Beware of the Distracted Minivan Mom

The garbage collectors are conspiring against me. 

Every Thursday night, Tyler rolls the trashcans out to the curb and parks them to the right of the driveway.  And every Friday morning, the garbage men empty the trashcans, and toss them haphazardly behind my minivan.  And then I swear they then pull around the corner to watch, because every Friday morning, I run over the trashcans.

With my van.

Every. Darn. Time.

Obviously, I don’t have a fancy car with those cool rearview camera features.  I drive a crap mobile van that my children have made their mission to stink up and destroy, and I have made my mission to drive into the ground.  I can’t even call it a Honda “Odyssey” anymore, because the little metal sign identifying it as such fell off a couple of years ago.  I think my van is embarrassed.

It’s not that I’m not paying attention, though.  If anything, I’m hyper-aware of any potential small children behind my reversing van, which is why I pull out super slow.  And probably why I run over the trashcans super slow.

Every. Darn. Time.

Stupid blind spot.

Let’s face it – I’m just not on the lookout for large, plastic trash receptacles when I’m driving my crap mobile van.  I used to be a good driver, but then I had four children.  Now I’m the distracted minivan mom weaving down the road whom the rest of you are trying to pass.

No, I don’t text and drive.  I rarely even talk on the phone and drive.  But what I do do is chunk fast food and Happy Meal toys at my children while hurtling down the highway at 65 mph.  Why?  BECAUSE THEY ARE HUNGRY AND THEY WILL DIE IF THEY DON’T EAT RIGHT NOW!!

Or I am going 33 mph on a 40 mph road because I’m busy hollering at the kids.  Usually because the girl pinched the boy who was looking at the other girl cross-eyed and the third girl started yelling and then all of the girls announced THEY WISH THEY DIDN’T HAVE A BABY BROTHER!!

Or I don’t hit the gas pedal the exact second the light turns green because I am trying to adjust the volume on the radio to just the right point so that it’s basically too loud for the tender-ears in the back, but too soft for the deaf kids in the front.  That way, EVERYONE IS UNHAPPY!!

So yes, I am the driver that the rest of you hate – and occasionally make rude gestures towards.

Fortunately, and by the grace of God, I have not had an accident.  Outside of the neighborhood.  Inside the neighborhood is a different story, though.  Of course, there are those darn trashcans. And… the mailboxes. 

Now, I’ve only hit three mailboxes.  And really, I only count two, since I hit my own twice.  The first time, I was pulling into the driveway at a weird angle because I was simultaneously distracted by the kids and trying to AVOID THE TRASHCANS.  And since I didn’t do enough damage to the crap mobile van that first time, I went back for a second round.  An estimated $1,500 second round.  (Look, the side door still opens.  It even closes sometimes.  I am NOT forking over $1,500.)

The other mailbox was totally not my fault.  Anyone will tell you that it sticks way out in the road.  Granted, I may have taken the curve a little fast because I was late getting the children to school, but that’s beside the point.  I hit the mailbox and knocked my right-side mirror clean off.  And because that wasn’t enough, I ran over it with my back right tire.  Yeah, that one we had to fix.

So trashcans.  Mailboxes.  Oh, and that concrete support-thingy in the parking garage.  But that time it was Tyler distracting me, not the kids.  He kept yelling (“Watch out!” I later discovered) and I turned to look at him.  Luckily, the mechanic hammered that dent out as a freebie.  After my third oil change, he told me he was tired of looking at it.

If only my garbage collectors were as kind as my mechanic.  Of course, collecting trash is kind of monotonous.  I’m probably their only source of weekly entertainment.  It’s kind of like I’m provided them a service.  I wonder if I can get any sort of discount for that?  I could really use the money for car repairs.

Huh??

There is no such thing as volume control in my house.  My children produce sound at two levels: ear-splitting and earth shattering, and there are NO mute buttons.  You want silence around here?  Check things out between 3:10-3:24 a.m.  (But no guarantees.)

The thing is, noise level isn’t necessarily a crisis indicator.  That’s just the way my kids communicate.

Need a snack?

“MOM, I’M HUNGRY!!!”

See some furry critter in the backyard?

“LOOK AT THE BUNNY!!!”

Sibling walks within twelve feet of your personal space?

“GET OUT OF MY WAY, YOU STINKY BABY!!!”

And my personal favorite:

“BE QUIET, MOMMY IS TRYING TO SLEEP!” 

It doesn’t take a keen observer to realize that all the shouting is a product of genetics.  Just listen to their father.  You’ll usually hear variations of a few different themes, including “TURN OFF THE LIGHTS IN THE [KITCHEN, BATHROOM, BEDROOM, GARAGE]!!!”, “CLOSE THE [FRONT, BACK, GARAGE, CAR] DOOR!!!”, and “STOP HITTING YOUR [SISTER, BROTHER, FRIEND]!!!”  And my personal favorite:

“BE QUIET, MOMMY IS TRYING TO SLEEP!”

The best is when Tyler and the children come together in one, ear-drum rupturing cacophony of noise.  Around here, we call it “Wrestling with Dad.”  Are they having fun? Is he killing them?  It’s hard to tell when he’s got four screaming children pinned to the floor in a combination of Krav Maga / jujitsu moves he learned from watching Saturday night UFC fights.  But since the kids always come back for more, I figure the screams are all happy ones.

Personally, I’ve learned to deal with the noise by slowly going deafer with each pregnancy.  No, really.  At first, I assumed that I inherited my progressive hearing loss from my father, a retired airline captain.  But it turns out he can’t hear anything thanks to decades of being around loud jets.  I just had four children. 

I like to think of it as God’ protection over me.  And them.

In the midst of my own noise complaints, I recently discovered that while I think my children are exceptionally loud, they think I’m pretty loud, too.  Perhaps it’s because I can’t hear my own voice anymore.  Or perhaps I made one or two genetic contributions of my own.  But it turns out that they can be equally as intolerant of my noise as I am of theirs.

Last night, in the midst of bedtime chaos, I decided to try and move a piece of furniture around downstairs.  After it crashed to floor, Ella shouted at me from her bedroom, “MOM, TRY TO BE QUIET!!  YOU SCARED THE SHEEP OUT OF ME!!!”

Wait.  What??

Fortunately, my unreliable ears were not playing tricks on me.  She really did say “sheep.” 

I still have yet to determine where exactly she heard the phrase that she so obviously misinterpreted.  I'm just glad she didn't hear it correctly.  Maybe all the noise around here can work in my favor.  Once in awhile.

Hope PETA isn't Reading This

Mother Nature shudders at the sound of their voice.

I suspected this when Santa delivered our 2 sweet, orange kittens on Christmas morning a few years ago.  After a few months in the hands of my children, our one kitten, Matty, grew into the skittish cat who sleeps under my bed and darts for the safety of my closet whenever she hears their voices getting close.  Her brother Newton, on the other hand, parks himself up high enough to take a swipe at the face of any child who comes within 3 feet of his chosen perch - whether they see him there or not.  Which is why he's currently sporting a set of purple plastic claw covers and an ad for a new home on Craigslist.

Any takers??

Of course, Mother Nature's cause for terror was confirmed during our vacation at the beach this past week, where my children discovered their talent for making money.  Or in this case, collecting sand dollars.  The two seemed sort of interchangeable to them, because once they found the first one, they were well on their way to collecting 100.  You'd've thought they worked for the IRS the way they hunted down every last dollar.

I was surprised at how eager my sweet Emily was to sign off on these sea creatures' demise, though.  If I am to have one, this is for sure the child who will be a vegetarian.  She cries when the chicken trucks drive by our house on their way to the Tyson plant, and asks me over and over, "Those are the mean  chickens, right?"  She doesn't believe that the meat in her fish sticks comes from the "real fish that live in the ocean."  Odds are, it doesn't, but I also didn't have the heart to tell my Little Mermaid fan that I ate flounder for dinner the other night.  That conversation would NOT have gone well at all.  But she seemed unconcerned when I explained that the sand dollars were living creatures and that by taking them home, we would be killing them. 

"That's okay, Mommy.  I don't mind."

I finally talked the kids into selecting 3 each to keep, and we returned the rest of the sand dollars to their low-tide home.  Along with the starfish they'd been molesting for about an hour, who surprisingly managed to keep all his limbs.  By then, they had moved on to one of the little hermit crabs they'd found.

"Can we keep him, Mommy?  PLEASE???"

Yes, I was weak-willed.  But I had every intention of rescuing that hermit crab later that day, so I filled a cup with some sand and sea water, and Jerry was dropped dumped carefully placed in his new home.

I have no idea what hermit crabs eat, and to be honest, I kind of forgot about Jerry until a few days later when we were packing up to leave and the kids asked me what we were going to do with him.  Peering through the plastic cup, I assumed the poor little guy was just one more victim of my children's love, but then I saw him pop out and skitter around the periphery of his tiny tank.

Son of a gun, he made it.

I felt like I needed to reward Jerry's fortitude, so while the rest of the family took off for home, my sister Julie and I headed to the beach with the hermit crab in tow.  I honestly can't explain it, but we really felt like we owed it to Jerry to give him a second chance at life.  As I stood with him at the ocean's edge, I could almost hear the sound of nature sighing with relief that my children were headed home.  I hummed a little bit of Born Free and then bent to release Jerry back into the ocean.  I'm pretty sure I heard him cheer "Yippeee!!", but it was just before a giant wave crashed over him, turned him upsiade down, and washed him out to sea, so I can't say for sure.

Poor little guy.  Maybe my kids aren't the only ones Nature wishes to avoid. 

Gosh, I hope he made it...

Good Intentions Won't Pay the (Therapy) Bills

My sister (the brilliant photographer I feature on this blog and the only person on earth who can capture a decent shot of my obnoxious children) is pregnant with her first child.  So far, she hasn't come seeking any motherly advice from her big sister, probably because she doesn't want to hear what I have to say:

"STAY PREGNANT!!!"

You can't screw your kid up if she's in utero for the next 18 years.

It's too late for me, though.  Which explains why my four little blessings are such a mess.  I feel like it's on my daily "To-Do" list: Make sure the kids have plenty to discuss in future therapy sessions.

Check.

I not trying to make such a muck of motherhood.  Really, I have the best intentions.

I recorded Soul Surfer a few weeks ago, thinking I would finally see the movie my mom keeps hounding me to watch.  Ella, of course, found it while scrolling through our DVR list and immediately started begging me to let her watch it.

Ella.  The girl who doesn't like "Grandma's Beach" because it had a jellyfish.  Once.

So a film depicting the aftermath of a shark attack on a young girl DID NOT seem like a good idea for my young girl, who is going back to Grandma's Beach in 3 weeks.  So I held firm and said no, until she wore me down last Saturday and I said yes.

I did all of my due diligence for the movie first, reading reviews and skimming through various web sites to see if there was anything I needed to prepare Ella to see.  I guided her through the film's location ("FAR away from Grandma's beach") and prepared her for what she was going to see ("A shark is going to bite off Bethany's arm, but then everything ends up happy").  Finally, we sat down to watch the movie.  Ella got a little scared at one point, but then she ran upstairs to put on her bathing suit and rash guard. 

Which she hasn't taken off since.

She also found a small paddle board in our pool bucket and practiced "surfing" on our family room carpet.

I got pretty relaxed about the whole thing once I saw how Ella responded to the movie.  Or perhaps I should say "lax," since Emily, Evie and Ty wanted to get in on the Soul Surfer action and I didn't stay on my game.

This weekend, while I thought the kids were watching the innocent antics of Tom and Jerry, Ella was actually showing everyone "the movie about the girl who gets her arm bit off and doesn't grow another one."  Which confused the twins, because they just assumed it would.  Grow back, that is.  Once they got past the initial shock, though, they were okay, and I took the opportunity to explain how God can take the bad things that happen to us and use it for good.

Clearly, my message took, because last night I walked in on the girls in the bathtub playing "Shark Attack."  They were all taking turns, with one girl playing the part of the shark and the other two sticking their arms behind their backs, screaming "My arm is gone!  You bit it off!!" 

Ty's got it all figured out, too, because at the store today he tucked his arms in his shirt and announced, "My arms got bit off!"  Then he whipped them back out and threw them in the air.  "Oh, there they are!"

Oh, God.  Well, I just hope He can use all those future therapy bills for good.

And that my sister doesn't give birth before 2030.

Grieving Good Friday's Child

It's ironic, I know, that the woman who gave birth to those 4 little munchkins on the right (in UNDER 4 years, mind you) used to struggle with infertility.  But there was a time, nearly a decade ago now, when I thought I might never be a mom.  For two years, I endured every marital embarrassment and every invasive medical test my doctors could throw at the problem, but with no clear results.

Unexplained infertility.

Then in February of 2003, I had a glimmer of hope - a brief, positive pregnancy that ended on the day I discovered it.  Valentine's Day.  Tyler and I were out of town with friends, and trying to keep our baby-making ordeal under wraps.  I swallowed a handful of Motrin and grieved quietly in the condo bathroom.

The following month, we were out with friends celebrating my birthday.  On the way home from dinner, I told Tyler I thought I was pregnant again.  We stopped by a drugstore to pick up a pregnancy test, which I took the minute we got home.  But I was too chicken to look at the results.

I waited on the couch, pleading with God for a positive test, while Tyler went to check the stick.  He was taking forever, so finally I yelled at him, "What does it say!?"

"Um, I don't know!"

"What do you mean you don't know!?!"

I ran into the bathroom and looked over his shoulder.  And realized that I didn't know either.  There were two lines, but one looked so faint, it was hard to tell.  We jumped in the car, sans shoes, and drove back to the drugstore with test in hand.

"What do you think this means?" I asked the pharmacist.

He wasn't sure either.  He broke open another test box and re-read the instructions.  "Well, I think it means you're pregnant.  But here, why don't you take a few more."

I bought a handful of pregnancy tests, all different brands, and took them home to try.  One more test that night and another two thing in the morning confirmed that I was, indeed pregnant.  Tyler and I were beside ourselves with excitement, and I spent the rest of the day floating around in a happy fog.

Until I saw the blood.

The doctor checked and assured me that I was still pregnant and that a little spotting was normal.  After some calculations, she set my due date at December 21.  I was ecstatic.  The best Christmas present ever.

A few days later, we drove to Stone Mountain to surprise Tyler's parents with the news.  Shock, hugs, laughter, and tears.  It was everything the "big announcement" is supposed to be.  We spent the rest of the evening together dreaming of our future child and grandchild.

The next day was Good Friday.  Our entire family was coming to the house for Easter.  It was my first time hosting a holiday, and I had an extensive grocery list to knock out that afternoon.  I decided to drive the extra distance to the "good" grocery store, and along the way I found myself talking to my stomach and the baby inside.  I can't remember for the life of me what I said, and I know I should've felt like an idiot.  But all I remember was how happy I felt driving to the store on a gorgeous spring day, blathering on to the little life I was carrying.

Thirty minutes later, I was standing in the produce department when my phone rang.  It was my doctor, calling to tell me that my pregnancy wasn't going to be a viable one.  My progesterone levels were dismal and, knowing that we were going into a holiday weekend, she didn't want me to be alarmed and alone when the bleeding started.

Instead I was alarmed and alone in the middle of the produce department. 

I staggered though the check-out line, holding it together until the groceries were loaded and I was safely tucked back into my car.  And then I lost it.  I don't remember the drive home; only stumbling through the door and into Tyler's arms, sobbing and overwhelmed by grief.

Later, we drove to my parent's church for a Good Friday service.  Tyler had called them earlier to tell them I was pregnant.  Or not.  It wasn't much of an announcement, although both Mom and Dad felt I needed to hold on to some hope.  But my brand-new mother's intuition knew it wasn't to be.  I stood in worship that evening, understanding in a way I never had before the grief that the Father must of felt when He surrendered His Son to death.  By the end of the evening, I had surrendered my child as well.  The miscarriage came and ended quickly, over by Saturday morning.

I decided to name the baby Abigail.  I also named my Valentine's baby: Samuel.  I think some of the people around me thought I was crazy.  I'd hardly been pregnant with either of these children.  Sure, it was okay to be sad about not being pregnant anymore, but to identify the loss as children?  I'm not sure anyone really understood.

Which was unfathomable to me.  In my circle of friends, most oppose abortion.  They believe that life begins at conception.  Why then, were they surprised when I grieved for my babies, and for the promise of life that I'd lost?

We went on to lose a third child, Isaac, who I clung to for nine agonizing weeks, although the doctor gave me little hope of success.  His loss was the most devastating, and the most physically painful, though again, I don't know that many understood the depth of my grief.  Had I been further along, had I been able to hold child in my arms before surrendering him to heaven, I think it would've made sense to people. 

I read a statement the other day on Facebook.  Something about how if scientists were to discover one living cell on a distant planet, they would proclaim to have found life elsewhere in the universe.  But one living cell in the uterus of a woman?  It's a blob.  A mass of disposable cells.

I'm not sure we can have it both ways.  I'm not making an argument for or against abortion, here.  This isn't about political or social issues.  It's about grief.  My grief.  Personally, I believe that life begins at conception. 


Today is Good Friday, the day I always remember my little Abigail.  But Good Friday doesn't mark the end.  Sunday is coming.

I believe that I will see my babies again in heaven someday, that I will recognize and rejoice with them.

Because praise the Lord, Sunday is coming.

Worry, Thy Name is Woman

My apologies to the Bard for a clumsy attempt at wit, but don't you feel like it's true?  I know men worry, but it seems they do it on a more broad spectrum scale: job, money, who will win the Super Bowl this Sunday.  But women - and it seems especially mommies - have the capacity to worry about everything.  In infinite detail.  Given 10 seconds alone to think, the worry center of a woman's brain kicks into high gear.

Did I lay the baby on her back?  Is it too cold in her room?  I don't want her to get sick.  Maybe I should lay a blanket over her.  But what if she pulls the blanket over her face?  What if it smothers her?  Maybe I should skip the blanket.  But she didn't cry when I laid her down.  Maybe she's already sick.  Maybe she was too weak to cry.  She felt a tad warm earlier today.  Does she have a fever?  What if it's the measles?  I knew I should've vaccinated her on schedule! 

Before you know it, mom's laying in the crib next to the baby and trying to test-breathe through a blanket while waiting for the doctor's answering service to return her panicked call.

Maybe that's why God rarely gives mothers 10 seconds alone to think.  I know if I find the time I worry.  In fact, I'm kind of worried that I worry more than normal people. 

Yes, I see the irony.

I'll be fine for awhile; life is trucking along at it's usual breakneck pace, giving me plenty to blog about but not much time to write.  And then I get side-swiped by a fear I didn't see coming and my anxiety skyrockets.  I can't sleep.  I can't focus.  My kids, my husband, and my responsibilities slip to the wayside.  I forget to eat.  Sometimes it lasts a few hours, sometimes a few days.  But in the end, I'm always ashamed of the way I let that fear take control of me, especially when my worry was so often for naught.

The question that always comes back to me is, "Do I trust God?"  And the answer is an emphatic YES.  I don't have enough time or room here to detail God's faithfulness to me throughout my life, but after 30 years as his child, I know for certain that my God is a trustworthy God.

So why the fear?  If I trust God, why do I allow my anxiety to control me when circumstances appear to be out of my control?  (And why do I continue operating under the delusion that I have any control?)

Two things occurred to me recently:

1)  God made me.  He wired me to be exactly this way.  I don't think He's looking at me in confusion wondering "That's odd.  Why is she so worried?"  He knows all about my morbid imagination, my capacity for assuming the worst, and He's not shocked by it.  The truth is, I think if I stepped out of His way He'd be able to leverage my feelings for His glory - that He'd remove my worry and replace it with insight.

2)  He loves me.  And He has given me His Word to remind me of that love, but I have to be willing to read it.  I confess that I read less when life is going well.  But when I'm facing anxious times?  Oh, the Scriptures I find!

Matthew 6:31-34
So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

Philippians 4:6-7
Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.  And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Isaiah 41:10
So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

Deuteronomy 31:8
The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.

So I'm not going to waste any more time wondering if I worry too much.  I probably do, but worrying about that isn't adding any value to my life.  Instead, I choose to accept my worry as a natural part of who I am.  And then I choose take it before the throne of the God who made me, and trust Him to take care of my every need.

Hair (Apparent)

Kids are like apples. They don't fall far from the tree.

Unless the tree is planted at the top of a hill, in which case the apples will roll.

Unfortunately, my kids aren't rolling anywhere. I'm rooted in land as flat as Kansas, which explains why we're all able to provide such regular, blog-worthy material. I've actually been producing blog fodder for years. I just didn't bother to write about it until my children started emulating it. But truth be told, they come by their exploits honestly - and I have the collection of stories to prove it.

One of them came to mind last week when I saw my brunette neighbor gathering her mail. My brunette neighbor whom I've only ever known as a blond.

"It looks great!" I told her.

"Thanks. This is round three, though. I don't know what I was thinking."

I knew what she was thinking. She was thinking, I'm bored and broke, but this box of Clairol could be fun!

I totally get that. In fact, it was my college motto. My hair has hit just about every color in the rainbow, including an unfortunate run-in with orange. But my worst hair-dye-gone-wrong story isn't about my hair. It's about Callie's.

Callie was my beautiful, blue-eyed college roommate. And her crowning glory was her waist-length, virgin blond hair. Virgin, as in never dyed. And of course, as her hair-dying, maniac friend, I felt it my duty to add just a touch more blond what to what was already perfect hair.

I finally convinced her to let me work my magic over Spring Break of our senior year. We were staying at my parents' house, on our way to Florida for the week. After a quick Target run, I was all set to go: 2 bottles of blond for her and a bottle of chocolate brown for me.

Can you see where this is heading?

After applying one entire bottle of what I now realize was suspiciously dark-looking goo, I started in on the second bottle. Which looked a whole lot lighter than the first.

"Um... I think you need to get in the shower. NOW."

"Really? Already?" she asked. "I thought we were supposed to let it sit for 10 minutes."

"Uh, yeah. You know, just start washing. I have to make a phone call."

The phone call was to the Loreal customer service number listed on the back of the box. While Callie was busily shampooing, I hastily explained the situation to a guy named Ted: Chocolate brown dye applied to light blond hair.

"Well, s---," Ted replied.

"Really!?!  That's the best you can give me!?!" I screeched.

"What's going on?" called Callie.

"Nothing! Just keep washing!!"

In my panic, I bolted down the hallway in search another box with another customer service number on the back. One that wouldn't pass me off to an uncooperative man named Ted. Unfortunately, I didn't notice the drop of chocolate brown hair dye on the bottom of my sock until I'd tracked brown spots up and down the hallway of my parents' newly carpeted house.

Callie came around the corner as I was stripping off my socks and trying not to throw up.

"This looks awfully dark. Is it supposed to lighten as it dries?"

It cost $180 to have Callie's hair dyed back to its original color. (Although Callie swore it looked a touch lighter, and "isn't that what we were going for?") Since then, I've left all of my hair-dying to the professionals. Sure my hair might have some purple highlights once in awhile, but I pay someone to do it on purpose these days.

But my boxed-dye days might not be completely behind me. Ella told me today that she'd like to try painting her hair.

"I think it could be fun, Mommy."

Poor little apple. That kid ain't rolling nowhere.

8 Things I Learned While Taking My Children to See "Annie"

One of the things I most appreciate about my family are the gifts of experience that so many of them give my children at Christmas.  For example, this past Christmas my parents bought tickets for the kids to go see "The Fresh Beat Band" live in concert this spring. 

Not familiar with the Fresh Beat Band?  Well, the FBB is to my sheltered six- and seven-year old girls what Justin Bieber is to... well, I suppose less-sheltered six- and seven-year old girls.  In other words, they're a pretty big deal in my house.

Over the years, my husband has figured out how much I love these types of gifts, so he surprised the whole family this Christmas with tickets to see "Annie: The Musical."

"We're all going?" I asked.

"All six of us."

"Ty, too?"

"Sure!  I think it'll be good for him to have a cultural experience."

"Did you just say the words 'cultural experience' without wincing?"

In all seriousness, though, I was super proud of my man.  Having seen "Annie" at the historic Fox Theater himself as a child, he was really looking forward to today's matinee show.  In the end, we had a fabulous day together.  But I did learn several things while taking my children to see "Annie." 

Eight things, in fact - mostly because my mind prefers even numbers.  Just thought I'd share:

1.    Some children come with more than one volume, but not mine. 

They could have two, but only if you count "asleep."  I can't tell you how many times we reminded the children today to always, always whisper in the theater.  Apparently, whispering means speaking at the same volume, but making your voice sound a little hoarse.  As in: "MOMMY, I CAN'T SEE AROUND THAT MAN'S BIG HEAD.  CAN YOU MAKE HIM MOVE?!"

2.    They should let you know that alcohol is available at these events as you're
       walking in the door.

We decided to nip the whole snack battle in the bud by letting the children pick out one - and ONLY one - treat at the beginning of the show.  Our motto is, "You eat what you get and you don't pitch a fit."  I picked out a box a Rasinets, because I like to delude myself into thinking that something as healthy as a raisin surely cancels out the chocolate it's dipped in.  I was just diving into my box of chocolat-y goodness when I saw a lady walk by with a glass of wine.  By golly, they should have posted a sign somewhere.  I was stuck with my chosen treat, but it might have been a whole different show with a little "mommy juice" on hand.

3.    Sally Struthers' most recent weight loss attempts must be going as well as
       mine. 

Okay, I'm dating myself here because I'm assuming that everyone knows who Sally Struthers is.  She's probably known to the older generation as that cute blond with the baby-doll voice who starred in All in the Family.  To my generation, she's that overweight blond with the raspy baby-doll voice who shows up on infomercials selling fad diets.  And to the generation after me?  Well, I'm not talking to you...

Anyway, Sally Struthers got top billing in today's show as Annie's arch-nemesis, the infamous Miss Hannigan.  And from the looks of things, she's eaten a few too many boxes of Rasinets.  I'm going back to Weight Watchers first thing tomorrow right after Valentine's Day.


4.    I sense a kindred spirit in that mean Miss Hannigan.

Even if Miss Hannigan hadn't been looking a tad pudgier today, I still would've viewed her in a different light.  As the drunken head mistress of the miserable orphanage Annie hales from, Miss Hannigan is supposed to be the villan of the show.  But as she staggered around the stage today singing "Little Girls," I found myself feeling sorry for a woman in charge of SO. MANY. GIRLS.  I only have three and most days I feel like I'm "going to end up in the nut house with all the nuts." 

"And the squirrels." 

Maybe Miss Hannigan isn't a drunk.  Maybe the woman is just plain tired.

5.    Children will never ask the questions you expect them to ask.

My kids ask questions.  All day.  Every day.  Seriously, they don't ever stop.

So yes - DUH - they were going to ask questions during the show.  But I thought the questions might be about orphans.  Or poverty.  Or even the drunk (tired?) Miss Hannigan.

But, no.  My kids wanted to know what was in all of those packages under Daddy Warbucks' Christmas tree.  And who got to keep them after the show.  And if they can be the kids in the show next time.

6.    No matter how hard you work, your children will never quite look as cute in
       public as you know they can.

Those pictures of my kids in the sidebar?  That's as good as they get.  And thanks to Andrea, I have some pretty spectacular photographs to document just how cute they can be.  Lucky for me, because her camera doesn't necessarily capture my reality.  My girls started out the day in dresses, bows, tights, and patent-leather shoes. 

By the time we sat down in the theater, all that was left were the dresses.  The bows were in my purse, the tights were in my pocket, and the shoes were on the floor.

7.    If you're taking children to a musical production, buy the cheapest seats
       available and pray - don't pay - for an upgrade.

My husband loves to treat his family, but taking a family of six - four of whom may or may not pay attention to the show - gets expensive.  So while our noses certainly weren't bleeding, let's just say we were well-placed to make a hasty exit for the bathroom / water fountain / snack bar.  Which - if you have a lot of kids - makes great sense... unless you forgot the binoculars at home. 

I don't know how it happened, but despite their stripped-down, rag-tag appearance, my children managed to pull off "cute."  Five minutes into intermission, a woman walked up and handed me a stack of 2nd row tickets.  Let me tell you - when you're sitting in the second row of a theater watching "Annie," Miss Hannigan's fanny is larger, Annie's hair is curlier, and Daddy Warbucks' head is shinier than you can possibly imagine.  And you don't need the binoculars you forgot at home.  The children who were falling apart towards the end of Act I were mesmerized in Act II.  Thank You, God, for that!

8.    Just because the show is over doesn't mean the singing and dancing is done.

Apparently, "Annie" was a hit for the kids.  Well, the girls, anyway.  Ty was a little ticked that Sandy the dog only showed up twice during the whole performance.  But Evie has a whole new repertoire of songs to sing in the car, Ella has a new movie addiction, and Emily's learning how to tap dance. 

In high heels. 

On my hardwood floors. 

Oh, Annie.  I just have a feeling that you're going to be the gift that keeps on giving.

Howdy!

I'm not afraid to admit when I make a mistake.  I mean, we all make mistakes.

Buying that super-sized box of Oreos at Costco last week?  Mistake.

Weighing in at Weight Watchers three days later?  Also a mistake.

Of course, some mistakes are bigger than others.  Like adopting 2 adorable orange kittens.  Or volunteering to organize the class Valentine's Day party.  Or taking German in high school, instead of Spanish like everybody else.

That one really screwed me up, because after floundering through two miserable years in high school - and then cramming two semesters of college course work into three, "Ich still spreche kein Deutsch."  I was a pretty big disappointment to the Frau Professor who finally passed me out of pity.  Or sheer exhaustion.

Fortunately, my kids seem to have inherited their language proficiency from my husband's side of the family.  Their Nana is fluent in French and - according to Ella (who is in the throes of her "Parisian phase") - is taking her eldest granddaughter to France when the girl turns ten.  I really hope that's true, because I'm not above stowing myself away in Nana's suitcase.

Unfortunately for Nana, not all of my kids are interested in learning French.  Evie, for example, seems to have developed a passion for Spanish.  I suppose I could blame "Dora the Explorer" for Evie bursting into my room shouting "¡Buenos días, Mama!" every morning, but I prefer to think of her as a genius who understands America's bi-lingual future. 

The only problem is, between my ineptitude in all things language related and Nana's bias towards all things French, Evie has few fellow Spanish-speakers to interact with.  Several months ago, two women from a local maid service came over to help me get my house under control.  Evie came bounding in the door from school and screeched to a halt when she heard the women conversing in what can only be described as her love language.  She listened for a minute, then grinned and shouted "¡Hola! ¿Cómo estás?"

The ladies' eyes lit up and one bent down to rattle off a bunch of words I couldn't make out.  Evie hesitated a moment, then replied, "Um... Muy bien?  Um... Si?"  The lady smiled and Evie continued, "Uno?  Dos?  Tres?"  At that point, it became clear to even my uneducated mind that Evie wasn't so much conversing with the woman as she was pulling out every Spanish word she could remember.  The woman patted her head and winked at me, and Evie walked away with an even greater passion for Spanish. 

Of course, her twin sister is not to be outdone.  A few weeks ago, Ella was going on and on about the Eiffel Tower and Evie was going on and on about... well, whatever Dora's in to these days.  And Emily pipes in from the back seat, "I'm going to learn Texan!"

"Texan?  I don't know if I've heard anyone speak Texan before."

"Yes, you have," she replied.  "You know - Yee-haw!  Howdy!  Gittyup!  Ride 'em, cowboy!"

Ah yes, Texan.  The language of kings.

She's pretty serious about it, too.  Today she climbed in the car and asked, "Is it okay if I move to Texas before you die?  I was going to wait until after you were dead, but if I go when you're still alive then maybe you can come visit me.  You can even ride in an airplane and hold my babies."

Awesome.  She's already thinking of me as a grandmother.  Or dead.

She paused a moment to think.  "Are there pet stores in Texas?  Because I want to get a puppy.  And two kittens.  Cowgirls can have kittens, right?"

Apparently I can't get away from kittens.  Or discourage my daughters from pursuing the things they love. 

Even if what they love takes them away from their mommy.

That would be a mistake.

Oh Sure, I Can Laugh NOW

So I took a vote - very unofficial, and involving pretty much just my mom and two sisters - and we decided that the following post is one of our favorites.  Mainly because enough time has passed that we can all laugh about it now. 

At the time, not so much... 

But I wrote it very early on in my blogging "career" (a term I use very, VERY loosely), and the girls and I thought that some of you newer readers might get a kick out of the story.  And hey, if it makes you laugh, do me a favor and leave a comment letting me know!

Just Say No (7/15/08)

Sometimes I think I must look one of those characters on Bugs Bunny. I suppose I'm addressing a specific audience here, but if you're a Loony Tunes fan, you'll know what I'm talking about. I think salespeople look at me and see a giant "Sucker" where my head should be. That, or they see me hauling my four kids from one place to the next and think, "Here is a woman who needs my product! Look at that dull skin!" Or, "Look at her rough and uneven nails!" Or "She looks like a candidate for the latest in-home water filtration system!"

OK, maybe I'm not a sucker. I've only purchased one skin care system, three nail care sets (they were made out of products from the Dead Sea!), and - hooray for me - I do not currently own a $6,000 water filtration system (although now I drink my tap water with a certain level of informed concern). I do, however, possess what those in the home sales business call a "yes face." I can say this with confidence, since I have made two forays into the home sales business myself - once as a beauty consultant and once as a jeweler. (By the way, please call me if you are interested in purchasing a ten-year old make-up kit or $300 worth of discontinued jewelry.)

A "yes face" is that one person in the crowd who makes eye contact with, and smiles at a sales person - which is apparently something I do when I'm walking by the Dead Sea kiosk on my way to the Food Court. I also do this when I answer my front door, because I just can't say no to the earnest appeals of small children selling wrapping paper for choir, or high school kids selling magazines to pay for football camp. Or to the vacuum guy who is trying to win a week-long, all-expense paid trip for himself and one guest to New Orleans.

This latest seller showed up on my doorstep recently to offer a free carpet cleaning of any room in the house. It was 6:00 in the evening, Tyler had just walked in the door, the baby was still in his carseat, and the kids were starving. "Perfect," I said, as two of the girls wrestled over a toy behind me. "One of the twins took her diaper off during nap time and got poop on the floor. Won't you please come in?" Somehow he got a glimpse of my yes face, because he wasted no time lugging his enormous vacuum cleaner and a box of cleaning supplies into my living room.

As the girls battled over which episode of Clifford they wanted to watch, and Tyler tried to figure out how to boil a pot of water for spaghetti, Joe* set up his machine and jumped right into his spiel. Five minutes in, I could tell it was going to be a long spiel. This vacuum doesn't just suck dirt out of the carpet; it inflates pool floats, cleans lampshades, mattresses, and walls, shampoos carpet, and details your car. I asked Joe if it could fold laundry and babysit, but he was staring at Evie sitting on the chair behind me.

"Um, I think she just had an accident."

Sure enough, there was Evie, sitting in a puddle on my upholstered chair.

I tried to be nonchalant, but it took an effort to mask my horror. "Why don't we test out how good that machine really is, Joe?"

While he went to work on the puddle, I took Evie to the bathroom and changed her clothes. Being that we're in the midst of her potty training, I slipped her into a fresh set of panties and shorts and reminded her that "Pee-pee goes in the potty, not in your pants." Meanwhile, Joe had decided that his vacuum cleaner probably wasn't as effective as a good old-fashioned washing machine, so I came back, stripped the cover off the chair, and plopped Evie down. "Where were we?" I asked.

Just then, Emily strolled into the room sans panties and shorts. It seems that Evie had inspired a demonstration. But Emily, having properly completed her toilet duties, couldn't figure out how to put her pants back on. Not to be left out, Ella then pulled her pants off and ran into the bathroom.

"Um, I'll be right back," I said. "I think the girls need a little help getting their clothes back on."

While I was standing in the bathroom, trying my best to explain inappropriate nudity to my daughters, I heard Joe call from the living room. "Ma'am, I think she just had another accident!"

Sure enough, Evie - whose bladder can apparently more liquid than a small horse - had once again gone pee-pee on the chair. And on the ottoman. And on the hardwood floor. At this point, unable to hide my horror, I actually screamed. Not words - just one really loud, frustrated scream. Unfortunately, the noise woke up Ty, who had been dozing in the Pack 'n Play during the chaos of Joe's increasingly lengthy presentation. I sent Evie with Tyler to get cleaned up (again), and picked up Ty to comfort him. Of course, he was not to be outdone by his sisters, and immediately unloaded a better portion of his dinner bottle onto the rug.

"Do you think we can get that spot out, too?" I asked Joe, as two naked children streaked by.

"I can try," he replied.

While he went to work on the spots and Tyler and the kids ate dinner, I tried to push this now excruciatingly slow demonstration along. But Joe was not about to lose a sale. (And really, who could blame him at this point? He was still stuck with cleaning the girls' poop-stained floor.) He pulled out all the stops and did a side-by-side comparison of his vacuum to my newly-acquired (and very expensive) machine. Tyler just gave me "the look", and headed out for his tennis workout. Since we've been married for eight years, I recognized "the look" to mean: DO NOT SPEND ANY MONEY. I knew I was now set on a collision course with Joe's hard sell.

I have to give the man credit. He asked all the right questions, pushed all the right emotional buttons, and wheeled and dealed with his "non-negotiable" - but really negotiable - price. He kept reminding me of how much easier his machine would make my life. (Had he really been in my house for the last 2 hours???) I could hear my "no, thank you" getting fainter as he pushed harder. I knew that I was a desperate woman when I considered compromising my marriage, and handing him $1600 to leave. But once again, we were interrupted by my children.

The sound of breaking glass shattered any prospect Joe had of selling me a vacuum cleaner. As I shot up the stairs, I knew exactly what had happened - the heavy mirror over the girls' dresser had fallen off the wall and crashed to the floor. Even as I ran my sub-par vacuum cleaner over the mess of wood and glass, Joe packed up his box and headed for the door. (But not before he graciously helped me move the broken frame to the garage.) Call it gratitude, but I told him that my neighbor was in the market for a vacuum and sent him next door with renewed hope for a profitable night.

When Tyler came home from tennis, we had a brief chat about inviting sales people into our home. We've probably had this conversation before, but I'm pretty sure that this time it's going to stick. The next time someone shows up on my front porch with something to sell, my face is going to have "no" written all over it. Unless of course they have a machine that folds laundry and babysits.

Oh, the Pain

A few weeks ago, I was at the doctor's office getting my blood drawn for some lab work.  After draining two or three pints of my blood, the nurse slapped some tape over the wound.

Then she stabbed me in the arm.

"OW.  That hurt!  I mean, that really, REALLY hurt."

The nurse withdrew the ice pick she'd plunged into my arm.  "Sorry."

I don't think she was all that sorry, but I didn't say anything.  I'm not a sissy when it comes to needles.  Anyone who knows me knows of my extensive history with the medical community.  I walked back to the waiting room, contemplating my new found sympathy for our well-immunized children and trying not to swing my throbbing arm.

The shot was part of a test to examine my body's response to stress.  Ironic, to say the least.  But I had to wait 30 minutes for another blood draw, so I made myself comfortable and texted my husband something to the effect of "OMG - PAIN."

The next thing I remember is seeing shoes out of the corner of my eye as I lay face-down on the floor.

The shoes informed me that paramedics were on their way and not to move in case my neck was broken.

"Does your neck hurt?"

"No, but my face does.  Can I roll over?"

They carefully rolled me on my back, and put my legs in the air.  Ten minutes later, the paramedics still weren't there and my feet were numb from the lack of circulation.

"I can't feel my feet."

There was a flurry of activity as doctors and nurses rushed to carry out the CYA emergency plan.  "DON'T MOVE.  We're getting you a neck brace and the paramedics are bringing a board."

"Could we maybe just put my feet down?"

The paramedics finally arrived and taped my head down to a board, then heaved me on to a stretcher.

"Are you in any pain?"

"Just my face.  Do I really need to go to the ER?"

Evidently, I shouldn't have questioned procedure.  I also shouldn't have asked why they were loading me into an ambulance when the ER was directly across the parking lot.  After a lengthy .3 mile drive (which included turning the ambulance around), I was wheeled into the ER.  The paramedics signed me over to a nurse and left.  As did the nurse, who left my head taped securely to the stretcher.

"Hello?  Hello?  Is anyone there?  I think I need a bathroom."

Eventually, a doctor appeared.  "Does your neck hurt?"

"No, just my face."

"Oh good.  Your neck's not broken."  He took off the tape and rolled me onto a bed.

"What about my face?"

I guess he didn't hear me, because after glancing at my chart, he informed me that I'd passed out due to my fear of needles.

"But I'm not afraid of needles."

"Well, it seems you are.  Next time you get blood drawn, make sure you lay down."

He signed my discharge papers and headed off to impart more brilliant medical advice to the pregnant lady down the hall.  Two hours later, I was released to go home.  Tyler handed me my keys and some money for the parking garage.

"My face is killing me."

"Maybe you should take some Advil when you get home."

I was kind of bummed.  You'd think with all of the hoopla, I'd get something more than discharge papers and an Advil.  I thought I deserved something big after all the fuss.

So did the paramedics.

I got an ambulance bill for $772 today.

Ouch.

Stage Fright

I have a terrible case of stage fright that may require therapy.

Serious.  Therapy.

Not that I have a problem being in front of people.  Put me on a stage?  You'll need one of those Bugs Bunny hooks to drag me off.  Hand me a microphone?  You're going to need to put some serious Ultimate Fighter moves on me if you plan to shut me up.  Clearly, I'm not afraid of actually being on a stage.

It's my son who has me breaking into a cold sweat and popping the Pepto pills.

Last year, all four kids were together at the same pre-school, getting ready to perform in the same adorable Christmas program.  Granted, the Thanksgiving program they'd been in just a few weeks before wasn't a stellar success.  My Indian Princess did great and the two little Pilgrims were sweet, but Ty the Turkey stood up on the stage and acted like... well, a turkey.  But for some reason, I thought the Christmas program would be different.  All four kids were going to be on the stage together: a perfect, once-in-a-lifetime, Christmas photo op.

Mom and I started planning weeks before the actual program, sewing these adorable green Christmas jumpers for the girls and Rudolf-themed overalls for Ty.  I was convinced that a sanctuary full of parents would be watching my kids on the stage (in a sea of 400 ), commenting on the creative mother who helped coordinate such cuteness.

I was half right.

Ty spent the entire time lying on the bottom riser screaming  "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" at the top of his lungs and kicking at any teacher who came near him.

I spent the entire performance slumped down in my pew, crying.

People probably thought I was upset about Ty's performance.  But I was really crying because after the show, I had to take that screaming child home with me - for an entire Christmas break.

I thought Ty would do better in front of an audience this year.  He's much more amenable to school now that he's three, and he loves singing in the car.  And at the dinner table.  And in the bathtub.  So at Grandparent's Day last week, I assumed he'd be fine.

Granted, the morning didn't start off great.  He wanted to wear his Superman costume to school and wouldn't hear of taking it off.  I was in the middle of typing out a sign to pin to his cape - "I dressed myself this morning" - when he finally decided to change.  Still, we were late to school.  When I dropped him off in class, he clung to my leg and cried.  It did not bode well.

Sitting in the sanctuary, I tried to think of all the worst case scenarios and their subsequent solutions.  (Pretty much every solution consisted of me pointing my finger and asking, "Whose kid is that?")  Meanwhile, the director was working the audience to find out which grandparent had traveled the farthest for Grandparent's Day.  Michigan and Ohio were the clear winners.

As it turns out, I didn't need to worry about Ty's performance on the stage.  The minute he saw me, he hurled himself into my lap and refused to budge.  An audience full of grandparents enjoyed this:

Ty's grandmothers got this:

That's a fake smile, but at least I'm not crying.  All I could think was, "I'm just relieved nobody had to fly in from Michigan to see this."

I also had some Pepto in my tummy.

Where Fish Go to Die

Last December, a friend of mine bought the twins a fish for their birthday.  The girls were totally stoked and named their new friend Sally.  My husband, on the other hand, was less enthused and couldn't believe that my friend would buy our kids a pet without asking us first.

"She asked me a few weeks ago.  You know how much the girls love animals.  I told her it was a fantastic idea."

I am an idiot.

Sally was in our home roughly 4 hours before Ty found - and dumped - a year's worth of fish food into Sally's tank.  I'm not sure how much the little pink fish had eaten by the time I found her, but she wasn't really pink anymore and her stomach was completely distended.  She was still trying to choke down - or spit out - one last pellet.

It was obvious from the way Sally kept floating to the surface that she was going to die.  I scooped her into a plastic cup and cleaned her tank in preparation for the new fish I'd clearly be buying the next day.  Then I told the girls to say goodbye to Sally.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!  YOU CAN'T GET RID OF SALLY!  SHE'S FIIIIIINNNNNE!!!!"

After this convincing argument from my 5-year olds, I decided to dispose of the body after the kids went to sleep.  Of course, I forgot all about poor Sally once they were in bed and I was pouring my second glass of wine.

Lucky for Sally.

It turns out she survived the night's gluttonous orgy and managed to live for another 8 months before I found her once again floating at the top of her tank.  This time, I think she starved to death.  I'm pretty sure the twins stopped feeding her regularly after Month 4.

Sally's funeral was held the morning I found her, just before I sent the kids off to school.  The twins cried and said their goodbye's to Sally as I dropped her into the toilet.  Then, holding hands, they reached over and flushed the handle together.  Their teacher later showed me the journal pages they colored that morning: one showed a little pink fish floating at the top of her tank, while the other - also showing a pink fish - was scribbled over in black.

An art therapist I ain't, but my little girls were clearly grieving.  So I did what any (idiot) mother would do and bought them two more goldfish.

Lilly made it three days and Sally Two survived for four.  Emily shed a few tears over Lily, but Evie skipped Sally Two's funeral in favor of breakfast.  That weekend, however, we were back at PetSmart.  This time, the girls picked out a large, male beta.  He seemed healthy enough to me, living in that little plastic container, so we took him home.  Along the way, the girls argued over names.  They ruled out Sally, on account of him being a boy, and asked me for ideas.  I suggested Max, Alfred, or Red.

"He's not really red, Mommy," Emily explained.  "He's more reddish."

Reddish lasted about two weeks... I think.  I couldn't say for sure, because I thought he was dead at one point, but then noticed his gills fluttering.  The next day, he looked like he was trying to swim.  The day after that, he was definitely dead, but I left him floating there for a few extra days just in case, and then flushed him while the girls were at school.  It's been nearly a month, and they still haven't noticed he's gone.

Not that there won't be at least one more fish funeral in our future.  Ella - not to be left out when we bought Reddish - talked me into a goldfish named Sarah.  Sarah's hanging in there, but last night I noticed an inordinate amount of food floating in her tank.

"Ella, who fed Sarah so much food today?"

"Oh, I did, Mom.  I went ahead and fed her extra so she'd have something to eat for breakfast."

Ella will not grieve quietly.  I might need to plan something a bit more dramatic than the small, dignified funerals we've been having.  Does anyone know where I can hire mourners for a fish burial?

Maybe I'll Google it just in case.  Sarah's looking a little peaked today.

TMI: Now in Pink

It used to be that October was about pumpkins, and leaves, and adorable costumed children out panhandling for candy.

Now it's about boobs.

Don't get me wrong. I am all in favor of raising breast cancer awareness. I'm alarmed by the number of women in my own personal life who have or are continuing to battle breast cancer. I'm just not in favor of all the pink. Pink ribbons and yogurt lids are one thing. But big, burly men chasing a pigskin down the field in pink shoes? I'm not sure sure it says, "Do your monthly self breast exam," so much as it says, "Tackle me, I'm wearing girl's shoes."

Personally - and this isWAY oversharing - those monthly exams don't take me very long. There's just not that much ground to cover.

I confess that I've tried to compensate for my lack of endowment once or twice in life. At first, I used those silicon inserts you can stuff in your bra. You know, the ones that look like chicken cutlets but are marketed as "Curves?" But then I started dating my future husband, and as things got serious, it felt like I was living a lie. I tried weaning myself off by wearing them every other date for awhile, and then just once or twice a month. Eventually, they disappeared. I never did ask the hubby what he thought of my incredible shrinking breasts, but I suspect he was a bit surprised. And possibly disappointed.

My Curves didn't come out of their box again until a few years into marriage. As the new JV cheer leading coach at my school, I was forced to attend the compulsory first-of-the-year pool party. The thought of all of those cute, teeny-bopper girls in their cute, teeny-bopper bikinis was too much for my pride, and - I  confess - I decided to break out the silicon again.

Too bad my bathing suit didn't offer the support for a B-cup, because when the varsity coach's son took a tumble into the pool, I dove in after him. Twenty minutes later, I realized that my boobs had shifted south - to my hips.

That was the last anyone saw of my Curves.

Once I trashed the cutlets, I decided to find enhancement with a bit more self-support. Enter the water bra. Looks real. Feels real. Comes with straps.

I pretty much lived in my water bra until I wore it to the Bon Jovi concert a few years ago. Just before the show, my sister-in-law leaned over to ask if I was hot.

"No. Why?"

She pointed to the giant sweat patch under my arm. It turns out my bra had sprung a leak. I spent the rest of the night living on the prayer that I could hide my deflated left breast.

So these days, I stick to basic padded bras to give me the boost I need. Although, having experienced the pride and the subsequent fall of pursuing cleavage, I'd probably skip the padding at this point. Unfortunately, they don't make non-padded bras in my size.

Unless I'm willing to wear a training bra.

Which this month, are only available in pink.

Lunch Money

One of the things I love most about my girls being in school all day is knowing that I am no longer responsible for what they eat at lunch. 

I mean, I am, but I'm not.  I pack three lunches every night and send the girls off to school every morning confident that I'm providing a healthy, balanced meal for my kids.  But I don't have to watch them to see if they eat it.  If they want to eat dessert first, they can.  I don't care.  If Evie wants to eat all of her lunch, and half of Emily's, she can.  I'm okay if she's okay.  If Ella wants to complain to her neighbor that she doesn't like yogurt, or chips, or bananas, she can.  Because I'm not there to hear it.

But since the first day of school, the girls have been begging me to join them in the lunchroom.  After all, other kids gets to see their moms at lunch - and sit up on stage at the parent tables - so why shouldn't they get to as well?  (OK, I'm pretty sure they were more more excited about sitting on the stage than actually eating with me, but whatever...)

So one morning a few weeks ago, I finally broke down and announced to the girls that I'd be joining them.  The only problem was, I didn't have any lunch fixings at home, or the margin in my day to hit the grocery store for food.

"Don't worry, girls.  I'll bring you something special for lunch today.  But it'll be a surprise!"  To all of us.

Fifteen minutes before I was supposed to be at the school, I whipped through a Chick-fil-a drive-thru and picked up 3 packs of chicken, 3 cups of fruit, and 3 milks.  Since the school offers ice cream at lunch, I figured I would top off the feast with an ice cream treat. 

Mom of the Year.  That's me.

When I arrived at the school, though, I realized that I had NO idea where to go or what to do.  I asked the woman sitting at a desk near the front door if she knew the what the check-in procedures were. 

"I need to scan your driver's license.  Are you in our system yet?"

"Um, I'm not sure."

"Then you probably aren't, so I'll need to take a picture for your visitor badge."

"Oh, okay.  Where's the cam..."  Click.  "Never mind."

"So here's your  visitor badge.  It has your picture on it, as well as a bar code for you to scan when you're ready to check out."

I was about to ask if the Secret Service had been by recently to review the school's security measures, but was interrupted when the woman pointed to my rather conspicuous Chick-fil-a bag.

"Are you not aware of our school's Wellness Policy?  We don't allow parents to bring any fast food into the school lunch room.  We're trying to promote a healthy environment for our kids.  Plus, we don't want anyone getting jealous that your kids got something different to eat."

OK...

"Gosh, I had no idea.  I'm, um, not sure what to do, though.  Lunch is starting now and this is the only food I have for my kids.  Could you tell me what's being served in the cafeteria today?  Maybe I could just buy their lunch in there."

"We're offering a choice of corn dogs, nachos, or PB&J.  We also have ice cream available for an additional fee."

I rarely speak my snarky thoughts aloud, but I literally had to bite my tongue on this one.  It was pretty obvious to me that the "Wellness Policy" could just as easily been called the "Give Us Your Lunch Money Policy."  Forget the bullies on the playground.  Clearly, I was going to have to watch out for the lunch ladies. 

"Um, you know what?  Is is possible for me to sneak this in just one time?  I've already spent money on all this food, and what with the economy being what it is..."

These days, it's never a bad idea to play the Economy Card.  The security guard front-desk-lady actually let me in, with a reminder not to bring fast food bags again.

You know what?  I won't.

Next time I'll transfer the nuggets and fruit into plain brown lunch sacks.

Does It Need To Be This Hard?

I love those "demotivational" posters by Despair.com.  It must be my snarky sense of humor, because they always make me laugh.

Especially this one.

(I expected times like this - but I never thought they'd be so bad, so long, and so frequent.)

Yeah, that pretty much sums up where I'm at these days.  Sure, I knew there would be challenges in raising four children so close in age.  But is it really supposed to be this hard?

1.  Ty still isn't potty trained! 

He manages to get his liquids in the right place at the right time... most of the time. 

Except for yesterday, when he peed once at school. 

And twice on my clean kitchen floor.

But the real challenge is getting him to make a sit-down deposit.  Most days, he poops in his pants, takes off his pants, puts the offensive matter in the toilet, cleans himself up, and puts on a clean set of cloths... by himself.  I keep trying to convince him to cut the middle man, but so far, he hasn't taken my advice.

Although today he did he poop in the yard, pull up his pants, and skip clean-up altogether. 

I didn't realize what he'd done at first, but I also knew for absolute certain that we don't own a dog.  Ty confessed while I was scooping up the fly-covered pile.

2.  Since we're talking about potty troubles, I might as well tell you that Ella wets the bed pretty much every night.

Ty might be able to manage his liquids for the most part, but Ella can't.  Or doesn't.  I haven't really decided which it is, yet.  All I know is that I've been washing sheets a minimum of four mornings a week for over three years now.

The problem is, Ella - like Ty - tries to clean up the mess on her own.  She strips off her wet clothes and crawls into someone else's bed (sans proper undergarments) and falls back to sleep.  Suffice it to say that no mattress has been left unscathed.

Including mine.

3.  My children whine.  A LOT.

I know, I know.  All kids whine.  But people who've spent extensive amounts of time with my children?  Well, let's just say that they're all quite diligent when it comes to birth control.  In fact, I'm thinking about renting the kids out to our local schools. 

Talk about "scared straight."

Although I still can't figure out why they whine so much.  It's not like I ever cave to their demands.  I suppose that I do torture them rather frequently... by making them eat my homemade buttermilk pancakes...

... or telling them to wear socks...

Oh, the horror.

*********************

I could probably spend plenty of time listing out more of my pitiful complaints, but honestly, I'm tired.  I need to get some sleep.  I suspect I will face a lot more challenges tomorrow which will require my perseverance.

(The courage to ignore the obvious wisdom of turning back.)

Or not.

"Fun" Run

Ella is my quirky kid.

Let me give you a moment to act surprised.

It's not that she's weird.  Ella just has her little peculiarities, and she makes sure that everybody knows them.  She knows what she likes... and more importantly, she knows what she doesn't like. 

She doesn't like ice cream because it's too cold.  Same with popsicles.  She won't drink juice, flavored milk, lemonade, soda, smoothies, slushies, or anything other than skim milk and water.  Period.  Lunchmeat is off-limits, as is spaghetti.  Goldfish crackers are the devil.  She won't eat potatoes beyond the "French fried" variety.  And if there is rice on her plate, she will cry.

Her quirks aren't just limited to food, though.  Ella is an exceptional athlete and loves to play sports.  Once upon a time she especially liked soccer, so I signed her up for a season.  But Ella didn't play much, because at the beginning of the first game the team had to run through a pitifully skimpy wall of streamers.  And then people clapped.

Ella doesn't like it when people clap - and the streamers totally freaked her out.  Her soccer career pretty much ended before the game began.

All this to say that, last week, when Ella came home all excited about her school's annual fundraiser, I was a bit surprised.  The school's Boosterthon program is one of those lap-running deals.  You know, where the parents pledge money to the school for making a pack of kids run around the field for an hour and you don't even get a roll of wrapping paper out it?  But Ella was super-excited and ready to get started.

"All you have to do is get online and type in your pledges - and we get prizes!  I want the scooter."

I looked through her Boosterthon information.  To get the scooter, Ella needed to get someone to pledge $50 per lap run.  According to the brochure, the average kid runs 25-35 laps.

I told Ella to ask Santa for a scooter and pledged to give her and each twin a flat donation of $5.00.  (I also signed the grandparents up for $5.00 a piece, but they don't know that yet.)

Since today was the actual Boosterthon Fun Run, Ella and her sisters woke up extra early this morning to make sure they were dressed and ready for the day's events.  After convincing Evie that jeans were not the best choice, fixing 3 heads of hair, eating breakfast, missing the school bus, and forgetting lunch bags, we were on our way to school.

"You're coming to the Fun Run, right Mommy?  Parents are supposed to come."

Out of a sense of mommy-guilt and against what I now know was my better judgement, I promised the girls I'd be there.  I even arrived early to make sure I didn't miss anything, and was sitting in the front row for the "opening ceremony." 

Luckily, there were no streamers.  There was, however, a full-sized tunnel.

As the kids ran through the inflatable tube, class by class, onto the field, I overheard the parent next to me comment, "What's going on in there?"

I moved in for a closer look at the crying child curled up in the fetal position.  Streams of kids were running past her out the other end of the tunnel.

"Oh gee, I don't know.  Um, maybe I should go check."

The minute Ella saw me, she plastered her sobbing body to my legs and begged me to take her home.  "PEOPLE ARE LOOKING AT ME!!!!!!!   I DON'T WANT PEOPLE LOOKING AT ME!!!!!!!!!!"

It took awhile to convince her that people would probably stop looking at her if she just quit screaming and joined the ginormous mass of children on the field.  When she was finally calmed down, I decided it would be better to stand by the Kindergarten track and out of Ella's line of sight.  I didn't want to risk upsetting her again. 

Emily and Evie were delighted to see me and waved excitedly until a buzzer sounded the start of the race... at which point they were trampled by the mass of children behind them.

By Lap 3, they were sticky and sweaty and done with waving.  They pushed their way through the sea of kids, like salmon swimming upstream, and flopped down next to me.  Emily was whining, "I want to stay here with you, Mommy," while Evie gave voice - albeit screechier - to the question I was thinking: "Why are we doing this?!?"

One miserable hour later, I asked the twins' teacher to peel the girls off me, blew a surreptitious kiss in Ella's direction, and headed towards the car with a screaming 3-year old boy in my arms.  He was upset because he didn't get to run through a tunnel. 

The woman who'd been sitting near me earlier try to stop us and ask my name, but I pretended not to hear her.  I didn't want her telling her friends about "that crazy mom with the out-of-control kids."  Or at least, I didn't want her giving them my name.  I value my anonymity, especially where my kids are involved.

I guess Ella's not the only one with quirks.

The Wheels on the Bus

School is in session now and three of my four children are attending the local elementary school. Every day. For 8 hours a day.

Uh, yeah. Can I get a "Wa Hoo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"?

So you'd think with the sudden abundance of free time, I'd be blogging daily. After all, I have a 3-page list of stories to share with you 11 followers, and I hate the thought of my faithful few checking this site every day for something new, only to find the same, stale, August edition.

Unfortunately, despite the glorious freedom of the 5-day school week, it takes me about 7 of my 8 daily hours to recover from the trauma of the bus stop. I spend the final hour alternating between washing the breakfast dishes and curling up in the corner whispering, "They're coming... they're coming... they're coming..."

Maybe we didn't get the whole bus thing started off on the right foot. If you read this post, you know that my kids are notorious for making bad first impressions. The countywide "Bus Round-Up" - a practice ride for the kindergartners and their parents - was no exception. For starters, I made the mistake of giving the girls' driver, Ms. Janice, a jar of attempted homemade preserves.... and our names.

"Hi! This is Emily, this is Evie, and I'm their mom."

We were about half-way through the ride when Evie told me that her tummy hurt. I tried to ignore her greenish complexion and told her she'd feel better in a few minutes.

Which she did, right after she stepped off the bus and puked on the sidewalk.

"Oh, is Emily alright? Or is that Evie?" Ms. Janice asked.

I muttered a response, wiped down my child as best I could, and bee-lined for the door as Ms. Janice surveyed the mess we'd left behind. It must have triggered something in her mind, because she suddenly hollered, "Oh by the way, thanks for the jam!"

Lovely.

Not that I needed that delightful first impression to make my children memorable. During these first several weeks of school, Emily and Evie have alternated with what I've come to think of as "terror tantrums." There is no rhyme or reason to a terror tantrum. Maybe Emily accidentally packed her pink pony instead of her purple one. Maybe Evie ran out of time to finish her third round of breakfast . Whatever the cause, the result is always the same: me chasing a shrieking child down the street, dragging her back to the bus, and allowing Ms. Janice to peel her off of me while the flailing child cries hysterically, "I DON'T WANT TO RIDE ON THE BUS!!!"

At this point, I have to mention that we have several lovely Indian women in our neighborhood, and that while the other parents simply watch their child load and then walk away, these particular mothers wait until the bus actually pulls out to leave. Which means that they have witnessed every one of the terror tantrums - usually with their jaws hanging somewhere down around their knees.

I'm dying to know the parenting secrets of India...

Not that my children are the only ones giving the family a bad rap. I'm more than capable of accomplishing that on my own. Just yesterday, I was late getting to the bus stop and Ms. Janice was forced to relinquish care of my children to one of several kind neighbors. My neighbor was a little surprised, my children were more than traumatized, and I was totally embarrassed.

So today, when I nearly missed the bus again, I was forced to kick off my shoes and sprint down the street screaming, "I'm here! I'm here! Don't leave yet, I'm here!!!"

You know that song about the wheels on the bus going 'round and 'round? There should probably be a verse in there somewhere about the crazy lady chasing it down the street.