LOST A SOCK

Don't judge me today

As I write this post late on a summer afternoon, I sit in as much darkness as can be offered to me.  It has been an incredibly noisy day, and now as I shamelessly utilize my Forty-Two Inch Flatscreen Nanny for the boys while my baby daughter naps, I find myself pulling the blinds in the window nearby, and turning off the desk lamp.  Even the light was too loud at this point in the day.

So let's talk about child noise for a moment, okay?  Because I need to know... 

Are your kids loud?

I mean, some days, are they really, really crazy freaking loud?  And in this loudness they seem to jump at you, and wave their hands at you for attention, and need more drinks, have more stories, demand more butt wipes, create bigger messes than ever before and generally bounce off the damn walls?

I have two boys, ages six-and-a-half and three-and-a-half.  My six year old, who I previously believed to be the more mild of the two boys, has recently taken to climbing.  Climbing the furniture, climbing the non-child intended parts of the swing set, climbing trees, scaling the counter at Dairy Queen, happily climbing his sister's baby gates just because he can, as well as other various safety gates, bars and contraptions along our nearby lake, to name a few.  All the world has become his gymnasium and he has Deep-Seated Robot Instincts that drive him to conquer all that is large or horrendously dangerous.  (Case and point?  This is the kid who just now exclaimed, "Mom, look at this!" while balancing the baby's upside down Leap Frog table on one hand high above his head.  If it's not worth climbing, find another mildly dangerous use for it.  Quick!)  His smaller brother, while not the avid climber just yet, has reverted back to those all-too-familiar temper tantrums that we dealt with at age one, and thus has found his own plan of attack for Taking Down The Parental Unit.  Add to this the noise levels of previous mention, plus one recently crawling and standing toddler and surely you want to comfort me in your arms while stroking my hair and buying me nice coffee, yes?

Will you please listen?  What were my directions?  Focus. Don't karate chop your brother.  Don't kick your brother.  Stop picking up your sister.  Your sister is not a toy.  Marin what are you eating now?  Who brought legos to the baby?  Don't sit upside down on the couch.  Get your hands out of your pants!

Is this familiar to anyone? 

The ten year old next door has been lighting off bottle rockets and fire crackers all afternoon and today instead of passing judgement I shall simply deduce that he, too, was driving his mother absolutely crazy, and sending him outside with a flame and explosives was her last option.  He is no longer mesmerized by the new Star Wars cartoons on tv, God help me her.

I have learned, by now, that childhood runs through one phase after the next.  Someone tell me that my children will discover a deep love for quiet, and rest, next, right?

Use the force, Luke

It's summertime, which means there have been infinitely more activities available to our little crew lately.  We've visited our favorite part of Michigan, taken long walks all over town & fed the ducks at the lakefront, and spent days at the Museum of Science and Industry and the zoo.  Last weekend my girlfriend Jenny was installed as the Pastoral Associate of a parish in Chicago, so the boys and I attended her Sunday afternoon ceremony.

It was at A Church, which Kevin and I don't really cling to the concept of, so I found myself pointing out lots of unknown people and ideas to the boys during the ceremony.  That is, just after we snuck in late and Jackson threw up his hands and proclaimed in a thundering three-year-old voice, GOD IS HERE.  Thank you, son, for that.  (Stop the ceremony folks, we have arrived.)

Forty-five minutes later when Auntie Jenny was official and it was clear that my young son might never grasp the concept of a whisper, it was off to locate the hors d'oeuvres.  But not, of course, before we allowed her a few prized photo opportunities.  One of which was with Cardinal George, who is the head of the Chicago Catholic Church and President of the US Bishops. 

We waited in a good line for her turn to come, and then it did, and as her photo-op ended my child also took the opportunity to meet the Cardinal.  Jack introduced himself very matter-of-factly and shook the Cardinal's hand, and then he did the only logical thing for a person who meets the Holy Hierarcy to do.  He wove a little tale for the Cardinal, saying it was his birthday, and the Cardinal wished him a happy day.  Fantastic.

An interesting pair, indeed.

Now, this weekend was a little different, though we somehow still ended up in a traditionally quiet place with a three year old and the whole whisper thing wait your turn no wait stay here let's not clobber anyone, m'kay?

At the library in the next town over from us today, there was an afternoon event with many of the Star Wars characters.  And being as how just in the last several weeks Kevin and I have begun exposing our of-age children to the Jedi Saga of six Lucas films, we thought it a great opportunity to meet the real life Darth Vader.  Or a guy dressed up just like him, whatever people.   

And I realized as we moved from character line to character line, that Jack introduces himself to The Sith exactly as he does The Archbishop.  Except for the part where he told Boba Fett he would kick his butt.  That, thankfully, he reserved from church, miracle of all miracles. 

As we pulled up to the library event early this afternoon, we noticed that the parking lot was extremely full and people had even resorted to parking on the lawn.  Too bad this is what it takes to get people to a library, we mumbled as we pulled in.  And as we walked around I wondered briefly how many of the attendees ever bring their children to borrow books, or even read to them at all, because in my experience as an at-risk preschool teacher, it is far less parents reading to children than one would assume.

I stopped all the back patting quite abruptly, however, when it was time for us to leave the event.  Jack began insisting that we check out books and I explained that we currently have books checked out, at home, that are due on Tuesday.  No more than three books out at a time for you, three-year-old son.  We will be back on Tuesday!  And again after that!  And after that!  No books on Saturday when the place is packed and the lines are long and there are BOOKS at HOOOOOME!  

But his wails only grew louder, somehow echoing through the packed building with its cathedral ceilings and cold tile floors.  

"I WANT BOOKS!" my child screamed.  

I moved from kind reminders to pulling out all of the emergency parenting tricks I'd ever called my own, speaking through gritted teeth with promises of time-out and early bedtime and no dinner ever again and triple rent after college to just make the screaming stop until we would reach the safety of our vehicle. 

It didn't work, of course, any of it.  My son continued, over and over, screaming and crying louder and louder, "I WANT TO TAKE BOOKS OUT!  I WANT TO TAKE BOOKS OUT!"

Mobs of Star Wars fans turned around to look at the parents who no doubt never read to their children or took them to a library other than on Star Wars day, and now weren't even willing to get a book out for the poor neglected screaming child.  We were probably headed out of there to drop him off at his under-age full-time job from here for a little Saturday overtime, they thought, and his hard hat and steel toed boots were back in our car.

He melted to the floor screaming the same thing again and again at the tops of his lungs, and began kicking his feet as even KJ attempted to cover his mouth and save us all from sure embarrassment.  "I WANT TO TAKE BOOKS OUT!" he continued on and on.  Where the hell was Obi Wan when we needed him?

From off the floor Kevin picked up our stiff, reddened, screaming offspring and carried him towards the door as quickly as possible, though not before every parent in the place began whispering about someday failing the standardized tests, and tiny work boots. 

All the way through the spilled-over parking lot and to our car my son continued with an anger meant for armies of grown men, "I! WANT! BOOOOOOKS!" and there was nothing that could bring him back down from it. 

Across the way I locked eyes with a mother who laughed, and I knew for sure, so thankfully, that she had been there too. 

I've decided that next time I shall carry a sign that exclaims, AVID READER, CRAZY CHILD.  I'll carry it folded up in my pocket right next to the note that reads, PLEASE FORGIVE HIM, NOT REALLY HIS BIRTHDAY.  AND DO PRAY FOR ME.

We chat. They jump.

My two smallest children have a new shared love.

Jumping on my bed.

So now let's pretend that this is precisely the reason why I have made my bed so infrequently all these years, m'kay? 

It's because of the kids.  They just jump on it and mess it all up, those little rascals, they.

 

Now you just let them jump there, and I'll finally check in as if I remember from time to time that I have a blog. 

Now that the weather is perfect in every way, we have spent our days walking to the park, the library, the lake, the other park and the other park, every single afternoon without fail.  My upper arms are finally seeing the return of a little muscle action from pushing our double stroller all over town, and I'm sure my backside would see a difference, too, if I weren't offsetting all of the exercise by inhaling the cupcakes I baked for myself for the kids.  I mentioned here a couple weeks ago that I'd finally lost thirty of my fifty pregnancy pounds and just like that I fell off the wagon.  Interesting, yes?  I am determined to continue getting back on the doggone wagon, though, no matter how many times I fall off, because my eight month old baby girl is going to have a birthday at the end of this summer and then I can no longer say I am overweight because I *just* *had* *a* *baby*.  Something about using that excuse one year later bleeds I consumed six funfetti frosted cupcakes last weekend.

Keep jumping kiddies.  Blur blur blur.

I also went through my tumor check this week, which I have been doing every three months since last September.  And each time this rolls around I tell myself I shouldn't worry unless I know I need to, blah blah blah.  And every time I finish having those strong positive thoughts I begin worrying immediately about the ovary checking process (unpleasant) and the tumor marker blood draw (frightening) and then I spend all of the in-between days hoping this isn't the time I have cancer, three small children, blah blah blah.  Results next week, repeat in three months.  I informed my doctor, this week, that if another tumor is spotted I would most definitely benefit from a complete hysterectomy rather than just another take a chunk of this, portion of that again.  This worrisome process every few months is for the birds.  (Is it awful to admit that in the days before and after the tests until results come in I always sing in my brain We're Going on a Tumor Hunt, slightly adapted from a happy children's song?  THIS is precisely the reason I tried to convince the damn doctor to take all the guts on the operating table last year.)  (Also, yes, I know that is a very strange thing to sing.  Somebody mail me some coping skills.  I'll give you my address.) 

 

Yikes!  Bounce, fall, jump.  Giggle giggle giggle.

Little league is also still all kinds of fun, even when my son Mexican Hat Dances on second base.  I'll guess that becomes less cute when these kids play at twelve and thirteen, yes?  I've been trying to wrap my head around what sport and for whom might be next, now that we have reached That Age (oh how fast, babies, toddalahs, baseball players.  What next?  Driving?)  We did decide to sign Jack up for a two-mornings-per-week preschool in the fall for purposes of fun and socialization, and thus he becomes our double duty kid, homeschooling and preschooling both.  Nothing like conducting this parenting thing by the seats of our proverbial pants, eh?  My hope is that it will be a fantastic opportunity for him to make friends outside the shadow of his big brother, and pick up a whole new sort of structure along the way. 

The laughing and the blurring- it never gets old.

Aaaaand we're off- to the eye doctor this time.  Today is the day I finally stop applying super glue to KJ's glasses every few hours.  Fingers crossed he picks something good.

How's your intro to summer been?

Your Mom

It's Mother's Day, and I bet you'll be glad to know with my recent propensity for blogging only once or twice weekly?  That as long as you return to this website each day until I write a new post, it is still Mother's Day for all you moms. 

Monday?  Why, I have nothing to blog about.  And Mother's Day it is.

Tuesday?  Okay I do have something to say but the baby's diaper is leaking, my six year old has a little league game in an hour and the twelve baskets of laundry lining my bedroom floor won't be putting themselves away.

Wednesday?  Continue celebrating.  You're a real mother, I tell you.

And you get the idea.  Thank me later.

While switching loads of laundry this morning I thought about all of the Mother's Days we celebrated when I was growing up and I wondered if this Mother's Day thing, and motherhood in general, is what I thought it would be 100 years ago before I had kids.  I don't remember whether my mom washed my clothes on Mother's Day, and I don't know what she quietly thought about, or if she was happy with the way things were going on that particular day or in general for our family. 

My kids won't remember today either.  They made me presents and a card and told me that they loved me, and as a kid I thought that to be the most important part- to give mom something good.  But now I know as a mom, that the best part of all on this day and every day, as insanely cliche as it sounds, is just to have these kids.  They don't need to do anything or say anything or make anything.  Just being who they are without giving it so much as a thought, and being mine, is indescribably Good, even when it isn't.  Turns out the day isn't about celebrating my role in this family at all, but simply celebrating this family. 

Later this afternoon in five minutes we will have both sides of our families over for a feast, and to give them the gifts that we've been working on this week.

Last Sunday afternoon the five of us took a long walk together and played at the park.

The Sunday afternoon before that Kevin and I had front row tickets to this crazy wild rock show (where the drummer wasn't even wearing pants!)

Though the xylophone player kept making her way too far into the middle of the action for the drummer's liking.

The Sunday afternoon before, I don't know, but I really think most of them have been Mother's Days, and that's what I hope my kids remember.  And for when they someday read this, today I think we're doing okay, and even better than okay, and I love whatever it is we do when we're all together.  I didn't mind washing your clothes on Mother's Day (though we'll talk differently when you're 17, 14 and 12) and I quietly thought, this morning as I picked up the family room, about how and when we can finally add a giant table to that room and let the homeschooling begin.  I loved your pot holder and your picture frame this morning, but most of all I love you.

(Also, Marin, way to go on conquering the word Mama this week.  I may be second to Baba, but I get it.  Ha!)

Heads I win, Tales you lose

I painted with the kids again today.

This may sound like No Great Accomplishment to some, but whenever I manage to pull off this monumental task with three active little kids I always get the feeling that I Win At Motherhood.  At least until someone begins flipping paint onto my decent shirt and wipes Deep Sea Blue on my hanging white bath towels.  Or when I turn around to find Little Miss Exersaucer four inches behind me sucking on the plastic garbage bag from the paper recycle can.  Then, Hey! I Suck At Motherhood.  (But look!  Art, accomplished!)

*

Times have been rough here, lately.  We took a chance in a really big way a while back (which, in our defense, was not presented as "A Chance" back then, but rather "Incredible Opportunity Which Would Be Completely Crazy To Pass Up") and it is in mid-stages of imploding.  I've got approximately four people whom I can vent my heartaches to, and of course the internet is off limits for now.  My mind has been racing through our days over the last week or so, and by dinnertime I am dying to get the kids in bed so I can have a good cry already.  I want them to feel secure, and shelter them from grown-up worries as best I can.  You've felt this, right Internet? 

This may get worse before it gets better.  I choose to hold onto hope when it is honest, and panic as needed.  (Where needed equals often.)  I would love to believe that the best case scenario will play out here, but I have no way of knowing what will happen in time.  I know we will get through it somehow, though, because nothing lasts forever.  We do not fail until we give up (but we do constantly worry until we feel adequately sick.)

*

Attempting to witness the action, Jack managed to pee in his own hair today.  Newly potty trained boys can be dangerous.  I wiped his head on the painted blue bath towel.  Good enough until bath time tonight.

*

Our house-buying renters have sworn to us that they will carry out an entire one year contract if we are willing to offer it.  Selling the house at this moment is sure financial ruin; renting it for another year is only possible demise.  Dare we believe them?

*

Though I've not been documenting it here, I have lost thirty of the fifty pounds I gained during my pregnancy with Marin.  I finally feel like I am getting somewhere.

*

This morning I made appointments for my ovarian tumor re-check and a root canal.  I scheduled them for the same afternoon, back to back.  That should be fun, no? 

*

I am so grateful to be thirty.  I never could have handled all this shit at once, at twenty-five.

Boys

As I worked my way through the April pictures on my hard drive yesterday, I noticed that I have quite a few this-n-thats of KJ and Jack from recent.  (Which shouldn't be so odd, unless you consider that over the previous six months they've barely salted and peppered the Marin collection I have going.)  (But she's a baayyyyyybeeee.)

There are lots and lots of these, as oh yes, we have delved into the Wonderful World of Little League. 

I will admit to having many an unkind thought about Little League throughout all of March and April as I sat in the middle of a wide open, disgustingly squishy mud field through terribly cold, damp windy evenings, in a sinking lawn chair with chattering teeth, numb extremities.  I twisted schedules as far as I could to save Marin from sure misery, setting her up with my sister and her girlfriend as often as humanly possible.  Jack, on the other hand, happily attended each practice because apparently he does not mind hypothermic shock or being caked in mud from ass to toes...as long as there are other younger brothers to run around with.  And mud to play in.  I mentioned the mud, yes?  He also doesn't have to clean shoes and wash muddy laundry.  Heh.  Mud.

Thankfully there is a light at the end of the tunnel in the case of all these practices, and it comes when you get to see your cute little kid in a cute little baseball uniform. 

And all at once the weather grows slightly warmer, thank God, so that I can actually feel my fingers while scraping muddy gym shoes, pants, jackets, sockstoysstrollerwheels. 

Now?  Pretty fun, that Little League.

I think next year we shall skip practice season altogether and get right to the concession stand popcorn games. 

Also on my hard drive, children building tents everywhere, which is one of their afternoon favorites.

Playing in their two-man late-night band,

and game playing.

I love Jack's crazy expressions.

Also, this.

Am thinking it will be a while before he smiles for the camera again.  Male child, age three is in full swing now, folks.

...Giving way to this Loch Ness something or other. 

At least I have something to save for a high school girlfriend or two, right?

Not that the other one is without his own April '09 collection of crazies.

He does know how to work the camera, eh? 

That's mah boy.

This one's cucu bird picture collection will begin soon enough, I guarantee.  Those I can save for her teenage love affairs with the Jonas Brothers or Children of the Backstreet Boys or whoever is popular then.

She's been practicing. 

And most thankfully her practices take place on an indoor carpeted surface, sans cold, sans mud, muck, yuck- though sadly they do not involve paper bag popcorn, double butter little salt.  Trade offs, I tell you.

Goodbye, April!

Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn (that you went to bed tonight smelling like pee).

There's always tomorrow for baths, and then more pee opportunities anyway, right?

I have these blog entries swirling in my head, covering the ins and outs of our homeschool decision and action plan, as well as something or other about grocery bills and finances and the market, oh my.  But alas, my three chidren woke at 5:46am today and wouldn't you know it's Turn Off The TV week for KJ's school, making for a loooong day.  (Seriously, the kid gets a Dairy Queen Blizzard if he clocks no minutes of television in the next five days.  Dare I offer to buy him two blizzards if I can just get one hour of quiet?)

Also something terrible happened to our baby swing early last week, which translates to It No Longer Goes, and therefore my daughter has decided that her only happiness shall henceforth be my arms, swinging her like a worn out mama ape all the livelong day.  And night.

 

We finally made it into nice weather last week, which brought opportunities for a couple outdoor playdates as well as a trip to (say it with me) the zoooo.  Those be my children, absolutely mortified of the roaring Brontosaurus in the background there, as if I don't have to remind them to stop talking about Bionicles and Transformers blasting each others' heads off every five minutes at home.  Needless to say we steered clear of the life sized T-Rex exhibit.

We do well with downed trees, though.

Quick! (Before they dump her!) Baby's first slide!

I keep wondering, with each fun Spring day we conquer, if I will continue to be this tired at the end of each outing.  Running around with three young children is much like the longest roller coaster ride of your life.  Thrilling! Exciting! Totally fun! Sometimes makes you vomit! Aaaaaaand okay that's enough let's take a break from this ride, no?  Everybody wants to go upside down again?  Really?  Eh.

I honestly wouldn't have it any other way, in that being out, happy and free is our way, for sure, but most days the work that goes into occupying, teaching, feeding, bathing and constantly corralling three children continues to slay me.  I have learned to let go of luxuries such as commenting on blogs, leaving the house in spit-up-free clothing and keeping up with housework on floors that are not the main level...for now.  So they'll have the same sets of sheets on their beds until they are twelve, nine and six.  At least they're matchy, no? 

Also, I am learning to let them move at their individual paces during the day, which is how this happens...

The boy woke up twenty minutes into dinner, peed head to toe (and managed to pee on two! stairs,) went straight into pajamas, no bath, but happily ate a pound of broccoli.  Lose, win, yes?  His sister also pooped something fierce moments after the soaking scene, hearing that I didn't really care to eat anyway.  Ask me why I haven't dieted in a month, and why peanut butter slathered kaiser rolls are my late-night companion. 

Rounding out the week, Kevin took KJ and Jack to the annual Notre Dame Blue and Gold Game on Saturday (as well as for a drive into Michigan and then an impromptu trip to the beach, where Jack announced that the best part of the whole day was The Pop! that he drank back at the stadium.) 

This?  Gave Marin and I the day to slip away, ourselves -- for baby day with our Indianapolis pals.

Kara and Marin, sixteen and seven months respectively, are a laugh a minute together.  They squealed at each other, happily rolled around on the floor all afternoon and showed sure signs for being future BFF's. 

I also got in good quality snuggle time with my sweet little godson Nathan, who was both confused and nervous about all of the high-pitched squealing, giggling and baby tackling.  Where were the Bionicle Brothers, he wondered.  (Drinking pop, that's where.)

Spit-up covered roller coaster ride indeed.  But crazy fun, no?

Oh I could write a sonnet about your Easter bonnet...

(It may not be published until mid-next month, but hey, I do what I can.) 

One of my favorite Easter things to do with the kids is the egg dye.  KJ was barely a year old when I plopped him in his high chair and taught him to mix colors, and we've been having a great time with it every year since.  The most fun so far, I must say, is taking on this task with toddlers because, well, they're a freaking blast when it comes to semi-permanant dye and mess making. 

This year was good, with the green hands and the multitude of Optimus Prime-inspired eggs, but nothing ridiculously entertaining with ages six and three.  (This is why I keep having babies.  Next year?  Mwahahaha!  Another toddalah!)

 

Which, I fear the toddalah thing is going to happen sooner than I can wrap my brain around, because look at this one just sitting there with her basket and her brothers like she wasn't just fresh out of the womb yesssssssterday.  (She was, I swear.) 

Also, she is fully prepared to eat the damn Gerber cookie, wrapper and all, if I can't put down the camera and remove the cellophane already.

 

Eastaaaaaah.  (Two outta three non-goofballs aint bad, no?)

 

Strawberry Shortcake and baby sandals, oh my!

 

And she was as excited as I was about them!  Squee!

Then it was off to visit family far and wide, where we infected my sister Sant and her girlfriend Leslie with the stomach flu, and also my brother Jake, and then my mom, and then my dad (you know, as a thank you gift for spending the entire day before Easter helping Kevin construct our new swing set), and last but certainly not least we gave the stomach bug to my mother-in-law who is hospitalized with it as we speak. 

I bet they all can't wait to have us over again next year.

Take one down, pass it around

I grew up the oldest sibling of four, and very clearly remember whenever one of us would come home with any virus or the dreaded stomach flu, the sinking feeling I'd have in my gut, knowing for sure it was only a matter of time before I too would fall victim.  I was a sitting duck, bright red target on my back reading, Haven't been here yet, virus! Come and get me!

Little did I know my mother probably felt like the most obvious target of us all, with four little sets of hands picking up germs from four school classrooms and four surfaces of grocery store aisles, all ready to gift her with our next disease...just after she'd finished taking care of all nasty substances which had finally finished evacuating our bodies, now harboring hopeful safety to rise again from laundry baskets, bedding and carpeting alike.  My mom used to joke with the nurses at our pediatrician's office that they needed to put in a revolving door for us because we visited so frequently. 

(I hated that joke, I did.  I could see it coming from a mile away even as young as eight or nine.  Uh-oh, here comes the revolving door line, just after the co-pay!)

(So it should come as no surprise to you now that I am thirty years old, grey black hair with three children of my own, that at our pediatrician appointment this morning, the third multi-kid appointment in as many weeks, as our doctor walked through the office door to greet me with sick, half-naked oozing leaking spewing baby girl in my arms, boys seated quietly in chairs flopping noisily off their chairs, scrubbing the germ-infested floor with their bodies, the words - The Joke - shot right out of my mouth before I could stop it.  I didn't even wait for the co-pay, the nurses, the diagnosis.  I blurted out the bit about the revolving door AS IF I had always been this in-the-trenches mother of many, just like my mom was (right?) and not just yesterday a fun perky college kid still asleep at this ungodly hour.  And the doctor laughed just like she probably does with every mother-in-trenches, because we with The Revolving Door Joke and the co-pays are her Business.  Or possibly, she could have been laughing because clearly in the ruckus that was feeding and dressing everyone, packing the diaper bag, re-dressing the last of the vomiters, and racing out the door for the early appointment, I forgot to brush my teeth and spent the entire forty-minute drive doing the finger brush and glancing in the mirror while sucking down the only thing that could save my up-all-night ass, a monster Diet Coke as we hit the expressway.  At least my children were all wearing the proper sized clothes.  And shoes.)

(You love awful motherhood stories, don't you?  Wait.  I have more.)

So last week it was sinus infections, ear infections, low grade fevers, and upper respiratory crap.  Antibiotics, decongestants, nebulizer treatments, cooooooo-pays for all.

Dear young family,

We do love you so.  Thank you for keeping us in business.

Love,

Walgreens

***

Dear Walgreens,

Thank you for bleeding me.  See you next week.

Love,

A young family

And five days into us passing that around?  KJ began the stomach flu. 

I didn't even know that could happen!  The snotty stuff, the coughs, the ears - and then the vomit train right in the middle of it!?

Sitting.  Duck.

First KJ, then Jack.  (Jack who only hit "the bucket" once out of twenty-two lurches, and that once purely by accident.)  Then myself and Marin on the same day, thankfully saved by my mother who not only happened to have that no good awful day off work, but was willing to enter our nightmare so I could sleep it off in between sprints to the bathroom (gosh I should put in a revolving door for that woman.)  Marin is still hanging on to this stomach bug for dear life, gleefully passing it on to her father (who is at work with it as I type) and vomiting for now three days straight. 

As our doctor listened to her belly gurgle this morning she proclaimed that there is massive diarrhea on its way (Oh really?  Because the three days of up-the-back shit-splosions was the pre-show?  Fabulous!) and that if the vomiting continues through Friday she will need to be catheterized for a urinalysis, seeing as how sometimes urinary tract infections, our old friends, show up with vomiting.  Who knew?

Thankfully I was smart enough to cram in KJ and Marin's ear re-checks at the same time, instead of dragging the crew back on Monday for more vein bleeding co-pays.

I am so stinking glad these children got flu shots (followed by the flu, and then the flu, and then the other flu) last fall.  That was most definitely putting our dollars to good use.

 

We have no idea of which Trenches this woman speaks.

Do Over

I thought for sure on Monday morning, when I finally cut ties with this website, that I would finally feel a great sense of relief - finally, one less thing on my plate.  I had been considering it, honestly, for months already.  I hated the way my kids were put on hold and things around the house were neglected so I could crank out an entry several times a week, and I concluded that if I gave this one thing up it would allow me more time to scrape play-doh from every surface in my kitchen. 

My relief did not come, though. 

Instead, I've been so, so sad.

I have been thinking about it constantly - about how I can do this better, and how I might be able to publish something that I actually have time to proof read.  I've considered a new color scheme or layout, and I've given a lot of thought to how I might work time for this in differently (and the answer is, in between the 2am and 5am feedings, before the kids are up at 6:30 and the race for Not Late To Kindergarten begins, gah gah gah.)  

So instead of giving up blogging, I think now I will just get rid of the kids and the house instead.  For sure, that will solve my conundrum.

This is my Take Me Back, Baby entry.

Maybe what I need to say instead of goodbye, is that, DAMN, motherhood can be really freaking hard sometimes.  I want the absolute best for my kids, and I've figured out that, at least, means more of my time and undivided attention.  I want to live in a house with fairly clean floors and home-cooked nutritious dinners where there is infinitely less television watched than imagination exercised.  I want all of us to be readers and learners and to mostly get along.  I want outdoor time and weekly trips to the zoo and financial security.  And I have almost all of that, because I work really, really, holy crap, reeeeeally hard at it. 

But I also need time to myself and time to rejuvenate, and therein lies the lack.  I need time to write here and elsewhere, and for taking pictures and to pound my feet on the treadmill and to enjoy a book in between all of the laundry folding, bill paying, butt-wiping and grocery shopping. 

Maybe this is something I'll never figure out - how to get it all right.  Maybe what I need to accept is that I can get it mostly right and we'll still be okay.  (Will we?)

There was a good rythm to myself with two children every day.  The naps were figured out, the laundry was less, I had enough hands, eyes and ears, and I was finally returning to nice chunks of night-time sleep with children ages five and two.  We didn't see much of Kevin, but we were doing okay and making what we could of the time we had with him each week, because I could easily keep the nitty gritty under control while he was at work.

Then when Marin came along last September everything with our house sort of flopped on its head.  I tried from the first moment to get a grasp on how I was going to do this, because I had no choice.  And it has gotten easier over time, thankfully, but easier in a way that is not easy, you know?  It's not Marin, God help me don't think I blame my baby.  It's like mountain climbing with three backpacks strapped to you, just when you've built up the muscle required for two. 

Growing pains, right?

So long story short, I have no real plan, still.  (Ta-daa!)  I have concluded, however, that having this thing in my life makes me not sad, and a not sad mom is good for my kids, even if it means they've clocked an extra hour of damn Spongebob Squarepants against my better judgment.  I don't know how I will keep everything going once we begin homeschooling (because ohhh, we're going to!) but that can be a bridge we cross once our toes reach the first wood plank.  Or probably the third.