Kelly Poe Wilson

January 7, 2008, 6:23 AM–that loud rumbling sound you heard was not the sound of a snowplow: it was the sound of 20,000 Flagstaff mothers realizing that it was really going to be a snow day.

The fact that we could even have a snow day after two weeks of school vacation is the best evidence I’ve seen so far for the power of prayer. True, it can be assumed that just as many parents were praying against a snow day as there were children praying for one (in much the same way that Steinbeck noted that millions of prayers must fight and destroy each other on their way to the throne of God), but I have to believe that, when it comes to prayer, “vote early and vote often” is especially apt: while the number of both pro-snow and anti-snow pray-ers may have been roughly equal, I’m sure the pro-snow prayers themselves were far greater. Think about it: while the average mother probably looked up at the approaching snow clouds and said, “Please God–don’t let tomorrow be a snow day,” the average child, in contrast, was firmly ensconced in front of the Weather Channel chanting “Snow day, snow day, snow day,” until the lines between witchcraft and prayer became hopelessly blurred.

Whatever the cause, the end result was the same: Day 17 of captivity. Actually, a shipwreck makes a better analogy; when you are a captive there is at least (hopefully) somebody bringing in new supplies. On a lifeboat, however, you must make do with what you have, carefully rationing out your supplies until your rescuers arrive. Which is exactly what most of us did–only, in our case, the thing we were rationing was not fresh water, but rather that much more elusive of commodities: patience. Not that we didn’t prepare: knowing that two weeks of Christmas break loomed ahead, most of us laid in what we though would be an adequate supply. It was just our bad luck to find that, on the very day we had been planning to restock–perhaps with a quadruple mocha and the New York Times–we needed to have saved one more box. And now the cupboard was bare.

Suddenly, we realized that our survival story was going to read a whole lot less like a Reader’s Digest “Drama in Real Life” episode, and more like The Perfect Storm. Less like Robinson Crusoe and more like Into the Wild.

Actually, now that I think about it, I’m going to toss the lifeboat analogy out in favor of something a little more grim, and therefore a little more appropriate: the environment. Yes, in many ways, maternal patience is a lot like the water table: seemingly endless and yet exquisitely fragile. All it takes is a few out-of-control wells–say, the kind that pump nonstop for seventeen days straight–and before you know it there is a sinkhole in your front yard big enough to sink a Hummer. Or, in the case of maternal patience, big enough to sink all your hopes of finally losing the designation among your children’s friends as “the mean Mom.”

That, at least, was my plan. I had decided that, this break, I was finally going to be the cool Mom. I was going to be okay with being asked every fifteen minutes if there was “anything to eat;” I was going to be okay with listening to them say “I’m bored” as they crawled across approximately $1000 worth of new toys spread out all over the floor; I was even going to be okay with breaking up constant fights between two people who swore they would “never fight again, if only you get us (insert nearly anything here).” I was going to be okay with it–for sixteen days. Sixteen. And then morning dawned on the seventeenth day. A snow day.

And I was not okay.

Of all the things I just don’t understand about children (and there are quite a few), one of the top contenders has to be the whole underwear thing: I have yet to meet a child who will wear a pair willingly. In fact, I would go so far as to say that, at any given time, your chances of finding a child who is actually wearing underwear is at best 50%. (Come to think of it, if it was socially acceptable to pick up stray children and look in their pants, you could devise some sort of new drinking game that way–“Ok, first person who gets three commandos in a row has to take a drink.”). And even though I think I have heard every possible excuse for underwear avoidance, I am still at a loss to explain this phenomenon. All I can do is report it, and, when I can, try and correct it.

That would explain, on a recent visit to Kohl’s, my instructions to Clementine to “go pick out some new underwear.” Notice I didn’t say, “wait here while I go pick out some new underwear for you,” or even “let’s go pick out some new underwear together,” but rather, in a show of my cool, open-minded, groovy Mom-ness, sent Clementine off to pick out underwear all on her own, without even admonishing her to “make sure and get the cheap kind” or “no High School Musical 2 thongs.” And, when she showed up at the checkout with a package of plain (and cheap!) underwear, I felt vindicated in my new hands-off approach to parenting. Or, at least I did: right up until my next surprise drawer inspection. (That would be dresser drawers; I wasn’t drinking.)

“How come almost all of your new underwear is still in the package?” I asked. “Aren’t you wearing it?”

“They’re too big,” she replied.

Nice try, I thought. Too big: that’s the lamest excuse I’ve heard since–holy crap! You could hold a circus in these things! And it was true: this wasn’t just “big” underwear; it was monstrous underwear; her only hope for ever keeping it up would be to pull it up and over her shoulders a´ la Borat and the “Mankini.”

“What,” I asked, “ever possessed you to buy Anna Nicole Smith-size underwear?” Her only reply was to shrug her shoulders in the 11-year-old’s version of c’est la vie, and casually say, “They don’t put the sizes on the outside of the packages.”

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not that hip on all the new marketing practices, and I’ll also cop to buying my own underwear so infrequently that even Bridget Jones would be appalled at the state of my lingerie drawer, but somehow, I seriously doubt that the newest fad is to play Russian Roulette with your undergarments. Can you imagine the suspense? Tens of thousands of people the world over, eagerly tearing into their newest underwear purchase, only to be disappointed again and again. We would have to form “Wedgie Support Groups,” not to mention all sorts of underwear exchange networks–eDrawers, perhaps–both online and in person (“Come to my house Tuesday night for an Underwear Swap!–Sorry, no size 0’s”). And what about the Victoria’s Secret catalog? It would take ages to shoot. (“Damn! Another package of “granny panties.” Hold on girls: I’m sure there’s a thong in here somewhere.”)

The truth, however, is much less interesting: in my bid to be “cool–yet conscientious” I fell for one of the oldest tricks in the book: the old “pick out huge underwear so you don’t have to wear it” trick. What? That’s not in your book? Just as I suspected: my kids are reading an entirely different book.

Not long before Christmas last year someone told me about the new, locally-invented “Grand Canyon” board game; they said it was “the perfect Christmas present.” I checked it out, and it was pretty cool; unfortunately, it still had no chance of ever becoming a Christmas present in my house, since an embargo forbidding the importation of new board games has been in place since late 2005. That’s when I first realized that, in place of the heretofore orderly pile of games my husband and I had accumulated together and separately during our childless years, what we now had instead was a few broken boxes, some miscellaneous game bits, and one single die.

Of course, this same fate had not befallen the “children’s” games; on the contrary, like the unkillable horror that it is, Candyland remained almost virtually intact. The same was true of that most obnoxious of games, Mousetrap–this despite it being one of those games that becomes practically unplayable the first time a single piece goes missing.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said of the other, more adult games. You name it: Clue, Scrabble, Sorry, Trivial Pursuit, Monopoly–even the backgammon set had been pillaged. I would say that the games had been “decimated,” but for the fact that that would imply that a mere ten percent of the pieces had gone missing; judging from the few ones and fives that were left in the Monopoly game, it was clear that a more likely estimation was half. (Perhaps we should say that the games were “half-inated.”)

As I mentioned before, it was the discovery of this carnage back in 2005 that caused me to issue said ultimatum: either start taking care of these games or they will be the last ones you ever see coming into this house. Of course, as with most ultimatums, this one, too, was a great big flop. Not only did they not start taking better care of the games, the destruction actually picked up in pace: whereas before I might have found one or two wayward Trivial Pursuit wedges (usually as I walked barefoot to the bathroom in the middle of the night), now I started finding entire Trivial Pursuit pies scattered about. What was worse was my kids’ reaction: instead of feeling deprived by being forced to play with ever more incomplete sets, they instead seemed to thrive on the challenge–the more pieces they lost, the more determined they became to keep on playing.

And so we started having scenarios where, prior to starting a game, everyone had to agree on how many pieces of cat food it took before you could put a toothpaste cap on your property, or what to do when the dead bug you were using for a Sorry piece turned out to be not-so-dead after all. In fact, they actually seemed to enjoy the games better this way; they certainly played them more. It’s was if all they had ever needed was a little bit of an extra challenge, as if they were saying: anyone can play Scrabble, but how many people can play scrabble when there are only four vowels in the entire game–two of them the letter “u”?

The game situation has made me think that perhaps I should reconsider my entire parenting philosophy. Maybe, instead of buying them all those nice, shiny new school supplies I should just give them some dried up felt pens and a few pieces of scratch paper; imagine what homework effort that might inspire. And instead of giving them toy chests and bookshelves with which to keep their rooms neat, maybe they would do better with a few milk crates and some empty bread bags.

And, maybe, I’ll even start buying board games again. I think I’ll start with that Grand Canyon one–providing, of course, that they agree to sell me half.

I have been to Great Britain two times in the last two decades; during both of these visits the American dollar was at an all time low against the British pound–less than one pound for every two dollars. (Not that I’m taking it too personally; I don’t think it’s a coincidence that both times there was also someone named George Bush in the White House.)

To say that my first visit was financially “challenging” would be an understatement: the poor exchange rate combined with the fact that I was only making $4.25 an hour back then meant that my daily budget was limited to $20 a day. (This in a country where a bed in a youth hostel cost $16. And yes, I know that there is a book out there called Europe on $5 a Day–unfortunately, my trip did not take place back in 1949,when it was published.) With my current income being now (slightly) higher, I had hopes that this trip was going to be more financially successful than the previous one (success being measured by a reduction in the number of times I cried when presented with the bill). Unfortunately, however, I failed to take into account one very crucial difference between my George H.W. Bush era trip and my trip during the reign of Bush the Lesser: whereas before I had been traveling with an equally budget-minded companion, this time I was traveling with the last of the big time spenders: my daughter, Clementine.

Let me qualify that last statement. When I say “big time spender” I mean “big time spender of other people’s money”–when it comes to her own she’s tighter than the pants on a retiree at a Laughlin breakfast buffet. And while this trait is barely tolerable at the best of times, when we’re staying some place where every visit to the cash point (that’s ATM to us yanks) ends with half of my money vanishing into thin air–or, more precisely, into the pocket of some unknown sub-prime mortgage broker–it becomes downright terrible.

Of course, it didn’t help matters that, try as I might, I could not get Clementine to understand what it meant that the exchange rate was so low; to her my reluctance to break out my wallet at every souvenir stand was simply another sign of my distressing provincialism.
“Can I get this (cheap, plastic, made in China) pencil sharpener/coin purse/fridge magnet?” she’d ask. (Emphasis mine). “It’s only 4 ‘ells’.”

Pointing to the pound sign on the price tag (the £), I’d snatch it out of her hand and hiss, “That’s four pounds! That’s like nine dollars!” At which point she’d look at me sadly, shake her head at my quaint, pre-global village ways, and say, “Mom: you’ve got to learn to embrace the currency.” And then we’d be off to lunch, where she would take three bites of a $17 bowl of spaghetti before declaring, “I’m stuffed–let’s go.”

That’s when I realized that meals were another point upon which an 11-year-old and a 40-year old can never see eye to eye; whereas my last partner had recognized the logic behind saving the bulk of our funds for the bare necessities (like beer), and had therefore been content to live on kipper and mustard sandwiches, an 11-year-old will not only insist on three squares a day, but will actually stop eating when they are full or the food is just plain nasty.

Which meant that, in my effort the embrace the few bits of currency remaining in my pocket for a little while longer, several of my meals consisted entirely of the inedible bits of hers. It didn’t matter if it was an unidentifiable green blob; by my calculations, it was a five dollar unidentifiable green blob, which, to me, translated as edible.

Or, at the very least, embraceable.

The border incursions begin at dawn and continue unabated throughout the day. First an advance scout is sent, followed by a larger advance party; if these troops are successful the entire force will proceed, although seldom does it ever get that far. Usually the other side–alerted, no doubt, by the sounds of demonic giggling–strikes back at the very first sign of a border breach. Sometimes they even strike before. That’s where I come in.

“Aiii!,” comes the blood-curdling scream, followed shortly thereafter by a sobbing Clyde. “Clementine kicked (hit/pushed/bit/punched/impaled/eviscerated) me.” Right on cue Clementine comes sliding into the kitchen, as indignant as an NBA player who has just been called for blocking.

“He was in my room!”

“I was not. I was next to it.”

I don’t have to be Columbo to figure this one out: it’s obvious that Clyde was playing one of his favorite (and most dangerous) games–sister-baiting–and that, like the matador who was a little too slow with the cape, he got gored. From the way he is favoring his right foot it is also obvious that he was playing the Hokey-Pokey version of this game, also known as “you put your right foot in (your sister’s room)/you take your right foot out/you put your right foot in/ Aiii!”

What’s not so obvious is at what point the retaliatory kick took place, because while repelling invaders is acceptable, chasing them back across the border into their own lands to administer justice is not. Unfortunately, the UN observers I had on hand to monitor occurrences such as these were called back to duty in the Kashmir (“call us when one of them gets some nukes,” they said as they left), and so it is up to me to assign guilt in this particular skirmish. (Or, since neither party really qualifies as “innocent,” to assign percentages of guilt. Sort of like the way an insurance company determines the percentage of fault in a car accident.)

It would seem logical at first to assign the majority of the blame to Clyde; after all, it was his original transgression that started the whole incident. There are, however, two problems with this division. The first is that, in many ways, living in a room next door to Clementine is a lot like living next to the devil: it would take a bigger man than Clyde to resist the taunting that comes floating down through his transom like a voice in the wilderness, “You’re stupid…you’re stupid…you’re stuuuupid.” And the second is that the whole reason it is possible for Clyde to stick so much as one toe into Clementine’s room is that her door no longer shuts properly–a direct result of several years of vigorous slamming on her part.

Still, somehow the punishment must be divvied up and assigned, otherwise the fighting will continue to escalate until something (most likely belonging to me) gets broken. The problem, however, still lies with my not being able to determine whether this was a peremptory strike on Clementine’s part, or a simple case of deportation. (If defenestrate means “to throw someone out of a window” then obviously deportate must mean “to throw someone out of a door.”)

At times like these I can see the advantage of having a CCTV system in place–sort of a tattlecam, as it were. With these marvels of modern technology at my fingertips I could securely record every single transgression, and administer justice accordingly. Of course, that would also mean that I would have to respond to every single transgression, and–given the current level of hostilities–this could easily create a backlog of unheard cases stacking up for decades. Which leaves me with the same old punishment routine that parents have been using for centuries: everybody goes to their rooms. Including, sometimes, the parents. Works for me.

We meet furtively in the predawn darkness.

“Did you get it?” I ask.

“Yeah,” my co-conspirator answers, cautiously passing over a bundle that, judging from the hesitant way he is handling it, might as well contain a leaky test tube full of military grade anthrax.. The truth, however, is much worse: my co-conspirator is my husband, and the bundle is none other than Clementine’s dirty pants.

Note that I didn’t say Clementine’s dirty blue pants, or even Clementine’s dirtiest pants–to say either would imply that the pants under discussion are, in fact, one of a set; that somewhere in the Universe there is, perhaps, another pair of Clementine’s pants–maybe even three, or four. No, unfortunately, when I say that these are Clementine’s dirty pants I mean it in the same way I might say that I looked up at the Sun–the one, the only, the Sun. In fact, this pair of pants is so very singular that I am surprised they aren’t instead known as pant.

Thus the skulduggery of our predawn pants raid–since the pants are literally one of a kind, it is only by sneaking into Clementine’s room under the cover of darkness and “sniffing them out” (no bloodhound required) that we are able to not only retrieve the pants, but whisk them away to their long anticipated appointment with the washer. (Although, by the time we do manage a retrieval mission–she often sleeps with them, as befits their rarified status–the pants are usually so hopelessly crusty that I am always a little surprised that they haven’t simply gotten up and climbed into the washing machine on their own; or at least started doing other semi-evolved things like discovering fire, using tools, and declaring their candidacy for the 2008 presidential elections.)

Now, before anyone decides to start a campaign collecting spare pants for “poor, pants-less Clementine,” please know this: when I say that these are Clementine’s only pair of pants, what I mean is that they are the only pair of pants that she will wear. She owns plenty of pants–enough, I am fairly sure (no, make that absolutely sure) to carpet a small room three times over– but, by virtue of all the others being “too tight, too loose, too short, too stiff, too soft,” and even “too chalky” (I have yet to figure that one out), they have all been declared, at one time or another, unfit to wear. In other words, they are all pantsona non grata.

And before you say, “well then, she is obviously a girl of fine and discerning taste–why not just let her pick out her own pants from now on,” please also understand that the above cited list of trouser rejects are her own picks: they are all pants that she herself declared “perfect” in the dressing room, but, for varied and mysterious reasons (see above), all somehow failed to make the cut once they arrived back home from the mall (and after, of course, all the tags were removed). And yes: I know about growth spurts, but growth spurts aren’t the issue here; some of these pants don’t even hold their exalted status long enough for her to put on a post-mall living room fashion show. In fact, I suspect that if it were possible for her to try them on again immediately after buying them–if every cash register came equipped with its own dressing room–then they would not even make it that far.

I’m sure that if I really tried I could figure out what it is that makes one particular pair of pants “the chosen ones” at one particular point in time; something to do with the Aztec calendar and solar flares, no doubt. But, for now, its all I can do to know that there can be only one (pair)–and how best to get that one into the wash.

First, let me issue, as they say on the Harry Potter fan sites, a spoiler alert: this column is not funny. Not in the least. It may not even be well written, seeing as it is Friday morning, and the column I was going to send in today–the one I had been working on all week–I am now going to lay aside in favor of this one, which, as I said before, is not funny. But it is about my children, so I think that it will still count.

Last night we were robbed. Sometime between eleven and two, while we were sleeping, someone came into our house, into my bedroom, went through my coat pockets and took the keys to my car. They then went into my office–the one I am sitting in right now–opened up my desk drawer and stole all the money my children had received for Christmas. They then left through the front door (we know this because it was standing wide open), passing–and here my heart nearly stops–passing Clementine where she had fallen asleep watching tv on the living room couch (it is still a holiday, after all).

No, our doors weren’t locked, which, really, is what this column is about. Our doors weren’t locked not because we were home that night, but because this is Flagstaff–or, at least, it used to be. My husband, who works all over the city, has been trying to tell me that for years. “Flagstaff is gone,” he says. “You don’t know, you never get out there, but it’s not the same. It’s changed.” And he’s right: I never do get out there. My Flagstaff–the Flagstaff of Pay’n’Take, Martannes, Bashas’ on the hill–the places where, really, “everybody knows your name”–these places have either stayed the same or gotten better. But those other Flagstaffs–the ones where people don’t let you make a left turn into Barnes and Noble, the ones with gates and guard houses, the ones where peoples’ cars are (bizarrely) worth more money than the gear on top of them–the ones where they walk into your house and steal your children’s Christmas money–are getting closer all the time.

I first had a foreboding of what was to come when Flagstaff police officer, Jeffrey Moritz, was murdered. I remember thinking, “What is happening to our little town?” That unease was dispelled, though, the day I stood on Humphrey’s street to watch his coffin pass: I was overwhelmed at the numbers of my fellow citizens that were standing with me. The line we formed went all the way to the top of the hill and beyond, and I couldn’t help but notice how we all must have looked like we were in some sort of a bucket brigade, but one that– instead of passing along buckets of water– passed along handfuls of hope.

I could use some of that hope right about now, when it feels like Flagstaff–the town I have lived in for 23 years, the town that I have always sworn I would never leave–has left me.

Still, there is always solace in words. Matthew Henry, a 17th century minister, once wrote the following lines on the occasion of his own brush with theft: “I thank Thee first because I was never robbed before; second, because although they took my purse they did not take my life; third, because although they took my all, it was not much; and fourth because it was I who was robbed, and not I who robbed.”

Maybe that’s my clue as to where to find my hope–and my Flagstaff–once again. A town can only be as good as the people in it, and the only person I can really change is myself. Because, to quote another great soul (Anne Frank): “How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.”

I always promised myself that I wouldn’t turn into one of those people who follow their kids around saying things like: “Do you have any idea how much that costs?” Of course, I also promised myself I wouldn’t turn into one of those parents who wipe off their kids’ noses with their own shirt-tail, and that, no matter what, my house would always be the “cool” hangout. As it is, my kids are lucky if their noses are the only thing that gets wiped with a shirt-tail, and unless “all the tap water you can drink” is the new “cool,” my house has fallen so far down the list that it doesn’t even register on the “Cool-o-meter” anymore. So I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised that my vows concerning not harping on money didn’t work out, either.

In fact, not only have I not managed to avoid saying things like “Do you realize how long I had to work to earn enough money to buy those shoes?” I instead say them so often that I frequently remind myself of Bob Barker on The Price is Right. This is when I’m not reminding myself of Monty Hall on Let’s Make a Deal. (“Do you want to find out what’s behind door #1-Clyde’s room, door #2-Clementine’s room, or door #3-their shared bathroom? Not that it really matters–your chances are much higher of finding *A Brand New Stain!* than *A Brand New Car!* in any case.)

The worst part of it is that I haven’t received any noticeable benefit from breaking yet another one of my own rules; on the contrary, my constant recital of the consumer price index has not done my children (or my bank account) one bit of good. Where Clyde is concerned this may be because the only thing that matters to him about money is the quantity of it: he thinks that our bulging penny jar makes us the richest people around. (This is something Clementine picked up on fairly early; unless we intervene she has been known to use this knowledge to slowly suck Clyde’s savings away from him one coin at a time with the old “I’ll give you these two pennies for that one quarter,” routine.)

And yet, despite her savvy when it comes to the low level world of piggy bank arbitrage, Clementine herself remains as blissfully ignorant as Clyde when it comes to the true cost of things. Princesses and pop stars could probably do a better job then the two of them at guessing the real cost of a gallon of milk (of course, that could be because of all the binging and purging they do, but still). Clementine, on the other hand, still doesn’t understand why I practically go into convulsions every time she casually splashes a quart of milk onto her morning cereal, takes two bites, and then pours the whole thing down the garbage disposal, only to repeat the process every twenty minutes or so until she no longer feels hungry (or until I throw myself bodily in front of the fridge–whichever comes first).

I’ve tried to explain it to her by asking her to see it from my perspective: how would she feel if she had ten dollar bills in her room, and every morning I went in, took one, blew my nose on it and then threw it in the trash? Doesn’t she think that she, too would get a bit irate?

Of course, the only result of this little parable was to convince her that she needed to be even more diligent about hiding her money from me; after all, I obviously have some unresolved issues with money and mucus.

Actually, she may have a point there; after all, there has to be some sort of an explanation for all those shirt-tails.

To celebrate her eleventh birthday, my daughter Clementine and I took a trip to Edinburgh, a city that is essentially made up of hundreds of little pubs connected by long winding flights of stairs. Unfortunately, Clementine wasn’t allowed into any of the pubs (and for some reason wasn’t too keen on waiting outside for me while I “just had one–two at the most”), and so that left the exploring portion of our Edinburgh trip heavily slanted in favor of the stairs. Lots and lots of stairs. This is significant because it was during this trip that I discovered a curious facet of eleven-year-olds: despite the fact that they have been known to haul around book bags that are positively leaden with undelivered memos and half-eaten sandwiches–not to mention trick-or-treat bags the size and weight of a pony keg–they are, apparently, completely unable to carry a small suitcase farther than one inch before they are forced to fling it down and cry out despairingly: “I can’t carry it! It’s too heavy.” Which means, that in a city like Edinburgh, the other person (the one who is not eleven years old) will need to not only carry twice as much stuff as they need, but to carry it twice as far, as well.

Not that this phenomenon was limited to Edinburgh: we also visited Bath, a city in southern England that can trace its history back to the Romans. It was there that–after taking note of my stooped and shuffling gait as a result of my double burden–the tour guide (who was also playing the part of a Roman patrician) pointed to me and then said knowingly to Clementine: “And this must be your slave.”

By this time I was beginning to look at each new attraction we visited with a more and more jaundiced eye: the London Eye was “good” because it moved on its own and had benches; Stonehenge was “bad” because you had to walk to see it. (So what if it’s “more authentic” that way; I’m sure that the Druids–or whomever–would have been the first to welcome a better way to get around. In fact, that may be what Stonehenge represents: a request to the gods to hurry up and create some Segways.)

Finally, near the end of our trip, I decided that the £12 (about $25) a day excess luggage storage fee they were charging at the train station (and which had seemed outrageous to me when we had first arrived), was actually the wisest investment I would ever make. (And, considering the hundreds of dollars in chiropractor’s fees I would likely be saving, probably was.)

There was, however, one snag: the £12 charge was not only per day, but per partial day as well. This meant that every time you removed your luggage from storage you would be charged an additional £12. I did my best to convey this to Clementine as we sat sprawled out across the floor of the train station, rearranging “our” luggage into one manageable bag.

“Do you have everything you need? Everything?” I asked for the tenth time.

“Yes, yes, yes! I told you already. I have everything.”

“Ok, it’s just that it costs”–

“I know!”

Fifteen minutes (and another long staircase) later we stepped back out into the chilly Edinburgh day, considerably lighter both of luggage and (for me at least), of spirit. Or at least I was until Clementine turned to me and peevishly asked, “So, where’s my hat?”

On the bright side, I did manage to shed another 12 pounds.

Living in a tourist town like we do, you never know what you might see when you look out of your window. (My personal favorite was the weekend there was a serendipitous pairing of the Pride in the Pines festival and the Pine Country Rodeo, giving a whole new meaning to the phrase “ride ‘em, Cowboy.”) Bearing that in mind, if, sometime during the next few weeks, you should happen to look out of your window and see a crazed, scissor-wielding woman chasing an unkempt child down the street, don’t worry: it’s just the serendipitous pairing of my daughter, Clementine, and laundry day.

Before you get too worried, let me tell you all of the good things that the above scenario reveals. For one, it shows that Clementine is a very loyal person: once she makes a commitment, she will do whatever it takes to see that commitment through, whether that means going outside in all kinds of weather to feed her pet rabbit or staying up late to finish a birthday present. Or even, sometimes, wearing the same shirt for five days in a row.

And, before you ask: no, it’s not a sports thing; I wish it were. I could understand, and even tolerate it if she was refusing to change her lucky t-shirt as long as the Suns were in the playoffs or something (in fact, I wish she had worn the same shirt the whole time the Suns were in the playoffs this summer, so that I could’ve mailed that stinky, stinky shirt to a certain referee). No, for her it is simply a matter of love: she simply loves the shirt she’s wearing so much she can’t stand the thought of parting with it even for washing.

This has led to some eye-opening (and sinus-clearing) mornings at our house. What usually happens is that Clementine will make her appearance in the kitchen for breakfast, wearing–surprise, surprise!–the same shirt she had on the day before. And the day before that. And the day before that. (I’m a little slow on the uptake sometimes.) She is then directed to “put on another shirt,” to which she replies something along the lines of “I don’t have any other shirts,” (my favorite variation being “I literally don’t have any other shirts,” which always prompts me to reply “I literally don’t believe you know the meaning of that word”). A search is then executed, whereupon hundreds (no, not literally) of shirts are discovered scattered about her room, one of which she is directed to pick out and put on. At which point the fun really starts.

Some days she goes back into her room for a few minutes, only to emerge wearing the exact same shirt she had on before (this has actually been known to work: like I said, sometimes I’m a little slow on the uptake). Some days she comes out in a new shirt, but then circles back around the house after she has “left” for school to surreptitiously change back into Ol’ Stinky. And once, in a preview of the high school years, she tucked the filthy favorite into her book bag and did a quick change in the school bathroom both before, and after, school. Which brings us to the crazed, scissor-wielding maniac. (That would be me.)

Through the years I have found that, discipline-wise, nothing works quite so well as crazy. Nothing can produces consistent results like apparent insanity; while time outs may work for some kids, and losing privileges for others, I have yet to meet the child whose bad behavior didn’t immediately cease in the presence of an adult who started speaking in tongues.

Or, in my case, pulled out a pair of scissors and started chopping an offending t-shirt into little pieces while they were still wearing it.