Looney Tunes

So, I don't talk much about parenting the Lemurs. (See inaugural blog post for background on Lemurs.)

This is because I know nothing about parenting. Let me rephrase that. I know how to parent infants and toddlers. Unfortunately, (well not unfortunately, but...nevermind) I have an almost seven-year-old and a nine-year-old.

Let me explain. Every mother now understands that the child you birthed is not the child you keep. She changes everyday. You figure out what food, clothing, sleep schedule, toy, friend, and favorite color she likes on Monday, and by Friday she is screaming like Fay Wray in King Kong about the absolute horror of touching any of the previously mentioned, must-have favorites.

The end result is you never have the same child twice. It took me a while to realize that children grow up. Sounds incredibly naive and self-centered, which I am, but it has taken me nine years to realize that children are meant to change on a daily, if not hourly, basis. That is their job, that is why they were made, and that is the one constant of the universe. They are never the same person twice.

Now an adult is fully formed and on the downhill slide of the roller coaster of life. Our brains are done growing (a real handicap) and we are who we are, plus or minus a few life-altering growth experiences.

We are set in our ways, move in straight lines, and like to have things remain the same, at least when it comes to coffee and getting sleep every night.

Children are designed to generate a new life-altering experience every five minutes, usually with great fanfare, drama, and occasionally the risk of imminent death. This is designed to exponentially add to the amount of gray hair on a mother's head.

Now that I have realized children grow up, I am petrified. I don't know anything about ten-year-olds. And one almost seven-year-old is different from another. So not only does every child change, every child changes in her own way.

The things I learned from my oldest daughter have absolutely no application to the whims and whistles of my youngest. There is no manual for being a new mother because they are obsolete with each child.

So, I now live in the shadow of the unknown. My pediatrician delighted in telling me to "Get ready." when I was panicked about the physicial changes my nine-year-old daughter was suddenly going through.

I seriously thought it was a thyroid problem, she gleefully told me it was puberty.

I am not ready for this. I will never be ready for this. I just figured out the kids I've got and now I have to get ready for kids I can't even imagine. I have heard some horror stories from other parents...something to do with hormones, driving, and dating. I am not sure what they mean.

All I can say, is stay-tuned. It is nice that most mental health facilities seem to have internet access in the 21st century. It will make it much easier to keep up these posts when I check out on permanent, loony-ville vacation and try to become someone else, just to keep up with my children.

I am mouse, hear me roar

The sun is shining, the daylight lengthening, and the mice are invading the house like a wave of unstoppable crusaders sacking the fertile crescent 1000 years ago. The are making a pilgrimmage to the Holy Cracker Pantry and will not be denied. I've seen one distract the dog while 30 others sprint for the Pringles can under the girls' bunk beds. One of them (I call him Larry) seems to be the Houdini of trap springing. Despite the most succulent and exclusive chocolate I sacrifice to bait the traps, they get sprung without capturing a single, hapless victim.

I hear chanting at night, "Larry! Larry! Larry!" coming from the forced air heating vent under my bed. It sounds like Alvin and the chipmunks; if they were packing and had become fanatical members of a death-worshipping, chocolate-eating Jonestown cult.

I am worried, now. I can't find the can opener anymore and I haven't seen the cat for three days. Maybe I should get a snake. Maybe a bunch of snakes. That would be better than TV. Talk about a Reality Show. Eeeeeww.

Spring sprang right over me

The light returns and all we Alaskans do is grumble more. The stress upon our delicate circadian rhythms from Daylight Savings Time whiplash has us growling and huffing in our dens with a whole lot of cranky goin' on before we even get out of bed.

All we ever want is the return of The Light, and once it starts to shine, we scream, "It burns!".

Alaskans can't win when it comes to the seasons. It is always too much of something: cold, wet, light, dark (never really too hot, though. Darn.)

So we wait for our bio-rhythms to stabilize just long enough to get over the post-hibernation shakes, slather on the sunscreen and bug dope (insect repellent to the rest of the world), and get outside and do something, anything!, as long is it is NOT INDOORS.

We invented the phrase Cabin Fever, and the condition can be deadly - at least to brain cells.

In Alaska, Easter is better than Christmas. After Easter we can fish!