Eleven, or, How Many Small People Can Fit In My House?

So I decided that the way for some of the neighborhood families to get together in an informal way would be to have a Christmas Cookie Party on the Sunday before Christmas. I never anticipated 1. that people would actually come and 2. that their children would be so well behaved. I am not kidding. There were eleven people under 8 in my house and not a peep, not a snit, not a shove or a "stop being grabby" or anything. Just eleven little kids totally rocking out. I was so proud of my girls, who liberally shared all their toys, cups, food, etc. with anyone who seemed to be in need. The De-Luxy kitchen was a huge hit. We will definitely do the CC Party v. 2.0 next year.

It's Sunday, or, How the Hell Did I Make a Gray Cake?

So two of the four Thompsons are coming over this afternoon and I said I would make cake. I decided to try the Red Waldorf recipe in the BH & G canonical cookbook and unfortunately ran out of red food coloring. Thinking creatively, I decided to add blue for a nice purple effect. Unfortunately, adding blue to a bit of red and a lot of unsweetened cocoa powder turned the batter into an attractive gunmetal gray. I thought it would bake out. It didn't.

My solution was to make the outside of the cake as pretty as I could with store-bought frosting and some sprinkles and hope that my guests won't notice that the cake they are eating is as gray as Lenin in his mausoleum.

On the flip side, I strayed away from my rule of "children must have hot breakfasts every day" and let the kids have donuts. Here's the evidence.

The Empty Vessel, or, how much can this kid eat?

This was Emma's SIXTH MEAL of the day. Breakfast at 7:30. Snacks at 9:30, 10:30, 11:30. Lunch at 12:00. Woke up from nap and polished off 5 chicken nuggets, half a banana, six blackberries, a handful of cinnabunnies, and 5 oz. of water without breaking a sweat. And she's only 19 lbs! How does that math work?

1,000 enemies a day, or, the logging camps are quite nice this time of year

The caption for this Soviet poster (from a Stalin speech, 1935) is Staff Makes Absolutely All The Difference--which is true. Who will slaughter the kulaks for you if not for your minions in Ukraine? In our house, I alternate between feeling like staff for three of my own dictators and assuming the mantle of despotism myself. Neither is attractive, helpful or healthy. I need to relax more, eat more chocolate, and not worry about the small stuff. Didn't somebody once say that it's all small stuff?

BFF, or, How two year olds make friends

I've often wondered how small children form "friendships." I have to conclude that all they can do (cognitively and emotionally) is look for in the other child what they already know about themselves. I read a study where very young babies will turn away from a child who is expressing anger or aggression but will turn towards other babies who are expressing fear or discomfort. It is these early experiences with empathy that stick with us. The good thing about my girls is that when another child shows up in the mix, as here, at snacktime, they don't blink, or worry about whose cup was whose, or who got the most bunnies. Their attitude already is, pull up a chair and have a nosh. I don't think you can ask for more out of people who still think that eating with their hands is the social norm.

The Intuitive Edge, or, Sick at 11:00 p.m.

I sat bolt upright in bed last night about 11:00 p.m. and just knew that something had gone terribly wrong in the girls' room. I opened their door and there was Ellie, bewildered, sobbing, sick. I loaded her into the bathroom with Hubby Hub for stripdown and a bath, took apart her bed, and started the washing machine. Two sets of pajamas (hers and mine) and another changed bed later she finally felt well enough to fall asleep with us around 2:00 a.m. It is so hard to be shh-shh and patient and it's okay when every bone in your body is screaming, THIS IS SOMEONE ELSE'S VOMIT ALL OVER YOU and the only thing you want to do is tear off your own soiled jammies and stand under the shower for 20 minutes. But, as we always say around here, if you didn't sign up to wipe asses, you shouldn't have had kids.

So THIS was a crazy week.

1. A world without Evel Kneivel is a strange, dark place.
2. Never doubt how loudly a 15 month old having a night terror can moan. Not scream, moan. Which is more pervasive and infinitely harder to control.
3. Never doubt how loudly the other 15 month old can snore. She is her mother's child.
4. December is on fast forward already. We have something going on, it seems, every day. And then the holidays will be over and big-nothing January will be here. As U2 says, "all is quiet on New Year's Day....a world in white gets underway."

I hope I actually enjoy Christmas this year. It's easier to now with the kids. I'm just not dealing with other people's insane expectations about who visits who and who gets a present from who and who's going to be mad that it didn't go their way. I'm done with that.

Blackout, or, How Loudly Can Three Children Scream?

About 5:15 tonight the lights went out. I heard a loud POP and the house went dark. This was in the middle of a song-and-dance by the kids, who were boisterously watching Fat Cat on the Sesame Street Old School DVD. The girls just could not hang. They were crying so hard and were so afraid that I thought I would cry. Worse yet, it was dinnertime, and no dinner! I called Hubby Hub on the cell and said, I'm getting these kids out of here. And wonders never cease, Sarah Smith showed up at just that moment to drop off random tupperware and kid cups and helped me load the kids in the van (and tried to minimize the hysteria, despite her own boy having a rough go himself). The girls held it together through an entire dinner at Outback, and by the time we got back the neighborhood had electricity again.

I always forget how ominous the city can be until the power goes out, and the houses melt upwards into the dusky sky. But just like my friend coming in at just the right time to save the day, I appreciate the light that much more, now that I've stepped out of darkness.

My Pantry, or, What Did I Do Before I Had a Labelmaker?

I have a Brother labelmaker that I literally could not live without. I received it as a Christmas gift several years ago from Darling Husband and it changed my life. I label everything. I label my desk accessories (who wants to waste time looking for a staple pull?) I label tubs with supplies (my emergency kit in the van, my downstairs stationery basket, OC's Goldfish Dish next to her Princess Seat). And now, at long last, I have labeled the pantry. I have been struggling with lack of counter space despite a XXthousand dollar remodel two years ago. Essentially, the kitchen is still the size it was, minus incredibly ugly cabinetry and a fridge that is now in the room instead of in the hall. I needed a better plan. Part A was picking up some wall organizers from Pottery Barn, see http://www.potterybarn.com/products/p3170/index.cfm?pkey=gTHMHOG. Part B was actually rethinking the pantry set-up. I shuffled around a shelf, restacked items, and labeled away a good hour and a half on a Friday night even though I've got Brokeback Mountain waiting for me on DVD and three kids that will be up at 6:30. Sometimes, there's nothing more therapeutic than cleaning.

What I Did Today, or, My God, This House is a Sty

1. OC up at 6:30. So was I. Convinced her to lay in bed with me until she saw a 7 and two 0's (my hero) on the clock (so it wouldn't be night-night anymore). Somehow that worked.
2. Fed all three kids by 8, cleaned up, drank too much coffee.
3. Sent Bill to Target to get a picture frame that WASN'T broken plus random cleaning supplies. Got rid of paper junk for about an hour while the twins napped and Big Girl memorized "My Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music. By 10:15, I had started wash, loaded the dishwasher, washed un-dishwasherable stuff, and decided that I needed to change my dishes.
4. 10:30-12:00 Post Office and grocery store. OC went with. Perfect behavior.
5. 12-1 Hot doggies and maccie for lunch.
6. 1-4 There was various napping. pooping and more napping going on. Fortunately, all of it was child-directed. What is it with kids that they can unload their diapers in their sleep? HOW DOES THAT WORK?! Meanwhile, I prepared 30 postcards for mailing, cursed the printer for its fake "PAPER JAM" warnings, did more wash, and had a bite to eat while sharing guacamole with Thing 2, who got lonely in her nappy bed and wanted Mama. Such is life.
7. 4-5 Changed out my fall dishes to my winter dishes and packed the fall ones away for storage in the garage. Cleaned out my fall decorations because I'm not hosting Thanksgiving and no one will see them anyway. Visually planned what furniture will need to move out of the living room to accomodate The Tree. Listened to "The Hokey Pokey" about 30 times. Supervised Bill's hanging of the new family pictures in the staircase. I think I had a drink of water.
8. 5-6:30 Dinner for the kids, prevented twins from smearing more guacamole on everything, refereed a hissy over tapioca pudding, more wash, more dishes, swept the floor, collapsed on the couch only to find Thing 1 carrying not one but two putty knives courtesy of Darling Husband, who was mudding the seams in the Oh My God Isn't It Done Yet? closet. Emergency washing and stripping of puttied clothes ensued.
9. 7-7:45 While all three kids were in the tubby tub tub I stripped the big girl bed in their room, remade it, threw all their clothes down the chute, relined the wastepaper baskets, and then did the jammie-book routine. I don't even want to go into the family room because it looks like a bomb went off, and there is still wash in transtion in the machines. I haven't had a drink of water in about 4 hours, and I look like I got hit by a bus. Yet every minute of my day was packed, and what do I have to show for it?!?!

What's Love?

Love is when your child, in all her snot-infused, dirty-faced, suspiciously damp-handed affection, offers you a piece of fruit that is mysteriously mushy and strangely old looking, and you're so thrilled that she knows how to share you eat it with relish. When she rustles up a second equally odd piece from somewhere in her chair, you still don't turn her away.

It's so cold the kids noticed.

I think of Halloween as the official end of summer in Ohio, not Labor Day. After Labor Day we can have several solid weeks of perfect weather, like we did this year. However, almost without pause, the week after Halloween undergoes a sea change and it's suddenly and irreversibly miserable. In our neighborhood at least, Halloween is a big deal, owing in part to the smart people we know who don't equate trick-or-treating with either childhood obesity or devil worship. It's just kids blowing off steam and nabbing some Hershey's along the way. I've noticed too that Halloween is often the last big night where neighbors socialize outside before the cold snap shows up and we all head inside until mid-April.

The last two days were so damp and "ugh" that even OC said, "It's chilly willy outside." You got that right, sister. As long as we live in the midwest, time to get used to it.

The Black Hole Under the Dav

I believe there is a time-space continuum gap under my davenport. Binks, books, toys, random stuff rolls under there and disappear forever. It's like the shadow on the carpet is the event horizon (which is also a wicked scary movie starring Sam Neill, btw).

If anyone else experiences this phenomena, let me know. We'll call Dennis Kucinich and let him sort it out.

Why is it so hard?

Why is it so hard to...

...refill the (toilet paper, paper towels, napkin basket, baby wipes)
...replace the (wastepaper basket liner, recycle bin liner, Diaper Genie film)
...close the (Goldfish container, cheese tub, berry pint)
...pack a (backpack for swim class, diaper bag, lunch pail)
...double check our (milk supply, bread loaf, dry cleaning bag)
...move the (dirty wash, clean wash, junk under the bed)

But it's still easy to love you!

Autumn at the Zoo, or, Why I Love Amish Women

The girlies and I headed off to the zoo this morning to take advantage of what could only be described as "crisp" weather. Everybody had shoes AND socks on, so you know that there was a pinch in the air. Everybody got a ride in the triple, and for the most part we wandered unencumbered by stares, "Oh, boy, you've got your hands full" and "Have you got triplets?" When we were getting ready to leave, we encountered two Amish women who were accompanying six little girls. They were all dressed in "the" dress in robin's egg blue, with black stockings, navy blue cardigans and white caps. I'm never sure if the Amish will say hello or not--my experience with them has gone both ways, but I always greet them regardless. One of the women stopped.

"Have you found that the Soothie pacifiers are too firm for your daughter's mouth?" She asked. She was pointing to Emma's pink bink, which dangled precariously from her lips. She has a new baby girl and the child is having a hard time with the Soothies designed for older babies. I told her about where to find purple Soothies, which are very flexible and good for newborns. She pointed to her three daughters, who I realized were identical triplets. "I wish we would have had a side-to-side stroller. We had the front-to-back stroller and it was almost impossible to maneuver." My first thought was, Oh My Lord, after triplets she had more children. We chatted a bit more and I wished them a nice afternoon.

As I got to the parking lot I realized that woman accepts her family size for what it is, and she isn't thinking a thing more about it. Not because Amish women are not introspective enough to contemplate motherhood, but because their culture truly welcomes children. Their social infrastructure ensures that no one has to mother alone. This woman wasn't surprised to see another woman with kids who are spaced so closely together because half of her friends and neighbors probably have kids who are 15, 16 months apart. She didn't ask, "Are you working?" or "How do you go anywhere with all of them?" because she already knows the answer to both. She's been there, and still is. I felt, talking to her, that neither one of us had to defend our family size, which is an experience I have had talking to women from other backgrounds. Of course she had children after the triplets. Of course she piled most of them into the zoo for a day. Of course she cut right to the chase with me and asked about Emma's bink. Why act shocked or surprised at a situation which, for her, is as common and plain as the dress on her back?

Irony Tag Sold Here.

I was at the grocery store today, post-library hour with just OC, and when I got into line to check out, I ended up behind a very fit looking woman who was purchasing far more healthy looking items than me--organic butter lettuce, soy milk, nonfat yogurt, breast meat chicken, a ton of produce (again, most of it organic), free trade coffee, and skim milk. She was wearing a workout outfit of some sort, kind of running/yogaish, and tennis shoes. Feeling chubby by comparison, I bent down into my cart to start unloading my Pierre's ice cream, my Bertolli pre-made pasta, and when I looked up again the woman seemed to have disappeared. Even the checker was confused--"Are these your items as well?" I said, "There was someone here, but I don't know where she went."

"Oh," called a raspy voice to my cashier from the Customer Service line. "I just came over here to buy my cigarettes first so I wouldn't bother you with it."

I smacked down my full-fat American cheese down hard on the counter and silently, smilingly waited my turn.

The Cleanest Closets in Town, or, So What Do You Do All Day?

The ugliest question by far that I encounter fairly regularly is, "So, how do you spend your days?" As if tending to the bodily needs of three other human beings all while managing a decent-sized house isn't really work. And by looking around my house, you'd think I never cleaned. There is always laundry happening--either waiting to be washed, washed but not dried, dry but not folded, folded but not put away, or empty baskets lying around waiting for the next cycle. The girls have their De-luxy kitchen against one wall of our (formerly) formal living room, complete with all the De-luxy plastic food and Big T's shopping cart (which the other two have apparently been told is off limits). Books are everywhere all the time, as are OC's "dollies" (Little People) and assorted plastic animals from our Noah's Ark. I have had visitors actually snort when I mentioned just having cleaned, or even more embarrassing, just having had the cleaning lady in. (And no, those people don't get invited back, although sometimes they still continue to show up).

But my days are full of cleaning jobs that no one ever sees, but I know it's done. Saturday I demolished, reorganized, refolded, and sorted my linen closet, which also serves as Cleaning Supply Central (since I can't leave anything out lest the twins get at it) and Medicine Alley (same reason). Today I cleaned out, sorted, and garage-saled a ton of glassware that we received (presumably) as wedding gifts and that have sat, untouched, for the last five years in my cabinet taking up precious space. I sort the girls' clothes literally every day--is this too shabby to wear out and therefore relegated to the "in house playclothes" drawer? Has Big T grown out of this, but Little T could squeeze into it for another month? Do all of OC's 2T summer playshirts need to be bagged, tagged, and moved into the attic for Round 2? Don't get me started on cleaning the wastebaskets, changing the bedclothes (on 3 beds), plus food maintenance--are these leftovers too old for even the adults to eat? When did I make that mac and cheese for the kids? Do I have enough fruit for Little T to make it through a couple of meals, or do we need to plan a grocery run post haste? Never mind checking on my own coffee supply, keeping the cat from turning us over to the authorities for neglect, and keeping tabs on my ever-dwindling yet incredibly important supply of diapers (two sizes, two different styles, about 30 a day). I had an off day last week and let myself get down to one pack of wipes in the house, and that was what stays in the diaper bag. I was nearly apoplectic.

I would love to live in a house where nothing is ever on the (sparkling clean) floor, where there are no weird smells floating off of 3/5 of the people who live here, where everything is put away, labeled, and perfectly suited to purpose, a la the cover of a Real Simple magazine. That's not my life now, and I don't know when it ever will be. I know there are people who can't hang with our level of ordered disorder, or can't imagine how my mundane work fills the hours. I've stopped trying to explain, and just pick up the Wet Jet for the third time today. There are green Goldfish on the floor mocking me.

Top Story: The World is Out to Get Your Children

I apparently at some point e-subscribed to a parenting bulletin and boy, was that a mistake. I get this email this morning that proclaims, in big red evil letters: Top Story/Kids and Germs--How Worried Should You Be?

Apparently, I should be be bolting the doors and sending the girls to live in a clean room.

Why do "parenting" magazines and newsletters do this? Why do they take something fairly innocuous--dirt--and turn it into a dire killer? I understand the seriousness of teaching children proper handwashing. I understand the consequences of not following through with wound care, even if the cut looks shallow enough. But some women are absolutely neurotic, and these kinds of scary-scary headlines just send them over the edge.

"God made dirt, dirt don't hurt." Repeat three times, and go play outside.

.....And They're Off.

The race for preschool places begins a full year before a child is eligible to go. OC won't be three until May, and potty training is still way off her radar, but we spent two hours today touring one of the Elite Private Girls' Schools in order to find a school for her. It was exciting and overwhelming. Exciting because I found myself trying to imagine her in one of the little chairs, in the library, in modern dance class acting like Twyla Tharp. Overwhelming because I earn no money and OMG, is this going to be expensive. However, I frankly feel that we owe it to OC, and to the T's, to try our absolute hardest to get them into the school that's right for them, even if it ain't cheap. I'll go back to teaching when the T's are in school, so eventually there's going to be two paychecks again. However, right now, it's all Mr. Man, and I know it's a burden, but we have to make a go of it.

Besides, not going on a pricey cruise is temporary. Having a kid who isn't bright enough to make health care decisions for you when you're old--that's some scary permanence.

Quiet Time, or, Why The Two Year Old Doesn't Control Naptime

Usually naptime ("quiet time") in our house is very quiet. OC and Big T sleep in the room they all share, and Little T sleeps in our room in the pack n' play because she is a light sleeper and the other two aren't. However, the OC has decided for whatever reason today that she doesn't want to sleep and boy is she mad at me about it. She got out of her bed and started coming downstairs. I marched her back into her room, changed Big T's poopy diaper, put OC back in her little bed with her af-a-gany and her blankie (not the same thing at all, you know) and re-informed both of them of the rules of Quiet Time (we stay in our bed, we rest, we do not get up and wander around and disturb other children). Now there is less Quiet than there was before, and I'm sure my neighbors are hearing the brunt of OC's rage.

However.

The two year old doesn't control sleeptimes in this house. She doesn't control mealtimes, either. I don't get mothers who say, Well, he won't sleep in his bed, or he won't eat at the table, or whatever. And they're talking about a nine-month old. Won't? What does that mean at that age? It means that the parents don't want to do the sometimes ardous, always drudgy task of setting the rules and then enforcing them. I don't like that OC is upset, and crying a little, and the thought of her falling asleep still upset is upsetting to me. However, my will must be bigger than hers, because if I let her run the show on this one point, which is not insignificant in the big picture (if she doesn't nap now, she'll be a mess by 5, and I can't have that) she'll get the very bad idea that she can run the show on other issues. That never ends well for anyone.

I can usually tell the moms who are cavers. The ones who will do anything, ANYTHING, to get their children to stop crying, stop making a scene, stop using what we call a VERY SASSY VOICE in places that sassy voices are not appreciated, like library story hour, or Nordstrom, or 30 people back in line at the post office. My solution is a warning and then we leave. And I've done it--just said, that's it, and walked out. The most impressive time I did it was when OC threw a tantrum in the parking lot at music class because I wouldn't let her "ride on Mom," which is her lingo for me carrying her. I told her, This is your warning. You are going to walk like a big girl or we are going home. And she pushed it. And we left. Boy, you should have seen the look of surprise on her face when we got back in the van. It was like, Holy s**t, she meant it.

We haven't had that problem since.

BTW, OC is still hacked off at me as I type this. But she's still in her bed. And Big T is already asleep.

I just might win this one, too.

The Childrens' Museum, or, Why aren't your kids in school?

We got a late start today and there was a threat of rain (which proved no threat at all--we got trounced for about 20 minutes) so we ended up at the Children's Museum around 11:15. They have an excellent hands-on exhibit called Abracadabra that OC and the T's (twins) love. What puzzled me when we arrived is not the number of children present--it's always been busy when we've gone--but how old the kids were. Seven, eight, nine year olds were frolicking around with much-younger siblings, working the tops, playing in the water tables, playing pretend store and riding the faux RTA. Parents were clearly present and trying to herd their progeny from one activity to the other.

What gives?

I don't understand kids who aren't in school on school days. I see it a lot and I can't figure it out. Why would a fifth grader be at Target at 10 am? Why are seven and eight year olds at Zagara's when you can hear the second bells ringing down the street at Boulevard Elementary? And today, why would a group of siblings be causing chaos at a museum instead of getting their heads on straight in a regular school classroom?

Oh, the homeschoolers will protest. It could have been a homeschool field trip, or a homeschool recess, or a homeschool break. Homeschool, my tuchus. Somehow these kids either railroaded their overwhelmed and easily broken mothers into letting them rip school for the day or the moms, despite their normal enough appearances, have this idea that school is optional if you've got something theoretically better to do. These are the same parents who will berate the school district for the way it organizes breaks because (and I've heard this) they don't line up with "extended family vacations."

The schools do allot for extended family vacations. It's called summer. And October is hardly that.

Playground Politics, Vol. 1

Gosh, it didn't take long for this topic to rear its ugly head. For those of you who aren't familiar with playground culture, let me tell you this first off: it's the first competitive sport your children have to play, and at least they have you to help them run interference for them. If they didn't, they'd get crushed in the melee.

The scene: Kenilworth Park, Cleveland Heights. I like it because it's never crowded and they always seems to have fresh woodchips, which is critical when you're dealing with at least one child who isn't a confident walker. The culprits: two moms with one child each (this is another issue for me, one I'll deal with later). One of the kids is a pretty blond girl about 20 months whom my oldest was desperate to befriend. The other was 3 month old boy, bundled up and snoozing in a pram. The moms were my age.

The showdown started when Oldest Child (OC from now on) followed the girl onto the climber and said, Hi. Because this is her thing now, to say Hi and be social. She follows modeled behavior fairly well.

The blond girl starts screaming. SCREAMING. If the mother could have grown wings and flown onto the climber, she would have. She shoves past OC and picks up Blondie and stares accusingly at my kid, who has begun her "It's okay, girly" speech, because she has sisters and knows what it means to have empathy for another child in distress. Blondie's mom calls down to me, in reference to her daughter, "She doesn't like strangers." I responded, "I'm sorry about that. [OC] is eager to try out her friend-making skills." At which point Swaddled Baby's mom pipes up and says, "Well, we're here on a playdate together." She gives me the defiant jaw, and slowly the picture comes into focus. They are In. We are Out. I can't force them to play with my children, but I can let them know that I am thinking I wouldnt want them to anyway. I responded, "Why yes, because gosh, your son is just raring to have a go!" Blondie's mom marches down the climber, grabs her stroller, and she and her cohort move their stuff over by the swings. They don't look our way again.

My child, meanwhile, is still standing on the climber saying, "It's okay, girly" and clearly wondering where her playmate has run off to. I coax her off the climber and get all my kids in the van. There's no point in staying at the playground. We just learned a hard lesson in exclusion. Blondie was upset, certainly, at this bigger child trying to interact with her. But really, Blondie could have been consoled rather quickly and gotten back on the horse. The issue was that we got sized up by these two chippies and apparently didn't make the cut. And they let me know it by physically removing themselves from our space and nonverbally freezing us out.

This kind of behavior is so pervasive with parents (read: moms) in our neighborhood that it's almost boring to talk about it. It's expected. The mom whose kid has been in the only toddler swing in the park for 30 minutes and doesn't require him to take turns. The moms who show up together to a playground, commandeer a climber or the sandbox, and won't let their children even talk with kids who weren't prescreened for the event. The mom who refuses to scold her sassy, ungrateful child for being rude to other kids because she doesn't want to be seen as a controlling mother. These are the same women who cluck about the fact that 70% of children born in the city of Cleveland are born to unwed mothers 18-22 and that those children are set out on a life of poverty and crime. Well, Kettle, this is Pot, and I'm here to tell you that your children may not be poor or criminals, but they are rude and spoiled, and some days I'm hard pressed to decide which is worse.

So here I go.

I've been talking about doing this for a while and when my friend Jim said he had a blog (albeit about his yard, of which he is obsessed) I knew it was time. If he can spend six months writing about hosta, I can write about this mess.

By the way, I'm not disparaging Jim's yard blog. It's actually quite motivating. http://theresnohorsetoodeadtobeat.blogspot.com/ He and his wife Pat taught me how to split hosta only yesterday, and today I split seven plants and moved three more. So it was a worthwhile lesson, and one which I will put to good use often.

The question is what I want to write about. In typical fashion, I'll say my kids, my never-ending quest for the Ph.D. (not one of my three degrees, but one that I want more than any of the others), my book club, playground politics, and the curious cultural significance of street signs.

Jim said to keep the blog about one thing. My feeling is, there are so many kinds of hosta to choose from....why have just one variety in your yard?