Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)

Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.

This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.

Tuesday, January 20, 2004

Not that the next day...

was too bad. Up early Sunday, did the regular chore of getting everyone up and dressed, made some breakfast, loaded the van with all the Bibles and binders and booklets and other stuff, loaded up the kids, off to church, got there, got parked, Oldest runs around to my door and pounces on me--"TELLMEYOU DID GET. MY. CLASS. BOOK!"

'Cause, you see, there is a certain delusion in her mind that it is my job to make sure she has her books. Although she reserves the right to complain that she is being mistreated when she is reminded to get her books, exemplified by much muttering and eye-rolling, as well as loud reminders of how everyone expects too much of her. "No big deal, Ashley--there are extra ones in the classroom or you can look on with someone else." Her advanced state of righteous indignation was palpable. She stormed off without waiting for anyone else. At least I could get all the way out of the door of the van.

Inside with the rest of us, make sure everyone is at his or her post, go to class, go to worship, manage to make it through about 1/3 of the sermon before some small girl in our family decides that her charm and curly locks will make up for boisterous whininess. ::sigh::

Take her out, adjust her attitude, sit in the fellowship hall and listen to the sermon over the speaker, give her further fodder for future sessions with her therapist by insisting that she sit still and keep quiet leading to further thundershowers of tears, and then as the last song was being sung, she became a cute little human once more.


Off then to the other side of the county to eat lunch with Ashley's other grandparents, which, as always, is more than enough information, then back toward home--"MY! BATTERIES! ARE! DEAD!!" Oldest, having another crisis. Pitiful, really. Poor GameBoy completely devoid of energy. Starts three-way screaming match with Rebecca and Jonathan demanding that they give her their batteries or let her play their games. The Howard Dean of the Back-Seat Set.

Have to get gas anyway, so I figure I'll go inside and get her some stinkin' batteries and keep her mollified. (Remember, now, she is almost fourteen years old. Which to my mind is a lot older than two years old. Strangely, the behavior is almost identical.) Got gas, went in, not an AA cell in sight. ::sigh::

Get back in the van, go across the highway to the Walgreen's, get Reba some crackers, get a giant bottle of Walgreen's brand antacid, walk out door and remember that I had forgotten the entire reason for stopping in the first place, go back in, get pack of batteries, and finally peace reigns in the Playground of the Rude and Insolent.

Back across the county to the church building, evening worship, then a meal afterwards for the youth group which doesn't get over with until 9. You know, when you wake up at 5:30 and have had many of your delicate nerves trampled by your children, 9 o'clock is a bit on the late-ish side. A lot.

Home, and after further acrimony about someone having the temerity to touch Oldest on her person as they were disembarking the vehicle, the entire lot was banished to Upstairsistan and told to stay within their borders or risk an immediate, unilateral, and forceful response with the full force and might of Parentlandia. They went on to bed. (Some of you will note that I occasionally compare riding herd on my brood to international relations. It's merely a rhetorical device, I assure you. We're really very nice parents. For all of you who will become parents, just do your best and love your children and everything will eventually work itself out.

And remember, never negotiate with terrorists.)

And then there was Monday!

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