Yeah....its a jungle out there. And in here.

Standing at the edge of the jungle, peering through the early morning mists swirling around my ankles, there was just enough light to see the soft carpet of lime green Creeping Jenny snaking its delicate cup shaped leaves in a dense covering that ran right into the forest like some mysterious ancient and secret trail.

I don't know what its called....that space that leads up to the jungle. Its not a plain, or a field...those words are too simple. This...zone...that I was standing in...this strip of middle ground, where the vines have advanced out of the jungle as if to pull in whatever came close enough, where the soft forest grasses still got enough light to flourish and grow fiercely up to the edge where they fade into dark earth...

It was damp. Not cold really. Too much humidity for that. Just a chill in the warm dampness. A chill provided courtesy of my imagination. Something was in there...I could feel it watching me. Any moment now it would be like something out of Jurassic Park...some large lizard-like monster with savage teeth and an appetite for Shih Tzu would lunge for the bait that is currently happily nosing around on the other end of the purple leash I hold in my hand.

Whoosh. Roar. Chomp. Snap.

And that would be the end of my only reason to be tramping around this god-forsaken place at 6:30 in the morning.

Perhaps I exaggerate you say? By now surely you've realized that not many people stand on the verge of the Amazon Rain Forest with a Shih Tzu, nor does Creeping Jenny grow outside of the southern United States. So rain forest/jungle I am not addressing. I am definitely not in Brazil.

I am standing in the backyard of the house where I nanny.

"Phiff!" you say? As if now the story has lost all suspense and drama.

Read on if you dare, I say...

The house where I arrive each morning at 6:00 am is sandwiched between the broad avenues of the historic district in our small town. Pleasant green lawns on either side, sharply manicured hedges, brilliant Azaleas, demure Dogwoods, and subtle Hosta frame this grandiose and ancient of neighborhoods...and there in the middle of pristine southern order and gentile hospitality [oh the southern code can be communicated through yard work...just ask the hoard of lawn services that descend upon the neighborhood with strict orders to make this yard look better than that one and to smile while doing it...on a side note-thats how a lot gets done in the South... vicious atrocities committed with a smile and the often-said phrase "well bless their heart" tacked on for the absolution of the perpetrator.]

But I digress...there in the midst is sandwiched the blue Victorian of West Street. I don't think anyone in town knows the actual number of the house, the children having dismantled the mail box so many times at this point, that the mail man simply stuffs the mail under the mat in the war zone that doubles as the front porch. There used to be a little ceramic tile sign in the corner of the front bricked bed....long gone. Most likely used as a cutting board or launching platform for some various and sundry project of mass destruction. ...In fact now that I think about it...I vaguely remember something resembling that mosaic symbol of order underneath the gingerbread houses they were allowed to blow up with fireworks a couple of Januaries ago.

Once upon a time, when I arrived almost seven years ago, and the number of children was only two...there were brass numbers on the heavy wooden front door. Ornate. Lovely. A perfect ambassador of the gentile hospitality replicated in the properly kept houses and yards of the neighboring residences. They are gone now. I have no idea why. At times-when I discover various things missing or askew-I forget...and ask myself "why? why in the world would they take/dismantle/dislocate/break this particular thing??" Then I realize whom I am speaking of and silently nod in resignation.

And let it be stated for the record that the state of the house is not completely the children's fault. As I have mentioned before-the leaders of this pack are two very adept and completely brilliant physicians. And I suppose I have discovered the answer to the question-what happens when you are too smart? You start a Load of projects and never have the time to finish the one without rushing off to the next. Sometimes-in my darkest grumpy moments-I think "this is why they had so many children...they are growing their own work force". Then the grumble fades as I realize how absolutely ludicrous that sounds...hiring a migrant on the corner of P and A street in the old mill village is Much cheaper than raising seven children. The yard of this home is just one example of the parents well intentioned yet ambitious failures and the children's in-exhaustible capacity for destruction.

Let me paint you a picture:

You are standing on the sidewalk...in front of the house...at first glance it is easy to see the major differences from the other houses...for example...the grassy space between the sidewalk and avenue in front of everyone elses house is neatly manicured and brilliantly green-not a weed in sight [courtesy of the Round-up that everyone seems to use on everything-including their salads around here]. In front of this house, however, that neatly manicured strip resembles a strip at a tractor pull. Originally it was tilled to be re-sown with some of the father's specially blended grass seeds [he is always tinkering with seeds]...at least I would assume that is the only plausible explanation for ripping up perfectly good grass...however...good intentions never got anything done...and it has become nothing more than an elongated black mud hole that I must leap over every morning to get to the front walk. Sometimes I make it...sometimes I don't. The front walk in itself is not bad...its what is on it that is sometimes a challenge. The front yard is dominated by a large oak tree...large is an understatement. This tree alone could support the entire housing unit of the Swiss Family Robinson. It is a Gi-normous White Oak. White Oaks are renown for two things: being as wide as they are tall-great shade trees, and the masses of acorns they produce. When these acorns begin to fall the front walk becomes like the rink at a roller derby...every nanny for herself. I have lived the cartoon legs many a morning...you know the ones I'm talking about-the one where the poor character hits all the marbles and seemingly ten pairs of legs seem to fail around attached to a singular upper torso that grapples with air-arms extended in that awkward attempt to regain balance. And I'm sure the neighbors gather at their slightly frosty window panes in the chilly winter months [all of January and February] and watch me battle the acorns and the ice. I usually give up halfway and just crawl. I'm sure the neighbors believe I just come to work drunk. The front yard itself is ironic in that it seems to boast two crop circles-slightly out of place in the middle town and in the historic district. The yard is a hodgepodge of different grasses and in two large places [again-with good intention I'm sure] the grass has been tilled away to reveal two large black spaces of earth. They seem to be the eyes of the yard-staring up at heaven-questioning "why? why? why hast thou forsaken us?" Then we come to the hedges...the front porch has a set of about seven stairs leading up...so the hedges are almost four 1/2 feet tall. There is a double tier-large white Azaleas in back-fuchsia in front. And there the rank and order ends...they are Full of large gaps where various crews of children have tunneled through them in order to gain foraging experience [they watch entirely too much Man v. Wild and Survivor Man--I have witnessed them make pine bough shelters big enough for a family of ten in the back yard with only a small pocket knife, vines, and sheer determination.] Their swing set resembles an African safari outpost-its covered in vines, bits of rope, and things dangling from the rope I can only assume used to be alive. [The father has absolutely used the swing set to tan a dear hide before-that is an uncomfortable sight-to venture out with the dog at 6:30 in the gray black dawn...drawing closer and closer to the swing set and the dark mass stretched between the monkey bar ladders....only to be hit in the face by the smell of decay and tanning salt-a smell quite staggering I assure you and suddenly out of the mists appears skin and fur...at first I was confused...I thought one of the children had a terrible accident involving the dog-then I realized I was still walking him]

But back to the front yard-there is a large black iron fence that surrounds the back yard-were the house begins-so does the fence [and the chaos]. Pushed up against the bars-and escaping through in places-are all manner of vines and shrubberies gone wild. Hence the jungle references. There is a side yard dominated by a wooden play structure. The grass on this side is deep and green-the children have to wade through in places-grass knee deep...it has overgrown the alligator see-saw and the turtle sandbox. The second and third tier of the structure are crowded with plastic green pots that were removed from the greenhouse to make room for the heritage breed turkeys that were living there. [the day the 11 year old shot Thanksgiving dinner in the greenhouse was one of those days I went home early with a Valium.]

The driveway disappears into a mud hole at the edge of the concrete in the back yard. Beyond the mud the jungle begins. In the beginning it was a simple garden plot...perhaps 15 x 15. Now it takes up over half the yard. It is the poster child for Gardens Gone Wild. Pea vines and Morning Glory vines have reached the swing set and managed to spiral up the metal poles and down onto the swings. Corn stalks and giant Sunflowers stalks reach toward the heavens. We couldn't see our way out of them if we tried...on the other hand-it has given the children a chance to hone their skills with a compass. They know the house is due north. Strange and bizarre varieties of peppers grow along the edges of the green explosion...funny triangle shaped purple and red peppers cover bushes, yellow and orange peppers as big as a man's fist hang from over burdened plants scattered among the garden. There used to be clearly marked rows and stones with the names of the plants painted on them. Now it looks like the overgrown rant of chaos.

The neighbors to the left have grown a giant hedge of Leyland Cyprus trees. These are massively tall trees resembling something more of a spruce than the swamp cyprus that might spring to mind. They effectively shield the neighbors from the house and yard of chaos. The neighbors to the right didn't play around...they built a 12 foot stone wall-thats at least a foot thick and quite impermeable to the repeated crash ramming of the mini-jeeps on our side. Aside from the garden the yard is dominated by a large greenhouse, a trampoline, a trailer with a large metal wild pig trap on it [kid you not], rocks, and an army of broken toys [that are somehow more treasured than the new toys forgotten in the inside toy boxes]. There is a fairly large boat, four tillers, a rusty plow [thankfully no horse], something akin to a combine, all the metal poles required to erect a car port [piled in a very constructive heap to one side of the double garage], and then there is the fleet of riding toys...last count was 6 scooters, five trikes, four wagons, three strollers [including the four seat jogging stroller-which amounts to jogging while attempting to push a very unwieldy lance of children-any of whom will throw the entire contraption off balance with a well calculated lunge at a passing bush], two battery powered mini jeeps, and one skateboard that has been mercilessly run over at least ten times now.

Ladies and gentlemen-I give you the extreme urban jungle. A yard so over-run with chaos that it becomes a fight to the death just to make it to the back porch and into the house. While the house isn't much better...at least there is less chance of a dinosaur attacking me while I clean it. I think.

And clean it-I must. I bid you adieu until the next time I can find counter space and sanity enough to write another installment of the nanny chronicles.

From the house on West Avenue-my soul still has soul-and 15 minutes before everyone wakes up from their naps.

Wish me luck.

how to get a turtle out of a toilet and 3 other things I wish I didn't know...

I would postulate that in the event of seven siblings being so close in age [oldest not being but 7 1/2 years older than the youngest] that things are bound to get tense. I'm not sure about pet turtle in the toilet tense-but I'll let you be the judge.

And with seven monkeys in a barrel- factions emerge, converge, and implode daily. Sometimes its girls versus boys....older versus younger...light sabers versus nerf guns...those who are about to be in trouble versus those telling on them...you get the idea.

And every once in a while for what ever reason-there is one thats singled out...for all the others to pounce on.

And two days ago, I learned why it would never again be the 3 year old. And not just because she turns four in a month. No-I knew that Peter would never pick on Beth again-no matter what age she was. I also know that you can get a turtle out of a toilet with a shop vac. He'll have to spend the rest of his life on the therapist's log...but it can work.

Allow me to illuminate:

The day was a particularly gruesome one at the house on West Street. I arrived at 6:30 am to a kitchen that looked like someone had set a bomb off in a confectioners factory. Upon closer inspection I realized that the dark "chocolate" puddles everywhere were not chocolate. And that the white granulated sugar-was salt? Then I ventured over to the sink... blanche-gulp-wretch.

Its only tomatoes and apple cores.

Its only tomatoes and apple cores.

Its only tomatoes and apple cores.

But blood, bone, and flesh do not smell, look, nor clean up as easy as tomatoes and apple cores.

The father had definitely field dressed a deer in the kitchen sink. Definitely.

The blood soaked maroon sheet was still sticking out of the trash can. In horror I gazed around the set of what looked like a slasher movie....bits of gristle and bone flecks clung to the walls of the kitchen. Odd pieces of this and that floated in an ambiguous grey-brownish-pink liquid pooling at the bottom of an obviously clogged sink. The stench was fantastic.

Luckily since coming to work here nearly eight years ago now...I know a thing or two about cleaning products. Like what gets dried squirrel guts off a stainless steel sink, what gets melted barbie and batman off the oven coils, what gets the dog poo smell off a leather car seat...when the windows have been rolled up at 90 degrees for two hours. The list goes on. The local hardware store has the best selection of industrial cleaning products-they know me by name.

So-tossing my half eaten breakfast toast in the trash-along with the other half I'd already eaten-I grabbed my trusty cleaning caddy and attacked full on assault mode.

[note: do not attempt to process deer bone, gristle, etc with a Badger 2000 Garbage Disposal-it will only result in the very nasty process of dismantling the disposal and seeing things that no human should have to witness]

After digging every piece of deer out of the stainless steel sink, scrapping the bits of flesh off the walls, scrubbing up the blood off the cabinets and floor, and vomiting just one more time for good measure....it was done.

By now-the kitchen was swarming. Everyone knew about dad's big kill-and the graphic details flowed like honey. The louder and more articulate you are the more you are listened to in a pack. So it stands to reason that while I fought to fix breakfast in the crowd of story-tellers, that the smallest story-teller, Beth, the 3 year old, was having to jump just to be seen in the mob. Peter talked of how he had hunted with dad. Caroline argued she had gone more times. Charlotte said she wished they'd all go get lost in the woods so she could go shopping with Mom and Lucy. Ethan and Philip told stories about the hunting trips they'd imagine they'd have as soon as they could remember to put the safety back on their rifles. And poor little Beth. She wanted to be heard so badly.

Beth kept insisting that she was big enough to hunt. Peter said No. Beth said she was smart enough to hunt. Caroline and Charlotte stole her blanket and said No. Beth said she was strong enough to hunt. Ethan and Philip informed her that hunters do Not wear footy pajamas. Beth began to cry. And Lucy said that hunters definitely did not cry. It was a losing battle.

I swooped her up and put her out of reach of the pack of hyenas on the high stool in the kitchen. She looked pitiful with her blonde ringlets mused from a hard night's sleep, pink fuzzy footy pjs macramed with bits of yarn hair from poor Pretty Princess Pony Dolly Girl's shedding head...she did look so sad with her plate size blue eyes swimming in tears...then the lip began to curl back...the eyebrows began to knit together. She had hatched her plan.

I, of course, was burning breakfast, so I was not privy to her revelation. But I heard it. It was loud and it occurred four hours later. After lunch, everyone went outside to play-everyone but Beth. She volunteered to take a "nappy"...which should have been my first clue. I collapsed on the couch with four loads of laundry and began to fold my way from one pile to another while keeping a wary eye out of the bay window on the survivor games unfolding in the side yard. ...as long as the machete didn't surface-I figured I could get the laundry folded.

Then this noise....this sound....this head pounding-god-awful-thumping-mind numbing-racket started. The floor shook, the chandelier tinkled as its little glass beads slammed together...then rising above the noise...Beth's classic "I-did-it-but-I-sorry-I-didn't-meana-do-it-an-I-won't-neva-do-it-again-please-don't-spank-me-daddy" wail started.

I raced for the stairs. One flight...the noise was higher, lower, somehow in the walls...I rounded the second set of stairs and into Peter's room. No guinea pig in the cage. Bad sign. Guinea Pig cage drug towards bathroom...really bad sign. I opened the bathroom that connected the boys rooms to find water, wood chips, half a carrot and a terrified Beth. The noise was coming from the toilet. And no wonder. The toilet looked like the apocalypse now re-visited on the porcelain god of old. It was burping, bubbling, belching, and burgeoning with wood chips and guinea pig poo.

"Oh Beth, Bethy, Beth-PLEASE tell me you did not put Chippy down the toilet" I gasped. She was frozen in horror but managed to stick out a chubby finger and point to the tub. I jerked back the curtain to find Chippy, the resilient guinea pig, bravely manning a Rescue Hero's Boat in about an inch of tepid water. He was taking any water anxiety out on the leg of the Barbie Doll he was humping.

"Oh thank goodness!"

After securing Chippy and his new lady love in a nearby (dry) plastic bin, I frantically tried to stop the toilet from erupting. I lifted the lid off....monkeyed with the insides, traced the water line down to the floor and turned off the valve. The noise stopped. But the carnage was impressive.

Beth's tears dribbled down her pudgy cheeks. "Peta said that I was a baby" she sniveled "Ima big girl. His tuttles are babies."

"His tutt---" AH! I dashed back into Peter's room and realized he was an animal short. His favorite turtle was definitely not in his happy bowl. "Oh Beth-did you flush Tank down the toilet?!?!"

Without waiting for her to start her signature wail again, I sprinted for the shop vac. While most keep something as heavy duty as a shop vac in the garage, this family frequently needed it and so it was kept in the front study. I dragged it up the steps and into the bathroom. I almost laughed out loud as I put on my trusty yellow rubber gloves. Where were the elbow gloves? The hip wadders? The HASMAT suite?

Oh well, into the fray. I started the vac...

Luckily for lil Tank the turtle, he hadn't gotten far into the maze of plumbing. After a few seconds, a thick "floop" indicated that our potential toilet clogging disaster could have gotten better....I switched off the vacuum and gingerly reached into the hose.

I'm not sure if there is an official pissed off look for turtles, but this turtle should definitely go into modeling. He was pissed. I rinsed him in the sink and plopped him back in his happy place. That little guy will need mega therapy. I began to clean up the bathroom, hopefully before Peter came in and saw his room. The last thing I needed was a tween with a myocardial infarction. Too late.

Peter rounded the corner, and started hyperventilating before he even saw the bathroom. I assured him everyone survived, although it looked like Chippy was bound and determined to make that Barbie a prisoner of war. He was livid.

So there I was....just another day at work....I had cleaned deer guts, bone and bristle up out of the kitchen, gum off the couch in the den, soda and prunes off the front coffee table, moldy yogurt out of the shag carpet in the office, and guinea pig wood chips out of the upstairs toilet...and a turtle...I had one hand on Peter to keep him away from Beth, one yellow gloved hand still scooping up wood chips, one leg keeping Beth blocked from running away and hiding, and one mouth-pleading with both of them.

I suppose now as I write this-I can see the humor.

or at least I have to in order to survive the next day.

The Return of the Finger Sniffer

So it seems every semester that I will need to point out the obvious.

People: Don't sniff your fingers.

Here's the scene...

First day of comparative history class....we're in the somewhat dusty musty classroom over in Hardin...the kind that reminds you of a germ incubator. You can feel the germs waltzing around in a slow tango over every surface of the room...the dust fermenting into little infected piles waiting to be inhaled into the highly susceptible membranes. H1N1 is all the rage. This academic season's must have...and the slightest cough sends everyone reaching for their giant bottle of hand sanitizer. So I'm sitting there...watching the professor stagger around the front of the room, drunk off the euphoria of first day jitters and Entirely too much espresso...and he begins to stumble through the role, in true first day fashion...every name butchered...first middle and last. While it is evident that the roster will take some time to conquer-this is definitely not the most opportune time to make an exit for the facilities. Yet...the guy in front of my little wooden desk suddenly vaults towards the door, and sprints through the door for the bathroom. [I wish that I could assure you that 'vault' and 'sprint' were used for the impact of creative imagery...alas...he did indeed vault and sprint...it was Most impressive.] Well-when you gotta go-you gotta go. He stayed in the bathroom for longer than it takes to do the business...even very important business. I thought we were gonna have to send in the rescue squad [go team Jeff].

Now...I have no problem with the obviously urgent exit-HOWEVER...it was the astounding behavior upon re-entry that was disturbing...hence the reason for this rant.

While it is an inopportune moment to suddenly exit mid role call-to return and do the following is most Unnecessary. He staggers back to his desk, makes an unashamed lurch for a large slurpie cup, perched precariously on the edge, and drains it noisily...and then ever so casually SNIFFS HIS FINGERS. And not just the casual "oh, I must still have a bit of strawberry jam under my finger nail from that toast this morning"...but a sniff of such magnitude I was sure he was going to snort the nail off. At this point-I can only piece together the obvious: Boy suddenly sprints for bathroom, Boy spends a long time in bathroom, no sink water was heard from the dangerously close facility, Boy then spends rest of class snorting his own fingers.

Disssss-tuuuuur-Bia.

Now many friends have proffered explanations to as to why his fingers where glued to his nostrils. I'm ready to chalk this one up to life's mysteries best ignored and unsolved.

And just a note to all you other finger sniffers out there: if you want to be taken seriously by the other Homo Sapiens...please remember to complete the sniffage in the confines of your own home. Its not a question of personal freedoms...its a statement of Manners.

Manners: get 'em. use 'em.

your soul will appreciate it.

and so will we.