Having grown up in Indiana, I have no idea what Memorial Day Weekend is like anywhere else.  I grew up assuming the world greeted this long weekend with a month-long pre-party. Today we passed the beautiful parade floats being set up underneath the downtown highways.  The city is awash with flags and bleachers.  The Queen has been crowned, and the 33 Princesses long at work. As a Princess Alum, my 500 Festival volunteering began last January (and how I love my time with the Festival staff…we have so much fun). May is full of hooplah, but this weekend the party goes into overdrive. Our annual Parade seat tickets have been safely stashed in a drawer for months. Carb Day and The Snakepit Ball…and there’s something else?  What am I forgetting? Wait…it’s coming to me…THE RACE. That’s right.  The reason for this town turns inside out for 4 weeks each year (we almost have traffic…almost). I don’t go unless I’m waving from the back of a Pace Car with my name on the side. Kidding. But seriously.  I prefer it.

Honestly, I can’t imagine being anywhere else on Memorial Day Weekend than right here in Indiana. I hope you’re looking forward to some fun plans, fast cars, and time with friends and family.

I love this picture, because Kelly’s hair needs a trim, there is a new hole in her pants, and she’s covered in dirt.  But damn if she isn’t holding that tiny violin perfectly!  Kelly is such a contradiction in terms, hence our conversation last night:

Kelly: Mommy, will you crawl into bed with me?  I have some things I need to say.

Momma: Absolutely.  Shoot.

Kelly: I can’t go to 1st grade.  I’m not going.

Momma: Why?  Are you afraid to go?

Kelly: Yes, very afraid.

Momma: Are you afraid of the work? Do you think it’s going to be hard?

Kelly: Exactly.  And I’m not ready because there are some things in Kindergarten I haven’t learned well enough.  There is one thing I really failed.

Momma: Your teacher hasn’t called me about things you haven’t mastered.  What is it?

Kelly: Hanukkah Bingo. I really, really didn’t understand Hanukkah Bingo.

Momma: Oh…honey…you can go to 1st grade without understanding Hanukkah Bingo.

Kelly: NO, I really CANNOT.

Momma: Kelly, I know I’ve said this before, and many times since…but I feel I should try it once more: we’re not Jewish.

Sara: KELLY!  AH! Hanukkah Bingo isn’t a REAL THING.  Reading logs, spelling tests, math problems…those are REAL THINGS.  Hanukkah Bingo isn’t even a REAL GAME.  Hanukkah is real.  Bingo is real.  Hanukkah Bingo is made up! Kelllll-eeee—ugh! We’re not Catholic. We’re not Jewish. We’re just regular ‘ole Jesus people.

Kelly: But what if I AM Jewish?  And I can’t understand the Bingo?!  I can’t, can’t, can’t go to 1st Grade.

Momma: Honey, you’re going to 1st Grade.  Hanukkah falls over Thanksgiving this year, so there may not even be an opportunity to play Hanukkah Bingo in 1st grade.  How about I have a talk with the 1st grade teachers and let them know you don’t understand Hanukkah Bingo?

Kelly: YES, that would make me feel MUCH better.

*And I did.  Oh yes, I did.  Less than 12 hours later, I informed a 1st grade teacher that Kelly cannot, cannot play Hanukkah Bingo.  Not because of religious differences, because Kelly remains on the Jesus fence, but because she does not understand the many complex words. She thanked me for the Intel, and as always, we shared a good giggle about my children. Godspeed to the entire 1st Grade team.  They have done so much for Sara, and how do I thank them?  By sending them my religiously-conflicted, Bingo-lovin’, violin-playin’ baby girl.  Who tonight, claiming she did it out of 1st grade anxiety, poured glue all over the face of her sister’s brand new mermaid doll, and attempted to glue the slipper organizer to the floor of her closet. If Elmer’s Glue had a church, Kelly would occupy the front row.*

I think it’s important that a certain 3 lb someone finally recognized who the Momma is around here.  There was a great deal of time spent cuddling on Momma’s lap last night as he came to the realization as to who rocks the cradle. Paws were buried into thighs.  Cheeks were rubbed into arms. Respect was paid. Yes Grasshopper, this is the lap you visit when life gets tough.  Forget the Godfather…Momma is the center of this Universe. Now you know.

*Lydia, don’t say it, just don’t say it.  I know what you’re thinking: enough with the Dagny posts.  Move on Lori.  Can’t you take a picture of something other than an allergy-ridden furball?  I can hear you from 5 states away.  BUT, let me warn you: you’d prefer I stay on this topic.  If I veer into reality, you’ll see Sara starting her Rootie Kazootie Freak Out that she’s leaving 1st grade (you can borrow this phrase, but Sara is copyrighting it as we speak), and Kelly doing her own version of, “OH MY GOD THE WORLD IS ENDING!” (aka, Kindergarten).  I have 2 different painting projects and one furniture project half-started, which is being generous in the math department.  And let’s not get started on my own lack of sleep, probably doing my own “summer is coming, and I hope I survive it” dance. This manic cat is the calmest thing in the house (not counting Greg who dials up the calm as the 3 of us lose our minds, which will render him comatose by Memorial Day…)  Hang in there. By next week, we’ll be a generous mess of tears and laughter, which should make for some stellar writing. Or drinking…but seeing as you and I split champagne at lunch this side of last week, I know you’ll still love me.*

Greg and I do not, I repeat…DO NOT…like landscaping.  However, we find it necessary to spend one horrible weekend each year reinforcing our self-awareness.  Or lack thereof?  One hot, sweaty, dirt-covered weekend.  We set aside money, telling ourselves it’s WAY too much.  And yet every damn year, we discover it’s half as much. We’d love to have a nice yard, but not so much we’re willing to spend the money or the sweat-equity to get there.  We seem to experience just enough success to try again.  Mother Nature is like a wicked drug dealer, stringing us along, through droughts and grubs.

2 yards of planters dirt, 3 yards of mulch, 4 knock out roses, 3 carpet roses, 2 hydrangea bushes, 10 lavender plants, 3 bell peppers, 6 heirloom tomatoes, 2 thymes, 2 rosemarys, 1 basil, 3 bright yellow probably won’t survive the winter somethings, and finally 2 hanging white who-knows-what and how I hope they survive the summer…and we’re calling it quits and sleeping hard.  Near death, really.

As if this crazy attempt at creating a pleasant back yard wasn’t enough, we decided to address the question plaguing us for a few years: is it time to re-stain the play set? Greg bought a can of stain, and I took some swipes to create a comparison.

UM?  Yeah.  Think we answered that question.  I guess we’ll call the pain of the last few days our “starter” weekend.  Please Lord, give me thick, fragrant hedges of lavender and roses, a drought-free summer, and a disease-free yard. Amen.

Even though the girls are 23 months apart in age, they are only 1 year apart in school.  Academically, they are almost neck and neck.  As a result, I sometimes veer towards treating them as twins, which Kelly is always quick to remind me…they are most certainly NOT.

Last Friday, after Kelly admitted her toes were curling inside her tennis shoes, we went on a shoe shopping spree. I say “spree”, not because I bought them several pairs of shoes, but rather because they become so giddy while shopping for shoes, their behavior borders on manic. Greg called in the middle of my twice-yearly nightmare, upon which I whispered, “SHOES!  HELP!!”, and above the fray he yelled, “CALL ME BACK WHEN YOU CAN HONEY!! I LOVE YOU!!!”  He came along for the shoe shopping ride once.  Only once.  After he got hit in the head by a stray glittery Mary Jane, he swore he’d never make that mistake again.

Sara’s first question was, “Do they sell TOMS here?  I really want TOMS.”  Um…No, Target does not sell $50 kids shoes.  In my head Macklemore was singing, “Yo, that’s $50 for a tshirt.” But TOMS became a footnote when she found these cowboy boots.  Did she need cowboy boots?  Not by my definition.  I grew up in Dingos, which were necessary when slopping through cow manure on my way to the barn.  Eventually I came to own my first pair of “dress up boots”, which were worn exclusively with my “good jeans”.  Sara is not yet at the dress up boot/good jean threshold (that’s 3rd or 4th grade, if you’re from a big city and don’t own a Farmers Almanac, wherein these important rites of passage are referenced).  However, it’s Sara, so she made a cogent argument: “Mommy, these boots are Uncle Randy cool.  Cool.  Like Uncle Randy.”  Well, when you put it that way…

I found her stomping around the house in her new Roper knock-offs Saturday morning in her pjs.  I bought her size for the fall, but I’m guessing she’ll slip into school tomorrow wearing shorts and these boots.  Go Sara.

Kelly, on the other hand, was more than happy gazing over the glittery Hello Kitty slip ons, and she finally decided on the the blue striped shoes with bows.  According to her, they go with EVERYTHING.  They do. She’s 5, so these shoes match her life.

And it hit me how very different they are.  Sara wants to watch “Good Luck Charlie”, and Kelly is still happy with just about everything on Disney Jr. Sara could live inside Justice (and she WILL, she SWEARS, when I win the lottery… but I don’t play the lottery…SHHHH…).  Kelly is just as happy with tshirts covered in Barbies and Smurfs. Last weekend the girls saw Kidz Bop perform at the Circle.  Sara went nuts singing and high-five’ing from the front row.  Kelly immediately made a dash for my side, in shocked horror.  She loves the CDs, but to her, the singers are as magical and unreal as Ariel and Tinkerbell.  She had never considered the performers were actual humans she could meet in person.  I watched her Universe both expand and contract within the same second.

Sara is 7, and Kelly is 5…and those are NOT the same thing.  Sara goes to sleepovers and accessorizes.  Kelly cries at the drop of a hat and has yet to have regular homework. It’s so easy to watch them play the same games and music, and think they are closer in age than they actually are.  I guess I’m glad they keep me straight when I go too far in the “treat them the same” game:

Sara: BUT WHY?! WHY can’t I have TOMS?  Auntie Amanda wears nothing but TOMS, so they must be AWESOME.

Mommy: So ask Auntie Amanda to buy you a pair for your birthday.  It’s not a “Mommy has to get new shoes on everyone’s feet today without breaking the bank” kind of purchase.

Sara: What’s a purchase?

Mommy: Sara!  Pick another shoe!

Sara: OK! But nothing BABYISH!

Mommy: Kelly honey, do you want to ask for a pair of TOMS for your birthday too?

Kelly: WHAT?!  NO! WHY would I want a pair of TOMS for my birthday?

Mommy: I’m sorry honey.  Of course you don’t want a pair of shoes for your birthday!  You want toys!

Kelly: No, I want the Skecher Twinkle Toe High Tops. But not the kind with shoelaces.  NO TYING, please.

Mommy: WHAT?! Those are SIXTY DOLLARS!  OH MY GOSH KELLY!  You just picked out shoes more expensive than SARA! Are you kidding me?

Kelly: I would never joke about light up high tops.  THEY ARE AWESOME!  I must have them Mommy, I MUST!

Mommy: OH GOD, I can’t breath.  Someone call your Father and tell him to come and get me.  I’ll be unconscious near the flip flops at Target.

Never go to a kids’ festival attended by 10′s of thousands of people without taking your Ninja.  Always remember to pack the Ninja.

*{this moment} posts are inspired by Amanda Soule from Soulemama, who encourages us to reserve Fridays for a picture which represents our week.*

“Did you reboot Lori?  I bet you didn’t even reboot. Power down, Count to 10…you never learn.”

I’m not sure what’s most pertinent, so I’ll just make a list:

(1) Dagny is a BOY.  You may wonder why I paid an expert to investigate, but here’s the thing: I’m a Mom. I touch enough…stuff.  Dagny’s rescuer thought he was a she, and I took her word for it.  Should we have named Dagny, Richard Parker instead? I say what’s done is done. Daggs it is.  Unless Greg’s college buddy Daggs is reading, in which case, I apologize, because Greg just named a cat after you.  With this new turn of events, I think it’s most appropriate to add rank: introducing “Major Dagny Taggart Tatum, US Air Force”. That has a nice ring to it!

(2) Dagny fixed my printer, which has been sprained for months.  I used to simply require my cats to match my rugs, but I think he’s setting a higher bar; my cats should have skills.  Mad Computer SKILLZ. OH! And this one can fly planes!  Wow…D.T.  is getting better by the day.

“DUDE! I’m a DUDE!”

(3) HOWEVER, he is not getting CHEAPER by the day. Dagny is currently filled with ear mites, and probably equally loaded with parasites.  Yum.  He went on a poop strike, but Sara talked him out of it.  Or squeezed it out of him…whatever works.  When taking in a rescued stray, you must always assume they bring river fever with them.  You’ll be less disappointed when the Vet tells you it’s only the plague.

(4) And here’s where it gets dicey: Dagny is an Objectivist. Obviously, I’m trying to be loving about this choice, but it’s going to be a tough one for me. Quite frankly, I’m hoping he’ll outgrow it.  I’m all for total consciousness, but this idea of finding happiness only by pursuing his own self-interests, while very feline, is simply ego-centric. As you may recall, Syd and Cy practice Judaism, so I’m hoping for some spirited debates, FOLLOWED by him changing his mind.  Maybe it’s just a phase. Objectivism reads like a drunk college student spouting frustration during finals week. UGH. Who needs this much angst in a cat?

“Stop fighting me on this woman! It IS an ethos! Existence exists, man.”

(5) This 3 lb cuddle monkey has taken a bit of a liking to me and my lap. So what if he’s an uber-busy pilot with an outdated philosophy on life, in the middle of a gender identity crisis, and full of bugs and poop? So what? Jack had a gambling problem and Max was addicted to processed meats. Sydney weighs more than Kelly and Cy borders on Co-Dependent. Who is perfect?  See my point? I’m keeping him.  Losing the mites, but keeping him.

This Morning:

Mommy: Kelly!  We’ve got to get out the door!  What are you doing?

Kelly: I forgot something upstairs.  I MUST get it.  I MUST!

Mommy: What on earth MUST you take to school?

Kelly: I’ve been struggling to finish Tile Card #19 in Math Class. I’ve been trying for TWO WHOLE DAYS!  I woke up in the middle of the night, and I had some ideas as to how to solve it!  I wrote my ideas down in my diary, and I MUST take it into school today and try again.

Mommy: Are you serious?

Kelly (running down the stairs with her pink diary under her arm): Here it is.  Of course I’m serious.  It’s Tile Card #19 Mommy.  TWO DAYS! Let’s go.

Here is an excerpt from an email I received from Kelly’s Math Teacher this morning:

“Card 19 was finished before 8:10 this morning!    Kelly was super motivated to get it finished.”

Lesson #1: Never doubt Kelly in conversation.  While she is regularly implausible, she is rarely lying.

This evening after watching excerpts from Les Miserables (our newest topic of conversation/obsession, aka “Let’s start a conversation with Mommy about something she loves, and she won’t make us go to bed):

Kelly (after watching “Master Of The House” for the first time): He’s a bad guy, but I can’t UNDERSTAND IT!  I KNOW his voice.  He’s been in something else.  I KNOW his voice.

Mommy: Sacha Baron Cohen? In a kid’s movie?  I guess it’s possible.  Let’s IMDB it…..Oh Good Lord.  I can’t believe it.  He’s King Julian from Madagascar.  He’s the crazy lemur.

Kelly: SEE?!  I knew it.  Now look up the good guy.  That Jean Val man.  He’s somebody too.

Mommy: You’re unbelievable.  He’s Bunny from Rise of the Guardians.

Kelly: Uh-huh.  Different accent, same guy.  It was really creeping me out for a minute. Javert is nobody.  He’s just scary.

Sara: He doesn’t really die Kelly!  It’s called SPECIAL EFFECTS!

Mommy: Gladiator doesn’t do kid movies.  Kelly has this right.  He’s alive and well and living in Australia. He’s not a bad guy in real life.

Kelly: Yeah, but he’s not Bunny or King Julian either.

Mommy: Hollywood is a very complicated place, what can I say?

Lesson #2: You can’t fool Kelly.  Drunk Inn Keeper, Drunk Lemur, Greatest Lead Role In A Musical, Intimidating Bunny. She can 7 degrees the heck out of anyone ever featured in an Animated Film, apparently. Let’s never tell her Mel Gibson is John Smith in Pocahontas, OK?  It may destroy her idea of good and evil. 

You knew this was coming.  I didn’t know, but YOU knew. You could have called.  Well…maybe some of you did.  Lydia put on a whole day protest (cleverly disguised as a fantastic girlfriend hang out and do really cool stuff day), but then we had champagne at lunch, and forgot all about the pet discussion. I love Lydia.  She gets me.

I often say we don’t choose our pets, they choose us.  In this case, it was a little of both.

Introducing, by circuitous way of joining our family: Dagny Taggart Tatum, named for one of the strongest females characters written into classical fictional literature, and…um…a male stripper.  I’m not sure how to begin the apology. Greg ordered an EXCEPTIONALLY large margarita for me tonight at my Mother’s Day dinner, so it’s possible I won’t apologize at all.  But I will laugh really, really hard.

Greg’s favorite book (or a close second to Rainbow Six ) is Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged, the main character being Dagny Taggart. As this kitten is a birthday gift, thereby coming with naming rites, I assumed he’d name it Richard Parker, after his favorite character in Life of Pi.  Oops.  This kitten is a girl.  Dagny Taggart it is. Whomever names the cat, the other person may choose a last name commiserate with the name of whomever is top of their…let me put this delicately…their “list”.  You KNOW what I mean. Tatum.  Channing. You read this blog.  You can follow the bread crumbs.

As a matter of fact, we met this kitten a few weeks ago, when our neighbor rescued it, and Greg carried it into the kitchen to meet me.  Cute as the day is long, I yelled no, and sent him right back out the door.  I knew the pressure to replace Max was upon me, and I was RESOLUTE that we were complete.  Was Cyrus growing bored?  YES.  Was Sydney thrilled to have Mad Max gone? YES. I figured we’d reach a middle ground of anhedonia with the cats. Life was good.

Was our neighbor able to keep the cat? NO! Did she put a call out on Facebook for a good home? YES! Did I write her immediately and set up a chance for the baby to play with Thing 1 and Thing 2? You know the answer to that question.

Has Cyrus woken up in a new kind of amusement heaven? YES! Are they playing themselves into exhausted comas, waking up, and starting their games all over again? YES! Does this kitten have time to cuddle with us? NOT YET!  She.is.just.so.busy.  As it turns out, Dagny Taggart is the perfect name.

Is Syd pleased? NO! Is she hissing at the kitten? Well…not exactly.  Syd is so fat, she can no longer hiss.  When she tries, it comes out as a pig’s snort.  No joke.  Barely a hiss which turns immediately into a honking snort, following by a choke. Then she lumbers off and looks for her favorite human, upon whom she submits hours upon hours of complaints (disguised as cuddles with longing pleas for reprieve from the chaos).

Is Daddy listening to Sydney’s whines? NO! Look at this squirt! She’s smart.  She’s fast as the wind.  She’s playful.  She’s starting to allow Greg and Sara to carry her around the house.  With all the chasing, my house sounds like an elephant’s playground.

Yep, that sounds just about right.  Life has been far too quiet since the snowy day my Max died.  This house was due for a little shaking up.  And…well…Greg loves cats.  And I love Greg.  So, you do the math.  Welcome to the ranch, Dagny.  5 out of 6 of us welcome you with open arms.

*A special thank you to Danielle for graciously parting with her baby kitty, and allowing me to give her to Greg for his birthday. Please come over for visits! This entire family loves the both of you.*

So much for proving a point by adopting an irritated primate.  Gertie settled right into the routine and the girls have found her to be quite cuddly. The kitten?  Not just yet.  She hasn’t stopped moving long enough for anyone to catch her.  In fact, she and Cyrus have engaged in the world’s longest game of tag.  Other than very short breaks, the game has been in play for 19 hours.

A birthday gift for Greg has turned into 2nd year birthday gift for Cyrus.  Sydney has turned back into Eeyore, which is at least a feline mood I recognize. The rest of the house is full of manics: cats chasing cats, kids chasing cats, Greg stopping now and then to scoop up whatever is dashing past him at the speed of light.  Gert and I are heading out for coffee to take a break from this mess.  I wonder how gorillas take their coffee? I’ll bet she’s really sophisticated, and discusses things she reads in the New Yorker. She’ll probably ask me to pay, which is not cool with me, but I’ll do it, because my Lord, look at her.  Scariest gorilla I’ve ever stolen from a zoo.