I can call you Betty and Betty when you call me, you can call me Al

At our house evolution is alive and well in the form of the names we call each other. If my poor kids ever have to fill out a background check and list all the names they've been known by, they'll need an extra sheet.

Corie quickly became Corie Bug because she was such a cute little bug of a baby. But "Bug" lasted as she grew, and was cemented when she got a VW Bug in high school. So even to this day, Jim refers to her as Bug, or The Bug -- "Who was on the phone? The Bug?"

Dave began as David, which isn't at all unusual, and is sometimes Davey. Still fairly normal. But after a short stint as Bear, Bearky, Rarekin Bearkin, and Beark, he ventured into a rhyming name groove with Dave the Snave, Snavey Davey, Snavely, and just plain Snave.

In the case of Dan, my middle child, it started when we inflicted upon him the curse of going by his middle name. I use my middle name, and so do my brother, my sister, and my dad. So you think I'd have known better. We began innocently enough, when James Daniel became Danny and then Dan. Soon it was Dan the Man, which Jim shortened to DTM. DTM is such a mouthful, though, so before long that had been shortened to just DT, which seemed to stick. Around the house it was all right, and didn't sound too bizarre when I'd shout at football games, "GO DT!!!" Until someone would ask what his middle name was. "Oh, it's Daniel." "????....So what's the T for?" "Ummm......'the' ........"

Garrison, my fourth, has a name that doesn't lend itself well to being shortened, so when he was little and cute, we started calling him Gair Bear, which morphed into Gairby or Gairbin, which soon became Gairbs. Lately, in an attempt to call him something more grown-up (really, what almost-16-year-old boy wants his mom to call him Gairbs??) we've been referring to him as GR, and his nieces and nephew call him G, short for Uncle G.

But I think Susannah has endured the most inexplicable array of monikers. Of course the normal shortenings of Susie, Sue, and Suse all occurred and are used with frequency. But then she started being Pooz and Poozer, and The Pooz. Dan called her Junior for a spell. Jim started calling her Buggy - a throwback to his days with our first daughter -- and that soon became Bucky. That was when Garrison jumped in and made it BuckWheat. Sometimes she's RuckBuck and occasionally RuckBack, but most recently it's been WheatPack. She accepts all of these with grace, and only ever bristles if Garrison tries to call her Susan.

So now you know. I've heard that your name is crucial to your self-esteem. If my children suffer from identity issues, who could blame them?

at last

Summer is here.

Not technically, I realize, which by the way has never seemed right to me. Who can wait until June 21 for summer to be "official"? The clearest definition of the beginning of summer for me is that glorious first day of summer vacation.

Dan has graduated and is actually gainfully employed already, making money for all the driving he will be doing between college and home next fall. Not to see me so much, more for his sweetie.

It's hard to believe Susannah will be at the middle school next year. Yikes.

I've been only partially successful in getting my mom to abandon her turtlenecks under sweatshirts now that the weather is hovering just below 90 degrees, and we have no air conditioning. She says she doesn't like the way her arms look. I guess vanity is more tenacious than logic. But today she has on a short-sleeved shirt, so that's good.

Garrison now has his learner's permit. Jim and I have insisted that our kids know how to drive a stick shift before they can get their license. I learned to drive in a VW Fastback, and it's been a source of smug pridefulness that I know how to operate a clutch. It's a lost art, you know.

We've been borrowing my mom's 5-speed, manual transmission Honda Civic, primarily because it gets upwards of 45 mpg. And it makes her happy that it's being used, since she obviously isn't driving anymore. So Garrison and I have spent some happy times lately stalling out at stop signs, on hills, with cars lining up in back of us. But I think he's beginning to get the hang of it.

Jim's been traveling a lot.

I gave the dog a summer hair cut.

Danny's graduation open house is Monday and my dining room has been overtaken by photos, school papers, posterboard, stickers, and football clippings. I've been trying to put together some posters and such, and I think I'm almost done. Still slightly overwhelmed at all that needs to be done to get ready for the open house, but I have lots of helpers.

My yard's a mess, but I'm a little afraid to get out there and start pulling weeds because poison ivy is supposedly at its peak this year, and I am not confident I would recognize it. All I remember from my childhood is "leaves of three, let it be."

I wish there was a market for dandelions. I could be hauling in some serious dough, because my dandelions are simply spectacular.

And I'm out of words.

do what I say right now and I mean it or else young lady.. oh all right whatever

I've lost my mothering mojo.

I have no more mom muscle. I feel like Rodney Dangerfield. I get no respect.

Holding the line is hard work. It takes a lot of determination to be consistently strict. Kids wear you down. They aren't dumb. They know where the weaknesses in your wall are.

I know I did a better job when I only had one kid, or two. Or even three. I wasn't SO shabby at four, but I'm telling you right now--this number five child of mine, while I love her skinny eleven-year-old self with all my heart, is pushing and testing and she is relentless. I don't know if I'm just weary of the whole mom routine, or if I'm just weary in general, but I know she is getting away with stuff that would curl the toes of many a stronger mom. She is young and brave. She has tenacity and motivation. I have stiff knees and flabby resolve. With the other kids I wielded a wooden spoon. Now it's more like a white hankie.

Is it just me? Or is there a reason that birth order stereotypes endure? How many first borns out there can raise their right hand in solidarity and say that the baby of their family got away with murder? What about you youngest kids? Do you think you turned out okay anyway?

I wonder what Michelle Duggar would say about this. How do you keep your authority intact when the kids far outnumber the grown-ups, when you've been saying the same things for 26 years now, and you just don't have the energy to battle anymore? Especially because for me, right now, I have the added responsibility of keeping my mom in line. (Where does she fit in? She's the oldest person, but she acts like the youngest!)

I have to trust that God didn't make a mistake when He placed Susannah in my care. He isn't surprised by my circumstances, and He hasn't abandoned me to raise this child on my own. And as I've counseled so many younger moms.....God has no grandchildren. So I think I need to tell her, "You just wait until I talk to your Father about this." And then do it.

happy birthday to ewe

Fifteen years ago Garrison was born. He actually arrived right around this time -- right around midnight. But we decided to have his birthday be May 8 instead of May 9, because it's a much nicer day. Eights in general are preferable to nines, wouldn't you agree? Plus I was born in '58, so I liked the number vibe of 5-8. We even said that his arrival time would be 11:58.

We had the freedom to decide these things, you see, because he was born at home with only Jim as his midwife. Or midhusband, as it were.

He arrived one week past his due date. The fourth child. The third son.

He arrived in the bathroom after oh...maybe 15 minutes of labor. Please don't hate me. It's a true fact.

We had gone for a walk that evening and I'd had some light contractions, but then I'd been having them for weeks and didn't pay any attention to them at all. I had gotten out of bed to spray warm water on my belly with our hand held shower sprayer, because it felt kind of crampy. Then I thought maybe I just needed to use the potty. Then I realized, with spectacular clarity, that no, I needed to PUSH! I called for Jim, who called for Corie and told her to call the midwife. While she was on the phone to the midwife's answering service he told her never mind, call 911. By the time the EMTs arrived, Garrison was already here. He weighed 9 lb. 12 oz, when the official midwife came around 3:00 a.m. with her handy portable baby scale.

May 9th was Mother's Day, and we had made reservations at the neighborhood cafe for Brunch. Believe it or not, I wasn't quite up to going that morning, but the rest of my family went ahead, and brought me home a tray of the most delicious food I've ever eaten. I can still taste those melons. My lilac bush was in full bloom (as it is now) and Corie had picked a bouquet which she brought to me with my meal.

His little face was rather purple for the first few days. It was a result, I believe, of his amazingly speedy arrival.

And now this baby is 15. He's 6'3" and wears a size 12 shoe. He's taking driver's ed. He can sing like Johnny Cash on "I Walk the Line" and "Ring of Fire." He's got blond hair and blue eyes and has really nasty cuticles. His heart is huge and tender. He can almost tolerate his little sister, but just barely. He plays football and runs the 400 and designs cars and houses. He is my go-to guy for carrying in groceries, reaching high shelves, and often fixing things. He is completely nuts about his nieces and his nephew. He wants to spend his birthday money fixing up his mountain bike. (My brother says he wants to make a Ferrari out of a Yugo. I think if anyone can, it'd be my boy.)

For his birthday dinner he chose ribs and chocolate cake. I delegated the ribs to Jim, not being a rib fan myself. And I turned to Pioneer Woman for the chocolate cake.

Susannah came in once it was complete (except for the pecans in the frosting. We're chocolate purists around here.) and asked, "What kind of cake is that?" I told her, "chocolate sheet cake. From Pioneer Woman." I continued my bustling with the beans and mashed potatoes and overheard her telling Danny, "Mom made a sheep cake. It's a pioneer thing."

Ah yes. That's how they celebrated birthdays back in the covered wagon days.

Sheep cake. Not to be confused with the more widely known shepherd's pie.



(p.s. It was thoroughly delicious, by the way. Do not delay. Make some today.)

feels like a Tuesday

I can't get over how quiet the house is without Suse. You would think that just having the smallest girl absent wouldn't make such a big difference, but believe me, it does. I didn't realize how I'd miss the background buzz of Zach, Cody, Hannah Montana, Drake, Josh, and SpongeBob. And how peaceful it could be without the perpetual sibling static that permeates my days.

We had seven deer walk across our front yard just a bit ago! We've come to expect an occasional deer visitor, but this was a whole herd. I love where we live. Especially because we've had quite a bit of satisfactory snowfall this winter. All around me I hear people saying they're ready for spring, but not me. If it were up to me, we'd continue to have total snowiness right up until April 1, when it could begin to melt. But not a moment before.

Jim was at a college Bible study tonight, and Dan was at his girlfriend's house, so that left just Garrison, me, and American Idol. Thank heavens for VCRs (yes, we are still living in the dark ages of no TiVo) because when DB and his wife called and asked for someone to come hold the baby so they could catch some much-needed snoozing, I was out the door.



Do you see the way my shoulders are curled forward and around him? I believe this is what's known as Baby-Holding Shoulder Roll Posture Syndrome, and I've got it. It comes from years of wrapping your whole body around a small tiny person while holding them up under your chin. It's as natural to me as the involuntary swaying-rocking motion that starts up as soon as I get a child in my arms. As far as I can tell, there's no cure.

While I bounced and rocked and cuddled, Garrison worked on his assignment for English Lit -- write a journal entry for Princess Nausicaa about her first meeting with Odysseus. Poor buddy -- what self-respecting 14 year old kid enjoys studying Greek mythology in the first place? I'm thinking the last thing he's going to want to do is put himself in the place of a teenage princess, and creatively write about her feelings as she might record them in her journal.

Enjoy these baby days while you can, little James.

My take on Idol, after I'd watched the recording (I really prefer watching it that way, if you want to know the truth. I can scan right through the commercials and all the blah blah blah), was that they should just cancel the rest of the season right here and now and award the title to David Archuleta. I'd be tempted to gobble him up, he's just so sweet and precious. But that would be a crying shame, if I couldn't listen to him SING. My word.

My next favorite is Michael Johns, but I kinda wish he'd go for it on the high notes. Maybe he's all just raw appeal without the vocal range.

Speaking of TV, I'll leave you with this, then I'm done. I'm so bummed about Friday Night Lights. I don't know how they can think about canceling it when there are so many unresolved story lines. It's downright cruel and unusual to make us care about these people and then just phhhht, that's it??

I bet the executives were English Lit teachers in their former lives.

Mamas, don't let your babies be boys

I realize this might be too late for some of y'all, but for the rest-- for that portion of the reading audience that still has a chance-- let me offer you this advice.

As much as it depends on you, try to have daughters. OK? Because daughters talk to you. And then you'll never find yourself in the position of having to get information about your son from the mother of his girlfriend, because her daughter talks to her.

It starts around age 14. That's when sons realize that as far as acceptable people are concerned, you as a mother are pretty much dog meat. Pond scum. Toad poop.

Oh there's the occasional burst of chatter that may come at you out of left field, but it usually has to do with their homework demands or the NFL draft, their dad's unfairness or their need for new socks. But for the stuff that really matters -- the stuff you care about and want to know about? Like feelings, relationships, hopes and dreams? Zip. Silence. You are Persona Non Grata Numero Uno. Even if -- no, ESPECIALLY if you ask. The audacity! The nerve! The annoyance that is maternal questioning!

And it won't matter a bit that you have not stopped loving them and being interested in their lives and that you feel, well, invested somewhat. Or that you are still expected to wash their boxers and bake them cookies and buy Gatorade and ensure that they never EVER run out of milk. Because heaven help us-- that would be a tragedy of the most extreme level.

It might be gratifying when they receive accolades for their football playing, and it might be handy to have help carrying in the groceries. But if you want someone to let you into their lives?

You gotta go with a girl. Seriously.