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?

Wherein Jillian Michaels drives me to try crazy things

Hi friends.

I know my blogging has been spotty lately, and don't you worry, I surely have hang-ups about it.  But I think we all need to walk away from the finger pointing for now, and hop back to it.  It is time to discuss evil.  Or, the Diet Coke of evil.  (Just one calorie.)

(Doctor Evil, Austin Powers, yes?)

(No-no Mini Me, we don't gnaw on our kitty.)

Onward.

So! I am still shredding.  

Level Two, Day Thirteen.

Okay, if you do the math that's like six days missing in there or something from my very first shred.  One time I was passed out on the couch when Kevin finally made it home from work to join me, therefore being forced to decide between Evil Sergeant Ponytail Kicking My Ass, or Sleeeeep.  (Duh.)  Several days later I pulled a muscle in my lower leg and gave it time to heal, on Saturday I walked a 5K and I took a pass on double duty exercise, and tonight I write. 

Wait, did I say a 5K?

These are the things that yuppie hippie somebody-or-others do with their Saturday mornings, and Kevin once, three years ago, but not me.  (Ok and Breain.)

Not me, that is, until we signed up for the race the walk to raise money for Make A Wish Foundation, which happened to wind through our favorite zoo in the world. 

Apparently even my lacksidasical commitment to the Shred is beginning to pay off, with a dive down into a lesser size of khaki shorts (thankyouverymuch) and the return for my willingness to try new things once again.  Apparantly I need nine full months to gestate and nine full months to embrace recovery from all the gestating.  Who knew?

 

So we woke our kids at six a.m. on Saturday morning and whisked them off to the zoo.  We figured KJ would never make the entire race walk without whining, crying, dragging, falling, hating and certain death, especially on an eighty-eight degree day, so he happily took the stroller option when we offered.  (No shame, that boy.)

We missed the official start by a few seconds as we spent too much time pilfering free peanut bars from the radio station table, and that sort of set the standard for our personal time.

Following the path of orange cones, we passed a volunteer every now and again who would cheer for us and holler something about a great job stopping to visit with the animals every twelve feet.  I never got over feeling goofy about that, all of the forced cheering while we hauled our offspring around the course, daring them to eat the peanut bars and just chill for a while.

We knew to stay to the left so that the real runners (who actually jog with their jogging strollers and not just occupy too-large boys) could pass as needed, and after a while of our brisk walking, then stopping, and more walking, we began to wonder how it was that all of these sweaty runners and their jogging strollers were coming from behind us.  Because, people, for sure we cleared off the peanut bar table so what could be left to delay their start times? 

Oh right, the panting fools were the supahstahs on their second lap. 

(Yeah, well wait until you're finished.  And starving.  Because my kids have eaten all the protein so now look where your sweat and speed has gotten you.  Hungry, that's where.)

Finally we made it around the first time, and then we started in for part two just as our boys were sooooo hottttttt and our baby was ready for a nap and a bottle.  Jackson made sure twelve times that we would be stopping at the playground this time around, and KJ vehemently hated the sun, the heat, the bumps, the path that failed miserably at passing through the reptile house and the entire idea of lap two. 

We, too, had worked up quite a sweat pushing strollers, though enjoying our morning exercise for a great cause. 

More thirsty now, smelly and definitely hot, I sort of lost my parental shit reached a breaking point a little ways into the final lap.  We were off to the side of the road again, mixing up a bottle for our fussy, overtired baby and trying to convince Jack that he needed not visit every bathroom that day, when KJ began objecting to seeing The Same Animals Againnnnnnnnnnnn, as if this were the new worst thing in the world just next to whole wheat bread and crust, when one's blackened hearted parents drag children from their early morning slumbers to have fun! exercise! charitable family time! glean vitamin D from the sunshine! 

Awful indeed, and all at once I became every mother that ever lived because I was TURNING THESE DAMN STROLLERS AROUND, totally finished with the grumbling, complaining and child misery.  Not until, however, I snapped at my husband right in front of three zoo staffers whizzing by in a golf cart, because couldn't he at least offer to help?!  Help me shake up this bottle that I've done ten thousand times?!  Couldn't he hold my hand or offer some sort of support or something?  Are you the one causing this boy to complain?  Your offspring?  Surely you have fault here, man! 

How pretty of me. 

Kevin convinced our crew to calm down and carry forward until we finally reached the playground, where we would then dump our children from their respective chariots to just run it off already as we cooled down.  Then we called it a day on the 5K 4K and quietly wished for the deodarant left back at the car.  We made peace with each other, and visited the reptile house. 

As we headed towards the gate my eye caught a family of five, just like ours, with two boys the ages of our boys, and a baby girl.  I smiled immediately because I so love seeing families like mine, and I always wonder what their daily lives are like and how they handle the highs and the lows.  And just as I turned to alert Kevin to our selves in another life, I clearly overheard the father say to his oldest son, "You know, why don't you think of something FUN about this day instead of constantly complaining?!"  

And in that moment I wanted to run up and shake that man's hand.  Or kiss him, even, if not for being so smelly and tired and married and whatnot.  (Oh how misery does love company.)

Our next walk, which surely we will attempt again, shall involve a babysitter.  And a crisp fall afternoon.  And ear buds.

***

Miracle of miracles, I caught up on uploading recent pictures today.  They live here.

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.

And all at once there was much ado about the universe, longevity and the damn treadmill

My website, it needed a little tweaking.  And I am still working on it, FYI, should you find the place a mess.  (Don't tell me you're looking at my half-finished mess, eh?)

So last week was...well...just what you would expect when this sort of thing happens.  I hope she was satisfied with everything, and that she is happy and free from suffering now.  I will never again hear Nat King Cole's "Smile" without thinking of my Aunt.  She chose the song herself to be played, and we did, several times.  And several times since.  So fitting a last message from her, it was.

And also as things go when this sort of thing happens, or for me when it is an average Tuesday afternoon with blue or even grey skies and I'm washing dishes, it leads to the sudden overwhelming realization that, Damn, We Don't Get Very Long Here.  Just like that, we are here and then we are gone. 

Then of course I proceed to over-analyze all that falls in the middle of Here and Gone, and pinpoint the places where I know I fail to push myself to my greatest potential and how I plan to accomplish all of those quiet little enormous goals I find so appropriate for Some Day.  Next thing you know I've got myself fifty-six years old publishing my third book, having raised seven children, three or four of whom we adopted from far-away Africa and oh wait, reality returns as I suddenly notice three-year-old Jackson sauntering around the kitchen with khaki shorts around his ankles, waiting for his mother to snap out of it and pull his damn pants up already.  He needs a green popsicle, too.

All of my tumor tests came back fine and well in the middle of everything last week, so we carry on cheerfully for another three months.  In the wake of it all I also decided it was high time I increase my own life insurance, having not done so since KJ's birth almost seven years ago.  And knowing full well that we've been unneccesarily paying terribly inflated premiums all these years for the sake of convenience, I gave our Insurance Everything Agent a jingle for a quote. 

Now, all those years ago when I initiated the policy I was, as you may remember, quite a bit more overweight than I am presently.  And because Joe Insurance worries mostly about whether his clients help themselves to heaping bowls of cookie dough ice cream in hard times, and not so much whether they drive drunk, whore around on weekends or smoke heroin, I was rated higher than average in terms of my premium.  I lost almost a hundred pounds a few years after that, of course, mostly by pushing our double stroller up and down the main streets of town right past Joe Insurance's office window, but I don't think I quite got over the humiliation of having the man call my twenty-three year old self out onto the stage carpet about my obesity back then, because even when I lost the weight I still lacked the gumption required to march in and drop a digital scale square in the middle of the office's red carpet, demanding my effing premium back. 

So I'm on the phone with the man this afternoon, racing through the house to find the nearest quiet room with locking doorknob as he's explaining to me that I am doomed to shell out more cash because of my super-deathy-risky weight problem - of course having not seen me in years he is now sure that I am terribly fat and thirty (and have probably panicked and dyed my hair black at least once) (not) and suddenly I am reliving the awful conversation all over again.  Heh, I lost a whole ton of weight after I had my second child, I explain, but then quickly offer that I (JUST!) had another baby, though, and decide in my mind that I am in no way prepared to wade through this discount-no-discount bullshit again, I really could have been the Biggest God-Blessed Loser a couple years ago IF I ONLY WOULD HAVE JUST ADJUSTED THE RATES THEN. 

I had no idea if I would have been categorized as Just Fine this afternoon or Practically Crossing Over in his book, but I didn't want to know.  What I did want to know, however is why my premium for the exact same coverage as Kevin should cost more than double what his does.  Never might one refer to my husband The Little Guy, either.  I asked, and he referenced the weight factor again (hey man, do you have a wife?) and I kindly instructed him to go fly a kite as I combed the internet for a new company for the both of us.  I found more than one, thankfully, who did indeed ask my weight and it turned out to be not a big deal, even though I continue to carry more baby poundage than I'd prefer at this point. 

But I stewed (you bet your next bowl of ice cream I stewed) for quite a long time after that, deeply feeling the injustices of being obese whether I am or not or somewhere in between.  I was so mad about the whole thing- about that disconcerting conversation all those years ago; about the fact that food was, and still is so many days, my crutch and my comfort, and about not having the courage to correct things when I should have.  I was so angry and frustrated and sad today, that I worked so hard for so long to finally lose so much weight only to put half of it right back on during pregnancy and to now struggle again to get it back off.  I was terribly mad this afternoon for all of the overweight people who are mocked and stared at and looked past simply because their bodies become physical evidence of their coping with whatever life has thrown their way, when there are so many other addictions and problems that are simply not obvious at first glance. 

I was so damn mad this afternoon that I eventually marched down the stairs and turned on my treadmill.  I ran, allowing my feet to proudly pound the belt, over and over as hard and as fast as they could, daring myself to keep quiet the emotions I thought might cause my chest to burst- that I do deserve decent life insurance, and I will get this baby weight off.  And this time I'll march right in to Joe Insurance's office, slap my Other Company's life insurance papers on his desk and do ten - no - fifty - push-ups with one hand behind my back and one leg in the air, however that works.  And then I'll tell him...to pay for my rental house, and also the one I live in, should either of them ever burn to the ground.  Because I can imagine it a real pain in the ass to completely change insurance companies with that kind of stuff.

Hallelujah.  Holy Shit.

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.

Choose Your Own Adventure

 

You'll remember this little gem, yes?

Okay, so it's been a relatively quiet eleven months and if you've not been reading for much longer you maaaaay not know that when we moved?  Back in 2007?  We never sold this little puppy. 

Yep, that was the point in time that our country was calling this Nightmare Economy a "Buyer's Market" and people still had jobs and retirement accounts and one could score an interest only mortgage for as little as twelve cents down happily paid with a MasterCard and three salted french fries.  No shortage of buyers that visited our little place, for sure, and unfortunately, no shortage of deals gone bad when it came to the not-sale of our little house.

At this time last year the house was just to the point of tossing dirt upon our heads as we lay in our deep financial grave, and we were left with no choice other than to foreclose find renters.  Fast. 

I like to call myself a doggone economy-downturn pioneer.  Bitches.

(I don't know.  The title, it didn't seem complete yet.)

So our renters signed a one year contract with us, and they kindly paid on the first of each and every month for a whole year and as far as we are capable of knowing, they've taken care of the house.  And they're nice, too.

I took the year and worked my ass off to dig us back out of credit card debt for the second time (where credit card debt is to nine months of two house payments as vomiting from your toes is to the stomach flu) and I went to great lengths to begin rebuilding our obliterated savings account.  Oh yeah, and I had a baby, too.

You love happy stories, don't you?

So recently, just as we began talking sophomore contract with our totally fabulous renters, we were alerted to the fact that we unknowingly (wherein accidental landlords probably would not know but eventually came to know) did not remove the mortgage and homestead exemptions on our old house when it became --- now say it with me, and annunciate, in a slow whisper -- when it became an "Investment Property."  (In the "Buyers Market.")  (Haaaaaa hahahahahaha.)  

So apparently our county really likes you to live in a house if you're getting a tax exemption for living there, and therefore they estimated the back-tax bill to be rather extremely large, and in the mail. 

I'd like to say something clever here, but only the phrase Beginning of the End comes to mind.

Because then bad-ass Escrow had to get in on the action, causing the payment on this little non-homestead of ours to increase by a couple hundred bucks a month, nevermind the fact that our rent checks already aren't covering what actually gets paid to the bank every month.  (But hot damn!  We have great credit!  We're honest suckers payers and we didn't foreclose with the rest of the free world.)

Now let us pause for a moment and think about Spring tulips and baby chicks.  It is what I tried to do when I heard this news, and also I placed my fingers in my ears and sang loudly until I realized that I just looked like a damn idiot and needed to start making out the check.

 

Who can forget the Knucklehead Smiths next door, eh? 

So after our uber-fabulous renters accidentally disclosed the fact that they were not only fully committed to signing another year contract with us but also are currently house hunting for something later this fall or early winter (thus leaving us high and dry in the snow, oopsie) we sort of wondered with the couple hundred dollar payment shortage, the tax thing, the new renter search, if we shouldn't just try selling again.  Look, I know the market is still shit, but maybe we'll get lucky, right?

Hrrrrmmm...  Did I mention the Knucklehead Smiths next door did foreclose in the past year? 

Ohhh they did, and now the Banklehead Smith property is on the market for approximately HALF of what the Knuckleheads bought it for, capping our available asking price somewhere around the twenty eight dollar marker.  Why buy ours if you can get the house next door with a garage and an extra bathroom for thousands less, eh?

We tried to strike a deal with our renters to purchase our place, though they respectfully declined (though still looking for a new lease for whatever reason?)  We've talked about hanging on to it for another year and bleeding the couple hundred dollars per month, though lets face it, my husband works in the financial sector and jobs are anything but guaranteed and stable anymore.  Last, we've talked about bare asses to the breeze, listing the empty house again and shelling out an ungodly amount of cash from our recently partial rebuild of an emergency fund to cover the difference between the final sales price and what is actually still owed on the mortgage.  If we can sell it this time.

We've got mere weeks left in the safety of paid-up renters, so we're going to have to figure this one out pretty quick, eh?

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.