I know I should only be talking about Halloween, but this afternoon I had to make a last minute purchase at the big party store. While standing in line, I watched a teenage girl put on a pair of ridiculously oversized sunglasses and do a little dance. “My President will be a black man. My President will be a black man.” Her joy was contagious. I smiled from earlobe to earlobe. Not only is this the year that people who have felt ignored realize that they matter, this is the beginning of the end of it mattering at all. The teenager wandered off to a different area of the store and a woman in line behind me growled about completely inappropriate behavior in public. If I hadn’t turned around, I wouldn’t have known that the woman was my age, but her skin was the same color as the teenager’s. The woman’s concern was sobering and I felt sad that she knew too much about the hate in this world to celebrate. We can do better. We have to do better.

This poll has nothing to do with politics. I know that’s tremendously disappointing, since everyone is feeling so nonchalant about politics right now, but this poll is about a tree. Ignore the dog staring at me like I’m insane for taking a picture of a tree instead of her. Focus instead on the extremely large tree looming over our house. Yes, I know the shutters are a terrible color. Try to focus on the tree. We live on an almost completely wooded lot. A month ago, a giant branch fell off that tree and nearly clonked me in the head. Okay, maybe the branch was only about 6 inches diameter and it fell several feet away from me, but it was still creepy. Creepy in a “branches don’t fall down without a good reason” kind of way. Since then, very few days have gone by that Doug didn’t hear the words “that tree” come out of my mouth. As in, “that tree is gong to crush the house and hurt the children” or “that tree is going to completely squash the car” or several other equally dramatic and exaggerated scenarios involving trees.

Doug called a tree specialist. I’m sure that the specialist’s job was to give Doug information that would make me shut up already about the tree. Instead, the quote was $650 to try and get the very bad tree removed asap because it’s falling down “sooner than later.” Of course, Doug’s first reaction was that he can take the tree down himself. That option sounds like another visit to the ER to me. So, that brings us to today’s non-political poll.

I am as frustrated and ready to move beyond this election as everyone else is right now. After YEARS of blogging without haters, I have gotten it multiple times this week. Instead of dragging it out over multiple posts and different social networks, let’s just make a few things clear so that everyone can have a single place to band together and tell me what’s wrong with me.

1. I voted early for the first time in my life. I voted for Obama and I am very happy with that decision.
2. I don’t care if I hurt the feelings of a blatant racist. I don’t write anything that I wouldn’t say to your face.
3. If we had two cars, I would drive to one of the many Vote NO on Proposition 8 rallies. Two consenting adults who love each other deserve to marry and live without prejudice.
4. I believe the electoral college needs to be abolished.
5. I don’t believe in vouchers for private schools.

Put your anger here and let’s return to having a sense of humor. Please. I am not the monster that I have been called this week. I’m really just a barefoot pacifist.

With 5 children, we are very lucky we don’t spend more time at doctors and hospitals. The children sensed that we were overdue for an ER visit and set out to remedy the situation. I knew it would be Amy or Evan who had the next big boo-boo. Watching the two of them interact is like watching a see-saw. They’re sharing, they’re fighting. They’re shoving, they’re hugging. They’re happy, they’re sad. Back and forth they go, all the day long. Saturday night, Doug and I were out searching for Fancy Nancy hair when the phone rang. The story on the phone was confusing, but we understood the message that Amy had hit her head and was going to Children’s Hospital. Several more phone calls during the drive explained that Amy was somewhere between sitting and standing in a chair in her grandmother’s kitchen. Evan deliberately pulled the chair over or accidentally knocked it over and Amy’s head clonked on the floor. Hard. With a basic grasp of the scenario, we reached the hospital area and were immediately reminded that UT had a home game playing. Roads were blocked and parking lots were full. The normally $1 an hour lot was now a flat $20. Doug circled the emergency room lot until someone left while I went inside. I understand that the businesses in that area need football crowds to survive, but something is wrong when the emergency room parking lot is filled with football traffic.

It doesn’t matter the day, time or crowd in the Children’s Hospital ER, I always get triaged instantly and wait minimally before going back to see a nurse. The nurses and doctors know exactly how to communicate with small people and calm parents (and distraught grandmothers). The only consequence of Amy’s fall was an actual egg sized lump on the back of her head and a hospital bracelet as a badge of courage. All we had to do was wait for discharge, so we waited. and waited. and waited some more. I think there must be exactly one employee per hospital who does discharges and that person spends their entire shift racing from floor to floor trying to process everyone out. It seems to hold true at every hospital I have ever been in. You put the first real clothes on your new baby and change their diaper every five minutes in an attempt to make it out of the hospital before mustard or tar has stained that first outfit. Still, given a choice between slow admission and slow discharge, I’ll take slow discharge. Now I just need to make Amy and Evan wear helmets and football pads when they are in the same room.

You have a special talent for connecting with Aspie children. Even though we no longer see you, I recommend you to the half a dozen newly diagnosed families who call me every month. Well, I used to recommend you. I will no longer do so. I stupidly ignored when you would talk to me about other patients. I shouldn’t have. Now I hear that you are talking about my child. More than talking about him, you are telling other families that my child is one of your only two failures. You are entitled to your incorrect opinion of the level of my son’s success, but I am furious that you are talking bad about my son to other people. That is unprofessional and if it continues, I will file a complaint with the state. Stop talking about my son. Now.

Overheard in the high school band room:
“My mother blogs everything. You might find yourself on the Internet.”

Overheard through child’s bedroom door:
Tween reading my blog out loud to his friend, followed by, “My family is funny.”

There are mountains of blogs detailing the adventures of pregnancy and parenting UNTIL those children become teens. At that point, many bloggers turn their focus to personal hobbies or quit posting altogether. The reasons are valid. They don’t want to tell the stories that their children could someday tell for themselves. The things that teenagers do just aren’t as cute or easy to talk about as the things that babies and toddlers do and say. They don’t want to embarrass their children. Then, there are those of us who just keep on journaling. We know that our teens are perfectly capable of telling their own versions of the stories on their Facebook pages. My children are an important part of my life. I don’t WANT to avoid writing about them. We may have to write things through gritted teeth or with a hard earned sense of humor, but why would we keep written records of our lives only to a certain point? Writers write. Bloggers blog.

Noah recently complained that I blog more about Sarah than I blog about him. I do because I understand her ridiculous hormonally driven behaviors and attitudes. I do, because watching her making the mistakes I made frustrates me and drives me to drink blog. Noah, on the other hand, bewilders me. I have been a parent for more than 18 years and I am still struck silent by some of the things that adolescent boys do. I don’t know how to blog about my son abusing himself to Markie Post. I don’t know how his mind works. I only know that he is incredibly compassionate, bright and sensitive. I know he feels forgotten and under-appreciated as the middle child. I just don’t want him to feel like he isn’t good fodder for blog posts. So, someone had better learn to do certain things behind a locked door if he doesn’t want to read about why I wash socks separately from all the other laundry. Or, maybe he should just stop keeping score of blog posts.