Today my enemies staged a battle, and they sucessfully annihilated my will to live.

Oh, Monday.  I would like nothing more than to kick you--and your nasty gang of thugs (aka laundry and massive thunderstorms and power lines and plumbing)--in the teeth.

This day could ONLY have been made more challenging if you had magically added 8 pounds to my forehead.  Although, there is the business of that thing under my middle toe, so I get that you are attacking me with abnormal growths.  And for the record, I am not. a. fan.

Let's start with the massive thunderstorm that rolled in around midnight last night.  Because there is nothing that spells massive-cluster like having to wake your four comatose children from their REM sleep cycle.   Under the threat of death that comes with 1 or 3 or 12 possible tornadoes heading your way.  Fan. tastic.

Now.  It is NO surprise that the power went out as soon as it started to rain.  This happens frequently, because apparently, someone made our power lines out of dental floss.  We have this quaint little street of 20 or 25 houses on it, flanked by a golf course on one side, and this means we are SCREWED during power outages, because there are easily hundreds of neighborhoods with higher demands for electricity.  The entire city of St. Louis and the remotest portions of the African plains receive power before we can even dream of seeing an electric company truck.

The silver lining here is that once everyone was back in bed, it was past midnight, and I was tired.  Because here is a widely known fact:  I have an unhealthy reliance upon Chelsea Lately/E! News, and I cannot fall asleep without knowing, in GREAT detail, how Lindsey Lohan or Charlie Sheen has decided to crap on their careers and overall mental health in the preceding 24-hour period.  These matters are of great importance to me.  But I did manage to get on with it and fall asleep, which is a small miracle. 

And then Monday, we met again.

7:24 a.m.--Power STILL out.  Even though the rest of the world has access to facebook, and this leads me to feelings of great oppression.  I imagine this is what prison feels like.

8:20 a.m.--Upon dropping the kids off at school, I learn very few people ever lost power.  Super.

8:27 a.m.--I play Words with Friends on my iphone in my car.  My life is very, very sad.

From there, the day seems to be going along okay, and I am adjusting to eating solely out of my pantry, which means my nutritional content equates to goldfish crackers, potato chips and chocolate almonds.  I am coming dangerously close to my dream of forehead obesity after all.

I pick the kids up from school.  I manage lunch.  I am beginning to think that I would win a season of Survivor.

And then some child decides to poop on the potty, where I am reminded that our plumbing is the size of a straw, apparently, because it up and clogs itself daily.  Which prompts me to write the following letter:

To Whomever created our toilet or our sewer line or plumbing in general,

I want to kill you.  You are ruining my life.

Suck it,

Sara Denckhoff

At this point, I have a plan for getting the kids out of the house, which is beginning to feel *slightly* arctic, but everything is closed because Monday is a gigantic bitch.  Alrighty then, we head to the library.  Even though we were there on Friday.  Also important to note:  I have a mental issue with repeating the same activities too close together.  This also applies to meals.  Monday/ Satan--you are attacking me where it hurts, with the breaking of my most ridiculous life rules.

What's next?  Is monogramming going to become ILLEGAL?  What about polka dots while your trying to destroy me??????????

4:00 p.m.--Back at home, where it is apparent that the power will not be on until the summer, or possibly sometime after my grandchildren are born.   We make plans to head to my in-laws for the night, which means I need to pack clothes.  Which can be found in our window-less pit of a basement.  And, OH!  lucky day.  It appears that we are completely out of clean socks.  Probably.  I couldn't see any, at the very least, and it had been...2 or maybe 18 days since I remembered washing any. 

Nothing says "I have hit the low point of my entire life" like mounting a laundry pile by candle light and attempting to identify socks by feel and smell. 

At some point (who knows when, this day already feels like it is 96 years long), Mike arrives home and we begin the process of emptying the refrigerators into coolers.  Which is when we come across this little gem:

Horseradish.  Expired two years before we even moved into this house, 7.5 years ago.  

Are you understanding that I have now packed up my children, 9 years worth of groceries AND inappropriately assaulted a laundry pile for 2 loads of dirty socks?   

Because this is the point at which I learn the power will be back on in 45 minutes.

Monday.  This is me giving you the finger.  

CSI: Suburban cooking edition (with a surprise ending in the case of the jelly roll pan)

So, yesterday.  My husband decided we needed a jelly roll pan.

He took it upon himself to take 3 kids to Target, and came home with a Calphalon-brand pan, with a lid. 

I asked how much it was?  Because it looked *fancy*, what with the lid and all.

He said $25, at Target.

Whoa, whoa, whoa.  If you're gonna spend that kind of money at Target, you had better be purchasing AT LEAST 12 completely unnecessary items, and not one dumb baking pan.

Some things you should know about us:  We are reckless with our bakeware, because sometimes?  The cookies will not come off the sheets unless you gut them with a serrated knife.  I make no apologies, because in that scenario, the cookies are WAY out of line.  A few years ago, after we had sufficiently mutilated our cookie sheets and were *likely* eating bits of chipped teflon (non-organic) in our goodies, Mike ran out to the grocery store and bought new ones.  That's right, I said THE GROCERY STORE. 

Also.  One of my greatest strengths as a human being?  Finding an item I want, shopping it around at 17 different retail outlets, fixating on it for 3-9 weeks, and then returning to the original item at the store where it was first seen.  Don't be hatin', it's what I do, and I am AMAZING at it.

Knowing this, $25 seemed a bit...pricey.  And I was pretty sure I could save us at least 20 cents (but *possibly* cost us a month and a half of our time that can never be bought back).  Plus, the LID.  The damn lid.  I didn't trust that thing.  It's like bedazzling a shirt with cartoon puppy dogs.  Fancy!  But still a shirt with dogs on it.

And then it hit me!  Sam's Club!

Fortunately, we were due for a Sam's run, so Mike popped over there and happened to find a set of TWO jelly roll pans for $10.  Boo-frickin-ya. 

We had friends over for dinner, and Mike baked us up a cake and poured fondue all. over. it. as icing.  Delicious!  Magnificent!  A-mazing!

And as we did not finish the entire cake in one sitting, we covered it for the night and put it to bed. 

Until lunchtime today, when we attacked it like a pack of feral pigs.  Only to find that fondue and plastic wrap?  Well, those two formed a chemical bond that ripped the skin right off the cake.  Oopsie.

Honey.  Sweetie.  Sugar. 

You we're right. 

We probably could have used that $15 lid. 

The middle.

Oh, wondertwins.  I love you.  I'm just not quite sure what to do about you.

This has been the story of our lives together, really.  Because I loved you from the very beginning, but our story has always been colored with a little bit of the unknown, a little (okay A LOT) of fear, a lot of hope, a lot of joy, a lot of sorrow.  And mostly, I'm never quite sure which one it's supposed to be, because I am human and I have a very hard time understanding that any of those emotions can co-exist in the exact same moment.  Which is actually turning into years.

You were conceived in a petri dish, so there was NEVER a second of your lives that didn't carry risk.  This is absolutely true of every baby that is ever conceived, but most parents don't think of procreation in terms of odds and egg quality and the thousands of dollars it takes to employ a mad scientist (aka, a fertility specialist).  We had a less than 30% chance of conceiving ONE of you, and a less than 7% chance that you would be triplets.  

We were hopeful, but EXTREMELY guarded in our expectations.  Enter our entire lives, thus far, together.

When my water broke with your brother Caleb, you chances for survival went WAY down.  You all survived.  But we lived and breathed based upon my temperature at any given hour (fever signaled infection), the number of centimeters of water in Caleb's ruptured bag, the number of contractions I had in an hour, the number of weeks we sssssssssslowly counted down with you still tucked oddly between my throat and my intestines.  Twenty weeks, twenty-one, twenty two.  We were still hopefully GUARDED.

Twenty-five weeks, and there you were.  We met in the presence of at least 40 medical professionals.  We were never alone, not for 5 whole months.  If we were alone, you were not going to live.

Caleb died, and we had two horribly, painfully sick babies.  Any more weakness in your lungs, any infections, and it would have been over.  For weeks, the NICU was at the maximum of what it could do for you.  They were IMPROVISING ways to keep you alive.  You were an episode of Grey's Anatomy.  Scratch that, you were an entire season.

I suppose I have always prepared for the extremes with you two.  Life or death.

And I am having a wee bit of trouble with the middle ground. 

Your life since the NICU has been pretty...steady.  There was a small need for oxygen tanks, but you quickly outgrew them.  There was the whole feeding tube debacle, which eventually, we got rid of.  You crawled.  You walked.  You talked.  You appeared to understand us.  You had delays, but you made them up.  You were amazing.  Best case scenarios. 

You started kindergarten on par with your peers.  No therapy, no services, no safety net.  We are trained not to be guarded, but to expect that you are ready.  And I *think* I confused "ready" with never-going-to-struggle-ever.  Because you're struggling, wondertwins.  And I forget how to live on that end of the spectrum. 

Here's the thing--the extremes, the life or death's--they require very little of me.  They mean that I take a backseat to the professionals, or I cruise in auto-pilot because everything is hunky-dory.  It means completely relying on the grace of God, or upon my (or your) ability to go it alone. 

ALL or NOTHING. 

I don't do  the middle very well.  You know, the living that comes between tragedy and perfection.  Maybe you've realized this?

I am working to figure out how we are going to survive school together.  Because you need my help, but I don't know how to give it to you.  We are riding this gray wave, somewhere in the middle of everything, and I can see we are going to be here for a while.  And I am trapped between expecting that you are never going to learn to read, and that you are going to complete your first novel tomorrow.  And that makes me SCHIZOPHRENIC, and for that I am deeply, deeply sorry. 

Kindergarten is damn hard.  And now that we are struggling here, I have am having a few war-like flashbacks of the time that G spent here.  TRYING to learn the English language that we all know and love, but breaking it down by letters that LOTS OF TIMES sound nothing like they are supposed to?  I don't know why e's are sometimes silent, and sometimes not.   I'm not sure what the difference is between a "c" and a "k". And as hard as it is for you to grasp it, please know that it is just as hard for me to explain it.  Which is quite a kick in the ego, when you are 34, an English major and consider yourself a writer.

I want to be different.  Better.  More patient with you.  Know what you need, all the time.  And I want to be that mother....right.....NOW. 

I don't want to have to work on it, or pray about it, or struggle with it.  All or nothing.  Life or death. 

I am fairly certain that God is teaching forcing me to live in the gray area, and I'm sorry to drag you into this mess, but what are ya-gonna-do?  He is GOD and all.  And I have wasted a good portion of my life (and really all of yours thus far, SO sorry) cruising on auto-pilot.  I'm not sure I've really ever made a decision on your behalf that I TRULY thought about, aside from what I just assumed we were supposed to do.  And maybe our lives wouldn't look any different, but I probably ought to think about it, right?

Wondertwins, I am working on it.  But this is likely the sort of thing that takes an entire lifetime, and so *hopefully* I will be less of a mess when it comes to my grandchildren. 

I love you both.  You are miracles, with or without a grasp on the phonetic language.  And one day, when the world is run by computers and we are slaves to our iphones and the computer chips they are undoubtedly going to implant in our brains, we will all look back on this and laugh. 

Warning to parents! There is an animated pencil building an army of serial killers!!

So tonight at dinner.

Big J starts telling a story about some kid named Mark who was playing a game that involved hoops. It was fascinatingly complex in it's details and Big J was uber passionate, and so I figured this was going to end with some sort of prize, injury or injustice.  And then L and Little J began to chime in with approvals and "oh yeahs" in a way that seemed to validate the story, that this was the biggest news to happen in the history of kindergarten.  I was thinking I was going to need to track this Mark kid down for a playdate with his hoops. 

I love hearing about their days.  And their friends. 

But that's when it took a turn.

Little J started chiming in about how funny it was when Mark got his hoop taken away.  Which is WEIRD because Little J goes to a different school, and the kids don't have any mutual friends named Mark, and I was beginning to think that some creepy child molester was enticing my kids with hoops?  And then....

....they all started laughing at how silly Mr. Doodleburg is.  And how HE stole the hoop, hahaha, and it was so funny...hahaha.....

Son-of-a-bitch, they are talking about a LEAPSTER game.  And their reality has intermingled with a world in which pencils talk to lines named Mark.   I  have SO MANY PROBLEMS with my children thinking that:  a.) a talking pencil actually exists in real life, and b.) that he is their *friend*.  Mostly because these tendencies have serial killer written all over it, with an alibi of "Mr. Doodleburg told me that mean lady was going to steal my hoops and so I had to bludgeon her with the Letter M".  You know who the police will blame?  The mother who let her kids overindulge themselves on their Leapster.  But Officers!  It seemed like such a great learning tool!

For psychopaths, apparently!

Perhaps it's because Mr. Doodleburg actually interacts with them?  But they can regale you with story, after story, AFTER STORY of how amazingly awesome he is.  As if he is REAL.  And they know him.  And he is their CLOSEST friend. 

Mark my words:  If this trend continues, they are going to start eating the gross mushrooms in our yard because they think it will give them fire power, like the Super Mario Brothers. 

*******************************

On a related note of social awkwardness:  I realize that I would be AWESOME if I was proficient at using a telephone.  I'm going to admit something right now, I HATE talking on the phone.  It makes me nervous and crazy.  Mostly because I am not GOOD  on the phone.  I am a writer, I am good on paper.  I'm decent in person.  But on the phone?  I have the social skills of a kid that played with a Leapster for 8+ hours a day.

And then give me a cell phone.  Which I will:  forget to charge 85% of the time and leave in my car 10% of the time.  If you happen to catch me during that 5% of my life when I actually have my phone on me?  I will talk into it at a sound decible 20 points above the range that is considered normal.  Why?  Because I don't trust cell phones to actually deliver my voice, so I am going to scream it loud enough to be heard in Russia. 

All this to say that I got over myself and made a phone call, and Little J had his first playdate today, with a friend from school.  Poor fourth child, between the Leapster and the lack of effort I put into his social calendar, he is destined to talk to pencils as a teenager.

Blue like jazz.

Confession:  I don't really enjoy reading Christian books.  This might explain my hesitation with wanting to actually write one.  And it should probably be said that I've read, oh, 6 Christian-themed books total, so I realize the scope of my research is *limited*. 

It boils down to relevancy and tone, for me.  There are just some writers (in general, not just Christian  authors, because I only know 6 of them) that resonate with me in the way that they write.  I find this to be particularly true of Christian authors, who are all starting with the same premise--attempting to make God and the Bible and Jesus APPLICABLE to modern life. 

Some authors use gigantic words.  And for me, there is nothing less motivating than reading something that makes me feel like I need a tutor, because if I require *special* help to meet Jesus, well, that can't mean good things.  I don't like to intellectualize Jesus--in fact, he is ONE MILLION times more real to me in simple language. 

Some authors swallow a happy pill.  Not that I am against happy, I just don't always trust it?  Okay, it's like when you have a new baby, and beautifully manicured women with smiles on steroids come up to you and ask you if you are just loving every single minute of mothering your precious newborn?  And part of you dies a little inside, because while you would skin a wolf with  your own teeth to save the life of your new baby, you are, in all reality, 2-missed-hours of sleep away from a very public, hair-shaving meltdown, ala Britney Spears.  I am in  love with women who can share in the horror of leaking, SIMULTANEOUSLY, from every single sweat gland and milk duct in the female body.  And NOT be happy about it.   


Some authors use life-changing experiences and events of a miraculous nature.  Listen, I get this one.  I've lived this one, quite a bit actually.  And while it's true that I have never felt the more intimate presence of Jesus as I did with the birth of the wondertwins, I struggle more with living my faith during milk spills and what-is-this-growing-on-the-bottom-of-my toe (more on that later) and lego-up-the-nose type disasters.  I LOVE the NICU, but I don't want to have to live there FOREVER, in order to live like Christ, ya know?

All this to say, that I just finished "Blue Like Jazz" by Donald Miller.  Changed my life.  Because, as it turns out, I do enjoy Christian authors and it is, in fact, possible to be a Christian without having a Ph.D or a lifetime prescription for Xanax.   This book is more like a series of essays, that pertain to his life and the experiences that have shaped his faith...and it is so honestly written with a touch of sarcastic humor.  This is me exhaling a HUGE sigh of relief, because when I read sarcasm, it literally breathes life into my soul, and that confession makes me feel a little bit like I am sporting horns and crazy red devil skin.  You know what?  A lot about my life is RIDICULOUS, and I appreciate it when others can understand that.  I know there are some of you that are fed with happy words of encouragement and others who love to hear stories of miraculous deeds--but the good Lord, in all of his infinite wisdom, speaks clearest to me in the language of irony with a touch of humor.  When faced with a fit of vomiting and 2nd grade homework that I can't understand to save my life?  I like to poke fun at it (so that I don't bawl my eyes out at night), and then move along. 

Please don't read this and think this book isn't hard hitting.  It is.  It is the most meaningful piece I have read on living out faith (but I've only read 6 Christian books, so take this with a grain of salt)--mostly because I  am encouraged by it and not convicted to take out a small loan to finance years of therapy or additional education.  It is all about how you make choices and form habits and make mistakes that lead to change as you "do life".  It is about being led and learning.  All. the. time. 

It is such a real picture of Christian life, and I think I could read it 100 times.  But for now, I will leave you with my FAVORITE bit.  One of the parts that I will remember, hopefully, for the rest of my life:

Here is the trick, and here is my point.  Satan, who I believe exists as much as I believe Jesus exists, wants us to believe meaningless things for meaningless reasons.  Can you imagine if Christians actually believed that God was trying to rescue us from the pit of our self-addiction?  Can you imagine?  Can you imagine what Americans would do if they understood over half the world was living in poverty?  Do you think they would change the way they live, the products they purchase, the politicians they elect?  If we believed the right things, the true things, there wouldn't be very many problems on earth.

But the trouble with deep belief is that it costs something.  And there is something inside me, some selfish beast of a subtle thing that  doesn't like the truth at all because it CARRIES RESPONSIBILITY, AND IF I ACTUALLY BELIEVE THESE THINGS I HAVE TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT THEM.  It is so, so cumbersome to believe anything.

--Donald Miller, Blue Like Jazz

I bought a 3-D volcano kit, but somehow ended up with something resembling terrible acne.

Last week's desk organizing disaster literally sucked the life force out of me, I think.  All is now in a *place*, even the small bag of hair that is STILL staring me down and calling me horrible names in it's deep, hairy voice. 

Today, I am so void of energy that I am going to share with you a project that came out of a box.  That's right, a box.

Hello, 3-D Volcano.  How ya doing?  How's your mother?

Big J got a volcano kit for Christmas, and it  just seemed appropriate to faux-explode something on President's Day.  But as there was much waiting involved while the plaster had to set, we decided to create a volcano village.  Which is somewhat morbid, when you consider that hot lava burns babies (and adult humans, for that matter). 

Also important to note:  We made TWO volcanos.  Because the kit created a singular, 4-inch tall volcano, and at that size it was more comparable to a pimple and I just couldn't get excited about it.  Size does matter.  When it comes to children's toys that have to be shared and enjoyed by FOUR children. 

I feel this an appropriate time to introduce you to a universal life truth:  If you can't enlarge it, double it.

Our volcano village included TWO fresh water ponds, with access to many water-based activities.  Enjoy 2,000 acres of woodlands with walking paths and a newly-refurnished, eco-friendly,4-star lodge!  Did we mention that this particular oasis is also heavily populated by sharks, large bears and other beasts of the wilderness?  But if you are LUCKY! enough not to be hunted as prey, then we will surely burn the skin right off your body with that there volcano.  Enjoy!

The volcano itself?  Less than stellar.  It was somewhat similar to that trick we did in college, where you find someone drinking a beer (in a glass bottle), and you take your own bottle and pound it SUPER hard on top of that poor slob's full bottle, and the beer just EXPLODES?  No? You didn't do that?  Hmmm.

Anyway. It was like that, but 3,893 times less exciting and with WAY fewer cuss words.

And there are like 256 metaphors that would make this little story so much more enjoyable, but they are all escaping me at the moment.  Sorry, readers, but apparently my mojo was contained upon a piece of paper that has now been purged from my desk and I have become a sad, blob of a woman. 

But if you pray for a bout of explosive diarhea or another near-electrocution of my husband, we might be back in business tomorrow night.  Fingers crossed!

Epic Meal Time

Friday night, it's getting late. But I'll send you into the weekend with a little gem. Found by my husband on YouTube, but I happen to think these guys are a wee bit genius. Enjoy!

And God declared, "It's not really good, but it's better than embarassing."

After 30 hours and so-SO-so much paper that I now feel personally responsible for killing bald eagles or melting glaciers, my desk is no longer a disaster.  And while I wouldn't call it finished, or clean, or organized, I *might* consider it...less-than a den for a slutty paper orgy?

This is a MAJOR improvement.  Though the ponytail remains (in a bag) because my husband refuses to send it to Locks for Love for me. He feels it necessary for me to grow a pair on this one, and act like an adult that is capable of visiting the post office.  Plus, he doesn't believe that Locks for Love will accept old hair and this has sparked a relevant and important debate in our household.  And just to prove that I can't make this kind of stuff up (and because I know you are DYING to see it), here is the hair that could very easily have been mistaken for a river rat nesting in my desk cabinets:

Also discovered during this GIGANTIC monster of a project? 

A wedding gift.  For one of my best friends.  Who got married in 2005, when I was just nine weeks preggo with Little J.   Yes, I did attend the wedding.  Yes, I have visited her home.  Yes, I have vacationed with her on a few occasions since then.  YES, she did also happen to visit THIS house, just 2 months ago.  Ort (not her given name), congrats on your marriage.  And your 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th anniversaries.  And the birth of your son who is now 2.  I am SO happy for you--though my dedebilitating disorganization makes me the social equivalent of a one-year-old.  Your wedding gift should arrive sometime in the next decade, when your first kid is about to hit high school.

Many of you have asked for the name of the book that spawned this evil--it is "Organize Now" by Jennifer Berry and here is a DIRECT LINK to it on Amazon.  Hisssssssssssssss.  I'm just kidding, Jennifer Berry, and do in fact credit you with exorcising the baby toe of Satan out of my kitchen desk.  But you need to see my basement (and every other room in my house) to understand that the demon in control of this home is a large, large hairy beast of a man that eats entire McDonald's restaurants for breakfast.  And he has a bowel disorder in which he craps paper and photographs and random scraps of stuff.  Everywhere. 

And also, Ms. Berry?  If you ever revise this book, I would find it helpful for you to include the following chapters:

How to organize a large collection of human hair
Is this scrap of paper important to save?  How about this one?
What if disorganization is really organization and did I just blow your mind?
Letting go of your reckless youth and those 15 shot glasses you saved from your 21st birthday
Are file folders REALLY necessary and can't we just have a deep drawer labeled "Crap"?
Do I need to do this for the rest of my life?
How much wine do you drink per hour, if in fact you do this on a regular basis?
How often and when is it appropriate to use a blow torch?
Is there surgery or medication that can aid this process?

Just some thoughts.  You know, writer-to-writer. 

Worst discovery of this entire debacle?  That I'm gonna need to use a calendar.  Without my highly complex system of notes scribbled  upon random post its and multiple invitations and fliers and what-nots, something is bound to get missed.  I asked Mike where we might mount a large wall calendar?  He said, "Welcome to 2011, use your iphone, dumbass".  I said, "I don't trust my iphone, nor do I *sync* it with my computer very often (or ever)."  He said, "Um, your computer and phone sync wirelessly.  All the frickin time."

Oh.

I feel so totally violated and dirty, like I am breathing my schedule via non-visible airwaves, or whatever.  And I am not. cool. with. it.  Get out of my frickin air, iphone.  Well.  Unless you can take the entire internet and just put it in my brain, because I think it would be wicked cool to just know how to crochet dog sweaters on a whim, you know?

How did we get here, exactly?

Anyway.  I'm here.  I'm alive.  The devil is definitely not done with me, I am sure, and has no doubt hidden a fossilized pile of dog vomit that I will, no doubt, discover on this road to *organization*.  It's right next to the 7 pregnancy tests I saved after finding out I was pregnant with G.  I know what your thinking.  This is a losing battle.

But it's sure gonna be funny.

I have thwarted the devil's plans to kill me in an avalanche of paper.

So this weekend.  Visiting our friends in Indianapolis.  They happen to mention this book that breaks down the organization of your home into 52 projects, one per week, with the intention to have your sh!# together in one year. 

Interesting. 

I browse the book, but instantly decide I can do this mutha in 49 weeks, because:  I am AWESOME, but also, the first three weeks are focused on decluttering your brain of *issues* and what-nots.  Whatever.  My brain is just fine, quite empty actually, as I have tossed out my self control, hygiene knowledge and general understanding of math concepts a long. time. ago.

So you know what?

Today I just decided to dive right in.  I picked my own project.  My desk.  My 2 foot wide, 4-drawer desk.

Which, I will tell you, is a direct portal into Satan's world of eternal darkness.  And it is WINNING in the battle for my soul.  Because you know what????  Satan doesn't fight with war and guns and weapons and bombs.  He is sabotaging my life with paper.  Thousands, and thousands and THOUSANDS of pieces of almost-insignificant paper. 

Now.  In/upon/stuck to this desk are FOUR CHILDREN's worth of:  pictures, report cards, homework, artwork, photos, post cards and stickers.  And Jennie (Indy friend/instrument of the devil responsible for introducing this idea) talked about some kind of system that included folders for every kid? And activity? And grade level?  In some sort of color code?  With a calendar?  Wa-wah-wa-wah-wa-wah? And an advanced system of wires designed for bomb detonation if anything touches the actual desk?  I should have taken notes. 

Because someone fed the paper water and kept it up past midnight and now it has multiplied into a large family of angry Gremlin babies. 

Think I am CRAZY???

Well then.  I will tell you that I found an actual ponytail of my very own hair in this here desk.  Sh-nikey.  I chopped that thing off years ago, and had every *intention* of sending it in to Locks for Love.  But I forgot that I am allergic to the post office, and so here it sits, just SCREAMING that I killed a cheerleader and kept her ponytail as a souvenir.  And also?  Since this ponytail was harvested, I have worn my hair short for a couple of years AND managed to grow it back out to the length at which it becomes eligible to send it in to Locks of Love (again).  I sense that in 10 years time, I might just be able to craft a hairy blanket with the ponytails I collect.  Fingers crossed!

Do you know what this project MEANS?  That the organization of my desk will lead to the organization of:  my pictures, my closets, my children's general school paperwork, my bookshelves, my receipts, my old college bins, and GASP!....my basement.  52 projects/weeks my ass.  This sucker will take the rest of my life, while also robbing me of my joy and general will to live.   

Organizing my life = having no life.  Apparently. 

By 6:00 p.m., the desk had vomited at least 23 times into the recycling bin and all over the mother-humping table, floor and counters.  Mike suggested the kids eat on the floor for the next week, and we I just power through it and git-er-done.  Because, I'm not gonna lie, this has the real potential to sit here, just like this, for the remainder of eternity.  I've seen it happen to the basement, poor bastard. 

Let me ask you?  Is an entire drawer of stationary too much?

And how is it possible to own THREE receipt organizers, and yet never be able to find my receipts????

I haven't even removed the bulletin board.  Which is the flood gate to ACTUAL hell.  Because this is the magic spot where I shove every paper/piece of artwork that I deem worthy of saving.  Which means, I need to sort it and figure out where it is GOING.  To the basement to die, I guess???? 

I will be sure to tell you how this all plays out.  Particularly with a group of people partaking in dinner here on Saturday.  Should I design a centerpiece out of my hair?

This is her lunch. AFTER she ate it.

Pictured:  The remnants of L's lunch.  When I unpacked her backpack yesterday.  What isn't quite so visible?  The 7.5 ounces of Capri Sun Fruit Punch that the sandwich/entire lunch bag is soaked in, as L so thriftily tried to save her juice.

Sigh.

I believe she took 1-2.5 bites of sandwich.  At approximately 10:50 a.m., because kindergarten gets HOSED on the lunch schedule.  Which probably explains why she consumed exactly 18 calories?  She had yet to digest breakfast.  And also, I'm not sure she knows how to eat without someone (me) CONSTANTLY saying, "L, take a bite.  Take a bite.  Chew.  Bite.  Chew.  Chew.  Swallow.  Have a drink.  A drink.  Chew.  Drink. Bite."

And so on and so forth. 

She is probably going to be toddler-sized for the rest of her life, unless I decide to play personal assistant to her mouth next year in first grade. 

Big J and L are in a half-day kindergarten class that goes home before lunch, BUT on party days (such as Valentine's Day), they get to stay full-day and have their party in the afternoon, like the rest of the school.  I LOVE this so much, I can't even tell you.  Love, LOVE, love, that I have these random tastes of what life will be like when all my kids are in full-time school next year.

I'm learning that it's going to be a lot of non-eating with some juice box humor thrown in for *fun*.

Valentine's Day 2011: More love, less mega-witch on steroids.

 

It finally occurred to me that I have a generally irritated/ borderline abusive relationship with Valentine's Day.  Mostly because it is A. Lot. Of. Work.  Not unlike LOVE itself.  Romantic and sweet and affectionate.  And ball-busting.  (Pictured above:  a red, red rose ; my valentine's day outfit, complete with hot pink corduroy pants...booya; valentine's on our fridge) 

This job of wife and mother?  Hardest thing I've ever done in my life (including math, so that says something).  Loving this group of hooligans is an actual act of HARD labor.  Messy.  Heartbreaking.  But all kinds of incredible and amazing.  I have little doubt that one day, they will realize that my love is a set of hamsters, vacations at the beach, art projects and a Wii for Christmas....as much as it is vomit clean-up, time-outs, nap times and handwriting practice.  (Pictured above:  a draw-string bag filled with Oreo truffles, as you all so appropriately coined them; today's date with Little J to Jilly's cupcake bar; my homemade valentine for Mike)

(Pictured above:  L's valentine stash; more of Little J's fingerpainting artwork; and oopsie!, another shot of our refrigerator...)


And today, I decided that I would love my family with grace.  At one point, i stopped correcting my children for stupid things, I didn't ask them to clean up their messes 1,000,001 times.  When I wanted to CURSE the mountain of blankets they unfolded, I popped a few (or 10) sweethearts and...simply refolded them.  It took 2 minutes and all of my willpower.  There's a time for correction, no doubt.  But also a time to just let them be little people without 578 responsibilities every hour. 

Today I remembered that it is REALLY hard to love others well.  Even with my children, it isn't a natural instinct.  And most of the time I forget that loving them well does NOT always mean with gifts and projects and the matching appearance of having my crap together.  

Best thing I did for my family today?  Bought a pizza at Sam's Club for dinner, instead of cooking something fancy they don't want to eat, and being a mega-B while trying to fix it.  Also, the chocolate fondue for dessert wasn't bad either....

Happy Valentine's Day, blogworld.  Hope it was a good one.

I believe I have successfully dominated Valentine's Day.

My love is a garlic cheeseburger AND cheese fries (AND my kid's left-over cheese fries)

 from Marvin's in Greencastle, Indiana.

Oh. My. Goodness.

Question I will ask God when I die:

How did I manage to eat garlic cheeseburgers (and cheese fries AND real coke) 2-4 times a week at MIDNIGHT (second dinner) without having to buy new clothes every 3 weeks????

Late teen/Early 20's metabolism?  I.  Miss. You.

So, SO much.

I have dreamed about reuniting with this particular piece of meat for approximately 2 years.  And it did NOT disappoint.  Oh no, it did not.  Nor did the cheese fries, which THANKFULLY, still utilize the traditional cheese and not that crap that they replaced it with for a 6-8 month period back in 1996.  That STILL gives me nightmares.

Also.  If you went to DePauw University, then I will tell you that kiwis became obsolete in 2006.  This is very sad to me, because it means we OLD.  Like, pre-digital photography OLD.  And also, this makes for a semi-boring dining experience, without the years upon YEARS of photos taken of drunk college students, because there is NO GREATER ENTERTAINMENT, than spotting that picture of your roommate passed out in the middle of your group photo at the spring formal and knowing it will be there forever.  But just as I was beginning to curse technology and the digital age, my children attempted to lick the floor underneath our booth and *BAM* I wasn't bored or philosophical anymore.  While Marvin's is indeed "new", I wouldn't call it "clean".

Also, I have a grown a *small* infatuation with Just Dance 2. 

If you are friends with me on facebook, you may have seen my obsession in action.

You're welcome.

My affection (and SKILL) grows with WINE.

It. Was. Awe-some.  Particularly when the boys did the African-themed dance.

So.  You may have gathered that we've been out of town this weekend?  I would have told you that last week and used it as leverage for your sympathy, but announcing our road trip is like sending an evite for a mass robbery, no? 

All my frantic, Valentine's Day drama was made all the worse by the fact that I could not count on our weekend for crafting.  This REALLY screwed with my signature procrastination time schedule, as I'm sure you can imagine.  But in the spirit of the holiday, and crafting, the card pictured above was the work of Little J.  I drew a heart, he finger painted it, I *added* some borders and a ribbon.  He knocked 5 of these babies out in 3.5 minutes. 

And this is what we like to call a win-win with preschool crafters.

Happy Valentine's Day-Eve, friends!  I have heart-tights to throw in the laundry, 9124 calories to burn and 541 paper bits to sweep off the floor tomorrow!  Bring it, Monday.

Where I compare Valentine's Day to a fictionalized serial killer.

Too.  Many.  Projects.  Going.  On.

Valentine's Day officially has me on a chain in a dark hole and it is telling me to put the lotion in the basket.

Heeeeeeeeelp.  Heeeeeeeeeeeeelp.

Don't hurt me, Valentine's Day.  I'll work harder.  I'll make it cuter.  I promise.

Whimper.

One of today's 385 totally unnecessary projects included the little Oreo balls pictured above.  And I am going to give you the recipe.  Ready?

Ingredients: Oreos (1 bag), cream cheese(1 block), almond bark or candy coating, sprinkles.

Got that?

Grind the oreos to a powder in a food processor.  Blend the oreo powder and the cream cheese.  Roll into balls.  Total rocket science, I know.

Melt the almond bark or candy coating--I prefer candy coating because it comes in a wide variety of colors (cute!) and also melts a bit easier.  Plop an oreo ball into the melted almond bark, push it around to coat it, and set it on a cookie sheet lined with wax paper.  Add sprinkles if you feel like a fancy pants.  Which OBVIOUSLY, I do.  I also find them best if you pop them in the fridge and keep them cold.  But that's just how I roll.  Don't be hatin'.

Are you understanding what happened here?  Let's talk about how GENIUS it was for someone to begin with the perfection of an Oreo, and add more fat AND a candy shell.  Did I just blow your mind?  I think I did. 

But.  "Oreo Balls" is such a lame (and semi-offensive) name.  I'd hate for anyone to think that a sweet little sandwich cookie was castrated for the sake of dessert (though it does sound like something Valentine's Day would do...). 

Any suggestions?

Mental breakdown in 3, 2, 1....

Valentine's Day.  I LOVE this holiday!  Until I remember, I kind of hate this holiday.

I'm kidding (no, I'm not)--I think I am just overwhelmed with the 80+ valentines that need to be addressed by my children this week, with me reprising the role of slave master!  In year's past, I have just printed a photo with all pertinent information on it, as Big J and L's valentines...but this year, they are supposed to be practicing their handwriting.  Aw, crap.


Little J is simply writing his name.  Or any combination of the letters contained within his name.  Also, he is drawing pictures, and has become mildly obsessed with body parts, and were it not for his not-quite-mature fine motor skills, we would be distributing porn amongst his preschool.  Sweet.

And then.  It dawned on me, TODAY, that Big J and L should probably have different valentines to hand out, seeing as they are in the same class and all.  I also came to this conclusion, because when you use a normal sized lunch bag as a valentine? You have to spend millions of dollars on a crap-load of candy to fill it. 


But also, there is a small part of me that would die a little inside if the twins distributed 40 of the same valentine.  Why?  Because I am CRA-ZY.  And Valentine's Day is like the Olympics for a crafter, and I'm guessing that one day someone is going to give me a medal.  And I make things like this one million times more complicated than they need to be.  As witnessed by the fact that I have not purchased one, single box of character-themed valentines.  In my defense, however--those things are SO small, even if the twins wrote in their smallest font size, they wouldn't be able to fit more than 3 letters on there.  I mean, they leave absolutely no space for Little J to draw a penis, which (thankfully) more closely resembles a man with an oddly angular head. 

I am 20 valentines down with 60 more to go.  And I'm trying to talk myself into a rally, which will be easier with the aide of caffeine in the morning.  Also, I have other projects for V-day that include a little sewing. 

Because it makes me freaking happy, okay (isn't that obvious?).  Lay off me.

My son appears to have an allergy to independence.

Let me give you a little back story on Big J.


He was born 15 weeks early (25 weeks gestation).  I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned he was a preemie? Otherwise referred to as an undercooked chicken? 


You might also recall that Big J is a twin to spunky little L.  And this is important to the story, for the purposes of scientific observation, because I have had a side-by-side comparison for these two, as it  relates  to their general development.


I will also tell you, that when babies are born and require a NICU, it is generally acknowledged that WHITE MALE babies do the WORST.  As far as handling the stress of the NICU, and the speed with which they tend to heal and mature and develop.  Almost from Day 1, we were made aware of the fact that Big J would probably be slower to thrive than his Asian, female, counterpart.


Oh my god, this turned out to be SO TRUE.  This kid was completely content to let the ventilator breathe for him.  Like, forever.  As preemies grow, their lungs eventually take on some of the work of breathing (which is still inadequate to sustain life), and the ventilator then compensates and picks up the slack.  Big J, however, decided it was more fun to pop some horse tranquilizers, while "riding his ventilator" and making it do ALL the work.   Turkey.


After nine weeks of these shenanigans, I began to catch on. And just for comparison, L had some pretty major complications early on (including heart surgery) and had STILL managed to lose her ventilator 2 weeks earlier.  Also important to note:  Big J wasn't getting worse.  He just wasn't progressing.  We were at a standstill. 


And so I BEGGED our doctors, nurses, respiratory therapists, clergy staff, janitors, candy strippers, random hospital visitors, you name it, to pull that damn tube out of his throat and let him try it on his own.  This tactic took weeks (mostly because I have no medical training beside the internet), but everyone was hesitant because he didn't appear ready.  They eventually put him on an i.v. caffeine drip, to wake him the hell up and force him to get on with it already.  And I'm fairly confident that if one of those doctors hadn't taken a risk, Big J would currently be the largest preemie on record in St. John's NICU. 


We were ALL PREPPED for the rather high odds that Big J would be put back on a ventilator within 24 hours.  And on a Saturday in February, almost exactly 6 years ago, I heard my baby cry (barely, he was quite hoarse) for the first time. 


And he has remained free of a breathing machine ever since.


*********************


Enter potty training.  Or the time Big J thought I was trying to ruin his life by making him pee in a toilet.  The horror.


Very similar to our ventilator experience, Big J would have been more than content to wear a diaper and have someone else change him.  Hourly, for the rest of his life. 


It didn't go well, for a long, LONG time.


The pediatrician asked about it at a check-up (probably 3 years) and said not to force it, but to let it happen in it's own time.  To which I replied that I have had to force this kid to do EVERYTHING.  And then she laughed and probably made note to call the Division of Family Services. 


**********************


Enter learning to dress ourselves.  Wait.  We're still there, actually. 


Big J pretty much gives up before he even tries.


Are you beginning to see a pattern?  He's a few years away from posting a need for a harem on Craigs list, that would do such things as diaper and dress him. 


To Big J's future wife:  I know you are reading this, and I would like to put on record that his tendencies have been well-documented for his whole life.  But if he still requires wiping and shirt buttoning, then I am deeply, deeply sorry because somewhere along the line I steamrolled right past what would be considered normal parenting failure and straight into WTF-why-didn't-you-just-let-him-have-a-pacifier-for-22-years-while-you-were-busy-ruining-his-life. 

**********************

And finally.  Handwriting.


Big J's biggest struggle is in the fine-motor department--handwriting, for those of you who haven't received thousands of hours of therapy (for fine-motor related activities, not for mental health issues....but I could use a little of that, no?).   Though as I say this, I have a pretty strong suspicion that Big J could be dyslexic, and if I am right, then that will undoubtedly be his largest hurdle.  Well, besides being compared to an undercooked chicken at birth.


I air these thoughts about my boy not to harp on what he doesn't do, or to broadcast the battles he will fight.  But because there is NOTHING WRONG with being dyslexic or having learning issues.  Nothing.  Trust me, when I say that I know how hard it is to fight against the *ideals* of what having kids should be like--but I think most of you would agree that those perfect child dreams run screaming out the door the once your little sweetheart keeps you up every night for 2 years straight AND manages to accessorize all of your clothing with vomit and/or snot at least once a day.  Even moms who wear stilettos get shat on every now and again.    Motherhood ain't pretty, kids ain't clean.  And I'm talking  physically, emotionally, spiritually.  All of it.  Poop stained and tiring.


They struggle.  Big J struggles with school and writing and reading.  And it is going to be a looooooooooong battle, because he gives up before he even tries (hence, the life-long pattern).  We do sight word flash cards everyday, and he begins to whimper if he gets one wrong.  From there he begins to guess at words he knows, and panic, and then generally snot his body weight into a kleenex.  It is bru-tal.


But as it  turns out, with a little reward incentive and some confidence boosting, Big J's handwriting is pretty good.  He has a great memory for his strokes.  It used to take a lot of reminding to get him to apply good pressure with his pencil, but that isn't so much a struggle for us here at home anymore.  Now I am working on his speed and his level of distraction.  When I can get him past his confidence issues, he actually OWNS his work.  Takes pride in it. 


I will also let  it be known that there is  very little coddling  in my methods.  You can blame this on the core of my very being--I am not a patient, emotionally nurturing person by nature.  I'm a git-'er-done kind of gal.  Which is, honestly, FLABBERGASTING, because I get very little actually done.  Crap, I am failing miserably at being me. 


Anyway.  I am learning Big J.  Because I *almost* fell for the snot bomb tactic, and  my instinct was to back off and let the professionals deal with it.  There are a million different things I would rather do than watch my kid struggle to write a word.  It is messy.  Emotionally uncomfortable.  Snotty.  But I have also been handed an opportunity to build him up and PUSH him past his comfort zone. 

Which, would still be a teeny-tiny incubator and a painful breathing machine, if he had his way.  But I'm just not content with letting him settle for that. 

Addendum to my general grievances with life.

So sorry, friends.  Out for the night. 

Book Club.

However, I forgot to tell you that the West County Mall parking garage annoys the snot out of me.  Not for lack of parking, mind you, but rather for the 783 different levels and portals into other dimensions and general lack of a layout that makes any kind of sense.  I just KNEW there was something I forgot to add to last night's list. 

Inefficiency.  Inside-outside-inside clothing in the laundry.  Football players who ignore the basic rules of grooming.  And the West County garage.

Yep.  That's about it.

Things that annoy me: The superbowl edition

I am *learning* a few things about myself.  And the things that annoy me.

Inefficiency. 

Which is AWESOME, because in general, I operate at a 98% rate of INEFFICIENCY.  But I can micro-manage other peoples biz-ness with great skill, apparently.

Laundry. 

But more specifically, when I take something out of the dryer and THINK that it's turned inside-out?  And I take the time to turn it, only to find out that it WAS right-side out and I just made this whole job twice as hard and 10 seconds longer than it needs to be.  It literally makes my blood BOIL.  I may have very obscure anger issues, as they relate to me placing all of my rage upon totally insignificant things.  Also. The laundry inside-outside debacle is probably tied to my seething hatred of inefficiency, but until my children stop wearing and/or soiling underwear, I am screwed.

The last one is a doo-sy, and so we'll call it my Superbowl edition of things that make me want to kick puppies.  

FOOTBALL PLAYERS WHO DO NOT USE HAIR BANDS.

Seriously, I cannot concentrate on this *little* game you are playing, because for-the-life-of-me-oh-my-god-I-am-going-to-freak-out if you do not get that hair off your face/neck/chest/back.  As in, I am 24 seconds away from taking a scissors to my tv screen and freaking chopping it off myself.  I am not kidding, it makes me crazy.

CRAZY.  

And the only thing that makes it worse?  When you take off your helmet and your head is a sopping, wet, stringy dishrag.  Gag.  Don't even  try to tell me that you don't spend 45 minutes combing gigantoid knots out of your rapist hair after you soak it in sweat for 3 hours straight and then basically tease it with your football helmet.  That is not sexy.  Or manly.  Or in any way, shape or form a good idea when it comes to routine hair care. 

For the record, I'm semi-okay with long hair.  IF IT IS CONTAINED.  As in, hidden from the general areas in which I might be able to see it.  However.  If you insist on keeping it long and VISIBLE, there is an pecking order in which I can tolerate it:

1.  Brothers with braids.  One might argue this is somewhat groomed and contained.  To which I say, don't push it.

2.  Samoans/ Pacific Islanders who claim it for tribal reasons and NOT (I repeat, NOT) for looks or coolness. 

3.  White dudes.  Never okay.  NEVER. 

Here's the thing, fellas.  I know you are cool and you play for the NFL.  That's awesome.  But you are, like, 12 beers and 40 pounds away from slipping a roofie in some girl's drink during a Great White concert.  Don't be that guy.  That guy gets arrested.  Or plays for Pittsburgh.

SNAP! 

Just kidding. I know Roethlisburger or berger, or whatever is probably a very nice guy.  He just plays a d-bag on tv.  OMG, I totally get that TMZ makes everyone look riduculous!  Stay strong, big guy. 

And for the LOVE of all things holy.  DO NOT grow your hair out.  Seriously, your reputation CANNOT  take that kind of hit.  But if you must, because all the cool Samoans do it, then USE. A. FREAKIN. HAIR. BAND.

The end.