I’m a sucker for my cats. So I got them a water fountain because they really like to drink running water.

And I’m pretty sure they hate it.

Lulu kind of stared at it for a while. Then walked away. Finnegan stared at it. Then tried to attack it. That was my first clue that it might not have been my best idea.

The second clue came the other night when in the middle of the night a strange sound came from the kitchen.  By middle of the night, I mean 3:30am. At first I thought it was the refrigerator again, but luckily it was just the fountain.

See, Finnegan had attacked the fountain again. This time he knocked the whole thing over. He managed to pry the lid off, which I can only get on when I’m trying really, really hard. How he got it off, I’ll never know. With no water, the fountain motor began running. And running. And making the horrible noise that awoke us.

As my friend said, shouldn’t a cat fountain be, you know, cat proof?

You would think. But you know how some animals just have their own way of doing things? Yep, that’s Finnegan. He wants his little blue water dish back and he’s going to keep attacking the fountain until he gets what he wants.

So fine. Lesson learned. Keep it simple. Got it.

The weather today is beautiful. Warm, breezy, more than one could hope for in mid-November. But tonight, there will be rain. And rain always means the potential for water in our basement.

We are learning to be proactive. (Sometimes being an adult stinks.)

Mike mentioned he needed to blow the leaves out of the basement stairwell (because they clog the french drain, causing water to end up in our basement.) But he had a wicked 24-hour virus yesterday, so I told him I would take care of it today.

“I can do it.”

“You will?” (sounding a little more surprised than I thought was appropriate.)

“Sure.”

Sure.

After he left, I headed out to the shed in my white t-shirt and skirt I had already donned for the day because this wasn’t really yard work, it was just a quick leaf removal. Kind of like vacuuming. Easy peasy.

After I kvetched over getting to the leaf blower that was hung by someone very tall over the mower that I couldn’t reach over, and finally got it down, I realized by the cobwebs on it that I had in fact struggled to get the old, non-working, why-do-we-still-have-this leaf blower.

I turned to see the new-this-one-works leaf blower right behind me on the floor. In pieces. It’s supposed to be in pieces, I assume, but I do not possess leaf blower assembly without directions abilities. Besides, it was kind of dirty, and I was wearing a white shirt. Hmpf.

Plan B – the wet/dry vac was handy so I grabbed that, found an extension cord and began sucking up the leaves that way. About the time I thought I might just be able to scoop a bunch up faster with my hands, I saw the biggest (hopefully dead) spider I have ever seen and decided a slow suck of leaves with the machine was better than coming anywhere close to touching such a beast.

Then it was time to empty the dry vac and I couldn’t get the stupid lid off which just frustrated me to no end. I finally got it to come off, emptied the bucket (eww) (thinking a self-cleaning wet/dry vac would be the invention of the year), and headed back for the second half. About this time, I looked around to make sure no one was watching me, because graceful I wasn’t.

I began to think that maybe a dry vac wasn’t really designed for the bulk of leaves, but leaves are light and fluffy. It’s a wet/dry vac. It can handle water. What’s a few leaves?

I was almost finished when I lost suction again. I emptied it again and put it back together, but still had no suction.

I had already run across the brother spider to the first spider and was pretty sure at least one of them was still stuck in the hose part of the vacuum. I imagined him fighting the air flow and crawling his way back out to get his revenge and eat my face off for sucking him up a hose.

So I found a stick and shoved it in the hose to try to unclog it. I forced a clog into the middle of the hose. Um, great. So then I found a longer stick and shoved it in the hose.

At this point I checked again to be sure no one was videoing this disaster because I’m sure I looked like a grade A idiot.

The longer stick was about a foot too short. So I used the shorter one to keep shoving the longer one through to the other end.

Aaannnnd got the long stick stuck in the middle of the hose.

Of course I did.

Now I’m flailing the hose around like a snake trying to get the clog, the stick, anything but the spiders out of the hose.

I used the small stick from the other end to shove the large stick back out. Unplugged everything and put it back in the garage. I grabbed the rest of the leaves with my hands, spiders or not, and finished my easy little project. Heh.

The stairs look good. Hope the basement stays dry. Lesson for the day: Don’t use a wet/dry vac to suck up leaves unless you have a super long stick that can clean out the clog and/or have your husband assemble the leaf blower before he leaves for work.

Feeling a little chatty today. Ahem.

I took Nick to Home Depot yesterday to buy a 2×4 to use as a balance beam. I got a chance to see some of the PT he does at school and much of it are things that we could easily be practicing at home, assuming I have them on a to-do list to cross off.

Our 2×4 is nowhere near as nice as the school’s but ours was only $2.30. The school’s might actually be a 3×3, but I’m calling it close enough.

Anyway, Nick was very happy with our new purchase and apparently felt a certain amount of ownership. Maggie came home from school and a melee ensued over the 2×4 piece of lumber on our living room floor.

They took turns. Only because an adult was standing there making sure no one took a 2×4 to the head.

Today, minutes after Maggie got home from school, I came into the living room to see Nick stretched out (the boy is l-o-n-g) on the 2×4.

“Are you lying on that so Maggie can’t get on it?”

“Yes. It’s mine.”

At least he’s honest.

I guarantee you if I had bought two of them, no one would want to use either of them.

Guaranteed.

My children were playing Harry Potter in the basement with friends. They use my suitcase as their trunk when they are waiting for the train to Hogwarts.

Somehow the suitcase made it to the top of the stairs before it was abandoned for another part of the story.

My husband moved the suitcase out of the hallway into our bedroom, next to my closet.

I came to bed after he was asleep and  tiptoed around in the dark getting my pajamas on because I am a considerate person who doesn’t want to wake anyone. (ever. I pretty much NEVER want to wake anyone. It’s a good rule to live by.)

I put the clothes I took off on top of the suitcase that was in front of my closet.

THAT is how a pile gets started around here.

It begins so innocently.

After a long hiatus, I never know if I should catch you up on everything I’ve written in my head or just jump in with what’s in my head right now. (My head is a very, very full place.)

My parents have a cartoon on their wall that says “Filers should not marry pilers.” I’ve mentioned this cartoon before. I quote it all the time. What I’m just now realizing is pilers should not give birth to pilers and expect them to be filers.

Did you get that?

I’m having all sorts of drama over school work not coming home, completed homework not being turned in, and general disorganization. The guilty party (besides, well, me) doesn’t care. She has taken a few penalties at school, things that I think bother her, but she finds a way to not let it outwardly bother her.

I even talked to a counselor at school who mentioned one of the most important things:  Lead by example.

My dear piling child and I are screwed.

I have deadlines coming up for a few different projects, no naturally now is when I decide to take a few minutes to write. Ha.

I posted on Facebook the other day that Maggie’s endocrinologist’s computer says she will likely be 6’1″ tall. About a year ago, it predicted 6′ even, so the prediction is going up. She says she will still listen to me when she is looking down at me. We’ll see.

Another interesting thing happened at this doctor visit. The Dr. (whom I love and adore and appreciate immensely) asked Maggie what the tooth fairy gave her for her missing tooth.

“A gold coin worth 100 cents,” she said.

“A gold dollar coin?” he asked.

“Yes! That’s what she brings every time.”

Turning to me, he says “Where do you get the gold coins?”

Ummmm, I DIDN’T GET THE GOLD COINS. THE TOOTH FAIRY brings the coins. Hello???!!!

“I’m not sure where the TOOTH FAIRY gets them,” I said trying to get the point across.

He seemed to get it and we moved on.

And then a few minutes later he brought the gold coins up again. I answered as quickly as I could and changed the subject politely.

I waited for Maggie to ask about it later, but she hasn’t yet. So she either heard, knows and isn’t willing to risk it, or she didn’t hear. The Dr does have a thick accent, so there is a chance she missed that part of the conversation.

I guess the really ironic part is that I have a stash of gold coins that I got from the ice machine near my in-laws that returns gold coins for change when you buy ice. (which I figured was a bit too long to try to explain to the dr.) I also got a handful of them from their Grandpa Joe. After the first three teeth, I figured I better hide my back-up gold coins a little better so the tooth fairy didn’t get busted.

And now I can’t exactly find them. So for the last tooth, I found one of Maggie’s coins that she has already received from the tooth fairy, and gave it to her again. I know, that’s horrible. She has no idea.

And someday, she will read this. Hopefully not until well after she doesn’t believe in the tooth fairy anymore. (Maggie, I owe you a dollar. Love, Mom)

I used to be a door slammer. Every once in a while I revert back to my old door-slamming ways, but for the most part, I am a recovered door slammer. Or at least, that’s what I think.

I still close doors with emphasis when I get really frustrated.

A funny story (now, 14 years later, it’s funny) from long ago: When my husband and I had first begun to share a home, and were still working out the kinks of a new relationship and cohabitation, I got really mad during an argument, stomped off and slammed the bedroom door.

Well, I tried to slam the bedroom door. It got stuck on a rug that was nearby and wouldn’t slam. In my growing frustration, I repeatedly tried to slam the door getting the rug further jammed under the door. After about four minutes of trying to slam the door, I huffed and walked into another bedroom and slammed that door.

Recently my children have started slamming doors. They slam them in each other’s faces when they get angry with each other. They slam them to prove that their room is their room. They slam them to prove that they can. And sometimes they just shut them loudly and it sounds like a slam.

It makes me crazy.

I.Can’t.Stand.It.

We’ve talked about door slamming. We’ve talked about what it feels like to have a door slammed in your face. We’ve talked about how much it would hurt to have a finger slammed in a door. We’ve talked about how loud it is and how much it bothers mommy. We’ve talked and talked and talked.

And if you come to visit our house right now, there is a certain seven-year-old who no longer has a door to her bedroom.

It’s 8:40am and I already have blog fodder from today. That is not right.

My husband called my name (more than once) while I was still in bed. In bed, ignoring him, because I was asleep. When he kept getting louder, I finally got up grumbling “What?!” thinking the there better be something major going on or heads were going to roll.

(Aside: Have I mentioned how much I love sleep and that the later I get to sleep the happier I am? This was 45 minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off.)

“The (house) alarm won’t turn off,” he said.

So I did what any grumpy spouse would do, I tried to turn it off myself. Nothing. It was showing that the alarm was activated, meaning we couldn’t open any doors, and it wouldn’t take our code. We were basically trapped. Yay.

I called the alarm company, which was closed (because it was so freaking early) and got a 24-hour help number. Called that number and got a recording saying he was helping another customer (which I took to mean he wasn’t answering his phone because he was asleep because it was so freaking early.)

Then the alarm starting asking for access codes and beeping intermittently. With growing intensity. Until we were at full tilt steady ear-piercing beep. (I will note here, that the whole house alarm was not going off, thank goodness, just the ear-bleeding control panel.)

I called the 24-hour number again and kind of held the phone to the alarm to make his ears bleed too show the intensity of our problem.

Then I assaulted the control panel with unkind words and pushed some random buttons and it stopped.

Next I called the 1-800 number for the central station to report “issues” but the 1-800 number I dialed told me about some other 1-800 number for constant companionship or some other skanky sounding thing. Ewww. Called the alarm company again to get the number again and realized I had misheard the number the first time – go figure, my ears weren’t working properly.

So I called the right 1-800 number and they basically told me what I thought they would, which was that they could not give me any technical advice. We decided to put the system on test for a few hours so that we didn’t have the police show up on our doorstep. She asked my phone number, which I could not remember.

Seriously, I stared at the home phone wondering what the last four digits were. Then I panicked that they would think I was a robber and send the police anyway. I ran to ask Mike our phone number and he didn’t know it either, so he checked his phone. I had told her a number by now that sounded close, but not quite right. Turned out I was off by one digit.

Mornings are not my best time. Ahem.

And my ears were still ringing.

I did remember our password, and finally got the phone number right, so that part was taken care of. (I know she hung up and looked at the person in the next cubicle and said “That idiot didn’t even know her own phone number.”)

After 25 minutes of not getting a phone call back and my husband getting more and more annoyed, I finally took matters into my own hands. I opened the back panel (which I know how to do because I replaced the alarm battery yesterday – aha – you say – this makes more sense now. Yes, the battery needed to be replaced, but I followed their directions exactly and the alarm was fine last night.) I opened the panel and removed the battery. Then I went to the main power source, unscrewed the safety screw and unplugged the damn thing.

Ahhhh, no more beeping. No more blaring. No one puts baby in a corner.

Aaaand 4 minutes later the service tech called. I had to plug it back in and the beeping started again. Tears, people. Tears from my eyes and more blood from my ears. OK, not really, but I was not a happy person.

Turns out the alarm “reset” itself to factory settings. So our code didn’t work because it had no idea what our code was. We used the factory code and it happily shut off.

So while we wait for a technician to come reprogram, I’m going to take a handful of Advil for the ear pain.

Before Maggie left this morning she looked at me and said “You need a nap today. A long, long nap.”

Word.

The other day on a Target run for toilet paper and paper towels, we happened down the detergent aisle. I always buy fragrance free detergent and we still had a fairly large jug at home, but I was drawn to the detergent. I thought, what the heck? and bought a big ol’ jug of scented detergent. (I know, I live dangerously.) (I also know that two of the people who live in our house are boys and well, it’s been hot, and well, they kind of stink.)

Anyway, we bought our no fun $80 worth of toilet paper, paper towels, detergent and feminine products (how I hate to spend $80 and get such boring stuff) and I didn’t give it another thought.

I was sitting in bed yesterday afternoon reading a book. (In the middle of the day!) Maggie was in her room and Nick was watching a show. It was quiet and peaceful. It was like we had finally gotten the hang of summer. It started to rain a bit. I settled in a little deeper into my bed, because the only thing better than reading during the day is snuggling up to read on a rainy day.

A few minutes later Maggie came down to join me because “the lightning was freaking her out.” She was in my room for about 4 minutes before I jumped up a little panicked realizing I needed to check the basement.

See, we have a basement that has flooded on more than one occasion. The great flood of last year being the worst by far. We lost the carpeted portion of our basement, a nice leather couch, a water heater, and all the drywall.

I ran down the stairs much like I did last year upon realizing how much rain had come in such a short time. It was already wet on 1/3 of the basement and water was pouring in under the door. Usually, for such a small amount of rain this means that the french drain outside the door has gotten clogged with leaves. I opened the door and to about 6 inches of water which came flooding in before I could slam the door closed again.

Maggie was really freaking out now.

Did I mention the lightning? There was lots. I ran outside to try to unclog the drain when I realized the drain wasn’t the problem. The sump pump wasn’t emptying.

Now I was beginning to freak out.

Luckily we left the lowest shelves in the basement empty so if we could keep the water low, we wouldn’t need to move much. So I just had to get the water to stop. But how?

Well, naturally, I would grab the loads of clean, folded towels and blankets that were right within reach to try to plug up the door. (Or at least to make the water not sound so ominous as it poured in.)

I unplugged the sump pump and plugged it back in. I tried the breaker.

And then I gave up and called Mike in a panic.

He headed home, but I knew with the speed at which water was still coming in, that something had to be done.

I kept imagining a lightning strike hitting any of the yard which was now like a wading pool. I also had to unplug many things in the basement while standing in an inch of water. Not my favorite way to spend an afternoon.

I blocked the main flow of water outside with a big piece of wood. That at least changed the flow of water so that all the water coming from the roof wasn’t riding the gutter to the basement stairs and into the house.

By now the whole floor had about 2 inches. I goofed around with some little containers, but there wasn’t even anywhere to bail it to. The rain was coming so fast and hard. It took 40 minutes to flood what took over a day during last year’s flood. It.Was.Freaky.

Mike got home, rigged up our secondary/temporary sump pump and emptied all the water out within an hour or two. The rain stopped and the sun came out. Our street which was completely underwater at 3:30 was completely clear by 4:45.

I grilled chicken outside for dinner. It was so bizarre. If you weren’t home for any of it, you would have no idea what had happened. (Well, we would have because our stuff was floating.)

As soon as the road cleared, the sump pump had somewhere to pump the water and our main pump turned out to be fine. I was convinced it had to be broken for that much water to back up so quickly, but I was wrong. It was a freaky, fluke of a storm that dumped 3.5 inches of water in less than an hour.

Mike worked most of the evening to make the temporary pump permanent. Now all I have to do is plug it in if we ever need it.

Did you know water that runs off your roof, into dirt, around a corner, down the basement steps and under a door gets quite dirty?

It does.

So today? Today I have re-washed countless loads of laundry with our scented laundry detergent, but we didn’t lose our water heater or our new washer and dryer and for that I am grateful.

Yesterday was one of those days. It started out decent enough. We slept in, ate breakfast and got dressed without any major battles. Oh, I forgot, there was one battle. My son flicked about 35 little beads off his bead instead of putting them in the bucket like he was supposed to. When it came time to clean them up, he insisted I help him.

Which I did not.

I saw him flick the first one and mentioned that he would be cleaning up any beads that fell on the ground.

And he continued.

So, I didn’t feel too bad when he cried for my help in cleaning them up.

“Who put the beads on the ground?”

“Me.”

“Who will have to pick them up?”

“Me.”

“Correct.”

First he shoved them all under the bed. When I came up to look, I pointed them out to him and he crumbled into tears again.

As a show of support, I moved them from way under the bed into a pile of sorts next to the bed. And then I walked away.

After a half hour battle of wills, he cleaned them up.

The next part of the day was right out of a movie. We went for an oil change and I brought a book to read. What? you ask. Why yes, I brought a book and my children each had an activity and we sat like civilized people in a crowded waiting room and all was right in the world. I actually read a little.

We did a little consignment shopping. (Got some great deals!)

Then we came home and the bottom fell out.

We have had a 10-day struggle going on concerning Maggie’s room and the cleanliness of it, or rather the lack of cleanliness.

I had a post almost ready to publish of my superior mothering abilities (insert tongue in cheek) of how I was going to let her figure out for herself that if things get broken and trashed and lost it’s because they are littered all over the floor. I was prepared to let her learn the lesson at age 7 instead of when she was off in her first apartment or whatever. (I like to torture myself by projecting 12 years into the future.)

Add in the fact that I just bought Maggie a whole freaking new wardrobe and realized she was walking all over the clothes she has worn in the last week, I started to fester a bit.

I would love to have a few new (to us) bags of clothes.  Hell, my pajamas don’t even match anymore.

My husband and I have differing opinions on the room cleaning issue. I kept hearing his disgust over my permissibility and I lost the battle going on in my own head.

I gave her an hour to clean her room up.

I checked back when she said she was ready.

And I found a clean-enough room that met my lax inspection. I brought the vacuum in to do away with the beads that were littering her floor. (What idiot bought these children all these beads? Oh, I did? Hpmf.)

And then the wheels fell off. (Not the vacuum wheels. The mothering wheels.)

I lifted the bedskirt to find everything that had previously been on the floor shoved under the bed.

It was not pretty. I was not pretty.

I gathered a laundry basket and started emptying the room. After the second (rather large) laundry basket and lots  and lots of 7-year-old tears, the room was considerably, ahem, cleaner.

She will get to earn things back for each day that her room stays clean. And the beads are going away until a time when they don’t make me twitch, if such a time ever exists.

She was beside herself with grief at her losses, but quickly explained to her dad when he got home what had happened and how she would earn things back. She bounced back much more quickly than I did.

I’m still not sure what to do about the room situation. I have my own messy room (my office) and don’t respond well to criticism of its cleanliness. It’s my room. Close the door. Don’t go in there.

So why shouldn’t my 7-year-old have the same luxury?