Still “down in my back” as they say around here, so Nana came over to watch Pumpkin while I walked up to get Monkey at school. On our way home we saw, and heard, something rather disturbing: a boy of about 9 or 10 was positively wailing the tar out of a slightly littler girl. The boy and girl were similar in build and coloring, and turned out to be older brother and younger sister. But still.

When we got up to them, she was sobbing loudly and vainly trying to tie her shoe. And he was vainly trying to get her up off the ground so they could get home. Turns out two other little sisters had run on ahead of them and the big little boy in charge of them all was beside himself with worry.

He told me that she just wouldn’t keep up with him and he had to take care of her because, and I quote, “She’s cute! She’s just a target, with arms and legs, to child molesters!” This valiant big little boy was only trying to protect her, and his other sisters. Finally, she got up and told me she was o.k. to walk. Soon they outpaced us-because I’m “down in my back” and can’t move all that quickly.

So, I was in a good position to see when he started wailing on her again. This time he was putting his hands in the middle of her back and pushing her. She couldn’t take anymore and just stopped. Meddling Mama that I am, I walked right back up to them, whipped out my cell phone, and demanded, “What is your mother’s phone number!” I put the number in but waited to hit dial. “O.K., this the last chance before I dial. Do I still need to call your mother?” Before they could answer, two teachers from Monkey’s school caught up to us.

The poor, big little boy once again repeated that his sister was a target with arms and legs to child molesters, and his other sisters wouldn’t stop, and this sister was just having a bad day. I really began to feel for the boy at that point. Here was this little kid, saddled with this overwhelming responsibility, and just trying his best to meet it. And here was this little girl, having to deal with the aftermath of a bad day at school, and just trying to keep herself together.

Our neighborhood is just filled with kids who walk home from school, lots of them littler than this boy and girl. And I’m sure that the big little boy could get himself home without too much trouble. But I am concerned with the added responsibility he’s been given. And then there’s the onus of keeping his sisters safe from child molesters. Which isn’t even possible. While children, and people in general, are safer in groups, the fact remains that a determined predator isn’t going to be stopped by the presence of a small-to-middling boy.

I don’t think a little boy should be burdened with that much responsibility. Look, parents of this child, if you feel so uneasy about all of your children walking home from school that you find it necessary to fill your son with an almost paralyzing fear of child molesters, then you should make other arrangements. But instead of making other arrangements, you’ve placed an adult-sized responsibility on a child. And if, God forbid, something were to happen, that child would be dealing with the trauma of having failed his duty for the rest of his life.

You know, I’m not a perfect mother by any measuring, some days I don’t even feel like a very good mother, but even I know not to do this. It is my son’s job to be nice to his sister, not to look out for her physical well-being. That’s my job. As he gets older, he can be as protective as he wants to be, but he will never be in charge of making sure she doesn’t get abducted! I’ll be happy if he just stops hitting her!

Anyway, it all turned out well. The brave big little boy ran and retrieved his other sisters and one of the teachers walked the whole crew home. The other teacher thanked me for staying with them until the situation was resolved. I told her that, as a mom, I would hope that another parent would do the same for my kids.

Oh, wait, I guess I do know what I think about this after all.

Only I’m not calling them time-outs. It is now Relax Time at the House. Everyone who has spent a whole day, from start to finish, with a child will know exactly what I’m talking about. You know that special time of day, somewhere north of lunch but still south of dinner, when everything goes from simple chaos to sheer hell? Kids are tired, parents are tired of kids being tired, but nobody can stop doing. I. Am. Right. There.

My back is still hurting, but I expected that. I hurt it on Thursday and didn’t go to urgent care until yesterday. Prescription-strength anti-inflammatory=much better, thanks. But of course, it still hurts quite a bit and I’m not as spry as usual. The cheetahs (my kids) know the gazelle is still wounded and are taking full advantage. Hubby went to some kind of Ruby-on-Rails (?) geekery today after my final, so I’m flying solo this afternoon.

So anyway. I found myself absolutely screaming like a fish-wife at the kids. Monkey was driving his plasma car around and picking on his sister; Pumpkin apparently found a box of check stubs and was gleefully throwing them about the House. And Monkey makes sound effects to accompany his fertile imagination, very loud sound effects. Finally it got to be too much; I was afraid I was going to burst a vein with all the yelling. To calm everyone down, mostly myself, I instituted a new tradition: Relax Time.

About the time Pumpkin was born, Monkey went on a nap strike and I have not been able to get him to take regular naps since. And now Pumpkin has decided that naps are for the birds, and I’m not the boss of her, and she’s ready to do everything herself, and I can just take a flying leap about that whole nap-business. So there. The upshot-I don’t get one single moment of quiet until both are asleep at night and by then I’m either studying or falling asleep myself. Oh, they do get quiet sometimes, but that’s when they’re up to no good. I’ll hear these horrific crashes that sound like the walls are falling down only to find that Pumpkin has trashed her room like a rock star. But the mysterious silences are even worse. There’s no predicting what they can come up with in the future, but so far the silence have meant: toddler eating crayons, toddler and preschooler flooding kitchen or bathroom, toddler destroying preschooler’s train set, all items of clothing painstakingly removed from closet and thrown on the floor, playing in the toilet, and the ever-popular throwing of the feces.

Today, being injured and all, I had to have at least a few minutes of peace. Minutes when I didn’t have to drag my aching bones up, minutes when I didn’t have to talk or correct or yell, minutes when I didn’t have to worry. Ah, worry, a mother’s faithful, dreadful companion. To be able to show worry the door, at least for a short time, we all had Relax Time. Both of the kids had to lay in their beds. They didn’t have to sleep-they could read books or play quietly with toys-but they had to stay in their beds for at least 20 minutes. Monkey especially needed it-he had the worst dark under-eye circles I have ever seen.

After Relax Time, they picked out a movie and had a snack. And they’ve both been, if not calm, at least calmer ever since. Pumpkin even fell asleep on the floor while watching a movie. So Relax Time will be a permanent fixture in our days. And maybe, just sometimes, Relax Time will turn into the ever-elusive Nap Time.

I threw my back out today. Actually, as much as it hurts right now I wish I could throw it out in the dumpster sitting in my driveway. But, alas, one cannot live without a spine, lest one become a jellyfish.

And it’s all Pumpkin’s fault, well not really. Much. My whole day was leading up to the moment when I had to lay on the floor and call for help. It all started with our customary walk to Monkey’s school.

The school is on a very slight hill, just enough of one to justify a flight of stairs to the top. Monkey walked up the stairs while I pushed Pumpkin’s stroller up the hill. Then back down the hill again after dropping-off the Monkey man. It rained something fierce last night, and into the wee hours, so that hill was rather soggy. I leaned back and dug in my heels to keep the stroller from careening wildly into the street.

The leaning may have been a bit much because I noticed a small knot of tightness in my lower back on the walk back to the house. We had to walk back up to school earlier than usual to show my parents to Monkey’s classroom (it was Grandparents day at school) and by ‘we’, I mean that I let Pumpkin walk too. This was a mistake. When it came time to leave, she was having none of it. This kid could teach a graduate level course on passive resistance. I had to literally drag her or carry her all the way home. She variously yelled things at me like:”No!!!! I don’t want go with you!!!” “Put me down, Woman!!!!” I just knew somebody was going to call the police about a possible kidnapping, but we got home with only the minor difficulties natural to a three-year-old in full tantrum mode. I picked her up, she wanted down; I put her down, she wanted back up. About 15 times, each. I noticed the tightness turning into pain and getting worse with all the gyrations I was going through for this kid.

When we got home I put her down and started straightening up the House. You see, Grandad (my dad) was bringing Monkey home; and having either of my parents in the House kind of makes me anxious. Both are incredibly critical and since they haven’t had a toddler living in their house in over 30 years, they’ve forgotten how much work the little critters generate. I swept and mopped the bathroom, picked up toys, vacuumed half-chewed yellow crayon off the floor (sometimes, it’s just best not to ask), and generally ran around like a mad woman.

After my dad left, I noticed that it was very humid in the House and decided the kids should wear shorts. Monkey is such a good, big boy-he put on his shorts without a fuss and patiently waited for his snack. I found a pair of shorts for Pumpkin. They were the wrong shorts. I never did figure out why they were wrong or even which shorts might be the right ones. Finally, I told her to let me put them on her and wrestled them onto her, all while sitting cross-legged on the floor. After she had them on, I said, “See, these aren’t too short. They’re pretty.” Apparently the wrong thing to say, because she gave me a mighty baby-girl shove and said, “No!” I bobbled a bit and stopped myself, but the damage was done. My back spasmed on me and I couldn’t stand up and I couldn’t stay sitting up, either. So I went down. One question-when a mom falls over in the den and no other adults are there, will the kids care if she yells? Well, mine thought it was pretty funny. I knew I needed help and that neither kid could provide that help. So, I had Monkey bring me my cell phone and I called my MIL to come over. Maybe to help me up, but mainly to keep the kids from tearing down the House. You see, I was the wounded gazelle and the cheetahs had cut me from the herd. Pumpkin jumped on me and sat on my poor aching hip bone (I was on my side) and demanded a “ride”. Monkey took off for the kitchen to get his own snack, thank-you-very-much. And when they were both in the room, they both laughed at me. I told them, “My back is out!” Pumpkin laid on the floor in the same position as I was and said, “My back is ouch!” She was mocking my pain! Then, with a grin, she asked, “I hurt your back, Mama?” I told her yes! She just laughed and patted my face. Man, 3-yr olds don’t have a lot of sympathy for hurt mommies.

Finally my MIL arrived and told me that Hubby’s brother would also be here in just a minute. Great, more people to witness my abject humiliation. He arrived and was all set to haul me off the floor when I told him no, I wanted to try it myself and to please keep the kids out of my way. MIL pipes in with, “If you can’t get up we’ll call 911.” I said, “I am NOT calling 911! Even if I have to stay here all night!” But I didn’t. Eventually I was able to work my way to up sitting on the floor, then sitting on the couch, then standing upright. I had called Hubby by this time and told him not to come home early as everything seemed to be under control.

In the meantime, Nana (MIL) made the kids some popcorn, which they proceeded to scatter about the place. Monkey decided to get disobedient because I couldn’t enforce anything and he can outrun Nana, what with that cane and all. Finally, I sent Monkey to his room, where he remained until Hubby got home.

I’m still sitting here in pain and dreading the inevitable trip to the bathroom, when I will have to wrench these old, achy bones to a standing position. Even though it’s technically Friday, it’s still Thursday to me and I desperately need this day to end. So I will post again soon with an update.

Some things the House does right:

1)We bought an existing house, 2)We walk Monkey to school in all but the very worst weather, 3)I quit taking the daily paper, 4)Reusable grocery bags! 5) Buy local food when available, 6) Don’t own a Suburban anymore, 7)Recycle the copious number of magazines that we always seem to have, 8)Re-use plastic bags, 9)HE front-loading washing machine, 10)Fluorescent light bulbs.

Things we do that aren’t so good:

1)Disposable diapers, 2)Buy water, 3)Forget to compost, 4)Forget to recycle everything else, 5)Old house is not well-sealed.

One thing we’ve done that is better for the environment, but is actually done to save money: curtailed or eliminated driving-for-fun.

Something we’ve done that is better for the world, but is actually done to spare our frazzled nerves and keep from pissing off strangers-that-never-did-anything-to-us: Take the kids on a real vacation (we always drive).

Someday(doesn’t everyone say that?), I’ll do better. Solar power for the House, hybrid or electric car, alternatives to air-conditioning for the House, gray water for the yard.

Things I need to do NOW: plant a vegetable garden, put up a clothesline, potty train Pumpkin, recycle everything recyclable, compost all plant matter, remember to turn off the power strips at night.

And I don’t care if this is Oklahoma and it does start getting pretty hot this early, I REFUSE TO TURN ON THE DAD-GUMMED AIR CONDITIONER IN APRIL!!!!!!!11!!one!!!!!!eleven!!!!!!

Sesame Street, Zoom, The Electric Company, Mr. Rogers, Captain Kangaroo, and Saturday morning cartoons, these were the children’s programs I grew up watching. And I can’t leave out a local favorite: Uncle Zeb’s Cartoon Camp.

There are so many children’s shows now, some I let my kids watch and lots that I don’t. Three channels are pretty reliable for us: Noggin, Sprout, and Boomerang. They have favorite shows, some tolerable, some inexplicable. The Captain Has Left The Building will be an ongoing series for as long as I have to put up with this stuff. Here’s my run-down of the ones they watch, even if only occasionally, in no particular order:

Max and Ruby- they’re bunnies, in pants (and dresses). Ruby is the big sister who constantly micro-manages her little brother Max. Max is the stinky little brother who is determined to show his sister that she’s not the boss of him! We never see or hear Max and Ruby’s parents, nor are they ever referred to by anyone. There is a ne’er-do-well Grandmother, who is Max’s chief accomplice; there are scout leaders, shopkeepers, bus drivers, other parents, but apparently no direct adult supervision for the Max and Ruby. They do all sorts of things and go on all sorts of adventures that usually involve riding buses and wandering around town all by themselves. This one baffles Hubby, he says, “Who is letting them wander around all by themselves?!” And I have to remind him, “They’re bunnies, in pants.”

Dora the Explorer/Go Diego Go!- If you have not heard of these two programs then you must live in a cabin, in the deep woods, with no kids. I highly approve of these shows and even get a kick out of them myself. Children are asked to get up and help climb trees or pull ropes or jump in the air. And my 3-year old has even picked up a few Spanish words. The other day she said, “Gracias” to me instead of thank you. There are mysteries to solve, maps to follow, animals to save, monkeys and sneaky foxes to outwit. I only have one small problem with these shows–marketing. For now, I just try to keep them out of that aisle at the store.

To Be Continued…

I really want to get my kids these books, mainly because they need to learn more about my politics than what they hear me grumble about everyday. As a mom, I find it absolutely essential to be politically active. We take the kids with us when we vote and that’s a big improvement over what I grew up seeing. My parents were too busy keeping body and soul together to teach us about political issues and I don’t fault them for it. I do, however, fault them for repeatedly voting against their own best interests when they did vote.

It may be out of fashion to refer to myself as a liberal, more people are using the term progressive, but I like liberal because I see nothing wrong, and everything right, with being a liberal. Especially since I don’t see conservatives caring about the things that are important in my life. Family values? Don’t make me laugh. Whenever somebody on the right bleats about “family values”, it’s code for “we hate gay people.” Check it, you’ll find I’m right. “Traditional family values” is even worse. The gay-hatred still applies but with a goodly portion of woman-hating dolloped on top. These “traditionalists” hate and fear women so much that they believe the only way to save society from the girl-cooties is to severely limit the rights of women.

But they don’t really care about families or children or women. Or old people or disabled people or poor people or people that don’t look exactly like them. As a woman and mother, I know that to vote republican is to vote against the very things that I love-my family, my home, my future, my children’s future, my elderly grandmother, my elderly MIL, my civil liberties, my country. And since I’m a decent human being, I also don’t want to vote against my neighbors, classmates, acquaintances, friends, or strangers in need.

Some mothers feel or claim that they are too busy to be politically engaged, but I believe that in order to be  good parents we are obliged to know as much as we can about the things that could negatively or positively impact our children. If people refuse to research the issues themselves and form their own opinions, then they will just believe what some politician, preacher, or pundit tell them to believe. These people are literally handing over their freedom, their free-will, their minds to someone else. Example: someone who believes that the administration (and political party thereof) that refused to expand SCHIP to cover more uninsured children actually cares about the “babees” involved in reproductive choice is uninformed at best, deluded and foolish at worst. If republicans actually cared about any children whatsoever, that care and compassion would not cease at birth.

Look, moms, if you truly care about your kids (and I know you do), get involved, get informed, get wise. Take the time, make the effort. If every mom in America voted in the best interest of her family and all other families, this would be a much better country for families. We wouldn’t have to make such hard decisions. Leave baby in daycare at six weeks just to work the job the family needs to survive or quit the job and stay home and lose benefits and income; buy insurance the family can’t afford or take a chance that no one gets hurt or sick.

There are many reasons that I am a liberal, but the most important one-my family. I am a liberal because I want my children to live in the best possible world. And I just don’t see that happening in the borrow-and-spend, amoral, corporate welfare, tax cuts for rich white guys, step on the little guy, war-mongering, no civil liberties future the republicans want to take us to at warp speed.

Maybe I should print up the world’s scariest t-shirt: I’m smart, I’m a woman, I’m a mom, I’m paying attention, and I vote.

This post reflects my opinion on recent events concerning the polygamist cult raid in Texas. The thoughts and opinions herein expressed are my own and in no way reflect those of the idiots who want to frame these events as religious freedom or parenting issues. The rape of underage girls is always a criminal act, calling it marriage can’t erase that stain. Fomenting an atmosphere in which this is acceptable is a criminal act; facilitating said rape by “giving” your children over to be raped is a criminal act. The state of Texas absolutely did the right thing in taking children out of this atmosphere. More than that, the great state of Texas did its job, correctly, by protecting their most vulnerable citizens from predatory adults.

Don’t bother commenting if you don’t agree wholeheartedly with my first paragraph. Apologists will not be tolerated.

As a mom, and more so as the mother of a daughter, and as a Christian, this story ignites my outrage. Look, I’m not categorically opposed to polyamoury, provided all the people involved are over 18 and all are giving informed, enthusiastic consent. That, of course, precludes children who shouldn’t even be exposed to this. There may be some people out there who grew up in such a household or who are raising children in such a household, and these people may tell me that everything is just fine and dandy. But I think that’s just too much information for kids to have to process. Honestly, the less I knew about my parents’ sex lives the happier I was. I knew they had the two of us, but beyond that, just ick.

But we’re not talking about consenting adults here. According to this story in The Salt Lake Tribune, many of the women and children removed want to return to the compound. A lot of people are going to seize on this and say, “It can’t be too bad, they all want to go back.” Children want to do all sorts of things that are bad for them and that we, as adults, must keep them from doing in order to keep them safe and healthy. I have a five-year old that would drink pop and fruit-flavored sugar-water all day, but I don’t let him. He also wants to cross the street all by himself, but since he can’t yet be trusted to look both ways and be careful, I don’t let him. I have a three-year old that likes to climb into the kitchen and turn the faucet so that it floods the countertop and pass-through, but I don’t let her. She also likes to eat crayons and would go through a whole box, but I don’t let her. Children do not have the judgment and knowledge necessary to make the best decisions all the time.

Those we might be tempted to think of as the consenting adults in this story, the adult mothers of these children, are neither consenting nor adults. In order to give consent there must be other options open to the person giving that consent. If there are no other options, then it is forced, obligatory. If the person in question cannot even conceive of other options, because of a lifetime of indoctrination, then there is no consent. The poor girl whose cry for help started everything was reportedly told that if she left she would have to cut her hair and wear makeup and have sex with a lot of men. So she could either leave into a strange and terrifying (to her) outside world or endure being raped repeatedly by an older man and be forced to bear his children. When the choices presented to her were equally horrifying, she was robbed of consent.

The other problem with the supposedly grown women who wish to return is the slippery concept of “adult.” What makes a person an adult? It can’t be calendar age alone. Some people are adults at 18, some at 25, some not until they have children of their own. And we all now the perpetual adolescents, the ones who never make that last leap into adulthood. I’m a grown-up, but I can’t tell you the exact moment I grew-up. But looking at it from a parent’s perspective, I can tell you what I want for my own children. Assuming I do a halfway-decent job at parenting, when they leave home and set out to make their fortunes in the world, my kids will be willing and able to make decisions and take the responsibility for those decisions. They will be able to decide on an educational and career path and be happy and fulfilled in their work. They will be able to successfully navigate in an often confusing world that can offer many pitfalls. As for more prosaic concerns, they won’t leave my house unless they know how to: cook a meal from start to finish, sew a garment from start to finish, wash and fold and put away laundry, iron, clean a house, balance a checkbook, make a budget, do minor home repairs, mow a lawn, get estimates for major home repairs, any of a number of things that adults need to know how to do but that I had to learn the hard way. And none of this “man’s job” or “women’s work” nonsense; their father is a much better cook than I, but I’m the one who puts stuff together. I guarantee that not a single woman coming out of that compound knows how to be a functional adult in this society. When you have been told your entire life that you are inherently less-than, that you need to leave all the decisions to the wiser, be-penised people of the community and household, that you are good for nothing except sex, housework, and baby-making–and here’s the kicker–and you buy into it, then you are not a competent, consenting adult.

These poor women have been so beaten-down, so dehumanized, so brain-washed that they didn’t rise up in a maelstrom of maternal fury at the mere suggestion that their little girls be handed over to men to be rape victims. I don’t know if they willing gave up their daughters like lambs to the slaughter, but they sure didn’t try to stop it. And they sure seem anxious to get back to that insular life. To that cult.

When I was growing up in the seventies and early eighties, Jim Jones and Guyana were current events not some distant memory. Cults were a very present danger; and I learned, in church, how to recognize and guard against cults. This polygamist group out west exhibits most, if not all, of the signs of a cult. To call them a sect implies that they are just another facet of christianity but make no mistake, this is a cult and these victims will need to be deprogrammed. It is a cult, call it a cult.

Here’s my deal, no matter how brain-washed a mother may be, if she doesn’t violently repudiate the rape of her children but instead meekly accepts it and even encourages it, she does not deserve to keep her children. By wanting to take these endangered children back into that compound, those mothers are stamping their approval on and actively encouraging the sex slavery of their own children. They know what will happen to their daughters because it happened to them.

My proposal to the state of Texas is: let these children stay with their mothers only if the mothers will undergo counseling and agree not to go back to the cult. If any of the mothers have so little regard for the well-being of their children that they would knowingly take them back into a life of rape and abuse and unending child-bearing, then their children should never be returned to them.

Real mothers don’t “keep sweet”, real mothers fight like tigers to protect their children.

Pepper’s Grill-1950 Utica Sq
Tulsa, OK 74114
(918) 749-2163‎
Yesterday, while Monkey was in school (shame on us!), Hubby and I took the Pumpkin out for lunch. We went to Pepper’s Grill at Utica Square. We could’ve been seated right away but chose to wait for a booth. Booths are great because the kids stay contained between the adults. I highly recommend this practice.

Hubby had the ridiculously large chicken strip dinner with a salad and baked potato. It comes with the best cream gravy evah. I had the cheese enchiladas covered with queso and accompanied by Spanish rice and re-fried beans. Tex-mex is one of their specialities. It was delish, and huge. Pumpkin had her usual grilled cheese sandwich and fries. But after she finished her sandwich, she snuggled up to me and proceeded to polish off the rice and beans that I couldn’t!

This is a great place to take kids, not just for the restaurant itself, but for its location. Utica Square is a great place to walk around and shop or just people-watch.

I give Pepper’s 5 out of 5 stars *****, and $$ for their moderate prices.

We have had rain the last several days, boy howdy have we had rain. The tornado sirens went off in the early hours of Tuesday morning and Monkey couldn’t go back to sleep in his bed so he stayed with me. Tuesday was quiet and dry, but Wednesday brought even more rain.

Monkey, Pumpkin and I got caught in a down-pour and couldn’t walk home from school. Hubby had to come and rescue us! It rained the rest of the afternoon and night. So we’re pretty water-logged right now. Some parts of the metro area are flooded; streets look like creeks and creeks look like rivers.

The drive home from class last night was a little nerve-wracking. When I got home there were buckets and towels on the floor, for the leaks. We really need to get the roof replaced soon, but right now I have sort of a hillbilly outlook on it. Can’t fix the roof in the rain, and if it ain’t rainin’ it ain’t leakin’.

Another little hillbilly touch: I could’ve run a bait shop out of my den this morning. I have removed seven worms already and the day is young. This is, sadly, not the first time this has happened and I know just what to do. My worm-catching kit comes in quite handy because I do catch-and-release. Worms are good for the yard and that’s right where I take them. My super-duper worm-catching kit consists of a big plastic cup and a plastic butter knife. And I have a technique: 1)guide the worms into the cup with the butter knife, 2) dump the worms in the yard.

Oh, and if you find yourself in my enviable position, just remember this: don’t put more than two worms in the cup at the same time. They use each other as ladders and will swarm out of the cup and sometimes land on you. Ick.

Yesterday was Pumpkin’s 3rd birthday! Here she is wearing one birthday present (Mama said “no” to wearing it to bed) and watching another. What do you wanna make a bet she wears the backpack all day today.