learned to tune them out when necessary.  Ignoring my kids - check!

Another issue that does not belong to me is lack of ideas.  The story is very, very clear in my head.  The habits, preferences, hair/eye color, clothing style of the characters is definite.  Beginning, ending, cause of action/reaction, timeline, setting... all decided.  I KNOW the story - check!

My problem is me.  Every time I manage to squeeze out a new page, my desire to edit, fix, enhance, reduce, replace, upgrade is irrepressible.  If I tear apart the first six paragraphs/first chapter again, my head may explode, resulting in a tumultuous jumble of grey matter covering every surface of my home.

Dreams of capturing the zeitgeist are unreasonable.  Clearly, I will never join the ranks of Melville, Fitzgerald, Hemingway or Steinbeck.  But I had hoped for something between the exhausting descriptions of wheat fields, buffalo and mountain ranges of Michener and the "airplane read" of Koontz.  Perhaps I hoped to be more like King - pandering to the common reader.  Or even Crichton, with his research and twisted medical perspective.

Reality is commanding a much more grounded goal.  Maybe I could shoot for Bombeck, Barry or that guy who wrote about his life in the Canadian marshes with his Asian wife, son and some large, wild cat in the house.  Yeah, that's about the level of success I can expect...  vague references to something written long ago by someone whose name I can't remember.

Folks will really line up to meet that author.  But then again, you read this drivel...

The Demise of Intelligent Speech

Things I never even imagined I would say:

Get out of the dryer.
Get out of the washer.
Get out of the dishwasher.
Get out of the toilet.

Don't lick the floor.
Don't lick your brother.
Don't lick your brother's foot.
Don't lick the dog.

Stop breathing on the cat.
Stop breathing so noisy.
Stop breathing on your sister.
Stop breathing on your sister's dinner.

Take your underwear off your head.
Take the toilet seat off your head.
Take your sister off your head.
Take your sister off the dog's head.

Get your head out of your underwear.
Get your head out of the freezer.
Get your head out of your dinner.
Get your head out of your rear.

Don't start the car.
Don't start the lawn mower.
Don't start that attitude.
Don't start with me.

That's all for now.  I have to go get the lamp out of the toilet before they flush.

"Please speak clearly into the clown's mouth"

Recently it has come to my attention that there are businesses that will bring you to a table with comfortable chairs and give you a list of different food options. Then, a nice young woman or man will come up, let each person select something different from that list of options. They will then trot off to an unseen kitchen from which warm food will emerge just minutes later. But what really beats all is that when you finish eating, they remove the dirty dishes and you never have to see them again.

Of course, there is a nominal fee for this practice, but what price can be put on a meal that is of each person's choosing, not prepared by me, and cleaned up by someone else? Nirvana!

Our meals not prepared at home are typically purchased at a drive through with a perpetually sullen employee over a bad speaker. No matter how organized I am Ronald McSurly always has me repeat the order endlessly. I think the only joy in the minimum wage day may be clustering around the speaker wagering how many times they can get me to repeat the whole order before I surrender and order "just give me two big bags of whatever".

We pull forward, pay at the first window, but then the system starts to teeter. The size of our family invariably results in us being asked to "pull ahead" until they can complete the sizable task. I completely understand why. After all, we are ordering food at appropriate meal times and though large, is probably the equivalent of two, maybe three cars worth of orders. One time, I tried smiling sweetly and saying, "I'll wait here" thinking it would speed them up. There was a quick huddle with the employees and then the manager came and asked me to pull ahead. At that point I felt compliant since I wasn't sure what kind of special sauce might be added to our order.

Of course, we are always asked if we want ketchup. No, no, no, please do not give us ketchup. I am begging you to not put any of those little pillows of destruction within my children's reach. And still, one of the kids will locate one of those mini-monsters and redecorate some part of the tan interior of the Yukon. Why ask? I could just put all the windows down and they could use a Super Soaker and just shoot through the windows. That would be more efficient and yield the same results.

Now, let's move on to the "free toy". Free, my wide-white-rear, there is NOTHING free about those plastic land mines. First, if they are not identical toys there is arguing, pouting and general dismay about how my brother got a better piece of turd than I did. Eventually, though never that day, those sweet little nothings make their way into my home, where the children contemplate their best placement so that I trip and fall down the stairs or into a wall when I step on them at 2 o'clock in the morning.

In short, I think I may try out these restaurant places. They sound kind of cool. Plus, judging by what other people tell me, it is possible to leave the children with some sort of mildly disturbed individual who thinks it is fun to earn money by spending time alone with my kids while The Monk and I try out a restaurant alone.

Sounds great!

How To Tell If Your Kids Are Growing Up

Four examples of growth and maturity as exemplified in the Barber home:

1. Having taught them to always appreciate the meals prepared for them by others, they are very inventive at letting me know they don't care for what I cook for them.
Jared - became a complete vegan, prepares his own meals.
Jacob - eats EVERYTHING I cook now that he has his own apartment.
Brandon - doesn't eat it.. then rustles up something later in the kitchen
Sophia - "Mom, I really like your chicken noodle soup better than this."
Justin - "Do I have to eat this?"
Nico - "I'm just not hungry."
Zoe - "Waaa, waaaa, waaaaaaaa!" ("I want pears instead!")

2. A requirement of living here is that you work... get a job, do chores, be of service to others... do something.
Jared - does home improvement jobs for 14 hours a day, and spends at least 10 hours a week helping at church, no time for chores at home.
Jacob - moved out, cleans his apartment when he knows I'm coming for a visit.
Brandon - in dorm, work study job and outside job.
Sophia - will help anyone clean house, even me, as long as its not her assigned chores. LOVES to help at church.
Justin - "I have chores?"
Nico - "Could I take a day off?"
Zoe - "Waaa, waaaa, waaaaaaa!" ("I have insufficient motor control.")

3. I'm a hugger. I really like to love on my kids.
Jared - "Are you kidding? I'm 23 years old."
Jacob - "Side hugs only. I love you, Mom, but jeez."
Brandon - "Seriously, stop it. My friends are looking."
Sophia - "OK, but I'd rather hug Dad."
Justin - "I love it when you hug me, but I'm not willing to shower or use deodorant except under duress."
Nico - "Hug away, but DO NOT kiss me in public."
Zoe - "Waaa, waaaa, waaaaaa!" ("Hug and kiss me more.")

4. Milestones that are really all about me.
Jared - is 23... proof that I am old enough to have a 23 year old son.
Jacob - is in his own apartment... proof that I am getting old.
Brandon - doesn't want to need me... proof that he thinks I am old.
Sophia - only needs me to do things her way... proof that I am too old to be in public.
Justin - needs for me to get off his back... proof that I am old-fashioned.
Nico - needs for me to be his Mom, not his Mommy... proof that my boy is going to grow up.
Zoe - waaa, waaaa, waaaaaa... proof that I still have most of her milestones ahead of me.

See, when you have seven kids, you get the full spectrum all on the same day!

Partying with the Babies

As told to me by my four month old daughter:

Last night, I went out partying with my friends. It was awesome.

First off, most people might think that I am a little bit young to be out partying at 2:00am, but realistically, of the five of us friends, only one of us is used to being asleep at that hour. The one guy who sleeps through the night is in like the 96th percentile and is already eating an entire jar of squash before his bath at night. I mean seriously, squash? Dude, you are ruining it for the rest of us. We want fruit! If your Mommy tells my Mommy, you are in serious trouble.

But, back to the story of my wild night on the town.

Things started out pretty tame. We were drinking the usual, Enfamil with nursery water chasers. One girl showed off her first tooth and the conversation was centered around the controversy of heating diaper wipes. Run of the mill baby party, right?

Then without knowing what happened, suddenly we were doing shots of breast milk and crawling on the tables. We were rocking out to Rock-a-Bye-Baby and the swings were going full blast. Needless to say, we were pretty hammered. The manager came over with a round of complimentary rice cereal and things started to wind down.

Being responsible infants, nobody drove milked and we were all securely buckled into our backward facing seats when we left the bar. I was home by 3:00am and nestled safely in my crib with my lovey-cow tucked into my armpit.

You know the worst part, though? The morning after diaper.

The Mommy Handicap

I am given to understand that in golf, there is a system of handicapping that somewhat levels the playing field between golfers of different ability levels. Basically, the higher the handicap, the worse the player.

So it occurs to me, perhaps there should be some kind of handicapping system for new Mommies of a somewhat advanced maternal age. For my first baby, I was 25 years old and had no idea the impact time and gravity would be having on my body in later years. Now 45, being a new mommy has surprises.

Let's see if we can come up with a Mommy Handicap to level the playing field for new mommies of differing ages. That way we can compare notes from a more realistic perspective.

Let's say that the 25-year-old-mommy can be awakened at 2:13am by a crying baby, leap out of bed and prepare a bottle in 3 minutes flat. Zero handicap. The 45-year-old-mommy may already be awake because her falling arches are throbbing when the baby awakens. Mommy log rolls out of bed, hobbles to the kitchen, and gets that same bottle prepared in around six minutes. Three handicap.

Next, let's look at the stuff. As small as they are, babies take a lot of stuff. One little infant actually has a footprint in the car equivalent to 3 passengers. The 25-year-old-mommy plonks her baby into the car seat (adding 20 pounds) and lifts that seat with one arm, grabbing diaper bag, blanket, and purse with the other arm. All of these items are hefted to the car and placed with grace and agility into their appropriate position. Stroller, with the trick latch is collapsed, added to the trunk and the trip commences without a hitch.

Oh,so different for 45-year-old-mommy. She gets the baby into the car seat and then carefully organizes the diaper bag, blanket and purse into one reasonably weighted bag. Older children are pressed into service carrying essentials and loading them into car while Mommy takes her time on stairs to prevent any spills. Trick stroller? When I finally understand that engineering brain teaser it will likely be too late. Baby will already know all my curse words. Two handicap.

Anyway, what I guess I am saying is that the physical demands of being a new mommy sure are harder than I remembered. But the rewards are just as fantastic!

Stupid Questions

There are supposedly no stupid questions. I beg to differ. The Monk (a.k.a Michael) and I are constantly besieged with questons like the ones below. I'm not making these up. These are actual questions, asked by actual Barber children. Be warned, the answers are pretty idiotic and were given by actual Barber parents.

1. Can I have a snack?
No, the eggs/bacon/toast/banana/ham sandwich/carrots/lasagna/salad/bread/apple you already had today is enough. Besides, lunch is in an hour. Look it up on this food pyramid.

2. Why do I like strawberries?
It's genetic. Look it up in this Time special on the brain.

3. Why do I have to do chores?
Dusting is your calling. Look it up in the Bible.

4. Why does he have to keep looking at me and breathing?
It's sibling rivilary. Look it up at DrPhil.com.

5. I forget, do we live in a one story or two story house?
Are you kidding? Look it up in Architectural Digest.

6. Can I have a popsicle?
No, we are dead. Look it up in the obituaries.

Truly, however, the really stupid questions seem to come out of my mouth.
1. Do you understand me?
Of course they understand, they speak English. Mostly.

2. Do you hear me?
Seriously? The neighbors can hear me.. through walls... with the windows closed.... with the radio playing on 10.... while wearing earmuffs.

3. Why do I have to tell you more than once?
Because the first three thousand eight hundred and forty five times did not sink in yet.

4. Who did this?
Oh yeah, they are lining up to admit to this one.

But most importantly,
5. Why did we sign up to be parents?
The first time, I can honestly say it was because we didn't know what we were signing up for. After that, I guess I can just be thankful that God gave us amnesia about the bad days. Besides, they are all sleeping as I write this and it's kind of nice to just go around and look at their sleeping faces. I can cover their feet back up ('cause everyone knows the monsters only come out for feet left out of the covers) and know that tomorrow will be a better day. Won't it? Or is that the stupidest question of all?