Death, Entimology and Semantics

The kids found a dead cricket yesterday. They were going to keep him as a pet - which , if I'm perfectly honest is exactly the kind of pet I'd like the kids to have. The dead cricket would never need to be fed or let out. He wouldn't bark in my face while I'm sleeping, poop like a horse, or pant hot dog-breath in my face. He'd never barf on my floor after consuming untold amounts of dirt and garbage, try to sneak food off the table, or eat anything out of the trash can. We wouldn't have to make arrangements for his care when we left town, and the best part would be that the dead cricket wouldn't shed all over my house! YES! Please, God, Yes! Let's keep the cricket! But after a lengthy discussion of the pros and cons of having a dead cricket for a pet, they decided instead to bury the poor little guy in the flower-bed. They laid him to rest in their carefully dug cricket grave, filled it back in with dirt, gave it a reassuring little pat, and then went hunting for some bugs they could catch alive.

Sneaking around the side of the house with their bucket, they scanned the plants for a good specimen. And they found one. They captured him while he was feasting on the sunflowers. They created a little bug-house out of an old plastic container and sat watching him for a while. After much observation, Landis decided that what this new bug needed was a little companionship. A little companionship from a dead cricket. He wanted to dig him back up.

Me: Landis, let's not dig up the cricket. He's dead, so he wouldn't really be a good companion for your new bug. Let's just let him rest in peace.

Landis: He pees?

Me: No. "Rest in PEACE".

Gibson: Peace. It means quiet.

Landis: (Nodding solemnly) Ohhhhhhhhhh......... He rests in quiet. AND he pees.

Raging Bull

Let me give you fair warning. Gibson may not be for this world much longer. If you'd like to see him or talk to him before I have to take him out, now would be a good time. (And when I say "now" I mean right this minute, because if he flaps his lips one more time I refuse to be responsible for what happens next. In fact, if he even parts his lips to take a deep breath I might lose it.)

I don't know how he does it. This sweet-faced, wide eyed 7 year-old child is capable of pushing me to places I don't like to go. Pushing with his smart mouth. Pushing with his nasty attitude. Pushing, pushing, pushing - despite fair warning about what's coming next - until he can chink my calm demeanor, and my matter-of-fact answers about why there are consequences for poor behavior choices. And he's only 7.

Chink!
It's almost audible. That sound that happens from deep within my body when he tosses out his very last smart-mouthed condescending remark.

Chink!
And I can feel my self-control unwind, loosening it's grip on my tongue and unleashing the discretion I've been able to attach to the level of my voice each time I've turned to address him before now.

Chink!
Stripped of my stoicism, I am reduced to a wild-eyed snorting bull, pawing the ground and nearly exploding with rage. I know it's obvious to him what's coming next. It's obvious to all of us. Steam is pouring from my flaring nostrils, and he's close enough to see it. But there he stands, chin jutting out, defiantly, willfully waving that red cape. And even though I know better -- Even though I don't want him to know he's gotten to me, I can't help it. I lower my head and practically roar while I charge.

And immediately, I see the recognition in his wide eyes that he's gone too far. That he's pushed me past my limit. Way past my limit. And he's already apologizing, stumbling all over himself to take it back, to admit that he's completely out of line. But my forward momentum is moving, and frankly it's too late for that. Positioning my own face inches from his, index finger extended, millimeters from his nose, I hiss at him to Shut. His. Smart. Mouth. With my angry eyeballs bulging out of their sockets, I remind him in no uncertain terms who is in charge in this household. He cries fat tears and begs forgiveness as I sentence him to 45 minutes hard time on his bed. In my final frenzy, I screech at him to use this uninterrupted chunk of time to think about the consequences of the choices he makes as he defeatedly drags himself up the stairs.

And then it's quiet. The only noises in the house are the sounds of his quiet sniffling and the sounds of my slowing breath as my blood pressure returns to normal.

And, OK -- I admit it. I'm not really going to wipe him out of existence today. Maybe not even tomorrow either, because here's the kicker.... After the 45 minutes have passed I inform him that he may get up. And when I ask him if he has anything he'd like to say to me, he comes up with this: " I'm sorry mom. I really am. At first I thought that you were the one being mean and unfair, but after I thought about it, I realized that I was the one being ugly. That I DID have a smart mouth, and I know I was being an ungrateful brat. And I'm sorry."

I sat there gaping at him, and he smiled. And he hugged me. And he even giggled a little while he shot me a sheepish grin. Then, like all was right with the world again, he turned and went downstairs to play, leaving me here staring at this computer and shaking my head, wondering how we got to this miraculous spot of self-realization. Is turning me into a out-of-control Raging Bull part of the process for him? And if so, (God help me) will I make it through his teenage years without suffering a massive coronary?

When evergreens attack

"Mom!

I know what that sign says!

It says if you stuff a tree into a doorway, it will try to get you!'"

Well......crap.

Oh Landis..... I'm trying so hard. But I dropped your birthday cake all over the inside of the stove when I was pulling it out just now. And I think I can salvage some of it with some pudding and blueberries and whipped cream, but I feel so lousy because it's not the double-layer round cake with chocolate icing and sprinkles that I know you had your eye on.

And I owe you a birthday letter that I haven't even started.

And I said I'd be home early for your birthday today, but then things went crazy at work and I didn't make it when I said I would.

And I'm sorry.

I'm trying though... OK? I'm trying really hard.

BUT...... I did manage to get your specially requested dinner into the oven -- so we WILL have meatballs tonight! And because I was late, you did get to play with your friends at the pool for an extra long time, so... OK... I'm feeling better. You? Am I feeling horribly guilty for no reason at all? Were you ever even the slightest bit disappointed?

Sundays at our house

We live in the south and we don't go to church. There. I said it. Does that count as confession? Do I need to make the sign of the cross or something? I'm not sure. I was raised Methodist -- and we didn't confess.

We're not anti-church, or anti-God, or anti-religion or anything.... I am, however, anti-drag-ass-out-of-bed-early-on-a-Sunday-morning-to fight-with-the kids-about-what-time-we-have-to-be-out-the-door-if-we-want-to-get-to-church-ON-TIME-and NO-you-are-not-wearing-that-and-OH-MY-GOD-DID-YOU-GET-DRESSED-OFF-THE-FLOOR-and-HURRY-UP-and-brush-your-hair-and-for-the-love-of-God-brush-your-teeth-and-when-church-starts-at-8:30-we-do-NOT-leave-the-house-at-8:30-and-if-I-have-to-tell-you-one-more-time-to-get-in-the-car-I'm-just-going-to-leave-you-here!

I'm also against voluntarily and systematically elevating both my blood pressure and my frustration levels on a weekly basis if I can help it. And frankly, nothing launches those numbers skyward faster than embroiling myself in a losing battle in which my 4 and 6 year old boys are required to sit still and be quiet for extended periods of time. I find that leisurely Sunday mornings spent reading the paper on the couch with the kids playing nicely upstairs beats the Hell out of smiling politely at a large group of people while I grit my teeth and whisper things like "Sit down! Sit up! Be quiet! Get out from under there! Stop whining! It'll be over when it's over! You can't hold it? Seriously? Because I'm pretty sure you pooped before we left the house this morning! Please don't touch that man's head again! I don't know why he doesn't have any hair.... He just doesn't. NO! We don't ask people things like that. He already knows he doesn't have any hair, you don't have to tell him so. We've been over this before: Men can't have babies, only women can have babies. Just because he has a big belly doesn't mean you should ask him when his baby is due. In fact, please don't ever ask anyone when their baby is due unless I tell you it's ok. OK? Now SIT STILL AND BE QUIET."

Not that I didn't get anything out of church when I was a kid. I did. In fact, now that I think about it, I'm sure it was those Sunday morning bulletins that nurtured my desire to cross things off a To-Do list. Prelude? Check. Lighting of the candles? Check. Processional? Check. Call to worship? Check. There was something very satisfactory about crossing off all that we'd accomplished -- knowing that with each crossed off item, we were closer to the end.

At hymn singing time, I practiced my harmony. My bother practiced his "Bob Dillon". He also did a really good Neil Young impersonation, and he even had my mom down-pat. He could belt out her "operatic" style -- assuming here that operatic is actually a word -- in a fantastic falsetto. Seriously, he was pretty good. He still is, so if you live near Eaton, Ohio you should stand near him in church. Though I'm not positive that his wife lets him get away with it anymore, since she doesn't find him to be nearly as funny as I do now that I'm not living with him.

I also honed my deductive reasoning aptitude with wild games of Hangman. You'll know I was raised in the mid-eighties if you can solve this hangman puzzle:

If I recall correctly, he was a regular solution to the game. I mean, really.... He WAS the coolest.

Another skill I picked up at church was the ability to strategize. Do you want to know how I sharpened my strategic know-how, each and every Sunday? The box-building game. I learned it from my best friend, Brooke, and now that I think about it, I'm not even sure if that's the proper name. We never really spoke it out loud -- we just passed the paper and pencil back and forth in the pew, each of us drawing our lines, one at a time, trying to outmaneuver one another and create as many boxes as we could. For whosoever believed that she could create the most boxes would not perish, but be the everlasting champion.

(You'll note that I gave her more boxes in my example because I want to be as authentic as possible -- and she always kicked my ass. Her "strategery" was better than mine.)

I also learned how to be resourceful. One particular Sunday I thought I'd figured out a great way to beat the system, and the perpetual boredom of that hour long service. I smuggled the latest Nancy Drew into the choir loft under my burgundy polyester robe. I thought I was brilliant -- it was a foolproof way to both pass the time AND be quiet. Two birds with one stone! And things were splendid until I caught my mom glaring at me from across the church. (She has a phenomenal evil-eye so it's worth noting that her solitary arched eyebrow can stop you cold in your tracks. Ask any of her former students.) Apparently I was not very covert. I mean, who would guess that being hunched down in the pew with the book propped up on my knees would be a dead-give-away that I wasn't paying rapt attention?

Brooke and I also proved that we had quite a knack for dexterity during those long church services. We were masters of the skillfully placed spit-ball, minus the spit. We'd take turns rolling very small pieces of paper into teeny little paper bombs, and then, in a display of expert marksmanship, we'd launch them off the balcony railing in an effort to see who was the most adept at accurately hitting the target below us. The target, naturally, was the rack of an anonymous woman* sporting the most enormous ta-ta's we'd ever seen. Not only did they extend straight out, they also stood straight up, and frankly, they were just begging to be used as a paper-ball-trampoline for our entertainment. We hit the majority of our shots, but our success was short-lived. Eventually, we were banned from the balcony. Our parents forbade us to sit up there ever again. At least not together.

So maybe I can't remember exactly why Gepetto** was swallowed by the whale, or why Joshua was so intent on winning the battle of Geritol***, but I do think I walked away with the important stuff. It's the stuff I try to pass onto my own kids. Be kind. Love one another -- not just when it's easy, but also when it's hard. Be tolerant and respectful of everyone's differences, knowing that variety and diversity make our lives richer. Judge not. Offer grace and a helping hand to everyone -- and especially to the ones who need it most. Say you're sorry. Practice forgiveness. Trust. Have faith, give of yourself, and do the best you can.

This is not to say that I have all those lessons nailed; That I exude grace under pressure, or that I'm tolerant of viewpoints that are one hundred and eighty degrees from my own. I can freely admit that I don't always have the most grace in that regard. But I work on it every day. We all do. Even when we're chillin' on the couch on Sunday mornings reading the paper instead of getting dressed for church. I'm at peace with our choices, and I know God understands. After all, She has children too.

* * * * *

* Let me take this moment to extend my apologies to this poor woman, who must have had to muster up all the inner-strength she had in order to stay in her seat and pretend there was not a steady stream of paper raindrops cascading down in front of her face and bouncing heartily off her chest. She would have been well within her rights to march up the stairs and throttle the kids who thought there was nothing funnier than watching little balls of paper spring up off her boobies. Lady, if you're out there, I'm sorry. But, dang, that was funny.


** Just kidding, mom. I know it was Jonah.


*** Mrs. Ertle let us sing it like that, so that's how I remember it.

House

Here, let me set the stage for you:
The neighbor kids are over, and just a few minutes ago they were all playing upstairs with the bedroom doors shut. I was (and still am) sitting at the desk right outside the bedrooms uploading some recent pictures onto our computer. One of the doors just swung wide open and Gibson came out of the room with a ring of old house keys in his palm. He slung the door shut and blazed onto the landing, surrounded by this air of purpose -- sort of like he was on a mission.
"What'cha doin' Bud?" I asked.
"We're playin' house." He replied. "So I'm goin' to work."

Which made me laugh because I guess that is a lot how "House" goes around here these days.

"Oh!" he paused mid-step and spun on his heel. Then he walked back into the room mumbling "I forgot to feed the kids and the dog......"

The Scientific Method

I have pink toilet bowls. Not that they're supposed to be. They're not. In fact, they're supposed to be white -- your standard toilet bowl color. But mine are covered in about a quarter-inch of pinkish funk.

I know. Gross.

You may, at this point, be wondering A.) what in the world has caused this disgustingness, and B.) why in the world I would broadcast it to the public at large. Well, we in the Kafsky household, are in the middle of a colossal scientific experiment. An experiment that may just blow the minds of geneticists world-wide. Because you see, Internet, it would appear that I'm the only person in this household who knows how to flush. I have no idea why this is. Perhaps the inability to flush a toilet lies on the Y chromosome. Perhaps you have to be in possession of a uterus to actually be put off by urine fermenting in a toilet all day. And perhaps it is because I'm in possession of that double X chromosome that I'm driven not only to flush, but also to actually scrub a toilet once it starts to become unsightly.

Given the likelihood of the possibilities, I decided to conduct a real, true scientific experiment. That's right. The real deal. I'm using the scientific method, and I plan on reporting my findings to the United Scientists of America. Or maybe just to my other mommy-friends. We'll see.......

In order to be authentic and concordant with facts, we are doing this sucker by the book. Here is your exclusive inside peek at the scientific method at work:

1. Ask A Question:
As the sole possessor of a uterus, am I the only human being in this household who is bothered by funky toilet bowls to the extent that I will clean them?

2. Construct a Hypothesis:
Because I am an eternal optimist, I will hypothesize that those in my household who are in possession of a Y chromosome -- and thus not in possession of a uterus -- will, if given ample opportunity, take on the cleaning of the progressively funky toilet bowls in question. (I mean surely - FOR THE LOVE OF GOD - another member of my household will notice the filth and see fit to clean them.)

3. Test Your Hypothesis by Doing an Experiment:
I shall ignore the condition of the toilets in question for an extended period of time -- let's say 3 weeks so they have ample time to get good and disgusting-- what with all the non-flushing and marinating in urine thing they all have going on. During this time period, while I shall not initiate any cleaning, I will do my part by continuing to flush as usual.

4. Analyze Your Data and Draw a Conclusion:
Analysis: At the conclusion of the assigned 3 week time period, there continues to be a quarter-inch of pinkish slime coating the inside of all 3 toilet bowls in our household. There has been no attempt on the part of anyone in possession of a Y chromosome to rectify this situation, nor has there been any significant evidence that they have even noticed that they pee into filth. I, as the conductor of this experiment, find this to be completely baffling, being that the possessors of the Y chromosomes STAND UP TO PEE, and thus STARE INTO THE TOILET BOWL 18 TIMES A DAY.
Conclusion: Those in possession of a Y chromosome - and thus no uterus - seem to be incapable of detecting when, exactly, a toilet bowl is in serious need of a good scrubbing. Indeed, contrary to my stated hypothesis, given plenty of time and ample opportunity, they seem to be completely oblivious to filth in the bathroom. And if not oblivious, certainly not motivated to clean it.

5. Communicate Your Results:
Me: "I cleaned the toilets today because I couldn't take it anymore."
Mike: "Yeah..... They were pretty disgusting..."


Nobel Peace Prize -- Here I come............