You're A Mean One, Mrs. Grinch

We have an Elf on the Shelf. His name is Alex. He comes around the 1st of December through Christmas Eve to keep an exta watchful eye on the kids. Theorectically, his presence will reinforce good behavior and decision making by the kids, thus ensuring they'll be rewarded by Santa.

That didn't work exactly. For some reason, my four little angels (well, 3/4) have been crazy and out of control since Friday. Friday was the last day of school for 3 weeks for the older two. That may have played a part. Christmas is fast approaching, which adds a tremendous amount of nervous, anxious energy. Brennan has been sick, so her patience and self control are low. Nora, who is usually the kindest, most eager to please, threw a couple of fits that rivaled her worst during the terrible twos. Excuses, excuses.

I hate excuses.

I reminded them that Alex was watching and reporting back to Santa. I told them that Santa was watching too. I reminded them that it wasn't too late to take presents back to the store, the North Pole or wherever they come from. It didn't work.

The last straw was when their Grandfather, his friend Kate, and an Uncle came over Sunday for cookie decorating and dinner. Since we won't be seeing them on Christmas Day, they brought gifts. My kids, who normally are good but certainly not perfect, were crazy. Their manners went missing. Gone. Completely gone.

Later, after letting them all know how inappropriate their behavior was and sending them off to bed, I had a chat with Alex, the Elf. I instructed him to take the presents that were already under the tree up to the North Pole (temporarily). He agreed to it.

The kids woke up Monday morning, and searched for Alex (he is in a different spot every night). They found him on the mantel with a letter. Not a present was under the tree. I came downstairs to a very solemn and quiet Brennan and Brady. Strangely, they were not terribly upset, as I had thought they might be. They realized that they'd acted out of control, and upon reading the letter, knew that this was the consequence. Brennan said that she felt ashamed, and helped pen a note (with Brady and Nora's input) apologizing to Santa and promising to try harder the rest of the week.

Now before you too, call me Mrs. Grinch, know that Alex returned some of the gifts after 2 days. The kids have reined in their behavior and have tried very hard to do what has been asked of them.

Sure there are still fights, and multiple, multiple, requests (by me) to put their (insert article of clothing, toy, or other item here) away. They're kids, and they're not perfect. But I do think they'll remember this Christmas for a long time to come.

You Called Me a WHAT?

I was fortunate enough to get away for a Girls Weekend recently. We went to Asheville, NC - if you ever have the chance to go, you should. It's a great little mountain town, with an artsy, crunchy vibe to it.

Friday night, we were very lame. After the drive, some shopping, dinner and a couple of drinks, I think we all fell asleep around 11:30.

Well rested, we attacked Saturday like a bunch of starving vultures. We shopped, we ate, we stopped in for a bit of "The Truth," a local micro-brewery's latest creation, and hit the stores again.

Saturday night, we ate a great tapas style dinner, and on our way out, began talking to a nice young girl who is from Durham and works as a nanny when she's not in school at UNC-A. She was with a date and his friend, (both much closer to my age than hers). We ran into them again later at a bar and played a round of darts (we also managed to snag a business card of hers, since she's going to be in the triangle over Christmas break). Stacy Jo, you can expect a call from me this week, by the way...

In between the round of darts, I was waiting on a pitcher of beer at the bar and started chatting with a couple of boys. I'll strike up a conversation with anybody. I love talking to people. Well, to be specific, I love starting up conversations and just listening to people. It can be fascinating. But these people were young. Little boys. And by little, I mean it was someones 21st birthday type little boys, and I'd bet my pitcher of beer that several of the other ones had fake IDs. They were fairly uninteresting to listen to, so once I got my pitcher, I went back to darts.

A little while later, we were discussing the youths (who had now begun playing darts next to us). We decided that one of them had hair like my friend's 5 year old (but a 21 year old fraternity boy version). Her son has these loose, tousled, angelic little curls that you hate to cut because they might just decide to go away forever. So someone suggested that I take a picture. So I walked over, and asked if I could take his picture.

He asked me if I was a Cougar.

A COUGAR??????


I laughed, told him not to flatter himself, took the picture and walked away. Mortified.


While I recognized that they were a lot younger than I am, what I failed to recognize was that when you are 21 anything over 30 is ancient. Seeing as young men tend not to think from their cerebral cortex, in their eyes, there was only ONE reason I could have wanted to talk with them. To them, I was Mrs. Robinson.

coo coo cuh choo.

I am having a little trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that someone even thinks I am old enough to even be called a cougar. Here's my visual of a cougar: a chain smoking, bejewelled sweatsuit wearing, fake tanned, raspy voiced, white zinfandel drinking, sex-starved, divorcee.

I suppose that perhaps I should be flattered. Courtney Cox might be giving cougars a new image with her sitcom, Cougartown (I haven't seen it yet). But frankly, I just felt like a dirty old woman. I went back to my beer and thanked God that I don't have to deal with 21 year old boys anymore. I don't even think I liked them when I was 21.

I Give Up...

As you can see from my Christmas card (2007), I really try to maintain my sense of humor when it comes to balancing the demands and obligations of the holidays with managing a family.

Yes, this really was the picture I sent out that year. Yes, that was the best one out of about 50 shots.

I also am a typical first born type A who likes to (at least) have everybody think I have everything pulled together. I think I am slowly starting to lose that battle.

By no means have I ever been confused with Martha Stewart. Particularly when it comes to decorating. That being said, historically, I have taken some small amount of pride in decorating the house for Christmas. I may not have all the coordinating color ornaments and ribbons, and I often regret chintzing out and buying two small sized "things" (angels, santas, trees, you name it, I've got it) instead of ponying up and buying the large ("item") so you can actually see it sitting on my mantel. Generally though, I can pull it all together so that it looks, well, alright.

This year, I pulled down the boxes of Christmas decorations from the attic. Unfortunately, the kids got to them before I could. Let's just say that any glimmer of an organized decorating event went out the window.

There are paper Santas and reindeer hanging from curling ribbon from our upstairs railing to greet you as you walk through our front door. Every home made craft, ornament, and odd collection of Christmas collectibles (none of which I recall every buying) is proudly on display on every ledge, shelf, and table. Everyone's bedroom door is adorned with some type of classroom Frosty or Santa (you know, the kind with the moveable arms and legs?). That burgundy curling ribbon that Santa and his reindeer are hanging from? There are a few strategically placed pieces of that hanging around, mixed with some green ribbon they found. Yup, just random strings of ribbon hanging from things...because "it looks like a party." Now how can I argue with that?

It's Jesus's birthday, Mom. That's a good enough reason for a party, right?

Basically, Christmas has thrown up all over our house. In all of it's tacky, technicolor, sparkly, shiny, homemade and store bought glory.

So, instead of getting annoyed, after a number of deep, very deep, cleansing breaths, I gave up. Actually, that's wrong. I didn't give up. I gave in. After all, how can you argue with a child's pure enthusiasm for and spirit of the season?

There will be years and years of picture perfect (well, "perfect" would be a stretch for me) Christmases ahead of us. But with all of that pretty, matching, coordinating Christmas decor comes the silent recognition that the magic of hanging Santa and his reindeer by red ribbons from our railings has slipped away.

So I will try and smile back at Frosty and Santa as I pass into the kids rooms to put away (another) load of laundry...and be thankful for the four little creatures that scotch taped them there.

Now I Know Where the Expression Comes From....

I've never had a baby become interested in the toilet. Until A.J. came along. On more than one occasion since he's become mobile, we've found him happily splashing in the frequently "yellow so it can mellow" water (although I'd love to claim a fanatical love of the environment as the reason, it's more my kids forgetting to flush). Thankfully, more often than not, it has been clean toilet water.

Right. As if toilet water is ever really "clean."

Knowing that he fancies an occasional splish-splash, I try to keep the toilet lid down or the bathroom door closed. As I mentioned though, it's hard for the bigger kids to remember to flush half the time. Getting them to put the lid down, well, that would take a small act of God.

This afternoon, I came in from getting the mail to hear Nora announce, "Mom, I'm going to go poop now." She always announces the impending arrival of her bowel movements to us. It's nice to be in the poop-loop, I suppose. A special privilege given to only a select few...

So off she goes, and apparently A.J. follows because I hear her yell, "Mom, A.J.'s in the bathroom with me."

I holler that I am on my way and make a bee-line down the hall. Not three strides in and Nora very calmly announces, "MOM. A.J. IS EATING MY POOP."

Shit.

Literally.

I sprint the remaining 10 feet to find Nora mid-wipe and A.J. laughing and grinning with not one, but two hands full and a definite and distinct smudge across him mouth.

No he didn't.

Yes, he did.

As I said, you just can't make this mothering stuff up.

And now I know exactly what a "shit eating grin" looks like.

Polly Update

Polly has a new home. She actually had a new home 72 hours after "the incident" occurred, but with the crashing computer, a baby with bronchitis and volunteering for the YMCA We Build People Campaign, not to mention the regular, run of the mill, mom-of-four-kids stuff, the announcement of her "re-homing" was pushed to the back-burner.

She is now with a lovely couple, no children, but two cats and a 75 pound black laboradoodle who goes by the name of Melissa. She could not have been placed in a more perfect home. They have professional pictures of their pets, framed and hung throughout their townhouse. Their neighborhood has more dogs than children. There are geese and squirrels (not to mention cats) to chase. I received emails noting that Polly was "being observed for signs of depression" which, thankfully, she displayed none. They invited the kids to come see her if they want, or bring her a Christmas present around the holidays.

To attest to how well she has adjusted to her new life, I've posted a picture of Polly (as a lion) and Melissa (as Snow White with a blond wig). They took the dogs out for Trick or Treating on Halloween. Seriously. I'm not sure what the cats were dressed up as....

The kids have asked about her occasionally. Still not a single tear has been shed over her. I did come close to tears the other day though, once I realized that I was sweeping the food from under the kitchen table for the 4th time and it was only 2 o'clock. She was good for something.

Houston, We Have A Problem

My computer crashed. Not only did it crash, but my hard drive burned up. No flames, but it did have a nasty burned electronics smell to it. The lovely gentleman, Jim, from TechWizards, was kind enough to explain to me that it was perfectly safe to toss my hard drive, as there was "no way in hell" anyone could get anything off of it. it's not that I have/had anything worthy of a security clearance on my computer, but it would have been nice to back up those last few sets of pictures I had downloaded. Including AJ's first birthday...

And my Christmas card address list and labels document.

December is going to be ugly in the Elms house trying to round up all that information again. If you don't get a card, you'll know why.

So now the question is...do I stay with a PC (as Jim recommended) or do I make the bold leap to a Mac (HA! there's a Mac commercial on in the background as I write this...coincidence??). Anyone out there with any suggestions on what to do, please send them my way....

So Long, Farewell

Our mutant, overpriced, and underwhelming dog, Polly, has found a new home. It's been a long time coming, particularly since there was a sizable degree of buyer's remorse about 15 minutes after we got her. We had given her all the chances in the world to remain in our family, short of calling Cesar Milan (aka the Dog Whisperer), but when you bite the hand that feeds you, well... Adios Amiga.

Okay, so she didn't really bite. It was more of a snip. It just happened that Andrew (not quite one year old) toddled over to her and fiddled with her fur. Now while I have been tolerant of her little dog syndrome and sensitive tendencies, her punishment far outweighed his crime, as he wasn't being rough with her.

We've always instructed the kids to leave her along when she retreats under the dining room table or under a bed. And he is too young to understand that. But she was on her bed in the living room just hanging out watching the circus that is our house. To see the crocodile tears streaming down the face of a chubby little baby who's just been betrayed by the very creature he's been happily dropping food to over the last 5 months, well it was just too much.

I (mostly) nicely took her outside, grabbed my camera, and shot a few pictures. I immediately downloaded them and posted her little butt on Craig's List. Within 6 hours I had 40 email inquiries and she was in a new (child-less) home inside of 72 hours.

Once was Lost but...

We found her! With a stroke of sheer ingenuity, we set a trap and I'll be darned if it worked. We set her cage on the floor and opened the door, which gave her a ramp to climb back into the cage. We baited the cage with some apples slices (dabbed with peanut butter) and carrots. Then, the for the piece de resistance, we wrapped the "ramp" in aluminum foil, so that someone would hear the little critter scampering around.

There was one false alarm (the dog) as she nested into the top cushions of our couch...that she's not supposed to be on. Then, after all the lights were out, at around 11:30pm, I heard a scratchy sound coming from Brady's bedroom. I hopped out of bed, ran to his bedroom and peeked in the cage.

There she was, running around the cage with a carrot in her mouth. I slammed the cage door shut as fast as I could.

To quote one of my favorite shows from the 80's... "I love it when a plan comes together."

So Wednesday, we got a friend, Moonshine, to keep her company. Hopefully, it's a "she and she" arrangement...I'll let you know if we have any baby hamsters for the taking over the next few months...

It Didn't Make It 72 hours

Brady's hamster, Bangs, named after a character in a book entitled, "Sam, Bangs, and Moonshine" has gone missing. Not even 72 hours after bringing her home, he forgot to close the door to her cage all the way, and the little escape artist now has free reign about the house.

We baited the cage with apples and peanut butter, hoping that tonight she'll miraculously find her way back home... The alternatives are grim. The poor kids is devastated.

He keeps asking, "How many lives do hamsters have?" hoping that they might be like cats, and that she has a few more shots at life.

We can kill fish like it's nobody's business, lose a hamster in the bat of an eye, but somehow we cannot seem to find a way to rid ourselves of the most annoying dog in the world.

Maybe I should put Polly in the fish tank with Violet.

Goldfish

We spent a week recently in Alabama, visiting my husband's relatives. I remembered to hold the mail, the newspaper, kennel the dog, make the hotel reservation, pick up UNC t-shirts for the Alabama cousins, and pack for the 6 of us, but forgot to have someone feed the goldfish.

Three days into our trip, a friend asked to borrow something from the house. I gave her the details of getting into the house, and asked her to check on the fish to see if they were still alive, and if so, could she feed them. If not, she was granted full permission (and immunity from prosecution by my kids) to flush them. I was secretly hoping for the latter.

Brennan won the largest of our fish, Violet, four years ago this month, at a church fair. I'm sure you know the game; toss the ping pong ball into a fish bowl and you win a goldfish. Both Brennan and Brady won fish that day. Violet has turned out to be the Black Widow of goldfish. The other fish that we pair up with her, have all died of mysterious causes within a few days of being placed in the same tank as her. We've had to send 7 of Brady's fish to a watery grave (8 if you include the Beta fish we got in a separate bowl to avoid another homicide)...First it was Victor, Victor 2, then Steeley (named for my Hometown Steelers), Steeley 2, Dottie, Gus, Constant...you get the picture.

The girl at PetSmart refused to sell me another 19 cent goldfish because in her estimation, "selling me another fish would be the same as sending a fish home with someone to be murdered." I am not making this up. I almost asked her to see her PETA card, but thought better of it and left. I returned to buy another fish a few days later when she wasn't working.

So, Violet (who has gone from a 1inch long goldfish to a 5 inch long monster) had been living happily with Constant and Spunky (Nora's addition to the tank) for a few months, but I could sense that trouble was brewing. Violet was on the prowl again. Constant succumbed first, happily swimming one afternoon, the next morning, limp and stuck to the bottom of the filter tube.

Spunky, true to his name, must have had a little more fight in him, but the outcome was much more gruesome. When my friend came over and checked the fish while we were away, both fish were fine. She fed them and two days later we came home. I peeked into the kids bathroom, which is where we keep the fish tank, to see how they were doing and only could see Violet. My heart sunk. My first thought was, "How would Nora deal with her first loss?"

My second thought was, "Where is the other fish?" I couldn't see it floating at the top, nor was it stuck to the filtration tube... I flipped on the light and looked more closely. There at the bottom of the tank were Spunky's remains. Picked clean. Not only had Spunky died, but all that was left of him resembled the little fish bones that you see in cartoons. It was a perfect fish skeleton, with just the faint remnant of a tail fin.

Two days after our return, we got Brady a hamster. He's been working on demonstrating responsibility for a long time to show us that he's ready to have his own pet. Here's hoping for better luck with hamsters that he had with fish. As for Violet, she has a long was to go before she earns herself another tank-mate. I have always heard of guppies eating their young, but cannibalistic goldfish?

In the Garden Grows...

Yesterday I spent several hours (broken into many 5 - 25 minute intervals, as I was frequently interrupted by one of the other 5 family members) weeding, pruning, and clipping the landscaping around our yard. I love nothing more that being outside in the dirt; planting, harvesting (and i use that term lightly), or getting ready for next year. I think of the three older kids, Brady has inherited my zeal for gardening. Whenever I am out there, he's right next to me, trowel and seeds usually in hand (whether or not it's actually planting season).

Fortunately, my neighbors tolerate my efforts (at least no one has mentioned anything yet). I don't think the HOA would be thrilled with my hodge-podge landscape design, not that I really care what they think. It's my postage stamp sized piece of land, and I'll do with it what I please. So we plant all kinds of things and see what grows here in NC (and in my case, what doesn't).

So far, the kids and I have planted 4 blueberry bushes, 1 strawberry plant, 2 blackberry plants and 1 raspberry plant (that have gone mad along the side of the house), rosemary, mint (here's a helpful tip since mojitos are so fashionable now...IF you plant mint, PLANT IT IN A CONTAINER - I didn't.), tomatoes, hot peppers, green peppers, jalapeno peppers, zucchini, yellow squash, oregano, basil, cilantro, chives, and thyme. And those are just the edible things... Add to that, black eyed Susans, Shasta Daisies, Purple Cone flower, St Johns Wort, peonies, snapdragons (that somehow came back from last year along with some vinca), periwinkle, and a fig tree (that didn't make it), and you can get a pretty good visual of the mix of vegetation surrounding our home. We've had some resounding successes, and more than a few disappointments, but few things match the delighted squeals from the kids as they discover that the berries are ripe for the picking (or eating). Even better is when they save a few of the best ones and bring them in to share with me.

As I was pruning yesterday, I found a little patch of carrots growing amidst the irises and day lilies in the bed next to our garage, several varieties of random flowers in two other beds (that I think match the pictures on some seed packets I bought last spring but never could find to plant), and some type of squashy/melon-ish vine - with nothing on it (I think it had some type of blossom rot).

I started pulling up the carrots. When I realized that there were anorexic little orange nubs growing at the end of the "weeds" I was pulling, I stopped, and chuckled to myself. I had no idea that Brady had even planted carrots, much less the other assorted varieties of flowers I stumbled upon.

I had to smile as I came across these little surprises. It was a special joy to see one of my kids taking up an activity that I love to do (although may not be so good at) and making it their own.

And why not bury some seeds in the dirt next to the driveway to see what comes up?

While I'd love to plant a proper garden someday and show them some seeds, a little hard work, and a bit of cooperation from Mother Nature can result in a bountiful harvest, for now we'll have to settle for our couple of pints of berries (what is left for us by the birds) and an assortment of vegetables and herbs. I think they're getting the basic idea.

I left the carrots in the dirt by the driveway for Brady to pull out another day. Perhaps we'll be lucky enough to have a tomato ready on the vine by then and we can make a salad. What a nice home grown treat that would be.

So far so good...

The exterminator came today. I think he was able to wratchet up Mark's level of disgust, which until now, had been much less than I'd expected.

The exterminator, David, determined that they were German Roaches. The kind you don't want. I suppose that assumes that there is a kind of roach that you don't mind having...but whatever. He said that is was a good sign that we haven't seen any more living roaches since Tuesday night. Although he didn't feel a treatment was warranted today (for a variety of reasons, which if anyone cares to know, I'll be happy to share), he told me to call immediately if we see any more.

He confirmed that the tripod should be wrapped in a garbage bag and thrown away. This was never in question for me, but Mark had been insisting that we treat it and keep it. In fact, he thought I was being a bit extreme in my determination to get rid of it. After David opened up one of the latches of the tripod and showed Mark that there were, in fact, still roaches living in the tripod, Mark changed his tune.

The Tumi rollerboard bag is another issue. David suggested that we take it to a dry cleaners, spray it town with whatever roach killer we could find, or throw it away. Whatever we do, he said that there were so many nooks and crannies in which to hide in a bag like that, that it'd be almost impossible to know if we'd killed them all. He said that if it were him, he'd throw it away.

I am letting Mark wrestle with the $300 price tag of an old (likely roach infested) bag versus the $160 initial treatment plus $80/month maintenance fee for the treatment and prevention of future baby roaches being brought to life within the confines of our walls.

Personally, I'm with David. Right now, the suitcase in wrapped in a garbage bag and sitting in our driveway.

The Gift

I went to my cousin's wedding in Cincinnati over the weekend. It was a great occasion, I was able to reconnect with a number of cousins, and Mark stayed back with the kids for the weekend (he did a great job, and the kids were perfect, of course).

At the reception, we were all a bit surprised to see my Uncle Tim show up. Uncle Tim is my Mom's oldest brother (she's #3 of 6 kids). Some time in the late 1960's Uncle Tim went out West for a few months, and according to him, "got into some bad Peyote" and has never been the same since. Prior to his Western sojourn, he was, by all accounts, a brilliant young man, Phi Beta Kappa at college, a fun loving, inventive type. Now he's the poster child in our family for why you shouldn't do drugs; a reclusive, paranoid man, who spends most of his days writing (who knows what) and analyzing the news for signs of the Third World War/end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it.

When I was eight, Uncle Tim gave me a pocket knife. Sitting in my grandma's living room, he explained to me that my Dad and I were the only "survivors" in the family. This pocket knife would be a valuable tool for me when the world came to an end. Ooooooookaaaaayy.

Interesting conversation to have with your 8 year old niece.

Flash forward almost 30 years. As I said, we were all surprised to see him at the reception, but pleasantly so. After all, family is family (the good the bad and the ugly) and it's good to know that he's still doing well, walking, talking, retired from the Gas Station where he worked and in reasonably good health. He talked with my Dad at great length about US military capabilities, strengths and weaknesses, the build-up of the Russian army, and various other things. He and I got to talking about cameras and photography. He was carrying around a tripod, and two cameras, an old 35mm Minolta that was missing it's external flash and a little pocket camera. We got to talking about the tripod, and I mentioned that I'd like to get one someday.

A little while later he came back to me with the tripod. He wanted to give it to me, saying that he'd never really given me anything (except that pocketknife) so he'd really like me to have it. I declined politely, but he was insistent. After several rounds of discussion, I acquiesce, and accept the gift of the tripod.

Sunday night I return to Raleigh, and toss my suitcase on the bathroom floor. Ever the procrastinator (when it comes to unpacking) I take out a few necessities, put the tripod on the floor next to it, and leave the rest until sometime on Tuesday when I finally empty the remaining items and then putting the suitcase back in our closet.

Last night (Tuesday night) I planned to go to bed early and get a good night's rest. As I am getting ready for bed in the bathroom, I notice a bug crawling across the floor. No big deal, bugs are an occasional part of life especially here in NC, and I promptly squish it. Insects don't generally bother me. Spiders don't bother me (well, except for the black widows that took up residence in our house last summer). At first, I'd assumed it was an ant, as we frequently find strays inside during the summer months, but they're most often in the kitchen, so I was a little confused.

Then I see another, and another, and another. Upon closer examination, each one bears a striking resemblance to a roach. In miniature.

Baby Roaches.

After I find and kill about a dozen, I decided to bring in some reinforcements. Dragging Mark up from working out in the basement, he started laughing at my frantic attempts to search out and squash bugs.

I was not amused by his amusement.

Not only do I find them on the tile floor, but now find a few more in the closet (that's what I get for putting the suitcase away). I haul in the vacuum cleaner, and start tossing shoes around the closet and vacuum every inch. I take out all the luggage and put it into the garage (along with the tripod, which in hindsight, I probably should have put outside in the trash can). Mark is still laughing at me and wondering if a slight roach problem might actually be worthwhile if it charges me to clean with this new found vigor.

Not yet satisfied, I venture out to the local grocery store for some insecticide. At 11:30pm on a Tuesday night - I'm thankful we have a 24 hour store close by. One of the stock men noticed me in the insecticide aisle, and laughingly commented that "things must not be good at my house if I'm looking at bug killers this late on a Tuesday night." Gee, ya think?

At the store, there is a BOGO offer on four different varieties of Raid Roach Killer. All FOUR types are SOLD OUT. What is the likelihood that they are completely sold out of all the toxic lethal stuff I was looking for? Of all the luck. I settled on some "natural" brand, some blend of rosemary, cinnamon, and wintergreen oils, safe for use around babies and pets. It was the only thing left. Once home, I sprayed down the bathroom and closet, found one more critter, which to my sheer delight, died instantly when I sprayed it with the natural stuff.

Thank God it worked.

The first call I made this morning was to the exterminator. They are coming tomorrow, unfortunately none of their technicians were in our area today.

Today, a note was sent home from school today stating that several students were found with active lice infestations. As if an onslaught of baby roaches wasn't enough.

Music to My Ears

We hosted a piano recital at our house last night. Brennan, Brady, and two other little girls are taking lessons from the same teacher. Seeing as there is no formal studio (lessons are in-home), one of the moms suggested that it might be nice to have a recital; something for the kids to work toward as well as an opportunity to memorize a piece or two and perform it in front of an "audience".

A little background. My father-in-law relocated to Raleigh about a year ago. When he moved, he gave us his old piano. While I was thrilled about the gift, I wasn't sure how it was going to play. It smelled like a musty old church. It hadn't been tuned since Thriller was a #1 hit. There were some keys that didn't strike well, others didn't strike at all, and the beautiful old (real) ivory keys were chipped, broken, painted over and scratched. He had acquired the piano in the 70's as part of a deal buying a washer and a dryer. It's an old player piano from 1920, but unfortunately, those parts have been removed. He stripped the original finish off the piano and had stained it, so the exterior was alright, but it was in really, rough condition musically when we received it.

After several eye popping estimates, I found someone who could repair and tune it for a reasonable amount. After all, I wasn't trying to refurbish a sentimental family heirloom. It was thrown in with a washer and a dryer... Thankfully,iIt now has a very nice sound and is holding it's tune, so far.

Brennan has been taking lessons for about a year. She is diligent and self motivated in her practice, and has made great strides in learning how to play, read, and even write music. She became interested in piano after her friend (one of the other girls at the recital) had been taking lessons for a while, but didn't want to start lessons "until she was 7 years old." She genuinely enjoys it and is beginning to get a feel for the music, and "feel" the different kinds of emotion in the music when she plays. It's fun to watch her develop.

Brady declared that he wanted to start taking lessons shortly after Brennan began, but "not until he was 6." So he's been taking lessons about 7 months now. At one point in time I mentioned to the kids that piano was a great stepping stone to other instruments, especially the guitar. Brady seized on that little nugget on information (he really wants to learn how to play the guitar someday) and that's when he decided that he wanted to play. He's made great progress also and I'm extremely proud of his dedication. I think he envisioned himself becoming the new Chris Martin (of Coldplay) by the age of seven, and as a result, he gets frustrated when he can't get things right or compares himself to Brennan. We keep reminding him that he started at a younger age and hasn't played as long and that he needs to work at his own pace. When he's by himself at the piano, I think he is happy and proud of his progress. I hope he keeps at it!

It's the day of the recital. Brennan and Brady (and one of the other girls who is playing in the recital) have soccer practice (with Mark, who is coaching both teams) until 5:30. The piano teacher and families are set to arrive at 5:30 for dinner then the recital. The kids come in red faced and sweaty from soccer. I send them upstairs to change into something less sweaty and smelly, and hopefully nicer. The third family arrives, with their three (clean) girls all in lovely dresses, hair brushed and nicely done. Brennan comes down in an old skort and tank top, not exactly what I'd envisioned but better than stinky gym clothes. Brady's looking smart in a golf shirt and khaki shorts, the same clothes that had been, I'm certain, lying crumpled up on the floor since we got home from church that morning.

Dinner comes and goes. The folding table I'd set up outside for some of the kids collapses, much to my chagrin and to our dog's delight, as four half empty plates of lasagna and salad slid to the floor. The piano teacher, I find out, is allergic to gluten and lactose intolerant, so the lasagna I had made was not a great option for her. While the adults are eating, the boys start tormenting the older girls, and the younger kids are down swinging and playing in the sandbox. The adults quickly shovel in their last bites of lasagna (everyone but the teacher, who was limited to chips and salsa and salad) and we call the kids in.

It's time to get the show started. We gather everyone together and head to the piano. Everyone that is, except Mark, who is frantically hosing off all the kids who went in the general vicinity of the sandbox and Brennan, who has apparently decided to glamorize herself for the big show by spritzing herself with no less that 6 types of perfume and is now carrying the scent of a French whorehouse. The kids all quarrel over who has to go first, and ultimately decide that the two oldest girls will perform the piece they wrote together first to break the ice, then it will go youngest to oldest. Everyone did a great job. Really and truly, I can say that each of the kids did a wonderful job on each of their pieces. It was a proud parent moment for all of us.

After celebrating every one's success with cupcakes, the sugar kicks in and the boys become wild. The girls start slamming and locking doors (big no-nos in our house), and venturing into my closet to raid my clothes, which they've been warned not to do (again).

Sensing the heightened state of chaos that generally precedes imminent disaster, the family with the three little ladies start gathering their belongings when a toy vacuum cleaner comes sailing down the stairs, grazing the side of the head of their youngest daughter. Thankfully, she is a tough little cookie and is unfazed by the whurr of hard plastic flying by her. I sheepishly start to peer up the steps, holding my breath and praying that it wasn't one of my darlings that sent the projectile down the stairs. Mark beat me to it, and in about 0.3 seconds, identified the offender as Brady, who admitted to the accident, claiming that he was returning the vacuum to it's proper place, which is downstairs, and it slipped out of his hands. Rambunctious as he was, it seems as though this was the truth, as I debriefed him again at bedtime and he felt badly about the whole thing.

All in all it was a nice evening. I'm grateful to my father-in-law for giving us the piano, and the opportunity for the kids to learn how to play and appreciate music. It still smells like a musty old church. Actually, now it smells like a group of old ladies (or prostitutes, you pick) have gathered in there for church and their perfumes are fighting for dominance over the mustiness of the piano. Somehow though, it doesn't bother me as much when I hear the sweet sound of Skip To My Lou and C Scales floating through the air.

School's In For Summer

Not to be confused with the old Alice Cooper song, School's Out For Summer, here in Wake County, NC, we have year round school. To be fair, we voluntarily decided to send our kids to school year round (we received the lucky lottery ticket for admission into a nice charter school in the area). Many of our friends and neighbors weren't given much of an option, except to rank the "tracks" in order of preference, which the county school board seemed to completely disregard.

The charter school my kids attend works like this: school for 9 weeks, then 3 weeks off. This lasts four quarters and has a 5 week break during the summer. Not a bad deal, really, especially here in NC where July and August can get pretty hot and swampy, leaving the kids inside with little to do other than drive their mother up the crazy wall.

We just completed week #1 with both kids being at the same school. Brady went there last year for kindergarten (that's when we got the "golden ticket"of admission, Brennan was #76 on the 2nd grade lottery wait list, no joke). Once a student has been there a year, siblings are admitted, provided there is space available in the grades to which they are applying. So I am jumping for joy to have both kids on the same schedule and calendar for school. Last year, none of their breaks overlapped, except for between Christmas and New Year. Things are looking up.

At the end of week one,so far so good. Brennan is getting used to the new school, teachers, faces, rules and norms. Fortunately, she's coming from a small, Catholic school, so the atmosphere and discipline code are similar. They wear uniforms, too. Have I mentioned how much I LOVE uniforms? The simplification of our morning routine is incredible. They are capable of "expressing their individuality" (I can be PC) in their choice of shoes, belts, and accessories (and whether they wear pants, shorts, skirts, or jumpers). But I'm all about practicality, and uniforms allow me to get an extra 10 minutes of sleep and avoid fighting with anyone about appropriate wardrobe selection for school.

Brady has rekindled some of his joy for school. Perhaps I should say, his joy for P.E. and math. And snack. And recess. Everything else is booooorrrrrrriiiinnngggg. Then again, he told me the other night that he knows everything already (the Big First Grader that he is) and he really doesn't need to go to school anymore.

Apparently though, he does still have some learning to do. Tonight, he came sauntering up to me, asking if he could "please have a doughnut for dessert? I ate a really, really good dinner!"

His big blue eyes were so sweet, his expression so sincere, and he even said please! It was almost enough for me to give in and say yes. What he didn't know, is that he was already sporting a perfect, snow white ring of powdered sugar around his mouth.

Busted.

Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah...

Greetings from Camp Kanata.

Brennan, who is 8 years old, spent a whole week as a resident camper two weeks ago. We dropped her off on a Sunday afternoon, and picked her up the following Saturday morning. She had attended this same camp two years ago as a day camper, loved it, and couldn't wait to return as a resident. So we waited a couple of years and finally gave in.

On Tuesday, we got our first letter. It was thoughtfully crafted, a full handwritten page. It addressed each of us by name, "Dear Mom, Dad, Brady, Nora, Polly (the dog) and AJ". We got a brief summary of her activities for the day (putt-putt polka, among other things) and an explanation of the Share Box and Cabin Time. She said she was having a blast, but missed us "deep down inside." I was touched at how sweet the letter was and I couldn't wait for the mailman to come the next day to get the next installment.

On Wednesday, the second letter arrived. "Dear Everyone" was the salutation, and she reiterated that she was having "SO much fun" and gave us the words to some cheer that she's learned about the Daisy Cabin. Oh, and that she's forgotten about us.

Nice. I hope that what she meant to write was that she's forgotten about missing us. Yes, I'm sure that's what she meant...

On Thursday, the third letter arrived. "Dear Everyone, I need a new camera." "DAISIES ROCK!!!!!!!!!!!"

That's it. Hmmmm...

On Friday, the fourth letter arrived. "Dear ("Everyone" but it was scratched out) Mom. Can you send me a package and a new camera, and maybe some food for the share box?"

Now, the upside to this story is that we can claim success (so far) in raising a confident, independent young lady. The downside is that she's a confident, independent young lady of 8 years old who successfully navigated a week away from me, without more than a fleeting pang of homesickness.

It struck me that she is growing up, and it is happening very, very quickly.

I immediately went into panic mode, and implemented a new, mandatory, weekly Family Night.

Traveling with Children

Last Tuesday, we returned from my parents lake house on Lake Huron in Michigan. We were away for about two weeks (it's an 18 hour road trip, so we try and stay as long as we can to make it worth the drive).

First of all, if you've never taken the opportunity to visit Northern Michigan, you are seriously missing out. I am not getting paid by Michigan's State Tourism Board, when I say that is has some of the most spectacular places to visit and explore. It's one of those well kept secrets...those who know about it don't want the masses descending upon the area and messing it all up. Seeing as most of you live in NC, I don't imagine that you'll believe a word I am writing, and never take me up on the idea. Therefore, I think it's safe to share it with you.

So we survived the drive up, somehow only having to resort to a movie once (okay, maybe twice) per 9 hour leg of the trip. As parents, we sunk to a new all time low with car safety (only momentarily though --- I promise). While I was driving, Mark was feeding the baby a bottle in the backseat, when he realized that a diaper change was definitely in order. Seeing as the diaper bag was on the floor in the front seat, I heard him say "Here, Nora, hold AJ for a minute." as he passed Nora the baby to hold (for a moment, I swear!!) while he wrestled and snaked his way around the front seat, past the dog (who had been throwing up hourly thanks to the steak scraps Mark had fed her the night before), under my purse, a pillow, the camera bag, DVD case, bag of trash from our stop at McDonald's, to finally reach the diaper bag below. I couldn't help but laugh at Mark, who is generally a nut about safety issues and rules, taking matters into his own hands and making things happen, without getting frazzled. Kind of a Mom thing to do. Nice personal growth moment, I think!

I had enough food and snacks to fulfill the Government Preparedness Plan for our family. I think we easily could have survived for a week, much less the three days Uncle Sam recommends. I had my breast pump (with the car adapter), bottles, formula, babyfood, bibs, spoons, sippy cups...the whole set up. About the only thing I didn't have was beer (or any type of alcohol, really), which was a good thing because 18 hours in a car with your husband, four kids and a dog is enough to make anyone drink.

We counted the colors of cars, played I Spy, colored, wrote letters, drew pictures, the kids made me cards (we left on my birthday), read books... The license plate game and the ABC game did NOT finish well, as the two older kids, who are very competitive got into a fight. Every time we played. Brennan, who is a bit of a type A, jumped on each and every letter as if her life depended on it. Brady, two years younger but still determined to win, is a bit more leisurely in calling out the letters that he sees. So in their terms, she's a show off and he's a sore loser. I'm quite sure there are many life lessons to be learned while playing car games however, in the interest of personal sanity, I called a moratorium on the games.

During the moratorium, the older kids listened to their ipod shuffles. Brady, who is not normally a singer, becomes a rock star the moment he turns the music on and starts belting out lyrics. Thank God for the new indie kid rock. At least the songs he sings are interesting, not to mention amusing. I love that the Bare Naked Ladies are doing kids music now. Life is good.

Nora, who is three, does not know her letters yet (as I was embarassed to realize, much less admit, when the doctor asked me at her three year old check up) so she just played the Punch Buggy game by herself, occasionally yelling out "punchbuggy, no buh-vertible" to herself, at the sight of any compact, slightly round car.

I don't think that Mark and I had one complete adult conversation during the whole drive. No one but the baby (and Mark) slept in the car. I do know that it is MUCH easier to be the driver than the navigator/referee/chef/server/janitor/entertainment coordinator. Give me a Red Bull and the steering wheel and I'm golden.

I have to say, having made this pilgrimmage an annual thing, the kids, for the most part, are really good and know what to expect. They know that we're going some place really special (and that they're guaranteed popsicles at least four times daily from Grammy) so they're excited and in great spirits. They did ask the dreaded "How much longer until we get there?" question about four thousand times. My standard answer was "six hours." I thought that after a while they'd stop asking. They didn't.

It's easy to forget how long time can feel when you're a kid, especially when you're looking forward to something. As adults, we get so wrapped up in the "getting there" part that we lose sight of the fun that can be had during the journey. While I didn't do a great job of it this time, I made a promise to myself to try a little harder next time to have "fun" in the car with the kids, not in spite of them. Right now they LOVE "family time" and being together...it won't be too many more years until spending 18 hours in the car with their family will be the very LAST thing they want to do.

So much for Kindergarten Graduation...

Yes, it was vomit on the sheets...The day did not end when I hit "post blog." In my tired state, I must have been delusional to think, no, hope, that it was something else. He continued to be sick throughout the night. Today I found a nice puddle on the far side of his nightstand. How I missed it, I don't know. How he missed all of his books below him, the alarm clock, most of his trophies and got everything over the top of the nighstand, onto the floor, curtain and far wall, I'll never know. He doesn't remember a thing.

I also received an email this morning from his kindergarten teacher that 20 out of 22 children in his class came down with the same thing. After talking with a mom from another class, she informed me that 10 kids in her son's class plus a few teachers were out with vomiting and diarrhea too (there are 4 kindergarten classes in the school). Talk about going out with a bang.

Happy last day of Kindergarten, Brady.

The answer to the question, "so what Do you do with your time as a stay at home mom?"

This week has been ridiculous. Just for shits and giggles, here is what i did today.

5:00am andrew is up, nursed him & put him back to bed. have no idea if he ever fell asleep as he was awake when i came back in at 7.
7am, wake up, get brady out of bed. get him motrin for his hand (that he whacked on a tree while sticking it out of a golf cart last night) and get him dressed and breakfast.
7:15, nurse andrew, change his diaper, lube his arm up with ringworm ointment
7:30am, wake brennan and nora, grab a couple of fruit bars and juice boxes (they may or may not have been lemonade) for nora and brennan to eat in the car on the way to take brady to school.
8am, feed andrew bfast and change his clothes
8:30, change over laundry, think about folding it, add it to the 2 loads I've already not folded on my bed, then get dressed and put andrew to bed
8:45, get nora and brennan dressed, pack lunch for andrew, snack for nora.
9:15, get girls ready to go, brennan to friend's house, nora to 10am doctors appointment
9:30, drop brennan off
9:50, get to dr office
11am, decline Hep A vaccine for Nora as I'm out of time, leave doctor's office and head to FA (his school) for an "off campus lunch" with brady
12pm, head to FA high school to drop brady off for graduation practice
12:30, hit target for more motrin, homework dollar store items for contribution, dress shirt for brady, since his one white button down has been lost
12:45, nurse andrew
1:15, get to FA high school for Brady's early release pick up
2:00, home, switch/fold laundry, unload dishwasher, load dishwasher, put andrew down for a nap (he never slept)
3:30, iron pants for brady and myself, sent brady to shower, threw nora in the tub
3:45, Piano teacher arrives, send brady in for piano lessons, get nora dressed, go to get brennan at her friend's house
4:00, sitter comes, get brennan dressed, switch brennan for brady in piano lessons, change poopy diaper, which is why (apparently) he never fell asleep
4:15, get kids a snack (have no idea when they'll eat)
4:30, get dressed, slap on makeup, additional D.O. since I'm sure it'll be close quarters in the gymnasium during the graduation ceremony
4:35, nurse andrew, put him down for a nap
4:45, wrap up piano lesson, load up kids in car (all but andrew)
5:15, get to FAHS, unload brady, sit in gym for 45 minutes trying to keep nora and brennan busy
6pm, graduation ceremony
7pm, cake reception
7:15, go to chickfila and pick up two 12pack nuggets - everyone starving and tired and cranky
7:30, brady's tummy hurts, get nora and brennan in jammies, in bed reading books
8pm, put everyone to bed, for the first time
8:05, sit with brady on the potty, tummy hurt=diarrhea, read magic treehouse book to him for 20 minutes while he's on the pot
8:30, put everyone back down for the 2nd or 3rd time
8:45, go outside, catch a couple of lightning bugs for brady, since he was too tired to wake up and catch them himself (and I've been promising to wake him up so he could see them)
9pm stuff my face with 6 cold, leftover chickfila nuggets, chug a glass of water
9:15, realize that andrew is still sleeping from him 4o'clock nap, go make sure he's still breathing. he is.
9:20, hook up cameras and download pics from tonight, and video to send to my parents
9:30, fold laundry, shoved the rest to Mark's side of the bed until tomorrow
10:00, sit down check my email, forward videos now that they're downloaded, create this timeline as a response to a friend's email asking what i did today. ackowledge that yes, i can be a smart-ass.
10:30, realize that i didn't buy teachers gifts. write a note to myself to cut some hydrangeas and bring to school for family lunch tomorrow to give to teachers with a thank you note that I haven't yet written.
10:45, hear someone stirring upstairs, ignore it until the noise gets louder
11:00, go upstairs when the noises don't go away, to find brady awake and complaining of a tummy ache again. he may or may not have thrown up, there was a suspicious but small spot of something on his sheets.
11:15 bring him downstairs, give him some water and set him up on the couch next to me
11:20, go upstairs, strip his bed (still can't confirm the throw up), throw his sheets in the washing machine.
11:25, sit on couch again, next to brady. wonder if he's played with alex the salmonella laden baby dragon lately.
11:26, wonder what kind of sleep i'll get tonight and thank god that mark's coming home tomorrow night.
11:27, post this blog.

GNO - Part 2 - Observations from the Evening

So after dinner we trucked over to "He's Not", a total college dive, with Big Blue cups spilling over with crappy beer. Delightful. Right up my alley. Some observations...

Observation #1: Several of the ladies filled their Big Blue Cups with chardonnay, Blue Moon, and other adult beverages, to which I protested solely on principle. When in Rome...or Chapel Hill, drink college (read: crappy) beer. Otherwise, prepare yourself to be made fun of. By me, in particular.

Observation #2: If you are a woman anywhere in your thirties, do not fish for compliments regarding how young you look while visiting a college campus. You do not look young to a college kid. You do not even look young to a graduate student. Knowing this going into the evening can prevent many a problem and disappointment.

Observation #3: Even a group of women in their thirties do look young enough to some bar owners to be bought a bottle of champagne.

Observation #4: Do not take sides in the argument, "who is the louder person" between relatives. If your hand is forced to pick one, always side with the one who lives closest to you.

Observation #5: There are still hot college boys on campus. Some even wear plaid caps and can get away with it. This fashion statement does not translate well to suburban dads.

Observation #6: Pregnant women who willingly act as a designated driver should not be asked to be a DD again for at least 3 years. Maybe 4.

Observation #7: When in doubt, ask for identification. Yes, there is a graduate student whose name really is Fineth. Huh, somehow I missed that one the 2,643 times I read the baby name books while naming each of my four kids.

Observation #8: White pants do not wear well on a college campus. Or maybe it's that I do not wear white pants well on a college campus. I cannot be trusted to keep them clean.

Observation #9: People's faces really do fall into one of the following 3 categories: 1) horse 2) muffin 3) chicken (or bird). Seriously. Look around. See for yourself. I am a bird.

Observation #10: When riding in a car, if you are trying to discreetly throw up out the car window, know that there is nothing discreet about throwing up out a car window. At 70mph.

Observation #11: Try to resist the temptation to spoil the hopes and dreams of college students you encounter with what is really going to happen to them once they enter the real world, marry, and have a family. Let them believe they can change the world, marry beautiful, raise the perfect children, and retire young. There was a time those dreams were yours too.

Update

Since I've been asked, I thought I'd provide you with an update Salmonella story.

Yes, she still has the baby dragon.

If any of you can provide a contaminated Anole with a good home, let me know, and I can make the connection for you.

If anyone can provide a reasonable story for her kids as to where Alex can go and have a pleasant, cricket filled new life (as far as they know), also let me know.

If anyone knows of any reason why she shouldn't let it go into the wild and become part of the circle of life (would it become one of those exotic pets wrecking havoc on the native flora and fauna or would it just become part of the food chain?), please let me know.

GNO part 1: dinner

Girls Night Out. To celebrate a friend's birthday, we headed over to Chapel Hill for a little bar crawl last Friday night. One of the nine ladies hitting the town that evening was pregnant and willingly offered to be our DD for the night. I offered up my truck, which allowed all nine of us to drive together (and take advantage of the DD while she's still gestating).

Margaritas flowing, off we head to Top of the Hill, a Chapel Hill Icon, where we were met by the most uncongenial bunch of servers and hostesses I've had the misfortune to encounter in quite a while. Graduation is over, they're well in to summer (=slow) session now. You would have thought it was March Madness with the way they demanded that everyone in our party be present, in the flesh, before they seated us. I actually had to tell the hostess that we were all there, save one who was in the car, pumping milk from her breasts and would be detained a few more minutes, so please for the love of God, let us sit down (there were empty tables all around). She wasn't quite sure how to handle that one, poor thing, and we were seated shortly thereafter.

Our server, with a double major in international relations and women's studies, was bitter. I think she was wishing that she'd studied something, well, a tad more marketable, as all of her friends apparently left Chapel Hill (and her) for a real job, um, I mean, the real world. I refrained from telling her that 95% of the things she learned in her Women's Studies classes falls into the following categories 1)bullshit 2) bullshit or 3)bullshit.

Wait until she has a few children, preferably at least one boy and one girl. Then she can conduct her own case study on "nature vs nurture." Get ready for the results: Boys play rough and really do tend to like cars and trucks, and (surprise!) girls generate drama and really do like dolls! Conclusion: BOYS AND GIRLS ARE DIFFERENT. (gasp!)

I too, took a number of Women's Studies classes in college. It took about 5 years of being a mom (once I had birthed a boy and a girl so I could conduct my own study) to pull out the Bullshit Card and wish I could get a refund on those classes. What I could do with a smidge of that out-of-state University of Michigan tuition right now. Who am I kidding, it'd go right into the 529 plans for the kids...........

If the Renaissance Fair Comes to Town and There's a Man Selling Baby Dragons...

You may recall that planning the big 10th Anniversary Trip was plagued with mishaps and misfortunes, both big and small. All six of us (3 couples, for those of you in 0U812 math) did end up making it on the trip (to St. John, USVI and not Cancun as originally planned), which was delightful. It was touch and go though, right up until the end.

The other couple with four children almost exactly the same ages as mine almost didn't make it...and again...it was mostly my fault. At the end of March, I read in the local paper that the Renaissance Fair was coming to Raleigh, to a new location, just up the road from our house. My husband was away with my eldest daughter at an Indian Princess event at the coast that weekend. The "RenFair" (what people in the know call these things) sounded like a fun way to kill an afternoon - sword fighting, jousting, fire eating and sword swallowing - all right up the alley of my six year old, Brady. I dragged my good friend and saddled-with-four-kids-of-her-own (who's husband was also at the Indian Princess outing) up the road to check it out.

Perhaps we should have taken it as a sign, and turned around when we saw a medieval wench being cuffed and put into the back of a police car as we drove up. We were slack-jaw at the costuming...particularly the chain mail, which I spotted on more women - in the form of bras and dresses - than on the sword fighters and knights. People dressed up in period appropriate attire just to attend this thing, not just the people who were working. It was like a Medieval Star Trek Convention. We stuck out like the suburban housewives we are, with our 6 kids (total, because we're down 2), 2 double jogging strollers, diaper bags, purses, over sized sunglasses, the works. Nice.

Nevertheless, we were committed, and upon paying our admission, we were immediately harassed by the "Baby Dragon" salesman. Of course, he didn't come out immediately and say they were for sale. He hollered out to the boys to come and hold them, pet them, and play with them. Then he stuck us with the hard sell. "They're great pets for kids." "They don't carry diseases like salmonella as some of the other reptiles do." "They only require a misting of water a couple times a week" and on, and on, and on. We left him, much to the boys' dismay. Thankfully someone was getting ready to start swallowing fire and swords.

After an eye-popping and corset-busting afternoon, we left. Perhaps we would have stayed longer had we seen the beer tent on our way in... Nevertheless, on the way out, my friend caved and purchased a baby dragon, named Alex, for her son. Thank God she didn't have enough money for two. I'll sum it up by saying that keeping baby dragons turned out to be a lot more intense than the salesman let on.

After we finally settled on an alternate destination (thank you, swine flu), my friend's two year old became sick. Nothing out of the usual, with four kids, someone always has or is incubating something. Not quite 2 weeks pass, and he has gone from feverish and vomiting, to getting better to straight up diarrhea, lethargic, and a fluid and food strike. Not good. She takes him to the doctor, where they don't find anything so she's instructed to obtain some stool samples (That story is for another blog, if she'll let me tell it).

We're three days out from our trip, and she's beginning to study the fine print on the travel insurance they purchased.

The day before we leave, the little guy seems to be on the mend, at least he's eating and drinking; his diapers are still a little, well, off...but we leave as planned. They ask the doctor and nurses to call with the lab results asap. Of course, nothing comes in on time, and some cultures have to be repeated, so it's Friday that the results should be available, but there's still no call. I'm hoping for the best (read: not contagious), as my babysitter and hers are sisters, and the 8 kids have spent the entire weekend together.

Upon our return, thelittle guy is eating and drinking, but they learn that the culprit was Salmonella. Yes, the same Salmonella that the Dragon Salesman insisted that the baby dragons don't carry.

Oh, and the babies (hers and mine) now have ringworm. Have no idea of the source, doesn't really matter, jut a glaring reminder that we're no longer on the barefoot beaches of the Carribbean.

Back to reality......

While I Was Gone

I have been getting all kinds of grief for not writing over the last two weeks. The truth is, I have been writing up a storm...just not in this blog. I have been creating a body of work, roughly the size of War and Peace, which has sucked all of the creative life from my weary, keyboard numbed, hands.

I had to craft "THE INSTRUCTION MANUAL" on the Care and Keeping of My Four Children for Five Days. Now, the young woman we employed this past weekend to watch our kids (for 5 days/4 nights) is an extremely bright, engaging, responsible person, and is no stranger to our kids. Nevertheless, regardless of how responsible someone may seem, all bets are off when it's time to go solo. I have learned this the hard way, leaving my kids with my husband. When my oldest 2 kids were 2 1/2 and 8 months, I left to go to a wedding in Chicago for a weekend. I had pumped diligently for 2 months to have enough milk stored in the freezer for the baby. Now, admittedly, my husband is at a disadvantage not being the primary caretaker of the kids (and frequent business travel doesn't help) but when I returned to see all the milk (minus four bottles) still in the refrigerator, I about lost it. He had fed him a bottle in the morning and a bottle at night, and breakfast, lunch, and dinner (baby food and baby cereal) - with juice - in between. I'm not exactly sure to this day what he thought all that milk was for, or why he thought I spent so much time pumping (much less seeing the baby on my boob every 3 hours of every day of his life). Of course, the baby survived, there was no damage done, (he's now 6 1/2) but I learned a valuable lesson about information. More is better.

So I typed. And typed. Consulted my Outlook Calendar for activities, schedules, comittments. Googled the routes to and from the two different schools our kids currently attend. Found and printed a revocable power of attourney so that she could authorize medical care for the kids and got it notartized at the bank. Picked my brain for all possible activites should the weather be sunny, rainy, cold, or hot. Listed all the medications the kids could or should take and their dosages, along with whatever their most common ailments were (usually only occuring at bedtime) and how to remedy them. Provided names, addresses, home and cell phone numbers for a variety of relatives, friends, and neighbors, as well as the doctor and dentist, in case of emergency. Arranged for several sleepovers and playdates for 3 of the 4 kids (all of which were carefully detailed on my Daily Itinerary). And made a very, very detailed schedule of what and how to feed the baby.

At the end of the day, the kids had a blast with her and she took wonderful care of the children. They hardly missed us. Even more than that, when we got home Monday night, they were bathed, in bed sleeping, the house was clean, the laundry was done, folded, and in a pile outside of each of their rooms, and she'd already made their lunches for the next day at school.

And no, you cannot have her phone number.

Just Another Manic Monday

Have you ever found yourself compelled to complete a task so ridiculous that you're almost embarrassed to admit it?

I found myself searching the house in every pencil case, craft box, backpack, and junk drawer Monday night...pulling out every marker, pen, pencil, colored pencil, dry erase marker, sharpie, ink pad, and paint pen. And there I sat, surrounded by piles of writing utensils ready for the task at hand.

I purged.

Half-broken crayons that I had kept, with the thought that we'd make those really cool multi-color shaped crayons you can bake in your own oven - gone.

Nubby pencils and pencils with no erasers - tossed.

Pens that have run out of ink, markers that have dried up and paint pens that I can't get the tops off of anymore - all hit the circular file.

Then I sat and sharpened each and every pencil I could find, and stashed a few in the kids' backpacks, seeing as any time we try to complete homework assignments in the carpool line, no one can seem to locate a pencil.

I switched all the marker tops so that the tops match the color of marker. I organized all of these thing in our "Craft box." I don't know why exactly I felt compelled to take on this pointless task. I'm sure some psychologist somewhere could analyze me and give me loads of useless insight. All it will take is one rainy afternoon for the chaos to return, but you know what? I don't care.

I may not have accomplished anything of great importance on this very manic Monday, but darn it if I can tell you exactly where the red sharpie is. And some days, here on the edge, that is an amazing accomplishment.

Sleeping At My Feet

No, not my canine chamois cloth, Polly, but Mark. Still recovering from a wisdom tooth that he had extracted last week, I think he must have dry socket. He might feel a bit better if he'd take the initiative and ingest some Tylenol or Advil, put an icepack on it, something...but for some reason, at 45 years old, he hasn't figured out that there is medicine in that kitchen cupboard. Medicine! And it can fix things. Make people feel better.

Miracles happen every day in our kitchen. The kids allergy symptoms - gone. Headaches and knee pain vanish! Of course, when I can, I try non-pharmaceutical interventions first, but seriously I have four kids plus a needy dog who I am constantly evaluating, diagnosing, and dispensing medication for, do I really have to include him in my patient load???

For years, every spring and fall I find him sneezing, snorting, his blood-red, droopy eyes practically hanging out of his head from seasonal allergies --- allergies that he's had since he was a kid, by all accounts. And he has medicine for this stuff. Prescriptions, too. Multiple kinds that target multiple symptoms. And when I ask him if he's taken it or not, he sniffs pathetically and says "No, I guess I should, huh?" or "I think I ran out last fall and I need a new prescription."

Seriously.

Maybe a nicer wife would have some sort of empathy for her husband. Call the doctor for the refill. Check the cupboard to see what we have that can alleviate his symptoms..for now. But I am trying to raise my children to be pro-active and self-sufficient. Shouldn't I expect the same from their father? Aren't we supposed to lead by example?

To be fair, I don't have allergies (thankfully) so I can't really comprehend his dread that must accompany my compulsion to open the windows - right about the time the pollen drops every spring. I do know however, that if there is something wrong with me and I know how to fix it, I fix it. I don't have time to feel like crap.

So there he sleeps, snoring, at the other end of he couch, because he doesn't feel great and wants to spend some time with me. I guess it's nice to be needed.

A Tale of Two Bottles

This is most certainly one for the baby book.

Making a small withdrawl from the spousal (time) savings account, I managed to get a weekend away with a group of ten girls late January of this year. The one condition being that I take #4, who was 3 months old, and recovering from RSV. Not exactly my idea of a weekend of R & R, but one kid is better than four, and I'll take whatever I can get, particularly when the one kid sleeps a lot and can't talk back.

So, walking pneumonia (#3), RSV (#4), a couple of snow days (#1 & #2), a sixth birthday party, and my husband's extended business trip in my rear view mirror, I headed down to the coast. Thankfully, when we arrived at the ferry to our final destination, the rest of the ladies met my car, and immediately handed me a margarita, which I chugged. They know me so well.

Thankfully, I am not the only one who has a tot in tow. One other friend has brought her infant son, 10 days older than mine. This is nice, but we have to keep the babies separated, as mine is recovering from RSV and this is the one time that it's not nice to share. Even better still, she brought her breast pump. We are both nursing, and in an attempt to be responsible mothers, our plan was to "pump and dump" if (by if, I mean when) we drank too much. After the first night, I had a blow-out in my pump valve and couldn't get any suction. God forbid I go on a girls weekend and not drink, so she let me share her pump. That's a true friend.

The weekend proceeds with minimal drama. No small feat with ten type-A women (each in their own unique and endearing way) under the same roof, on an island, in the winter, with only two golf carts for transportation (ten women and two infants). I headed out while the baby was sleeping, to the island store to pick up a few last minute items for the evening. I'd left a bottle of milk in the fridge, and given directions to one of the ladies to keep an ear open for his cry, as he'd probably be waking soon and would be hungry.

On my way back home I received a frantic phone call from the house saying that they baby had woken up and had been fed...the wrong bottle. Was I mad? Did I care? What would Mark say?

They were very concerned. I laughed hysterically.

What they didn't know is that they were talking to a someone who, along with college friends, had concocted a white Russian made with breast milk (not mine) and gave it to a (another) friend as a shot. Yes, this was (too) many years after our graduation. Yes, we should have acted with a bit more maturity. Yes, he knew that it was not made with the regular type of dairy product. It takes a bit more than a breast milk swap to gross me out.

Apparently, sometime between the sunset glamour shots and happy hour, the wrong bottle was grabbed from the refrigerator. Even better still, is that my husband's cousin was feeding him when the mistake was identified...and continued to give him the remaining 3 ounces of the bottle. Apparently, it much have been some good milk as he did not want to give that bottle up, and upon finishing it, fixed his gaze on his and pined for the (empty) bottle sitting on the counter until I got home. Seriously, they took pictures of him, staring longingly at that empty bottle. If I can find it, I'll post it here.

Ironically, when my friend and I had both learned that we were pregnant, I forwarded to her an article about how the "latest thing" in California was to have playgroups among nursing moms and co-nurse each others babies. Now, I am all about milk banks, and the wet nurses who fed lots of babies throughout history, but this idea seemed, well like something that would come out of California. Not interested. That's what I get for laughing at crazy Californians.

Tell me, how different do you think it tasted? Is is like coke vs. pepsi or sprite vs. 7-up? Not that I'm gearing up to perform an independent, double-blind taste test or anything. I was just curious.

"...there was a brotherhood between people who had fed from the same breast, a kinship that not even time could break." The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini

The Tick Story

I've had a lot of people (okay, maybe 6 or 7) ask me to elaborate on that tick story I mentioned in my 1st post. Funny, now that I think about it, no one asked me to expound on my aspirations of becoming the Secretary of State... See, I was right, I'm not that interesting.

Let me set the scene:

1) My husband is out of town - not uncommon, as he travels a lot. I mean, a lot. Not in-the-military-deployed-to-Iraq a lot (those couples have earned their place in heaven as far as I'm concerned), but enough to where my kids know that we're having "breakfast for dinner" at least once or twice a week.

2) In an attempt to be cost efficient, I don't tell the babysitter to come until exactly the time I have to leave (can you believe what babysitters make these days? I used to babysit a Mormon family with 7 kids for three bucks an hour. I got robbed).

3) Between the hours of 5:30 and 7:00pm, the following things had to get done: I've got to shower, find something to appropriate to wear, find something inappropriate to wear, find something that "will do" because nothing else looks reasonable, get dressed, slap on some warpaint (what my Dad refers to as make-up), make sure homework is done, lunches are packed for school, feed the goldfish, the dog, and the children (not necessarily in that order), check to see the kids have (relatively) clean uniforms to wear the next day, put a load of laundry in the washer so that the kids have clean uniforms to wear, fold the load that's in the dryer so the can wear dry, clean uniforms, bathe the kids, and find my shoes.

4) In between all that, I attempt to blow-out my pre-baby, poker straight but now curly out of control hair. Then put my half curly half straight coiffure in a ponytail because I run out of time.

I hear the kids excitedly discussing something about a spider. "Mom, come see him, he's really cool." I holler downstairs to make sure that in their excitement, they haven't left their chicken nuggets to drown in their ketchup, which they have, and hustle them back to their seats at the table. No big deal, I'm all about nature, so long as it's not one of the nesting black widows I found outside the basement door. Actually, I'd assumed that it was a dead spider that they'd found in one of our windowsills...since we've lived in our house for 6 years and I've maybe cleaned those things twice, there's plenty of exoskeletons from which to choose. Mind you, this was around 5:30.

About 45 minutes later, I come downstairs and they are all on the couch, in heated discussion about something. They've lost the spider and are forming a search team to find him. I recall thinking that it might actually be a live spider since it's lost, but then again, maybe it's dead, featherlight carcass just rolled under the couch. Anyway, it gives them something to do other than fight.

My mind, like a laser beam, is focused on my next task of making school lunches. After all, it is a girls night out and I might have a glass or two of wine, so the more I get done now, the less maneuvering in the morning. I give them a passing nod, glad to see that they have finished their soggy nuggets without smearing ketchup on the couch. They've found the spider, oh joy of joys, and are passing it around in celebration. I overhear that the spider now has a name. I recall thinking, "hmm, I guess it must be alive if they're giving it a name."

Lunches done and kitchen cleaned up, it's back upstairs, to run the bath for the kids and finish the hair (read: grab the ponytail holder). Now it's crunch time, and the kids are neither clean, nor in their PJs, as I'd promised the sitter, who agreed to sit under the impression that the kids would be ready for bed so she could study for a test the following day.

Calling for the kids to come up and take a bath, I get no response. An argument is growing over Charlie the Spider, who is going to keep him for the night, in their room. Time for an intervention. Back down the stairs again, and my then-five year old extends his arm to show me Charlie and plead his case. I can't see the spider at first, as it is on the underside of his arm, but being a good sport, I ask to hold Charlie while I attempt to negotiate a deal. After a brief pause, my five year old plucks a crawling Charlie from his arm and hands him to me.

Charlie is a tick.

Charlie the tick, has been found, then lost, then found again. In my kitchen and living room. For two hours.

He's been given a name, a home, some new friends, but thankfully, not a meal.

Now, where are my shoes?

Sorry Mexico, It's All My Fault

The forces of nature are at work against me and I think you're all going down with me. All I was trying to do was plan a trip to celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary. Really. After I finish this post, I think I'll check my horoscope or something to see if 2009 is just cosmically screwed up for me or I've just pissed off the Fates in general.

It all started two months ago, when I was discussing with two friends of mine what we were all going to do to celebrate our anniversary (they've each been married 10 years, too). We thought it might be fun to do a trip together, since, as my Dad so eloquently put it, "once the deed is done, what else is there really for us (Mark and I) to do?" By the way Dad, eeew.

So we began our research into destinations. Shortly after settling on a potential short list, Mark lost a couple of major deals at work. Not good for the First Quarter Sales of 2009 or his comission. (cue the foreboding music).

We chose Cancun as our destination, a lovely, all-inclusive spot on the Riviera Maya, with all the highest ratings from the various travel blogs and magazines. Within two days, all 4 of the kids and I came down with some nasty virus. Horrid cough, fevers of 103+ degrees, chills, sneezing, aches, and kids home from school for a week solid. Mark and I were starting to reconsider the trip, just too much on our plate. For about 2 days, we decided to opt out.

Once we began feeling better, (and our friends put on the full court press to reconsider) we put our deposit down with the travel agent. Next hurdle: who will watch the kids.

Nothing but crickets... No one, much to my suprise, was jumping at the chance to govern my four little darlings for an extra-long (Holiday) weekend! My parents suddenly had a life of their own. My father-in-law, though well intentioned, has a tendency to find himself napping on the couch at odd times throughout the day. This can get in the way of the care and safekeeping of children, so he was out of the running.

Family is out. Who can we hire? We run down the list of our usual babysitters. Who am I kidding, four kids is enough to drive me, their mother, into the looney bin, what makes me think that any of these ladies would give up the better part of 5 days to manage this chaos? Nevertheless, we contacted one of our regular sitters who is just finishing up her second year at UNC, and she was game. We were a little nervous, but relieved. For the moment.

Upon mentioning our plans to "Aunt Bronagh", she immediately offered to come up for the weekend. I declined. Then she made a valid point in being supremely qualified; having learned the ropes while staying with us for a month after #4 was born. After much deliberation, we finally accepted, on the condition that if she wouldn't let me pay her, I would host a Mary Kay party for her (her new side busness). Hell, I could divy up what I was going to pay the college student among my friends and surely they could find something to buy from the Lady in Pink. College student out, family in. For now.

Two weeks later, Bronagh sends me a text saying that her back is giving her some trouble. Now, Aunt Bronagh is a tough, young Irish gal, all of 29 years old. Her saying that her "back is bothering her a wee bit" translates loosely into, "I'm taking 5 different types of painkillers and still can't sleep, move, or work on my f****** PhD dissertation." But she's certain that it'll be fine by Memorial Day. After two steroid injections into her spine, and visiting several specialists, it looks like she is going to have back surgery. Sorry Bronagh, didn't mean to bring you down with me.

We're back to paying the college student, who thankfully hadn't made any Memorial Day plans. Now we are hearing about the Swine Flu. Cancun is apparently the Spring Break hot spot where the kids from NYC picked up the bug too. And all of us but my husband (who is 45) are between the age range of 20 - 40, which seems to be the magical age range in which this thing is deadly, at least if you're Mexican. At least we've got one thing going for us. Mark, I hope my insurance premiums are paid up.

I think I'm going to go check that horoscope now. Maybe you should check yours too.

A little Primer on Me...as if you really care.

I have arrived, cornering on two wheels, into my mid-thirties (36 in June, to be precise), married for 10 years (this August)to Mark and the mother to four kids, ages 8, 6, 3, and 6 months (girl, boy, girl, boy). I stay at home. With four kids. Hell, I'd have to pull in some serious bills just to pay for their childcare at this point. At one point though, it was a choice, one I occasionally struggle with, but it is the one I made and I am sticking with it...for now.

I'm giving you the cliff notes version because as I've said, it's not ME that's interesting, it's the stuff that happens around me that I can't help but shake my head at. Sometimes in amusement, sometimes in disbelief, occasionally in disgust. In fact, I casually mentioned to a friend that I had started a blog, interested to see her reaction, and she looked at me quizzically and said, "do you really think you're that interesting?" I laughed. "Thanks a lot, and no, I don't." Little did she know at the time that she'd make my second post. "No, but you are." was my immediate thought, withheld, of course, with a chuckle.

In (almost) all seriousness though, my opinion of bloggers is that they fall into one of three categories:

1) They have an inflated sense of self worth, and feel that this is a way of making their mark on the world. Seriously, if you were that good, surely you'd put a pen to paper and write a book or article or something and get published by something other than some free, internet based, blogspot.

2) They want to sway the opinions of (a group) of people and thanks to the internet, can reach and feed, on a massive scale, those with whom they connect. There are plenty of colleges with empty street corners from which to preach...pick your favorite flavor kool-aid, someone will follow.

3) They find themselves peppered with amusing material, but don't have the connections to push it to Hollywood and turn it into a sitcom...making millions, and retiring early to live the remainder of their days in some small, tropical oasis. Man, if I could make millions on this stuff, I'd do it in a heartbeat. Of course, I'd donate half to charity and put the other half to fund my four kids' college education. But I have delusions of reality, not grandeur, so here I will sit...and type, until my computer battery dies or my kids wake up.

You'll note, that I added the "reactions" section at the bottom, and created three responses, should you be motivated enough to click on one, feel free but don't feel like you have to. You can comment all you want, give me feedback, give me hell, give me the Key to Oz...it's your world, I'm just living in it. And writing about it.

Here goes nothing, Bronagh

So. Here I sit, on a Friday night, trying to figure out how the hell to become a blogger. Thanks Bronagh. For those of you who don't know (but for some reason, still care) Bronagh is the driving force behind me getting the stories of this thing called life somewhere in print. Loosely related as some type of in-law, she has become an integral part of my life over the last 2 years (most notably, since my fourth child, Andrew was born in October 2008).

Ah, the children. That's where most of the color is. That, and the bubble of suburbia I have found myself calling home for the last 10 years. If my stories make you laugh, good. If they piss you off, too bad. Please don't whine to me about it. My kids have filled up my Quota for Whining for this lifetime and well into the next, and the oldest is only 8. If you find yourself going "holy shit, somebody else who seems to be (relatively) normal is going through this too" then I can say, "mission accomplished".

Motherhood is a thankless job. There are no performance evaluations, merit based pay, promotions, raises, bonuses, fancy titles or abbreviations to follow your name. It's up to your elbows in puke, piss, and poop, occasionally all three at once. If you work outside the home (isn't that the P.C. way of saying it these days?) or are an at-home Mom like me, it doesn't matter. We're all in the same boat, trying to make like McGuyver, sustaining ourselves on handfuls of Goldfish while rigging together lifejackets for our little ones out of ziploc baggies, pipecleaners, and whatever other junk has accumulated in the bottoms of our purses and diaperbags since joining Club Mom.

For those of you who aspired to become something great in college, and have somehow found yourself not in the role of the Secretary of State, but rather the Secretary of What-the-heck-did-I-do-with-my-Kindergartener's Homework, this blog is for you. I am beginning to think that raising four kids to be normal, decent, hard working, and self-reliant human beings is an accomplishment a hell of a lot greater (not to mention harder) than becoming the Secretary of State. I'll take negotiating with Kim Jong-Il any day over trying to get a four year old to understand that 'No, we cannot keep your pet spider (which was really a tick) as a pet." That story is for another blog though...

Anyway, I still haven't ruled out the whole Secretary of State thing...there's still plenty of time for that... I'm only just beginning.