It's gotta be all that birthday cake...

On this, the 14th anniversary of Derek's birth, I pause for a moment to reflect...to look...up...at him and wonder: where the HECK did this giant kid come from? After all, this is the boy who started out his life weighing in at just under 6 pounds--having found it absolutely imperative to surprise us all by making his grand entrance into the world 3 weeks ahead of his due date. He arrived sporting a delightful...carrot-y color...which earned him extra-special attention from the pediatric nurses...who stopped by every few hours to poke him with a needle and test the bilirubin levels in his blood. If that wasn't enough excitement for a newborn and his clueless first-time mother, he also had trouble eating. (I know, right? Looking at the boy, you'd never guess...trust me when I say that even now, he's still doing his darndest to make up for it...every single meal, every single day...)

Even when he was discharged, after an additional day of monitoring at the hospital, he came home with a spiffy contraption--basically a blue-light-emitting blanket that he needed to be wrapped in almost around the clock--to encourage his liver to flush the unwanted toxins out of his fragile new system. And then, for quite some time into his toddlerhood, his pediatrician remained quite concerned about his weight gain, encouraging us to pump calories into his body in any way possible. (Which might explain why he still harbors such an extreme love of butter, as a matter of fact...)

Fortunately, he turned out just fine, and these days Husband and I greatly enjoy exercising one of our most basic and solemn Parental Rights...giving him a hard time about what a little pain he was for a while as a baby. So, when I was flipping through the photo albums for a good shot of Derek's early months, I came across the Penn State photo--in which Husband was entirely too tickled by the fact that he was able to cradle his son like a football. I wanted to show the contrast between Then and Now...but jumping into his poor father's arms with a gleeful "pick me up!" was all Derek's idea. (Yeah, I had to shoot that one FAST...)

But wait, we haven't even gotten to the punchline yet. (I know, I know, "bated breath", yeah?) These days Derek has become quite the... scale-watcher...himself. Unlike the rest of us, though, he wants to see the numbers going UP, indicating that he's still growing at an acceptable rate. (Whatever that is, in his teenaged brain). Recently he was ever-so-pleased that he'd reached 130 pounds. (And what do you even say to that? Yay, son...good...appetite? Here, have a cookie?Better yet: why don't you sit down before you get hungry again...yeah, that's the one...) The real kicker is: I skimmed the growth report in his baby book, and since his 10-year-checkup...he's precisely DOUBLED his mass. Holy guacamole (with chips)!

Ahem...so happy birthday, dear...now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go (back) to the grocery store....

Growing (up) pains?

We have a running joke in our house, that when one of the kids does something...not bad, exactly...but, say "playfully obnoxious"...Husband or I will turn to our other son and address him as: the Preferred Child. Given the following snippets from the past week, I'll let YOU decide who gets the honors at the present time...

Leading off, we have Riley. You'll be happy to know that he did, indeed, survive the mortification of Family Life, seemingly intact. But remember that private Boys Only Conference that took place behind closed doors one night during the time the unit was being taught? Well, Husband leaked one tidbit of the discussion to me later. Apparently, Riley informed his father that he "wasn't going to find a girl and have sexual intercourse" (yes, that's exactly how he phrased it...my little scientific nerd...) until he was 20...because it "seems like a good time for that kind of thing". Oh. My. Goodness. And knowing Riley, he didn't just pluck the number out of the air, either. He most likely put some thought into what was involved, considered the pros and cons...ran some probable scenarios...and...what have you... However, there was more to the story. Husband explained the...um..."physiological process" for how our friends the egg and sperm get together. (And by the way, so much for the innocent era of "it's a magical, mystical thing that happens when Mommy and Daddy love each other very much...and poof! A baby happens!" Dang it...) Riley's response to this...biological enlightenment? "Huh. That sounds ridiculous." Absolutely, sweetie--it's the most absurd thing you've ever heard in your life, right? As a matter of fact, 20 is seeming waaaayyyy too early now, isn't it? Feel free to back that up to 25...or 30...

Then--on a completely unrelated topic, before anyone has a conniption--there's the teenager. One night I was busy (and by that I mean probably checking Facebook, or otherwise goofing around online) and not paying attention to the time. It was a school night, and Derek knows darn well the schedule of when to get ready for bed. So when the time came...and went...without him lifting a finger to begin his lengthy Pre-Turn-In Ritual (I swear, it's so complicated, with so many steps, you'd think he was a...girl...or something...) I failed to notice this transgression, at first. Then suddenly I realized it was too late for him to still be awake and lollygagging, so I charged into his room to light a fire under his lazy adolescent butt. "Why aren't you getting ready for bed?" I asked in a scolding tone. Leaning back in his chair, nonchalantly chewing gum, he gazed at me calmly and replied, "Well, you didn't tell me to..." At which point I sort of blew up...and snapped, "What are you, 5? You need me to remind you every night when to go to bed? If this was a test of maturity and responsibility, you failed!" (I know, right? Whoa, overreact much? All I can say in my defense is: I was tired...and probably should have been tucking myself in instead of delivering a lecture...)

Naturally, he took it well, and went about his nighttime business in his usual unruffled fashion. And I kissed him goodnight and forgot all about the incident...until a few days later, just before soccer practice. We were doing the normal rush-around-thing, grabbing cleats and shinguards and whatnot to take to the field. At the last minute, I realized I'd neglected to fill water bottles for each of them, to drink during breaks in the action. As I was retrieving my shoes, I relayed my oversight to Derek, who obediently began performing the task for me. But not without the following barb, slung in my direction in a tone positively dripping with sarcasm, "Geez, Mom, how could you forget the water bottles?" (A well-timed pause for effect....) "If this was a test of maturity, I guess you FAILED!" Sigggghhhgh. Darn smarta...mouth teenager. So I did the only thing possible in this situation (besides burst into laughter, of course) and threw out the standard non-serious parental threat that Husband and I employ at will: "That's it, you're grounded!" (Not that either of my children even know what that means--it's just another family gag...)

So there you have it: 2 boys, only one of whom can wear the Preferred Child crown for the week. I'll give you one guess as to who gets my vote...

Fifth Grade Follies

Here's an unusual topic that I've been hearing quite a bit about lately: the evils of...square dancing. That's right, harmless do-si-do-ing, lighthearted promenading, wholesome swing-your-partner-round-and-round-ing are all getting maligned by the resident 10-year old, who is reacting somewhat disagreeably to being forced to practice his...Little House on the Prairie-ish...skills. You see, it's time for him--like his brother did 3 years ago--to participate in his elementary school's great tradition called Westward Ho, in which the entire 5th grade class "migrates" (trudges, increasingly wearily as the day marches on) across the "plains" (approximately 6 miles of meadows, paths, roads and streams) with their "families" (assigned groups of 4 or 5 fellow students) to arrive in "California" (a local Nature Center reserved for the occasion). It's all tremendous amounts of F-U-N (she says with extra enthusiasm...secure in the knowledge that she fulfilled her educational and parental obligation by accompanying Derek on his pilgrimage. Therefore, you know what that means: it's Husband's turn to get muddy and soaked--um..."share the special bonding experience with his son"! Whoo hoo!)

Anyway, when they complete their trek, having dragged their wagons of provisions to their "new home", they get busy assembling their supplies, cooking a meal over a campfire, filling their bellies, and then for the Grand Finale--you guessed it--entertaining the crowd full of parents and siblings with a rousing demonstration of: Square Dancing. (Yee...haw?) To prepare for this torture--I mean "artistic display"--they have begun practicing at school during Music class. And how's that going? Well, Riley came home one afternoon and proclaimed, shaking his head mournfully, "Mom, square dancing is so...humiliating!" Why, whatever could you mean, honey? (She replied, feigning complete ignorance regarding the tender pre-adolescent sensitivities...) "Well, you have to dance with the girrrrlllls." Here he paused, as if to allow the horror of that statement to fully sink in. (While I nodded sympathetically with a neutral face...and giggled inside...) Then he continued, "And you have to...hold hands!" He delivered this in a tone of deep disbelief--as if he just couldn't fathom the indignity to which they'd subject poor, innocent children. (Still laughing...silently...)

But wait, it gets worse. (That is, for him, anyway...I was totally enjoying myself...) He added that he happened to get paired with...the little girl he likes. (Pardon me for a moment: OH MY GOSH THAT'S SO CUTE!!--she screamed to herself...) "When we were supposed to hold hands, we sort of looked at each other and and went 'uh-uh'...so we just pretended...it was soooo awkward!" Oh, the tricky whirlpool of a social dilemma....filled with perils like girl cooties, booby traps like clumsy classmates' feet to trip over, and hidden catastrophes like....moms with video cameras. Because the more he went on describing the scene--with one of his best friends actually falling over during a rehearsal...and related hijinks--the more determined I became to record this for posterity. It sounds like it's going to be absolutely precious...a priceless rite of passage...and quite a spectacle all at the same time. And really, at the end of the day, none of the intrepid pioneers ever perished from...square dancing...to celebrate their successful journey-to-the-west. (Or from their mother posting evidence of same on Facebook...mwah hah hah!)

Parental Permission Required Before Reading : )

A few days ago, Riley came home from school wearing a solemn, worried expression. By way of greeting, he said, "Mom, can I talk to you about something?" (Alarm bells immediately blared in my parental brain: Warning, this is NEVER a good start to a conversation...) So I braced myself mentally, and encouraged him to continue. With downcast eyes, he shook his head and sighed, "I reeeaaaally don't think I'm ready for Family Life." (Ohhh-kaaaay, now the inside of my head is filled with hysterical laughter...which I suppressed...with monumental difficulty...) "Ohhhh," I managed to casually respond, "did you start that today?" He nodded quietly, then burst out with, "And we talked about...puberty! On the first day!" He seemed so utterly indignant at being subjected to the...horrors...of the human body that I tried my utmost to at least make sympathetic sounds until I could regain my composure enough to reason with him. "Well, honey, it's important to know this stuff. It would be scary if things just started happening to you, and you had no idea what was going on, right?" He still looked somewhat dubious, but agreed. "It just makes me so uncomfortable!" he complained. ("Yeah, I totally get that, but suck it up, little man, 'cuz they're only doling out the 'light stuff' this year. You just wait until Middle School"...I thought to myself...)

So by quizzing him a little bit, I gathered that they're discussing 'body changes' and the all-important related topic of 'hygiene' at this point. Later that evening, I did ask if they're going to delve into the whole...ahem...'how babies...happen' situation...unfortunately, this happened to be at dinner time, when Husband was around, and he promptly helped oh-so-much by interrupting with, "Shh! We don't talk about 'the stork' until sixth grade, remember?" (Sigh...) Riley wore a puzzled expression as he answered, "Well, I know about the sperm...and the egg...but I'm not sure how they come together to make a baby..." (Excuse me while I pause for internal chuckles again...) To my surprise, Husband jumped in and matter-of-factly said, "Let's save that for after dinner--I'll tell you all about it when Mom goes to her dance class." Alrighty then...Off. The. Hook! (Yesssss...)

Relieved of the burden of Human Physiology Education, I lightheartedly pirouetted off to have fun with my fellow Jazz ladies, and put the whole subject completely out of my mind. When I returned home, however, I heard the rumble of multiple male voices coming from Derek's room, accompanied by...a great deal of...suspicious snickering. Apparently responding to the sound of me coming in the door, Riley darted to the top of the stairs and commanded, "Don't come up here, Boy Talk going on!" Then he firmly closed the door to prevent me from intruding. Huh. Evidently this is much more serious and involved than I originally suspected. But one thing was for sure: I absolutely DID NOT want to know exactly what they were covering in there, so I left them to it. (Silly me, I thought this meant I would be spared...alas, this was not to be...)

It was a bit amusing to me, though, that Riley appeared to be curious and inquisitive about the...processes...and whatnot. When Derek went through the same thing in 5th grade, and then again in more depth in each of the last several years of "Health Class" in Middle School, he has tended to keep the whole thing 100% to himself. "Honey, do you have any questions?" I have inquired on many occasions. "Anything you're unclear about, or that seems confusing, or that doesn't make sense?" From the very beginning, he has refused to even entertain the possibility of talking about it. (Which is fine--I just want him to know I'm available...and more reliable than any information he might get from his goofball friends...)

Sooooooo, my younger son came bouncing out of the room with a case of uncontrollable giggles, followed by his father, who rhetorically asked the world at large (with a rueful expression and one hand on his forehead in dismay), "Did you know there's a 'sperm meets egg' theme song?" Riley--of course--proceeded to demonstrate, using a pair of corded earbuds and a decorative pebble that Derek keeps on his desk...humming a merry tune as he slowly made them approach each other...Oh. Good. Heavens... (Just one more example of how my sons are such very, VERY different creatures: This sort of spectacle would never in a million years occur to Derek...and I truly believe he would perish from embarrassment before trying such a thing...)

But wait, just when you thought it was (mercifully) over, there's an epilogue. Riley informed me the next morning that Derek had also found some sort of--I don't exactly know..."conception game"?--that would allow you to (I am not making this up) "customize your sperm" so that it could "reach the egg faster". (Yes, apparently there IS an app for that...) I'm sorry, put this in the category of "I don't wanna know"...and let's fervently hope that Family Life concludes without any further...nonsense. But stay tuned, because for all I know, Riley could be working on Boy Meets Girl: The Musical...and I'm going to be quite busy practicing the many, many different ways I can use the phrase "Go ask your father"...

Still Working on the Southern Address...

Well, we made it through what I consider our first "real" house hunting experience in North Carolina. (I'm not counting December, since at that time we could only look...wistfully...with no possibility of even considering a purchase...) On a dreary, drizzly Saturday we piled into Agent C's Lexus-tank to shop around...real estate style. When we met her at the office, she handed us a folder with all of the information she'd prepared to facilitate our productive day. First off, she had divided the appointments into a Morning and an Afternoon Session, with a lunch break in between. (Clearly, this lady speaks our language...) Next, she had printed a map of the area, including all of the sites we'd be visiting designated--in order--with green numbers. (Organization--I just LOVE that!) Of course, she had also copied the listing pages for all of the homes, so we could read about them while we drove. (Which I ignored, but Husband seemed to get a big Nerd Thrill out of, so "to each his own"...)

Then it was basically a matter of stopping at each candidate, wandering up and down stairs (all of us), counting rooms (Husband), yelling "dibs" on living quarters (Derek and Riley), analyzing the layout for function and...pleasing...ness (yeah, that would be me), eyeballing a likely "home office" (Husband again), and all of the other things--concrete and intangible--that go into evaluating a property. After getting a few stops out of the way, Husband cheerfully remarked, "I didn't like the upstairs of the first house, the downstairs of the second, and the yard of the third. Who'd like to place a bet on what I won't like this time?" (Not surprisingly, no one took him up on that...) We knew we were getting a bit punchy when we arrived at a prospective home...burst into a group fit of giggles upon entering the front door...and still toured it anyway, for entertainment value. (It had...how shall I put this...a log-cabin-like interior appearance, with bizarrely-shaped rooms, as if a giant had laid it out using building blocks, with no particular plan...)

Meanwhile, the boys were having a bit TOO much fun, racing each other around corners, gagging at One Direction posters they encountered in current-occupants' bedrooms, and whooping with glee when they identified a "Bonus Room" (not kidding--that term appears repeatedly in the official literature) that could be used as a..."Teenage-Boy-Cave". (Husband coined that term, and it was instantly adopted by the adolescents...sigh...) Somewhere along the way, Agent C suggested we name the homes, so we could more easily remember what they looked like when they all inevitably began to run together in our overloaded brains. For example, the one house we all liked had a tasteful green exterior...which Riley immediately dubbed Kiwi Thunder. (Well, I guess it worked, since we certainly won't be forgetting that one anytime soon, right?) Then there were not one, but TWO houses near each other, where as we approached the front door, we were "greeted" by a large....slug...on the step. Yep, welcome to what shall hereafter be known as: Slug Neighborhood (which got the unanimous thumbs-down anyway, for other reasons than...insect...ular...ones)

Finally, we all agreed that when we paused for much-needed sustenance, we would talk about absolutely anything except the house search...because we still had the post-meal batch to get through. All together, we spent about 7-1/2 hours with the ever patient, helpful, kind Agent C. Although we didn't find anything we felt compelled to make an offer on this time around (we re-discussed Kiwi Thunder the next day, after sleeping on it, and decided it wasn't "the one"), this just means we get to take another shot at it in a few weeks, when the boys will be on their Spring Break and we can make our next trip. So we headed back northward with the promise to do it all again soon...and traveled right into a freakin' snowstorm. Terrible visibility, strong wind, white flakes pummelling the car, slush beginning to pile up on the roadways...Are. You. Kidding. Me? Ohhhh, I get it now: obviously, we weren't supposed to leave at all! Dang it! (Is it Spring Break yet?)

Chapel Hill Spring Visit

The time had come for another foray into the Southland--this trip a 3-day weekend--with the goal of beginning our house-hunting in earnest. Since we'd had such a horrific traffic experience on our first attempt to breach the Carolinas, (yes, I'm talking to YOU, Virginia) Husband researched an alternate route that would allow us to avoid the Bane of Our Existence--um, "I-95 South". So we set off with an optimistic outlook (and fingers crossed), despite the grim (gray, squally) weather. And all went peach...ily...at the outset. We survived our brief stint crossing the American Legion Bridge on the Capital Beltway. (Whoo hoo!) Then Route 66--not the historic one, but rather the...pain-in-the-butt...one--was downright tame, compared to its usual snarly mess of congested cars.

Finally the moment arrived for us to venture into unknown territory, on a state highway that we hoped would provide us with a smooth, uncomplicated...trauma-free...journey through the Old Dominion, right into North Carolina. And you know what? It lived up to expectations: a few traffic lights when you navigated through a town, but otherwise, clear sailing at nice speeds and little "volume" (as they say in professional Traffic Report lingo in the D.C. Metro area). When we hit Charlottsville (home of UVA, if you're curious), we encountered a minor slowdown that cost us a measly few minutes. It was close to lunchtime, and we'd been on the road for several hours, so there were other...issues...to address as well. (That's right, we needed..."facilities"...funny how all that Gatorade and coffee come back to haunt you, yeah?) But we decided to wait just a few more minutes, to get past the city before stopping for food and...other stuff. Near. Fatal. Mistake.

You see, what we learned from our unfortunate choice was this: there's N-O-T-H-I-N-G between Charlottesville and, apparently, Lynchburg...60-some miles away. Okay, okay, there's the occasional McDonald's...and Hardees...and something called Bojangles--none of which actually provide food that I can eat. It wasn't long before the commentary erupted from the back seat. First Derek piped up, "Remember when it wasn't a desperate need (to pee)? Well, now it is..." Then Riley joined in, "Ugh, I'm sooooo hungry back here! Isn't there any food at all? I'm not gonna maaaakkkke it!" Darn dramatic children. However, I was actually the one who called "uncle" and pointed Husband to a seedy-looking...general store...gas-station...ish place in order to, well, you know. Since I called dibs on the "Unisex Bathroom" (as it was so helpfully labeled), I had time afterwards to look around the market. And oh, what a fascinating place it was. There was a fisherman's outfitting section...all sorts of sundry foodstuffs...beer and wine...hardware supplies...a full-service deli in the front...my selection for runner-up-item-for-sale, a Standing Bear Toilet Paper Holder (exactly what it sounds like)...and my absolute, hands-down favorite: a Bear Grylls survival knife. (Somehow, we restrained ourselves from purchasing any of these oh-so-tempting things--shocking, I know...)

After that, Lynchburg actually came to our rescue with a veritable plethora of cuisine options. (On second thought, "cuisine" being perhaps an overly formal word for the sandwich-joint we picked, but whatever...) It was a good thing, too, because unfortunately the last road we had to take on our supposedly "new, improved Mid-Atlantic commute" turned out to be...pretty annoying. (And since it took much longer to go those last 45 miles than we anticipated, by that time the lunchtime soda was becoming problematic...sigh...) But hey, in the end, we arrived safely, in plenty of time to spend the evening with several of Husband's cousins. We even got to wander around outside for a while in over-60* temperatures...until our hostess jinxed us by noting in a cheerful tone of voice, "It looks so bleak...but it hasn't rained all day!" (Yep...cue the deluge not 5 minutes after that...and the very wet sprint back to her house...) But sprinkles be darned, tomorrow we're...taking Chapel Hill by storm! (Sorry...clearly I'm still a bit punchy from the car ride...off to bed I go...)

House Hunters: a brief history

Once upon a time, the man formerly-known-as-Boyfriend became Husband, and we started looking for a house in which to start the next chapter of our lives together. In order to do so, we enlisted the services of a very nice man named Steve, who happened to be both a realtor, and the spouse of one of my co-workers at the time. Husband and I were in no particular hurry, as we were renting a perfectly acceptable condo in a very nice area. The only thing we'd nailed down with absolute certainty was the town we wanted to focus on, so Steve began selecting and showing us properties, to form a picture of what we'd like. Basically, we were all getting to know each other...while traipsing about other people's homes and playing the super-fun game "What I Like/Loathe About This House".

Now, Husband is an extremely practical, logical-minded individual. (Hellllooo, his job title is--not making this up--"Manager of Data Management"...he apparently lives for organization, numbers...and redundancy, but that's not relevant to the story...) Therefore, he approached this process with the idea that we would critically evaluate each candidate; weigh the pros and cons (I swear I could almost see him making the columns in his head); use some kind of, I don't know, "mathmatical formula" to determine the desirability of the abode; and come to our decision in a completely objective, rational manner. (Hahahahahaha! Silly man--he was shopping with MEEEE, shouldn't he have known better?) Let's just say my natural tendency is to be a bit more..."organic" (intuitive? touch-feely? whatever)...about the whole adventure. This means that each time we strolled into a potential homestead, and it didn't...feeeeelllll right...my emotional reaction was met with (early on) a blank stare and (after a few repetitions) frustrated incomprehension.

"But...but...what's wrong with it?" Husband would sputter. And I would gamely try to verbalize--in a way that might get through the Male Reason Sensor--that my GUT was telling me the house we were standing in "just wasn't the one for us." (That went over so, so very well, let me tell you...) Finally it dawned on me--that he would be much happier and more satisfied if I just started making up excuses as to why the house wouldn't do at all. "Um, the layout of the rooms is...weird," I improvised. Or "there aren't enough...windows!" I can only imagine how Steve--a low-key, observant guy--was taking all this. My guess is: quietly chuckling on the inside. But evidently he was also recording mental notes from all of our comments and discussions, because he began whittling down the options on his own at his office, and only contacting us when he thought there was already a good chance we'd like the offering in question.

This was how it came to be that one bright, sunny afternoon, we met outside our current house to have a look-see. It was 5 months into our search, so we were--while not quite anxious or stressed yet about the fact that it was taking a while--definitely ready for a breakthrough. We meandered through the rooms....upstairs...downstairs...basement...and even the garage and yard...and looking back now, I remember the growing sense of excitement. And yes, that intangible feeling of it being the perfect "fit". I don't recall a single word of what went back-and-forth between Husband and me during our visit. Nor do I have a specific memory of whether Steve's actions were any different than they had been for the other dozens of houses we'd examined together. All I can say is, when we went back outside into the driveway, our prescient agent spoke before we did, asking "Should we go back to my office and draw up an offer?"

And, of course, the rest is history...and I don't just mean that metaphorically, at this point...as we prepare to turn Casa WestEnders over to its new owners in a few short months. The whole thing occurred in a crazy whirlwind of activity, barely leaving me time to breathe, much less to process. But I've had a little bit of downtime in the past few days, and certain parallels have crystallized for me, between what happened 15 years ago and what transpired last week. For example, when Husband and I bid on the house, it had gone up for sale that very day. (Sound familiar so far?) The market at that time was extraordinarily competitive, and after lots of traffic (also eerily similar to our situation) the owners received several offers, along with ours, immediately. Fortunately they chose us, first-time homebuyers. Back to present day: when reviewing the contract over the weekend with our realtor, we found out that our buyers will also be first-time homeowners. I like that very much--it gives me an undefiinable "warm fuzzy feeling" (which Husband probably wouldn't "get", but that's okay).

So, it feels like things are falling into place the way they're supposed to so far...now we have to hope that our house-hunting process goes smoothly as well...this time with my instincts...Husband's concrete mental tendencies...and two highly-opinionated adolescent boys...Ay yi yi...I'd better start resting up for this coming weekend's trip!

72 Hours?

So, having scurried around squawking like the proverbial chickens with their heads missing, getting the house ready for sale, we really hadn't had time to think yet about the looming issue on our personal horizon, namely the big "What's Next?" Well, the answer turned out to be "sit back for a (brief) moment while your trusty real estate representative works her magic via the Internet". In fact, Agent L emailed me Wednesday afternoon with the notice that our listing was "live and active", and just like that, we were open for business. Little did I know, that particular piece of innocent electronic correspondence should have been branded with a warning...for the craziness that would ensue.

Thursday morning I got an apologetic phone call asking if it was too-short-notice to allow an interested party to come over...at 9:30. Um....sure? Who am I to turn down our first customers, yeah? When they arrived, I quickly grabbed my purse and waved a cheery farewell, hightailing it out of there so they could wander around without me doing the Homeowner Hover...and also to avoid hearing their opinion of my living quarters. "No problem," I thought, "I'm just getting a jump start on my To Do List." Then, as the day progressed, I received a veritable barrage of requests: 5:30...5:45...6:30...aargh! I texted Husband and informed him that we would be needing to vacate the premises...at dinner time. He was typically unperturbed (and amused), deciding on the spot to come home and whisk the boys off to Subway for their evening meal. At that point, with the visits overlapping each other and multiple cars parked on our normally quiet street, it began to seem a bit like a circus...from which I felt increasingly compelled to run and hide...

But we survived the...onslaught...and although I ended the day completely worn out (as though I'd done soooo much work...I suppose the adrenaline...and evasive action...took their toll...) we agreed that it had appeared to be a very successful Day One on the market. And, don't get me wrong, it was exciting, too--but the little voice (of reason) in the back of my head cautioned, "Calm down, it's possible that nothing will come of this, everyone so far could have hated the property, prepare yourself for the potential of a very long process." Then I got yet another email Friday morning from our agent--before standard business hours, mind you--stating that she had a strong offer on the table, that the buyers were very motivated to have us review it, and that she and wanted to meet Saturday morning to discuss the details. Holy. Guacamole.

Reeling with this intel, I got ready to leave the house and go...tackle my day...thinking that since no appointments had been scheduled for the daytime hours, I could just put things "back to normal" (as opposed to "Pristine Model Home Condition...ish) and not worry about it. This basically boiled down to: the usual stuff taking up counter space, everyone's laundry delivered in piles to their beds to be put away later...and, oddly enough, a baby tooth of Riley's, left on a napkin in our before-school rush when it fell out this morning... (You just can't plan these things, am I right?) So naturally, I fielded an email while I was out running errands...that someone was coming by...at 1:30. Jeez, I sure hope they enjoyed the...clean underwear...and discarded dentition...that I left for their entertainment. OOPS!

When I arrived back at the ranch--um "home"--I quickly re-set the better-than-usual order of things...and it's good that I did, because in the meantime, I was notified of another showing later that same evening...and more for Saturday at 8:30 (someone coming back for a second look) ...10:30... 10:45...11:30...and noon. Ay yi yi! (I reassured Derek--who was extremely concerned--that while he does NOT have to vacate the house when the first visitors arrive...he WILL be required to leave his bed. As for the rest of the guests: it's Saturday, and they're just going to have to deal with us...) I placed a call to Agent L in a bit of a tizzy, asking her how to proceed with all this...real estate madness...engulfing us. She advised that we hold with our original plan to meet and go over the one firm offer we have in hand...but that we do it somewhere ELSE rather than at our kitchen table, while people are busy examining/critiquing the merits of our little homestead.

This is exhilarating...terrifying...and exhausting all at once. But if everything else fails, I can always accept the bargain held out to me by one of Derek's best friends. When I was volunteering at the middle school on Friday, I had the opportunity to catch Derek up on the new development. A few minutes later, his buddy approached me as I was preparing my daring Escape from the Cafeteria and said--with an impressive Cheshire Cat grin and enough brash bravado to bowl over a limo-full of used car salesmen--"I'll buy your house...for 30 dollars...7 pretzels...and, um...an eraser!" I sincerely hope it won't come to that, but I promise to keep it in mind! (at least until the resolution of tomorrow's pow-wow...)

Extreme(ly Minor) Home Makeover

The next installment of our saga, tentatively entitled "Fairly-Clueless-But-Highly-Motivated People Try to Sell a House" involves prepping said domicile for its close-up. That's right, a professional photographer had been appointed to snap pictures of each and every room...and then our living quarters would be virtually placed on the Internet, for any interested parties to scope out (or laugh at, be repelled by, what have you...) This looming appointment caused quite a stir in our household--well, for Husband and me, anyway...the boys remained blissfully oblivious, unless we demanded that they hop to and do something useful to help out--more on that later. But for the adults, a veritable flurry of purposeful activity ensued, over the course of a week or so.

The most pressing--and seemingly insurmountable--item on the agenda was to arrange power washing for the siding and back porch, both of which sported an impressive (read "unsightly") amount of grime and/or green growth (the latter being an unwanted side effect caused by the shade from our otherwise very desirable maple trees). This is theoretically not a difficult task to schedule or accomplish...except when it keeps freaking snowing well into March, and what you really need is warm-ish, dry weather to proceed. But Lady Luck trumped Mother Nature--for one day at least--and we were able to have the handyman come out and give our house a bath last Friday, in between late Winter storms. Then, Husband got to channel his...inner Huck Finn...by spending the gloriously warm, sunny Saturday afternoon slapping (or in his case "carefully, methodically applying") a coat of stain on the deck...instead of playing in the yard, as he would much rather have been doing.

Meanwhile, I tackled the inside issues...which in translation really means: "a borderline-obsessively-tidy person feels compelled to do things like line up the edges of magazines, straighten the bananas in the bowl on the kitchen counter, place the couch pillows so that their patterns are facing the same way and they lie at an absolutely even distance from the armrests...etc." (You may be chuckling, thinking I'm exaggerating or even  fabricating...sadly, this is all 100% true. I'm exhausted all over again from merely recounting my mini-frenzy...) Then of course there were the cosmetic improvements that were actually suggested, such as tucking away prescriptions. ("Yes, people WILL go through your medicine cabinets," I was told. Gosh, that's horrifying, because we have so much to hide! I mean, heaven forbid they discover that Husband takes pills to help alleviate his...migraines...shudder...)

Hmm, what else was there? Oh, right, clear the master bedroom entryway by stowing the ottoman somewhere. (No problem...um...I'll just chuck it right here...in Derek's closet....) And the most difficult, inconvenient request of all: the children needed to get in the habit of making their beds and putting away their clean laundry....EVERY. DAY! (Are you gasping and reeling in shock? Well, let me tell you, they did. It's just not something we've ever required them to do, because frankly, I couldn't care less if their covers are a jumbled mess or their clothes remain on the floor where I (also known in this capacity as the "Laundry Fairy") left them. But at least for the time being, they must (are you ready for the injustice and back-crushing toil of this?) pull up their comforters...and (if that weren't bad enough) tuck their apparel into the proper drawers! (Yeah, all sarcasm aside, this adds approximately 45 seconds, total, to their everyday routines. Not even enough for them to work up a good whine about it, honestly...)

For me, the most amusing part of the whole rigamarole was watching Husband...crawling around from spot to spot...wielding a teeny-tiny paintbrush taken from the art supply kit the kids use for school assignments. You see, he had taken it upon himself--without any prompting whatsoever--to locate, mark with a sticky-note, and touch up any gouges, scrapes, or scuffs in the paint...all over the house. It was an undertaking of both colossal...and miniscule...proportions, I tell ya. I have no right to laugh, though, what with my own Battle of the Bathroom. (Okay, more like a "minor skirmish"...which I won, thank you very much...) There was one area along the baseboard where for some reason a gap had appeared between the wood and the paint. It was structurally sound, but a visual eyesore, if you will. So after being annoyed by it...but ignoring it...for, oh, I don't know, a year, maybe...I finally decided to fix the sucker.

This necessitated a trip to the Seventh Circle of Hell--I'm sorry, "the hardware store"--to purchase an appropriate product for the job. There I was, doing my best to explain to the helpful employee what I was trying to achieve, so he could recommend the proper substance...and I totally blanked on the word "baseboard". (I blame it on the stress of the testosterone-laden environment...or maybe home improvement fumes...or some such nonsense...) "Down by the floor, where the wood meets the wall, there's an empty space, and I need to fill it," I blathered. Bless his heart, he managed to squelch his inevitable confusion (and probably dismay) at the crazy lady in front of him, and keep his wits firmly about him, and point me toward a suitable solution...also known in high-tech, extremely specialized construction circles as..."caulk". (If you've concluded that I'm definitely losing it at this point...I can't say you're wrong...) Long story short...er...it worked like a charm, problem fixed, baseboard harmony re-established. (Bonus: I'll most likely never forget that term again, should I ever need it in the future, so "yay for that"....)

Fiiiinnnaalllyyy....we were all done nit-picking around, and could just sit back and let the shutterbug work his magic to make our home look as appealing...and power-washed...and caulked...and painted...as possible. And after all that--let's (euphemistically...and optimistically) call it Spring cleaning--I swear, he was in and out in 20 minutes. (Sigh--of relief...mostly...) Looking ahead, I'm told that a sign will go up in the yard by Thursday at the latest. And a lockbox has been installed on the front door, just lying in wait for the swarm of invaders--um, "potential buyers"--that might descend upon us at any moment. Oh dear. If you'll excuse me, I suddenly feel a strong urge to go...artistically re-rearrange the bananas. (Fingers crossed that the whole nervewracking "For Sale" process doesn't drag on TOO long!)

Big plans...from a little guy...

I can't recall exactly how or when it happened, but at some point when I was in elementary school I got the notion that I would attend college when I grew up. Maybe my mom or dad told me that it was expected, or perhaps I heard about the magical, mystical place from someone else...but from that moment on, it was treated as an irrefutable fact that my future would include higher education. Now, it didn't occur to me until much, much later (like, when I was an adult) that there was anything at all unusual about this. But the funny thing is, neither of my parents held a college degree. Furthermore, we were firmly situated in what you'd call "middle class" territory--you know, that shadowy realm where you're "too wealthy (ha!) for financial aid" but "of modest enough means that the cost of a good school will definitely...pinch a bit". Nevertheless, my entire vision of what would happen to me in that crazy, far-off time after high school...revolved around some as-yet-unknown university.

I mention this because I seem to have done the exact same thing to my own children. (Funny how that happens, right?) Both boys already know that it's not a case of "if you go to college", it's more like "which school you'll attend, based on the programs available, and what you want to study". (Oh, and the ever-so-painful--at least to your parents--price, of course...) Derek, my uber-laid-back older child, really hasn't given much thought to these issues yet (which, I hasten to add, is FINE, since he's only in 8th grade). The only topic that he seems to have considered in relation to institutions of post-secondary-learning is...the generosity of the meal plan...the quality of the culinary offerings...and the quantity of food he'll be allowed to consume on a daily basis in his 4 years of living there. (I blame Husband, who never wastes an opportunity to reminisce about his tenure at Penn State, while simultaneously extolling the virtues of dorm eating...sigh...)

Then, there's Riley...he who has general ambitions of becoming an environmental biologist, with more specific goals of studying reptiles and amphibians. I know...he's only 10...so we listen with great interest to his plans and schemes...and realize that they may (and most likely will) change 15 times before the day actually arrives for him to start seriously considering colleges. But sometimes he still manages to catch us off guard--like the other day, when he poked his head in the kitchen door and called, "Mom?" I was upstairs, and expecting the usual query from him, "Can I go to my friend's house down the street?" I opened my mouth to give him permission, but before I could speak, he continued, "Are you okay with me going to the University of San Francisco for grad school?" Absentmindedly I replied, "Sure, honey, no problem." Then my brain caught up and I backpedaled, "Wait, I'm sorry, WHAT?" However, he had already closed the door and disappeared outside to play again, so further clarification had to wait until dinnertime.

When he came back in, this is how he explained himself: "I'm planning my degrees." (Plural? Ay yi yi...) I want to get my first one from North Carolina, then go to graduate school at University of San Francisco." Oh-kay...I'll play along...wwwhhhyyyyy? He blithely elaborated, "Well, I was looking online for schools with good biology programs." (Oh...of course you were...) First I want a biology degree. Then maybe specialize in frogs and toads." (Meanwhile I'm processing this data, and also wondering "What'd you do, Google it?" The answer to this, by the way, was "Yes, yes he did." I swear these kids should just be known as the Google Generation...but I digress...) Husband's reaction seemed to be a mixture of bewildered/impressed/slightly concerned, as he shook his head and marveled aloud, "So, here I thought he was just sitting around playing silly games on his Kindle...and he was researching his future education?" (Apparently...)

On the other hand, Derek's response to the whole situation was a pretty common open-mouthed, perplexed/amused expression, and the added comment, "I don't even know what I want to be when I grow up, and he's planning where to go to school already?!" I tell ya, we've gotta watch this one. That's it, no more...educational browsing for you, young man! Now, go waste time with some pointless entertainment, right this minute! Because your father and I need a minute to call the Guidance Counselor and leave her a message...warning her that you're coming...