Chris’ little girl reminded me of the Bear. Because that boy – like his father before him – loves shoes. (Although he does not line them up in rows to display them. Sigh.) He has favorites that he mourned over when they got too small. And heaven help us when the cowboy boots from Halloween get too small for him to shove onto his feet.

Yesterday the UPS man made his day. Because these were in the box:

He is in love. He ran recklessly all over the house in them, crashing and tripping and rolling, just to feel them on his feet.

“Can I wear them at lunch, Mama? Can I sleep in them? Please?!”

“These are such cool shoes! I loooove my new shoes!”

I can only imagine that some warped, twisted individual cursed us this way. Because it has been a truly horrible three weeks.

It was bad enough when the Princess got it. I know, I know, I could have had her immunized. But even then it would only have slightly lessened my chances of being treated to the unbearable whining. And can I say this? The only thing worse than someone who whines at you all day is someone incredibly verbal and articulate who whines at you all day. She was bound and determined to get it through to me that she was – this very minute – very, very itchy. Just like she was two minutes ago.

Then, when she got well enough to not be a hazard to the public, we hit the commissary, the exchange, and the snobby cheese and wine store. Because I knew that the Bear was going to get it next, and when on earth was I going to get out again? Now was the time to stock up like a blizzard was coming.

Then, instead of our well-exposed son getting spotty, it was the baby. I hoped that it would be a light case. After all, they say that the older you are, the worse it is. So wouldn’t the opposite also be true? No way. She broke out for six stinking days, each more miserable than the last. Her entire back was simply thick with blisters. Every square inch of her little body was covered, and there wasn’t a thing to do but nurse her a lot and get her through it.

A day behind his little sister, the Bear finally started getting spotty. At first I put him to bed with socks over his hands, with a hole for his favorite thumb to poke through. But when I caught him sneaking scratches through his sweats pocket I had to get out the big guns. Big guns in this case being the Princess’ old pink, glittery mittens. And I duct taped the wrists. He thought the mittens were the coolest thing ever until he figured out the thumb was trapped in there. The thumb which he needed now more than ever since he was so miserable.

It all came to a head Saturday night when the Bear and Moo were too itchy to even sleep. He cried and moaned the entire night, and she nursed for hours until she was so full she would spit up and beg to nurse some more. Nobody slept. And then dawn came with the w-h-o-l-e day ahead of us. The Bear had peaked, but Moo would still spend two more days getting new spots. There is not enough coffee or oatmeal bath for times like these.

But we did live through it. Moo still has one spot that refuses to scab over, but already she is healing, and the Bear is way ahead of her. The Princess finally got to get back to swim class this week, and you can hardly tell she was ever sick.

But now we are living with the gory aftermath. Yes, people, I am talking about shedding scabs. Three children, all at once, sloughing off tags all over the place. Between that and my losing all my hair postpartum, our house is really a nasty place to be. So – even though they are not contagious any more (“I’m just scabby.” the Bear tells everyone.) – suffice it to say that we are still not fit for company.

So much for my plans of leading a leisurely life of bonbon eating.

Now the Bear is pox-ridden, too. He thought sleeping with socks over his hands was funny and silly – until he realized that the thumb was going to be cooped up in there, too. Mama to the rescue! Now we have a sock with a thumb-sized hole in it. No way am I taking away his best means of self-comfort when he is feeling so lousy. I will help him with the thumb thing at a later date.

Plus, there is no one so whiny as a person who itches like crazy but is not allowed to scratch. A thumb corked in the mouth = less whining = happy Mama.

The Good:

The Bear is finally, totally out of diapers! (Just short of his fourth birthday. Jimminy Cricket!) He was all undies, all the time except overnight. Then I discovered his maniacal love of cold, hard cash. He is the only three year old I know that simply adores money. So I told him that for every morning he woke up with a dry diaper he would get a shiny new penny for his [hopelessly tacky IKEA] bank.

See, I had thought he was having a problem with bed wetting. He is an incredibly hard sleeper, and I thought we were in for the long haul and a childhood filled with Good Nights diapers.

But I had my suspicions that this was a control issue. This is a boy who didn’t care for potty training to begin with. I finally – the summer after he turned three – had to give the boy a date and counted down to taking the Pull-Ups away. Amazing! He very quickly learned to hold his water. And don’t even get me started on the other stuff – suffice it to say that the boy knows well the taste of senna, because I may not be able to make him go on the potty, but I can at least make him GO.

So here we were, the Bear almost four and still waking up soaking. But at the prospect of becoming independently wealthy early in life, he was dry as a bone every morning. And it only costs me seven cents a week. Cheap at twice the price!

The Bad:

Despite all my efforts to keep her in a sterilized bubble, Moo has gotten the chicken pox from her big sister. After two days of no naps and fussiness she broke out in spots – but only seven so far, so hopefully it will be a light case.

I called the pediatricians on base to see if her young age was going to be a concern. They told me to haul her into the ER to have her checked out. One crying baby, two squirrelly kidlets, one harried Grammy, and one annoyed mama later the good folks there told me yup, it’s the pox and nope, there’s nothing I can do for it. Thanks, folks.

The Ugly:

My garden’s a wreck. The house is a pit of filth. And I can count on one hand the number of times I have been farther from my house than the mailbox in the last three weeks. With fingers left over.

Some people think that would be Christmas. Fools! The best, most fabulous time of the year is when the curriculum catalogs come out. Day after day thick stacks of ads and fliers fill my mailbox, promising to inspire me and make teaching my kidlets more fun! effortless! and in half the time!

I’ve only been at it for four years, so I still have to fight off the desire to buy all the gadgets and toys. I’m just sure that the right manipulative will ward off whining about memorizing grammar and times tables. Sometimes I can even be tempted to dabble in unit studies. Ha! Who’s the fool now? Because if I was being truthful, I would admit that learning is going to entail a certain amount of whining even on the best of days. And also that I am not the maxi-cool energetic super planner mom it takes to do unit studies. (Even really really totally cool ones.)

Since we mainly use Sonlight for our history and reading, I’ve already got that ordered and on it’s way. Today is supposed to be the day The Box comes, so we’ll spend the evening checking off inventory. (A funny aside – It always kind of shocks the FedEx guy who delivers our Sonlight box. Something about an 8-year-old girl jumping up and down and screeching for joy over her new school books…)

Add on to that Excellence in Writing’s spelling program and Abeka math, and I’m half done. Now I just have to figure out what we need for next year’s science, grammar, and creative writing. Which leads to the mother of all temptations…

The state homeschooling conference! This year, for the first time, we’re going to go wandering amongst our fellow homeschooling families, flipping through books, perusing the curriculum fair, and basking in the advice of those who have been doing this for years. (My big, big wish? To meet Jim Weiss, the rock star of story tellers!) It’s going to be such a thrill. And yes, I know, I’m a complete geek.

But, until then, I will page through the multitude of catalogs and dream sweet dreams of shopping sprees that surround me with books. If you need me, I’ll be over there in the corner, armed with pens, sticky notes, and highlighters, planning our future academic glory.

Today, the twelfth, is our twelfth anniversary. I suppose that means I should make a wish or something. So here goes:

I wish you weren’t out of town on another of our special days. I wish you were here to help me through the Princess’ nasty bout of chicken pox. And I wish there was a way to let you know how very glad I am that ran off and married a sailor.

Instead, all I can do is this.

Twelve Reasons I’d Marry You All Over Again

1. You make me laugh. You come up with some really absurdly funny stuff that just makes me guffaw. Remember the Pacific Northwest Jumping Turtles?
2. I love your smell. There is something so absolutely yummy about sniffing you.
3. You are an incredible Daddy, and you love being around our kids. Even when you are worn out, you don’t send them away. That is so huge.
4. I admire your attention to detail. If you do anything, you do it to such an extreme degree that it doesn’t need to be done again for a long, long time.
5. You love to go shopping.
6. You love shoes and always make sure the kidlets have healthy footwear.
7. You are okay with my neurotic need to be the driver. You also share the remote.
8. You are the kind of guy who not only buys his wife a La Cucaracha air horn, but you think it’s funny, too. I love laughing together as we blast people.
9. It’s wonderful just to hang out with you. When you have days off, we can spend the whole time fiddling around, accomplish nothing, and it still feels like a great day.
10. You eat my cooking – even the failed experiments.
11. You tell me I’m beautiful even when I’ve got no makeup on. In fact, you say you can’t tell the difference. And yet you understand that I must fuss a little in front of a mirror before I’ll go anywhere.
12. Lastly, because it just keeps getting better the longer we are together. Man, if it’s this wonderful now, can you imagine how blissed out we will be in ten more years? Or twenty?

You are my knight in shining armor. Happy anniversary, honey.

Can it be three months already? I think I must have blinked, because it’s shocking to me that you are not a newborn anymore.

You’re huge! It’s amazing that you are roughly the same size that your brother was at this age, even though he was two pounds heavier at birth. You are no longer built like Gollum, but are yummy and rolly-poly and have thighs like the Michelin Man. I love love love it that you are getting so chunky on mama milk alone.

I keep hoping that you will eventually be okay with sleeping in the Amby hammock. The way you reach out your little hands in the night to feel for my face before falling sweetly back to sleep tells me it’s not likely to happen any time soon. I can’t say I mind too much.

You reach for toys, too, and watch with zen-like concentration as your hands slooowly go where you command. Like right into my hair where their clammy, spitty fingers get hopelessly knotted.

You stick out your tongue like a tiny guitar pick to lick your hands, your jammies, or even just the air. This cracks up the Princess, who tries to get you to do it more so she can joke about you being a big lizard.

But, best of all, you are so very happy. You don’t cry so much anymore, and your smiley personality comes out more and more. I could spend the whole day gazing at your beaming face. From here on out, you are my Sunshine.

I wish I could choose how I cope with stress. Wouldn’t that be nice? Something like a drop down menu… You feel yourself hitting the wall and out of nowhere PING! a list of desirable coping mechanisms appear. Voila!

Instead, I am beset by warring compulsions.

First off, I am possessed by a cleaning and organizing fury. But instead of doing anything useful, I obsess about crazy things, like suddenly needing to go through all the books and organize by the Dewey decimal system. Or taking a hand vac to all the baseboards in the house – even behind the furniture. Or, on a particularly bad day, I might even dust. But since so many little details need my attention, and my nerves are jumping like ice on a griddle, no job gets totally done. Which drives me more nuts.

In between frantic bouts of organizing is the urge to lie down and sleep for hours. Wherever I happen to be at the time. Now if only I could find a way to make all three kidlets curl up with me and nap in tandem, that would rule. What do you think my chances are?

And then there is food. I always feel like nibbling something when things are on an even keel, but when I’ve got stress I could cook and eat all. day. long. (I stockpile groceries, too.) Health food or junk, savory or sweet – it simply doesn’t matter as long as it fills the hole and calms my overloaded circuits. It may be unhealthy, but it still beats chain smoking.

So I clean and sleep and eat. And perhaps, when smooth sailing returns, I will come out of it well rested and with a clean house and full pantry.

…but does she have a La Cucaracha horn?