Today.

Today is me slamming my finger against the edge of our kitchen counter with a rolling pin.  I should mention that this followed a brutal boot-camp style workout fueled by a 90-calorie granola bar; and resulted in me laying on the couch with ice cubes and a graham cracker because the shear pain was about to bring this ship down, and the only thing worse that slamming my finger against the countertop?  Numerous stitches when I nail my head against it.  Ten hours and several hundred cuss words later, it is turning purple under the nail and hurts like a mother whenever I type the letters O, P and L.  


Today is me going to Wal-Mart while it's under construction.  'Nuff said.


Today is 100 degrees and me covered in sweat following my 4-minute school pick-up routine.  


Today is Big J throwing a fit when asked to run in his new soccer cleats.  This resulted in Mike carrying him like a sack of potatoes into the backyard and forcing him to run.  We started out the first day of practice with a BANG!


Today is me calling Mike FRANTIC, 15 seconds after he left to take Big J to soccer practice.  Because he forgot his water AND his ball.  HIS WATER AND HIS BALLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!  Really, it's me not handing the after school routine with anything resembling grace, but I am finding it damn hard to manage four kids and snacks and lunch bags and and tinker toys EVERYWHERE and throbbing fingers and attitudes that refuse to participate in homework and kids that suddenly hate soccer.  I have 6.5 hours of freedom everyday, with which to beat my appendages into purple stumps--and yet the 3 hours between school and dinner (right, there's DINNER to deal with), are dominating me.   


Today is me buying that new Eminem/Bruno Mars song, "Lighters".  I'm wondering when Eminem is going to stop making crazy angry songs with power ballad choruses?  And also, I purchased Gaga's "Edge of Glory" because that song makes me want to dance in a leotard--how many songs do that for you?


Today is me realizing that I have turned in every kindergarten project or form LATE.  And yesterday, I realized that the form that was 1.5 weeks late, was also done WRONG.  Hello, kindergarten mom that can't read.  


Today is me *underestimating* the cook time of our roasted potatoes, by 20 minutes.  So, we ate dinner in two courses, one of which was ALL POTATOES.


Today is me watching a movie (Easy "A") with my husband and going into a percocet-induced coma, because I think we have a few hanging around here from Little J's c-section in '06.  And by the looks (and feel) of it, my finger is about to have itself an offspring, so I think it's totally appropriate.  


Night-night, blog world.

Gladly accepting tips on how to look LESS like a chronic drug user.

"Mrs. Denckhoff, this is Cindy Smith and I am a reading specialist at Big J's school.  I would like to talk to you about Big J, would you give me a call today at school, or on my cell phone sometime this weekend?"


From a girl that NEVER ONCE went to the principle or required a teacher to call home--having to call anyone associated with school on a weekend must mean terrible, awful, no good things.  I have shared on here Big J's delay with mastering the phonetic language, but since we last spoke, we have instituted a family-wide ban on all things pertaining to reading and writing and anything constituting LEARNING this summer.  This as a result of an hour-long fit in Hawaii over a journal entry about cats, I think.


I sort of draw the line at my son hating me for life because he can earn a .04 cent prize for turning in 25 journal entries about cats.  So, I'm kind of expecting this phone call from the reading specialists, because I'm pretty sure every other kid has written entire dissertations, and I'm sure the school is *slightly* concerned that Little J looks like a rabid animal when it's reading time.


Because I am terrible at returning phone calls, yet BRILLIANT at averting confrontations (even regarding 1st grade reading), I waited until drop-off on Monday to walk myself up to her office and talk in  person.


I introduced myself, she introduced herself.  And then there was a pause.  And then I said something like this:


"I'm sure you've noticed there is a delay in Big J's reading? He struggled with it in kindergarten as well, and we've done the whole meeting thing with the teachers and the therapists and he and L were working with Daisy Duke last year, but I've noticed that L has caught on to reading a little faster this summer, and Big J is still struggling.  I'm not sure if you have his file, or if it's in there at all, but he and L were born extremely premature, they only weighed about a pound and a half at birth, and so far (cross our fingers), the only real set back we have seen to date is some difficulty with school, and reading and math.  It's quite remarkable, really, but we're pretty sure they have some sort of learning disability, and we were told this was a real possibility, even from our days in the NICU.  I had every intention of working with them this summer, but I can see it's hard for Big J and his attitude about it all was just going nowhere fast, and we couldn't seem to come to an agreement over the phonetic sounds in the word cat, and well, we just decided I can't work with them anymore if we have any chance of them becoming well adjusted adults.  I mean, I figured we'd work through the reading once we were back in school and all, but I didn't want him to hate school, because I NEED him to love school, because that is when I get to drink wine for 6 hours straight.  Kidding, I don't drink wine for six hours straight--haha!  Also, he has an issue with writing letters backward?  Not just the 3 and the 6 and the ones they usually tend to write backward, but all of them?  One time I watched him write his entire name upside down and backward--what does that mean?  He definitely has fine motor issues, but once we realized he was left handed, that seemed to get a little better.  Anyway, being that they are twins and all, its hard not to compare them, and L just seems to be catching on to sounding out her words and Big J is still struggling and I'm just not sure what to do about it.  Also, my husband has a learning disability that was never diagnosed, but that he will tell you is fairly obvious and has existed his entire life, and so we are thinking that on top of prematurity there is a genetic propensity for Big J and L, or all our kids really, to struggle with some aspect of school.  Also, I have 8 journal entries that we did this summer if you'd like to see them?"


And breathe.


As I was wondering if I gave a thoughtful and complete understanding of John's academic history?  Did I leave anything out?  I want her to know that I am prepared for what she is going to say, that we will work with him 4 hours a day, that I will medicate him, that I will praise him, that I will bribe him with money, that I WILL NOT REST until he can spell "cat."


Her response?


"I was just calling to get your verbal approval for me to work with John one on one in the reading recovery program?"  And a general look of fear and confusion as to HOW EXACTLY I manage to raise four kids while doing SO MANY DRUGS.


Super.  So glad I self-diagnosed my kid with dyslexia and provided no less than 10 points to support this theory, to a professional trained in this sort of thing--that doesn't make me look all CRAZY TIGER MOM or anything.  Verbal approval for extra reading help?  Shoot, I am 382 steps ahead of that and mentally debating his high school IEP (Individualized Education Plan) and ultimately his career choice (Engineer!)--but I will gladly dial it back to 1st grade.


This is me learning that I don't need to give every teacher at our school a full medical and academic history of the twins.  

Questions inspired by the VMAs.

Didn't Jay-Z retire?


Is Lady Gaga that dude from Dazed and Confused?  I. Think. So.


Who is Rick Ross and what small city did he eat?


How many years until MTV actually sets someone on fire for shock value?   This flying through the air stuff is SO BON JOVI, circa Slippery When Wet.  You better RECOGNIZE, Chris Brown.


Does Lil' Wayne own a BELT?  WTH, I think he designed those pants to sit below his butt cheeks.


WHY is Jean Claude Van Damme wearing a SPEEDO?  Oh wait, Mike changed the channel to Blood Sport.


Did anyone consider that a girl sitting on a lounger with a broken leg is kind of a buzz kill?


Who wants to bet that Lady Gaga ACTUALLY births a baby live on stage next year?


Is that a dude wearing a tye-dyed cat shirt? 


WHY. IS. KIM. KARDASHIAN. ON. MTV??????  You've already hijacked my E! news, must you take my Teen Wolf?????


Are dumb hats required attire?


Don't you LOVE Bruno Mars?  You should.


In a street fight between Katy Perry, Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj's accessories, who would win?


You call that a preview of "The Hunger Games"?  Try again, and make me believe it's not "Backdraft, Part 2".


Isn't it CHEATING if you sing entire songs using a synthesizer (I'm talking to you, Britney Spears and Lil' Wayne)?

I believe the children are our future.

New Buzz Word:  Smart Boards

I've heard it casually referenced, ever since G began kindergarten, usually in EXACTLY this way:

"Our PTO has graciously paid for 'Smart Boards' in all of our classrooms", followed by clapping.  Ah, the Smart Boards!  Of course!  The Smart Boards!  I LOVE Smart Boards, don't you?  I hear they are curing cancer.

I could tell you that they look like dry erase boards.  And they are in every classroom.  And the PTO pays for them.  And they are smart?  After that, I just nod yes, and if asked to elaborate I would say something stupid about how they are for the children because they are the future and we need to teach them well and let them lead the way, with smart boards.  Chances are also good that I will confuse my Whitney Houston songs, and quote "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" (with Smart Boards)--which will make NO SENSE, because if they are SO SMART, they will be unrhythmical.

{Background, for those who are new here:  I can't even solve today's 2nd grade math, what with all the tally marks and coin counting and what not, probably because I am without a SMART BOARD.  Back in 1982, there was chalk and textbooks with the answers written in them, and those erasers with the multiplication table that I totally used to cheat on my tests until I got BUSTED.  So it turns out, I don't understand the curriculum OR the tools used to teach said curriculum.  Fan-tastic.}

So last night, at our school's Open House night, the Smart Boards were referenced (yet again), even though they look so DUMB, just hanging there and all.  And then.

LO AND BEHOLD!  G's third grade teacher TURNED IT ON!  And it was like an iPad that's as big as a bulletin board!  You can use your finger to click on stuff, and pens to write on it!  That sucker is SMART!  I started clapping and OMGing, and probably the rest of the parents then saw through my earlier bullsh#! about how we need to show the children all the beauty they posess inside, by giving them a sense of pride (with a Smart Board).  It was all very enlightening.

And then I met Mike down in Little J's kindergarten classroom--because we had to be in 45 different rooms for (what feels like) our 45 different kids--and my excitement made him think I took speed in the bathroom, but then I told him all about the Smart Boards, and he was all "What!  Really! That's AWESOME!", and we proceeded to get a personal demonstration from Little J's kindergarten teacher, because really, he had no idea either.

Which leads me to believe there are MORE OF YOU OUT THERE, who are quoting Whitney Houston lyrics in an attempt to sound intellectual at PTO meetings.  The next time someone asks you if you LOVE the Smart Boards?  You say:

"Absolutely, they are amazing--I particularly enjoy the way the children can access the knowledge of the Internet and exercise their freedom to seek truth, from the safety of the classroom setting."

Boom.

You will be PTO president in precisely 12 minutes.

This is all a part of our parenting philosophy.

Dear Big J,

Someday, you will THANK ME for being this embarrassing.  And making you take your lunch to school in (what looks like) an insulated golf bag.  


I *believe* your father kindly asked me to toss this golf-bag-sized-cooler.  I said "No" because I have a disease called HOARDING--but please don't worry, it will only prove fatal if I am crushed by an avalanche of my acrylic paints, and/or my countless bins of baby clothes.  Instead, the good Lord has chosen to work life lessons into my disability, and I greatly look forward to the day when L's old feeding tube supplies will aid your understanding of science (and *hopefully* not a talent for cooking meth).  And I think we all know that my stash of post-birthing supplies (link HERE) are a lesson in ABSTINENCE, son.


You can't BUY the quality of this education.  You must simply survive it.


You see, we are two weeks into the school year, and you have lost your lunch bag.  This was a tragic error on your part, as it has resulted in having to take the LARGEST LUNCH BAG known to man, to school today.  It's entirely possible that your arms are not long enough to actually reach your lunch at the bottom--Dad and I have discussed this, and we have decided that in addition to your lesson on responsibility?  You will also need to hone your skills of resourcefulness to successfully survive the lunch room today.  Rig up a contraption MacGyver-style to fish your lunch out, or flirt with the lunch lady, or kill the kid next to you for his tuna sandwich--just figure it out, son.  If you work extra hard and Mark Burnett is still alive in 15 years, there is a good possibility that you could be an actual contender on "Survivor"--in that case, please, PLEASE never align yourself with a woman who packs a string bikini as her bathing-suit-of-choice for a month in the Amazon rain forest.  That's just plain dumb.




If you are wondering why your lunch bag is also SO heavy (in addition to being tall and incredibly awkward)?  It seems that we are also down one, small ice pack.  Since I wouldn't want your yogurt to spoil, we have chosen to use the 10-pound, blue ice block that is designed to provide portable refrigeration for large coolers. Consider it a favor, and further training for your inevitable reality-TV debut.  Whether you are expected to carry 100 gallons of water on your shoulders for a food challenge, or you are spilling your guts to Dr. Drew on "Celebrity Rehab", I am fairly confident that the enormous-insulated-golf/lunch-bag-incident will provide the weight training and emotional damage necessary for good TV.  


And how else do you expect to survive your teenage years, when we take that photo of you sporting your sister's princess costumes, and tag you in it on facebook?  Or when Dad videotapes your ENTIRE first date, and then broadcasts it live on YouTube?  You will surely die of that kind of humiliation, if not properly trained with lunch bag shenanigans and April Fool's Jokes and entire blog posts dedicated to your childhood.  When you think you are going to die of embarrassment?  Just remember that it gets much, MUCH worse, and it all comes to a head at your rehearsal dinner, where photos of EVERY INJUSTICE WE HAVE EVER MADE YOU SUFFER THROUGH, will be revealed in a slide show set to slow jam ballads of the 80's and 90's.  


If you can survive that night without killing us in our sleep?  We will have succeeded in raising you well.  Otherwise, you will be facing jail time--and let's face it, your childhood will have prepared you beautifully for that scenario as well.


We love you, Big J.   Now go on and give me 20 more bicep curls with the 30-pound lunch bag, as I believe we have established that it's for your own good.


xoxo,
Mom

Bright blue with a top coat of glitter.

What is it about a birthday that makes one pop out of bed, ready to start the day and happy to make (what feels like) 245 turkey sandwiches?  I need a little more cafeteria-inspired enthusiasm in my day.


After the HIGH of my 21st birthday as a college senior, and the LOW of my 22nd birthday as a pet-donkey for a PR agency, I pretended to be all bitter about growing older, resentful of the lack of celebration that ended with me SCREAMING the words to "You Shook Me ALL Night Long".  Poor Mike, he could never quite compete with the pomp and circumstance of 65 sorority girls who were just back on campus for the year and all OHMYGODHOWAREYOUYOUARESOOOOOOTAN and ready to PARTY with cheap vodka shots and pitchers of liquor that cost $1 (and made you throw up all night, because it must have been spoiled...weird).  Plus, I was rush chair which means I was practically in charge of the whole WORLD (or...of pushing house meeting back until 1 p.m the next day), so that means it was FREE SHOTS FOR EVERYONE (because credit card = free) and a really sloppy rendition of rush chants for the pleasure of the entire bar.  You're welcome.


Where was I?


Mike.  Right.  Making me impossibly happy.


Unless, of course, he was giving me that phat diamond I cried about ALL THE TIME-- and back in 1998, I was just too crazy for precious gems that cut glass, because there was a very real threat that I would inadvertently kill him.  And by kill him, I mean softly with whining and insecurity, and not by ACTUALLY pecking him to death with my as-yet-non-existent engagement ring.


But eventually he married me.  And then we produced our own animal house of, well...animals wearing cute monograms.  Sometimes they throw up on the floor...and the 8-year-old is learning the art of dot letters, and so it is all circling back to 1997, but this time with skinny jeans...except that no one is passing out in the basement,  because, who am I kidding, we don't have a BASEMENT.


Whew.


Today, I paid to paint my toes bright blue with a topcoat of GLITTER.  That's 35 for you--bright blue with a top coat of glitter and a big ass something on the bottom of my foot.  I would never have painted my toes blue when I was 21, because I thought I was too cool, but really, I was too afraid of standing out, or being "bright blue with a top coat of glitter" different.  That is, until someone gave Gismo water after midnight (translation:  LOTS of alcohol), and then YES please, she'll do a keg stand (or 12), before she pukes and passes out on the porch swing--except that's really not all that *different* because college co-eds have been getting wasted and passing out since they started drinking moonshine in old leather shoes.  That's just fitting in. I've spent a whole lotta time being so sloppy drunk I was BORING, wanting and fearing attention, in equal parts.  


But now I am bright blue with a top coat of glitter.


That's a metaphor for ROCKING the pants off of 35.

Happiness at 35

Tomorrow, I turn 35...WOOT!  Sigh.  Having suffered disasters of epic proportions in my 20's, I do feel like my  30's are the years to slack in my in-laws basement and send my kids to school all day while I eat twinkies write my *masterpiece*.   Thirty-five is my year to become a writer--or grow dreads and become a chain smoker while I die trying.


But this being the eve of my birthday, I've decided to come up with a list of the things I covet most in my old age.  

Presenting....

Happiness at 35:    

Having my sinuses removed, because they have caused NOTHING BUT TROUBLE for about 4 years.  Can you breathe without sinuses?  Doesn't matter because I can't breathe right now.  

These shoes.  Which would have made me vomit when I was 21, but now look greatly appealing and potentially comfortable on that thing that's STILL GROWING on my foot.  Noted:  Many items on this list are designed to accommodate parts of me that are growing unnaturally.

Ditto for Gray Converse sneakers.  Footwear becomes crucial in your mid-30's apparently.  And also, there is this fear that all of my winter shoes are in the POD and I am going to lose my toes to frostbite this year.

Smaller thighs.

Chardonnay in a box.  Let's splurge on the big size, even, from Target.

48-hours to sleep off that gigantic box of wine.  

ONE DAY without the Kardashians.  And more Teen Wolf.

A hair dryer.  Mine disappeared (seriously, it no longer exists) about a year ago.  And I stopped caring sometime after G was born.  But there is this AWESOME craft on Pinterest, where you use one to melt crayons on a canvas?  Yeah, I need it for that.  Also, a box of crayons and a canvas.

A contract on our HOUSE.  And a new HOUSE.  With a nook.

Sushi and cupcakes from The Cupcakery.  Oh!  And a garlic cheeseburger from Marvin's in Greencastle, Indiana.   But not necessarily in that order.

To be able to listen to Katy Perry and not feel like a TERRIBLE mother.

World peace, because you're supposed to want that.

A 44-ounce diet coke in a styrofoam cup.

Inspiration to create something amazing.  And the time to do it.

Boldness.

The patience to teach my children to:  tie their shoes, brush their teeth, wipe their bottoms and take a shower.  Unassisted.   

To see that movie about the highly contagious disease.   

A typewriter, to make gift tags.  Dead Serious.  

Air conditioning, because it's gonna be 100 degrees tomorrow.  

The perspective to enjoy the time I have with my kids, as much as I miss them when they are gone.  Even when they are whining about something or other.  

Three more friends on facebook, which would bump me up to 500.  *Almost* SO POPULAR.

A French bulldog named Francois.  

Happy Birthday to ME!

In other lame news.

We had this for dinner tonight, with turkey burgers.  It's an corn and avocado salad--and the children embraced it with the same *enthusiasm* they usually save for their polio vaccinations.  It didn't go well, what with the dry heaving and all.  Freaking A, kids, those are tomatoes--not rabbit turds.


On the other hand, I loved it.  Found it on Pinterest, recipe HERE.  Except that I winged it at the grocery store today, so my version is minus the red onion and cucumber and garlic powder.  Oh, and I skimmed the recipe when cooking too, so my rendition also includes two tablespoons of cooking sherry (which I confused with sherry vinegar).  But then I threw some vinegar in there too, so freaking relax already.


This post is so lame.


Sorry, I'm on drugs.  Fo real.  Something that looks like a horse tranquilizer that is going to kill the thing crapping mucous out of my nostrils.  I sick.


Know what's lamer than a blog post about my dinner?


Being sick in August.  Lame.  Sick is supposed to wear wool and sweatpants, not a bathing suit.


Did you know Kim Kardashian got married?  Just checking, in case you were in a coma this weekend.  Also, the Jersey Shore is in Italy?  I know this because I have watched the first episode approximately 24 times, and can recite it word-for-word.  Damn, I miss my DVR.  And having a life.


So.  


I'm gonna go watch E! News and hear all about the color of Kim Kardashian's poop on her wedding day.  I hear they have never before seen footage.

My resume.

Last week?  I began the business of making friends.

This entailed turning in my PTO volunteer form, and volunteering to lead a committee--with a disclaimer that I would totally understand if they want someone with more *experience*.  You know, since I attended ZERO school events last year and have NO friends there.  Details, right?  I feel like I need to prove my worth, and provide an entire resume that includes writing entire trivia nights and sewing baby quilts for preschool teachers?

Which got me motivated.  To write my "Mommy" resume.

Name:    Sara Denckhoff
Occupation:  Dictator, Communist Nation of Denckhoffs
College:  DePauw University, Greencastle, IN
Children:   G, age 8; Big J and L, age 6; Little J, age 5

Objective:  To obtain friends at our new elementary school by creating a committee that is obligated to hang out with me 1-2 times per month.

Interests:  Sewing, reading, blogging/writing, paddleboarding (done it once, but I am INTERESTED in it), Wine (esp. Chardonnay in a box from Target), bargain shopping, monograms, house re-habing, running, wood work, playing golf, traveling, crafts involving felt, world peace.

Interests by ACTUAL hours of commitment:  facebook, folding laundry, searching for missing shoes, applying sunscreen to children, watching the "Jersey Shore", new obsession with "Teen Wolf", shopping at Target, hoarding EVERYTHING, sewing shirts with angry birds on them.

Previous Experience:

Childbirth (Nov. 2002--April 2006)
Four children in three actual births in 3.5 years, proves that I am faster at producing children than the average (sane) woman.

Making baby food  (March 2003)
Participated in this trend for approximately 2 weeks, and gained CRUCIAL understanding that blending broccoli is MY LIMIT, but signing up for 17 different school events on 5 consecutive days during the Christmas season is not.

Spirit Week Banner Maker (Feb. 2010)
Volunteered to make 30 spirit week banners and signs.  Because I *love* paint fumes and am addicted to cold medicine like Jesse Spano on Saved by the Bell.

City Museum (May 2010)
Took all four children to the City Museum on a SATURDAY for G's end of year Girl Scout activity, three days after Little J had his tonsils removed (and forgot his pain meds).  Only lost one child for 14 minutes and did not suffer an aneurysm, proving that my common sense will not prevent me from participation in school-sponsored events!

Room Mom (Aug. 2009--May 2011)
Big J and L's preschool--planned and executed all class parties AND sewed a baby quilt for teacher that included artwork from all 40 STUDENTS.  That's right, I said 40.

G's class, 1st and 2nd grade--achieved life goal and successfully convinced previous school's PTO that I had my sh#! together.

Reality TV Junkie (From debut of "The Real World" until present)
Avid watcher of 19 and Counting, Jon & Kate Plus 8, Little People/ Big World, Teen Mom, 16 and Pregnant, making me very familiar with a variety of parenting styles and pitfalls to avoid in parenting.  I am nothing, if not educated.

Professional volunteer (November 2000-present)
Have earned ZERO dollars in 11 years, and yet have worked My. Ass. Off. (not literally).

Valentine's Day (February 2009, 2010, 2011)
Organized and assembled 80+ valentines for four children.  BECAUSE THREE OF THEM CAN'T READ/WRITE YET.  My children are well exposed to crafts and the arts, with less emphasis on actual life skills.

***********

And in the midst of proving myself cool enough, I think:

WTF, YOU ARE VOLUNTEERING TO PLAN AN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL ART NIGHT.

You are NOT curing the bubonic plague.

Master's Degrees in Arts and Crafts are not required.

Welcome to Monday, blog world!

When Dora the Explorer aligns with our school to fight communism.

Okay, just kidding.


I need more than a day to prepare my "mommy resume" as I am, apparently, grossly overqualified to volunteer at our elementary school.  As it turns out, I should probably be leading a small country that lists "arts and crafts" as it's major export.  


In exchange?  I will tell you a story about the kids at school today, and how I inadvertently pumped L fully of bagels for a small up charge.  You see, blogworld, packing lunch for four kids requires me to make (what feels like) one million sandwiches before the sun rises.  True, I only have four kids--but sometimes it feels like I have one million of them too, particularly before the 9 a.m.  11 a.m. hour.  


Except for Friday.  Friday = pizza day.  It's a universal law of elementary schools, and my kids told me 932 times that they wanted hot lunch today.  And because I can take a hint, I walked into the office today and ordered up some pizza for the chickens.


Let me also say, that Mike and I do not believe in giving our kids choices until they are MARRIED.  Otherwise, it is WAY too complicated, and in the meantime, we are content to sacrifice their individuality for the sake of ORDER.  It might start innocently with ice cream flavors and sports choices, but before you know it?  We will own 53 Dora the Explorer t-shirts.  No way.  Instead, we prefer to consider ourselves much like a small, communist country--a tid-bit I need to include on my "resume".   


Apparently, our school district is more suited toward democracy?   Which is good for L, because she is going to fail to pay all her taxes and still INSIST on benefits like unemployment and social security.  Mark. My. Words.  It comes as no surprise then, that when  I picked the kids up from school today, and asked about their pizza lunch?  Little L proceeds to tell me she chose a BAGEL.  


Now, what would Mao Tse Tung do?


Yes, it was pizza day, but L opted for Door #3--the bagel with butter and apple juice.  Because you know what's cooler than eating pizza?  Having the freedom to choose WHATEVER THE HELL SHE WANTS for lunch.  Even if it's EXACTLY what she had for breakfast.  I understand this is a healthy, low-fat choice, but L is an almost 7-year-old disguised as a toddler, so if straight lard were an option for lunch?  I WOULD ORDER IT.


Live and learn and discuss the importance of full fat diet choices, I suppose.


Happy Weekend, friends.

My plans are often a cluster of too many choices.

My girl.


Did I forget to mention the part of the story where we decided to move G to the school in our district?  Oopsie.   To be honest, I'm not really sure when we decided on this, though we have talked about it for a while.  You know, since we had FOUR KIDS at THREE SCHOOLS, which is a good sign that I breathed toxic chemicals for a good part of the years my brain was forming--because that was not a *smart* choice.


You know what my PROBLEM IS?


Inability to say NO?
Too many fried foods?
Easily distracted?
Lack of closet space?


Well yes.  But no.


Too many *good* choices, too many options.  Because I don't actually choose, per se, I simply hoard them.  You might recall my craft supplies?  And any kid's clothing on clearance at Target?  The 23,000 boxes I moved out of our house?


And the THREE DIFFERENT SCHOOLS I enrolled my kids in.


The thing is, I LOVE G's old school.  It's small, it's Christian-based, it's friendlier than any other school I've ever been a part of (and there have been a lot).  And G's friends?  Sweet, sweet girls that we will miss.  The kind of kids you PRAY your kids will befriend.


But.  There are three other chickens.  Big J and L, who, due to their prematurity, NEED the services offered by our school district.  Our really great school district, that we pay a lot of tax dollars to be a part of.  The school that has bent over backward for us, provided the twins with services before they actually qualified for them, and left us with the decision to keep them in the same class this year.  And yet, this is a community we are completely separated from, because my attention was divided at THREE DIFFERENT SCHOOLS.


Last year, I was less than enthusiastic about this school--it felt SO big, so foreign.  Everyone seem to have a place, and I had half-day kindergartners and showered every third day and failed to submit any paperwork in a timely fashion.  Also, there was the Girl Scout debacle (link HERE), and you better believe that made me bat-sh#! crazy.  But I also know that I made ZERO effort, invested almost none of my time, and was basically okay with being invisible.  You know, except for when I complained all about not knowing anyone.


On the other hand.  We LOVED G's old school, but it made life complicated.  Getting her there, getting her home.  Having different sets of friends that live 20 minutes away from us.  Spending money we would rather save.  My love for things inspires a lot of my decisions; but I have 87 boxes of unused fabric that says those choices aren't always wise.


And then there is G herself.  My firstborn, I always tried to make the world easy and uncomplicated for her.  To this day, she still YELLS for me to check her hair in the shower, such is her trepidation over leaving soap in her locks.  She doesn't navigate life and change with particular ease, and I have always parented her with a sense of keeping her safe and comfortable.  To hold her constant, lessen transition, keep things predictable.  There is fear in her, and I KNOW she needs to challenge her comfort zones.  With third grade and new friends--and NOT (I repeat, NOT) as a college freshman deciding she's going to push her boundaries by *dabbling* in a little recreational drug use.


And really, we just know that the kids need to be together.  All four, at the same school--which is possible for the first time this year.  It means we are staying at this school for the duration of the school year.  Maybe for all of eternity?  


Which leads me to my other problem.


Big hips?


Well yes. But no.


I attach to things WAY to easily.  Every possibility is a perfect forever--but I blame the writer in me, because I can romanticize ANYTHING.  Big house, small house, new school, home school (okay, maybe not that one), living in Hawaii, living in a mobile home.   Every possibility is a new wall to paint, a color scheme, a chance to take up gardening, neighbors with kids that will play with ours, a bike ride to school.  


When we put our house on the market, I fantasized moving ONE BLOCK to the West, which would place us in a new school district, where all of our friends are.  We'd become part of a community, which we just felt lacking in our previous life.  We would marry our home lives, with our school lives, with our church lives, with our social lives.  It was going to be magical and full of crap like rainbows.


Plan:  Sell the house, move to Kirkwood, enroll in new school by the start of the year, live happily ever after.


Reality:  Put house on market, move into in-laws basement, enroll all four kids in one school, surrender all expectations to ever have my own space ever again, realize all of our winter clothes are packed in a POD, live in state of perpetual submission.


I am being challenged, my comfort zones are expanding.  All this change is ripping away my expectations and forcing me to see...something else.  The possibility that I could *possibly* live outside the 4-mile-radius as outlined in "the plan".   I am right there with G, in a new school, a new place, a new life (basically).  And I am going to OWN this.


Beginning tomorrow, when I will outline (in resume format), the reasons why I am *qualified* to be friends with you....

A is for angry.

While in Hawaii, my kid's love affair with angry birds went from being something sweet and innocent, to a FULL ON fatal attraction that would probably end with a boiled rabbit *if* it would in any way help them obtain a $9 key chain.  And REALLY, Angry Birds??!!!  A $60 backpack??!!!  I KNOW that thing was made in China for $.85, so the mark-up on that baby is like 60,000%.  Or something.  I just hope you are having fun lounging in your European castle, financed by the allowances of grade schoolers--I imagine it made of rock and steel and glass and defended (ironically and ineffectively) by small, mean birds.


As there was a slim to no-shot-in-hell chance that I was going to pay $45 for a t-shirt, I decided that I could MAKE them.  And drunk with jet lag from our Hawaiian vacation, I did just that.  Luckily, Old Navy had these ringer tees for $4!!!!  And the darker cuffs around the neck and arms take it up a notch--BAM!


Armed with my handy stash of felt, I started with a red circle, and just added the little feathers on the top of his head.  Everything else was done free hand--but get on the Internet, and have a looksy.  Angry birds aren't really that complicated, as the only odd shape is their beaks--but once I hand-stitched the line to separate top and bottom, it seemed to look okay!  Well, at least you all recognized them as Angry Birds, so I consider it a success.


{HOLD THE PHONE. Did I REALLY just see a commercial for a device that will stir a pot for you?  Yes, yes I did.  Let me put on record that STIRRING is the least of my deficiencies in the kitchen. And why (WHY???) is Tyra Banks addicted to one piece outfits???  And....end rant.}  


Focus.  Fo-cus.


I know this is a piss poor tutorial, but if you are up for a project and can draw *moderately* well, I think you can handle it.  If I am REALLY on my A-game this weekend, I will re-draw the pieces on to paper, and make a pattern that you can use to trace the pieces on to your felt.  But that also involves possibly breaking copyright laws AND scanning/other tasks that are simply outside of my technological ability, so it's very possible I will be arrested and executed via birds fired by sling shot.  Or you will inadvertently download the pattern for an XXXXXL Angry Bird.  You've been warned.


Thanks for your sweet comments and love of the Angry Birds--I've been out of the crafty loop for a while, but I am BACK, baby...I'm BACK!!!

I'm waiting on my unicorn to finance all of the hobbies I am going to take up this school year.

Friends,

I am writing to tell you that I have successfully entered into the phase of parenting known as "MY KIDS ARE IN FULL DAY SCHOOL, SUCKAS!".  And it is beautiful.  


No wait, it's unbelievable.


Scratch that--it's so amazing, I wouldn't be surprised if a unicorn shows up on my doorstep, just to crap a load of diamonds.  As it turns out, I have already been gifted (from God) with a pre-made lunch for tomorrow.  


Why has no one mentioned this before?  Probably because other mothers of full-day-schoolers are sleeping.  Or drunk.  Chances are good you will NEVER hear from me again between the hours of 8:20-3:00, and then, due to the chardonnay, I will be unable to tell you *exactly* what I did in those 6.5 hours.


Now.  I will admit.  It was a tad bit daunting to leave all four children, particularly when two of them were trying very, VERY hard not to lose it.   That part was terrible.  But as it turns out, the day was GREAT for all of them, including our 3rd grader who is completely new to this school.  Remember that million-dollar-swim-team we joined last year?  Turns out that G's table mate was on the same team and they know each other.  See, there is Godly purpose in spending RIDICULOUS amounts of money on extracurricular activities.


And speaking of God?  He performed a classic miracle via a Star Wars lunch box today, as a new sandwich container simply *appeared*.  Initial inquiries produced a story in which the container was given to him by his teacher, and I thought, "Wow!  That's SUPER generous for a kindergarten teacher to gift us lunch ware!" 


EVEN NICER for her to make us a peanut butter sandwich! 


(Dear Jesus, tomorrow the children would love pizza with a side of pudding and sugar cookies. Amen.)


Oh wait.


I'm pretty sure some other poor kindergartner ate five goldfish and half a juice box for lunch (at 10:50 a.m., mind you)--at which point, he was told his 12-minute time slot in the cafeteria was up, while his belongings were shoved (violently) back into his lunch box.  Amidst this flurry of activity, I can only guess that he was told to "BEAT IT!", while being kicked out into the playground, shoeless.   Correction, his belongings (and 80% of his lunch) was shoved into Little J's lunchbox, while, I imagine, he has claimed our ice pack.  So.  I've got a fancy new container AND lunch for tomorrow, and some other family has portable refrigeration for life.  Win-win.  Except for the poor kindergartner who died of starvation this afternoon.


On my end?  I ran some, showered some, checked facebook some.  Worked on my lucrative writing career--or volunteer position--depending on whether you feel salary needs to be involved for it to be considered an actual occupation.  Also, there was lunch, and the baking of chocolate chip cookies, because THAT'S WHAT MRS. GARRETT WOULD DO on the Facts of Life.  And I aim, somewhat successfully, to be a popular 80's sitcom--but I am going to require a 10-year-old robot and a mansion with a miniature, indoor train to keep it authentic.


But for tomorrow?  I am going to (re) learn the moves to Paula Abdul's "Cold Hearted Snake" video, and should you need to reach me, I will be drunk and sliding across a greased up floor in fishnet stockings.  Because I can.


Forever Your Girl,
Sara

Editing my job description.

For a good part of EVERY summer, I sweat my ass off on the side of the pool.


I am *particularly* effective at locating diving torpedoes and preventing major head traumas, but less adept at orchestrating *actual* fun.  Mostly because I don't like my face to be wet.  Or my hair.  Or my bathing suit, for that matter.


Me no likey being wet.


Which is SO DUMB, because sweating on a plastic chair while screaming and pointing sounds so SEXY.


But to my credit?  Less than 2 years ago, I was responsible for 4 YOUNG LIVES at the pool, and fun would have been terribly irresponsible.  If you ever wonder how OLD HAGS are made?  It's the result of the aneurysm one has when bringing a toddler (or 2 or FOUR) to a public pool.  


But today is our last day of summer.  Our last day of freedom.  Tomorrow I edit my job description, because for a majority of my day, I will no longer be with my little people.


Little J starts kindergarten.  


Full. Day. Kindergarten.


I have so eagerly awaited this day, that I never anticipated MISSING THEM.  And going to the zoo in the fall, when it's cool and empty because everyone is in school.  Having lunch together.  Herding them through Target.  I wasn't nearly this bothered when G left me 3 years ago, but at the time, there were 3 other hooligans lining up to have their diapers changed and also my fragile, oh-so-FRAGILE mental health to deal with.


But today?  Little J walked me through this idea of change.  Stepping out of (perceived) comfort zones, with a drenching jump into the pool, followed immediately by another.  And then an introduction to goggles and underwater waving and ACTUALLY diving for those damn torpedoes I'm always screaming over.  Who told me that I hated this?  


Tomorrow?  I will have to take that jump all by myself.  Tomorrow is about choosing differently, and taking new risks and trying new things.  Letting go of old (and outdated routines), and resisting the temptation to (figuratively) sit and sweat my sunscreen into a puddle between my stomach folds.  


Wish us luck.

How monograms are going to save me from the appearance of cooking drugs in my car.

I'm thinking MONOGRAMMED CAR MATS.

You know, to distract passengers from the homeless man living in my van.

Haven't quite located him yet, but the smell, OH THE SMELL--its definitely human in a glandular marinade, slow roasted at 105 degrees for 29 days.  With ants.   Stupid, stupid ants carrying 3-year-old french fries.  After dry heaving for 2 days straight, we drove the van to a car wash and Mike proceeded to torch it spray the floor mats down for 35 minutes.  Turns out, they are permanently stained and the invisible homeless man has yet to be found (though, I suspect he is STILL using my car upholstery as a towel following a spit bath).  We have purchased a vanilla car deodorizer, if that makes you feel better.

Blogworld, I am SO SORRY for my absence.  I had EVERY intention of blogging before I went to bed on Thursday, but as you might remember, we took the red eye home from Hawaii on Wednesday night--and after 30+ hours of continuous awake time, I was actually beginning to see the future in 4-D with sub-titles.  It was confusing.

Immediately following our landing in St. Louis at 1:30 p.m. on Thursday, Mike and I and our four sleep-deprived kids headed straight to our MEET THE TEACHER ice cream social!  As I have not opened a single piece of mail in a month, I had to request the following information:  the names of all our kid's teachers, the location of their rooms, confirmation that school ACTUALLY begins on Tuesday, a school supply list (for. every. class), the time school begins, and oh!  what time I need to be back here to pick them up?

I'm pretty sure they think we cook meth.  And they might be *partially* correct, as I imagine that's what it feels like to keep a family of 6 awake for 1.5 days at a high altitude, fueled SOLELY by Krispy Kremes and the breakfast platter served at an airport Sbarro's?

I would like to tell you that we are readjusting their schedules?  But since our return, the chickens seem unable to fall asleep before midnight OR wake up before 9:30 a.m. (unless physically coerced to do so by their mean parents).  Tuesday's 6:30 wake-up call is VERY likely to result in rabid monkey syndrome.  And if anyone knows where to acquire tranquilizers?  I am ALL. EARS.

Combined with the fact that 3 of 4 children have yet to wipe their own asses, L's tendency toward Oscar-worthy temper tantrums, the *strange* yet distinct odor of vanilla sweat trailing our mini(van), the homeless man hiding in our tire wells AND the 37 ants my children are likely to pick up on the 5 minute drive to school on Tuesday?

I think the Division of Family Services will be here shortly.  Not sure what it means when we have the APPEARANCE of being meth addicts while being completely sober.

Leavin' on a jet plane.

THIS has been my view, for 2 weeks.  

You can understand, maybe, that it's a *little* hard to leave.

But we are mainland bound in a little over two hours.  

And I'm not very happy about it.

Except for the individual t.v. screens on our Delta ride home.  

That's pretty awesome.

Sleep well, blog world.  Until I catch you again in Central Standard Time.

The food soundtrack to my childhood.

1st Row (top), l to r:  Li Hing Mui Gummy Bears (Longs Drugs), Malasada (Leonard's Bakery), Ahi Poke (Sam's Club), Shrimp Scampi Plate (Giovanni's), Chocolate-Haupia Pie (Ted's Bakery)

2nd Row, l to r:  Hamburger Steak (Zippy's); Chicken Katsu (Kikuya Restaurant), Dim Sum (Legend's Restaurant), Shave Ice (Matsumoto's), Meat Jhun (Soon's)

3rd Row, l to r:  Puka Dog (Puka Dog); Saimin noodles/potato salad/hot dogs/sushi (homemade family party); Mixed Plate (Rainbow Drive-In), Baked Manapua (Chun Wa Kam Noodle Shop), Chili Frank (Zippy's)

**********

When one speaks of food in Hawaii, it is like a beloved family member; such is the depth and history of a love that runs deep and fatty.  It is ALWAYS messy, and oily and mostly deep fried.  With rice.  And macaroni salad.  And if gravy is involved?  You just throw that sucker over everything and say AHHH.

You will be fat and dimple-y and  *probably* struggle with cholesterol issues for life, but you will be HAPPY.  Life is all about picking your battles, people.

I haven't been hungry in over 29 days--because there is always something else I have missed DEEPLY enough to justify, what eventually becomes, a whopping 10 pound weight gain.  I don't even have an innate sense of my body's physical need for food, I just ASSUME it wants four-servings worth of something battered and fried AND a Diet Coke--which means I am PRECISELY 18 months away from my own reality show on The Learning Channel, in which my food is delivered by a pulley system via my bedroom window.  It started as a guilty indulgence, and sometime about 10 days ago, it became a mission to eat the ENTIRE island.  If I had to pinpoint a moment precisely?  It might be our trip up to the North Shore.  Because nothing signals a *problem* like eating half a pie (with a spoon) on the side of the road.  In a bathing suit (have you no boundaries, woman????).

Not sure if I've mentioned this, but Mike and I have also settled ourselves into a *lovely* little breakfast routine, catered (every morning), by 7-11.  Because it's right across from our beach house, but also?  7-11 serves noodles and spam musubi, and Lup Cheung manapua (Mike's fave)--and it is AWESOME (and full of sodium).  Taquitos are SO lame, yo.

Also, there was the Puka Dog incident?  Which is the equivalent of eating a LOAF OF BREAD stuffed with a gigantic hot dog and *special* garlic sauce.  Delicious, but I popped a c-section stitch on that one.  It would still have been okay, if it wasn't quickly followed by a pina colada on Waikiki Beach?  Thirty-two ounces ofheavy cream is not a wise choice when followed by the world's most enormous stuffed hot dog.  Or when playing Just Dance 2 on the Wii (fact).

Two days left.  Which means I will be eating something AMAZING every 23 minutes until I arrive for our flight home at Honolulu International, at which point Delta Airlines will charge me an extra $25 for the additional Junk. In. My. Trunk.

Getting our bon dance on.

Oh, friends.  I apologize for my absence, but as we are counting down our final THREE days in Hawaii, there have been many, MANY activities, including (but not limited to) eating things smothered in a small vat of chili. True story.  I have pictures, but am waiting to do a collage of foods that are stretching the very limits of my small intestines.  Prepared to be amazed and *maybe* a little nauseous.

Most creative outing amongst old high school friends?  Meeting up at a local BON DANCE.  Because, you know, it's Bon Dance season in the islands.  And seriously, I would have DIED to see this little girl in a kimono, because really, these are her people.


Bon Dancing is kind of slow and fluid and circular. Hosted at a Buddhist temple and set to REALLY traditional Japanese music and a live drum beat.  With hanging lanterns.   It's mesmerizing and crowded and seemingly from another world.  Until they played "The Electric Slide" and then, for 4 minutes, it was like an Asian dance floor set in the early 1900's.  

Best part?  Seeing friends that I haven't seen in...a long time.  Friends that I have known since I was NINE.  Friends I went to Band Camp with!  Friends with who I have MANY pictures taken in matching outfits (including a particularly *sweet* little number that included MATCHING CHECKERBOARD NECK TIES).  

 Friends who now have their own families.  I miss those friends, even though most days I forget the part of my story that existed before bottles and stretch marks and diapers.  

If I could speak to my high school self?

I would tell her to go to the beach more.  Because this place is AMAZING.  

And to learn how to surf because you *probably* won't get eaten by a tiger shark.

And to lay off the hairspray and the high waisted shorts.  

And to eat more things smothered in a vat of chili BEFORE your metabolism catches up 

(this is key).