My Thoughts on Snow Days

I got a little nostalgic today as I woke to one of our rare Texas Snow Days and my 11 and 13 year-old sons were already outside sledding dangerously down the hills without parental supervision, and my 16 year-old daughter called in tears to say that she slid the car into someone else, and then my husband yelled that a pipe burst at our house… It seemed fitting to re-post what I wrote four years ago when my children were still small (12, 9 and 7 years old) and those days were REALLY special.

Snow in Austin, Texas is almost unheard of and as lifelong Texans my children have only seen snow a few times. So on February 24, 2007 when I was awakened by my middle son, Winston, shouting “Snow everybody. No School. Snow Day! Snow Day!” I knew it was going to be a great day. We all got up and went downstairs to a world covered with white and full of the sparkle and hush that snow brings to every surface of our world. This was going to be one of those memory days that Gloria Gaither talks about, something we could all look back on and recall with a smile. “Remember that year in Austin when it snowed and you all got to stay home from school and we...”

Request number one. “Mom, can you make us all hot chocolate? Not the instant kind, but the real kind?” “Of course, I sweetly replied,” and just as I was pulling out the ingredients for the cocoa and homemade sweet rolls, I heard a voice calling from the other room. Request number two. “Mom! Can you light a fire?” “Mom, we NEEEEED a fire, right now.” As I was going into the den to start the fire, I heard shouts from upstairs. Request number three. “Mom! Where are my gloves? Winston stole my gloves. Make him give them back.” “I can’t go outside without my gloves. I won’t wear the Spiderman gloves those are for babies….” And so the perfect snow day begins.

Ok, friends. Here’s the deal. I know for sure that I will NOT survive any type of nuclear or bio-warfare attack where our family has to hole up inside our home or some other type of confined “safe” place for any length of time.

We have only been home for the snow day for 24 hours and I have already done about 2,000 loads of wash for children who have cried because they wanted to go outside and needed warm dry clothes, then cried again because the wanted to come inside and take off their wet, cold clothes to put on some new warm clothes, and on again, and off again, and on again, and off again for the clothes rotation. I swear my children have been in layers of clothing that I have never even seen before. I am not sure which is worse, having children crying because I say they can not go outside again or crying because when they do go outside and then come back inside again they are too cold and their hands hurt. My washer and dryer has been going non-stop almost all day.

Then there is the matter of the 30 or so individual dishes that I have had to pick up today from unique places such as the bathtub, behind the computer, underneath the bean bag chair and from virtually every flat surface in my playroom and den (AND THAT DOES NOT COUNT the meal dishes from our three “regular” meals). I have run my dishwasher 3 times today and it was full each time. NO LIE.

Next I can tell you about the number of times I have screamed at the top of my lungs “Take off your wet shoes and leave them by the door!” Or “Hang up those wet coats; don’t just throw them on the floor.” I am not sure, but I think those words must be coming out of my mouth in some sort of foreign language because not once today has anyone actually listened to them and understood them.

Then there is the small matter of our pets…. Yes, I am sure many of you have worried about our chickens (as well as our three dogs, one cat, chinchilla, and guinea pig) but don’t worry, I made a little space for them right beside my husband’s side of the bed because he loves them so! Ha!

Actually, it is quite hilarious to see chickens strutting around in the snow – they don’t seem to mind and our chicken coop is heated and protected from the wind so that is ok. The only problem is my having to venture out in the cold several times a day to make sure their food and water is not frozen. And, as for the rest of our four-legged family members, they have had a wonderful day all warm and cozy by the fireplace. But, did you know that dogs don’t like to get their paws wet from the ice and so try to do their business inside where you can’t find it? In fact, mine are so smart that I can put them outside for an hour and they will wait until they come back inside where it is more comfortable!!

One of my favorite things about all being at home for such an extended period of time is the joy I find in relaxing in my home. With three children at home and a variety of neighborhood kids coming through the house, it is just a wee bit untidy….. but I have just been sitting around eating chocolate and reading books while these kids have dutifully picked up and put away every game they have taken out, every book they have looked at, every video (about 3,796 - I know. I counted. ) they have looked through to find that one special one they have not seen since last year, every crayon they have taken out and used in drawing snow day pictures, and every toy they have pulled out to play with because “I’m BORED Mom, there is NOTHING to do!”.

Last, but not least there is the minor issue of bickering among my children. Mind, you I say bickering because my sweet little darlings rarely ever fight and it is 9:30 p.m. and since they are all still breathing and all seem to be in full possession of their limbs, I am sure the screaming and yelling I heard at various times today came from some of the neighbor children. Mine get along so well.

Oh yea,and did I mention that my husband went to work today right away, first thing?He is such a good provider for our family and we are so grateful that he works so hard! Come to think of it, he was awfully anxious to go and seemed determined to get there even if he had to hike………

Seriously, it is so wonderful to remember the JOY of being a child and being granted the wonderful miracle of a perfect snow day! I can still remember my first snow day in Austin, around 1969 or 1970 where we spent the whole day rolling down the hill at Tarry Town United Methodist Church and sneaking around the grounds of the Catholic Convent at the corner of Exposition and Westover because they were still pristine and no on had walked around on them yet. Then walking back up Exposition to Holiday House to drink Hot Chocolate and eat French fries.

It remains in my memory as a “perfect day” almost 45 years later and I hope my children will also treasure their memories of that one perfect snow day or of any other special day that I can help them create. And those are my thoughts on snow days.

No Hanky Panky For This Girl or Hanky Panky Makes Me Cranky

One of my recent Facebook postings that generated a lot of comments got me to thinking. The posting said: “Spanx is just a newfangled marketing word for a glorified girdle.”

Who wants to wear a GIRDLE? But on the other hand, what’s a girl to do about those unsightly bulges – especially around the middle? Just the sound of the word girdle conjures up something unappealing. What woman in her right mind would say to her man, “Just a minute let me step out of this GIRDLE?! But try that this way, “Just a minute honey let me step out of my Spanx” well that is a whole other deal there.

Underwear. (un der war), n. clothing worn next to the skin under outer clothes. This is the definition found in Webster’s Dictionary for underwear. Recent events have caused me to do a lot of serious thinking concerning underwear.

A few weeks ago I got an email from my friend Kristi letting me know that Hanky Panky’s were on sale so I should rush out and buy some. Another friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, is still trying to live down the recent showing of her skivvies at a party. Several of my friends also extol the virtues of the Hanky Panky. Did I mention, that most them are over 40, married with children, and would be considered, shall we say, conservative?

The first time I ever saw a Hanky Panky was at Nordstrom’s with my sister who, as we were walking through the lingerie department, said “Oh, I have heard such great things about those Hanky Panky panties.” Well, I looked over and did not see a panty anywhere. All I saw was a $16.99 strip of lace connected by a string at the back – or in other words - a thong.

While on the other end of the spectrum, my 15 year-old daughter has suddenly expressed an interest in purchasing her own clothing and brought home several new pairs of “underwear.” Well, I have news for you, my daughter’s underwear and my friends of the 40 plus crowd; Hanky Pankies are not in any shape or form underwear. They are without a doubt, THONGS - and not the flip flop kind - the underwear kind!

Now, I don’t know about you, but I always thought the purpose of underwear was to protect and to serve. Kind of like the police force. I mean the protection piece is pretty obvious right? A good pair of underwear should protect you from any thing accidentally coming out or going in. As for the serve part – well, by that I mean it should serve a function of some sort. For me that function is also pretty obvious. My underwear holds in those parts of my body that seem to bulge out. Give me a sturdy pair of Spanx any day! And speaking of Spanx, the gal who thought up those babies is brilliant! “Why?” you might ask. Well, because she made wearing a girdle cool. Spanx are just reinvented girdles. And I am a girdle kind of girl.

On a side note, I actually have fond memories of girdles because wearing one nipped my life of crime in the bud. When I was about 8 years old, a neighbor girl and I were at the neighborhood drugstore and for some reason we each decided to steal an item. I think it was to show who was braver or something equally as stupid. I know I knew it was wrong and I remember I was scared to death, but I took the dare. I found an area that seemed to be out of sight of the clerk, way back in the far dark corner of the store where they placed the “private” items – you know the mysterious stuff like sanitary napkins, Midol, feminine deodorant spray and undergarments! I reached up and grabbed the first thing I could find. And guess what? It was a girdle. I swiped a girdle! And then for some unfathomable reason, I actually put it on underneath my dress- I guess it was to hide it as I guiltily left the store.

Even before I left I was eaten up with guilt and fear, but I had already done the deed and could not back out now. My friend, who was obviously far more cut out for a life of crime than me, was already outside having smuggled out a stash of candy. I found her, pulled up my dress to show her that I had indeed committed the crime and then we immediately commenced to eating up all the evidence. By that time it was late and so we set off for home. Along the way I began to feel sick. At first I thought it was because it was so hot and we were walking, and then I decided it was because I had eaten too much candy, and then it came to me. I knew it. God was punishing me. I was a criminal and now I was going to pay the price. I had been stricken with some sort of illness and would probably now die.

By the time we got to my house I was beside myself with worry and a stomach ache that I was sure would put me in the grave. I tried to avoid my mother, but her eagle eyes knew something was wrong. I could barely eat dinner and had almost nothing to say. I just knew that any minute God was going to strike me dead for my larceny. And, all the while my stomach was hurting worse and worse. Finally, I admitted that I was not feeling too good. My Mom did her usual – checked the forehead for fever, questioned me about where it hurt. When I said my tummy, she asked a few questions and then went to poke on my belly and low and behold discovered me still wearing the stolen girdle complete with the price tag on it!

After confessing the crime to her, returning to the drugstore to pay for the stolen item and having a very sore bottom instead of a sore tummy, I vowed never again to steal. So, really a girdle saved me from a life of crime.

But back to thongs. As far as I can tell the thong just does not count as underwear in any sense of the word. Let’s go back to my personal definition of underwear: to protect and serve. Take protection. What sort of protection can a piece of string approximately 3 inches wide, or less in many cases, provide a girl? It certainly can’t help protect any sensitive areas, nor would it protect you from embarrassment if say, oh you accidentally tucked your skirt into the back of your panties and were walking back to your table through the restaurant (been there, done that).

Or if you were in a serious car accident and had to be rushed to the emergency room and disrobed by hospital personnel in a room full of strangers, all of whom would suddenly lose their focus of performing those critical life saving efforts such as cracking open my chest an shouting out words like 20 cc’s of Lidocane and stuff, only to gasp in horror at the sight of your private area that is so NOT protected from prying eyes.

Personally, I grew up with a mother who constantly admonished me to wear my nice underwear in case of an accident, and I think her advice was quite sound. But I know one thing, if I was ever caught unawares in a room full of Emergency Physicians who looked like George Clooney and Patrick Dempsey ripping me down to my skivvies in order to save my life, I would much rather have on my good old Haines with the reinforced stomach panel than one of those miniscule pieces of material that let is all hang out. Because lets face it – what hangs out ain’t too pretty!

In looking up the history of underwear on the Internet (yes, there is a site that is devoted to the history of underwear) I discovered a lot about underwear. I guess technically, the first pair of undies were the fig leaves Adam and Eve wore in the Garden of Eden, but they were probably scratchy so I think they immediately invented the loin cloth, which interestingly enough were really for men – guess they wanted to make sure there were no comparisons going on.

Loin cloths were pretty popular for a long while – apparently King Tut was found buried with about 150 extras for his voyage into the underworld. I am not sure what women used, because according to the internet sites I searched, Cleopatra was not found with loin cloths, nor girdles much less a thong in her tomb.

It appears that the Middle Ages was really when underwear came about. I think they invented it because they took baths like once a year and they didn’t have many clothes so they used this new fangled underwear invention to keep their clothes from getting dirty. Over time I think undies got fancier and moved from being the plain old union suit type to briefs and jockey shorts and such. But hygiene was really the major reason for the use of undergarments. And I know for darn sure that small piece of string does not provide hygienic protection or otherwise.

Ok, so there is another purpose of underwear – the sexy kind that men like to see on women, but let’s face it, I am not really sure men really like to see Hanky Panky’s on anyone who doesn’t weigh about 100 pounds, has had some sort of breast enhancement surgery and spends at least 6 hours a day working on their abs and thighs. Yes, Victoria’s Secret models do fit that mold, but basically as far as I can tell there are only about 14 Victoria’s Secret models in the whole entire world, and since they are the only ones who really can look good in a thong, what are the other 3 Billion one hundred sixty-seven women in the world supposed to do?

Quite frankly, after wearing my first pair of Hanky Panky’s for a day, I am thinking that perhaps the reason so many women seem to be angry and short tempered these days may not really be due to factors the media keeps attributing their problems to like balancing work and career or the failing economy or even PMS. It actually may be due to the fact that they are wearing a thong that is riding up their rear and digging into their privates which is causing major discomfort. Or that they are frantically obsessing over the fact that when they disrobe that thong is just not going to look like it does on page 12 of the Victoria’s Secret Catalogue. Or better still perhaps they are bemoaning the fact that they actually paid $16.99 for a piece of underwear that serves no real purpose other than to make you want to furtively look around to see if anyone is watching before you reach your hand back and try to pull it out of your behind.

Even more likely those Hanky Panky’s are causing some sort of mass produced Post Traumatic Stress Disorder among millions of women who spent their youth trying to keep playground bullies from giving them a wedgie only now to be in the strange position of choosing with their own free will to seek out a garment that purposely recreates that childhood trauma.

This weekend, I was looking out the window and saw a bunch of clothes in the yard. Of course I thought one of the kids decided to strip down out there for some reason or another (Hey, it the Collins House, are you surprised?)and I yelled upstairs for whoever left their clothes in the backyard to come and get them. Turns out our Pomeranian, Stoli, has been snacking on every pair of underwear he can find. He is constantly digging in the laundry basket and pulling out our underwear and running off and eating the crotch out.

Just yesterday my husband complained that his underwear had a hole in it and he couldn’t figure out what had happened and I just could not bring myself to mention the fact that all our underwear had little holes in it from Stoli’s attacks. Nor have I been able to throw out the multiple pairs of $35 Girdles (oh, I mean Spanx!) that he has rendered crtochless. I am just too darn cheap- what do a few holes in the crotch matter when the stomach panel still holds in the belly?

So, even though I am as interested as the next middle aged woman in keeping up my appearances to please my man and in making sure I am hip and with it. I just can not go there. No Hanky Panky for me. No way, no how. Give me a good old fashioned girdle any day.

House of Vomit

The most horrifying weekend tale of all time. Not for the squeamish or the faint-hearted. Warning! Nothing Like this in all the history of motherhood. Horrible. Terrifying. Gruesome. See the viscious vomit in action. Hear the screams and moans and retching. Experience the nausea. Feel the pain.

Banned in many homes due to the extreme terror that ensues from imagining the experience. Men all over America have run screaming from the room after being confronted with these true tales from the house of vomit….


In case you can’t tell our family just spent the weekend together bonding in a way that only the vomit virus can achieve.

Now, we are no stranger to the joys of vomiting. A lot of families have traditions and experiences that are repeated year after year and told lovingly at family gatherings. These tales often achieve mythical status in family traditions to such proportions that children of later generations repeat them reverentially wishing for the good old days. “Remember when Daddy and Uncle Jeff used to go to work with Grandy at the local Post Office in Satin which also doubled as the grocery store?” Or what about the story of “When PawPaw got home from World War II he got the only new convertible in the State of Texas because he was considered a War Hero.”

But back to our family traditions. A couple of years ago I noticed a strange coincidence that has since turned into a pretty sure thing. On almost every Holiday (this week counts as one since Easter is this week) at least one person in our family throws up. I think the curse first started Spring Break 2003. Kent and I took the kids and our Nanny, Ale, to Florida for a week of fun and relaxation. CeCe was 8, Winston was 5 and Tye was 3. We were staying in a house that had a master bedroom downstairs and the kids and Allie were upstairs with two bedrooms on either side of a bathroom. The upstairs area was actually fairly small with just a tiny landing area at the top of the stairs and a very small bathroom and the two bedrooms. We thought it was ideal. The kids would sleep upstairs all nestled together, safe and sound with Ale to watch over them and Kent and I could have some much needed alone time together downstairs.

Alas, this was not to be. The first night we discovered that this house must have been built during a time when building codes were more lax because the curving, metal staircase had treads and railings that our children could easily slip through making it impossible for us to allow them to go up and downstairs by themselves. So the first night I spent worrying that one of them might wake up and try to come down to us by themselves. The second night was when the tradition was born. We had spent a fun, if hectic, day out at the beach which had culminated with a family dinner of fried fish, hush puppies and cole slaw at this awesome restaurant right on the beach. After dinner we got the kids to bed and Kent and I were enjoying the peace and quiet of our own room downstairs away from everyone.

About 2 am I heard it. That unique cry of a child who has just thrown up all over himself in his bed. It starts out with the first moan and quickly crescendos to a shriek of “Mooooommmmmyyyyyyyy…I throwed up!!” So much for a good night’s sleep alone with each other. Coming up the stairs I was met by CeCe who had just gotten up from her bed to rush to the bathroom, looked straight at me as I hit the top of that tiny landing and hurled all over the floor and me, then as I am trying to grab her to get to the bathroom, she throws up again all OVER the toilet. After about an hour of cleaning. Cleaning her off, cleaning me off, cleaning the rug on the floor in the hallway and scrubbing down the toilet and the bathroom floor, I got ready to put her back in her bed when I discovered that she had also thrown up IN her bed. So I had to clean all that up too. By this time it is around 3:00 am or so and I decide to take her down to our bedroom to sleep with us. We had been downstairs just about an hour when I heard the same cry coming from upstairs and Winston had begun throwing up. As I started through the same routine of cleaning him off, our Nanny races by me to the bathroom where she too starts to vomit.

And guess what? Sure enough, as I check in on the baby sweetly sleeping through all of this, I see that he has also hurled in his own bed only being the considerate child he is, he has gone back to sleep IN the middle of all his throw up. Resigned, I start over again cleaning him up and throwing all his bedding and Winston’s bedding into the wash. Because I am so tired and I figure that everyone will probably start heaving again I decide to just wrap them all up in layers of towels and as they throw up into the top layer of towel, I just strip that off and put it in the washer and let them go onto the next layer of towel. And the cycle of vomit repeats itself…

Now by this time you may ask yourself where is my husband? What is he doing? Did he too get sick? Was he tirelessly working by my side as together we confronted the horror of cleaning up all this vomit? Well, not exactly.

Somewhere around the time that the second child began blowing chunks, he declared in a sincere voice that he was just going to sleep in the other room by himself “…Because someone around here needed to get some sleep.” After I had finished cussing him out in my head (the children were still up so I could not really say what I needed to right at that moment) I asked him -- just as sincerely as he had mentioned his plan to me-- if he HAD LOST HIS MIND? Did he really think that he should go to bed and leave me to clean up what had now become copious of piles of vomit? Well apparently, Yes, he did. He sincerely believed that it would be best for him to go ahead and get some rest so that in the morning if I was really tired he could take over and let me rest! After all, there was no reason in his logical mind that both of us should have to stay up and be tired. After all, one of us should get some sleep! And apparently, that one of us was HIM!

Of course, as these things usually do, by morning everyone had stopped vomiting and the kids were soon feeling much better and ready to go to the beach. As Daddy gathered them all up and, oh so graciously, offered to go ahead and take ALL the children with him to the beach, he did mention a few times that he would be by HIMSELF and asked what time did I think I would join them. And when I did come, would I go ahead and bring an ice chest with some more drinks and a few more chairs as he had too much to carry by himself. I sweetly assured him I would be there shortly, just as soon as I finished washing every single towel and sheet and comforter that house had stocked.

Needless to say I have one very vivid memory of that trip. In fact it is seared into my brain.

It is not what you might think; a memory of vomit. Oh no! It is the memory of me standing on the beach later that afternoon with cell phone in hand dialing every single mother that I had programmed into my cell phone and asking them one simple question -- “What would you do if all three of your children were vomiting and your husband announced that he had better go on to bed to get some sleep because someone ought to be refreshed in the morning so they could help take care of everyone?” You see, I had promised Kent that if I could find one person, just one person, who would agree that his logic was sound, that I would never as long as we lived, mention this story again…

From Florida, the Curse continued. Memories of a Christmas where Kent gave me a gorgeous white sweater which I immediately put on only to have one of my children walk into the kitchen, reach his little hands up to me and begin vomiting. Instead of reacting with the natural mother instinct of grabbing them up and helping them make it to the restroom, I quickly backpedaled away and shrieked, “My sweater. Don’t throw up on my sweater.” I will never forget the slightly horrified look on the face of my sweet, angelic cousin Charlotte as she witnessed this episode.

Another time as we were driving to Lake LBJ for a Fourth of July Family Reunion, we arrived at the cabin full of multiple families, lots of kids and few bathrooms, when Kent started vomiting only to have it spread to two of our other children during the trip. Once, after a New Year’s Holiday tradition of going to the Hill Country to celebrate with some other families, I remember thinking, we had made it. It was January First and we were driving home and no one had gotten sick that entire weekend. The Curse was broken! Sadly, about 15 minutes from our house I heard this little voice from the back of the car saying “I don’t feel so good, I need to movit.” We pulled over and sure enough, Tye threw up on the side of the road.

We actually call vomit “Movit” because when Tye was little he often got words mixed up and somehow when he heard the word Vomit it became “Movit” and so that is what we call it.

In fact, our Holiday vomiting tradition has become so well known among my friends that, they will often call at random times during a holiday and ask “Has anyone thrown up yet?” And among my germ phobic, more than slightly neurotic family, there is a never ending quest to keep my family from getting sick. I get all kinds of advice ranging from simple reminders to wash our hands frequently and to not allow my kids to drink or eat after each other (duh!) to suggestions that we get rid of our cats because cats can carry disease (huh?). Or helpful queries like “Who do you think they caught the virus from?” (Gee, I don’t know. I say we blame Tye’s friend Ivan. Do you want me to call his mother and yell at her?). Or comments like “Your kids sure are sick a lot, do you think you have a good doctor?” (Well, no actually we picked a bad doctor, but he is real cheap). My poor family. They just don’t seem to believe in the Curse.

So this weekend, we had yet another family bonding experience. This time Winston did the honors of kicking off yet another incident in the House of Vomit. Thursday night he woke me up complaining that his stomach hurt real bad. Half asleep, I rolled over and told him to get in bed with us and try to sleep. Mistake number One. About an hour or so later after off and on waking me up and moaning about his stomach hurting, he jumps out of bed and races toward the bathroom. Just about there he lets loose on the floor creating a line of vomit from the dressing room area all the way to the toilet. From 3:00 am – 6:00 am he “commenced to throwing up regular like clockwork” as my grandmother would say, every 30 minutes. He continued to be sick for most of the next day with little sympathy from either his sister or his brother. Later, Friday I get a call from his sister, CeCe, asking me to pick her up from school – she does not feel well. After she gets home she seems to feel a bit better, leaving me wondering if this was just a con job or if she was actually sick. At about midnight on Friday, she wakes me up saying she thinks she is nervous about riding a new horse on Saturday and that her stomach hurts. Half asleep, I rolled over and told her to get in bed with us and try to sleep. Mistake number Two. Shortly thereafter, she wakes me up by rushing into the bathroom and throwing up. This seems to be a one time deal and we both agree that it is probably nerves and she goes back to sleep. The next morning she says she is feeling ok, and eats some breakfast and keeps it down. I continue to question her about how she feels and she very condescendingly assures me that SHE does NOT have Winston’s virus! She is 14 after all and would never succumb to the common virus. She was just overly nervous about riding a new horse. So we decide to send her on out to the barn, which is 45 minutes out of Austin, to ride. Mistake number Three.
Just as I was getting into the shower to dress for a Tea I had to attend I got a phone call from her, punctuated between retching sounds and toilets flushing, asking me to come and get her that she was sick. By the time she got home she was feverish and shaking and was in bed all of Saturday. By this time Winston has recovered, is fever free for 24-hours and assures us he feels good enough to go to his friend, Blakely’s birthday party. We talk with Blakely’s parents and they say they are comfortable with his coming, so we send him. Mistake number Four. At around 10:00 pm Kent and I get a call to come and pick him up -- his stomach is hurting. We get him home and while he does not vomit again, it is clear he is not feeling well.


Later Saturday night, after Kent and I have been asleep for an hour or so, Tye very quietly and calmly comes into our bedroom to announce that he too, has Movit….in HIS BED! And climbs into bed with us. Mistake number Five. Tye then proceeds to immediately vomit in MY bed. Luckily, I had gotten a few towels around him and he threw up into those and not on our bed linens, so all I had to do was put those in the bathroom and wrap him up in more towels in case he got sick again. Just as I was preparing to very loudly and very martyr like suffer through yet a THIRD night of cleaning up after yet another vomiting child, I heard something that literally stopped me in my tracks. It was an unearthly sound. Terrifying in its strangeness. One never before heard in the walls of our household.

Now here is where the tale takes a strange, strange twist. I have been married to Kent for 20 years and we have had children for 13 of those years. In all those years I can not remember a single time that he has been the one to get up in the night to clean up the vomit. In fact, most of the time he has slept right through it. Before I could wake up enough to get up and go into Tye’s room to clean everything up, Kent gets up and says “Honey, let me clean that up for you. You were up the past two nights.” I froze. This was NOT my husband. Aliens must have come down in the night and switched out his body. Slowly, carefully, I rose up to investigate. It looked like Kent. Maybe I was hallucinating from lack of sleep the two previous nights. So I asked him if I had heard correctly. But he assured me that he could do this and then he proceeded to clean up the entire bed. He stripped it, washed out the sheets in the sink first and then proceeded to put them in the washing machine. He even washed the mattress pad and the comforter separately.

And I did not get up even once to supervise or to help. I just went back to sleep and let him do it. Mistake number Six. And perhaps the biggest one of all.

For the next 20 years or so whenever someone vomits and I have to get up and clean it up, Kent is going to remind me that he “does too get up to help when the kids vomit”…

Now what am I going to complain about?

My Thoughts on Snow Days

Bloggers Note: I wrote this about 2 years ago after a fun filled snow day with my kids and even though it has not snowed in Austin since then, we still keep hoping! So back by popular demand...

Snow in Austin, Texas is almost unheard of and, as lifelong Texans, my children have only seen snow a few times. So on February 24, 2007 when I was awakened by my middle son, Winston, shouting “Snow everybody. No School. Snow Day! Snow Day!” I knew it was going to be a great day. We all got up and went downstairs to a world covered with white and full of the sparkle and hush that snow brings to every surface of our world. This was going to be one of those memory days that Gloria Gaither talks about, something we could all look back on and recall with a smile. “Remember that year in Austin when it snowed and you all got to stay home from school and we...”

Request number one. “Mom, can you make us all hot chocolate? Not the instant kind, but the real kind?” “Of course, I sweetly replied,” and just as I was pulling out the ingredients for the cocoa and homemade sweet rolls, I heard a voice calling from the other room. “Mom! Can you light a fire?” “Mom, we NEEEEED a fire, right now.” As I was going into the den to start the fire, I heard shouts from upstairs “Mom! Where are my gloves? Winston stole my gloves. Make him give them back.” “I can’t go outside without my gloves. I won’t wear the spiderman gloves those are for babies….” And so the perfect snow day begins.

Ok, friends. Here’s the deal. I know for sure that I will NOT survive any type of nuclear or bio-warfare attack where our family has to hole up inside our home or some other type of confined “safe” place for any length of time.

We have only been home for the snow day for 24 hours and I have already done about 2,000 loads of wash for children who have cried because they wanted to go outside and needed warm dry clothes, then cried again because the wanted to come inside and take off their wet, cold clothes to put on some new warm clothes, and on again, and off again, and on again, and off again for the clothes rotation. I swear my children have been in layers of clothing that I have never even seen before. I am not sure which is worse, having children crying because I say they can not go outside again or crying because when they do go outside and then come back inside again they are too cold and their hands hurt. My washer and dryer has been going non-stop almost all day.

Then there is the matter of the 30 or so individual dishes that I have had to pick up today from unique places such as the bathtub, behind the computer, underneath the bean bag chair and from virtually every flat surface in my playroom and den (AND THAT DOES NOT COUNT the meal dishes from our three “regular” meals). I have run my dishwasher 3 times today and it was full each time. NO LIE.

Next I can tell you about the number of times I have screamed at the top of my lungs “Take off your wet shoes and leave them by the door!” Or “Hang up those wet coats, don’t just throw them on the floor.” I am not sure, but I think those words must be coming out of my mouth in some sort of foreign language because not once today has anyone actually listened to them and understood them.

Then there is the small matter of our pets… Yes, I am sure many of you have worried about our chickens (as well as our three dogs, one cat, chinchilla, and guinea pig) but don’t worry, I made a little space for them right beside my husband’s side of the bed because he loves them so! Ha!

Actually, it is quite hilarious to see chickens strutting around in the snow – they don’t seem to mind and our chicken coop is heated and protected from the wind so that is ok. The only problem is my having to venture out in the cold several times a day to make sure their food and water is not frozen. And, as for the rest of our four-legged family members, they have had a wonderful day all warm and cozy by the fireplace. But, did you know that dogs don’t like to get their paws wet from the ice and so try to do their business inside where you can’t find it? In fact, mine are so smart that I can put them outside for an hour and they will wait until they come back inside where it is more comfortable!!

One of my favorite things about all being at home for such an extended period of time is the joy I find in relaxing in my home. With three children at home and a variety of neighborhood kids coming through the house, it is just a wee bit untidy….. but I have just been sitting around eating chocolate and reading books while these kids have dutifully picked up and put away every game they have taken out, every book they have looked at, every video (about 3,796 - I know. I counted. ) they have looked through to find that one special one they have not seen since last year, every crayon they have taken out and used in drawing snow day pictures, and every toy they have pulled out to play with because “I’m BORED Mom, there is NOTHING to do!”.

Last, but not least there is the minor issue of bickering among my children. Mind, you I say bickering because my sweet little darlings rarely ever fight and it is 9:30 p.m. and since they are all still breathing and all seem to be in full possession of their limbs, I am sure the screaming and yelling I heard at various times today came from some of the neighbor children. Mine get along so well.

Oh yea, and did I mention that my husband went to work today right away, first thing—he is such a good provider for our family and we are so grateful that he works so hard…. Come to think of it, he was awfully anxious to go and seemed determined to get there even if he had to hike………

Seriously, it is so wonderful to remember the JOY of being a child and being granted the wonderful miracle of a perfect snow day! I can still remember my first snow day in Austin, around 1969 or 1970 where we spent the whole day rolling down the hill at Tarry Town United Methodist Church and sneaking around the grounds of the Catholic Convent at the corner of Exposition and Westover because they were still pristine and no on had walked around on them yet. Then walking back up Exposition to Holiday House to drink Hot Chocolate and eat French fries. It remains in my memory as a “perfect day” almost 45 years later and I hope my children will also treasure their memories of that one perfect snow day or of any other special day that I can help them create. And those are my thoughts on snow days.