It is late evening, a magic time underneath the maples that line the center of our boulevard. We mosey south, with the setting sun on our right, toward home.
He carries my soup ladle carefully in his dirt-caked hand, its bowl filled with acorns and seeds for his birdhouse. His feet in his dirty green Keens stay precisely on the path that a thousand little boy feet have worn to hard-packed earth and roots. I wonder about them. All those little boys. All those mothers brought to their knees by slanting sunlight on blond highlights. This neighborhood is one hundred years old. He steps in the footprints of boys who have grown to men and died and their sons have grown to men and died and their sons have grown to men and have little boys of their own.
Right there, beside that twisted root. The footprint of a two-year-old boy in 1924, fated to die on a boat in World War II. His four-year-old sister will have a boy in 1945 and give him his uncle's name and her mother, the namesake's grandmother, will pretend, with all but her eyes, that his bouncing curls and round knees ease her heart instead of pierce it through. She'll coo and love and cuddle and scold and never let on, not even once, that inside her head, when her daughter and grandson wander under the maples across from her shady porch retreat, the screaming is so loud that she fears they will hear. I was like you, I was just like you, I thought little boys were for kisses and walks and school, for love and marriage and grandchildren, to be cherished, not wasted, riddled with bullets and left, floating.
And there. Over there, under the big maple with the crevice between its roots, where we imagine fairies hide. The faint outline of another footprint. Another two-year-old boy born in 1932. A lucky year, he will be too young for wars. He knew our lost uncle as a self-important ten-year-old who stopped sometimes to show a feather, an acorn, an egg, countless treasures hidden in the palm of his hand. This little boy remembers him, and others gone, and goes to medical school before he joins the Air Force. His fourth little boy is born while he stitches other boys back together in Germany in 1965.
And that fourth-born boy lives a quiet life in a sweet 20s craftsman not far from the boulevard where his father grew up. He is an elementary school principal, very in love with his second wife, who leads his eleven-year-old boy down this boulevard when they ride their bikes early on Saturday mornings. This way again, Dad, the boy complains. He doesn't answer. He likes this maple-lined street when it is heavy with summer. We hear them laugh, sometimes, through our open window as they turn our corner. Still drowsy, but mindful of the bright sun and the baby's coos and the first murmurs of little boys in the room next door.
It feels very hopeless and still hopeful. There is no joy, no pain, no milestone, no birthday, no horror, no quiet moment, no shame, no pride, no grief, no sweetness, no hug, no path that some other mother hasn't walked before me.
It is the solid center of this phenomenon called "mommy blogging," don't you think? The ability to reach out and touch another story, run your fingers down the words, see your own grief, your own speechless wonder reflected back at you.
He is two. Quinn is two. For three more hours and twenty-seven minutes he is two. He wants a pink cake and I can't wait to bake it with him, but I still sit here crying. You understand that, don't you?
Friday, July 30, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Fall from grace
First!!
I got here first!!!
No, I was first!!!
MOOOOMMMMMAAAAA!!!!!!!
This is the new anyfamily refrain. We've found our competitive edge and it is supremely annoying.
In the beginning, I utilized their new found need to turn everything into a race - from sitting down at the dinner table to getting their pajamas on - to my advantage. First one to get your PJs on gets to brush teeth first! First one dressed and downstairs can get in their chair first!
That quickly backfired, becoming dangerous, what with the pushing on the stairs, and the screaming tantrums thrown by whichever two children failed, for whatever reason, to complete the assigned task first. Also, their anxiety over setbacks made me a little nervous. An inside out pajama shirt practically gave Gee a seizure. I don't need five-year-olds with high blood pressure and migraines.
I tried everything I could think of to do away with the annoying racing behavior. I ignored it. I made whichever child finished whatever it was "first!" go last. I yelled. I took away treats for mentions of "first!" I gave time-outs for mentions of "first!"
When all else failed, I consulted some parenting books. Desperate times, people.
Nothing.
I resorted to sarcasm. Who wants to be first to be spanked? Who wants to be first to be murdered for yelling first!?
Finally, I looked it up on the internet and I got this gem of a suggestion:
Tell the "losing" children that they are "first" to be "second" and "first" to be "third." Et cetera. Et cetera. I didn't buy it, but rather than drown all three of my oldest children in the bathroom in a fit of rage as one of them danced and sang "I'm first, I'm first, I'm first to brush my teeth," to the joyous notes of na-nanny-boo-boo and the other two writhed and popped and flopped about on the floor screaming, I decided to try it.
I mean, first!, I used all my tried and true parenting techniques. I punished the annoying singer by making her get off the stool and go last. I took everyone's treats away for the next however long I felt like pretending I was actually going to provide treats. This had absolutely no effect, except that I felt better. I promised myself ice cream after bedtime and a chai latte in the morning. Again, I felt better.
Then, I took a deep breath and said calmly and maturely, "Gee, you may be first! to go first. Cue, you may be first! to go second. And Ess," I made my voice bright and cheery and enthusiastic, sort of, (okay, it was semi-less sarcastic than normal), "you may be first! to go third."
They looked at me in dumbfounded silence for about fifteen seconds, during which I felt a little disappointed in them. I mean, really? Please do not tell me that my children are going to fall for this drivel? I thought I was raising them to be far more cynical and far less stupid than that.
Suddenly, the triple tantrum exploded my eardrums.
Gee: NO! I want to be first, only me first, no second first!
Ess: NO, FIRST TO GO THIRD!!!!
Cue: General screaming and crying. As usual, he had no idea what he was screaming about and I pulled his nap, so he's so tired by 6:30 he can't see straight, he just knows that something involving him not going first happened and there's a scream-fest going on. No one likes to miss a good scream fest.
I felt proud of them, before I put the kibosh on teeth brushing, books, songs and any and all other pleasant before bedtime activities, put them in bed, turned out the lights and left. My babies. They aren't going to fall for any namby pamby internet reverse psychology. They want to be FIRST! DAMMIT! None of this first to be second crap.
They turned from screaming and wailing about losing their before bed routine to - wait for it - I kid you not - screaming and wailing about who got into bed (as punishment) FIRST!.
I don't believe in original sin. I don't think man and woman kind as a whole has fallen from grace in any ascertainable way besides the obvious, which, come on, any creator worth his/her/its salt MUST have known how annoying we were when he/she/it came up with the idea of us.
Then again, I had NO idea how annoying kids were before I had a few and yet I keep having them like there's no way to stop them, so maybe he/she/it just isn't good with creation control. My point is - oh yes, I have a point - that I don't think we have the whole Adam & Eve in the garden story quite right.
If you view it as a parable about children, then you know exactly how it went down.
Adam: Race you to the big forbidden tree.
Eve: Go! No cheating! He's pushing. WAAAAHHHHH, ADAM'S PUSHING ME!!
Adam: AM NOT. FIRST!
Eve: FIRST!
Adam: I'm first!
Eve: No, I am!
Yahweh: Shut up down there, I'm trying to invent the internet and give you idiots something quiet to do.
Adam: ...
Eve: ...
Yahweh: Why so quiet? Shit.
Swirling vortex of sand in which Yahweh customarily appears.
Yahweh: What exactly are you two doing down here?
Adam: Ruh-fwing.
Eve: (swallows) Nothing.
Yahweh: Did you eat that apple? The apple I specifically told you, not two years or so ago, not to eat?
Adam: ...
Eve: ...
Yahweh: WELL?
Eve: Adam gave it to me.
Adam: Did not! Eve picked it.
Eve: Yeah, cause I got here FIRST!! HA!!
Adam: DIDN'T! I GOT HERE FIRST!!
Eve: NO!
Adam: YES! GOD, TELL HER I GOT HERE FIRST!
Eve: NO, GOD, TELL HIM I GOT HERE FIRST!
Yahweh: (fuming in his column of swirling dirt) I'm going to punish whomever got here first.
Adam: ...
Eve: ...
Adam: first!
Eve: were not!
Adam: WAS.
Yahweh: ENOUGH! (thunder clap) I CAN'T STAND IT. GET THE HELL OUT OF MY GARDEN. GO AND FIND SOMETHING TO DO IN THE DESERT. AND DON'T COME BACK UNTIL YOU ARE SORRY YOU ATE MY APPLE AND YOU ARE READY TO PLAY NICELY WITHOUT BICKERING.
Adam and Eve trail, hanging their heads, away from the Lord of the Universe, but half way to the gate, Adam tells Eve he can beat her to the first barren rock formation and the race is on.
Yahweh: Dammit. I wanted that apple.
And that, friends, is why we are all still wandering around in the desert.
I got here first!!!
No, I was first!!!
MOOOOMMMMMAAAAA!!!!!!!
This is the new anyfamily refrain. We've found our competitive edge and it is supremely annoying.
In the beginning, I utilized their new found need to turn everything into a race - from sitting down at the dinner table to getting their pajamas on - to my advantage. First one to get your PJs on gets to brush teeth first! First one dressed and downstairs can get in their chair first!
That quickly backfired, becoming dangerous, what with the pushing on the stairs, and the screaming tantrums thrown by whichever two children failed, for whatever reason, to complete the assigned task first. Also, their anxiety over setbacks made me a little nervous. An inside out pajama shirt practically gave Gee a seizure. I don't need five-year-olds with high blood pressure and migraines.
I tried everything I could think of to do away with the annoying racing behavior. I ignored it. I made whichever child finished whatever it was "first!" go last. I yelled. I took away treats for mentions of "first!" I gave time-outs for mentions of "first!"
When all else failed, I consulted some parenting books. Desperate times, people.
Nothing.
I resorted to sarcasm. Who wants to be first to be spanked? Who wants to be first to be murdered for yelling first!?
Finally, I looked it up on the internet and I got this gem of a suggestion:
Tell the "losing" children that they are "first" to be "second" and "first" to be "third." Et cetera. Et cetera. I didn't buy it, but rather than drown all three of my oldest children in the bathroom in a fit of rage as one of them danced and sang "I'm first, I'm first, I'm first to brush my teeth," to the joyous notes of na-nanny-boo-boo and the other two writhed and popped and flopped about on the floor screaming, I decided to try it.
I mean, first!, I used all my tried and true parenting techniques. I punished the annoying singer by making her get off the stool and go last. I took everyone's treats away for the next however long I felt like pretending I was actually going to provide treats. This had absolutely no effect, except that I felt better. I promised myself ice cream after bedtime and a chai latte in the morning. Again, I felt better.
Then, I took a deep breath and said calmly and maturely, "Gee, you may be first! to go first. Cue, you may be first! to go second. And Ess," I made my voice bright and cheery and enthusiastic, sort of, (okay, it was semi-less sarcastic than normal), "you may be first! to go third."
They looked at me in dumbfounded silence for about fifteen seconds, during which I felt a little disappointed in them. I mean, really? Please do not tell me that my children are going to fall for this drivel? I thought I was raising them to be far more cynical and far less stupid than that.
Suddenly, the triple tantrum exploded my eardrums.
Gee: NO! I want to be first, only me first, no second first!
Ess: NO, FIRST TO GO THIRD!!!!
Cue: General screaming and crying. As usual, he had no idea what he was screaming about and I pulled his nap, so he's so tired by 6:30 he can't see straight, he just knows that something involving him not going first happened and there's a scream-fest going on. No one likes to miss a good scream fest.
I felt proud of them, before I put the kibosh on teeth brushing, books, songs and any and all other pleasant before bedtime activities, put them in bed, turned out the lights and left. My babies. They aren't going to fall for any namby pamby internet reverse psychology. They want to be FIRST! DAMMIT! None of this first to be second crap.
They turned from screaming and wailing about losing their before bed routine to - wait for it - I kid you not - screaming and wailing about who got into bed (as punishment) FIRST!.
I don't believe in original sin. I don't think man and woman kind as a whole has fallen from grace in any ascertainable way besides the obvious, which, come on, any creator worth his/her/its salt MUST have known how annoying we were when he/she/it came up with the idea of us.
Then again, I had NO idea how annoying kids were before I had a few and yet I keep having them like there's no way to stop them, so maybe he/she/it just isn't good with creation control. My point is - oh yes, I have a point - that I don't think we have the whole Adam & Eve in the garden story quite right.
If you view it as a parable about children, then you know exactly how it went down.
Adam: Race you to the big forbidden tree.
Eve: Go! No cheating! He's pushing. WAAAAHHHHH, ADAM'S PUSHING ME!!
Adam: AM NOT. FIRST!
Eve: FIRST!
Adam: I'm first!
Eve: No, I am!
Yahweh: Shut up down there, I'm trying to invent the internet and give you idiots something quiet to do.
Adam: ...
Eve: ...
Yahweh: Why so quiet? Shit.
Swirling vortex of sand in which Yahweh customarily appears.
Yahweh: What exactly are you two doing down here?
Adam: Ruh-fwing.
Eve: (swallows) Nothing.
Yahweh: Did you eat that apple? The apple I specifically told you, not two years or so ago, not to eat?
Adam: ...
Eve: ...
Yahweh: WELL?
Eve: Adam gave it to me.
Adam: Did not! Eve picked it.
Eve: Yeah, cause I got here FIRST!! HA!!
Adam: DIDN'T! I GOT HERE FIRST!!
Eve: NO!
Adam: YES! GOD, TELL HER I GOT HERE FIRST!
Eve: NO, GOD, TELL HIM I GOT HERE FIRST!
Yahweh: (fuming in his column of swirling dirt) I'm going to punish whomever got here first.
Adam: ...
Eve: ...
Adam: first!
Eve: were not!
Adam: WAS.
Yahweh: ENOUGH! (thunder clap) I CAN'T STAND IT. GET THE HELL OUT OF MY GARDEN. GO AND FIND SOMETHING TO DO IN THE DESERT. AND DON'T COME BACK UNTIL YOU ARE SORRY YOU ATE MY APPLE AND YOU ARE READY TO PLAY NICELY WITHOUT BICKERING.
Adam and Eve trail, hanging their heads, away from the Lord of the Universe, but half way to the gate, Adam tells Eve he can beat her to the first barren rock formation and the race is on.
Yahweh: Dammit. I wanted that apple.
And that, friends, is why we are all still wandering around in the desert.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Grafted, a summer lament
It is never quite summer. We are too close to the great white north, pinned between the wild Pacific and the vast wall that is the Rockies. It is beautiful, but summer never quite wins. Even when the sun shines its brightest, the grass and the pine needles and the bright green, hardy bushes, polished and dusted, sparkle, there is an edge. Nowhere is more enchanting, more alive, but the magic is, in part, in the lurking threat. It turns in an instant in the middle of July, a stray wind blusters, the sky darkens, chills shiver down collective spines. A fey spirit skitters over the land. Mother Nature, though she kissed us gently on the cheek that morning, laughs, brutal and powerful, the fair Galadriel with the one ring in her hand.
I long for the tropics. My children are native grown Pacific Northwesterners. Some species of pine, hard and straight, nourished by rich, glacial loam, ice-water fed, made only more fiercely beautiful by the snow that weighs their branches eight months of the year. But, I? I am a transplant, grafted to the roots of stronger stock. My bright colors, what beauty I possess, are faded, my foliage straggly and limp.
Here, Mother Nature doesn't chase Old Man Winter from his dank, earthen den for month after month of soft, sultry growth, she takes what she can get. They are awkward bedfellows. She slips into his branch bower and caresses his icy, sunken chest, rubs her full bosoms against his bony back and kisses his frigid neck until he is distracted enough to allow the green to creep in. It's a short lived respite, he grows bored of her quickly and by late August he has kicked her out of his cave, ripped the pretty feminine touches off of the wall and thrown them at her retreating back.
I want sun that bakes you to the core, chars your bones black and boils them in your blood, a rich, primordial soup. I want humidity that presses, the air hot and heavy, until it reaches the tipping point and explodes, torrents of water coming from all sides, not from the clouds, but from the surrounding air itself. I want the blunt, pounding headache of an approaching typhoon and the sinful release of the first palm-bending gusts. I want air tinged with salt, feet slipped into decades-old zoris, lovemaking that ends with a shower and a sprawl, soaking wet on the bed, the evaporation of the water from my skin the closest thing to cool to be found.
This is home now. This is their home, my tropical-born daughter no less than my tall Scot-Irish boys, but I wonder. I wonder if I could awaken my longing in her blood, if I tried. I would move in a heartbeat. St. Thomas. Costa Rica. Saipan. Hawaii. The Gulf. Bali. Mexico. I would trade all we've built, all we've painted, all we've fixed and paid and worked for, all the sweat, blood and tears...
But not the friends, mine and theirs. Not the roots. Not the calls to check up, not the weekly wine nights, not the knowledge that they will never enter a class, a camp, a lesson, a park without seeing a friendly face. Not the desire lodged deep in my heart, born in a childhood full of moves and new schools and cafeterias full of strangers, to have them be from somewhere. To have a place they call home, though they say it with a sneer for their first twenty-two years. Not that. I won't trade that.
I won't dig them up and try to replant them in shallow, sandy soil. But, I will long, each and every too brief, not quite summer, for climes where the sun has been crowned the victor and the slant of the earth mocks the meager weapons of winter, ice and snow. Begone. You have no power here. I wish.
I long for the tropics. My children are native grown Pacific Northwesterners. Some species of pine, hard and straight, nourished by rich, glacial loam, ice-water fed, made only more fiercely beautiful by the snow that weighs their branches eight months of the year. But, I? I am a transplant, grafted to the roots of stronger stock. My bright colors, what beauty I possess, are faded, my foliage straggly and limp.
Here, Mother Nature doesn't chase Old Man Winter from his dank, earthen den for month after month of soft, sultry growth, she takes what she can get. They are awkward bedfellows. She slips into his branch bower and caresses his icy, sunken chest, rubs her full bosoms against his bony back and kisses his frigid neck until he is distracted enough to allow the green to creep in. It's a short lived respite, he grows bored of her quickly and by late August he has kicked her out of his cave, ripped the pretty feminine touches off of the wall and thrown them at her retreating back.
I want sun that bakes you to the core, chars your bones black and boils them in your blood, a rich, primordial soup. I want humidity that presses, the air hot and heavy, until it reaches the tipping point and explodes, torrents of water coming from all sides, not from the clouds, but from the surrounding air itself. I want the blunt, pounding headache of an approaching typhoon and the sinful release of the first palm-bending gusts. I want air tinged with salt, feet slipped into decades-old zoris, lovemaking that ends with a shower and a sprawl, soaking wet on the bed, the evaporation of the water from my skin the closest thing to cool to be found.
This is home now. This is their home, my tropical-born daughter no less than my tall Scot-Irish boys, but I wonder. I wonder if I could awaken my longing in her blood, if I tried. I would move in a heartbeat. St. Thomas. Costa Rica. Saipan. Hawaii. The Gulf. Bali. Mexico. I would trade all we've built, all we've painted, all we've fixed and paid and worked for, all the sweat, blood and tears...
But not the friends, mine and theirs. Not the roots. Not the calls to check up, not the weekly wine nights, not the knowledge that they will never enter a class, a camp, a lesson, a park without seeing a friendly face. Not the desire lodged deep in my heart, born in a childhood full of moves and new schools and cafeterias full of strangers, to have them be from somewhere. To have a place they call home, though they say it with a sneer for their first twenty-two years. Not that. I won't trade that.
I won't dig them up and try to replant them in shallow, sandy soil. But, I will long, each and every too brief, not quite summer, for climes where the sun has been crowned the victor and the slant of the earth mocks the meager weapons of winter, ice and snow. Begone. You have no power here. I wish.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Let me make you feel better about BlogHer
If you didn't start planning for everything, shopping for a fabulous wardrobe and RSVPing for parties a month ago, you're going to have a shitty time.
KIDDING.
Want a confidence boost? Here's one. I'll be there, so you will always be within a few hotel floors of someone geekier, awkwarder, less fashion savvy and more likely to embarrass themselves than you. As they say in the blogosphere: You. Are. Welcome.
Let me do what every other BlogHer attendee has already done (but better): break down a few of the more common fears for you and put them in perspective through the lens of my ineptitude.
1) You don't have an iphone/ipad/iMOSTFABULOUSTINYELECTRONICPRODUCTEVER. Your laptop is a dinosaur and/or you don't have a laptop. What in the hell are you doing at a social media conference? How will you know what is going on if you can't check twitter 8000 times a day?
Rest easy. I have a prepaid cell phone. I shit you not. I can only get so many texts before it exceeds its limit and its little brain explodes. My laptop is huge, like, used-to-plot-the-landing-of-Apollo-14 huge. Seriously. I'm glad this conference isn't in D.C. because some wandering secret service type person would be like "HEY! LADY! STOP RIGHT THERE! Did you steal that computer from the Air & Space Museum? Don't even lie." It's not a pretty color either. Nothing like Marinka's cute little pink flowered iWHATEVER. Which I covet. Mine is a color I like to call, smeary fingerprinted black ala unidentified crusty stuff.
2) People are talking about a thousand parties you've never heard of and you haven't been invited to any private parties or events.
Me either, not a single solitary one. Maybe that doesn't make you feel better because it just means we're both unhappening? Okay, AND I'm stuck, (I mean I'm thrilled beyond belief), to be spending the evenings in the company of the lovely BabyNater. So, please, text me on my crappy phone if you are feeling/tired/lonely/sad and come and sit with me in the hallway outside of my hotel room while he sleeps. I know. I am a freaking party a minute.
3) You don't have cool shoes (clothes/bag/insert anything here).
I haven't bought any shoes in seven years. I KID YOU NOT. Last year, I was all, meh, these people have never met me before, strappy sandals are strappy sandals, I'll wear the same damn neutral strappy sandals I've been wearing on my two night's out a year for a decade. This year I'm all, I could buy some new strappy sandals. I even went to Nordstrom's annual sale. But then, I realized that I hadn't bought a bra in five years and well, three kids in five years, ladies, the girls have changed a tad. I dragged my sad ass to lingerie where I met a delightful lady who measured me and then smiled, a bit condescendingly to my mind, and said, "oh my, we have changed, haven't we. You're a 32AA." I'm all DOES THAT EVEN EXIST OUTSIDE OF A JUDY BLUME STORY? OMIFUCKINGGOD. THEN. Then. She left to find me some bras and I glanced at my five-year-old significantly padded bra and saw 32 C and I thought, wishful thinking much? I bought it while I was nursing Gee, which is like the only time in my life that I even HAD bo.obs and I still even wasn't a 32 C in my dreams. Then. THEN. She came back all perky and chirpy with "some sweet little bras for me to try." A few minutes later again, with more "sweet little bras." And then one more time! Until I turned to my sister and said, "if she uses the adjectives "sweet" and "little" one more time in reference to the undergarment for which to contain my womanly bosoms, I shall SMACK her." Dee helped me pick out three sweet little bras and we left before I committed murder in a Nordstrom dressing room, which I am certain is frowned upon, although sweet little bras would make a very bold statement if used to strangle an obnoxious bra saleswoman. No?
Where was I? BlogHer? Shoes? Wha? See. I'm crazy. You'll be fine in whatever shoes you wear. I'll be in seven-year-old shoes and brand new sweet little bras. (Well, not only seven-year-old shoes and sweet little bras, although that would make a stir.)
4) You wish you could lose five pounds/ten pounds/xx pounds. Look. This is serious. You're beautiful. I've been trying to gain five pounds for four months now and failing and I know, I know, poor me, but here's the thing. I'm thin. I've always been thin, I don't have to work hard to be thin and it's nice. But. I still manage to be hellishly insecure about my looks. My complexion sucks. I'm almost forty and I have zits, like the real deal, not "oh no, a pimple before I leave for NYC." I don't know how to do my hair. Truth. I'll have it done before I leave and it will look pretty darn fabulous until like wind or humidity or an airplane seat or grubby baby hands touch it and then it will look progressively shittier and shittier until I give up and put it up in an ugly pony tail. So, you know, I've got about an hour of fabulous, which will be completely wasted on the small Border of Idaho airport from which I will be departing.
5) You hate making small talk/walking into huge events alone. Me too. The whole entire world hates this. I swear it. (Or maybe you love it and then you rock, but I hate it, and so I assume that the entire world is just like me thereby making myself feel normal and mainstreamish. It's a neat trick, try it sometime.) BlogHer tip: Make smaller things happen with the people you most want to see and talk to. That makes the weekend really fun. And. If all else fails. Recall me in the hall outside my hotel room while the baby sleeps? Come and see me. Please?
6) Everyone else in the BlogHer universe is presenting/speaking/hosting an awesome party/so much more involved and kick ass than me and I'm just going. Nah. I'm not. I'm just going too. There are 1500 people going, so a lot of us are just going. Be glad because you will get to enjoy every second and not die of fear. Also, let's all get behind some of my favorite bloggers who ARE speaking. Marinka. Amy. Maggie Dammit. Ohmommy. Ryan. Jessica. The Bloggess. The list is endless.
***********************************
If you're curious, and because Amy about blew me away with her color-coded schedule fabulousness, here's my not-to-be-missed list.
Thursday - People's Party, although, I'll most likely be sitting outside my hotel room door, see above, please visit me.
Friday - 7:00 Starbucks/Zabar's (Bagels. Lox. Real ones. Made by Jews. It's like a religious experience.
10:45 Maggie's session
1:15 Mouthy Housewives' session
4:30 Community keynote - DO NOT MISS THIS, IT IS SO GOOD.
6-10 Kirtsy art auction/voices of the year (More on this in a separate post! Fabulousness! Also, one of my posts is included, which makes me blush with pleasure. Robin's art will be there. There's more. Soon!)
7-10 Mouthy Housewives cocktail party AND Aiming Low party. Huge dilemma. Except that I'll be sitting outside my hotel room in the hall while Nate sleeps. Sigh.
Saturday - 7:00 Starbucks/Zabar's (Bagels. Lox. Redux. I can not wait.)
10:30 Amy, Ryan and Pauline's session
7-10 Sparklecorn party. Except that I'll be sitting outside my hotel room in the hall while Nate sleeps. Sigh.
I'm not linking to any of that today because I am hellishly lazy. But. Any time I'm not actually trying to get Nate to sleep in the evening, I'll probably be in the Serenity Suite (see cool button above). I am not kidding around about the hanging out in the hall thing either. If we haven't exchanged cell phone numbers and you're interested, email me!
KIDDING.
Want a confidence boost? Here's one. I'll be there, so you will always be within a few hotel floors of someone geekier, awkwarder, less fashion savvy and more likely to embarrass themselves than you. As they say in the blogosphere: You. Are. Welcome.
Let me do what every other BlogHer attendee has already done (but better): break down a few of the more common fears for you and put them in perspective through the lens of my ineptitude.
1) You don't have an iphone/ipad/iMOSTFABULOUSTINYELECTRONICPRODUCTEVER. Your laptop is a dinosaur and/or you don't have a laptop. What in the hell are you doing at a social media conference? How will you know what is going on if you can't check twitter 8000 times a day?
Rest easy. I have a prepaid cell phone. I shit you not. I can only get so many texts before it exceeds its limit and its little brain explodes. My laptop is huge, like, used-to-plot-the-landing-of-Apollo-14 huge. Seriously. I'm glad this conference isn't in D.C. because some wandering secret service type person would be like "HEY! LADY! STOP RIGHT THERE! Did you steal that computer from the Air & Space Museum? Don't even lie." It's not a pretty color either. Nothing like Marinka's cute little pink flowered iWHATEVER. Which I covet. Mine is a color I like to call, smeary fingerprinted black ala unidentified crusty stuff.
2) People are talking about a thousand parties you've never heard of and you haven't been invited to any private parties or events.
Me either, not a single solitary one. Maybe that doesn't make you feel better because it just means we're both unhappening? Okay, AND I'm stuck, (I mean I'm thrilled beyond belief), to be spending the evenings in the company of the lovely BabyNater. So, please, text me on my crappy phone if you are feeling/tired/lonely/sad and come and sit with me in the hallway outside of my hotel room while he sleeps. I know. I am a freaking party a minute.
3) You don't have cool shoes (clothes/bag/insert anything here).
I haven't bought any shoes in seven years. I KID YOU NOT. Last year, I was all, meh, these people have never met me before, strappy sandals are strappy sandals, I'll wear the same damn neutral strappy sandals I've been wearing on my two night's out a year for a decade. This year I'm all, I could buy some new strappy sandals. I even went to Nordstrom's annual sale. But then, I realized that I hadn't bought a bra in five years and well, three kids in five years, ladies, the girls have changed a tad. I dragged my sad ass to lingerie where I met a delightful lady who measured me and then smiled, a bit condescendingly to my mind, and said, "oh my, we have changed, haven't we. You're a 32AA." I'm all DOES THAT EVEN EXIST OUTSIDE OF A JUDY BLUME STORY? OMIFUCKINGGOD. THEN. Then. She left to find me some bras and I glanced at my five-year-old significantly padded bra and saw 32 C and I thought, wishful thinking much? I bought it while I was nursing Gee, which is like the only time in my life that I even HAD bo.obs and I still even wasn't a 32 C in my dreams. Then. THEN. She came back all perky and chirpy with "some sweet little bras for me to try." A few minutes later again, with more "sweet little bras." And then one more time! Until I turned to my sister and said, "if she uses the adjectives "sweet" and "little" one more time in reference to the undergarment for which to contain my womanly bosoms, I shall SMACK her." Dee helped me pick out three sweet little bras and we left before I committed murder in a Nordstrom dressing room, which I am certain is frowned upon, although sweet little bras would make a very bold statement if used to strangle an obnoxious bra saleswoman. No?
Where was I? BlogHer? Shoes? Wha? See. I'm crazy. You'll be fine in whatever shoes you wear. I'll be in seven-year-old shoes and brand new sweet little bras. (Well, not only seven-year-old shoes and sweet little bras, although that would make a stir.)
4) You wish you could lose five pounds/ten pounds/xx pounds. Look. This is serious. You're beautiful. I've been trying to gain five pounds for four months now and failing and I know, I know, poor me, but here's the thing. I'm thin. I've always been thin, I don't have to work hard to be thin and it's nice. But. I still manage to be hellishly insecure about my looks. My complexion sucks. I'm almost forty and I have zits, like the real deal, not "oh no, a pimple before I leave for NYC." I don't know how to do my hair. Truth. I'll have it done before I leave and it will look pretty darn fabulous until like wind or humidity or an airplane seat or grubby baby hands touch it and then it will look progressively shittier and shittier until I give up and put it up in an ugly pony tail. So, you know, I've got about an hour of fabulous, which will be completely wasted on the small Border of Idaho airport from which I will be departing.
5) You hate making small talk/walking into huge events alone. Me too. The whole entire world hates this. I swear it. (Or maybe you love it and then you rock, but I hate it, and so I assume that the entire world is just like me thereby making myself feel normal and mainstreamish. It's a neat trick, try it sometime.) BlogHer tip: Make smaller things happen with the people you most want to see and talk to. That makes the weekend really fun. And. If all else fails. Recall me in the hall outside my hotel room while the baby sleeps? Come and see me. Please?
6) Everyone else in the BlogHer universe is presenting/speaking/hosting an awesome party/so much more involved and kick ass than me and I'm just going. Nah. I'm not. I'm just going too. There are 1500 people going, so a lot of us are just going. Be glad because you will get to enjoy every second and not die of fear. Also, let's all get behind some of my favorite bloggers who ARE speaking. Marinka. Amy. Maggie Dammit. Ohmommy. Ryan. Jessica. The Bloggess. The list is endless.
***********************************
If you're curious, and because Amy about blew me away with her color-coded schedule fabulousness, here's my not-to-be-missed list.
Thursday - People's Party, although, I'll most likely be sitting outside my hotel room door, see above, please visit me.
Friday - 7:00 Starbucks/Zabar's (Bagels. Lox. Real ones. Made by Jews. It's like a religious experience.
10:45 Maggie's session
1:15 Mouthy Housewives' session
4:30 Community keynote - DO NOT MISS THIS, IT IS SO GOOD.
6-10 Kirtsy art auction/voices of the year (More on this in a separate post! Fabulousness! Also, one of my posts is included, which makes me blush with pleasure. Robin's art will be there. There's more. Soon!)
7-10 Mouthy Housewives cocktail party AND Aiming Low party. Huge dilemma. Except that I'll be sitting outside my hotel room in the hall while Nate sleeps. Sigh.
Saturday - 7:00 Starbucks/Zabar's (Bagels. Lox. Redux. I can not wait.)
10:30 Amy, Ryan and Pauline's session
7-10 Sparklecorn party. Except that I'll be sitting outside my hotel room in the hall while Nate sleeps. Sigh.
I'm not linking to any of that today because I am hellishly lazy. But. Any time I'm not actually trying to get Nate to sleep in the evening, I'll probably be in the Serenity Suite (see cool button above). I am not kidding around about the hanging out in the hall thing either. If we haven't exchanged cell phone numbers and you're interested, email me!
Monday, July 19, 2010
Life is beautiful
Some evenings, by chance, are perfect. The sun is bright, but not harsh. The breeze is light and warm, cooling, but not chilly, with a light scent of grass and charcoal. The children are tired, but not crabby. Not whiny. Their bare feet, icy cold from the glacier-fed hose water and dust covered from hard play, hang below the picnic table. The beer, an hour earlier as they ran through the sprinklers, was cold. Now, after dinner, it sits in your stomach and runs warm in your veins.
Daddy roasts marshmallows over the last of the coals and the deeply-browned ooze melts the chocolate.
Their sticky, chocolate-covered faces melt your heart.
Summer. 2010. Just like this.
(They were all wearing bibs. Outside. At the picnic table. Have I mentioned my aversion to sticky? I can out-anal anyone. It's scary. Comments are closed, summer love to all of you.)
Daddy roasts marshmallows over the last of the coals and the deeply-browned ooze melts the chocolate.
Their sticky, chocolate-covered faces melt your heart.
Summer. 2010. Just like this.
(They were all wearing bibs. Outside. At the picnic table. Have I mentioned my aversion to sticky? I can out-anal anyone. It's scary. Comments are closed, summer love to all of you.)
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Scaredy cat
What scares you?
I'm physically afraid of a lot of things. Spiders. Pain. Needles.
But, it's the mental stuff that really scares me. The irrational, psychological fears. The dark. Walking up our basement stairs (I always have to run the last few.) Showering after nightfall. I call it the "creep factor." It's that feeling that jump starts your heart and makes the hairs on your arm stand up, that makes you look over your shoulder.
Even those fears aren't the ones that affect me day to day. The fear that holds me back, my biggest fear, you might say, is failure. Not any old failure, I fail all the time. I fail to keep my patience; I failed to be a lawyer (happily); I fail to pull my shit together and make dinner. This is different. This is wanting something, badly, and trying my very best, putting my all into it and failing to achieve it. I will refuse to try my hardest, I will subconsciously hold back, if only to have that to fall back on.
I didn't put my all into it. I got busy. If I did my very best...
I worked with an editor. I sent him my manuscript (typing that makes me laugh; it's still a genre romance, nothing fancy) and he read it and gave me editorial comments. It was a fantastic process. I highly recommend it. He lent me his expertise and I got direction and a clear plan for moving forward.
I also got encouragement. Yes, I paid him, but he said some things, things he didn't have to say, about my writing, my plot and my story that will stick with me, keep me writing and moving this project forward, despite the times when I'm convinced it's a monstrous, hopeless waste of time.
I am very glad that I sought his help, but true to form, I sent him my first draft. I could have edited and reviewed myself. I could have made it so much tighter, so much better, before I looked for professional review and I didn't because that is too scary. If I had sent him my best, my very best, and it wasn't enough, I would have no where to go. I would have failed.
Do we all sabotage ourselves this way or is this unique to my perfectionist little soul?
So, now I have his notes. I have direction. I have a clear plan. I know what to do. I just have to do it. And I have to dare to do my best.
I know, I ask you deep questions and then I close comments and don't let you answer. I'm buried in s'mores and splash pads and outings with a favorite aunt and, while I always read and adore your comments, I don't have time to read blogs and respond the way I'd like. I have enough neurosis that keep me up at night, I don't need to feel all guilty about you guys too.
P.S. anymommyoutthere@gmail.com
I'm physically afraid of a lot of things. Spiders. Pain. Needles.
But, it's the mental stuff that really scares me. The irrational, psychological fears. The dark. Walking up our basement stairs (I always have to run the last few.) Showering after nightfall. I call it the "creep factor." It's that feeling that jump starts your heart and makes the hairs on your arm stand up, that makes you look over your shoulder.
Even those fears aren't the ones that affect me day to day. The fear that holds me back, my biggest fear, you might say, is failure. Not any old failure, I fail all the time. I fail to keep my patience; I failed to be a lawyer (happily); I fail to pull my shit together and make dinner. This is different. This is wanting something, badly, and trying my very best, putting my all into it and failing to achieve it. I will refuse to try my hardest, I will subconsciously hold back, if only to have that to fall back on.
I didn't put my all into it. I got busy. If I did my very best...
I worked with an editor. I sent him my manuscript (typing that makes me laugh; it's still a genre romance, nothing fancy) and he read it and gave me editorial comments. It was a fantastic process. I highly recommend it. He lent me his expertise and I got direction and a clear plan for moving forward.
I also got encouragement. Yes, I paid him, but he said some things, things he didn't have to say, about my writing, my plot and my story that will stick with me, keep me writing and moving this project forward, despite the times when I'm convinced it's a monstrous, hopeless waste of time.
I am very glad that I sought his help, but true to form, I sent him my first draft. I could have edited and reviewed myself. I could have made it so much tighter, so much better, before I looked for professional review and I didn't because that is too scary. If I had sent him my best, my very best, and it wasn't enough, I would have no where to go. I would have failed.
Do we all sabotage ourselves this way or is this unique to my perfectionist little soul?
So, now I have his notes. I have direction. I have a clear plan. I know what to do. I just have to do it. And I have to dare to do my best.
I know, I ask you deep questions and then I close comments and don't let you answer. I'm buried in s'mores and splash pads and outings with a favorite aunt and, while I always read and adore your comments, I don't have time to read blogs and respond the way I'd like. I have enough neurosis that keep me up at night, I don't need to feel all guilty about you guys too.
P.S. anymommyoutthere@gmail.com
Friday, July 16, 2010
For the record
To clarify on that last little confession of insanity: I would happily and willingly visit any of your houses. I don't judge the clutter and/or detritus of others, ever. If you are willing to talk to me with real, grown up adult words and have my little flock of quail chicks in your house, I won't even notice your housekeeping and that is the honest truth. I will also bring both you and I a fancy coffee, which we can sip while we chat. I am amazed and more than a little jealous of the freedom that my more flexible friends have in their home. If you come to my house, we'll totally get along too. As long as you take off your shoes, and we eat snacks at the table, and ...
What's that? My close friends are an incredible tolerant group of amazingly loving and forgiving women who love me despite my many flaws, quirks and control-freakish nature? Yes, that sums it up nicely.
For those of you that identified with and validated my crazy, I love you, come over, we can hang out and throw things away together.
As for coming over to hang out and help some of you declutter and/or organize. I would love it. I'm not kidding. Just, seriously, hide anything that you wouldn't want thrown away.
*********************************
And now, apropos of nothing, tonight's dinner conversation, in part.
Quinn: My don't like sweet corns.
Me: Why not, it's yummy, Daddy cooked it on the grill just for you.
Quinn: My don't like it. Too hairy.
Me: Oh, the strings? It is a little hairy. Just put them on your plate.
Quinn: My don't like hairy corn.
Me: Yeah, it is a little hairy, your Dad is not a very good shucker.
Matt: Careful.
Cue uproarious adult laughter. I use the term "adult" loosely. My sister, Matt and I are all twelve.
(Comments are closed while I catch up with all of you, enjoy my sister's visit and soak in the 2.5 seconds of sunshine and heat allotted to our arctic paradise.)
What's that? My close friends are an incredible tolerant group of amazingly loving and forgiving women who love me despite my many flaws, quirks and control-freakish nature? Yes, that sums it up nicely.
For those of you that identified with and validated my crazy, I love you, come over, we can hang out and throw things away together.
As for coming over to hang out and help some of you declutter and/or organize. I would love it. I'm not kidding. Just, seriously, hide anything that you wouldn't want thrown away.
*********************************
And now, apropos of nothing, tonight's dinner conversation, in part.
Quinn: My don't like sweet corns.
Me: Why not, it's yummy, Daddy cooked it on the grill just for you.
Quinn: My don't like it. Too hairy.
Me: Oh, the strings? It is a little hairy. Just put them on your plate.
Quinn: My don't like hairy corn.
Me: Yeah, it is a little hairy, your Dad is not a very good shucker.
Matt: Careful.
Cue uproarious adult laughter. I use the term "adult" loosely. My sister, Matt and I are all twelve.
(Comments are closed while I catch up with all of you, enjoy my sister's visit and soak in the 2.5 seconds of sunshine and heat allotted to our arctic paradise.)
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
You have no idea how anal I really am
It makes me laugh every time I write about my days or our routine and someone (or lots of someones) comments "I don't know how you do it" or "how do you get them all to bed" or "how in the hell do you keep your children out of the kitchen."
I've written a little bit before about how we all do it, in our way, with our own tricks and our own priorities. The partial truth, for me, though? I.am.insanely.organized.
That's not a boast, it's an admission of severe mental illness.
Remember Monica from Friends? I can guarantee you that she was based on a real person because she is me, I am her, except, well obviously I'm not that pretty and I'm not a movie star, but stick with me here, I'm talking personality flaws.
I'll confess some of my crazy. Brace yourselves. (Disclosure #1: I have a cleaning guy. He cleans every other Friday, so I never have to mop floors or clean bathrooms. Disclosure #2: Matt is unbelievably handy. I never have to worry about maintenance or bigger fix it projects and he does all outdoor chores.)
1) I am incapable of coming downstairs in the morning until everything upstairs is put away and is in perfect order. I dress all four children and send them downstairs to Matt and then I straighten, organize, fold, pick up until it's perfect upstairs. Only then, can I go downstairs. Once I leave the upstairs, no one is allowed upstairs except for naps or bedtime.
2) I rarely leave the house in the morning without cleaning the entire kitchen, unloading and reloading the dishwasher and putting everything away/in order for the next meal. If I have to leave without cleaning, it drives me insane.
3) I hate clutter. I put things away with vicious efficiency. I throw things away if they annoy me by being in my line of sight too often. Matt thinks I could throw away one of the children if they sat in the wrong place too long. The downstairs is always neat. Throughout the day, as I run upstairs a thousand times for things and downstairs to the basement a thousand times for things, I carry all out of place things with me and put them back where they go.
4) There are two problem clutter areas in my house - the office and the laundry room. They hurt my brain.
5) I hate any kind of grit, crumbs or any other detritus on the floor. We eat only at the table. We eat breakfast, lunch, dinner and two snacks at 10:30 and 3:30. Wandering food drives me insane. Matt eating chips on the couch ruins my entire day. My children aren't allowed in the kitchen, besides passing through. Pretty much ever. I think this works because I don't cook much, but also, you know, because I'm CRAY-ZEE.
6) Sticky stuff completely grosses me out. Again, with the no wandering about covered in ick. Eat at the table. Get washed. Now you can leave.
7) When I wipe down a child to remove crumbs and/or sticky I always use the wet paper towel to tackle a crumby/dog hairy/other detritusy area of the floor. If I don't, I feel like I've completely wasted that paper towel.
8) Are you bowled over by the crazy yet? I warned you.
9) I could give a shit about my minivan. It's a disgusting sty. Does that help? Probably not much.
10) I am constantly doing laundry. I actually love laundry because of the way it slips in between other things that I have to do and gets done so efficiently. I always check & change loads when I go downstairs. I always carry clean loads, if any, when I go upstairs and I always fold and put away the latest basket while I'm singing lullabies at bedtime. If I get behind, I can't sleep.
11) I never let the kitchen stay messy. I will stop everything to clean it up, empty the sink and wipe everything down.* (*I'm bad about pots, I hate washing pots and I will let them sit in the sink sometimes, but I still clean the entire sink under and around the pot because gross, messy, streaky sink ick. Ew.)
12) I always clean the kitchen & leave it spotless before I go to bed. Always. Unless I'm really drunk and then I still sometimes wake up at 2:00 a.m. and have to (COMPULSION, Have To) go down and clean it up. On the rare occasions when I actually leave it all night, I feel ill until I've cleaned it up in the morning.
13) If I get under an hour to myself, I can play on the computer, read a book, watch trash TV, whatever. If I get more than an hour to myself, I have to move at least one large project one step forward before I can waste time. Currently, my large projects are:
1) Organize the office. (UUUGGGGGGHHHH.)
2) Decorate the mudroom. (Fun. I'll finish this one quickly.)
3) Second draft of romance novel.
4) Second picture wall on the stairs.
14) The three older children have quiet time every day during Nate's nap and then, when Nate wakes up, we clean up the basement toy room. It's always completely picked up before they are allowed to come upstairs and we can move on to the next activity. Sometimes, this is a HUGE problem in my day. (The whining, my ears, I mean seriously, you pulled down every toy in this toy room and yes you will help me put it back, yes you will.) If we don't have time to clean up, I can leave it, because it's in the basement, but it bothers me all day, oh yes it does.
15) Whenever we return home from an outing, I have to unload the entire car, wipe everything down and put everything away where it goes. Everything in my life has a place where it "goes." If it doesn't have a place... well, yeah ... it all has a place because if it doesn't (whispering) I throw it away. ((Matt still has not forgiven me for an incident thirteen years ago when I threw away some precious, unopened Nascar model cars. I threw them away because they didn't "go" on top of the TV. For three months.))
Pros to my insanity: I get a lot of time to myself. Because my incredibly scheduled kids go to bed early and my house is usually already clean. Cons to my insanity: Rebellion? Years of therapy? Extremely anal children with anxiety issues? It remains to be seen, I suppose.
I'm a little embarrassed to hit publish. You won't hate me because I have a mental disorder, will you?
I've written a little bit before about how we all do it, in our way, with our own tricks and our own priorities. The partial truth, for me, though? I.am.insanely.organized.
That's not a boast, it's an admission of severe mental illness.
Remember Monica from Friends? I can guarantee you that she was based on a real person because she is me, I am her, except, well obviously I'm not that pretty and I'm not a movie star, but stick with me here, I'm talking personality flaws.
I'll confess some of my crazy. Brace yourselves. (Disclosure #1: I have a cleaning guy. He cleans every other Friday, so I never have to mop floors or clean bathrooms. Disclosure #2: Matt is unbelievably handy. I never have to worry about maintenance or bigger fix it projects and he does all outdoor chores.)
1) I am incapable of coming downstairs in the morning until everything upstairs is put away and is in perfect order. I dress all four children and send them downstairs to Matt and then I straighten, organize, fold, pick up until it's perfect upstairs. Only then, can I go downstairs. Once I leave the upstairs, no one is allowed upstairs except for naps or bedtime.
2) I rarely leave the house in the morning without cleaning the entire kitchen, unloading and reloading the dishwasher and putting everything away/in order for the next meal. If I have to leave without cleaning, it drives me insane.
3) I hate clutter. I put things away with vicious efficiency. I throw things away if they annoy me by being in my line of sight too often. Matt thinks I could throw away one of the children if they sat in the wrong place too long. The downstairs is always neat. Throughout the day, as I run upstairs a thousand times for things and downstairs to the basement a thousand times for things, I carry all out of place things with me and put them back where they go.
4) There are two problem clutter areas in my house - the office and the laundry room. They hurt my brain.
5) I hate any kind of grit, crumbs or any other detritus on the floor. We eat only at the table. We eat breakfast, lunch, dinner and two snacks at 10:30 and 3:30. Wandering food drives me insane. Matt eating chips on the couch ruins my entire day. My children aren't allowed in the kitchen, besides passing through. Pretty much ever. I think this works because I don't cook much, but also, you know, because I'm CRAY-ZEE.
6) Sticky stuff completely grosses me out. Again, with the no wandering about covered in ick. Eat at the table. Get washed. Now you can leave.
7) When I wipe down a child to remove crumbs and/or sticky I always use the wet paper towel to tackle a crumby/dog hairy/other detritusy area of the floor. If I don't, I feel like I've completely wasted that paper towel.
8) Are you bowled over by the crazy yet? I warned you.
9) I could give a shit about my minivan. It's a disgusting sty. Does that help? Probably not much.
10) I am constantly doing laundry. I actually love laundry because of the way it slips in between other things that I have to do and gets done so efficiently. I always check & change loads when I go downstairs. I always carry clean loads, if any, when I go upstairs and I always fold and put away the latest basket while I'm singing lullabies at bedtime. If I get behind, I can't sleep.
11) I never let the kitchen stay messy. I will stop everything to clean it up, empty the sink and wipe everything down.* (*I'm bad about pots, I hate washing pots and I will let them sit in the sink sometimes, but I still clean the entire sink under and around the pot because gross, messy, streaky sink ick. Ew.)
12) I always clean the kitchen & leave it spotless before I go to bed. Always. Unless I'm really drunk and then I still sometimes wake up at 2:00 a.m. and have to (COMPULSION, Have To) go down and clean it up. On the rare occasions when I actually leave it all night, I feel ill until I've cleaned it up in the morning.
13) If I get under an hour to myself, I can play on the computer, read a book, watch trash TV, whatever. If I get more than an hour to myself, I have to move at least one large project one step forward before I can waste time. Currently, my large projects are:
1) Organize the office. (UUUGGGGGGHHHH.)
2) Decorate the mudroom. (Fun. I'll finish this one quickly.)
3) Second draft of romance novel.
4) Second picture wall on the stairs.
14) The three older children have quiet time every day during Nate's nap and then, when Nate wakes up, we clean up the basement toy room. It's always completely picked up before they are allowed to come upstairs and we can move on to the next activity. Sometimes, this is a HUGE problem in my day. (The whining, my ears, I mean seriously, you pulled down every toy in this toy room and yes you will help me put it back, yes you will.) If we don't have time to clean up, I can leave it, because it's in the basement, but it bothers me all day, oh yes it does.
15) Whenever we return home from an outing, I have to unload the entire car, wipe everything down and put everything away where it goes. Everything in my life has a place where it "goes." If it doesn't have a place... well, yeah ... it all has a place because if it doesn't (whispering) I throw it away. ((Matt still has not forgiven me for an incident thirteen years ago when I threw away some precious, unopened Nascar model cars. I threw them away because they didn't "go" on top of the TV. For three months.))
Pros to my insanity: I get a lot of time to myself. Because my incredibly scheduled kids go to bed early and my house is usually already clean. Cons to my insanity: Rebellion? Years of therapy? Extremely anal children with anxiety issues? It remains to be seen, I suppose.
I'm a little embarrassed to hit publish. You won't hate me because I have a mental disorder, will you?
Saturday, July 10, 2010
A day like today
5:40 a.m. Gee is in our doorway with his hands jammed down the front of his pants doing a little jig. Mooooommmmmmyyyyyyyy, I have to peeeeeeee peeeeeeeeee.
5:40 & 1/2. Go! Just go! Why does he have to tell us every morning, why can't he just GO. OMIGOD, is it 5:40 a.m.? Wrap my pillow around my head and huff onto my other side, as if turning my back on the door can make the four children on the other side disappear. Just for an hour. Curse the summer. Curse the sun and its 5:00 a.m. appearance. Curse the chinks in the black out blinds in the snow white room. CURSES.
5:42. FLUSH! LID SLAM! POUNDING FEET! DOOR SLAM WALL BEHIND IT!!
5:42. Shhhhhhhhh!!! Shhhhhhhhh!! It's early. It's still night-night time. Be quiet, or you will wake up...
5:42. Quinnace the menace: DARRETT!!! WHERE YOUR BANKET, DARRETT? DID YOU POO POO, DARRETT??
5:43. Moan. It's your turn to take them to the basement. I'm pretty sure I took them yesterday. I'm pretty sure you didn't. They're going to wake up the baby. Growl. Snurfle. Whiinnneeeee.
5:48. Three oldest children in the basement; baby miraculously still sleeping. An extra hour of ... rest ... is born.
6:48. Happy time over. Get dressed, somewhat clean.
7:00. Change diapers. Dress children times four. Send children down to Matt for breakfast. Pack lunches for camp; cook waffles. Distribute waffles; baby throws a fit when you try to break up his waffle; hand him the whole waffle. Gobble cereal. Gulp coffee.
8:00. Dinosaur train. Ahhhhh. Sip coffee. Clean kitchen. Finish packing lunches, snacks, bottles, etc.
8:30. Shoes. Sunscreen. Grab your lunches. Put your shoes on. Find keys. Find sunglasses. Forgot water; fill water bottles.
8:40. PUT YOUR SHOES ON. Help Quinn. Growl at Garrett.
8:45. Buckle small non-walking child. Buckle Saige. Buckle Quinn. OMIGODPUTYOURSHOESON!!!! Garrett's staying home, Daddy, please put him in his room, because he can't ...
Thermonuclear screaming. You have ten seconds to put your... Thank you.
8:49. Buckle Garrett. Drive to camp. Try to pretend like I'm listening to all four children. I'm listening to Martina McBride. No mocking. She's my happy place.
9:02. Sign Saige and Garrett into camp. Try to pretend you are not in a huge, gigantic obnoxious, rush even though you are because everyone notices that and talks about you later, about how you are always in a huge, gigantic, obnoxious rush, but shitshitshit, I kind of am, because ahem, hi I know lovely, chatty lady that you unbuckled your one-year-old TWINS and carried them in here because you are fantastic mother who does every thing right and would never ever leave her itty bitty precious twins in the car while you threw your four-year-old at a camp administrator, but you see, lovely lady, I SUCK. MY two itty bitty kids are totally in my running car right now and my four-year-olds could give two winks if I stand here for two hours or thirty seconds, they are all, don't let the door hit you on the way out, Mom, so, UM, please don't take this personally, but BYE.
9:07. Drive to Starbucks. Get one for me and one for my incredibly generous friend upon whom I am about to dump Quinn.
9:25. Drop Quinn w/Miss Amy. Drive to photographers.
9:30. Try not to cry at beautiful pictures of Matt and Nate. Try not to spend my children's college education money on beautiful pictures as I try to hold on to his babyness. With money. And tears.
10:00. Try not to let Nate destroy beautiful studio while I cry over pictures and hand over my credit card.
10:15. Back to Amy's. Playdate with friends. Chat while children wallow on me. Try to get Quinn to play with toys and/or other children. Try to get Nate to use something besides my hair as his favorite pull up rope. Remember to change both children before we leave so that they can go straight to naps when they fall asleep on the way home in the car. Parenting score.
11:45. Pack up and drive home. Both babies sleeping. Park in the shade. Unload all our crap out of the car. Carry Nate up to his crib. Return to car. Carry Quinn up to bed. Feed dog. Water dog. Feed me. Water me. Change laundry. Clean up kitchen for dinner. Unload dishwasher; reload dishwasher.
1:00 Turn on Days. Sit down at computer. I still have an hour. Sigh. I still have an hour!!! Catch up with her. And her. And her. And....
2:00 How did that happen? Pack snacks; swimsuits; more water; sunscreen, hats, drycleaning and annoying UPS package containing phenomenally expensive clock that I ordered for the mudroom because I've wanted it for two years and that is an overpriced piece of crap that will not run for more than five minutes no matter how many times I scream obsenitites at it. Load car. Wake up baby, change baby, put baby in car with bottle. (We have a very shady, gated back yard, but yes, I probably would do that even if we didn't and no, I don't really care about your opinions on the subject and I mean that in the nicest way possible while still not caring about your opinions on the subject.) Wake up Quinn, glance at clock.
2:18 Crappity crap crap. How did that happen??? Bust ass to car, load and buckle crying Quinn. Hand him a graham cracker. He needs his naaannnannnannayyyyy blaaaaannnnkkkeeettt. Crappity crap crap. Run upstairs, grab blanket, get back in car. Remember water bottles, rush back inside, grab water bottles, rush back out. Remember dog when I see him in the front yard as I put car in reverse. Run inside, let dog in, grab cheese for bribing dog that is now stronger than I am to go into his crate, lock dog in crate. RUNBACKTOCAR, try to avoid looking at clock but see it anyway and oh NO.
2:29. Late; late; late; I'm late for camp pickup. And in a huge rush. As usual.
2:35 (and some change) Park on the playground side of the school and pray, pray, pray that they finished up outside today. Come on. It's such a nice day. Comeoncomeoncomeon.
2:36 The are not outside. Crappitycrapcrapcrap. There's no shade. It's too hot. This parking lot is too far from the classroom. ARRRGGGGGGG. Unbuckle baby, pull him out of the car, swing around to other side, unbuckle Quinn.
2:38 QUINN IS NOT WEARING SHOES.
2:38 & 1/2 ?
2:39 I can't carry Quinn and Nate. It's really hot. I'm sweating. Start begging Quinn to walk in barefeet. He's not having it. Come on, it will be fun. I'll buy you a pony.
2:39 & 1/2 Someone calls my name.
2:40 Matt* is walking across the parking lot with Saige and Garrett. My personal fairies have heard my bleats of distress. (*Matt's work is right across the alley from this school. Sometimes he can run out & help me with pick up & sometimes he can't. It's a complicated variable equation that depends on how many nursing home denizens are feeling poorly on any given day and need medication.)
2:45 Buckle. Fish! Look at our fish! We have fish! Buckle. Each of my campers is holding a zip lock bag full of ... goo ... with paper fish "swimming" in it. Buckle. I am horrified by the goo. Buckle. There is no way I'm getting those bags of fish goo out of their hands and they are totally going to leak all over my car. Buckle. Kiss Matt.
2:50 Drive to dry cleaners. Try to keep my eyes on the road and not obsess about the goo fish. Fail.
3:00 Drive back up the hill to the UPS store. The goo fish are burning my brain. I'm plotting the demise of the goo fish. The goo fish CAN NOT enter my house.
3:15 Give UPS guy the package and the code that the customer service lady gave me while promising me that I would not have to pay another $11 to ship BACK the defective, crapasstic clock that I already had to pay $11 to ship TO me. UPS guy looks at me like I'm insane. He had no idea about the code. I am talking to him from the door of the tiny UPS store, which I am holding open so that I am sort of kind of almost in close proximity to my running car containing my four children who I absolutely was not unbuckling and carrying and rebuckling again in this heat, have I mentioned that Quinn is not wearing shoes. ALSO GOO FISH, MAN. I can't even concentrate on what you're saying. It's like your blank look is a black, black blight on my soul. THEY ARE ALONE IN THE CAR WITH GOO FISH. Okay, okay, you win, UPS guy, you win, crappy clock marketers, you win, universe, my fear of the goo fish is stronger than my ire at paying return shipping. Hand him my credit card. Ask him, humbly, to bring slip out to my car.
3:30 ISTHATBAGOFGOOFISHINYOURMOUTH? Give it to me. GIVE it to me. One bag of goo fish down, one to go. Give daughter the evil eye. I dare you to let those fish approach even the vicinity of your mouth. I dare you.
3:40 Arrive at friend's swimming club. Early. Un.heard.of.
3:45. While changing children into swimsuits in the shade of a tree, notice that people are leaving friend's swimming club in large numbers. Very kind lady with three kids tells me that the pool is closed due to poop contamination.
3:46. Briefly and fervently thank every possible god in the entire existence of humanity that it was not MY children's poop that closed down private swimming club. Call friend. Plan to meet at local splash pad. Brace self for unpleasant, "change of plans" temper tantrums.
3:48. Endure change of plans temper tantrums while rebuckling one, two, three four. Hand out snacks and water. Close van doors on change of plans temper tantrums.
3:58. What? I needed a minute. Drive to splash pad. Threaten oldest son with sitting and watching at splash pad if he whines about the pool one. single. more. solitary. time. Turn up Martina. Happy place.
4:05. Splashing. Sunshine. Mostly happiness. Chatting. Playing with my baby. Playing with her baby. Still mostly happiness.
5:00. Dry and dress cold two-year-old. Dry and dress cold four-year-olds. Pack up. Push everyone on the swings. Buckle. Buckle. Buckle. Buckle. Load bags, load stroller.
5:20. Home. Unbuckle. Unbuckle. Unbuckle. Unbuckle. My entire life is one long series of buckling and unbuckling. Shoes off. TV on. Argue about goo fish. NO! BAGS OF ! GOO! FISH! IN THE BASEMENT!
5:21. Sigh.
5:25. Must make something for dinner. Throw wet suits downstairs, put all the snack/water/lunch box/stuff away.
5:30. Sigh. A little news? Just a little.
5:45. Peanut butter and jelly, for the win! Check downstairs. Step in weird gel like goo on the floor. ?? GOO FISH!!????!!! This gel is white? Fish goo is blue? One fish, two fish, I hate goo fish. Is it on their hands? No. Mystery. CURSE GOO FISH. CURSE CRAFTY PEOPLE AND PROJECTS OF ALL KINDS. CURSE CAMP.
5:47. (Just kidding, camp. You are so pretty, let me pet you.)
5:49. Make peanutbutter and jelly and raw carrots. Call children. Wash children's hands. There is more white gel on the floor. ARRGGGGGG. Curse GOO FISH AGAIN. This gel looks vaguely familiar. It doesn't look like the fish goo. It's squishy, but pellety and silicony. Something is nagging at the back of my mind. I have seen this type of gel somewhere before. Where is this gel coming from? ARRGGGGG.
5:50 Feed children. Feed dog.
6:15. Start cleaning up. Wipe older children. Quinn is hard to see for the peanut butter. Start wiping Quinn. Stand him up in his chair to wipe crumbs off of his front. The front of his diaper, the diaper that I failed to change after his nap because I was late, and then failed to switch for a swim diaper at the splash pad because I forgot, and then failed to change after the splash pad because I am dumb, EXPLODES pellety, silicony goo all over the table, his chair, and the floor. Ah yes. That's where I've seen that type of goo before. In my washing machine, when I washed a diaper.
6:16. ARRRGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!
6:17 Strip Quinn naked. Leave mess. Take all children upstairs and put them to bed, which yeah, I'll leave to your imagination, but just imagine A LOT of talking and A LOT of reminding and A LOT of whining.
6:45. I'm a record setting put to bedder.
6:46. MADLY clean up kitchen and get out wine glasses and wine. MADLY straighten front room. MADLY clean up dining room. Glance at diaper explosion zone. Wipe off table top and push chair under table.
7:15. Amy. Wine. Happy.
7:30. Meggan carrying her tiny sleeping baby. She hands him to Amy.
7:35. Meggan carrying her sleeping four year old. We put him to bed upstairs.
7:40. Meggan and Amy. Wine. Ahhhhhh. Laughter. Tears of laughter.
8:45. Matt comes home from work. Matt takes dog out for beers.
10:15. Meggan and Amy leave carrying sleeping baby and very sleepy four year old.
10:45. Get ready for bed. Crawl into bed.
10:46. ARRRGGGGGG. DAMN DIAPER. I can do it in the morning. It will suck to do it in the morning. I'm tired. It will suck. I'm tired. Do it now while you have a happy little buzz.
10:48. Deal with diaper. Clean up chair. Clean up floor. Take gel covered clothes to basement. Go ahead and throw a load in so the suits are washed.
11:00. Bed. For real. Good night.
Everyone has days like this, right? Often? Just say yes.
(P.S. Yes, I know, I'd take a lifetime of days like this too. I'd do it every day over and over and over like ground hog day, exploding diaper and all, just to see them run under the rainbow water sprayer, laughing, with water and sun and joy all over their faces. Just to hand Nater a cracker in his car seat and feel him take it with his tiny, gentle, mousy touch. It's the good stuff. I'm still tired.)
5:40 & 1/2. Go! Just go! Why does he have to tell us every morning, why can't he just GO. OMIGOD, is it 5:40 a.m.? Wrap my pillow around my head and huff onto my other side, as if turning my back on the door can make the four children on the other side disappear. Just for an hour. Curse the summer. Curse the sun and its 5:00 a.m. appearance. Curse the chinks in the black out blinds in the snow white room. CURSES.
5:42. FLUSH! LID SLAM! POUNDING FEET! DOOR SLAM WALL BEHIND IT!!
5:42. Shhhhhhhhh!!! Shhhhhhhhh!! It's early. It's still night-night time. Be quiet, or you will wake up...
5:42. Quinnace the menace: DARRETT!!! WHERE YOUR BANKET, DARRETT? DID YOU POO POO, DARRETT??
5:43. Moan. It's your turn to take them to the basement. I'm pretty sure I took them yesterday. I'm pretty sure you didn't. They're going to wake up the baby. Growl. Snurfle. Whiinnneeeee.
5:48. Three oldest children in the basement; baby miraculously still sleeping. An extra hour of ... rest ... is born.
6:48. Happy time over. Get dressed, somewhat clean.
7:00. Change diapers. Dress children times four. Send children down to Matt for breakfast. Pack lunches for camp; cook waffles. Distribute waffles; baby throws a fit when you try to break up his waffle; hand him the whole waffle. Gobble cereal. Gulp coffee.
8:00. Dinosaur train. Ahhhhh. Sip coffee. Clean kitchen. Finish packing lunches, snacks, bottles, etc.
8:30. Shoes. Sunscreen. Grab your lunches. Put your shoes on. Find keys. Find sunglasses. Forgot water; fill water bottles.
8:40. PUT YOUR SHOES ON. Help Quinn. Growl at Garrett.
8:45. Buckle small non-walking child. Buckle Saige. Buckle Quinn. OMIGODPUTYOURSHOESON!!!! Garrett's staying home, Daddy, please put him in his room, because he can't ...
Thermonuclear screaming. You have ten seconds to put your... Thank you.
8:49. Buckle Garrett. Drive to camp. Try to pretend like I'm listening to all four children. I'm listening to Martina McBride. No mocking. She's my happy place.
9:02. Sign Saige and Garrett into camp. Try to pretend you are not in a huge, gigantic obnoxious, rush even though you are because everyone notices that and talks about you later, about how you are always in a huge, gigantic, obnoxious rush, but shitshitshit, I kind of am, because ahem, hi I know lovely, chatty lady that you unbuckled your one-year-old TWINS and carried them in here because you are fantastic mother who does every thing right and would never ever leave her itty bitty precious twins in the car while you threw your four-year-old at a camp administrator, but you see, lovely lady, I SUCK. MY two itty bitty kids are totally in my running car right now and my four-year-olds could give two winks if I stand here for two hours or thirty seconds, they are all, don't let the door hit you on the way out, Mom, so, UM, please don't take this personally, but BYE.
9:07. Drive to Starbucks. Get one for me and one for my incredibly generous friend upon whom I am about to dump Quinn.
9:25. Drop Quinn w/Miss Amy. Drive to photographers.
9:30. Try not to cry at beautiful pictures of Matt and Nate. Try not to spend my children's college education money on beautiful pictures as I try to hold on to his babyness. With money. And tears.
10:00. Try not to let Nate destroy beautiful studio while I cry over pictures and hand over my credit card.
10:15. Back to Amy's. Playdate with friends. Chat while children wallow on me. Try to get Quinn to play with toys and/or other children. Try to get Nate to use something besides my hair as his favorite pull up rope. Remember to change both children before we leave so that they can go straight to naps when they fall asleep on the way home in the car. Parenting score.
11:45. Pack up and drive home. Both babies sleeping. Park in the shade. Unload all our crap out of the car. Carry Nate up to his crib. Return to car. Carry Quinn up to bed. Feed dog. Water dog. Feed me. Water me. Change laundry. Clean up kitchen for dinner. Unload dishwasher; reload dishwasher.
1:00 Turn on Days. Sit down at computer. I still have an hour. Sigh. I still have an hour!!! Catch up with her. And her. And her. And....
2:00 How did that happen? Pack snacks; swimsuits; more water; sunscreen, hats, drycleaning and annoying UPS package containing phenomenally expensive clock that I ordered for the mudroom because I've wanted it for two years and that is an overpriced piece of crap that will not run for more than five minutes no matter how many times I scream obsenitites at it. Load car. Wake up baby, change baby, put baby in car with bottle. (We have a very shady, gated back yard, but yes, I probably would do that even if we didn't and no, I don't really care about your opinions on the subject and I mean that in the nicest way possible while still not caring about your opinions on the subject.) Wake up Quinn, glance at clock.
2:18 Crappity crap crap. How did that happen??? Bust ass to car, load and buckle crying Quinn. Hand him a graham cracker. He needs his naaannnannnannayyyyy blaaaaannnnkkkeeettt. Crappity crap crap. Run upstairs, grab blanket, get back in car. Remember water bottles, rush back inside, grab water bottles, rush back out. Remember dog when I see him in the front yard as I put car in reverse. Run inside, let dog in, grab cheese for bribing dog that is now stronger than I am to go into his crate, lock dog in crate. RUNBACKTOCAR, try to avoid looking at clock but see it anyway and oh NO.
2:29. Late; late; late; I'm late for camp pickup. And in a huge rush. As usual.
2:35 (and some change) Park on the playground side of the school and pray, pray, pray that they finished up outside today. Come on. It's such a nice day. Comeoncomeoncomeon.
2:36 The are not outside. Crappitycrapcrapcrap. There's no shade. It's too hot. This parking lot is too far from the classroom. ARRRGGGGGGG. Unbuckle baby, pull him out of the car, swing around to other side, unbuckle Quinn.
2:38 QUINN IS NOT WEARING SHOES.
2:38 & 1/2 ?
2:39 I can't carry Quinn and Nate. It's really hot. I'm sweating. Start begging Quinn to walk in barefeet. He's not having it. Come on, it will be fun. I'll buy you a pony.
2:39 & 1/2 Someone calls my name.
2:40 Matt* is walking across the parking lot with Saige and Garrett. My personal fairies have heard my bleats of distress. (*Matt's work is right across the alley from this school. Sometimes he can run out & help me with pick up & sometimes he can't. It's a complicated variable equation that depends on how many nursing home denizens are feeling poorly on any given day and need medication.)
2:45 Buckle. Fish! Look at our fish! We have fish! Buckle. Each of my campers is holding a zip lock bag full of ... goo ... with paper fish "swimming" in it. Buckle. I am horrified by the goo. Buckle. There is no way I'm getting those bags of fish goo out of their hands and they are totally going to leak all over my car. Buckle. Kiss Matt.
2:50 Drive to dry cleaners. Try to keep my eyes on the road and not obsess about the goo fish. Fail.
3:00 Drive back up the hill to the UPS store. The goo fish are burning my brain. I'm plotting the demise of the goo fish. The goo fish CAN NOT enter my house.
3:15 Give UPS guy the package and the code that the customer service lady gave me while promising me that I would not have to pay another $11 to ship BACK the defective, crapasstic clock that I already had to pay $11 to ship TO me. UPS guy looks at me like I'm insane. He had no idea about the code. I am talking to him from the door of the tiny UPS store, which I am holding open so that I am sort of kind of almost in close proximity to my running car containing my four children who I absolutely was not unbuckling and carrying and rebuckling again in this heat, have I mentioned that Quinn is not wearing shoes. ALSO GOO FISH, MAN. I can't even concentrate on what you're saying. It's like your blank look is a black, black blight on my soul. THEY ARE ALONE IN THE CAR WITH GOO FISH. Okay, okay, you win, UPS guy, you win, crappy clock marketers, you win, universe, my fear of the goo fish is stronger than my ire at paying return shipping. Hand him my credit card. Ask him, humbly, to bring slip out to my car.
3:30 ISTHATBAGOFGOOFISHINYOURMOUTH? Give it to me. GIVE it to me. One bag of goo fish down, one to go. Give daughter the evil eye. I dare you to let those fish approach even the vicinity of your mouth. I dare you.
3:40 Arrive at friend's swimming club. Early. Un.heard.of.
3:45. While changing children into swimsuits in the shade of a tree, notice that people are leaving friend's swimming club in large numbers. Very kind lady with three kids tells me that the pool is closed due to poop contamination.
3:46. Briefly and fervently thank every possible god in the entire existence of humanity that it was not MY children's poop that closed down private swimming club. Call friend. Plan to meet at local splash pad. Brace self for unpleasant, "change of plans" temper tantrums.
3:48. Endure change of plans temper tantrums while rebuckling one, two, three four. Hand out snacks and water. Close van doors on change of plans temper tantrums.
3:58. What? I needed a minute. Drive to splash pad. Threaten oldest son with sitting and watching at splash pad if he whines about the pool one. single. more. solitary. time. Turn up Martina. Happy place.
4:05. Splashing. Sunshine. Mostly happiness. Chatting. Playing with my baby. Playing with her baby. Still mostly happiness.
5:00. Dry and dress cold two-year-old. Dry and dress cold four-year-olds. Pack up. Push everyone on the swings. Buckle. Buckle. Buckle. Buckle. Load bags, load stroller.
5:20. Home. Unbuckle. Unbuckle. Unbuckle. Unbuckle. My entire life is one long series of buckling and unbuckling. Shoes off. TV on. Argue about goo fish. NO! BAGS OF ! GOO! FISH! IN THE BASEMENT!
5:21. Sigh.
5:25. Must make something for dinner. Throw wet suits downstairs, put all the snack/water/lunch box/stuff away.
5:30. Sigh. A little news? Just a little.
5:45. Peanut butter and jelly, for the win! Check downstairs. Step in weird gel like goo on the floor. ?? GOO FISH!!????!!! This gel is white? Fish goo is blue? One fish, two fish, I hate goo fish. Is it on their hands? No. Mystery. CURSE GOO FISH. CURSE CRAFTY PEOPLE AND PROJECTS OF ALL KINDS. CURSE CAMP.
5:47. (Just kidding, camp. You are so pretty, let me pet you.)
5:49. Make peanutbutter and jelly and raw carrots. Call children. Wash children's hands. There is more white gel on the floor. ARRGGGGGG. Curse GOO FISH AGAIN. This gel looks vaguely familiar. It doesn't look like the fish goo. It's squishy, but pellety and silicony. Something is nagging at the back of my mind. I have seen this type of gel somewhere before. Where is this gel coming from? ARRGGGGG.
5:50 Feed children. Feed dog.
6:15. Start cleaning up. Wipe older children. Quinn is hard to see for the peanut butter. Start wiping Quinn. Stand him up in his chair to wipe crumbs off of his front. The front of his diaper, the diaper that I failed to change after his nap because I was late, and then failed to switch for a swim diaper at the splash pad because I forgot, and then failed to change after the splash pad because I am dumb, EXPLODES pellety, silicony goo all over the table, his chair, and the floor. Ah yes. That's where I've seen that type of goo before. In my washing machine, when I washed a diaper.
6:16. ARRRGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!
6:17 Strip Quinn naked. Leave mess. Take all children upstairs and put them to bed, which yeah, I'll leave to your imagination, but just imagine A LOT of talking and A LOT of reminding and A LOT of whining.
6:45. I'm a record setting put to bedder.
6:46. MADLY clean up kitchen and get out wine glasses and wine. MADLY straighten front room. MADLY clean up dining room. Glance at diaper explosion zone. Wipe off table top and push chair under table.
7:15. Amy. Wine. Happy.
7:30. Meggan carrying her tiny sleeping baby. She hands him to Amy.
7:35. Meggan carrying her sleeping four year old. We put him to bed upstairs.
7:40. Meggan and Amy. Wine. Ahhhhhh. Laughter. Tears of laughter.
8:45. Matt comes home from work. Matt takes dog out for beers.
10:15. Meggan and Amy leave carrying sleeping baby and very sleepy four year old.
10:45. Get ready for bed. Crawl into bed.
10:46. ARRRGGGGGG. DAMN DIAPER. I can do it in the morning. It will suck to do it in the morning. I'm tired. It will suck. I'm tired. Do it now while you have a happy little buzz.
10:48. Deal with diaper. Clean up chair. Clean up floor. Take gel covered clothes to basement. Go ahead and throw a load in so the suits are washed.
11:00. Bed. For real. Good night.
Everyone has days like this, right? Often? Just say yes.
(P.S. Yes, I know, I'd take a lifetime of days like this too. I'd do it every day over and over and over like ground hog day, exploding diaper and all, just to see them run under the rainbow water sprayer, laughing, with water and sun and joy all over their faces. Just to hand Nater a cracker in his car seat and feel him take it with his tiny, gentle, mousy touch. It's the good stuff. I'm still tired.)
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
The universe pats me on the ass and sends me on my way
When I saw the large, brown package on the porch, I thought it was my books and so I ripped into it hastily and stopped, surprised at the peek of bright wrapping and a deep blue bow.
A present for Nate from my mom and dad for his very first birthday.
I glowed, bright and warm with an idea. I spent hours last night laying awake, not unusual for me, but so frustrating. I worried (oh how I can worry in the middle of the night) about many things, but in particular this time, I worried about Nate's birthday. Matt and I got him not one thing for his birthday. Well, to be fair, not one material thing. We threw a BBQ for close friends who love him and we sang to him and passed him around one to the other and kissed him and hugged him. We surrounded him with love and that is enough.
I absolutely, one hundred percent believe that is enough and I try to live it. Still. Still and all and the same, despite the basement toy room full of playthings and children that most often would rather make up elaborate games involving cardboard, I long, sometimes, to give them things. Things that are not in our budget, (and we have a good life, with plenty), things that are not necessary or needed, but just fun. For them and for my heart.
Matt's mom and dad gave Nate a bright red, plastic, light-up, walk-along car for his birthday. That red plastic car was the very first brand new toy all his own that he had ever received. He didn't really even get to play with it. His brothers and sister were all over it in minutes, claiming buttons and making up games and laughing and pushing and dancing while he sat, awed, taking in their more advanced play.
In a quiet moment, the music played, sharp and mechanical and annoying, and he swayed suddenly and bopped his head, grinning a huge smile in the direction of his oblivious siblings.
With those images in my head, I lay awake all night thinking about a year, a whole entire year, before our fourth child had a toy of his own. Here was this new gift and the older kids played in the basement.
I thought, I'll open it with him and let him play with it for a while all by himself. We ripped the shiny red paper gleefully, pulled out the ball popper inside and he watched, clutching the squashed blue bow, while I assembled it and fitted it with four huge batteries.
Proud and excited, I turned it on, waiting for him to revel in the ecstasy of having such a cool new toy to himself. It whirred loudly and the first ball shot up from the chute and into the air.
Nate's face crumpled and he sobbed and scaled me like I was the only tree on a vast savanna in a hundred-year flood. Nothing, not coaxing or begging or crackers or immersion therapy would get him within feet of that toy without sad, rumpled-face wailing. You would have thought that the damn thing was made of grass.
(That is horrendous and terrifying and I shall climb you with my claws extended.)
So. Then. Fine. Operation let Nate play with a toy of his own was not a success. Might as well let the toy-locust hoards descend. I called Saige and Garrett and Quinn up from the basement to see the toy that Grandma sent Nate. Nate consoled himself on the far side of the room by ripping apart a stack of magazines while they squealed and pressed every button and chased balls and made up games and fought and sorted it out and fought again and settled into an elaborate game involving the color ball that flew up and a rotating turn for button pressing.
Half watching them and half playing with the computer, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that Nate had made his way under the table to watch the big kids immersed in their game. A few minutes later he hovered, perched for flight, on the very edge of the open floor space where they played.
He crawled forward several times and then reversed himself, startled by the toy, but their loud shrieks enticed him. He smiled and clapped where he sat.
"Saige," I said softly. Saige is my gentle child. It is a stereotype, I suppose, to see your daughter as nurturing, but she is patient with him and kind and she delights in his successes. "Saige, see if Nate-Nate wants a ball."
"Here you go, Nate-Nate," she held one out to him. He took it in his chubby hand and then stretched out to hand it back to her.
"He wants me to do it, momma." I nodded.
The next time I looked, he sat laughing in the middle of the chaos, right next to the whirring ball popper of terror.
"Let Nate try," I asked them again. Quinn handed him a bright green plastic sphere. "Right there, Nate. Put it in, Nate. You can do it, Nate." They all spoke at once, a chorus of chirpy life coaches. Their little pupil reached up and placed the green ball in the tray.
"Yaaaayyyyyy!!!! You did it, Nay-Nay!!!! You did it!!!!!" They cheered.
Oh, I forget so easily. I learn these lessons and I try to remember them and then life twirls me around and hangs me upside down and I can't hang on. I lay awake at night because I forget that every pro has a con and every negative has a positive. I forget that we chose this family, this joyful, tumbling gaggle of children, for a reason.
Siblings aren't just rivals. They don't just divide resources and attention and time. They are also comrades in arms. They are teammates and cheerleaders. They are idols and safety in numbers and liquid courage. They are friends.
And nothing is quite so scary with a friend by your side, is it?
(Nothing scares me now, I am mesmerized by the purple floating ball.)
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Blogger is having some kind of internet-Armageddon comment melt down. Sorry if it's frustrating. I am getting your comments by email, despite the fact that they appear and disappear on the actual posts at will. It's very Harry Potter ish of Blogger. Now you see the comment; now you don't.
A present for Nate from my mom and dad for his very first birthday.
I glowed, bright and warm with an idea. I spent hours last night laying awake, not unusual for me, but so frustrating. I worried (oh how I can worry in the middle of the night) about many things, but in particular this time, I worried about Nate's birthday. Matt and I got him not one thing for his birthday. Well, to be fair, not one material thing. We threw a BBQ for close friends who love him and we sang to him and passed him around one to the other and kissed him and hugged him. We surrounded him with love and that is enough.
I absolutely, one hundred percent believe that is enough and I try to live it. Still. Still and all and the same, despite the basement toy room full of playthings and children that most often would rather make up elaborate games involving cardboard, I long, sometimes, to give them things. Things that are not in our budget, (and we have a good life, with plenty), things that are not necessary or needed, but just fun. For them and for my heart.
Matt's mom and dad gave Nate a bright red, plastic, light-up, walk-along car for his birthday. That red plastic car was the very first brand new toy all his own that he had ever received. He didn't really even get to play with it. His brothers and sister were all over it in minutes, claiming buttons and making up games and laughing and pushing and dancing while he sat, awed, taking in their more advanced play.
In a quiet moment, the music played, sharp and mechanical and annoying, and he swayed suddenly and bopped his head, grinning a huge smile in the direction of his oblivious siblings.
With those images in my head, I lay awake all night thinking about a year, a whole entire year, before our fourth child had a toy of his own. Here was this new gift and the older kids played in the basement.
I thought, I'll open it with him and let him play with it for a while all by himself. We ripped the shiny red paper gleefully, pulled out the ball popper inside and he watched, clutching the squashed blue bow, while I assembled it and fitted it with four huge batteries.
Proud and excited, I turned it on, waiting for him to revel in the ecstasy of having such a cool new toy to himself. It whirred loudly and the first ball shot up from the chute and into the air.Nate's face crumpled and he sobbed and scaled me like I was the only tree on a vast savanna in a hundred-year flood. Nothing, not coaxing or begging or crackers or immersion therapy would get him within feet of that toy without sad, rumpled-face wailing. You would have thought that the damn thing was made of grass.
(That is horrendous and terrifying and I shall climb you with my claws extended.)So. Then. Fine. Operation let Nate play with a toy of his own was not a success. Might as well let the toy-locust hoards descend. I called Saige and Garrett and Quinn up from the basement to see the toy that Grandma sent Nate. Nate consoled himself on the far side of the room by ripping apart a stack of magazines while they squealed and pressed every button and chased balls and made up games and fought and sorted it out and fought again and settled into an elaborate game involving the color ball that flew up and a rotating turn for button pressing.
Half watching them and half playing with the computer, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that Nate had made his way under the table to watch the big kids immersed in their game. A few minutes later he hovered, perched for flight, on the very edge of the open floor space where they played.He crawled forward several times and then reversed himself, startled by the toy, but their loud shrieks enticed him. He smiled and clapped where he sat.
"Saige," I said softly. Saige is my gentle child. It is a stereotype, I suppose, to see your daughter as nurturing, but she is patient with him and kind and she delights in his successes. "Saige, see if Nate-Nate wants a ball."
"Here you go, Nate-Nate," she held one out to him. He took it in his chubby hand and then stretched out to hand it back to her.
"He wants me to do it, momma." I nodded.
The next time I looked, he sat laughing in the middle of the chaos, right next to the whirring ball popper of terror.
"Let Nate try," I asked them again. Quinn handed him a bright green plastic sphere. "Right there, Nate. Put it in, Nate. You can do it, Nate." They all spoke at once, a chorus of chirpy life coaches. Their little pupil reached up and placed the green ball in the tray.
"Yaaaayyyyyy!!!! You did it, Nay-Nay!!!! You did it!!!!!" They cheered.
Oh, I forget so easily. I learn these lessons and I try to remember them and then life twirls me around and hangs me upside down and I can't hang on. I lay awake at night because I forget that every pro has a con and every negative has a positive. I forget that we chose this family, this joyful, tumbling gaggle of children, for a reason.
Siblings aren't just rivals. They don't just divide resources and attention and time. They are also comrades in arms. They are teammates and cheerleaders. They are idols and safety in numbers and liquid courage. They are friends.
And nothing is quite so scary with a friend by your side, is it?
(Nothing scares me now, I am mesmerized by the purple floating ball.)******************************
Blogger is having some kind of internet-Armageddon comment melt down. Sorry if it's frustrating. I am getting your comments by email, despite the fact that they appear and disappear on the actual posts at will. It's very Harry Potter ish of Blogger. Now you see the comment; now you don't.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Camp, Part I
Are you all tired of my sappy, angsty, pining yet?
Yes? Good. Let's talk day camp.
Camp. (Do you hear that? That musical swell? That's angels singing.)
Camp. (Say it loud and there's music playing, say it soft and it's almost like praying. Ten points if you know the musical.)
Ess and Gee went to day camp a week ago and they are going again this coming week and it is pretty much the best thing that's ever happened to me, after marrying Matt and actually giving birth to/otherwise falling in love with the little buggers. You would think, given my current reflective, oh-woe-is-me-children-grow-i'm-getting-old mood, that camp would be a bit of a struggle for me. That I would feel conflicted about shuttling my two oldest kids off for the better part of the day rather than spending each precious summer moment shooting sunshine and unicorn sparkles up their butts and generally loving them and hugging them and, I don't know, crafting (aha) or taking long walks holding hands and laughing.
Well. I did feel like that for approximately the first week of summer, but the reality is that they are whiny, temperamental creatures that no longer nap and frequently ruin things in my house when I fail to watch them closely and I am a whiny, temperamental creature that likes quiet and hates messy crafts of any kind (have I mentioned how much I hate crafts in the last three blog posts, like hate-hate them) including water games within 300 miles of dirt or sand. About a nanosecond and a few lukewarm hugs into week two of summer, we degenerated into tantrums and screaming (mine) and general unhappiness.
And then, in the second week of summer, there was camp. Drop off at 9:00, pick up at 2:30, run by their super-duper, awesome, enthusiastic, crafty, positive-discipline, small-person-loving, Pre-K teacher BRIE. WE LOVE BRIE! CAMP WITH BRIE!
At the end of the first day, Brie gushed that it was a great day, Ess and Gee were so easy and it was nice that they know me and that you know me because I had a lot of nervous new parents today so I got a lot of calls.
And I was all, PITY THE FOOLS!! DON'T THEY KNOW A BRILLIANT INVENTION WHEN THEY SEE ONE!!
CAMP (whhaaaaaahhhh, angel music, ping). You are so pretty, let me pet you.
On the second day of camp, I went to a friends house with only two of my children and one of them was really little and didn't cause any damage whatsoever. Okay, so Cue totally filled her dog's huge food dish and huge water dish to overflowing with dog food and much of her kitchen floor, but we were having a really lovely conversation at the time that involved sipping coffee and laughing and her daughter was totally involved in the dog food shenanigans so it was all good.
Meanwhile, my oldest children did not whine at me and complain and annoy each other and other people's children. No. They made Dr. Suess hats. Crafty Dr. Suess hats. AT CAMP (whhhaaaahhhhh, angel music, ping).
Then. Then. I came home and it was barely noon. I had two and a half more hours of CAMP (whaahhh, angel music, ping). I thought hmmmmm. What if both other children in my possession slept for those hours and it was like I had the house completely to myself and it was quiet?
I barely dared to hope, but I fed Nate and Cue and I put them to bed and 30 minutes later, I took a deep breath. No sounds. No whining. No requests for butt wipes. No howling about someone teasing someone else. Nothing. My two smallest children slept. My two oldest children most likely made a horrific mess eating lunch but not in my house. AT CAMP (whhaahhhh, angel music, ping).
This is my advice to you, stay at home mothers and father of multiple small children: Do not hesitate. Do not let your mind idealize the summer with its swimming and its popsicles and its smiling happy families playing blissfully in the sun. That crap only lasts a few days and there are lots of weeks in the summer, so you can pretend that you like spending all day with your children for a few weeks interspersed with camp weeks and it will be the best decision you have ever made.
For you.
Oh yeah. My kids kind of like camp too.
Run. Don't walk. RUN to camp sign up.
Because I am telling you, on what feels like the 200th day of whining and almost five-year oldness and fighting and yelling and wet cold rainy days that are supposed to be "summer," but so are not summer because SUMMER, Matthew, involves heat. Over eighty degree heat, halter top and shorts in the house heat, take a shower before bed so your hair is wet and you can sleep HEAT. Two hundred and seventy days of sunshine my ass, small, false-advertising town on the border of Idaho.
On that day, the Lord of Parents Who Can Not Do This for Three Months said:
LET THERE BE CAMP.
AND THERE WAS CAMP.
AND IT WAS GOOD.
Yes? Good. Let's talk day camp.
Camp. (Do you hear that? That musical swell? That's angels singing.)
Camp. (Say it loud and there's music playing, say it soft and it's almost like praying. Ten points if you know the musical.)
Ess and Gee went to day camp a week ago and they are going again this coming week and it is pretty much the best thing that's ever happened to me, after marrying Matt and actually giving birth to/otherwise falling in love with the little buggers. You would think, given my current reflective, oh-woe-is-me-children-grow-i'm-getting-old mood, that camp would be a bit of a struggle for me. That I would feel conflicted about shuttling my two oldest kids off for the better part of the day rather than spending each precious summer moment shooting sunshine and unicorn sparkles up their butts and generally loving them and hugging them and, I don't know, crafting (aha) or taking long walks holding hands and laughing.
Well. I did feel like that for approximately the first week of summer, but the reality is that they are whiny, temperamental creatures that no longer nap and frequently ruin things in my house when I fail to watch them closely and I am a whiny, temperamental creature that likes quiet and hates messy crafts of any kind (have I mentioned how much I hate crafts in the last three blog posts, like hate-hate them) including water games within 300 miles of dirt or sand. About a nanosecond and a few lukewarm hugs into week two of summer, we degenerated into tantrums and screaming (mine) and general unhappiness.
And then, in the second week of summer, there was camp. Drop off at 9:00, pick up at 2:30, run by their super-duper, awesome, enthusiastic, crafty, positive-discipline, small-person-loving, Pre-K teacher BRIE. WE LOVE BRIE! CAMP WITH BRIE!
At the end of the first day, Brie gushed that it was a great day, Ess and Gee were so easy and it was nice that they know me and that you know me because I had a lot of nervous new parents today so I got a lot of calls.
And I was all, PITY THE FOOLS!! DON'T THEY KNOW A BRILLIANT INVENTION WHEN THEY SEE ONE!!
CAMP (whhaaaaaahhhh, angel music, ping). You are so pretty, let me pet you.
On the second day of camp, I went to a friends house with only two of my children and one of them was really little and didn't cause any damage whatsoever. Okay, so Cue totally filled her dog's huge food dish and huge water dish to overflowing with dog food and much of her kitchen floor, but we were having a really lovely conversation at the time that involved sipping coffee and laughing and her daughter was totally involved in the dog food shenanigans so it was all good.
Meanwhile, my oldest children did not whine at me and complain and annoy each other and other people's children. No. They made Dr. Suess hats. Crafty Dr. Suess hats. AT CAMP (whhhaaaahhhhh, angel music, ping).
Then. Then. I came home and it was barely noon. I had two and a half more hours of CAMP (whaahhh, angel music, ping). I thought hmmmmm. What if both other children in my possession slept for those hours and it was like I had the house completely to myself and it was quiet?
I barely dared to hope, but I fed Nate and Cue and I put them to bed and 30 minutes later, I took a deep breath. No sounds. No whining. No requests for butt wipes. No howling about someone teasing someone else. Nothing. My two smallest children slept. My two oldest children most likely made a horrific mess eating lunch but not in my house. AT CAMP (whhaahhhh, angel music, ping).
This is my advice to you, stay at home mothers and father of multiple small children: Do not hesitate. Do not let your mind idealize the summer with its swimming and its popsicles and its smiling happy families playing blissfully in the sun. That crap only lasts a few days and there are lots of weeks in the summer, so you can pretend that you like spending all day with your children for a few weeks interspersed with camp weeks and it will be the best decision you have ever made.
For you.
Oh yeah. My kids kind of like camp too.
Run. Don't walk. RUN to camp sign up.
Because I am telling you, on what feels like the 200th day of whining and almost five-year oldness and fighting and yelling and wet cold rainy days that are supposed to be "summer," but so are not summer because SUMMER, Matthew, involves heat. Over eighty degree heat, halter top and shorts in the house heat, take a shower before bed so your hair is wet and you can sleep HEAT. Two hundred and seventy days of sunshine my ass, small, false-advertising town on the border of Idaho.
On that day, the Lord of Parents Who Can Not Do This for Three Months said:
LET THERE BE CAMP.
AND THERE WAS CAMP.
AND IT WAS GOOD.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Long Distance Smile
You know when you can do something really cool for a friend with hardly any effort at all? That feeling is your favorite glass of white wine on the porch on a hot summer night. It's all your babies asleep by 7:00. It's Matt coming home early from a spring break trip in college and knocking on my door at 5:00 a.m. because he couldn't wait to see me. It's a phone call. It's the unexpected vase of dinner plate dahlias on my counter.
I love that feeling.
A friend of mine, @inga_ros, is kicking butt and taking names in a competition with a prize of epic proportions. We could be jealous because she lives in Iceland and has a full name that reeks of awesome with more umlauts and little marky things above the letters than ought to be allowed. We could hate her because she and her husband and all five of their children are ridiculously, Icelandicly gorgeous. We will all most certainly envy her and her ridiculously gorgeous family if they win 365 free nights in Radisson Blu hotels.
Click on that link, if only to see their picture and while you're there, vote for them, it's only one more click. They are currently in sixth (!) place out of 7000! Maybe if they win they'll send us all the free soap and shampoo.
I love that feeling.
A friend of mine, @inga_ros, is kicking butt and taking names in a competition with a prize of epic proportions. We could be jealous because she lives in Iceland and has a full name that reeks of awesome with more umlauts and little marky things above the letters than ought to be allowed. We could hate her because she and her husband and all five of their children are ridiculously, Icelandicly gorgeous. We will all most certainly envy her and her ridiculously gorgeous family if they win 365 free nights in Radisson Blu hotels.
Click on that link, if only to see their picture and while you're there, vote for them, it's only one more click. They are currently in sixth (!) place out of 7000! Maybe if they win they'll send us all the free soap and shampoo.
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