That Moment When....

(I wrote this exactly 5 years ago. It's still hilarious. We refer to it often. Not sure if we ever made it public though.  Enjoy.)

In an effort to prepare for the great "Back to School" festivities I decided to take the kids for haircuts.  If you'd seen The Oldest in the recent past you'd know that his hair was in an unfortunate state of entanglement.  It resembled an octopus type creature and growled at me any time I mentioned "conditioner", a "brush", or "hair cut".  After it made a meal request and invited guests over for a large dinner party I decided that it needed to go.  The Oldest could no longer keep it in check or calm it down so he agreed that the bonds must be severed.  The Middle and The Youngest Boy had been referred to as "she", "her" or "daughters" enough that they were also begging for cuts.  There's one particular girl that's cut the kids' hair for years and she happens to work at the salon ( a term I use loosely in this instance) inside Wal Mart and the kids like her a lot.  So I load up the Brangelina Brood into the Super Mom Van and head out.  As I'm backing out of the driveway I hear a familiar clicking noise that tells me that I'm in desperate need of an oil change if I really want to make it to West Mansfield this weekend. 

Hey- I like multitasking.  Makes me feel all productive and stuff.  So what could be easier???  Drop the van off at the Lube station in Wal Mart while I take the kids to get their mops chopped!  Brilliant!  I'm so smart.  :-)  This will be a cinch.  In we go, drop off the keys and head to the salon.  The Oldest is the first to suffer the indignity of the chair.  He starts by removing the Legend of Zelda beanie that has been firmly in place every day for the past 2 years.  The stylist gasped.  I tried to hide so that the people checking out did not see me standing near him.  Normally, I do my best to embarass my kids.  I don't get embarassed personally.  This was the exception.  But in order to complete the white trash sterotype I broke out the Flip and proceeded to take video footage for YouTube.  Maybe I'll send the clip to Daniel Tosh.  ;-)  The stylist went to work.  It took her 2 hours to brush out his hair.  Seriously.  2 hours.  (Yup, I'm mother of the year!)  She then put it in a pony tail and snipped it off.  He briefly used it as a prop - he was a horse - and then it bit him.  We wrestled it into a zip lock baggie.  It put up one helluva a fight though.  I had to bribe it with promises of cupcakes to get it into my purse.  Another stylist came in and took care of The Middle and The Youngest Boy in the meantime.  They all turned out pretty cute for a Wal Mart cut. 

About the time that they were all finished up the vibrating keychain that the Lube Center provided me was going off indicating that the van was complete.  At this point I am quite proud of myself!  Mini-Me had been good the whole time, the boys were getting antsy but nothing I couldn't handle.  So I pull out my wallet to pay the lady and my heart stopped.  The whole world went topsy turvy for a moment.  My debit card - my ONLY access to money - was NOT in my wallet.  Frantically, I pulled every card from it and sorted through them....  Kroger Plus card, CVS Rewards Card, Sally's Club, Edge Card, K Mart Special, Big Lots Rewards, my useless ATM card, my drivers license.  None of them could pay for the haircuts.  Then it dawns on me.  My debit card is on the couch.  At home.  My van is in the shop.  Even if I could leave The Oldest at the salon I couldn't run home because I can't pay for my van! Oh.  Holy.  Hell.

Just then Mini-Me breaks out into a frenzied cry for a boob, The Youngest Boy starts jumping off of seats, The Middle is hungry, The Oldest is bored, the stylist wants her money and her hefty tip for braving the violent tendrils of my 14 year old, everyone and everything is louder and I can feel my face running the gamut of every shade of red known to man.  I'm sure it settled on a deep crimson.   My brain starts to go into high gear as my adrenaline starts to rush.  My sister is at work, in Kettering.  It's 4:00.  No one is home.  What the hell am I going to do???  Okay - I'll text everyone in my phone book that could possibly assist.  Jessy was already workin.  Then I call Amber who can be there in an hour and a half.  I've got to be at The Middle Son's school for 2nd grade orientation and I promised a trip to JD's Custard.  Finally, Kyle comes through.  He will come and get The Oldest, run him to the house and then bring him back.  In the meantime we must wait in the salon.  I whip out a nipple for Mini-Me and ask the boys to sit down and be patient.  Help is on the way!

As I am nursing Mini-Me, The Middle has to pee.  I agree to letting him run to the restroom.  Well, The Youngest Boy  takes off after him.  So I jump up - Mini-Me still attached to my right breast - and try to chase him down and get him back where he belongs.  Yeah - that wasn't humiliating in the slightest.  Around 4:40 Kyle arrives and grabs The Oldest.  There was a light at the end of the tunnel!  By this time the boys have maxed out the attention span.  They're restless.  They've invented a game out of a nickel and the floor which ends in a fight and crying.  I want to shrivel up and die.  Or evaporate.  Anything other than this!  Every second that Kyle and The Oldest were gone went so slowly.  I could hear every tick of the clock.  Finally, they return with the card in hand!  I apologize profusely for the stylists inconvenience and generously tipped her.  Then we headed to the Lube Center and retrieved my keys.  I drove away from Wal Mart like Barney Oldfield (he was an old race car driver that my dad always compared us to). 

We made it to JD's.  Not to orientation though.  I know, priorities!  Went home as fast as we could and decided that we won't be going to Wal Mart any time soon.   Be on the lookout for my pic on Peopleofwalmart.com in the next week or so.   

Poop Patrol

As the mother of four, I pretty much feel like I've seen it all.  My kids are weird.  I accept that.  Even adore it.

The Oldest has done everything from super gluing his mouth shut to getting a cellulitis in his foot from a TOOTHPICK to creating a character named "Count Buttula" for his numerous bandage changes from his surgery (complete with accent).  The Middle Son has de-pants-ed (sp?) The Oldest in the middle of Dollar General, in front of about 30 other shoppers, and hacked Disney's website, by age 10.  Mini-Me has painted hardwood floors bright red and worn 3 shirts at once because she couldn't decide on what to wear.

And then there's The Youngest Boy.  He's the most creative when it comes to mischief.  And when he does something - he REALLY does it.  Slid on a book once resulting in 10 stitches and a broken jaw.  Learned beatboxing when he was 3.  Tripped over his Woody Talk doll and managed to force his tooth through his cheek.  For the most part, I don't really get rattled anymore when there's a scream, crash, or phone call from the school.  So, of course, there had to be something to throw me off of my 17 year Mom game, and The Youngest Boy was the one to do it.  

Yesterday, he came home from school with prizes from phys ed class.  He'd ran more laps around the track or something.  He got these 2, small, 1/4 inch thick, 1/2 inch tall, plastic charms.  One was a blue school house (which I joked was the Tardis) and the other was a fluorescent yellow apple.  He was very proud.  He placed them on the coffee table, next to his milk.  (can you see where this is going?  BECAUSE I DIDN'T)  The phone rings, it's my sister, we start our usual conversations.  A few minutes later, he starts lightly panicking.  I divert my attention from the call to the child with the freaked out look on his face.  This is when he informs me that he accidentally swallowed the apple charm.

By accident.

He was reaching for his drink, when he mistakenly picked up the charm from the table, and ACCIDENTALLY SWALLOWED IT.

Yes.

That's what he tells me.

Seriously.

Um.

W.  T.  F.

While the majority of me is confused, the other part of me is worried.  You see, my kids haven't ever swallowed foreign objects before today.  None of them.  Boogers, cat food, latex paint, super glue, a Skittle from the Orchestra room floor- yes, toys- no.   So, I'm not really sure how to proceed here.  My sister is a medical assistant, so I ask her if this warrants an E.R. visit.  I mean, it's been a few months since our last trip.  It'd be nice to know if they have any new flavors in the slushy machine.  She wasn't sure.  I decided I'd just call the pediatrician.  He's not choking or anything.  Just a little weirded out.

The pediatrician is on my "Favorite" list on my iPhone, for obvious reasons.  I already know to press 5 for the nurse.  And I'm on hold for a few minutes.  About 5 minutes later I'm explaining this story to a sweet, young nurse.  She decides to consult one of the doctors due to the size of the toy.  Several minutes later, she's explaining what to do from here.  Something about 2 weeks, watch his bowel movements, keep an eye on stomach pains, yadda yadda yadda....

Then it happens.

He starts coughing.  His face reddens.  His eyes are bulging.  He's grabbing his throat.  He's garbling "It's.................. coming................... back .............. up....."  The nurse on the other end starts to flip.  I was preparing for CPR.  She frantically asks me if I need for her to call 9-1-1.  I'm trying to keep a cool head in case I need to save his life - or catch as the toy projectiles from his face.  And then....

Then....

THEN HE PROCEEDS TO LAUGH.  He was kidding about the choking. 

Give the kid an Oscar.

Of course I got off of the phone prior to beating him but those were a close few seconds.

I've been sentenced to 2 weeks of Doody Inspection.  I'm going to make a badge to wear for it.  Then keep it in a box with the Mowing Tiara and my Mother of the Year awards.

Because hitting people is unacceptable

Our 9 year old, gifted son is having difficulty in school.  Last year he was being picked on relentlessly by other students.  This year, he has a personality conflict with a particular teacher after he rolled his eyes at a homework assignment.  I attended a meeting with his principal and teachers to discuss an incident where The Middle Boy was removed from class for telling the teacher that "[he'd] be able to see the board better if she moved her arm".  He lacks social skills almost entirely.  He has a very blunt, direct, broadsword way when it comes to communication.  (I have no idea where that comes from).  His educators agreed that they would have him meet with a Gifted Student counselor as this is a common trait among children with higher intelligence.  This is not an excuse for this comment.  But clearly, he has needs that surpass his understanding.  It's easy to forget that even though he has the intelligence of a teenager, he has the maturity level of a 9 year old.  The two parts of him did not develop at the same rate.  Throwing him out of the classroom without explaining what he did wrong when he clearly didn't understand the issue doesn't exactly teach him anything.  There was no connection made between cause and effect.  He followed instructions and left the class without argument.  The teacher informed me that she consulted the superintendent prior to meeting with me to make sure she was not in any trouble with the way she handled the situation. 

During my meeting the teacher told me "This may not be politically correct for me to say but my life would be so much easier if you withdrew him from this school."  I appreciate the jobs that teachers do.  They put up with so much and work so hard.  But the parent in me had to refrain from physical violence.  I nodded and smiled and participated in the conversation as a grown up should.  Then I came home, had some time to think, and wrote this letter to the teacher and principal: 

First, I want to thank you for your time and efforts over the last few months with our son.  Teachers don’t get nearly enough credit for the amazing jobs that they do.  After we met Tuesday morning, I came home, discussed the meeting with his father, and had time to reflect on the conversation.  We’ve spent several hours talking and I’d like to take this opportunity to share with you the thoughts and conclusions to which we came.  I apologize for the delay in sending this – our household has been suffering from an incredible cold. 

Since the beginning of the school year my husband and/or I have met, in person, 3 times.  We have had several phone calls as well.  One trend we noticed was the continued reference to the “eye roll” that occurred in the first few days of school, literally each visit and all but one call.  It is our belief that this incident has become a catalyst for the rift between teacher and student.  We feel that it has been taken as a personal slight that seems to be one which there is no recovery.  While we do not condone [The Middle Son] behavior in any way, shape, or form we also do not feel that this poor choice on his part should continue to be an issue two months later.  From that point on, the personality clash between you and [The Middle Son] has grown considerably.  We feel that this has amplified everything  [The Middle Son] has done from that point forward.  The old adage that “you never get a second chance to make a first impression” has a great deal of truth in it.  It also bars it’s adherents to a place where forgiveness is impossible.   Thus, teaching both parties nothing of interpersonal growth. 

You stated to me that [The Middle Son] is the only student that you do not have a connection with out of the entire class.  You also stated to me that your life would be easier if I withdrew [The Middle Son] from school.  These confessions weighed heavily on me, as a parent.  This situation promotes further social detachment.  Children are sponges, as you know.  They are intuitive, sensitive, keen observers.  When they witness, whether verbal or non verbal, an adult authority figure disconnect from something they have a tendency to follow suit.  [The Middle Son] has an already difficult time with making friends.  I have to wonder if your indirect/non verbal indifference to him is not being picked up on and harbored by the other students.  I’m not sure it’s really possible for him to be more emotionally isolated than he already is.  I fail to see how this is helping him develop social skills.  Being an outcast is not a skill one strives to accomplish.  No child, including [The Middle Son], wants to be disliked.  You mentioned that you had difficulty sleeping in anxiety over the meeting and can’t stand the thought of not being liked.  Well, that’s every moment of school for our son.  I won’t deny that he bears responsibility for that fact.  I will also reaffirm my belief he’s not cognizant of it.  This is not an atmosphere where learning can be fostered.  There are means to correct his rudeness.  There are not means to make you care.  There was much talk of his lack of empathy.  There was none expressed for him, either. 

We feel very adamantly that parents and teachers should be allies in pursuit of academic achievement.  When a teacher, a person we are to trust with our child’s life, expresses indifference for that child – well, to be honest – it does not provide motivation to continue that alliance.  It carries the same weight as stating that you do not care.  That is not acceptable.  He is not just part of your job.  He is a person.  I cannot imagine how that would motivate him in his studies or to be respectful, if he knew.  Something tells me, he already does. 

Our extended family and circle of friends include numerous teachers and administrators in and out of the district.  Of the people we spoke to about the meeting and its outcome, all were flabbergasted by this statement.  Never have I heard any of them say this in casual conversation about their students, let alone to a parent that they are supposed to work with on a regular basis.  Imagine if your spouse, child, parent, family member or friend told you that their life would be easier if you weren’t there.  The relationship between teacher and student is just as important to a child. 

I have several thousand clients at once.  Some have simple cases – cut & dry and finished in 9 months.  Some have time consuming, intricate plans that require detailed work that takes up to 5 years to complete.  Sometimes one person’s case can rearrange my entire day and night (including my family and home life).  I cannot imagine feeling or expressing indifference for any of them, especially to them.  It’s counterproductive, not to mention unprofessional.  In all fairness, maybe it was a simple case of miscommunication with unintended implications. If that’s so, then perhaps the same consideration should be given to a struggling 9 year old boy.  However, any doubts we had about our decision to pursue the [deleted for safety] have been extinguished. /end

 

I received an apology from the principal where she explained that the teacher was trying to tell me that she wanted [The Middle Son] to stay in this school.  She just chose the wrong words.  

yeah.  And I'm the Queen of England.  Either way, we have begun the process of enrolling him into an alternative educational program endorsed by the Ohio Association of Gifted Children.  Hopefully, this will put him on the path toward the greatness he is destined for and not one with tragic results.   

I'm his momma - That's why.

In 1993/1994 I met some of the greatest friends - several (shout out to my Sca) are still in my life today.  It was when I found my niche.  In May of 1994 I became a statistic.  I was pregnant.  However, I was dealing with a weight problem.  I was a whopping 85 pounds and had a quiet battle with anorexia.  I lost that pregnancy., which was probably a blessing in disguise.  I was just a kid.  My doctor was a pretty blunt man and told me that  I'd never carry children if I continued on the path I was walking.

Fast forward to August 1995.  I was 17.  I took a pregnancy test before my first day of senior year.  Positive.  Maybe I'm nuts but I was excited.  Scared as shit but happy.  This little life brought forth change.  I put down the cigarettes, skipped out on binge drinking weekends, refrained from the weed, started eating.  I was too scared to tell my parents until my 5th month.  But I was taking care of myself.  Something in my soul changed, deeply.  I was a suicidal basket case and nothing short of nuts until that stick turned blue.

The Oldest entered the world on a Tuesday afternoon in April of 1996.  8 days after I became a legal "adult".  I looked down at his beautiful, fresh face.  He was quiet and content.  The love was immediate and overwhelming.  He became my every single thing.  I knew that I had to give him better than what I had.  That's my baby.  My dark haired, grey eyed baby.  There was just one issue.  On his butt.  A huge mole covering one entire cheek and upper thigh.  At first, we made jokes about it.  Said he'd never be able to moon someone and get away with it.

At The Oldest's 4 month visit his pediatrician expressed some concern over it.  She recommended a dermatology consult which we scheduled right away.  I remember driving there.  My hands on the wheel, trying to find my way to this office.  We signed in and handed over our insurance card.  He was covered by my fathers General Motors plan.  We were blessed for that.  We got called back to an exam room.  The nurse told me to take his clothes off and place him on the table.  The doctor came in and immediately asked me where my mother was.  Then he started speaking into a microcassette recorder.  Never really looking at me again.  Never acknowledged my existence again.  I tried to make sense of what he was saying into that machine.  Wanted to know, to understand, to communicate.  He then said something that resonated with me - "these have a high propensity to become melanoma"  followed by "mother has been instructed to follow up in one year."  And he walked out.  I re-dressed my baby, put him back in his car seat and went to the car.  I remember thinking - "Did he just say that?"  I know what melanoma is.  It's cancer.  It's skin cancer.  I sat in the car and bawled.  Didn't I do it all right?  I ate.  I took my vitamins.  I stopped working with the chemicals at school (I was in a vocational program for Printing, Photography & Art).  I did something wrong.  And then my thoughts jumped to "What the fuck was wrong with that doctor?"  A year?!  HELL NO.  I had a friend from school whose step father was a dermatologist and a damned good one.  So I made some calls.

The visit with this doctor was much more thorough.  He counted the hundreds of spots inside the mole.  He noted it's indefinite shape and multiple colors.  He measured.  Took pictures.  Told me it was the largest he's ever seen.  That's when he got very frank.  He told me that this was a dangerous mole that would probably become melanoma.  He referred us to a plastic surgeon and advised that I not hesitate to make the appointment.  A few months later - we were in another office, on another exam table, with another doctor.  A few months later - we were at Children's.  I cannot describe this to you without tears pouring down my face.  My precious son laid there on a little bed while an IV was started.  They gave him some medicine and shortly after he was out.  He was put into a crib that looked like some kind of medieval torture chamber.  The rails were higher than I stood.  They wheeled him to the operating room.  I watched as his cage disappeared behind swinging doors.  I wish I could say that was the worst of it.

An hour later, his doctor came out and told me that part one was a success.  Told me that I'd need to go down and learn how to dress his incision.  I walked through the doors to recovery.  Saw my baby laying there, peacefully.  I felt relieved.  He was okay!  Then the nurse came to me with a large bagful of gauze and tape and ointments.  She started to explain how to clean his staples and sutures.  As she spoke, she drew back the bandage and I felt my knees shake.  My head started to spin.  And immediately I burst into sobs.  I stared at 65 staples and 75 stitches that ran the width of his mole.  A portion was left unclosed for "drainage".  I can't tell you how terrified I was.  Terrified for my little boy who just learned to walk.  I pulled myself together to hear what she had to say.  Hours later - I took him home.  He was his normal little self.  Happy.  Bouncing.  Cute.  Tried to jump on the bed and do normal little boy things.  By the time we made it to his follow up appointment  - the staples and stitches shredded through his skin.  The result of being a child.  We scheduled his next surgery for another 6 months out.

In that timespan, I got married to his father.  He had a good job as a steel cutter.  He had good insurance.  We added The Oldest to his plan immediately.   The scar became keloid.  It swelled and burned.  He had a hard time sitting down.  He screamed at diaper changes.  I kept telling myself that this was for his own good.  Then I'd hope he would grow to forget the pain.  Those days were hard.  There just aren't words.  In the days prior to his second surgery, I got a call from the scheduling clerk at the plastic surgeon's office.  Our insurance denied the pre-certification for the surgery.  This was the first time I'd ever heard the words "Pre-existing Condition".  Without payment upfront surgery could not be performed.  I was now 20 (barely) working in a print shop part time.  I didn't have the ungodly amount of money required.  I was able to work out a payment arrangement.  He underwent surgery #2.  I made weekly payments of half of my wages to the doctor for over a year.  The next December I got my monthly statement with a $0 balance.  The doctor wrote off the remainder of our bill.  This man is nothing short of amazing.  He's been featured on numerous television programs including Ordinary Extraordinary.  I owe him so much.  However, the mole was too large to remove at once.  The staples and stitches from the second surgery also tore through his skin.  There was a ballooning technique discussed.  In the end - we opted to keep an eye on it for changes for the rest of his life. 

The Oldest is now 16.  I couldn't ask for a better son.  He's intelligent, funny, sarcastic, witty, kinda smelly, loving, and just all out incredible.  He loves to cook.  Makes his younger siblings pancakes.  Loves a girl.  Doesn't clean his room.  Makes his baby sister watch Blue's Clues.  I love him so much.  He saved my life and I wouldn't want to spend a second of my life without him.  He's a great big brother.  Everything you could ask for in a son - it's right there.  One day - his exam might come back bad.  It's a fear that lives in my mind and weighs on my shoulders and sinks my heart.  I'm petrified to take him to the doctor.  Someday he won't be covered by my insurance.  He won't qualify for Medicaid.  And some executive sitting behind a desk may print a form letter explaining how they have to, regrettably, deny coverage of anything related to that mole and "pre-existing condition" smattered somewhere on the clean, crisp sheet of paper.  We will have to figure out how to pay to save his life or hold his hand while he writhes in pain and suffers and slips away. 

When you are all debating political horseshit - remember this.  For me, it's real.  When I hear "repeal Obamacare" this is what I feel.  It's flawed.  I get it.  We can all find some problem we have with most laws on the books.  That's why we amend from there.  Take a rough draft, polish it up, and create something beautiful.  Hopefully, this year will not be the year that a light is shined at the end of a tunnel only to be extinguished because of some political nonsense. 

Happy Smotherer's Day

In my lifetime, I've had the "joys" of two mothers.  The one who birthed me and the one who raised me.  Both were in my life, both taught me about the world in their own ways, both were my mom.  I was adopted when I was 14 on May 14, 1992.  Not many kids can say that they signed for an consented to their own adoption!  Granted, I was adopted by my maternal grandparents so it wasn't much of a stretch.  I won't get into all the details here because, someday, I'll want you to buy the book.  LOL

Anyway - tomorrow is Mother's Day and there's always a moment of sadness in my heart as my "Mom" is an angel now.  You don't realize in times of anger that someday the woman you are fighting with, yelling at, who is grounding you, telling you not to wear that lipstick, advising you not to shave your head, screaming at you to not date that guy, who is snooping through your room, reading your notes, demanding to know who you are with and where you are at all times, who refuses to buy you mini skirts and hooker heels.... you just don't see that someday, somewhere down the road - she will be a ghost and a gravestone.  And you will bargain, in your mind or with her or with God, for one more fight, one more argument, one more second.  You'll want those times back with every fiber of your being.  So if you still have your "Smother" - hug her tightly, call her, remind her that you love her because sometimes you are a complete asshole and she will be the only one that still loves you anyway.  This is my 10th Mother's Day since she has been gone.  Only now - as I'm raising 4 kids - am I seeing the value of her lessons. 

Once, my cousin, Chris, my friend Kristye, and I were sentenced to an afternoon of cleaning for the millionth time.  Now, my "mom" collected antique furniture and had it in every room of the house.  This was around 84 or 85, so if it was antique then, you can imagine what it would be now.  (Some of it still resides in my home to this day)  Well, she had this Berkey & Gay bedroom suite consisting of a mirrored chest of drawers, some storage thing that sat at the end of her four poster queen sized bed, in walnut.  Remembering it now - it was gorgeous.  "Was" is the key word here.  Words don't do these pieces justice.  This particular summer day we were doing time in the bowels of Tidying HELL.  Of course, we wanted to be thorough.  We were given the task of straightening the upstairs bedrooms while she took care of the downstairs.

Once we completed picking up toys, dirty clothes and various floor clutter we moved on to her room.  We found her supply of cleansing agents including, but not limited to, Ajax powder, Brillo pads, a scrub brush, and what's cleaning if you don't use the toothbrushes of everyone in the household?  You know, for fine details.  We all three entered her room and went straight to work.  We scrubbed and scoured for probably an hour or so.  Chris, liberally spreading Ajax from one end of the room to the other. (Hey, it turned a pretty blue when it was wet!  It was a fascinating substance to our young minds.)  Kristye was armed with a scrub brush.  In my hot little hand, I possessed a Brillo pad in all of it's steel wool glory.  We took to that bedroom suite like a well oiled cleaning machine.  We felt so grown up and important.  I distinctly remember saying how proud she was going to be when she sees how clean we got her furniture.  So you can imagine our confusion when she entered the room to put away the linens and started screaming.  There was a frenzy of sobbing, screaming, flailing arms, painful swats to our behinds, furious words of anger and groundings until the end of time.  Kristye was banished to her home.  Chris and I were sent to opposite ends of the house.  And when I say "sent" I mean she dragged us, beating our asses with every step.  Suddenly, this 60 year old woman grew 5 more arms and Herculean strength.  It was like she was the Incredible Hulk himself.

We weren't permitted out of our respective rooms for the rest of the night - an eternity when you're young.  We couldn't understand why we were being punished for cleaning.  After all, we were just doing what we were told!  Chris and I whispered under the cracks of our closed doors attempting to determine our fatal error.  The next day, through giant tears, she explained what we did wrong.  She told us that she still loved us.  She proceeded to make us a tray of cut fruits and her famous fruit dip.  I didn't think those ups and downs would vanish.  In the coming years I'd grow to hate her and love her again, despise her and cherish her and miss her in overwhelming ways.  She'd smother me, ask too many questions, make too many suggestions, give me unsolicited advice that I'd just rebel against, and love me unconditionally and forever.  

In 2001, she was granted her wings on a hot August day in her bed.  From there on out our family changed.  She was our glue and for a long while we fell apart without her.  But the fortitude she instilled in us came alive again and, for the most part, brought us all back together. (Once, I picked up the phone, dialed her number as I had something really important to tell her.  I got so far as the disconnected number chime and recording before I remembered she was gone.) I get signs from her and am comforted with them. She comes to me in vivid dreams where she has a healthy & nourished look to her, though she rarely says a word.  Most recently she gave me an indisputable sign that would make me sound like a lunatic if I explained it.  She finds ways to "mother" me from her new home in Heaven.  Only now have I begun to savor those signs rather than mourn them.  Going on 11 years since her passing and I'm starting to find peace with it.   She's still with me each and every single day.  Sometimes, my daughter will look up at me and flash me a face and I could swear it was "mom". I treasure that and while part of my heart aches that she isn't sitting at this table with me, smoking like a chimney, criticizing some choice I've made, I know she lives on.

What was the point of this rambling blog?  Other than sharing a story that didn't paint her in the best light?  Well, the point is - go call your mom.  Even if she's a bitch.  Call her.  She's only on loan to you. We moms put up with a lot.  We make a lot of sacrifices to get you where you are now.  We got up and made you breakfast when we were tired.  We taught you how to pee and poop in the toilet.  We kissed your hurties.  We wanted to fight the world when someone hurt you.  We'd lay our lives down without question for our kids.  We're humans doing the jobs of super heroes.  Remind us that you notice.  On Monday, you can go back to leaving skidmarked undies on the floor and asking for money we don't have.  Give your momma one day, especially when she's given you all of hers.  :-) 

I Can Get You A Thumb By 3 o'clock. With Polish.

Part of accepting maturity is delaying gratification.  Tuesday night, I let me "T" take the wheel (that's a United States of Tara reference).  I had some extra money burning a hole in my pocket.  And I saw that Bath and Body Works was having a sale on hand soap and body wash.  Sure, I had hand soap.  But it wasn't some overpriced, over scented, migraine inducing, obnoxious aroma.  It was some plain ole Dial.  Ok - it was Cherry Blossom.  But it didn't come out in a foam.  I just (almost) finished decorating one of my bathrooms and I wanted it to look perfect.  Only B&BW soaps are going to be the perfect accessory. Sure, I have body wash too.  But, again, it's falls into the same category as the Dial.

So at 7:45 p.m. Mini-Me woke up from her nap and I decided to just run up really quick.  I packed little Q up and headed out the door.  We got to the store about 10 minutes later.  We entered and my baby girl was in awe.  This whole "girl" thing is still a wonder to me.  I know she's 1 1/2 but it is still a very large adjustment from the 3 boys.  I have a new found appreciation for girly things.  Seeing her little face light up when she sees something feminine!  Don't get me wrong, she has an incredible fondness for the boys' things too.  But she loves purses and "lip gloss" (read: an empty tube of  Chap Stick).  So as we are perusing the shelves and bins, we come across this ADORABLE little compact.  It was a small, bright yellow smiley face with a big red bow on it's head with a red rhinestone in the center of the bow that slid open and closed.  A toothy smile drew across her face, her legs kicked in excitement.  She giggled when she saw the pretty baby in the mirror. I melted.  Of course, it was hers.  She could put it in her little purse!  Maybe it was a combination of the toxic levels of perfumed potions mixed with the bright, flashy packaging and some spritz girl chasing me around with some "Island" scent - I didn't think. 

We finalized our purchase and the compact didn't leave her grasp the whole ride home.  As soon as we came in - She showed her prize off to her brothers and placed it into her purse.  She would pull it out every so often and smile at the baby smiling at her.  Wednesday morning, I told my Heterosexual Life Partner about it.  We gushed over the cuteness of a tiny girl holding a tiny mirror in her tiny hand.  The compact didn't get much thought until later.

Fast Forward to 3:00 p.m.  I'm clacking away at the keyboard, engulfed in work, listening to the kids play happily through the house.  Mini-Me traveled back to her brothers' room, which she does often.  Usually to snatch some "off limit" toy or to make The Youngest Boy cry.  Soon, she started fussing.  It was not a full fledged cry.  More like - bitching.  It sounded like she was trying to get something that was stuck and she was annoyed.  I got up to investigate.  I surely was not expecting the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  There she was, sitting on the bed, covered in blood.  Mainly because she was shaking her hand like she was trying to get a piece of tape off of her hand.  I didn't bother trying to figure out what caused it.  I grabbed her and ran to the bathroom.  I ordered all kids out of the bedroom until we could determine what happened.

Once in the bathroom, I had to clean her in order to find the origin of the bleeding.  The Oldest went to investigate the cause.  The Middle Son came in with a broken antenna from a CD player.  But that didn't seem likely.  I found the deep gash on the tip of Mini-Me's thumb.  She had fileted the tip.  And still not crying.  I put pressure on it for roughly 15 minutes.  The one thing that I've learned from 13 years in the pro wrestling business and 15 years raising sons - it's First Aid.  I've also amassed a very thorough First Aid kit that includes suture removers and other such tools (it helps that I have a sister who works in a medical office and that Michael used to).  The Oldest comes into the bathroom holding a bloody, broken compact.  Enough guilt set to rival Catholicism.  There weren't enough Hail Mary's to absolve me.  Why on Earth didn't I think about this?  Normally, I can look at an object and come up with at least 15 ways one of the kids can inflict injury on another of the kids using it.  I determined that I could not control the bleed.  I wrapped it in gauze and medical tape - tightly - hoping to stop the bleed.  Then I put a clean sock over it and then her shirt so that she couldn't pull it off on the way to the hospital. 

You know that you're a borderline terrible mother when you have an ER routine.  Each kid knows what to do, who to call and how to prepare.  The Oldest loaded up Mini-Me's diaper bag and made the call to grandma, The Middle Son started cleaning the blood trail while packing his things to take to Grandma's and The Youngest Son- well, he was just grateful that it wasn't him this time as he told Mini-Me of the amenities of Children's Medical Center as we piled into the car.  She just smiled and then fell asleep on the way.  Fortunately, Grandma lives seconds from the hospital.

Michael met us inside as we greeted the same P.A. that handled The Youngest Son's chin and broken jaw as well as his recent "tooth thru the cheek" just weeks ago.  First, he was going to stitch but once he got her cleaned up (and lidocained) he decided to cut the flap of skin and apply pressure.  Unfortunately, there was no stopping the bleeding.  He ordered a clotting agent which finally worked after 3 hours.  Not a whimper out of my baby!  The doctor looked at us and said "Her brothers are in trouble!  This is one tough little girl!"

She's going to have a scar.  And will NEVER, NEVER own another compact again.  Ever.  Even when she's like 40.  Nope.  No more.  Seriously - What the elf was I thinking?  Now, just feeling very blessed that she is okay and it was not nearly as bad as it could have been.

"You Didn't Say 'God Bless You'"

Sushi is my favorite food.  Around my 30th birthday Ex Douchebag took me to a fabulous little sushi place and I immediately fell in love.  Up to that point it was macaroni & cheese (which still holds a very dear spot in my heart).  Not just any mac n cheese.  Had to be Kraft.  With the powdered cheese packet and a little too much milk.  Mmmmmm........ heaven.  Don't get me wrong - Alton Brown makes an immaculate mac & cheese.  I use that for things like carry ins, potlucks or when I'm in the mood to gain 57 pounds.

When you become a parent you soon realize that eating is going to be a spectator sport.  I prepare it.  I plate it.  I watch it fly in large quantities all over the table, floor, children's faces.....  Then I clean it.  Sometimes, if I am really lucky - I get to partake.  I just don't have time.  As I sit here with no kids and my pintos n cheese are getting cold on the table next to me.

Yesterday was one of those "If you can eat it and drive at the same time you'd better do it" days. There were so many things to do that I didn't have time.  The final task of the day was to pick the boys up from Vacation Bible School.  The kids are so excited to be participating in it and are very enthusiastic about telling me about what they have learned.  So last night at 11ish I decided to toss a can of tuna in a bowl (I generally do not eat animals - I make exceptions for evolutionary mishaps such as poultry.  Those things have wings they should fly if they don't want to be eaten).  To spice it up I toss in a dash of mayo, some sour cream, some oregano & basil and a scoshe of relish for color.  I plop down on the couch with my bowl, some wheat thins (the Kroger brand because I'm poor) and my little girl.  I share a few bites with Mini-me and she is satisfied with snagging a cracker.

Middle Son and Youngest Boy take this quiet time to tell me what they have learned in this evenings lesson.  They made little cross necklaces with colored beads.  Each bead color has a meaning and Middle Son is explaining each one to me.  Finally he gets to the last ones - hearts.  He proceeds to clarify that these were just ones he added just because he liked them.  At this point he is now very, very close to me.  I have my bowl resting in my hands in front of me so that I can actively listen to what he is telling me.  As the words "I Heart Jesus" are passing through his lips a sneeze is passing from his nose.  Into. My. Bowl.  I scream while watching as his spittle particles are traveling at a high rate of speed right smack dab into my dinner.  Part of me is laughing.  Part of me is ticked.  But all I can do is look at my food in horror.  And disgust.  And slight contemplation as to whether or not I am going to take another bite.  So I yell "YOU JUST 'I HEART JESUS'd" INTO MY DINNER!"

He says, with the most innocent eyes, "You didn't say 'God Bless You" so now you owe me $10."

Could you Google the number for Poison Control?

As a mother of 3 boys you expect to have to call Poison Control center at least once.  Me?  Well - my first experience with the1-800-222-1222 was in 1998 when my, then 2 year old, son decided to SUPER GLUE HIS MOUTH SHUT.  Normally this wouldn't be a complaint.  I was just concerned that he may have to have his stomach pumped or need some kind of IV Fluids.  (Cut me a break, I was 20).  For your future reference, Super Glue is non-toxic.  It takes hours to get hardened super glue out of the teeth of a 2 year old boy, you know, in case it comes up on Jeopardy.

Yesterday started like many do.  Mini-Me & I rolled reluctantly out of my smarshmellow soft bed and moseyed down the hall to the living room.  Her diaper was excessively full so I took it off and sat her bare behinded onto the floor.  Youngest Boy then asked for some breakfast as he and Middle Son were already up and at em viciously fighting over Wii privileges.  I proceeded to make a pot of coffee, Youngest Boy's breakfast and sent a particularly snide email to my ex (who went from being a doll to being a complete and total jackhole in a matter of minutes - we will never speak again) all of which took about, I dunno, 12 minutes or less.  Mini-Me crawls over to find me and I start to smell the smell of something really smelly.  She has pooed a trail from the television to my desk.  Roughly 8 feet of my living room is a giant skid mark of 10 month old infant droppings.  Greeeeeat.  I pick her up, grab a towel, half-assedly wipe up the ooze and make my way to the bathroom.  I inform the boys not to answer the door or the phone as I will be showering with the Mini Me since I am now also covered in yuck.

10 minutes later we are squeaky clean!  Youngest Boy and Middle Son are continuing their brutal video game argument in their bedroom.  I place Mini-Me in their room with them so that I can now mop my living room.  Again, I am praising God for hardwood floors!  20 minutes later I have completed the mopping.  I think that now I will indulge in that pot of coffee.  The night before was so incredibly hard.  I smoked a cigarette for the first time since December 2, 2009 and got my drunk on.  (Yes, what he did was that bad.  If it's possible for a shattered heart to break even more it's been accomplished in my rib cage)  I needed to just brush the weekend off and add it to the list of things I've survived in my lifetime.  No sooner do I get the fat free french vanilla creamer poured when I hear Middle Son skipping down the hall to tell me that Mini-Me has gotten into the paint.

Before Ex Douchebag's incredibly dastardly misdeeds occurred I was painting my 34 square foot bathroom "Red Geranium".  I'm going to paint the trim black, add some brushed nickel fixtures, lay some black & white checked flooring, decorative light switch covers and hang my vintage concert posters - Janis, The Doors, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline and Nirvana with my vinyl copies of Men Without Hats, Heart and The Village People.  Music is the theme.  Red seemed fitting.  I didn't realize it was going to take 804 coats of this paint to cover the Pepto Pink that was previously on the walls.  So this process has taken no less than 4 days and I'm still not even close to done.

I race down the hall to find my beautiful little girl happily splashing around in blood red paint that is quickly flowing from the overturned can.  Apparently I hadn't sealed the lid completely and someone left the bathroom door open.  In the 8 seconds it takes her to get from the boys' room to the bathroom doorway she'd managed to pull over the container.  (Yes, nominate me for Mother of the Year!)  Immediately I pick her up and call for The Oldest to help.  I'm not sure which to do first.  Toss her into the tub or stop the river of paint from taking over the hardwood floor hallway.  Ultimately, it was neither.  I asked The Oldest to get his camera.  After he took the picture I put her into the tub - diaper & all and start hosing her off.  That's when I realize there is a small amount of paint on her mouth.  The Oldest comes into the bathroom to keep an eye on Mini - Me while I am scooping up handfuls of paint and pouring them back into the can.  Mini-Me is screaming now and paint is seeping into the tiles, under the transition strip, beneath the trim and into the grains of the wood.  The Oldest extracts a once again sparkling clean baby girl from the tub and whisks her off to the living room so that I can begin scrubbing.

"Hey [Oldest]" I call from my Cinderella position on the bathroom floor.  He says, in a most annoyed voice - "Yes mother".  "Could you Google the number for Poison Control?".  There I am on my hands and knees scrubbing red paint from the floor dialing Poison Control.  I look like Lizzie Bordon (had she really axed her parents).  I'm still not even fully dried from my shower of 30 minutes ago.  Mark, the RN on the other end of the phone assures me that Mini-Mewill be just fine.  She may toss her cookies but she does not need a trip to the ER.  I'm relieved.  And I need a clone.  Or 2.  Or 4 - 1 to follow around each kid.

The Glamourous Life of the Single Working Mom

3:21 a.m. - I finish up the mailers I was doing for work.  They are all stamped and ready to go out in the mail.  My eyes are rolling.... it's time for bed.

4:43 a.m. - Mini-Me rustles in her sleep and hunger pangs wake her.  I'm in my bed 10 feet in front of her.  Just the sounds of her rustling in her crib wakes me.  I look at the clock and listen to see if she is just tossing or if she is going to get up.  Much to my dismay - it's the latter.  She starts to cry.  I get up.  Hit my shin on the end of the bed and I can't scream because it will scare her.  I pick her up, carry her to the kitchen where I open the fridge and realize I didn't prepare formula before I passed out.  So I make her a quick 4oz bottle and hope it's enough to top her off and get her back to sleep.  We make our way back to the bedroom.  I step on a Beyblade one of the boys left in the hall.  But I'm so exhausted that I'm too tired to whimper.  We crawl into my bed - yeah a big no no- and I give her the bottle and she starts to doze.  She finishes it.  The sensation of me taking it out of her mouth startles her awake again.  The 4oz wasn't enough.  We do the above over again.  She falls back to sleep around 6:00.

6:47 a.m. - The Oldest is up.  He shut his bedroom door and I'm awake again.  I nod off just in time to hear him shut the front door which wakes Mini-Me.

7:00 a.m. - We head to the living room as it is clear that she is not going to go back to sleep.  I put her in her high chair so that I can prepare breakfast.  I give her some baby puffs to tide her over.  She is happy & giggling.  She picks them up in her beautiful baby fingers and shoves them into her face.  I don't even know if my eyes are open.  I move the remnants of last nights dinner plates to find my coffee pot.  Sweet salvation from the grog.  Then I clean off a space on the counter to cut a banana for the baby girl that I love so much.

7:08 a.m. - Middle Son stirs in his room.  He wants to watch some cartoons before school.  So he turns on the television.  Youngest Boy is now up from the sounds of the television.

7:14 a.m. - Youngest Boy comes into the kitchen and asks for a bowl of cereal.  At this moment I realize I forgot to turn on the coffee pot.  Ugh.  I reach into the cabinet to pull out the last clean bowl.  I forgot to start the dishwasher last night.  Upon pouring the cereal I realize that we have no clean spoons.  So I improvise and give him a measuring spoon.  I get creative and tell him that it is so he can measure how many tablespoons of cereal he has today.  He is pleased and sits down at the table.

7:22 a.m. - I finish sweeping up the scattered baby puffs and banana cubes just in time to hear a familiar splash in the living room.  Youngest Boy has taken his bowl of cereal into the living room and, as usual, has spilled it on the floor.  I thank God for the hardwood flooring at this point. Youngest Boy runs to grab a towel and comes back with a dishrag that's not nearly big enough to clean the mess.  I thank him for the help and remind him that we eat in the kitchen.

7:28 a.m. - Middle Son would like some sausage links.  Thankfully these take 45 seconds in the microwave.

7:39 a.m. - I'm off to get weather appropriate clothing for all 3 of them.  The clean laundry is sorted into baskets in my bedroom.  I haven't had time to fold them.  So I dig.  The boys watch some television and fight over which program they are going to watch.  I have to play referee as I change & dress Mini-Me.

7:50 a.m. - I return to the kitchen to clean the plates & bowls from the boys' breakfast.  I rinse Mini-Me's high chair tray to prepare for lunch.  Finally I am able to pour my cup of coffee.

8:00 a.m. - I instruct Middle Son to get dressed and get his bookbag together while I pick up the laundry from the living room & kitchen. (Mini-Me's clothing, my socks, some dishrags & the towels from Youngest Boys earlier spill).  My alarm in my bedroom is going off.  The noise is enough to make me want to scream.  I have to run and shut it off.  I look at my bed and want to go back to sleep.

8:05 a.m. - Getting the first load of laundry of the day into the washer.  Mini-Me is now screaming from the living room and I ask Youngest Boy what he did to her.  He was just trying to give her hug.  I run to the living room to find her reaching up for me.  I carry her back to the laundry room to finish loading it and unloading the dryer onto my bed.  With 1 hand. 

8:08 a.m. - I remind Middle Son to get dressed for school.


8:13 a.m. - Youngest Boy is now dressed.  His pants are on backwards and he is wearing a pajama shirt that belongs to Middle Son.  Even his socks are on upside down.  I help to re-dress him.  We go through the run down of the proper way to dress.  He is wiggling and falls off the couch.  Crying ensues.  He wants daddy.  He wishes daddy would come home.  He wishes Daddy would leave Katie and come back to us.  Middle Son is frustrated now because he can't hear television.


8:17 a.m. - I remind Middle Son AGAIN to get dressed.


8:23 a.m. - I find my own socks so that I can get ready to head out the door.


8:30 a.m. - I have to block the television so that Middle Son will do what I have asked him to do repeatedly.  Finally he gets off the couch and gets dressed.  His pajamas are strewn onto the floor down the hallway and into his bedroom.  I ask him to pick them up and place them into the hamper.


8:37 a.m. - Middle Son cannot find last nights homework.  There is a mad hunt through the living & dining room to find it.  Mini-Me has now found something random on the floor behind the entertainment center and she has it in her mouth.  She is gagging now.  I run to pat her back and a nickel falls to the floor.  She is crying really hard now.


8:40 a.m. - My phone alarm goes off letting me know that it's time to head out the door to take Middle Son to school.


8:44 a.m. - Youngest Boy cannot find one of his shoes.  Middle Son is reenacting some fighting moves he saw on television.  He is oblivious to the search for Youngest Boy's shoe.  Youngest Boy is crying again.  He wants Daddy.


8:52 a.m. - The missing shoe is located under a box in the bedroom.  Youngest Boy thanks me for being a wonderful mommy and finding his shoe.  We are ready to go.


8:55 a.m. - I reach for my keys on the hook by the front door.  They are not there.  Youngest Boy used them to open his cash register toy last night and left them somewhere.  A mad scramble is on to find my keys.


8:57 a.m. - I give up my search for the keys.  I grab the spare and race to the van.  I get Mini-Me secured into her car seat.  I run to the other side to buckle Youngest Boy in.


8:59 a.m. - I get into the drivers seat and lock my seatbelt and press the button to shut the sliding door.  It shuts and then comes back open.  Something is stuck in the track.  I run over to the side and remove the Easter card my best friend sent me that was wound up in the track.  I'd question how it got there and express my sadness over losing the card but who really cares?  Just me.


9:00 a.m. - School begins.


9:02 a.m. - I pull out of the driveway and we're off to school.


9:07 a.m. - We arrive at school and Middle Son gets out.  He runs to the door and his pants slip down to expose a plumber's crack.  I realize he did not put on underwear this morning.  I call to him to tell him that he is to put on underwear every single day.  He tells me he forgot.  Now I send my son to school with no underpants.  Let's hope it's not gym day.


9:12 a.m. - We return home.  As I get Mini-Me out of her car seat I realize she has pooped.  It is up her back, inside her car seat and down her legs.  I pull her seat out and take her into the house.  Youngest Boy claims the television and announces he is still hungry and would like more breakfast.  I explain that I have to clean Mini-Me up first.  He misses Daddy again.

9:23 a.m. - I have completed cleaning Mini-Me.  As I enter the kitchen to dispose of the dirty diaper & wash my hands I spot my cup of coffee on the counter.  It's completely cold.

9:28 a.m. - I empty the washer into the dryer and fill it with Mini-Me's soiled clothing and the shirt I was wearing that is covered in baby poop.

9:33 a.m. - It's my best friend time!  The phone rings and my dearest friend in the whole wide world is on the other end.  She starts with her familiar "Duuuuuuuude what's up?" and I feel so comforted.  She has no idea what these calls every morning mean to me.  We could talk about the random license plates she encounters in the greater Chicago area or the cost of gas and I'd be the happiest woman on earth.  We spend about 30 minutes just chatting while I clean the counters & straighten up the house.

10:00 a.m. - It is time for work.  I sit down at my desk in the living room and find The Oldest's dirty breakfast dishes.  Grrrrr.... If he was home I would make him come & get them and put them into the sink.  But it's too late.  I make a mental note to tell him of this when he gets home.  As I take the dishes into the kitchen I realize I never started the dishwasher and we need dishes.  I have a portable dishwasher, not an in-wall kind.  After I get it all hooked up and soap filled I turn it on and return to the desk.

10:12 a.m. - Youngest Boy wants to watch The Legend of Zelda dvd for the billionth time.  Now.... where are the remotes?  Mini-Me is playing with her toys on the floor.

10:16 a.m. - Both the television & DVD remotes are located under my scanner cart and couch.  DVD is playing.  Mini-Me is content with a beanie baby and her musical steering wheel.

10:20 a.m. - I organize my desk and start my To-Do List for the day: Chapter 13 Plan Calculations & Additional Fee Applications.  I need to do math and organize timelines from notes in the system.  Somehow I find myself checking Facebook and updating my 30 Day Film Challenge.

10:27 a.m. - I log into work and begin the tasks at hand.  By now Mini-Me has crawled over to me to play at my feet.  She reaches over and shuts my computer off.

10:33 a.m. - My computer has restarted and I can log back into work.  The phone rings.  I click "ignore" so that I can focus on what I'm doing.

10:47 a.m. - After I've moved Mini-Me from the area that Youngest Boy is playing at his request he reminds me that he wanted another bowl of cereal please.

10:53 a.m. - The bowls and spoons are in the dishwasher.  I offer to make him a pb&j which he is okay with for now.

10:58 a.m. - I return to the living room/desk area to find Mini-Me with a pen in her mouth.  I take it away from her and she starts to cry.  She is rubbing her eyes and is sleepy.  OH YEAH - I forgot to mix formula.  I prepare about 32 oz that should get her through the day.  As I am doling out the scoops my phone rings again in the living room.  I just lost my train of thought and forgot how many that was.  Lucky for me I don't put those scoops directly into the water until I have measured them properly.  It's time to start over.

11:08 a.m. - Back at the desk with Mini-Me in one arm and bottle in the other hand.  I sit down at give her the bottle with one arm.  I am tapping keys with the other hand getting work completed.

11:11 a.m. - I close my eyes & make wishes for things that will never come.

11:17 a.m. - Mini-Me is asleep for her morning nap. She is warm and cuddly and I am reminded of my warm. soft bed.  Then I'm reminded that I need coffee.  My cup is in the kitchen on the counter still.  Cold.  If I get up I'll wake Mini-Me.  So there I sit - plugging away at my work longing for sleep or coffee.

11:45 a.m. - Youngest Boy is hungry again and the dvd has finished playing.  He decides to get a snack from the snack drawer and pulls the whole thing down.  He snatches the one that he wants and tells me I can have the tv since he wants to play in his room.  Mini-Me is now awake again.  She doesn't want to go play on the floor or in her excersaucer.  She wants me to hold her.

11:52 a.m. - Mini-Me pulls my work off my desk and scatters my papers onto the floor.  I move her high chair into the living room next to my desk and place her in it with some puffs & cooked veggies.

12:04 p.m. - Youngest Boy returns to the living room because he wants to play in here with his toys and watch another DVD.  I return to work.

12:25 p.m. - Mini-Me has had enough of her lunch and wants out.  I wipe her clean and set her tray on the table in the dining room.  I really need to finish my work.  She is back to playing in the floor only this time Youngest Boy has included her in his game.  I watch them play in awe.  They look so happy.  They are laughing.  Mini-Me is putting a blanket on her head and Youngest Boy is finding her.  I can't imagine a second of my life without them.  I want to sit on the floor and join them.  But if I don't work I won't be able to feed them and that's not okay.

1:00 p.m. - I finish one round of work.  Finally I get that cup of coffee.  Right as Mini-Me poops again.  Youngest Boy yells that she stinks.  It's up her back.  I have to catch her before it gets onto the floor.

1:08 p.m. - Diaper change complete.  She resumes her playtime with Youngest Boy.

1:39 p.m. - Youngest Boy would like lunch now.  Good thing the dishwasher is done.  I prepare his meal and realize I haven't eaten since dinner last night.  But I don't have time to fix anything.  So I top off my coffee and head back to work.

2:00 p.m. - After 2 phone calls and encouraging kids to play I cannot fight my hunger another second.  I go back into the kitchen and toss some leftover spaghetti into a bowl and start the microwave.

2:04 p.m. - Mini-Me is fussing and is bored.  I give her some different toys to play with and put her in her excersaucer for some jumping.

2:12 p.m. - Yet another phone call.  Since this is the 3rd one from the same person I finally just answer because it's clear she is in dire need.  She wants to complain about some poor treatment she got at the doctor.  That's all.  I am working at the same time.  Trying to listen and be a good friend because I do care. 

2:43 p.m. - Work is going smoothly.  Everyone is happy.  The microwave is beeping to remind me that I left my lunch in there forever ago.  But Mini-Me has had enough of the excersaucer play.  She's ready for another nap.  I lay her down and get her to sleep.

3:08 p.m. - The Oldest's bus arrives home.  He comes in and Youngest Boy yells.  Mini-Me is awake now.  I have to get dressed, finally, for the day so that we can go get Middle Son.  The Oldest & I talk about his day at school.  I instruct him to empty the dishwasher and tell him about him leaving his dishes on the desk. 

3:15 p.m. - I head to my bedroom to change out of my pajamas and into my clothes.  The cat has been asleep in my pile of clean clothes.  Fur is all over them.

3:22 p.m. - The Oldest calls to me from the kitchen asking me what's in the microwave as he is making his after school snack.  I forgot my lunch again.

3:28 p.m. - Mini-Me needs to be dressed.  Youngest Boy cannot find his socks that he took off earlier.  He's screaming at the top of his lungs and hitting himself in the head repeating that he is stupid. 

3:30 p.m. - School is out.

3:33 p.m. - We are out the door when I remember that I have to reassemble Mini-Me's car seat.

3:35 p.m. - Youngest Boy slips in the driveway and hurts his knee.  He is crying from the pain, for his daddy and for life when daddy was here.  I hug him & comfort him and kiss his knee.

3:38 p.m. - We pull out of the driveway and are en route to school.

3:43 p.m. - The Oldest runs into the school to get Middle Son.

3:50 p.m. - We are back at home.  The Oldest snags the computer before I get in the door.  Middle Son starts his homework which consists of a math paper that he doesn't understand and a book he must read aloud.  He is hungry as well and wants a snack.  The cupboard is just about bare.  I haven't had time to wrangle 4 kids to the grocery store.  And my paycheck was spread thin.  I had to pay the bills.  Ugh.

4:00 p.m. - The Oldest retreats to his bedroom and I go back to work.

4:23 p.m. - Youngest Boy and Middle Son start screaming at each other for control over the video games so that each one can pursue their 30 minute game allotment.  They both want the Wii and different games and they both want to go first.  Mini-Me is happily crawling to the sliding door so that she can watch the birds & squirrels from the window.   I want to sit down next to her or take her outside and play in the yard.  At least it's raining out and I don't feel like such a horrible mother.

6:00 p.m. - I've worked and handled the kids' every need.  Changed a diaper or 2.  Given a bottle.  I've separated them and resolved incessant fights.  Now it's time to make dinner.  The Oldest is helping to hold Mini-Me while I get dinner made.  I open the microwave to defrost the ground turkey to find my lunch from earlier.

6:42 p.m. - Dinner is done.  The boys take their places at the table and Mini-Me's high chair needs cleaned again so she can eat too.  The kids eat while I try to make sense of the mess in the kitchen from making dinner.

6:57 p.m. - I sit down to eat my dinner and it's cold.  Mini-Me is finished and wants out.  But she needs cleaned up.  So I shove 2 bites into my face and resign to getting her out of her seat and transporting her to the bathroom for a hose down.  Youngest Boy needs a bath but he doesn't want one.  I have to literally strip him of his clothing and put him into the tub.  He kicks & screams until he realizes he can play with Mini-Me with the toys.  They play for a while and I watch and clean them up.

7:11 p.m. - Mini-Me is the first out of the tub.  She is sleepy from the full belly & special bath soap.  I clothe her in her jammies.

7:31 p.m. - Youngest Boy has maxed himself out in the bath.  He races his naked patoot from the bathroom to his bedroom and comes out wearing his pj shirt as pants and pants as a shirt.  He knows it's all on wrong but wants to stay that way.  Middle Son has been looking up cheat codes on the computer.  The Oldest is back in his room watching Netflix.  Or playing his 3DS.

8:03 p.m. - While holding my precious daughter and singing her "You Are My Sunshine" no less than 25 times I get the dishes into the dishwasher and dance with her as to not suffer the same fate tomorrow morning with the measuring spoon.

8:25 p.m. - Something is on television.  I'm not sure what but I want to sit with the kids and hear about their days and lives and feelings and viewpoints.  So while I give Mini-Me her bottle we chat and simultaneously watch tv. The phone rings but I ignore it because this is the only time I get to spend with them that is not work.  I want to bask in it. 

9:00 p.m. - It's pick up time.  Everyone must pick up their messes and get ready for bed.  An inevitable fight between them ensues while I get to my second To Do List of the day and start round 2 of work.

9:30 p.m. - Bed time in the household.  The boys head to the bathroom to brush their teeth.  They come out and kiss me goodnight.  I feel like the most blessed mother in the world. 

9:43 p.m. - I return to my desk and begin clacking at the keys again.  Flying through work in the quiet peace of the house.  Mini-Me tousles every now & then on the couch.  But remains asleep.

10:18 p.m. - Another call - It's my sister and I am grateful for her voice too.  I love to hear about her day.  I work during our conversation.  I hope she doesn't think I'm not listening.

11:00 p.m. - I'm 100% focused on work.  Until he creeps into my mind.  I miss him a little and that is quickly replaced by anger when I see he was using my Netflix account all day to watch movies while I did all of the above.

Until 2-3 a.m. I am working.  It's quiet.  Sometimes he will text me.  He tells me about his ideas for wrestling matches I cannot attend.  He pours his heart out about things going on in his life.  Never once does he ask me about our day.  Sometimes he asks about the kids.  For the most part though it's all about him. 

There are trips to the doctor or the store or therapy or library or gas station.  It may seem like I am complaining.  Far from it.  I look into 4 sets of eyes every day and am overwhelmed by love.  This is my life.  I can't imagine being happy not doing this every day.

Hey Kids! Check out this mushroom!

Yesterday I celebrated 15 years of motherhood.  Do I get a badge or like a free meal or something?  At least a card for my wallet or a discount on Tylenol?

I started the day by napping on the couch with my snuggly 8 month old daughter that I was woken from by a particularly insane nightmare.  A pink & black tarantula with razor legs that sliced my cats face and then gave birth to some really UGLY kittens was in my kitchen.  For clarity - the tarantula did the birthing, not my cat.  Cleaning my 8 & 4 year old sons bedroom then followed.  I was putting off mowing as looooooooooong as possible.

My procrastination was for good reason.  Or reasons in this case.  I've only mowed a lawn like twice in all my 33 years.  My yard now is quite large.  Most of my neighbors all have riding mowers.  Last year I was pregnant so I got a pass.  I hired some guy who tried very hard to soak me of money.  My old yard was maybe 50-60 feet.  It shouldn't cost me $100 every 2 weeks to have it mowed.  ANYWAY.......... I digress.  The mower hasn't been started in ages.  I can't get it started.  I'm just not very mechanical like that.  I've since determined that it's broken.  It involves duct tape.  LOL.  (Did someone hear Jeff Foxworthy?)  WOOHOO.  My sister offered to let me borrow hers.  The fun begins.

Getting the mower into my minivan - Task #1.  My sister lives on a steep hill.  Getting the mower OUT of the garage was the easy part.  It sailed quite quickly down the hill and almost into the street.  (sshhhhh!)  I open the back door and move some seats forward, hop in it and attempt to pull it into the van.  Uh, notsomuch.  Then I got out and picked it up trying to not touch blades.  I tried to push it.  That didn't work either.  I can feel eyes on me now.  The neighbors are staring.  Everyone is looking at me.  Watching.  Laughing.  Finally, I got it in!  I got home and proceeded to try to gently get the derned thing out of the van.  I dropped it.  (sssssshhhhhh!)  I've never felt so "on the spot" before.  Everyone is outside.  There's a party going on across the street.  Now there are more people watching than I want.  I really don't want anyone to watch.  I feel stupid.  But alas, I must mow!  I checked the gas - full.  I primered - 3 times per the instructions!.  I hold the stupid handle...... and PULL.  Nothing happens.  And again with the pulling.  The mower mocks me.  And again.  Now people are looking again.  And pointing.  And I can hear their whispering.  I move to the garage so that I am no longer a spectacle.  And it still won't start.  I text my sister - "How do you start this thing?  There wasn't a key!"  (I was kidding about the "key" part) She calls from Amish Country.  Walks me thru - then The Oldest joins the party.  Together we started the mower!

My one neighbor is TERRIFIED that I am going to hurt his car.  Dude - it's a Dodge.  Not a Porsche.  Get over yourself.  We live in suburbia.  Seriously, I'm not going to damage your sweet ride.  He moved his car.  Whatever dude.  Anyway... So I start mowing.  Seems easy enough.  I really wish people would STOP watching me.  I feel like I'm a Macy's float.  It really feels like I should be waving to those around me.  I need a mowing Tiara.  The mower stalls and I'm struggling to get it started again.  Here come some neighborhood children to ask me questions.  I just want them to shut up and go away.  I don't want them to draw attention to the fact that I have NO flippin clue what I'm doing.  So I play it off as though I have to pee so I can go investigate the source of the stall out without an audience.  And I'm back in business!

  Once I finished the front lawn I was ready to move to the back.  At least there the judging eyes of neighbors and passersby would be gone.  This is where it gets tough.  I'm mowing dandelions.  The clippings come out of a side chute right into a gust of wind and all over me.  They are wet which adds to the experience.  I now know why mowing should be done in pants.  I ran over a patch of mushrooms and had the same outcome.  I feel so gross right now.  As I mow the parameter of my backyard I am noticing little things about it that I didn't see before.  A rut here, a strange patch of grass there....  When I come across this large, whitish flattened mushy thing that was bright orange on the inside.  It's the strangest looking mushroom I've ever seen!  I make a mental note to show the kids.

I finish and turn around - I feel all accomplished and proud.   It feels great!  I did it.  Oh and I purposely didn't mow the side lawn that I share with my neighbors driveway out of spite (and the mower stalled again).  Then I remembered.  "Hey kids!  Check out this mushroom!!!!"  As I approached the mushroom I was so excited to see the looks on their faces.  I made it to the spot in the yard and just as I started to call for the kids a second time I nudged it with my foot.  A wave of the realization of stupidity came over me. It was a moldy orange one of the kids left out in the yard last week. 

Let's keep this between us.

"Plese"

Yes, I am aware of it's misspelling.  There's a reason for it and you will understand by the end.  You know it means "Please".

When we say "please" we are usually trying to be polite and get something in exchange.  We are taught from a young age (well, we should be at least) that it's the "magic word" and it will get you what you want.  All you have to do is use it.  I imagine that I say "please" about 100+ times a day.  "[Youngest Boy], please don't wipe that booger on the couch" or "[Middle Son], please put on underwear"  or "[Oldest], please stop making 'Your Mom' jokes with your brothers" to the generic "Please pick up your toys" and an occasional "Bitch PLEASE!".  As a parent you want to instill politeness in your children.  So you teach them to use it.

My kids are generally pretty good about using it.  Most of the time it goes unnoticed or unmentioned and sometimes taken for granted.  I'm probably guilty of not enough praise and a little more emphasis on the negative than I should.  Guess it's part of parenthood.  There are times where Youngest Boy will look at me with those big blue eyes and in his sweet, yet devilish voice and ask for an Uncrustable.  I'll hold it in my hand and say "What do you say?" and he will respond with a "Please" knowing that satisfaction is just a word away.  He will snatch it from my hand and skip off to some remote location of his room where he is not supposed to have food and consume it.  His belly will be full - all because he said it.

Every time we go to the store the kids ask me for trips down the toy aisle.  They don't necessarily want something (ok, who am I kidding?).  They like to look and dream about toys I can't afford to give them.  They start in with their insincere "please" fest.  Begging me for 1 more godforsaken Beyblade or just 1 more Toy Story figure - I'll hear "please" no less than 712 times per child.  Sometimes I feel bad because I don't have enough money to give them these little things.  The way that they say "please" tugs at my heartstrings.  But then I remind myself that I provide them with much, much more.  Clothing, food, shelter, love, Eddie Izzard... you know, the important things.

On Monday morning my little Tabasco (the last nickname my dad was able to grant before he died) and Youngest Boy started their 6 day visit with their father.  Mini-Me has been spared somewhat for now.  Maybe a little longer if I can manage it.  Middle Son has been having the worst time with the divorce.  He was very close with his father.  That closeness was lost over the last year that Ex Douchebag chose to stay out of his life.  He has kind of clung to me in the process in ways that he hadn't before.  We've bonded in a different way.  He was apprehensive about this stay.  He saw his father not only leave him and his 2 brothers but his unborn sister too.  I can tell him that it'll be okay til I'm blue but actions have spoken much louder than words.  He's not ever been away from me for more than a day or 2 since he was born.  That's 8 years of togetherness.  His lifetime.  He and I have kept in touch through texting and calls.  I got to see him yesterday for a few minutes at his therapy session.  He looked down, withdrawn and sad.  I wanted to hold him and run out the door to take him home.

Around 7:30 last night I got a text from him asking if he can come home.  I explained that this was his time with Daddy and that he would be back in my arms in no time.  I tried to tell him that this time apart was going to fly by and that he'll have fun, Daddy loves him and will take good care of him.  In my mind I saw him standing there, in that hallway outside of his therapists door - with that sullen look on his face and the tears welling up in those precious brown eyes.  I started to cry.  He couldn't hear me or see me.  But I felt for him.  His fear, his anxiety - that hopeless feeling of wanting so badly to go home.  For a minute I was in his heart - confused and scared.  Several minutes went by and my phone emitted the "I like turtles" alert letting me know that I had an incoming text again.  I looked down and next to his name and picture of his beautiful smile taken during a much happier moment and saw the painful pleading of a little boy who wanted his mommy -

"Plese"

It's Just Like Starting Over

Last Thanksgiving I spent with Ex Douchebag.  Boy was it a doozy.  I had received a call from his mistress' father informing me of his 18 year old daughter's affair with my husband just the day before.  I was still a little shaken up and hurt.  I had already known but hearing from the girls dad was just a little more than I was expecting.  But I spent the holiday with this gut feeling that it would be our last.  We conceived our daughter that night though.

Fast forward to a year later, 2010.  This was my first holiday feast prepared for on my own, without my husband.  Don't get me wrong - I had help if I wanted it.  My sister, my friends and the few slivers of family I have left all offered to help.  This was something that I just had to do myself.  It was empowering.  Little by little I have been taking back the control of my life.  Owning Thanksgiving was therapeutic.  I needed it for me.

After a struggle to get The Middle Son & The Youngest Boy to their dads (as in I struggled to get him to actually take them) I made a quick run to the store. After that I made it home to watch the parade and prepare the kitchen and the feast. The Oldest kept a watchful eye on a snoozing Mini-Me while I prepped the 22# bird we nicknamed "Evil Dr. Porkchop".  Naming the turkey has been a tradition of ours for years.  I feel that we should become acquainted prior to me shoving a hand up its carcass.  Sometimes we give him a back story too.  This year I made the mistake of purchasing an aluminum roasting pan from the Dollar Store.  A mistake that would prove to be near devastating later.  I plopped Evil Dr. Porkchop into the pan and gingerly placed his mass into the oven. As I slide the pan back onto the grate the cheap pan rips and I failed to notice until AFTER I started pouring in the water.  Well shit.  Water all over the inside of the oven.  Go me!  Here comes trip #2 to the store.  I purchased some oven roasting bags as a solution to the pan problem.  In my head I just figured I would throw the turkey in the bag and place it in the ripped pan.  It's not like the bag would explode or anything, right?  HA!

The Oldest and I watched his idol, Alton Brown, atop the turkey float dressed as a pilgrim.  It was fantastic.  I was a bit off schedule.  Normally, I would cook the turkey over night.  Unfortunately (or fortunately) I shut my alarm off at 1 a.m. and opted to wait til morning.  We did the veggie prep, made the deviled eggs and started working on the house cleaning as well.  I knock at the door revealed my biological mother (a paranoid schizophrenic) and her boyfriend, (a Romanian refugee) had arrived early to assist.  After several hours of prep and another trip to the grocery store it was time to poke Evil Dr. Porkchop.  I explained to BM's BF the joys and wonders of a roasting bag as he had never seen one before and he was intrigued.  The bag appeared to be full of juice and Evil Dr. Porkchop was smelling tasty!  The bag was so full that it was hanging over the side of the pan.  As I shut the oven door it happened.  Just then the bag touched the oven wall and melted.  The juices, containing butter, hit the heating element in the bottom of the oven and burst into flames.  I quickly turned off the oven and intercepted BM's BF carrying a large glass of water just before he tossed it onto the flames.  After several minutes the flames rose up thru the oven vent, out the door and screaming ensued.  Not mine mind you!  Finally the fire subdued and BM's BF & I managed to extract the turkey without incident.  To my amazement, damage was minimal and Evil Dr. Porkchop was done!  Imagine what would have happened had I done that in the middle of the night?

Honestly, I felt like I could overcome any obstacle in my way after that.  I went on to complete a meal for 12 people and dropped the laborious stuffing into the floor.  Ex Douchebag dropped the kids off at 6 and I looked at him for the first time with new eyes.  I didn't miss him. Or long for him to hold me again.  Instead, pity replaced love.  He looked worn, sad and pathetic.  I'm not sure how, after all I've been through, but I feel sorry for him.  I think the stress is taking it's toll on him.  And for once I don't feel responsible for causing it or fixing it.  So I sat down at the table, in my new dining room, by the fire, next to friends and family and didn't give him another thought.  I just kept thinking that I'm blessed beyond measure.  It's amazing what 365 days can bring.  Liberation, freedom and a new path full of anxiety and excitement. 

The moral of the story: Don't buy pans at the dollar store.  :-)

Light My Fire

It's 9 pm on a Saturday night.  Here I am, nursing my 3 month old daughter while typing this blog.  My youngest son is perched on the back of a couch watching Goosebumps.  My middle son is in his room playing on his Playstation and my oldest is on his Nintendo.  We're all "plugged in" so to speak.  This is the first time I've sat here just relaxing. 

Less than a month ago I made a decision to move.  Some say that's pretty crazy.  Our landlord refused to fix my dishwasher that had caught on fire.  So that day I checked the paper and found the only listing for a house for rent.  It was in my price range and sounded good.  The next day I called and scheduled a visit.  We took 5 steps in and I was ready to hand over a check.  Immediately, I fell in love with a house.  I filled out the application and went home and prayed with every fiber of my being.  If you know me, you know how crazy that sounds.  And within hours we got the call.  The house was ours.  The next day I handed him over a check.  Here I sit, not even a month later, in my new living room.  And there are no ghost stories.  Only blank sheets of paper for us to fill. 

Packing, working, taking care of 4 kids and celebrating my youngest sons birthday was challenging, to say the least.  I had help with the actual moving itself but as far as packing and unpacking- I've had very little.  Each box made me stronger.  Each step was an inch closer to my dreams.  With every roadblock I got smarter.  Even though we've only lived here for 16 days I feel like I'm home. I feel like I have to keep conquering the unconquerable.  Just to prove to myself that I can do it.  I found myself again.  Last year I almost lost myself.  It's rough to admit that I was close to ending my own life.  So many things presented themselves in just such a way to respark my inner light.  For that I am so truly grateful.  You have a choice - either let the flame consume you or let the fire propel you.

Til Death Do Us Part - or infidelity

I'm 32.  I have 4 children - 3 boys and a girl.  I've been with my husband for 11 years.  And 2 weeks ago - he sent me divorce papers.  Apparently, I'm not as fun as a teenager.  Grown up life proved to be too much.  He cheated, I cheated, then he cheated again and hasn't stopped yet.  He left December 11, 2009.  The boys and I have been left to deal with the ups and downs, cleaning up the messes and get on with life.  So this is me - getting on with my life.  Reluctantly.

My sons - The Oldest (14), The Middle Son (7) and The Youngest Boy (3) have been my reasons for carrying on and have provided solace when I didn't think it was possible.  The 4 of us have formed this little tribe - unbreakable and delicate at the same time.  In August 2010 we welcomed Mini-Me- my daughter- into the world.  So go- do the math.  Yep - he left 8 days after the "+" sign.  But hey - we're not the first ones to go through this and we surely aren't the last.  Together we have faced some interesting and frustrating obstacles.  I don't know where I'd be without them. 

My friends have been there for me at all hours of the night.  Helping me analyze every text, call, email, visit and communication over the last 10 or so months.  Up to now I'd never been the type to cry.  Let alone cry uncontrollably.  Definetly not the type to cry uncontrollably on people.  Oh and never in public.  Boy how things change.  Used to be a time where I was always right.  My gut was never, ever wrong.  It's been an adjustment!  Not only is my gut wrong but I've been more wrong than I have ever thought possible. 

Anyway - my family, friends, therapist and even soon-to-be ex husband always said I should write.  It's always been my dream.  I don't want to pen the next Angela's Ashes or anything, nor do I want fame & fortune (at least not until the divorce is final, haha) - I just want to get it out.  Sometimes it's funny.  Sometimes it's angry.  Sometimes it's torn, confused, hurt, tearful or astounded.  It's always something.  Maybe somewhere someone else will find this in the vast internet and get some inspiration.