shoplifters anonymous

Around Christmas, Little B saw a snow globe he wanted BAD. I let him hold it while he sat in the buggy and I shopped. Hey, any distraction is a good distraction, right? Just before checking out, I told him he could wind it up once more. Then I promptly forgot. The next time I saw it was in the parking lot on that blustery, busy afternoon, still being watched by his adoring eyes. The three of us made another trip back inside to return it to customer service.

Also, around this time, I told Little B he could buy a maze book (with those funky markers that reveal the lines on the page, you know?) at the bookstore. He got tired of carrying it around and put it in the outside pocket of my diaper bag, quite innocently (no shopping cart to set it in). I discovered this after everyone was buckled and a certain little girl was already cranky. It took us SIX weeks to get that back and paid for. I just couldn’t do it that day. But, I would never remove the cellophane on it until it was ours.

A few weeks ago, I was at the grocery store with both kids, again, Little B in the buggy (you might ask where I had room for the groceries). I was tucking things all around him, and when it came time to check out, he helped me put things up on the conveyer belt. Great kid. While the bag-man was helping me unload the bags at the car, I discovered a bread mix under Little B's leg. Oh, Sigh! At least there was someone to take it back in for me!

More recently, I was checking out at Target and the woman asked if I wanted to buy the item my daughter was playing with—oops. Fast entertainment, what can I say? And, I'd just finished paying.

And then, yesterday, at Old Navy, I let my daughter play with a shirt I wanted to buy while sitting in her stroller. All the way through the check-out line. And all the way down the sidewalk to the other end of the shopping center where I was parked. My husband met up with us after work about this time, and what can I say? I let HIM go back and pay for it.

I cannot even remember the number of times I have had to run back into the store for this very reason since having kids. How many times have things been stuck beneath a diaper bag or purse. Man, oh man. The saddest thing, however, is how often the employees are surprised that we return it! I'm fairly certain I'm not alone in this...embarassment.

And so goes the life of the unintentional shoplifter.

agonizing weeks

The past few months have been long for our family. Very, very long. Sometimes painful, sometimes exhausting, but long, no matter how we look at it.

Tomorrow, our house will have been on the market for 90 days. One month after that, our contingency contract on the “new" house will end. We are working hard to trust God and know His timing is perfect. We believe we are supposed to try to sell, but the weeks are dragging by and our anxiety is compounded by the need to keep the house immaculate for showings. Not easy with a one and five year old in tow.

The first couple months, we had one offer that was terribly low. Many, many others made us their “second choice” should their first fall through. One major concern was the old roof—it was 23 years old, though not leaking. So, we finally increased our price and added a roof. I’ve been asked more than once if we did that because the old one was leaking! Argh! On the other hand, we don’t get quite as many showings in a week now, since we’ve moved into a new price bracket (not by much, but I guess that’s all it takes!). As was our experience before, we are still everyone’s second choice. There is never any negative feedback (thanks to the new roof) and everyone really likes it, but they choose another house every time. It’s disheartening to say the least.

In the midst of this daily stressor in our lives, Little B had what I will call a “disconcerting” or even “harrowing” experience with his therapist. I will save the details for those I am closest to, but it brought out every inch of my protectiveness for my little boy (and my husband's). Every week since that time has been filled with related issues: meeting with the therapist and her supervisor to share a piece of our mind (we did not “reach an understanding” as she had hoped); withdrawing him from therapy; calling around and interviewing another therapist. While trying to get our insurance to consider the new therapist as in-network, we discovered our policy doesn’t cover occupational therapy after all, so we’re on our own now. Not good as the visits are expensive. (And we’re not asking who pays for the previous five visits they said were covered!)

At the same time, I was finishing a letter of complaint regarding the “situation” which I sent to three places: my insurance, the president of the facility where Little B had been in therapy, and also the State Board of Occupational Therapy. Yeah, it was a big deal. I faxed a copy to my pediatrician for her records. You know things are ugly when a pediatrician supports the letter of complaint, agreeing she would have done the same thing in our shoes.

Since we’d been waiting on insurance decisions before beginning with the new therapist, they are now evaluating his records and the 12 pages of specific questions I had to answer; hopefully we will get things under way once more.

the good life

“Mommy!” I peer out the sliding glass door to see what need my son has right then.

“I saw a pinecone fall out of that tree, so it’s a pinecone tree!” Slurp. Slurp. I nod, half-grinning.

With excitement and awe lacing his words I hear, “Fresh out of the tree!” His gaze goes back to perusing the backyard, his mouth goes back to his popsicle.

Ah, the joy of childhood.

curious george

We have our very own Curious George in the house, aka--Miss C. Not only does she wear his expressions, love on him as her most favorite toy, and mimic his movements, Little Miss C climbs as my son never has, attempts to eat any lollipops she runs across, wears mischief on her face like ball point pen, insistently wants to investigate my purse and among other things, is probably responsible for the missing TV remote--I'm wagering a guess at last week's trash being it's final destination. Earlier today, the comode seat and lid came down a bit harder on her wrist than she intended, and mommy found her when the cries began. Nothing like getting caught, right?

A few hours later Little B went up to the bathroom and he starts hollering down at me about something--I usually make him come down to speak, so I was tuning him out. However, as I neared the steps to get something from the pantry, his words became more clear. "Mommy! Miss C put the baby wipes container in the potty!!" No wonder the lid of the comode came down so hard on her this time--she really had it open a good bit to fit that through. Little stinker.

kickboxing

I hate to exercise. I really hate it. I am generally unmotivated (well, other than wanting to drop about 7 or 8 more pounds) and easily bored. My entire life, I have preferred to be indoors reading a good book. I’ve tried going to the gym and I loathe sunscreen and bugs and that go with being outside. The 8 or 9 pounds I lost shed while I was sans-sugar back in the fall. (Other than this past week or two, when I’ve indulged heavily in sugary foods, I still try to choose my sugars carefully—make a dessert WORTH having—but I am not strictly off of it now. And, no, it did not solve my migraines, either.)

Several weeks ago, my husband's cousin Jan (much like a sister to him) called me up and said she needed to lose her after-baby belly and I should join a kickboxing class with her. I hedged around, dreading the mere thought of it, and told her to get some information and I’d see. I was visiting my mom that day, and mentioned it. She promptly told me I should do it and held her ground. She had several arguments, and it began to sound remotely worthwhile to me. So, I told my husband, who immediately said, “We’ll work it out with the kids. You need this.” Did I feel pushed from three sides? But, that felt good for some reason.

The place Jan had called no longer offered kickboxing classes, but by this time, I was feeling motivated—a serious first for me! I did a bit of mild research on local classes, but it was not proving too useful.

Then, after Little B's therapy one day, he wanted to follow the painted lines on the sidewalk for kids to goof off with. It’s located in a shopping center where at one time the right side of it was exclusively for kid-related stores and facilities (some of them didn’t stick too well, so it’s not exclusive anymore!). One such place is a Tae Kwon Doe. And, hanging there by the front door is a large sign saying, “First Kickboxing Class Free.”

Now it held my interest and I went in to ask about it. It’s five dollars a class, plus the cost of wraps and gloves; Tuesday and Thursday nights, and Saturday morning. While weekdays are harder for me to get to with timing, I’ve now gone about five or six times and—surprise—I love it! Jan goes, Angela is going sometimes, and another friend of mine has joined us as well. Having someone else who goes makes a huge difference to me. We vary by when we go and how often, but I like it!

And, I only feel about halfway stupid now that I know a bit about what I’m doing (well, trying to).

new friends

When I was in third grade, we moved into a new school district. I had plenty of friends at church, but felt a need to make new friends near my home, and set about advertising. This was accomplished by placing a very large, green chalkboard (the kind too slick to hold chalk well) in my front yard, close to the garage with the straight-forward message:

Wanted
Friends

Of course, it was full of bubble letters and what-not, and I believe had other specifications, and to be honest, I cringe in embarrassment now over that sign. No life-long friends were made, though I did meet a cute "older" boy from up the street (the recieving end of a crush at some point), Sean, and his two younger sisters, Jessica and Star. Jessica was a year younger than me, I think, and while they were a nice family, we never really spent much time together except on the bus. Meredith lived in the house behind our cul-de-sac (I was about half way up the street), and was in my class, but was quite the snob in my experience (though we had a close mutual friend, and made some efforts to be nice). Nearby streets had a few more classmates, but what I longed for was a friend right there, available often and ready to be real, not full of themselves. I was sorely disappointed in the long run. On the other hand, those were idyllic, happy years for me more often than not.

I do not make friends easily. I struggle with rejection and had a few too many kids poke fun when I was younger. I am secure in myself and my family, but I waver when it's time to step up to the plate and extend the hand of friendship. I no longer hang a sign announcing my heart's need, either in the yard or on my sleeve. Rather, I secretly hope someone else--normal and nice--will take a small step and initiate an opening into their lives. That done, I can be welcoming and flexible and open myself up.

Little B has been taking swimming lessons for four weeks. In his class are a little boy and a little girl. The first few classes, I chatted with the boy's mom during the lesson, and the girl's mom in the locker room (she has another, younger daughter as well). Both ladies were nice enough, and Little B loves being friends with anyone he can. He showered with the two little girls (ahem) after their lesson, rinsing the chlorine from their swim suits and then we'd scoot off the other end to change. Little B quickly became fast friends with the little girl, Kaleigh, and her younger sister, Mackenzie. The mom and I chatted a bit outside while we let the kids run around crazy-like in the unseasonably warm weather and I found myself comfortable with her.

I also followed her all the way home; well, within a few houses of it. By accident. It turns out that she lives down the street from us--literally. And so my son's begging for a playdate turned into a reality (taking that step for me was hard--really hard). We have had them over to play three times recently. I feel I've found a true friend; one who has time to be a friend. It almost makes me sad we're trying to sell our house.

For once in my life, I have found a friend on my street I am comfortable with. It hasn't been long, but I feel open and I trust my son with her kids; I don't worry about what he might learn from them or what I will hear later. And I definitely hope to stay in touch with her after we move.

And I didn't even have to advertise.

moving forward

Our house has been for sale for three weeks now. We’ve shown it about a dozen times and had one offer that remained unreasonable even after we countered twice. So, we’re waiting and praying and hoping. And trying to keep it insanely clean behind two fast-fisted children who know how to empty toy bins and strew things behind them faster than lightning. This on top of the food dropped beneath the table at each meal and birdseed around Buttercup & Wesley’s cage makes for frenzied tidying and vacuuming when I get a lunch-time call asking “Can we show your house in fifteen minutes?” Uh, NO. Make it thirty or forty (what I’d like is one or two hours, but they’re always “in the neighborhood”). I can barely get it straightened before we shove out the door, and my poor kids are the brunt of my “hurry; we gotta go NOW; please stop; wait; DON’T empty that; etc., etc.” My secret is to stay in one part of the house, leaving less to tidy in a short notice (can we say bored kids?). And, this happens on an average of three times a week. Yeah, fun. I feel like life is on hold at the moment.

On the other hand, we put a contingency contract on the house of our (current) dreams. It’s a narrower yard, but the actual acreage is larger (I’m still working on that, since it looks smaller; my husband assures me the house is larger as well as set back from the street more, but the visual has me stumped). Other than the steep driveway which I swore I would not do again, and the lack of pantry or large laundry room (my current one has me spoiled), the house is fabulous. It’s large and roomy, has a bonus room and walk in attic (!), two car garage (we only have one at the moment) with a mud-room hallway (where the washer and dryer are also found), a huge master suite (sitting room, two closets, his and hers sinks), and the kitchen. Oh, gasp—the kitchen is large and has two L-shaped, deep counters with tons of cabinet space, a fancy-do faucet in which the sprayer is part of it (this makes me giddy!), deep sinks, some under-counter lighting. . . oh, I could go on and on. Every room is spacious and the kids each have two windows (now that I think about it, I'm going from a bay window to ONE window...hmmm). It even feels like home. I know I will be crushed if it falls through.