Katie's Keith Haring

Katie learned about Keith Haring today in art class.  Here's what she made:

Judy Garland Dances to Radiohead: A Beautiful Dissociation

I'm supposed to be writing right now.  Instead I'm allowing myself a beautiful dissociation via Judy Garland and Radiohead.  Hollywood ate Judy Garland's soul and then stuffed the empty void full of prescription meds until she died at age 47. Garland's dancing works eerily well with Radiohead's moving "How To Disappear Completely."  Torn between wanting to open yourself up and shutting down.  




I understand the feeling.  My successful brother is starting another community newspaper, this time in my community.  He's asked me to write for him.  I agreed.  Now I'm freaking out.

When I was twenty my Composition instructor at the community college offered me a job writing for another, now defunct, community newspaper.  He was the music editor and he wanted me to write reviews for him.  I said no.  I wasn't ready for that type of writing commitment.  I loved writing.  My biggest dream was to be a professional writer.  But personally I wasn't in a good place.  I was at the height of my depressive lows.  I had so much work I needed to do on myself.  Years of therapy.  Years of reading self-help books.  Years of growing comfortable in my own skin.  I didn't have the energy to write for someone else.

Twenty-two years later, my brother has offered me an opportunity to attract more attention to my blog.  I love blogging.  It feels intimate and open at the same time.  I can write what I want when I want to.  No rules.  No deadlines.  No expectations.

But goddammit, it's time.  I'm in a good place.  I'm at the height of mental wellness.  I've worked on myself for twenty-two years since I got my first writing job offer.  I've had the therapy.  I've read the self-help books.  I'm comfy in my robe, in my own home, in my own skin.  Let's see if I can write for someone else now.

...or in another minute or two.  Just one more viewing of Judy dancing and I swear I'll get back to work.

Bill Moyers on Faith & Reason: Pema Chödrön

Here's what I'm watching this morning, thanks to my friend Erica's comment about Chödrön and boundaries on yesterday's post.  Thanks for the reminder that I still hadn't crossed off, "Investigate this Pema Chödrön person" from my personal growth To Do List.  I've been a fan of The Dalai Lama since I discovered his teachings six years ago, so I'm looking forward to some fresh inspiration.

***

Wow!  I finished watching the interview.  It's wonderful.  Thank you so much, Erica, for reminding me that I wanted to find out more about Chödrön.  This discussion between Bill Moyers and Pema Chödrön is a great introduction to a fascinating spiritual leader.  I'll definitely check out some of her books now.

Here are my favorite quotes from the Moyers' interview:

"You could say that it isn't the things that happen to us in our lives that cause us to suffer. It's how we relate to the things that happen to us that causes us to suffer." -- Pema Chödrön

and


"I see now, as I look out of my eyes at the world, I see that a lot of us are just running around in circles, pretending that there's ground, where there actually isn't any ground.  And that somehow, if we could learn to not be afraid of groundlessness, not be afraid of insecurity and uncertainty, it would be calling on an inner strength that would allow us to be open and free and loving and compassionate in any situation.  But as long as we keep trying to scramble to get ground under our feet, and avoid this uneasy feeling of groundlessness and insecurity and uncertainty and ambiguity, paradox, any of that, then the wars will continue, the racial prejudice will continue, the hatred against people of a different -- you don't agree with their sexual preferences, you don't agree with their religion, you don't agree with their skin color, you don't agree with their whatever, you know, their politics, it will always continue, because something will keep --because you can't avoid being triggered.  What triggers you can get less and less in your life.  But, you know, it's if you're trying to avoid being triggered -- I read something recently where someone said, that's like becoming a celibate nun, like me, or monk, and then trying to get rid of all the sexually attractive people in the world.  You know, it just doesn't work.  You have to work on your side of it." -- Pema Chödrön

Selfish Jerk

"I'm a worrier like my mom." 

I heard Katie say this to her friend who asked why she doesn't want to eat snow. 

Oh, please, no!  Don't start comparing yourself to me, child. 

When I was a kid there was no greater insult my mom could sling at me than this one: 

"You are just like your father."  

Wherever I was, whatever I was doing, upon hearing those words I would immediately stop and change my behavior.  It was like parenting pixie dust.  She'd sprinkle a little on my head and I'd magically transform from an insane whirling Dervish into a placid, proper young lady.  Mom didn't say it very often.  She didn't have to.  I understood from a very young age that there was nothing worse in this world than being compared to my father. 

Dad is intense.  He's one of those people who, once he sets his mind to do something, there's no stopping him.  The problem is, sometimes there is stopping him.  Like when a foot of snow drops onto the city and his eighty-five year old ass gets stuck inside his apartment for two days, stir crazy and alone.  Then he decides to call me at work and start guilt tripping me into coming over and shoveling his sidewalk.  

You want me to do what, Dad?  Are you out of food?  Is it an emergency?

Oh, no.  No emergency.  He can't stand to be alone.  "I just thought I'd call my daughter and ask for a little help since I never ask for anything," Dad said.  His voice sounded small and sad.

A few years ago I got another frantic call from my dad while I was at work.  Dad rarely calls me, period, let alone when I'm at work.  A retired accountant, Dad was once the Controller for a big truck line.  It was his job to take his staff aside and chew them out for taking too many personal phone calls at work.  He'd tell us stories at the dinner table about one secretary in particular whose boyfriends possessively kept tabs on her, calling up to twenty times a day.  These were the days before cell phones and text messages.  When bosses like my dad could still yell at you for using the business phone and not worry about facing some type of discrimination lawsuit.  The two things I learned from listening to Dad's stories were 1) never take personal phone calls at work, and 2) never have more than one boyfriend at a time. 

So when Dad called me at work a few years ago, I knew it must be an emergency.

"This is Becky.  What's going on Dad?" I said into the receiver of the phone my boss, with a look of concern on her face, had just handed me.  My boss is awesome and understands that life sometimes interferes with work and that's what you get when you employ human beings.

"Yeah, Becky.  This is your dad.  I need you to come over and help me.  I'm leaving Naomi and I need some help packing my things before she gets home this evening."

Thank God.  I thought he'd never leave Naomi.  He'd been married to her since a few months after his divorce with my mom went through.  Ten years.  Miserable years.  I'd never seen two people fight like those two.

"Sure, Dad, I'll be right over."

It felt weird to leave work to help my retired workaholic dad who never would have left work to help me with some crazy life event.  But I don't want a tit for tat relationship with my dad.  Then I'd end up being a big tit like him.  My dad might not deserve my help, because he seldom helped me when I needed it, but helping him gives me the opportunity to prove that, if I'm going to be like my father, at least I can be an improved model.     

I helped Dad pack and move his things and then I watched as he called his wife's cell phone and left her a message on her voice mail, "Naomi, I can't take it any more.  I'm leaving.  I don't have too many more years left in this life and I don't want to die in misery."

It was the most pathetic, wussified break up I'd ever witnessed.  And yet I totally understood how Dad felt.  I'd have left Naomi a voice mail break up message too.  Don't judge.  You haven't met her.  She's the only person on the planet I've ever met who makes my dad seem charming by comparison.

My own parents rarely fought--Mom would retreat to the bedroom whenever Dad would start yelling--but they still had an unhappy relationship.  They divorced when I was twenty-one, in 1992, after twenty-two years of marriage.  Finally.  Mom first brought up the idea of leaving my dad when I was four and I'd been waiting around for it to happen ever since.

Mom was wife number two.  Naomi wife number three.  Dad now lives alone, in a low-income senior apartment complex.  For two years Dad lived with my sister Glenda, his daughter from Shirley, wife number one.  Their divorce was finalized six weeks before Dad married my mom.  When I was helping Dad pack his things and leave Naomi, he said to me, "I don't know what I'm going to do.  I've been married to someone my entire adult life.  I've never been alone.  But I've gotten to the point that I'd rather be alone than be miserable with Naomi."

So he moved in with my sister.  Unlike me, Glenda is nothing like our dad.  She must be more like her mom.  She's sweet and kind and caring.  She insisted on Dad staying with her until he found an apartment.  Finally, after two years, he moved into his own place.  I would have been as bald as Dad from pulling out my hair if he'd lived with me that long.  I don't know how she did it.

He's actually not as bad as he was when I was a teenager living at home.  I'm also no longer a teenager.  Me at age 42 and Dad at age 85 have come to a point in our relationship where we no longer yell at each other.  I've been practicing mindfulness and blogging about my anxiety and posttraumatic stress disorder, which centers me and creates calm in my daily life.  Dad's on drugs.  Finally.  Thank God.  Dad mentioned a couple of years ago that his doctor has him on Sertraline.  So that's why he's mellowed out.  Here I thought it was old age finally slowing him down.  For the most part.  Unless a snowstorm hits and he's stuck at home alone for two days.

"Becky, this is your dad.  I was wondering if you could come shovel my sidewalk?  I need to get out of the apartment.  Glenda said she'd send someone over this afternoon to do it, but I was wondering if, well, I just thought I'd call my daughter and ask for a little help since I never ask for anything, see if you could help an old man out..."

I said no.  

And I felt shitty all day about it.  Unable to help.  Unable to prove I'm better.  My OCD was flaring.  I kept checking and rechecking things that didn't need to be checked in the first place.  I can't help my dad right now, but I can make sure my car door is locked.  I can make sure I put that scrap of paper into the recycle bin and not into the trash.  I can make sure the faucet is turned all the way off so we don't waste water and taxpayer money.  Goddammit.

If Dad hadn't instilled in me such a strong work ethic, I'da been through the library gates, out to my car, and down the street with a shovel in my back seat, ready to shovel an old man's sidewalk.  

Instead, I sat there and answered the library's phone like a good little worker bee and felt like a shitty daughter.  I kept telling myself not to worry about it.  He had food.  He had water.  Someone would be there in just a few more hours to shovel his sidewalk and then he'd be free and he'd forget this ever happened.  It's not an emergency.  Quit worrying.  

But I couldn't help it.  No matter what kind of jerk Dad has been to me over the years, I still feel sorry for him.  I still care about him.  I still don't want him to die in misery.  But is my concern for him as selfless as it seems?  I don't think so.  It's because I see so much of myself in him.  I don't want to be eighty-five years old, holed up alone in my apartment, three divorces behind me, my child too busy to come over and shovel my sidewalk.  

I care about Dad because I'm a selfish jerk, just like him.

Mama Finally Got Her Frontline Fix: Raising Adam Lanza

I'm still holding a grudge against the Academy for not giving a Best Picture award to Brokeback Mountain years ago. Maybe that's why I wasn't very interested in this year's Oscars. Or, it could be because I only saw two new movies in the theater in 2012:  Brave and Mirror Mirror.  

Obviously my husband and I need to leave the kid with the grandparents and go on dates more often.  The problem is, his idea of a fun date night includes seeing The Hobbit and ordering a slab of ribs at his favorite barbecue joint.  Mine is seeing Silver Linings Playbook and ordering the vegetarian combination at my favorite Ethiopian restaurant.  I think that's how we got roped into only seeing kids movies at the theater last year: we both compromised and gave Katie what she wanted.

Now it's my turn to get what I want.  

I was at work at the public library when I stumbled upon the realization that last year I saw zero movies I had picked out for myself, that I was tired of watching kids' movies with Katie and action/fantasies with Will.  While checking out some videos for Katie and Will I suddenly wanted to get my hands on a DVD of my choosing.  A good ole drama that greases the gears of my critical thinking skills.  

We were getting ready to close the library and I still hadn't decided what DVD I wanted to check out for myself.  Everything I tried to find was already checked out.  There was a big snowstorm approaching the area, the second in a week, and other people who also enjoy quirky, darkly dramatic, plotless character studies had wiped out much of our stock.  I finally settled on a Richard Linklater film that had been on my To View list far too long: Waking Life.

Here's what imdb has to say about it:  "A man shuffles through a dream meeting various people and discussing the meanings and purposes of the universe."

Hells yeah, that sounds like my kinda movie!  Anything with one iota of possible ambiguity.  Something deep and meaningful and not necessarily possessing a happy ending.  I'm so sick of all these good guy vs. bad guy plots that comprise most movies I've seen lately.

I rushed to check it out, helped my co-workers with our closing duties, grabbed my stuff, brushed some snow off my car, and drove home.


But after all that, when I stepped through our front door, I choked back a sob when I looked inside my bag:  I had all the videos I checked out for Will and Katie, but not Waking Life, the ONE I checked out for myself.

After I had checked it out, I didn't have time to go into the back to put it inside my bag, so I just tucked it under my arm while I was running around closing the library. I must have set it down briefly and left it somewhere.  Inside the library that is closed now due to the snowstorm.

I'm telling you, the Hollywood fates are not on my side.

I thought about caving and renting it online, but why bother with Netflix when I can get it free from the public library?  I've waited this long to see it.  I can wait another day to retrieve it from the library.

Although today's an ideal day to watch a movie I like.  We're snowed-in.  The city plows haven't been down our street.  Katie's busy watching the complete first season of Pee-Wee's Playhouse on DVD from the library.  I could watch it with her.  I do love me some Pee-wee.  But I'm not in the mood.  So I moped downstairs and got on my laptop.  Facebook is my TV.  My grandmother used to like to sit in the lobby of her senior high rise and people watch.  She often grew bored with television, but she could sit in the lobby all afternoon and chit chat with her friends, coming and going, waving hi and bye, stopping by to show off the latest photo of the great-grandkids.  To me, that's Facebook.  It's my community center.  My neighbor's porch.  TV is boring.  Real life stories on Facebook is fun.

We don't even have a television that works with broadcast channels.  We just use it to play DVDs, even old VHS tapes Will has saved from his childhood or he's found at trade-in stores for cheap.  We dropped cable a couple of years ago to save money.  Now we catch all our favorite shows on YouTube or other free online sites.  While scrolling through my newsfeed on Facebook I noticed PBS had shared a new teaser to an upcoming show.  And then I remembered: I had planned on watching the Frontline episode Raising Adam Lanza last week when they posted it, but I got sidetracked with life devoted to taking care of others.

But this morning I managed to find some me-time.  So, while Will was outside shoveling the driveway and Katie was outside romping around in the fresh, new snow, I sat my butt down in my comfy chair and watched something because I wanted to.  About a mother who devotes her life to caring for others only to get shot with her own weapon by her own son.  

Chock-full of ambiguity, just the way I like it.

Watch Raising Adam Lanza on PBS. See more from FRONTLINE.

Katie's First Fanfic: The Black Cat, Based on the Movie Hocus Pocus

A month ago my friend Cindy came over to babysit Katie.  She brought the movie Hocus Pocus.  Katie has become obsessed with it.  I bet she's watched it ten times in the past month.  Today she showed me her first fanfic:

The Black Cat

by Katie Carleton, age 6

translated by Becky Carleton, age 42

based on the movie "Hocus Pocus," age 20

The Black Cat

The Beginning

By Katie Carleton

(continued from last page) But not the end of this story.

Once there were a cat named Thackery Binx.  He used to be a person.

Because the witches cast a spell on her.  The end of this book. (continued on first page)

Heads Up

When Katie's teacher sends me an email with "heads up" in the subject line, I figure it can mean only one thing: Katie's been yelling at her classmates again.

A month ago I blogged about the first email I got from Katie's teacher about her yelling in class and how we worked through the problem.  I realized that Katie might have learned to yell at her peers from modeling my behavior yelling at the dogs.  So Katie and I struck a deal: I'd try to quit yelling at the dogs if she'd try to quit yelling at her classmates.

It seemed to be working until yesterday when I got another email from Ms. B:

"Katie is not herself today.  She has gotten mad several times and has yelled at classmates.  I asked her if she would want to sit by herself at one of the tables and she said she would.  She told me she was tired.  Just thought I would let you know.  This afternoon has been better than this morning."

One thing I'm learning on my own private post-traumatic stress disorder journey is to not equate a mood with a personality trait.  I'm really bad at this.  Especially when it comes to my daughter.  Because I can't fuck that shit up!  Parenting is a big deal.  I want to get it right more than anything else in the world.  I want to raise my child to be healthy and self-actualized and strong.  The problem is, I've strugged with perfectionism since I was very young, and having a kid just heightens the anxieity that tags along with that disorder.  So when we stumble along the path to health, self-actualization, and strength, I start to worry if we're going the right way.

My child?  No no no!  There must be some misunderstanding.  My child is wonderful and empathetic and caring and considerate.  She would never yell at her classmates!  Would she?

I had to work late, so Katie was in bed by the time I got home.  Will had no idea what was going on because Ms. B just sent the email to me and not both of us.  He said Katie never mentioned anything to him.  He leaves for work before Katie wakes up in the morning, so the job of talking to Katie about her yelling at school again would fall on me alone.  Will and I have worked opposite shifts since Katie was born so we wouldn't have to put her in daycare, so we'd be raising her ourselves like we wanted to.  For the most part it works out, and we're lucky to have support from Will's folks and my friend Cindy when we need a babysitter.  But the downside of our work/home schedule is that it sometimes feels like I'm a single parent.  Which can make it interesting and spicy when Will and I find ourselves with some alone time - it's like we're dating again and, you know, the whole absence makes the heart grow fonder effect.  But on the parenting side of things it's sometimes hard, especially when I find myself having to deal with a delicate situation with no immediate co-parent backup.  I guess the good thing is that Katie doesn't feel like we're ganging up on her, more like we're just having a converstaion.

After she awoke this morning and made her way to the dining table, I set a cereal bar and a glass of water in front of her.  She has a poor appetite first thing in the morning.  She doesn't even like milk in cereal.  I can't complain because I'm the same way.  I'm generally slightly queasy until a couple of hours after I've woken up.  I would like to say Katie's poor morning appetite is not a learned behavior from me, that it's an innate characteristic that is not my fault for passing it onto her, but I don't know why she is the way she is.  Nature or nurture, I just find ways to work around it.  Like offering cereal bars and water and not making a big deal out of how experts say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  I say, listen to your own body and feed it accordingly.

I sat beside her with my own water.  I wouldn't even make coffee for another thirty minutes or so.  Seriously, just plain water is what I want first thing in the morning.  And very little talking.

I'm usually such a stickler for not much talking first thing in the morning.  One of the strangest things I discovered about Will and his family is how they spring out of bed all Good morning! and don't feel like punching the next person who greets them sunnily like I do.  But today I had to bite the parenting bullet and have a talk with my kid before she'd head off to school and start yelling again.

"Hey, Punk.  Is there something you want to tell me about that happened at school yesterday?"  I begain.

Katie looked at me like she had no idea what I was talking about.  Or why I was talking.  She's used to a mostly-quiet before-school mom.

"About not getting along with some of your classmates?"  I tried to nudge her memory.  

Suddenly her face changed like I'd discovered her secret candy stash.  "How did you knowed about that?"

"Ms. B emailed me.  But I didn't get it until after I got home from work and you were already asleep.  So I didn't get a chance to talk to you about it yesterday.  But we can talk about it this morning before school, OK?"  I said.

"OK," Katie replied.

"So what happened?  Ms. B said you yelled at some of your classmates yesterday."

"Yeah.  Alex and Kaylee were bossing me around."

"I see," I wanted to start lecturing her about not yelling at people, but I waited to see what else she had to say.

"And Kaylee was scaring me," Katie had been looking down at her lap as she talked but she raised her head and looked me in the eye like See, don't you pity me?

"Oh, no.  What was she doing that was scary?" I wondered.

"She kept getting in my face and saying, 'Boo!'"

This seemed suspicious to me.  Why would Kaylee do that in class?  It's not Halloween.  They haven't been reading ghost stories or anything.  But I wasn't there and what do I know?  Probably kids today, who don't live with fraidy cats like me, watch scary movies all the time and don't associate shouting "boo" at someone as something you do during the month of October only.

"Is that when you yelled at her?"  I asked.

"Yes.  I wanted her to quit scaring me."

"Well, Sweetie.  She shouldn't try to scare you.  But you shouldn't yell at people either.  When someone is treating you badly when you're not doing something wrong, but then you yell at them for it, you end up not doing the right thing too.  If you're annoying someone would you rather them ask you calmly to stop or would you rather them yell at you back?"

"I know, Mom." Katie said and looked back down.

I didn't want it to be like that.  "Good.  I know you know.  And you're trying.  It's really hard to not yell at people when they make you mad.  Do you remember the things you can do when you start to feel mad?"

"Yes, take deep breaths and count to ten or say my ABCs," she said in a monotone as if she were reading it off a script.

"That's right.  Did Ms. B have any other suggestions when she talked to you about yelling yesterday?" I asked.

Katie looked back up, smiled, and stood up.  "Yes!" she exclaimed.  "She had me jump up and down and pretend I was stomping on the world!"  She jumped up and down and growled like a wild beast.

"Wow, she let you do that in class?" I asked.

"Yeah, over in a corner by her desk.  It was kind of private."

"Huh.  That's cool.  How did you feel after you stomped on the world?" I asked.

"Great!"

"I might have to try this technique.  Next time I'm at work and I'm having a bad day, I can go out to the park and stomp on the world on my walking breaks," I laughed.

"You should, Mama!  It feels great to stomp on the world," Katie said.

I emailed Ms. B and told her about our discussion that morning.  She replied, "It could have been just one of those days. I will be in touch if she is troubled today."

So far so good, but I'm keeping an eye on my inbox.  I'm prepared.  If something pops up and I don't like the news, I'll get up and take a stomp-on-the-world break.

"Cafe" by Katie Carleton, Age 6

I think it's cute that Katie goes into such tremendous detail in her artwork, and yet she sometimes writes her Ps backwards.  Here's her most recent in a series of drawings of buildings shown from both the exterior and interior.

"Cafe, Exterior" by Katie Carleton, Age 6

Note the diners inside the windows.  She used her Lego Friends Cafe sign as a model for her sign.

"Cafe, Interior" by Katie Carleton, Age 6

Clockwise from top left: children's bathroom with little seats and sinks, indoor swimming pool with slide and a sandbox, elevator that takes kids upstairs to their bathroom and pool area, women's and men's restrooms, Katie and her husband Aidan and their two children dining together, another family dining together.  I like the marks showing how the elevator goes up and down and how the person riding it looks the same both downstairs and upstairs.

Polly Wolly Doodle: It's Baaaaaaack!

When our brother Pat was dying, other than Camel nonfilters and peppermint schnapps, what he mostly wanted was company and entertainment.  Our sister Kit flew into town and brought along a VHS copy of Alvin and the Chipmunks Sing-Alongs Ragtime Cowboy Joe.  My siblings are all much older than I am--between fifteen years and seven years older.  Kit and Pat were eighteen months apart.  So they remembered watching Alvin and the Chipmunks on TV together when they were little kids in the Sixties.

I don't, but I still had a good time.  So did Katie, even though she too was not nostalgic for the cartoon since she had never seen it before.  Pat, Kit, our sister Jenny, Katie, and I sat in Pat's living room, watching the video together and wiping tears from our eyes.  It was partly due to the heavy cloud of Pat's smoke enveloping us, but mostly it was due to the fact that everyone in my family has an absurd sense of humor.  We cracked up throughout the entire thirty minute video.  Our favorite part was the Chipmunks' interpretation of Polly Wolly Doodle:



For several months afterwards, up until his death in January 2011, whenever I'd talk to Pat he'd randomly shout out, "I'm baaaaaaak!" in an Alvin voice.

Now Katie does it.  After Pat died, Kit gave Katie the Chipmunks video.  We watched it quite often when she first got it.  As time passed, however, we moved on to other videos, and this one got buried under our couch.  So I was surprised to come home from work yesterday and have Katie resurrect it while showing me her latest drawing:

"Guess what it is!" Katie said, stomping her foot as if to let out a little energy without giving in to the full onslaught of jumping from excitement.

"It's someone going on a journey," I guessed.

"Yes!  It's Alvin."  Katie pointed to the sign labeled "soth".  "He's heading south to meet his maiden fair!"

"Oh," I said.  I still didn't get it.

"See," Katie traced along the route with her finger, "He's heading south just like in the Polly Wolly Doodle video."

"Oh!  I'm baaaaaaak?" I said in an Alvin voice.  "That video?  Did you find it and watch it again today?"

"Yes, it's baaaaaaak!" Katie said in an Alvin voice.  

She jumped up and down in full force, clearly excited for me to be home so she could finally share her joke.  Pat might be gone, but our family's absurd sense of humor lives on.

"Find the Missing Tick Tack Toe" by Katie Carleton, Age 6

Before you start judging Katie's poor spelling, I should fess up.  She asked me how to spell tic-tac-toe, and I was too busy doing the dishes to stop and look it up.  People think librarians are so smart.  It's not that we're smarter than anyone, we just know how to do research.  I'm a terrible speller, but I'm usually a good enough guesser I can look up the proper spelling of words as long as my hands aren't too soapy.

Here's Katie's drawing of a house with a tic-tac-toe game hidden within the bricks:

Here's the inside of the house, which Katie describes as the house she and Aidan, their two children, their dog and five puppies live in when she's grown up:

Clockwise from the top left: Katie's and Aidan's bedroom, son Aidan Jr's bedroom where he is playing with his race track, bathroom, stairs to the spare room where the puppies sleep, daughter Katherine's bedroom where she is playing with her doll, living room where Aidan is watching TV, kitchen where Katie is baking a cherry pie.