I talk a lot about my son here, mostly because he does the crazy stuff in the family, but lest you forget, I also have a daughter. As a matter of fact, this place is named after her.

Let me start by saying that I’m really proud of my first-born who will be turning…gulp…13 in a couple of months. She is an amazing student, keeps her room clean and I never have to tell her to do her homework, study or read. She serves at church, does volunteer work and likes to help around the house (if she’s getting paid for it, anyway).

But, over the last year…whoa. Something has snapped in her personality and, though I had heard rumors about this stage, I can’t say I was prepared for it.  Now she is short with us, she knows more than we do and I won’t even mention how she treats her little brother. Her usual stance is defensive, with one hip jutting to the side, arms crossed over her chest and eyes ready to roll. And, boy can she roll ’em.

I began to feel that all hope was lost when my son, who was recuperating from pneumonia, started to complain about how tired he was. We were driving home from, nearly, three hours of watching 7th grade volleyball when he said, “I’m so sleepy. My eyelids feel heavy.”

And, whereas a few years ago, my daughter would have said, “Aw, it’s okay buddy. Just close your eyes” (and it’s possible she may have sang him a song) she instead yelled at him and said, “WELL, THEN SHUT THEM!” See? Sweet as pie, that girl. There was no compassion, no appreciation for the fact that he had sat in the stands with his fingers crossed for her every time she served the volleyball.

I wanted my daughter back, because this Cybil in the back seat was not my kid.

I wondered if part of this was my fault. Was I, unknowingly, tossing fuel on the fire? Was she angry because her brother is different? Could this all be caused by hormones? Is it what she’s eating? Maybe she’s not getting enough sleep. Should I take her phone away? Keep her home from the dance this weekend? How could this be fixed?

But, it turned out that my worrying was for naught. My sweet girl is, actually, still in there; because when our family got some bad news…when we found out that my mother-in-law has cancer…my daughter gave her dad a big hug and sincerely apologized for being a crabby mean girl.

When it really mattered, she cared.

And, for a 12 year old, I guess that’s pretty good.

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When my son was little, he was sick a lot. He used to get bacterial infections as often as I buy purses; which is to say, all the time.

Before he was a week old, he got a UTI, then there was pneumonia, strep, antibiotic-resistant strep-pneumo, mastoid infections (betcha never heard of that one, have you?), eye infections and two ear infections for good measure. I hate to leave out meningitis, but I will, because it was viral.

He’s had eye surgeries, two different sets of ear tubes and removal of his tonsils and adenoids…all in an effort to curb the infections…and more than anything, to stop them from traveling to his little, malformed heart. He has spent, roughly, two out of his nine years on antibiotics.

As he’s gotten older, and with each successive surgery, things have gotten better. But, that doesn’t mean that I ever let my guard down.

Just last week, my friend Bean was talking about how amazing a mother’s intuition can be. She trusted her instincts and got her son help when he needed it, because she just KNEW something wasn’t right. And, as far as I’m concerned, intuition saved my daughter’s life.

On Monday of this week, my kids didn’t have school. They were playing a game in the living room, while I was in the kitchen, when I heard my son cough. It wasn’t a fit, he didn’t throw up from it like he used to…it was just one, single, solitary cough. Cough.

But, I knew it wasn’t right; my gut told me so. Because of his history and because of his heart disease, I had set out to call the pediatrician’s office first thing Tuesday morning. My husband thought I was crazy. He said, “What are you going to tell them? That there’s nothing wrong with him?” because, really, there wasn’t.

Then I came to find out that five kids in his class had pneumonia.

I got him in and his doctor prescribed an antibiotic, but it hadn’t kicked in before last night when his cough and fever worsened. He was curled up in my bed, kind of weepy, when my husband walked in and knelt beside him. He rubbed our son’s head and said to him, “I sure am glad you’re on that medicine. You’ll feel better soon.”

To which I snarkily replied, “Wait…what? I thought there was nothing wrong with him.”

My husband shot back the snark and said, “Yeah, yeah. You’re the child-whisperer.”

Then my son, who obviously understands motherly intuition wearily lifted his head and said, “No she’s not! She’s my mom!”

Exactly, buddy. Exactly.

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And, so it begins.

A few days ago, the weather turned colder. This is the time of year when I dread walking outside because the wind bites, the sky is gray and we have two enormous trees that make one, big mess. You have never seen a run on lawn bags, until you’ve see us hit the hardware store.

Things inside the house aren’t much better. That biting wind? That’s the same thing that comes out of my husband’s mouth when he sees I’ve changed the thermostat again.

This morning, amid the sound of my son’s chattering teeth, I saw that my husband had set the heat at 65F. See how I put that “F” there? That’s for mah Canadian peeps. Holla! Oh, sorry. Holla, eh?

Now, if we lived in Canada, maybe 65F would be a heat wave, but here in Ohio I was just getting used to the 90F, August days, with humidity so high you could boil pasta, when September came along with her…fall weather. Shudder.

After I saw the thermostat setting, I did what any good wife would do; I turned up the heat behind my husband’s back and hoped he wouldn’t notice. That lasted…oh, about an hour, and 45 of those 60 minutes we weren’t even home.

Last night, after I protested, I got him to crank that baby to 67F. Then, I donned a short-sleeved shirt, a long-sleeved shirt, socks, pants, a heavy sweatshirt and a blanket.  I was finally comfortable.

That is, until my husband brought me a glass of his homemade wine. I took three sips and I started sweating. Clearly, I have found the solution to lower heating bills.

Drink more wine.

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My husband was working in the yard last weekend when he saw me through a window and asked me to come outside. I went out of the front door to find him waving me over to a flower bed. When I joined him, he pointed at the ground and said, “What is that?”

Photo courtesy of The Hiker's Notebook

We both crouched down to get a closer look at the patch of things growing from the mulch. Then we got a whiff of it.

The green, sticky substance on the end smelled like dog poop. My husband pulled one from the ground and tried to put it near my face, you know, for a closer smell. As I ran away, he chased me.

Herein lies the question: Did the house next door take so long to sell because our flower beds smell like poop, because my husband acts like a 12 year old or because it looks like we’re growing male body parts?

Any way you slice it, our new neighbors are going to love it here.

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