Phillip scissorhands

Phillip has been quite the little devil lately. I'm not sure if it's the phase of the moon, the way in which the planets are aligned, or just plain being almost four, but he is definitely giving us a run for our money.

A couple of weeks ago I went to the grocery store with the girls while Phillip chose to stay home with Rob and our friend Leo, who is doing the electrical work in our addition. I noticed later that afternoon that Phillip's shorts had a little cut in them right at the bottom. It was obvious that it was a clean cut that had been done by scissors as opposed to a tear or rip. When I asked Phillip about it he got this impish little grin on his face and peeked up at me from under fluttering eyelashes so long they would make a southern belle green with envy. He claimed he didn't know how his shorts got cut, but his face told a different story. I continued to press him until he finally admitted that while Rob and Leo were busy working he had managed to got the scissors out of the (locked) drawer and cut his shorts. Since the shorts he was wearing were actually a pair of old sweatpants that I had cut the legs off of I wasn't terribly upset that he had cut them. Still, I wanted him to understand that under no circumstances should he be touching our scissors, much less using them, and that regardless of the age and/or condition of his clothing it was not okay for him to cut it. We had a little talk, Phillip apologized, looked suitably contrite, and all was forgiven.

The following weekend Phillip was getting ready to take a bath. As I was gathering up his clothes I noticed that one of his socks had been cut, as had his t-shirt. Our follow-up investigation concluded that this act of apparel vandalism had been committed using his little craft scissors. This time we sent him to his room for a brief stay and told him that he was not allowed to use his scissors for thirty days. That night after Phillip went to bed I gathered up all the scissors and nail clippers in the house and hid them away. We thought we had seen the end results of all of his cutting experiments but we were wrong. A few days later when he was getting his hair cut Michelle, the girl who cuts our hair, found a spot on his head where he had obviously taken the scissors to his hair. In an effort to curtail any future attempts at self-barbering she told him that if he cut his own hair again it would turn pink. A few days after that I noticed that the little tuft of fur on the top of Comet's head looked different. He has what can only be described as a little cowlick on the top of his head, where a little patch of almost white fluff rises to a point above his otherwise golden fur. Except now the cowlick doesn't come to a point, because you know who also tried his hand at grooming the dog. When I asked Phillip about Comet's cowlick I got the usual response, mischievous little smile, eyes lowered to the ground, and batting eyelashes...this boy will never be a poker player.

With the scissors locked away Phillip has directed his energy towards tormenting Kylie. He has taken to sneaking into her room during the day while she's at school and either messing it up or taking her things. The other night while my parents were here for dinner Kylie realized that her little notebook that hangs on a keychain was missing. I could tell from the look on Phillip's face that he had a hand in its disappearance. He had a laundry list of places the notebook was, first he said he flushed it down the toilet, then he fed it to the dog, after that he insisted it was in Kylie's room and took her up to look for it. My Mom was convinced that he didn't really know anything and that he was just messing with Kylie, but I suspected otherwise. I pulled Phillip aside and whispered to him that I would give him another of the brownie bites I had made for dessert if he would give me Kylie's notebook. His eyes lit up, he put his foot up in the air, and patted the ankle of his footy pajamas. Sure enough, the little stinker had dropped it into the leg of his jammies!

For all of his mischief Phillip is the most lovable little squirt around. Countless times in the course of the day he will come to me with hugs and kisses. He tells me I'm beautiful (even when I'm in my jammies) and is always quick to offer up an unsolicited "I love you". Between that and those dimples it's hard to stay angry at him.

Seeing is believing

One thing that I have always tried to do is not discipline one of our children if I don't see them doing whatever it is they shouldn't be doing. I try not to hand out punishment based solely on one of them telling me the other did something or based on the hollered accusations that sometimes fly freely around our house. Recently the wisdom of this was brought home for me.

It was late on a Sunday afternoon so I made a quick dinner for the kids and they sat at the bar to eat. Phillip started swinging his feet and kicking the bar from his barstool. Robbie asked him to stop and he did. A few minutes later he started doing it again. Once more Robbie asked him to stop and he did. A few minutes later we hear the familiar thump of his little feet bouncing off the bar. Robbie told him a third time in a very no-nonsense tone to stop kicking, and he did.

At this point Robbie stepped outside for something and I went to the front door to clean our new storm door. While I was cleaning the door I heard the thumping start again. Resisting the urge to holler at Phillip from my spot at the front door I put down the window cleaner and headed for the kitchen. As I rounded the corner into the kitchen I saw Phillip sitting in his seat with his feet tucked under him. Beside him sat Kylie, swinging her feet and kicking the bar. Both of them were eating their dinner and watching television (nasty habit, we're working on it!) and had no idea I was standing there. About that time Kylie hollered "Phillip, stop kicking the bar!". Imagine her surprise when I said from behind her, "It's kind of hard for him to kick the bar when he's sitting on his feet, don't you think?".

I wish I'd had a camera to capture the look on her face when she realized she was busted. She made a feeble attempt to shift the blame to her little brother, but quickly realized it was a waste of time. Instead she gave me a sheepish little grin and returned to eating her dinner. After delivering a short talk that touched briefly on the concept of "framing" someone and the potential ramifications associated with that I returned to cleaning the storm door, extremely thankful that I had taken the few seconds to walk to the kitchen and see for myself what was happening.

Dad's broken heart

We found out this week that my Dad has to have aortic valve replacement surgery. He is going today for cardiac catheterization so that they can better assess the condition of the valve and also check the coronary arteries since he had bypass surgery thirteen years ago. Hopefully his arteries will look fine and he won't need to have any type of bypass done in addition to the valve replacement.

My Dad is a character. He is a southerner (born and raised in North Carolina), and despite living in Maine for the last 40+ years he still has a recognizable drawl. He's a master storyteller (sometimes he tells the same story more than once, but we forgive that) and has a saying for any occasion ("slippery as snot on a glass doorknob", or "he couldn't pour piss out of a boot with the directions on the heel" to name a few). When he was was seventeen he joined the Navy and spent the next twenty years of his life serving his country. It was during that time he met my Mom, they fell in love, and started their life together. When his Navy career was over they returned to Maine (my Mom's home) and put down roots. They still live in the house in which I was raised. This past January they celebrated fifty-two years of marriage.

When I close my eyes and think of my Dad I can hear his laugh and see his eyes twinkle. Many people have told me they can see a lot of my Dad in Phillip. I think they both have the same twinkle in their eyes when they smile. Phillip is Poppa's boy. He thinks Poppa hung the moon and it's mutual. Poppa adores all the grandkids and enjoys spending time with them. He has told me on many occasions that his fondest wish is to live long enough for all of his grandchildren to remember him. It's easy to forget that my Dad is 79. He doesn't look it, and he certainly doesn't act it (and if he did my Mom would give him a swift kick in the fanny and put an end to it!). I hear 79 and think "old", but my Dad isn't old.

I'm anxious for today to be over and to find out the results of Dad's catheterization. The kids and I will go to the hospital for a bit to keep my Mom company while it's being done. Hopefully all will go well and he'll be home tonight. Once his doctor sees the results of the catheterization he will decide exactly what surgery is needed and when it will be done. I'm hoping and praying with all my heart that my Dad's broken heart will soon be mended and as good as new. He still has grandchildren to spoil...

Hidden treasure

I have spent a good part of today helping Kylie clean her room. As I have mentioned in the past, she is a bit of a pack rat. Since Rob is at an all day golf outing it seemed like a good day to tackle (and trash) some of the "goodies" she has accumulated over the last several months.

One of my favorite things about doing big cleans is that so often you find "hidden treasures" that you had long since forgotten existed. My big find today was this:

This is a poem to Kylie

This is a poem to Kylie

Kylie the youngest and the smallest

Almost two and a half months

Most observant of us all

Loudest screamer when she screams

Little angel

Passed like a gift at Christmas

Everybody wants to hold

But only one can

Missing out on Thanksgiving

But next year she won't

So I write this poem to baby Kylie

For youth and childhood

At any age

I received this as a Christmas present on Kylie's first Christmas. It was printed on blue snowflake paper, laminated, and signed by the author - my nephew Ross, who was twelve at the time. I remember reading it for the first time with tears running down my cheeks, in awe at my little nephew's very accurate depiction of his new cousin. Ross is now in his freshman year of college and Kylie is in first grade, yet in his poem I can still see the "little angel" that inspired her big cousin to put pen to paper, and the little boy who was so proud of the poem that made his aunt cry. That alone was worth the hours spent cleaning Kylie's room.

Some random musings from the dogpound...

• When your beloved eleven year old cat hocks up a furball on your freshly changed bed (which you notice when you go to pull the blanket up over the clean sheets you lovingly smoothed on the mattress a mere ten minutes ago), is it okay to swing said cat around by his tail then let him loose and see how far he can fly?
• Can a snack sized bag of Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies be considered lunch if accompanied by a glass of milk?
• The people across the street from us have decorated their yard with (among other things) three junk vehicles, a snowplow, a large (dilapidated) shed that was towed in on a flatbed, a dog house, a pit bull, and a two person glider swing that has been home to a life sized Uncle Sam doll for the last three years. They never put out recycling, put trash out once every 3-4 weeks, and don't mow their lawn....I'm thinking of two words, they rhyme with "light flash", anyone ... anyone ...?
• How can two people as "clutter-phobic" as my dear hubby and I be raising children that are such pack rats? Scraps of paper, empty (but clean, thank you!) plastic bottles, screws and washers abandoned from our construction project, old gift bags, my sister's dogs' old tags, you name it, they treasure it. God clearly has a sense of humor.
• Is it justifiable to smack your builder with a two-by-four when he promises you every Friday that he and his crew will be here "all week next week" then they show up for two days? A week and a half ago he told me they would be finished in a week and a half - I think they're still a week and a half away from being finished. The up side of it is that they do great work, and he's a nice guy - otherwise...**thump**!
• Who taught Bella how to blow raspberries, and where is the off switch? She is in constant raspberry blowing mode (since yesterday) - everything is soaked!!
• How is it that Phillip knows exactly how many times he can scream "Moooooommmmm" before I snap - and just when I'm on the verge of losing it my "WHAT!" is met with twinkling blue eyes, a dimple framed grin, and an "I wuv you!"?
• And to end on a happy musing...Kylie has made friends with "the new girl". Her name is Melody and based on the frequency with which I'm hearing her name I would say she has been welcomed with open arms. Ky came home today with a new little dressy wallet (new to her but gently used). I asked her where it came from, and she said they had popsicles today as a treat for keeping their desks and classroom nice and neat this week. She and Melody both wanted the last orange popsicle, so Kylie said Melody could have it. Her teacher let her pick a little surprise (the wallet) out of the grab bag for being a good friend. **Sigh**....she is getting more mature every day.

Happy birthday to you!

Medallions of lobster tail topped with caviar, seafood stuffed mushrooms, mini-crabcakes, and scallops wrapped in bacon for hors d'oeuvres, choice of Caesar salad (with or without anchovies) or house salad, and choice of grilled scallops, lobster ravioli, or ribeye for dinner...yum! Nobody left Cherie's 50th birthday party hungry, and if they did it was only because they wanted to save room for the chocolate cake with mocha hazelnut buttercream frosting.

Our evening began with a stretch limo pulling into the yard around 6:20.

My sister Cherie and brother-in-law Mike were waiting inside for us when Bob the driver opened the door. Cherie poured champagne for us (sparkling grape juice for the kids) as we continued on to my parent's house. Kylie and Phillip loved the ride, in large part because they didn't have to be in their car seats or wear seat belts - freedom! After we picked up Bet & Poppa we continued on to a local restaurant where we were shown to a private room upstairs while Cherie and Mike continued on in the limo to pick up first Boyd's family (and bring them back to the restaurant), and then Floyd's family.

It was an evening of good food and good drinks, all enjoyed in excellent company. The night wrapped up with cake and present opening back at Cherie & Mike's house (after a couple of relays by the limo). Shortly after midnight, at which time we expected the limo to turn back into a pumpkin, Bob deposited us back at our house. With two sleepy children and one sleeping child (Bella gave up on partying early in the evening), we returned to reality. Happy birthday Cherie, and thanks for a wonderful party which was truly a gift to all of us!

Put your fingers away

I am tired of the blame. I'm tired of turning on the news and seeing angry politicians and talking heads blaming President Bush, racial prejudice, and anything else but Mother Nature for the destruction that has been wrought upon our Gulf Coast. Has the response to this disaster been seamless and perfectly executed? No. Has it been done to the best of the ability of those involved? Dear God I would like to believe so.

Maybe I'm naive (in fact I'm quite sure I am), but I truly believe that people are responding as best they can. I can't even begin to imagine the logistics involved in getting the supplies and rescue personnel to an area that has been devastated the way that New Orleans and the surrounding areas have been. You can't just shuttle countless troops to the area without considering and planning for how they will be housed, fed, kept safe. You can't drop supplies from helicopters into flood waters below and hope that people are able to get them. Clearly the system hasn't worked nearly as well as it should have in this instance, but I don't believe that systemic failure can be attributed to people not wanting and/or not trying to do the best they can under the circumstances. Yes, the response has been unacceptable (even the President agrees with that), but to attempt to lay the blame for that at the feet of a few individuals is equally unacceptable.

I weep at coverage from the area showing people suffering, babies so dehydrated they can barely keep their eyes open, people who have nothing left but the clothes on their backs and, if they're fortunate, their loved ones. My heart breaks at the faces, the stories, the pictures. But my blood boils at the blame. My blood boils at Kanye West saying that George Bush "doesn't care about black people" (which he just said on the NBC relief concert that is airing as I write this). Right now pointing fingers helps nobody. There will be plenty of time in the weeks and months to come to convene special congressional committees which will spend millions of dollars investigating why the federal government was so slow in responding to this catastrophe, why the levee system in New Orleans failed, and countless related issues. There will (hopefully) be plenty of time to improve the emergency response system so, God forbid, the next time disaster strikes we will be better prepared to respond. It's easy to look at this situation from a thousand miles away and point out all the screw ups and snafus, all the things that we should have, would have, could have done differently, done better. But the fact of the matter is that serves no purpose right now. Put your fingers in your wallets and donate money, put your fingers together and pray to God for these poor people, but put your fingers away if all you can do is point. When the dust settles and the flood waters recede there will be enough blame to go around. For now the only name that should have any blame associated to it is Katrina.