Wednesday, April 29, 2009

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

Monday, April 27, 2009

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?

Sunday, April 26, 2009

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.

Friday, April 24, 2009

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.