On a Serious Note

I've been hearing a lot of buzz lately; people concerned, and in some cases incensed, by the fact that as American citizens, we are donating more money to Haiti than we distribute to our domestic impoverished population; people who, in some cases, have gone so far as to point to "world cleansing" as a possible divine- intervention type of explanation for the devastation in Haiti.  It seems that the uproar over the large distribution of voluntary donations to Haiti has even reached a point where someone founded a chain-style Facebook status:

Shame on you America: the only country where we have homeless without shelter, children going to bed without eating, elderly going without needed meds, and mentally ill without treatment - yet we have a benefit for the people of Haiti on 12 TV stations. 99% of people won't have the guts to copy and repost this.. CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME

I am so inclined to retort, because I am a little taken aback, a little peeved at the sight of this update and this attitude being repeatedly displayed umong American citizens, and I really suck at keeping my mouth shut:

(a) I sincerely hope that none of the people who are concerned with the amount of money donated by Americans to Haiti are not anti-welfare--the type of people who believe in the "pull yourself up by your own bootstraps" mantra. It would seem hypocritical to loathe the passing of your own tax dollars to the "perpetuation of American poverty" and then, in the case of Haiti, adopt a disgruntled attitude. In this scenario, it would almost seem as if welfare of any kind meets oppostion; whether it be charitable contributions to our own country, or to a foreign country. If this is indeed the case with some people, I would suggest a good, long look at American history and our tendancy to borrow money from foreign nations.

(b) Didn't our mothers teach us to do unto others as we would have them do unto us?

(c) Haiti's government is not perfect; it is corrupted and polluted with selfish people, indeed. Should there be a concern that our generous donations will be squandered, pillaged, wasted? Absolutely. However, I would advise anyone who uses this as an argument against donations to Haiti, to examine our own democracy's recent choices in government spending: We are the proud owners of a car manufacturing company and several large banking firms, and we find it of utmost priority to keep the amount of money allotted for social security benefits a well-guarded secret.

(d) In the vein of democracy, we can say that it has made us one of the richest and most powerful countries on the planet. Our impoverished are given benefits, our poor are provided paths of opportunity. Haiti is a land of poverty; unlimited and endless, deep-rooted and perpetuated poverty. Most of its citizens began with nothing; now, their few solid comforts--shelter, food, family--have vanished, left their hands like their hard-earned money, never to return to them. In our democracy, we view feminism as freedom; we see poverty as living without amenities. In other countries, feminism means safety from ravage and exploitation. And poverty?  Poverty is a way of life. 

The people in Haiti have gone from nothing to apocalypse. We in America simply do not grasp the true definition of what it means to be impoverished. I am beginning to wonder, however, if we are not more impoverished in our souls than those millions of people who've never imagined a three-meal day; people whose reality includes the death of at least one child as more a probable reality than an unimaginable occurence.

Whether or not you think the amount of dollars being donated to Haiti is an abomination or not, the fact remains: If you can afford a Whopper Jr., you probably make more money in a week than a Haitian does in a year. And if you can find it in your heart to complain about volunteer donations being so little in our country when we have a government that gives it freely to our impoverished, then you are in dire need of a reality check.  Finally, if you can buy a latte, you can afford to aid a country where generations of people are gone--unidentified and buried in shallow graves, and dying in the streets of broken limbs and open wounds.  If your mother taught you that you should treat others the way you want to be treated; if your faith teaches you that no matter how imperfect a being or an entity is, it deserves salvation, then you can afford to aid in the efforts to bring life back to Haiti.

http://www.pih.org/

The poor give us much more than we give them. They're such strong people, living day to day with no food. and they never curse, never complain. We don't have to give them pity or sympathy. We have so much to learn from them.
Mother Teresa

Many Hats

So Maurice left town just in time for me to realize that the wood stove was long overdue for a sweeping of ashes.  Well, shoveling is the better-suited term.

One hour before a new day care mom arrives for a meet-and-greet and, true to form, I decide to clean the woodstove.  The can on the porch was full of the previous cleanings' ashes (thanks, hon), so I decided to dump the fresh ashes into a plastic bag.  Smack in the middle of this process, I realized the embers I was shoving into the plastic bag were still glowing red, simultaneously becoming aware of a crackling sound coming from the plastic bag.  (It was then that I remembered my husband instructing me to n.e.v.e.r use anything other than a metal can to discard woodstove ashes, and that I was quite possibly going to burn my house down any second)  Soooo, I quickly diverted my attention to dumping the bag containing the certain threat of a fiery death to the woods, along with the metal can full of ashes (because I am a rock star).  Emptied both, came inside to finish the job I'd set out to do. 

Only to find that Hannah and Chloe had decided that fingerpainting with ashes was fun, and my window, window seat, and very pretty little brown-haired duo were covered in greyness that had somehow become soaking wet (probably the snow from the metal can that sits on the porch).  Once that mess was cleaned, and the metal can full of ashes again, I realized that the frozen pee on top of the metal can melted, and that I really dislike my St. Bernard right now.  I also am not very pleasant toward Maurice, for having the grand idea of breeding him.  Which has never happened.  In fact, the only thing that has happened as a result of Bosley not being neutered is that every. single. surface. in our yard that is within distance of his stream of urine is covered in his urine.  The target marking surfaces, unfortunately, includes the freaking metal ash can that has now shed the freshly-thawed urine coating, that has now mixed with the ashes on the floor, the window, and window seat, that I have now wasted an entire roll of paper towels in the process of rectifying the entire abomination.

I have ash in my eyes.  And I still need to fix lunch.  Annnd, since I had to go BACK out to the woods to dump the new load of ashes (because, like I said, I am a rock star), I was faced with the real verdict concerning my yard:  combined with the frozen-dog-pee-marked surfaces, the two discarded pieces of interior furniture that are sititng on my porch, and the added enhancement of a plastic jack-o-lantern balancing precariously on top of one of the abandoned bird feeders--we totally have a trashy yard.  The only thing missing is a tin-can shooting range and some free-roaming chickens.

I guess I could roll with this one by saying that I wear many hats: chimney sweet, rock star, and trashy yard owner being the top three for today.

Unpublished Parenting Advice of the Week

I mean this in the most loving way:  In the scenario of having two or more kids, their behavior tends to mimick the family cat's, in that once the kids reach a certain age, they become territorial. 

And while we are on the subject of cats, particularly kittens, I will commence to the disclosure of this weeks' Unpublished Parenting:

About two weeks ago, on a whim, I adopted a 7 week-old kitten and named him Finn.  I brought him home to Kody, Kyleigh, and Joshua, who were happy to put a halt to their chore of hauling wood to the house for the stove, in order to play with and coo over our new kitten.  There is just something about kittens.

Naturally, when Hannah and Chloe awoke from napping, they, too wanted to play with and coo over Finn.  Therein lies the problem presented, and the lesson learned.  As a seasoned mother of five, I was "fully" prepared for whatever scenario presented to me by the introduction of the new family pet.  I was ready for the girls to receive a few minor scratches on their wrists.  Ready for extra cleaning of the litterbox.  Totally prepared for the girls to fight over who would get to hold Finn, carry Finn, play with Finn...

...until I heard, for the very first time, the sound of a kitten being quartered.  I was faced with the same battle each and every day:  Chloe carting Finn around in a chokehold, pronouncing her love for the "kiy kat", Hannah screaming, curly locks as wild as the expression on her face as she attempted to pull Finn away from her evil twin sister using any appendage she could possibly get her little hands on--fur definitely counts as an appendage here.  Finn, as wide-eyed and horrified as any kitty can be, his very short life flashing before his eyes as Hannah pries and Chloe pulls, and tendons stretch and cartilage is pushed to the limit of its flexibility.  Someone will inherently come to the rescue, sparing his life while scolding the twins, but not too much time had passed by before I realized this scenario was playing out at least a half dozen times per day.

And the lesson to be learned from all of this?  When faced with the scenario of a near-quartered kitten, and the certainty that the issue is not going to resolve itself until said kitten is literally in pieces of equal size, get another kitten.  It's what we did. Don't judge me until you hear the alternatives:  Don't have twins, don't have two kids in the same age proximity, get rid of the first kitten (mutiny), continue to wait out the certain doom of kitty number 1. 

On a side note:  I believe anyone who has never given birth should examine my attempt to rescue Chloe from the conundrums she finds herself in by trying to fit into her Baby Alive doll's clothing.  Most of the time, rescuing her from this type of situation involves pushing her head down a little in order to move her shoulder out of the way, reaching inside the collar of the shirt or onesie and grabbing her by the chin, slowly turning her head and arm as I gently guide the reast of her torso out of the fabric that would fit my chihuahua.  I call it shirt birth.

Dear

Dear Chloe and Hannah,

My Kitchen Aid is not the dumping place for every food item you find less-than-appealing.  I love you girls, but do you realize how disguting it is to clean that damn thing each. and every. day, of all your half-chewed cookies, slimy, three-day-old banana peels, and discarded cheese sticks?  (FYI: Really though, the most disgusting memeber of this discard pile is those half-eaten pecans.  When still slimy, they kind of look like mouse turds.)

Also, I do realize that you choose not to wear socks, despite my daily efforts and encouragement to do so, because you run faster when barefoot.  While I am proud of you for discovering this fact, Hannah, and passing along the info in Twinspeak to your sister, I am tired of chasing you as you head toward the trash can kitchen aid mixing bowl to rid yourself of whatever food item you may be carrying in your little cheeks.  I feel that your bare-footed running is giving you an unfair advantage.  And while we are on the subject of carrying things in your cheeks: by the way, you are people, not chipmunks.  And while we are on the subject of running:  please, for the sake of every day care parent, stop doing so in the nude.

With Love,
Your Doting Mother
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Dear Day Care Parents,

I know.  I try.  I really, really try.  Please understand this to be a disclaimer that I, in no uncertain terms, declare myself completely defeated in my Battle of the Buns with my daughters, Chloe and Hannah.  I dress them every day.  I dress them every hour.  I know you see their butts more often than you probably see your own kids' butts, and for that I am deeply sorry.  And also, I have no sense of smell, so if you stop by for a drop off/pick up, and you smell something, please let me know.  Due to the fact that my twins refuse to wear clothing, that smell, unfortunately, could very well be coming from ANYWHERE.

Please be advised that I use Clorox abundantly.

Respectfully,
Your Day Care Provider
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Dear Treadmill,

I apologize.  You have been neglected.  Because I am unable to chase down my own two toddler-aged daughters, I will be becoming re-acquainted with you in the very near future.  Right after I finish this bowl of ice cream topped with warm Nutella.

Respectfully,
The Person Who Runs on You
The Person Who Will Run on You Soon

For Real Tho'

Dear Heidi What's-Your-Face,

Obviously, the fact that you and your douche-bag husband's antics have been bumped from daily news fodder to weekly news fodder has bothered you to the point of utter insanity.

...because, for real tho', why, in the name of all things Holy (or organic, for that matter) would anyone do this to their body unless under the influence of serious publicity addiction.  Honey, you need to deflate--literally.

Have you and Spencer been watching fetish porn again?  Seen the pre-view for the new season of Taboo?  Spencer saw that dude making out with the blow-up doll and got a little excited, didn't he?

The Forbidden Fruit

This is a photo of Hannah, taken about six weeks ago.  In her effort to boycott our oatmeal breakfast, she (literally) busted open the bag of Fruity Pebbles, purchased by Maurice as his Late-Night Snack Food of the Week.  It was after this photo op that I declared the banning of all Fruity Pebbles until further notice--we added it to the list of other banned items:  Playdoh, Moon Sand, and other enrichment-geared activities that inevitably spell an ill fate for my home's interior, along with the hair and appendages of my children. 

Tonight I sent him to the store for some smoked sausage to put in the red beans and rice dinner.  What he came home with, in addition to the meat, was a bag of--you guessed it--Fruity Freaking Pebbles. 

So the following text message chat log ensued:

Me: U bought Fruity Pebbles!!!!!  Ahhhhhhhh the forbidden fruit!!!!

Mo: It's mine.  Put it out of the girls reach.

Me: Completely futile.  They are EVERYWHERE.

Mo:  How.  It's mine!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (yes, he actually used that many exclamation points)
                                                                   
Me: Not the cereal, tweedle dee, the twins.  They are EVERYWHERE (yes, I actually capitalized 'everywhere')
                                                    
Mo: Oh, phew.  I was looking forward to cereal tonight.

....So is it me, or is my husband clearly not concerned with the plausible catastrophe presented by bringing the forbidden Fruit past the threshold of this house?  And in this quest for midnight snack delight, has he forgotten about the fact that we were finding Fruity Pebbles inside of the tupperware cabinet into the New Year?  WHY couldn't he just buy a bag of freaking Cheerios.  I mean, for the Love.

Things I'm Loving

*Joshua's reference to me as "mamacita", which started a few Christmases ago when he heard, "Donde Esta Santa Claus" for the first time, has become his pet name for me; he calls me this more often than he calls me "mom".

*Maurice is on the phone with a friend of ours who is having relationship troubles. She is an Atheist and he is a Baptist. It's becoming a huge point of contention for them. I overheard Maurice's advice to his friend: "Does the fact that she's an Atheist change how you feel about her? If her beliefs don't change the way you feel about her, what is the point of ending it with her over them?" ...How does the same guy who adds things to my to-do lists like, "Dirty lovin' with Maurice" and uses terms like "fucknugget" give advice like that? That is my husband, a swearing, livestock-loving, red-moose-pajama-pants-wearing enigma. I wonder if he would apply this philosiphy if I began to buy myself a weekly pair of Santana heels?

*This dinner is frigging fantastic, if I do say so myself.

*This afternoon, I was the recipient of the following compliment from Kody: "I like having you as my mom, because you never treat us like we are a challenge, or something to check off your list of accomplishments. You never act like we are an inconvenience and you always seem happy to have us around". I am still not sure where that came from, especially since I was in the middle of dinner. And elbow deep in a pile of clean laundry Hannah had just peed in. And really wishing I was kid-free and at a fancy restaurant at that moment. (Don't worry, I washed my hands)

*My friends, A and N, who took Josh along with them to a high school hockey game tonight. Joshua had a fantastic time eating a hot dog and chips, drinking hot chocolate, and "watching the guys' faces get slammed up on the glass". Thanks, A and N. You two are going to make fantastic parents, and I cannot wait to watch it all happen for you.

....So that's it. Just the few little things that happen every day, that I happened to take a moment and appreciate today. I think I should do that more often.