MuddledMom

What a difference a weekend makes. I am actually relaxed and feeling laid back. I might not be as funny.

Ok, I seriously recommend going away for a weekend sans children. No matter what the cost. Sell one of them if you have to (well then again if you did that you wouldn’t have to get away would you…and to all you tongue cluckers out there, relax, I’ve never posted their pictures on eBay although I do threaten this on a regular basis…)

No matter how you obtain the childcare you must do it. If your sister-in-law owes you from ten years ago when you took her children while she lounged on a beach with her husband and you took them because you hadn’t reproduced yet and thought it would be fun (sucker, and you know now that she totally was thinking that to your face when she dropped them off…).  Cash in on that favor. Pack your bags, leave them on her doorstep and speed away faster then you can say ‘chicken finger’.

I know of what I speak. I just did it. For the first time since my honeymoon I went away with the husband. And that was five freakin’ years ago. Just him and me.  Whisked away to a weekend spa.

A Relaxation Filled Kid Free Weekend !!!!!!!

  I can just hear the whispers…Oh she’s awful. Someone stop this woman before she hurts someone …You know what if you think it’s so terrible odds are, you either have a nanny or children who sleep and if you have both, bite me. 

The anticipation had made us giddy. We were like kids waiting for Christmas Eve to come.  Making big X’s on the calendar as the days dripped by. Every time there was a tantrum or a bowl of ronies thrown across the kitchen we would find solace in the fact that in a month, or week or days, (this was planned since December) someone else would be mopping up the floor and prying small humans apart from toys and each other. Even if it was for just a short weekend.

A weekend of unadulterated unbridled uninterrupted sleep (you dirty maggot you thought I was gonna wax on about the sex didn’t you…?) Yes there’s the also the obvious. We can have the sex. But who cares, we get to sleep afterwards! The sex is secondary. (There go the hushed whispers…’well isn’t that sad for her marriage, she’d rather sleep, tsk tsk’, again if you are tsking that means you are SLEEPING…)

We were getting ready for this trip with an almost fanatical fervor. A religious pilgrimage if you will. I pictured the holy land, a king size bed with giant oversized fluffy goose down pillows and matching fluffy comforter with those thick sunlight swallowing tapestries that barricade so much as a flicker of day from the window. And I would fall to my knees at the thought of this glorious journey, my heavy lidded eyes misting with anticipation.

I had the whole previous week scheduled. This way there was nothing for my mother to do when she got here (she and my sister volunteered their weekend and babysitting services, they knew we needed this, and it was in fact their idea…) except play with them.  And most importantly I could leave with calm sense of knowing they will be fine without me. Well the kids anyway.

One day was laundry, one was cleaning (you cannot leave a dirty bathroom for mom you just cannot…) another was groceries and the like, one day was packing (because with children something like packing for something even as light as a weekend getaway will take a whole day because you will start to pack with the suitcase on your bed and then you will have to stop to go wipe the bum of child #1 and when you walk back to your room you will discover all of your belongings on the floor and child #2 in your suitcase wearing one of your bras as a hat…) I had the week scheduled to the hour so we could leave early Friday.

However as the Mommy Gods would have it, seven days before departure, Hunter starts crouping like a seal with a pack a day habit. Shea trailing him close behind as she does with everything else. Snot, coughing, boogers, green, hacking. The whole gamut.  My whole week was screeching to a halt. How would my plans be affected? What if this bout winds up even worse then it is? Should I cancel the whole trip?

*pauses with guilt ridden reflection*

Didn’t I kick over that mommy guilt barrel last entry?

Dammit I’m going.  Hell or high water I am going. I am doing something for myself.

That’s right, I said it. Something for myself.

I can hear the tskers gasping in indignation and loud thuds as they fall of their chairs.

We as moms traditionally are not supposed to say that.

I’m not keen on lots of traditions but even if I was, how can I be everything to everyone with a smile on my face if I can’t give anything to myself? And if I gave this weekend up I was going to start yelling at bowls of cereal for being soggy, so really no one would benefit. This had to happen or my husband was going to come home to a combusted pile of ash wearing a peanut butter stained t-shirt. And he doesn’t like to clean up either.

That being said, I took both kids to the doctor. They were prescribed various medications. They would be fine. And so would I. The Doc assured me I could go on my trip.

It was everything we imagined and exactly what we needed. I have been rekindled, regrouped, revamped and rejuvenated. A part of me that has lay dormant since the birth of my first child has been stirred. The part that made the time to shower and maybe run a comb through my hair and a razor over my leg more then once a week.

She’s a patient individual. The husband has even commented on how ‘nice ‘ everything’s been this past week since her return. (of course he ruined that statement by adding how he’s always nice and he guesses it’s because I, for a change, have been nice)

I missed her.

I don’t expect she’s going to stay very long though.

As much as I like having her here I can’t help but waste my shower time on dancing to Noggin in the living room with the watchers of all that is Noggin all the time. The razor will have to wait.

I was gonna post about my five year wedding anniversary get away today.

(yes, you read that right, G-E-T-A-W-A-Y and we got away with no children!)

*Handel’s Messiah blares from the clouds*

I still plan to, however due to some comments on a forum I frequent, concerning what will go down in the family annals as “The Comet Incident” I’ve decided instead to reach back to a post I made last year for Mother’s Day (I had a blog on realsavvymoms.com and it may very well still be there, but I honestly haven’t checked…) The entry seemed uncannily appropriate considering what’s being said and funny thing is the content of the post itself starts off with the whole ‘we interrupt this post blah blah blah…’

Besides, it’s been a week since I’ve posted and I’m smack in the middle of the communion rush and I got outfits to plan and kids to bathe. Anyways without further adeu…

We interrupt this program…

Happy Belated Mother’s Day.

I had all intentions of being light and simple as I usually do.
Telling the story about my son’s obsession with his sister’s “pockabook”
Or my never ending quest for a crumb free kitchen floor.
Actually, I have a few incidents to relate.
But I decided I have a meatier bone to pick…

Stay-at-home-Mom vs. the Working Mom.

Alright, now please, let’s not start typing angry responses before we read what I’m thinking.

I don’t usually air my opinions on such touchy subjects.
I’m not a very black and white person.
Life should be so simple but it simply is not.
Grey is my shade of choice.
A bit more realistic.
I am not taking a side
I don’t pass judgement.
Seriously I don’t. If I have learned anything during my years on this earth it is that I cannot judge a person till I walk in their shoes. Or have been on both sides of the fence. And usually I am teetering right in the middle if not on the edge of that fence. And I’ve hopped on both sides and fell down on both many-a-time. Whether the jump was deliberate or I just fell.

I am not you. You are not me. And I seriously (and I swear on my children, seriously…) respect either decision.

Why am I going here you ask?

Well, here’s one statement (or backhanded compliment, however you want to look at it…) that has provoked this tirade.
Picture it.
Mother’s Day Get Together.
*Husband chasing toddler running amok and eight month old screaming and grabbing/shoving/throwing everything on table as I hold her on my lap in restaraunt all while I’m trying to shove just one forkful of salad down my throat for ten minutes and just never got to eat it*
Me: sigh
Working Mom: ‘Is this what goes on in your house all day?’
Me: ‘yeah, kind of’
Working Mom: “That’s why I go to work”

What I thought:
And you had kids because?….

What I said:
*shrugs*

Second scenario:
Another commented that I was the reason there would be no guilt going back to work after the second kid was born
My immediate reaction:
And you are having another one because?…

Again in real life I said nothing.

Do I think these people shouldn’t have had kids?
Of course I don’t think that.
I love both these people dearly and I do not believe they realized the offense of their comments.
But as I confident as I am in myself, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel as if I was being looked down upon.

All mother’s love their children with a lionistic passion that only another mother can understand.
I don’t believe any one mom loves their children more then the next mom.
But please remember your decision is a personal one.
And please don’t use mine as a justification for yours.
Please don’t tell me you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself and that you would slit your wrists if you had to watch Blue’s Clues all day.
Or that you don’t want your mind to turn into a toxic quagmire of slop because it would if you had nothing to do but change diapers and plan play dates.
This is insulting enough (God knows I bust my ginormous rear for at LEAST 16 hours a day and haven’t slept a straight night in about sixteen months, and nobody has that many diapers to change, even if their kid had explosive malaria induced diarrhea so clearly I’m doing something else besides changing diapers…) but the fact that you think that’s all there is, is almost demeaning.
And if I didn’t have my own sense of self, it would be.

I may be close to a breakdown quite regularly if not too damned often.
(Lord knows I holler about it enough here oh and wait till I tell you the 5am toothpaste jewlery box raid story…)
But if given the choice all over again, I would be here, home with them.
Hands down, no exceptions.
(except I would have read more books on colic…)
Do I think you should make the same decision I did?
No I don’t.
You are not me.

I’ve learned these last three years If you try hard enough, there’s a world beyond diapers and playdates..
You just have to find it and then keep it in sight.
That’s not an easy thing but mother’s everywhere pull it off.

Ultimately it doesn’t matter what mommy road you decide to go down.
Either way, you will see your offspring to the end of that road just fine.
You will just make different pitstops.

So my message to both camps:
Stop thinking your way is the better way.

It’s not, it’s just a way.

*steps off of soapbox*

We now return to your regulary scheduled programming….

  Yeah, It’s been a while, I know. I try so hard every week to get some writing time in (am I supposed to say ‘blogging time’?, I’m having trouble with that, it’s kinda like my mom saying ‘omg roflmao’). My son spits apple juice in my daughter’s eye and I’m all ‘omigod, what a great opening!’  By the time the evening rolls around though, I’ve mulled the paragraph around in my head a trillion times and I’ve gotten the spawn tucked in but I am tuckered out. Totally.

   So then I sit here and channel surf and web surf which ultimately leads to the shoulda surf.  Shoulda surfing is a dangerous sport and should be avoided at all costs. You will wind up in the bottom of the mommy guilt barrel drowning in your own sobs. I ventured there quite often these last few days. And each time I wound up practically throwing myself in front of the oncoming fire engine truck that passes my home periodically (and you know they’re still snickering every time they pass…) I don’t think they or the 911 people would be shocked anyway. They’d be all, “Hey Murphy, congrats, I heard you nailed the pool, what?..nah I didn’t even place, I had her for next Tuesday off the pier…”

While I half listen to “Supernanny” on TV (note to self: do NOT, I repeat DO NOT watch this show while teetering on the I Suck as a Mom Cliff) I mull over the days events, (Shoot I shoulda made Hunter brush his teeth before they totally rot out and maybe I should try to tone it down a notch when Shea goes toilet fishing…) I think about the events for the day recalling something that really got my blood boiling (And you know there is always some idiot you encounter during the day who will insult your sense of maternal pride with some inane or insidious comment concerning your parental abilities and these are usually the people who don’t have children but may have a cat or a hamster and this justifies them having an opinion on you giving your kid a tantrum override candy bar in CVS  so you can hear what the cashier is saying to you. That or they are raising future perennial therapy attendees themselves…)

   I review every single mishap and meltdown moment. Wondering what I could have done differently to remedy the situation. Wondering if I did it differently would that save the offspring time and money on therapy years down the road.  Wondering if they will still want me in their life come adulthood. And I always end up treading the woulda waters for hours at a time barely keeping afloat.

Someone really needs to toss me a line because I am about to sink to the bottom like a fully loaded lead diaper

  I get so wrapped up in my sense of imagined inadequacy that I have trouble remembering the bright spots of the day.

   Like when Hunter asks me to sit down and draw with him.  So I do and he draws something he’s so proud of, insisting it be hung on the fridge. And he beams. And so do I.

   Or when Shea brings me a book and instructs me to the couch with her directive little grunts. Forcing me to stop what I’m doing and read it to her. So I do and she doesn’t let me finish a page and must turn them at her own pace (God Bless her little ADD soul) and this brings her so much joy that she must kick her feet furiously and scream just high pitched enough to flood my ears with a bout of tinnitus. And she laughs. And so do I.

   And when I’m able to see these moments I realize the line has been tied around my waist all along. I’ve just been too busy wildly thrashing in the woulda coulda shoulda waters to notice.

   I am not dooming them to years of therapy and depression meds.  I’m doing the best I can and that’s pretty damn good. I won’t let anyone tell me different not even myself. I climb out of the barrel and kick it over.

Take that you stupid barrel.

*kicks barrel*

 You’re not the boss of me.

That loud mouth 19 month old screaming upstairs for a bottle, who makes grown adults scramble and clamor to quiet her at any cost, she is.

   Ok, you know when something happens, like say you stub your toe on a block (I’m always toe stubbing on blocks, you notice this?…), and you say, one of these days I’m going to break my ankle on these stupid blocks that I shoulda thrown out eons ago… and your mother or someone says “Shush! Don’t put that out there!!!” And your all, ‘oh please, what is this 1612 and the inquistion’ (and yes I’m sure the year and historical event don’t match but I’m too lazy to check…). Well from now on I will be careful of my words. I give credence. That whole thoughts are things camp carries weight. What does this have to do with your usual “my kid(s) and/or dog(s) just (insert dangerous annoying sleep depriving act here) and I must wax sarcastic on and on about it” schtick?

 I shall elaborate (which you know I will…)

Let me start with the morning rush.

Hunter has nursery school today. This month they’ve been learning about a bunch of artists and today was Jackson Pollack day. Excellent, I’m all about the arts. So he had to wear yucky clothes because they were going to get paint on them. This is great because that means I don’t have to worry about wrinkles, pilling and matching today. This frees up some time. Day going good. However Shea gets up late (was up a bazillion times last night…) so now I have to skip her breakfast, which frees up time getting ready BUT it means I lose precious babysitting minutes (I go to the gym a the YMCA, where Hunter goes to school and they have babysitting services) Fine. I can do that.

Get to school. Get Hunter in class. Realize we don’t have his lunch. Which never made it into the car. So now I have to go all the way back home (it’s a car ride, not walkable…) get the lunch. Fine. I’m halfway through the parking lot (pretty big parking lot) when I realize I forgot Shea’s bottle. FINE. I go back get the bottle. I have given up the gym at this point and am planning to make Shea breakfast, then take her for a brisk walk in the stroller to the park, chase after her for an hour. This will suffice for aerobic exercise (still trying to dump the baby weight almost two years later…) I run into my my close friend (we shall refer to her as ‘angel friend’…) in the parking lot. I run down the preceding itinerary explaining why I need to leave now to get the lunch. Her response. Why don’t you just go to the gym first then get the lunch? I give 64 reasons why I cannot. Conversation finished, off we go.

Couple of bumps in the road for the day, no big deal, I’m shock absorbent.

We go pick up the lunch, bring it back to school. Shea is pitching a fit because we are leaving (of course) but I know she won’t last for fifteen minutes on an empty stomach in babysitting and home we go.

We get in the house and I immediately pick up the phone, call a girlfriend whom I needed to speak briefly with. We speak, I hang up. Phone call was all of two minutes, if that. I hang up, noticing Shea is not in my sight. I call her name and I hear clanking in the bathroom.

Not a good sign.

I run like the wind in there. Shea is standing next to the toilet with a big grin on her face seeming very pleased with herself. I see white powder on her shirt. All down her shirt. Hmmm. Alarm bells are ringing. I notice the green can of Comet on the toilet tank.(and yes I know this stuff is supposed to be locked away, no mommy judgement police please…) Alarm bells are blaring. I grab her and smell her breath. I smell bleachy comet. The alarm is now a giant siren and its screaming. She can sense my fear, she is starting to cry. I am iced to my very core. Not sure if I smelled right (if that’s such a thing…) I smell her breath again. I cannot mistake it for anything but Comet. I look on the back of the can. I call the number on the can, but it’s a recording about questions and comments. What??? Here’s a tip for the cleaning product packaging people: GIANT EMERGENCY POISON CONTROL PHONE #. I hang up before it finishes. I’ve no choice, I call 911.

Yes, again with the 911.

I am eerily calm yet semi-hysterical. But it’s different this time. I’m truly scared. I call ‘Angel Friend’, brief her of the situation and ask her to please pick up Hunter from school. I tell her she needn’t come here, I’ll be ok not to worry. The ambulance arrives. Two women (thank you universe thank you!) One of them happens to be a mom of two. She is able to calm me down and talk me down from the “I am a total failure as a mother” cliff. I am in much more dire straits then my daughter who is acting as if all she ingested was a Chips Ahoy and seems fine (and they assure me she is, but we just need to run her in for further testing) Shortly thereafter Angel Friend arrives at my home. Offers to follow us to the hospital. Off to the emergency room we go in the ambulance. Shea laughs at a blown up latex glove. I want to lay down on the stretcher.

Really, how much more off the road could this day go.

We are in the ER. We are whisked right into the pediatric unit and into a room. They check her for chemical burns around her mouth, in her throat.. Her breathing is fine. She is not foaming at the mouth (yes they ask you this, because it does happen *shudders at thought*) She is not excessively drooling and minus the pterodactyl like protest against everyone with a stethoscope that dared to get within 6 inches of her personal space, she is being her happy little self. We must stay for observation for two hours. Angel Friend stays as long as she can but must attend to other matters. I thank her profusely. She has been a tremendous support. She instructs me to call if I need a lift.

 I think I have used up all my favors from all of my loved ones on the other side. I am thankful that this is all there is. It could have been exponentially worse. But it is what it is and I thank God she’s okay.

Except now I have to spend two hours with Shea in a room full of medical equipment.

Alone.

 She has not eaten yet. She has not napped. She is confined. I might as well give her an espresso.

I am now so far off the road that I have fallen in a muddy ditch and broke my leg. And it’s raining. And there are worms. In my nose.

I get through it. Barely. You just do it. You’ve no choice. Except for one minor incident involving a white lab coated individual closing the door so her screams wouldn’t be heard. (Really, if you can’t take the heat, why in the hell are you in the pediatric kitchen, but whatever…) it was typical yet tiring.

We get discharged. I wait an hour for a cab. (It was to late to call Angel Friend) My arm is dead from holding her. Shea is done. Her nervous energy is unaware of this fact. I am wiped, my adrenaline is subsiding and I am crashing.

We get home. Get in the car, pick up Hunter. Go right into witching hour till bedtime.

This was not one of my better days.

Whenever I talked about having her out of my sight for an uncontrollable few minutes I would say something like: ‘All I pictured was Shea with a face full of Comet.’ From now on when I have the urge to make my snappy little analogies I will make sure there is something like broccoli or bok choy in her mouth. A full college scholarship is not such a bad idea either.

  My husband is on his way home from a business trip. He should be home within the hour. And as I reflect on this pass weeks events and mishaps I become misty. Misty from the burning sensation that permeates my sinuses every time I rub my nose due to the giant inner nostril gash inflicted by my talon fingered rocking chair rebel daughter.

   It has been long week. Actually it’s been a long two weeks, because as it is written in the testostoronic manual (we will referring to this periodically) that for every day man is away on business trip he needs an extra one to prepare for aforementioned trip. So if he will be gone for one week, then that adds up to two weeks of chaos since man cannot multi-task something like keeping three year old from putting dog in dryer and booking an aisle seat on the plane. Let’s see there’s one day to bitch about the laundry that needs to be done and the jeans that have been under his side of the bed for 18 days that he can’t find. Another day to do that laundry ( I draw the line there…). One day to pack. One day to figure out exactly which extended family member borrowed the particular sized luggage piece needed for trip.

I get asked all of these questions, since if something is missing apparantly I am the one who (in his mind) either put it away or threw it out. I don’t know where my keys are five minutes after I put them down (see fireman post…) so asking me usually winds up going something like this:

*yells down two floors*

 ”the what? I don’t know, when did you last use it??!!, Will you stop biting him?!!! No not you…what?!! $#@! *trips over luggage on bed room floor and smashes shin into unused exercise thingy half sticking out from under the bed*…)”

   It doesn’t matter if I do know where it is, because the missing object could be poking husband in the eye and he still wouldn’t see it even if I gave him an illustrated map. But I digress (I do that alot too, maybe that’s why I lose my keys so much…)

By the time he’s ready to go, I seriously look forward to the peace I will have after 8:00pm.

It’s not all that bad when he goes away. In some aspects life is a bit easier. I don’t have to worry about dinner. No I am not married to ‘dinner betta’ be on da’ table when I git in’ guy. We lived on a splendid smorgasbord of take out for years before I finally dove into the culinary waters. But once you have kids you try to provide them with the stability of a family dinner complete with meat, vegetable and grain/starch even if 60% your hard work winds up in your hair on the floor or in a dog. If he’s not home, I don’t have to make a big production plus I have dinner done and the kitchen cleaned by six if I don’t have to account for the husband. That’s huge.

 This saves me a couple of hours a day. Really. There is no trail of destruction to contend with. No crumpled paper towels, no dishes in the sink. No half eaten apples on the counter or open jars of peanut butter. No towels on the floor. No various bathroom toletries at the bottom of the stairs (no he does not shave in the living room but he leaves his stuff out in the bathroom, which Miss Sticky Fingers eventually gets a hold of and practices for the staircase toss in the terror toddler olympics.

   Seriously. My children got alot of Mommy time while he was gone. And as much as I enjoyed the extra couch jumping session and the ever popular ‘let’s tackle mommy from behind while she’s kneeling down to pick up (insert sticky, chewed, disposable item here) I miss the extra helping hand. I miss the soundboard for the story that starts off as ‘You have NO idea what’s gone on here today….’ And most of all, despite my kvetching and wretching, I miss him.

   The door opens and in he walks. Shea has just finished a bottle complete with hysterical tantrum fit while in the background Hunter wakes up with massive croup attack. I have been run through the mill and I look like it since, I am covered with apple cinnmon baby food and riccotta cheese and I have not slept much since I have been up on average four to five times a night since he’s been gone. My hair looks electrified and I’m having trouble remembering when I showered last.

Welcome Home Lovey. You must be glad to be home, no?

You know what, don’t answer that.

Ketchup.

I detest ketchup. seriously, what is the draw with this stuff?

Alright, stupid question considering I’m trying to see it through the eyes of a three year old.

Still, ketchup brings out the angry uptight chef in me.

Listen I’m not saying I’m like Wolfgang Puck, whipping up five course lunches or pecan pancakes from scratch on a Monday morning. But need every single thing I cook only be considered for a nanosecond under the condition it be slathered in a pint of ketchup? Mind you it only gets consideration. It’s not like an actual bite gets taken. But the only condition upon which it will be even sampled is if I offer a quarter cup of ketchup on the side.

And while we’re at it, are the frozen/pre cooked chicken nugget makers in cahoots with the ketchup people?

Do the chicken people and ketchup people get together in the wee hours of the night around a giant conference table plotting to entangle pre-schoolers in their evil web by insuring their mystery meat-condiment combo be requested at every meal?

This makes up two of the only three things on God’s entire green earth my son will eat.

‘Well if he only likes chicken nuggets’, you say, ‘why don’t you just make them yourself if your so uptight about the processed additive crap?’

I have. I have made them small, large, round, square, I have made them “fingers”, I have tried a cookie cutter fun shapes (ok, soooo didn’t work for me, really how do you cut goopy chicken with a cookie cutter, who’s brainstorm was that, ewl…) well you get the point…

And his reply? With a screwed up little yuck face he says ‘ I no like these nuggets mommy, I want MY chicken nuggets’.

He also prefers Chips Ahoy over my chocolate chip cookies made from scratch. He just seems to prefer processed over homemade….you know, now that I mention that, maybe my cooking isn’t as stellar as I would like to believe.

I should just dip the kid in formaldehyde.

Scenario:

Family seated at dinner table. Shea in highchair. Dinner: Chicken cutlet, asparagus and wild rice. Clinking of utensils, Shea screaming and enthusiastically pointing at chicken while furiously stuffing asparagus in her little mouth. Hunter sitting calmly holding a conversation between the spoon and the fork as I put two nugget sized chicken cutlet pieces into his plate along with a giant squeeze of ketchup.

He sizes them up and decides he needs more ketchup. I tell him he can’t have any more ketchup till he eats at least one chicken nugget. He nods. I practically drop my fork stunned by the lack of resistance. He hastily dunks the chicken in the ketchup and chews away. I am very pleased.

With a full mouth he requests more ketchup. I get up from chair smug with satisfaction and squeeze out a second round as promised. I knew at some point he would dig mommy’s cooking. He must really like them since he already has the second nugget in hand. I made them with love and a touch of parmesan cheese, he’ll be eating them by the dozen before you know it and he’ll tell his teacher at school tomorrow how great mommy’s dinner was last night..

While I’m on ‘I’m the Greatest Mommy in the World’ fantasy island, Hunter spits out a lump of mashed white mess of what used to be a chicken nugget into his plate while reaching for the other nugget.

I realize I have been duped by a pre-schooler. Again. I picture my son in one of those novelty t-shirts that say ‘I’m with stupid’ with the arrow pointed at me

He is not eating the chicken (which had it been the store bought nugget he would have swallowed three without chewing…). The nugget is merely the vehicle used to get to the the ketchup.

I am beaten down by the tomato temptress.

I squeeze more on his plate while he cracks up at the ‘fart sound’ coming from the bottle.

I can admit defeat when necessary.

*hangs head* I’m no match for you Lady Lycopene

And with that thought, Shea reaches over to his dish and dips her chicken nugget. I suck my breath as scenario’s of Sunday dinner’s with my grandchildren sitting around a meal of Linguini and Chicken Nugget balls smothered in ketchup, race through my head.

She throws it at a dog.

Sometimes the Mommy God’s actually do smile on me.

   I should just format my posts with “Shea was really sick this last week.” as the opening.

   Which again, is why I haven’t posted.

   I swear I should have one of those presidential red phone’s in my house directly hooked up to the pediatrician. Why don’t they make those?

   No really, I’m not using this as an excuse for my lack of posting. She just woke up in the middle of the night covered in puke (of course,  2am is when children are supposed to throw up because it is written in the bacterial genetic code to commence vomiting in crib, all over bedding, while parent is sleeping…) and sizzling with fever.

   She had no less then 102.1, four out of the five days of fever and it peaked a bit over 104 at night. Relentless fever. Not breaking. Tylenol was helping zilch. On top of this she is cutting like twelve teeth at once (you would think with all this teething that she had one of those freak phantom twin heads with an extra mouth growing out of her forehead…) Oh and she had some kind of post nasal drip infection thing festering. Anyway, off to the Dr. we went and he ran a gamut of tests. One of them involved bagging her (for those of you who don’t know, this is how you collect a urine sample from a baby and literally involves a bag that is stuck around the peeing parts in order to…well you get the idea) and I was to drop the sample off.

   To make things easier for me, I would pass the bag off to my mom once I got home since she was there watching Hunter while I made my 47th trip to the Dr. this winter. She lived around the corner from our pediatrician and would drop the sample off for me so I wouldn’t have to make an extra trip.

   Except she didn’t make it in time and had to go to work the next day (she’s supposed to be retired but is one of those people who can’t take life sitting down…). This wasn’t a big problem, since Joe, my mom’s significant other would be able to stop by her home, get the sample out of the fridge and drop it off at the doctor’s office. She told him where it was (in a plastic bag on the door of the fridge). Simple enough.

Right.

He brought the bag the in the morning and banged on the door. No one was there. Got a reserved but exasperated call from my mom telling me no one was there could I please call the office and let them know someone was at the door. I did and of course no one was there. Fine.

   As the day progressed my daughter’s fever was ripping high and she was crying incessantly for over an hour. Usually my children have to be hemmoraging or convulsing for me to really worry, and right now, I was worried. When we go for a sick visit, even the nurse chuckles at the question ‘has her activity level declined?’ But right now her current inactivity and inability to settle down had me rattled, it was so unlike her. So I called the Doctor. He wasn’t there, I left a message.

   Shea finally stopped crying. My husband offered to take care of the kids for an hour (he was working from home) and told me to go sleep since I was on night number two of infrequent one and half hour blocks of sleep and walking zombie tired.

I dragged myself upstairs, changed my vomit crusted clothes, got under the covers, got comfy on my pillow, closed my eyes, took a couple of deep greatful breaths attempting to meditate myself to sleep, wondering how long I would slumber. I smell traces of puke with every breath. It is in my pores. I have become one with the vomit.

Right this moment would be when the pediatrician called me back.

We discussed Shea’s condition. He mentioned that he was in the office and the urine sample could be dropped off now.

I called mom, who called Joe, who then went to the house and took the plastic bag from the fridge and brought it around the corner. Knocked on the door and the Dr. answered. Joe handed him the bag.

Which would be great if the Tuesday night left-over eggplant parmesan that was in the bag needed to be tested for strep and a urinary tract infection.

Sigh.

I’ll find out the results on Monday.

(for Shea not the eggplant…)

drive by post….

We were going out to dinner with an other pair of adults. A quiet evening out. Dressed up (read: no snot crusted shoulders or ketchup sleeves) Sans children. I could eat my meal while it was still hot and not have to set eye on a single chicken nugget.

 *does happy dance*

   I need to plan the whole day on the rare occasion we have an evening out, so that I am not a livid ball of stress by the time we leave and as luck would have (which I usually don’t in this area) things were going smoothly. It was 5:30pm and I was ahead of schedule (!). 

  I was showered, hair washed, legs shaved. My outfit was already picked out thus saving me approximately 3 hours of exasperated mix and match ending with the solid resolution to eat celery only for the next two weeks (This resolve lasts approximately as long as the thought itself) The kids were fed and I had still had time to spare. So in order to make the evening a little easier for my sister and her fiance’ (the brave souls), I figured I would bathe both children and jammie them up. The bathing thing seems to help them sleep a little sounder, fall out a little quicker.

I get Shea, take her to the bathroom and strip her down while I fill up her little tub. I still use her baby tub in the big tub. I bathe her quickly, let her play for a few minutes. It’s a short bath since I still have to bathe Hunter, she is NOT happy when I pull her out. And she makes sure she let’s me know that by screeching her displeasure while soaking me in a last ditch effort to stay in the bath.

‘Tough Noogies’ I tell her.

I bring her to her room. Dry her, lotion her up, diaper rash cream, diaper, onesie, feety pajama zipped up, hair combed, sniff head. Done.

I kiss her head and put her down and she takes off like a happy jack rabbit.

I pick up her two little socks off the floor and put some other loose clothes in a bag and leave her room.

I realize the bathroom door is open and walk in to empty the tub.

This is what I encountered, stopping me dead in my tracks.

She’s lucky her happy gap-toothed smile over rides the half-hour she has just set me back.

I will be having that Merlot tonight. A big giant glass.

Heck, I might even order my own bottle.

We were all just coming off of the flu, croup and bronchitis combined

(no one has taken my plea for a pre-school cootie immunization shot seriously?…)

It’s why I haven’t posted in a while.

A day of sickness means you don’t get a thing done. Which translates into 24 hours of crap, crumbs and clothes piling up. The rate of the crap pile up increases exponentially with each passing sunset. And for every day you lose it takes approximately double time and half to make it up. So say you got a 24 hour bug Sunday. That means you wouldn’t get everything back up to speed and sanitized till almost Thursday. I lost ten days. So we’re talking like, what the beginning of April?

I’ve been in this house for 10 days straight and I just wanted to go to CVS. We also needed to go to CVS. I needed diapers and my prescription cough medicine that had been sitting there for two days. My phlegm afflictions were bouncing off the walls and it was time to get them some fresh air. Plus I was on the verge of having an all out Dayquil enhanced breakdown. I got them dressed and managed to get Shea’s coat on. But then I realized I didn’t have my keys. Which we obviously needed and could not leave without. So I stopped to look for them.

I may as well have been searching for a speck of dust in a pile of sand.

But I couldn’t deal with the mess now, we needed to go. Lunch and naptime were fast approaching and it was crucial we leave before the hunger and exhaustion tantrums reared there loud little heads.

Ten minutes passed which seemed like an eternity to the offspring. I was getting hot and agitated myself. Then I thought perhaps I left the keys in the car. Sometimes when I’m getting Shea out of the car, I put them down in the car while I’m unstrapping her seat.

My car is parked literally eight steps from my door, so I can run out and check.

I closed the door behind because otherwise Shea leaves (she’s a runner…)

I’ve done this a million times. The worst consequence being peanutbutter finger stains on my very nice front window blinds

Except this time Hunter thought it would be funny to deadbolt the door.

$#@!

And then he couldn’t undo it.

Thank God I put on a coat.

I try to convince Hunter to unlock the door:

“Hunter please turn the lock mommy can’t get back in and she needs to get back in”

“I want Daddy.”

And this is how it goes until my voice is so highpitched that the dogs across the street are barking.

So my neighbor who hears me after five minutes of frantic sobbing screaming in hysterics and hacking up my left lung lobe in between, comes out.

We calmly try to get Hunter to turn the lock.

Actually the neighbor is calm, I am speaking in toungues.

We can’t get Hunter to turn the lock, he is in the middle of a complete and total hysterical panic meltdown.

She calls 911

Up pulls the giant firetruck with a bunch of fireman.

I feel like an idiot.

They asked me if any of the upstairs windows were unlocked and I cringed. Because no matter what window they went through they were going to land in a pile of clutter and clothes that you only see on those organizational shows like “Clean House”. I said no. I was hoping no. I was praying no. This Firehouse is down the block from me, and the engines pass my home quite regularly. All I could think was “oh man, everytime they pass here on a run they are gonna rip about the disaster house with the even more of a disaster mom…”

The door couldn’t be jimmied since my beautiful boy deadbolted the dang thing. So they climbed through my living room window in order to gain access. This would be the moment I remember that there is a pair of my son’s dirty underwear in the middle of the living room floor among other various child garbage and bric a brac..

We had the flu people, cut me some slack here.

My house looked like a scene out of “COPS” during a domestic violence call.

Toys everywhere child’s underwear a stray dirty little sock various pieces of apple skin my son spit on the floor a dirty bib a basket of laundry a Mount Everest of paper/mail/newspaper/flyers on the table topped off by a vase full of dead roses and fireman.

*cringes and pretends no one notices mess*

Children are sobbing uncontrolably and dogs are barking incessantly.

Man am I hitting the Merlot later.

I thank the great firemen profusely and then appologize even more. Those fireman rule. I can’t thank them enough. Seriously. They made me feel at ease even though my home clearly stated I wasn’t.

Oh and yes they were cute.(’cause if your a girl and you’re reading this, you KNOW you’ve been asking that question since I mentioned the truck pulled up…)

Neither child seems worse for the wear.

Me, well I’m still mortified and I feel like the downtrodden dirty sock laying on the stairs.

And I just realized I can’t even have the damn bottle of wine ’cause I’m on antibiotics

*shakes fist*

!!!!!

Alright, so I had intentions of daily posting when I started this. But diversions are constantly being hurled at me (and bowls of yogurt…) every time I make an attempt to sit down and type. There are the permanent diversions such as the missing keys ripped off by attention seeking pre-schooler and inability to so much as squeak open the laptop without someone screaming “Can I play noggin on the computer PLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSEEEE???!!!!”…followed by wrestling match between mother and child over who gets to sit in the chair. I usually lose.

The temporary diversions usually end with me running from my laptop screaming things like:

“For the love of God how did you get a Sharpie and we do NOT write on the dog!!!”

But my main source of diversion (also a main source of material…) is the one year old. She has been know to bring a grown man to his knees (incidentally this was by running full speed into the back of Daddy’s knees with the force of a Bruce Lee karate chop…) and her mother to tears of exasperation and exhaustion (3rd day of teething and getting plonked on the head by giant metal toy car thrown from top of stairs while screaming in delightful glee…) I think I would have a more peaceful time raising a spider monkey in captivity. A plucky, no-fear, defiant spider monkey. Who is also very screechy. And doesn’t like living in captivity.

I can almost hear the eye rolling. Yes, I know every child gets into everything. I am aware that this is the nature of the beast (or the rugrat…) however I give you this to mull. I took the tray off the highchair to wash in the sink. The process took all of 20 seconds. I turned around and placed the tray back on the chair and kissed her cheek as she sat in it and I secured the tray. Except…I never put her in the chair. At first I thought I was losing chunks of time with my sanity. This happened a couple of times before I realized. *shakes fist* The spider monkey. Turns out this is what was happening.

Oh that’s nothing you say. Ok, I’ll step it up a notch. Saturday night. Making lovely dinner for the family. When I’m cooking (yes I do actually like to…) I’ll chop up all the ingredients first and then put them in these little finger bowls (there’s probably a techinical word for them but I don’t know what it is…), you know, ‘prepping’. Okay, so I have a question about swapping ingredients and I call my brother (who incidentally is a chef…) while I’m leaning against the counter, I take a couple of steps away from the counter as I utter the sentence. “Hey, listen I have a question, I’m cooking this Thai dish, can I swap the jalepeno’s with?…

*sound of glasses shattering in quick succession*

Enough with the glass already.

“What the $#@!….”

I turn around

The spider monkey struck again.

*shakes fist and screams*

No sooner had I taken two steps from the counter, my sprightly little monkey had pushed a chair up to the counter (she moves furniture waaaay too easily…) and by the time I had a chance to even complete my sentence my little adorable primate was hurling bowls in the sink with the voracity of an angry chimp hurling poop at an intruder. At least it wasn’t the floor.

And thank God it wasn’t poop. I wouldn’t put that past her either.

I grabbed her off the chair, banishing her to the living room. I should have reprimanded her, I didn’t. It was nearing the end of the day and I was tired. I had started to yell, but the last time I lost my cool she answered me with a smile and a round of applause. I was purple from aggravation, maybe she mistook me for Barney. I am livid. It is a bit later then I wanted it to be, everyone’s hungry and now I have to start from scratch. I remember when simple tasks took the alloted time you expected them to take. Now I have to calculate an extra hour into a fifteen minute task to allow for such things as hair pulling, screaming matches, wrap-around-leg fits, bottles and diaper runs. I long for the day I can complete the daily grind in real-time. In my mind I have fast forwarded to a few years to when the children are self sufficient and can feed themselves.

I am rocking her to sleep now. I know, I know, she’s 18 months old and this should have gone the way of the formula. I figure since there will be no more babies in this household, I am not exactly in a hurry to give up the few calm tender routines I do have. As I rock she is singing. In her own little tiny sing song voice she is singing the ABC song in her language I’ve yet to decipher. I only know it’s the ABC song, because she sings the same tune to her Phonics Bus all day long. I smell her hair (remind myself that she should probably be bathed tomorrow…)and think back to earlier in the day when she was singing happily in her car seat. I caught a glimpse of her smiling out the window as she swayed and hummed her tune. My eyes misted. She’s a toddler now. She’s not an infant, she’s not really even a baby any more. And at this moment I don’t want her to go any further with this whole growth development thing. I want her to stay right here, as she is, while I rock her. I wouldn’t fast forward this for anything, not even a full week’s worth of sleep. In fact, I’ll stay up here a little longer then I have to.