Commotion

Recently Ethan (my most musical child) was playing the piano at the same time one of the girls was talking. "No piano!" I barked.

"Fine!" he retorted, storming off. I couldn't blame him for being offended - after all, he had been executing a nice rendition of "How to Save a Life," not scrapping his nails on a chalkboard. I apologized to him later, explaining what all my kids have already figured out: noise stresses me out.

I didn't used to freak out about too much noise (obviously only an old, stodgy person would do that.) I had music on constantly, especially when Ethan and Abby were babies. I played classical music to smarten them up, jazz to infuse them with an innate sense of cool, and edgy alternative so I could pretend to myself that I wasn't all that far out of college. But then they got older and started talking, loudly and at the same time, and soon Gracie was babbling and the Fisher Price bus was playing music while kids were having tantrums and Barney was singing on TV and Ethan learned to whistle and we got a harmonica and a toy vacuum and a howling hound dog ...

Yep, it was just like that. Only I never wore my hair in a bun.

I told Ethan, "Someday you and the girls will be reminiscing about childhood and you'll say, Remember how Mom always freaked out about noise? And you'll be right. But you have to understand how I got this way."

I explained that I'd been trapped in the van one too many times with too many audio sources: Ethan whistling, Abby and Gracie singing two different songs, and Mira crying because she'd dropped a toy (a musical toy, which managed to land on the floor with its "on" button is pushed in, resulting in Old MacDonald had a farm Old MacDonald had a farm Old MacDonald had a farm Old MacDonald had ...) Oh and let's not forget the top 40 radio that someone begged me to turn up.

"Now my brain cells can't take it," I concluded. "They want out when there's too much noise."

"That's excellent," Ethan said. "I can just picture your brain cells trying to escape."

Apparently he could visualize the scene rather well. Later he drew a detailed picture of my brain cells trying to escape the commotion. I have to admit, I think he captured it pretty well.

Here's the scene he drew:

A close up. I especially like the one in the middle, crying in the fetal position.

Easter (aka "Hamster")

Despite my genuine reverence for Easter, in the back of my mind I can't avoid thinking of the holiday as "Hamster" sometimes. When Abby was three or four, the Easter/Hamster confusion was part of a string of word mix-ups. (There was a boy in her park class named Oscar who she believed was named Whisker, and confusion over titles like "Narnicles of Chronia" and "How the Chimp Stole Christmas", for example).

Easter 2011 was lovely. Of course, there were also a few typical Jackson moments. We began on Good Friday by attending a "children and family" church service. The children were invited to do a craft at the conclusion, a search-and-find thing. Mira was given a plastic bird feeder tube filled with bird seed, into which she dropped various items representing the Easter story. (A small rock represented the stone that was rolled away from the tomb, for instance). I think the idea was that once all of the objects were mixed into the birdseed and the tube was sealed up, the kids could shake it and try to visually locate the various Easter items. Unfortunately, one of the objects in the tube was an M&M (because M&Ms were served at the Last Supper? I never did find out what it was supposed to represent). It was too tempting for Madame Sweet Tooth. She pried the top of the tube off in the three minutes it took to drive home from church, spraying the van and its passengers with birdseed. To top it off, as I stood freezing in nylons and heels vacuuming out the van in the garage, she located my cup of coffee in the house and polished it off. Because she needed that caffeine energy boost.

We dyed eggs that night. Mira discovered that the fun is all in the dipping - and re-dipping, re-dipping, re-dipping. In all the years we've been dyeing Easter eggs I don't ever remember ending up with a final color that can only be described as "dog bile," but Mira managed it. With all three of her eggs.

We had Easter brunch at my mom's and Easter dinner at Randy's sister's house. The kids did an Easter egg hunt at Mom's house. Mira's hunt was the standard deal, but the older three had to decode word clues to find their next egg. The Big Kid got impatient trying to use his sugar-high'ed brain (throwing out wild guesses like "Beryllium Titanium" for "Behind the butter" - really, Ethan?), and decided to blindly turn the house upside instead of thinking, but eventually all the eggs were uncovered. We all stuffed ourselves silly at both meals (I mean, it was a holiday. I was obligated). The double celebration with family on both sides was really nice.

Some pics:

On the way to "bile"

Easter "do"

Back view

Ethan trying to get out of the picture with me. He's passed me up!

Egg hunt

Being Little: The Bane of Her Existence

It's so hard to be two when you think you're 10.

Mira, like many youngest children, absolutely does not recognize the age gap between her and the big kids. In her mind, they are all exactly equal: she can do everything they can do and go everywhere they can go (this type of thinking is definitely going to cause problems when she's three and Ethan starts driving). The worst part is, there are so many big kids around. Yes, there are our three, but the norm on weekends and all summer seems to be a whole gaggle of kids in our house and yard. (We're that house - the one that looks like I'm running a daycare and/or I'm the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe). Today the teens, 'tweens and ten-year-olds numbered seven - and that's not including the ones who live here. As always, the yard is strewn with balls, jump ropes and sidewalk chalk (so classy).

Mira revels in the activity - until they decide to do something she can't do, or simply decide they're done playing with her (let's face it: her aversion to sharing or taking turns gets old. Also, she's a bit of a hinderance when you're trying to go one-on-one with the basketball and she's planted under the hoop).

When the kids jump on their bikes or it's time for the only member of the group who naps to come inside, she falls to pieces. It's really pitiful. She hurls herself at the latched door like a sitcom character trapped in a locked bathroom. She writhes, twists, flops and screams: "ABBY! G! ABBY! G!" ("G" is Gracie. It's ironic but sweet that she thinks her sisters, who are desperate to sneak away from her, will swoop to her rescue when her cruel parents make her come inside). She exhausts herself; teary, snotty, hoarse and heartbroken.

It's worth mentioning that this tragic scene plays out at our house at least twice a day when the kids aren't in school.

The prospect of a whole summer filled with this anguish is a little daunting, not only because the episodes are draining, but because she is a determined and fearless little girl - meaning that she will try to escape back outside to track down the big kids (who may have biked to the coffee shop). That means the adult in charge has to be focused and on top of things. Oh, SO not a good role for me and my muddlement (!)

Some recent pictures...

Watching TV with (on) Ethan