Probably not on the ADD diet.

Happy Halloween, friends!

To celebrate the inevitability of all of my kids teeth rotting out of their mouths, I have captured Little J in all his high-fructose-corn-syrup-ed glory, consuming ONE of the FOUR king-sized candy bars that he collected tonight.  King-sized is the new crappy tootsie roll, and today's pagans are childhood obesity, tooth decay and diabetes, apparently.


I'm gonna be honest here.  Apart from the bonus of six weeks of candy my children have pan-handled for tonight, Halloween wears my sh#! out.  Mostly because today the kids participated in a Halloween parade at school, which basically means that our 632 different costume accessories had the potential to be tye-dyed in icing and scattered amongst four different classrooms, their adjourning hallways and their shared toilets.  Turns out it was okay, even though I sent L to school with the biggest costume of all time, and that is just ASKING for a red food dye stain, Halloween-style.


We were a butterfly (NOT a fairy), two Jedis and a blue angry bird.  I think my father-in-law got some pictures of the kids in costume last week, but take my word for it, they  were homemade and semi-awkward (see above).  But, as Big J pointed out to me on our ride home from school today, "I NEVER let them do anything fun," and so it appears that my job-success rating is 100%, as I am managing to suck the joy out of their childhood AND dress them in costumes they will consider embarrassing at the age of 18. 


I hope Halloween was great for all of you, and that your kids didn't count the number of Kit-Kat's they received tonight!  Welcome to the holiday season, blogworld; it is my sincere hope that we all survive the next nine weeks without suffering an aneurysm.  

When my children ask me why they can't read, I can tell them that it's because we won the World Series in '11.

Yep, that's about right--by the looks of this picture, our adventure to the Cardinal's World Series parade had a 60% success rate.  This might sound less-than-shabby, unless you are a parent, and then you understand that a small bladder or a case of the seasonal flu can easily scar any outing with urine and vomiting--and so, you learn to celebrate parades with heavy sulking in the same way you appreciate days without head lice.  


But it's been one hell of a post-season.


Ours is a city of Cardinal's fans; to be against them is like being a terrorist or hating french bulldog puppies.  My only limitation is the time commitment involved in a regular season following, as my children have been unshowered for the better part of four weeks now, and we are HARD PRESSED on post-season rest days to find the time to clean the children AND make-up for all those hours we recorded (with the intention of making them up) on our reading logs.  Winning the World Series in seven games gives us a 12% probability of catching up by the time Little J graduates in 2024.  


To that I argue (with myself) that this ALL started because the Cardinal's were 10 games back from entering the post-season.  Kindergarten reading is A LOT like succeeding in major league sports, apparently.  And in the future, when someone asks me if I am a Cardinal's fan, I will CONCLUSIVELY be able to say yes; they have proven (in 2011) more important that they hygiene of my children AND their ability (current and future) to read.  


I wish for everyone the chance to live in a World-Series-winning city, at some point.  The energy of an entire town rooting for EXACTLY the same thing is nothing short of amazing, mostly because people don't agree on ANYTHING.   And yet, we are rooting for, celebrating with, CAPTIVATED by a statistically-unlikely team of heroes who are, essentially, hitting a ball with a wooden stick .  If you think that's a bit of a stretch, then you don't understand the power of an 11-inning, Game 6 win to bring an ENTIRE city to it's knees.  


This is the kind of camaraderie that hasn't existed since the Pilgrim's bought their first Turkey at Sam's Club, at a bulk discount.  Or whatever.  

Way to go, CARDS!!  

I will miss this sort of good-natured belief in humanity 

when I silently curse the crowds at the mall during the Christmas season.

What I KNOW.

Let me tell you something about myself.


At the age of 35, I am perhaps more confident of EXACTLY who I am, then I have ever been in my entire life.   If you have been reading this blog for any amount of time, you know that I have made some major changes to my life in the past year; I knew they were good decisions, but as it turns out, they have relieved a good deal of obligation and restlessness and distraction that I never knew I carried. 


I just lived in a place where I assumed EVERYONE was at their emotional limits--and mostly, I think this is true, because I have generally found that we (Mommies) are a people that pile on responsibilities.  And what I know about myself at 35 is that this is okay as a season, but not a lifestyle.  I want a do-over; I want a life that isn't influenced by the wedding registry choices I made when I was 22; I want to create a home that I love, and NOT copy one I saw in a Pottery Barn catalogue.  Because I know myself now, and I want a dining room table from Goodwill, and the freedom to paint it orange.  I know I was given a spirit of creativity that needs to be exercised, and with it comes a need for the freedom to make mistakes--freedom in furniture and clothing and choices that do not carry huge amounts of guilt when I decide I want something different.  It's also, needs a lifestyle that can move and change and evolve without the guilt of country club payments and huge mortgages.  


I am thankful, everyday, that I am figuring this out--REALLY figuring this out, while my kids are little.  Before I teach them, by default, to simply go with the flow, to fit in, to become whatever everybody else wants to be--because apparently, everyone wants to be a Kardashian, and that will happen OVER MY DEAD BODY.   But it's also my job to teach them what the alternative is, how to recognize what they really love and believe...and not what they love because they saw it on t.v.  There are so many messages out there, it's almost impossible to know.


I know that my children, all of them, are miracles; that the twins were conceived by modern medicine (invitro) and that they survived, simply, at the hands of doctors and machines and lots of blood transfusions and surgeries that were absolutely necessary.  All of it unquestioned and paid for in full, to the tune of $1.5 MILLION PER TWIN, by our insurance company.  To say I'm grateful is an understatement.  I have also vaccinated all of my children according to schedule, including the twins in the NICU, who received their first set of shots despite their small size and the complications of their birth.  I know what it's like to be cared for doctors, really great doctors, who saw us as more than a statistic; I remember it when we casually debate things like the swine flu vaccine or medication for ADD.  That medicine to me, has always been life-giving and good.  Really good.  


So when I'm staring down the road of ADD, and whether or not to medicate Big J (which I assume is coming, but this is still up in the air), I KNOW I'm fine with it.  I know I trust my basic instincts as a mother; its the unessential choices in bedding themes and organized sports where I waiver.  I know I trust the teachers who see it also, and I know I trust the doctor who will ultimately choose to write the prescription.  I'm thankful to the companies that produce it and I'm GLAD they make a profit on something that is (hopefully) going to help my kid--because the alternative is this whole crying-sobbing-defeating-mess of a homework hour.  Yes, I realize there are people out there that corrupt these "ideals"; I also know that we are HUMAN and we make a selfish mess of everything.  


I know that making my own baby food wasn't worth it for me, even though it was the popular choice; and I know my kids are healthy regardless.  I know that when I talk to other moms, about whether to feed my kids organically, or try the ADD diet in place of medication, that the decision ultimately needs to be made in the context I know to be true, because no decision is as ridiculous and deciding not to medicate or vaccinate because Cindy-the-cute-mom-in-the-yoga-pants isn't doing it, so I'm not gonna either (unless, of course, Cindy has healed leprosy with her bare hands).  Do not hear me say that those of you who make these choices do so lightly; but that all of us, regardless of our preferences need to know what we believe, or we are likely to chase every theory on the playground.  Every choice in when to give Tylenol, whether or not to consume dairy, how to handle homework, what sports to play, how to discipline, where to buy produce, whether to buy real Uggs/ fake Uggs, whether its okay for your daughter to dress like a slutty pirate for Halloween.  There are no shortage of opinions and suggestions, but rather, a limited amount of minutes in the day to test them, apart from what you already KNOW.  


I KNOW I will medicate Big J, if the time comes.  And I sincerely appreciate all comments (Tasha, :), Melanie, BFF Becky and my girl Kimmie!) regarding what Ritalin (or its counterparts) have done on behalf of your children.  I also appreciate the comments against it, though I don't think there were any--I can choose differently, but still have great respect for the decisions you make on behalf our you kids (unless you are simply listening to Cindy, and she tells you that she has a slutty nurse costume that your 4-year-old can borrow).  


But mostly, at the end of the day, what I REALLY KNOW, is that God is bigger than any single mistake (or all of them combined) that I could ever make on behalf of my children.  And that is really where I rest.  


{FYI, it's near midnight, the Cardinals are making me weep in amazement, and did I mention that I am getting on a plane tomorrow morning, for a 36-hour trip to a remote village in Colorado?   Yes siree, I am--and in doing so I am increasing my chances of dying in a fiery plane crash by however many percent it increases by when you fly TWICE in one year.  However.  We are traveling to the outskirts of the Rockies, so I *think* the climate makes it possible to eat those who don't survive the crash; or live in an alternate reality with the "Dharma Initiative"; or walk to Denver.  Whichever seems more likely.}

Cute as a pumpkin.

Today, I'm gonna share with you a little idea I stole from my creative-photographer-friend, Jodie (link HERE).  She did this with her kids and stuck with an apple theme; however, as I am ever-frugal with my fabric paints and seasonal images, I decided to take this one into November with a pumpkin tee.

It goes something like this:  You cut an apple in half.  You slather it with fabric paint.  You place it upon a shirt.  You have your kids paint a stem with green fabric paint.  We're not talking about rocket science here--but if you are looking for an activity that lasts longer than three minutes, you will be sorely disappointed.

It gets tricky when the kids ask WHY the apple turned into a pumpkin.  "Because I said so" is how I handled that little life lesson.

For kicks, I also added a felt leaf.  And then popped it on the embroidery machine.  Because I have PROBLEMS.

Thanks for the comments regarding Big J's impending ADD diagnosis.  To say I'm looking forward to it is an ACTUAL (not sarcastic) understatement, and I am crafting a response to this point, right after I finish up that last f-ing Jedi costume and find the *right* color of leggings to go with G's butterfly costume.  Halloween might be my most hated holiday, but then I send the kids trick-or-treating in Warson Woods and they come home with king-sized candy bars that I eat as entire meals for WEEKS, and then I'm all "I-love-Halloween-it-rocks-let's-do-it-again-next-year"!!  Which lasts until the holiday season officially ends and I am on a 10-month soup and fat-free hot dog diet.

Happy Halloween, friends.

Where ADD might not be the worst thing

For some time now, I've suspected Big J suffers from a learning disability; after speaking with his teacher last week, it seems that she agrees.  We are tackling his lack of focus first--or, more specifically, his ability to turn his pencil into a rocket ship every six seconds.


Friends with kids, there is a bright/dark side here, as Mike and I have also recently completed a survey of Big J's behaviors, in an attempt to understand what's going on here.  What we have learned is that EVERY ANNOYING THING about children is a symptom of ADD/ADHD, and based upon your willingness to medicate, it's treatable.  Does he keep his closet clean?  Does she fail to pick up toys in a timely manner?  Is he oversensitive?  Does he struggle with simple, everyday tasks?  Apparently, the age of 6 = ADD.  As is the age of 35.


I expect that a prescription for Ritalin is in our future, however, after talking to other first grade mom's at a happy hour last week, it was mentioned that there is a diet, or more specifically, a list of foods to AVOID, that seems to help with behaviors associated with attention deficit disorder.  They mentioned having to eliminate foods such as Goldfish and tomatoes, which I found weird, but I suppose I can't consider myself a good mother unless I research options containing this decade's buzzword--"ORGANIC".  I'm pretty sure I would win the Nobel Peace Prize, or whatever, if I can simply learn to grow Ritalin/tranquilizers on a pesticide-free tree.  


But then, I forgot about it for a few days.  


Except, you know me, Blogworld!  Just like that fake, six-foot Christmas tree, sometimes these things just itch my brain like a flea bite, and the wee morning hours often find me perusing the likes of Web MD and Craigs List and that wholesale site for cheap rubber watches.  Which is when I came across the ADD diet, otherwise known as the impossibly high standard for food consumption:


No dairy products, no yellow foods (bananas are white, but don't eat the yellow peel. Who. Does. That????), no junk foods, no fruit juices, no nutrasweet, no MSG, no processed meats, no fish.  Cut sugar and chocolate intake by 90%.  Avoid food colorings if possible.  


Listen, I kind of consider myself a rock star because I buy the hormone-free milk at Sam's Club; but I draw the line at paying $7 for chemically-balanced grapes OR shooting my own cow to make sure it's fresh and unprocessed.  Who am I kidding, really--I drew the line at dairy products, and I was at fat-chance-in-hell status by the time we hit the mention of junk foods.  And I can't even begin to touch the diet's suggested breakfast of flavored coffee blended with ice and protein powder.  I'm sure there are some of you out there that are using this to your advantage--my shock has NO MEDICAL relevance whatsoever, or any kind of judgement on the sheer number of hours it takes to sustain a modest vegetable farm.  Rather, this is all about ME, and my inability to comprehend a world without McDonalds.  Shoot, I'm POSITIVE my kids would choose a single happy meal over the ability to concentrate for the rest of their lives--and so in this age of organic food choices, I am going to ONE UP you a popular parenting theory, and play the "keeping my child happy" AND the "freedom of choice/individuality" cards, both of which will bite me in the ass when they become addicted to the crack they FREELY CHOSE to KEEP THEMSELVES HAPPY.


Also, I would be curious to know the extent to which this diet curbs behaviors associated with ADD?  Are we talking about a 70% change, or is less than 10% a more realistic outcome?  Because I'm just not sure I can shop weekly at Whole Foods for less than a 95% reversal; but speaking economically, if I can keep my organic grocery bill to the cost of a monthly Ritalin prescription, we might be on to something.  Also, another sure way to get me to change my deep-fried-and-preservative ways?  Make organic food CUTER.  I am a sucker for product packaging, which I'm sure, is not an argument you hear much from mothers who have their children's best interests in mind.  But someone's got to KEEP IT REAL for the demographic that likes it cheap and microwavable AND monogrammed with polka dots.  We are people too, you know.


Was it always this....COMPLICATED?  I'm fairly certain my parents didn't worry about burning holes in my brain while letting me drink Coke--based on the way they occasionally let me ride in the bed of a pick-up truck as a child.  And they definitely never worried that cupcakes would cause widespread childhood obesity or dormant allergic reactions or a flaring of ADD behaviors that present themselves EXACTLY as typical  childhood behaviors.  It's true that we are more knowledgeable now, and there are decisions my parents would do-over, like taking 10+ girls to see the movie "Parenthood" in the theater for my 13th birthday (THINK about that movie for a second, though, I really had NO clue at the time).  But feeding me Chicken McNuggets is probably not one of the things they suspected might *ruin* me.


Blogworld, I think you know me.   And I'm pretty tongue in cheek.  ADD is a real thing, and you know it when you see it.  I'm not laughing at any of you; I'm laughing at ALL of us.  Because the truth is that parenting is  A LOT like herding cats, and we are trying our hardest to do it with matching outfits and sleep schedules and organic food, and organized sports.  As adults, my kids *probably* won't ask me why I let them (and their FRIENDS) watch that movie with the vibrator scene, but you can BET that some of my choices will seem just as crazy.  


And I'm gonna LAUGH about it.   As well as blog about THEIR attempts to raise perfect children--so stick with me until 2036, when my kids are utilizing jet-pack technology to cure childhood in their off-spring, and this all comes full circle, friends.

I blame the terribly unfortunate facial hair of the Texas Rangers.

Blogworld, it's not you.  It's not even me.  It's these damn St. Louis Cardinals and the World Series that appears to be lasting for 26 years.  I can't even remember what I did on Monday?  Tuesday nights?  before the baseball post season.  I might have been curing cancer-- but now I spend a good part of it wishing that Texas guy would shave that thing on his lip, and that other Texas guy would shave that thing on his lower face, and wondering if that other Texas guy is Amish.  Except that it's about to get a whole lot more complicated, what with the series of Halloween events and the Jedi/Angry Bird/Butterfly costumes that are varying degrees away from finished, and the shortage of brown fleece at my fabric store, and the baseball that just can't quite finish up, and me traveling to Colorado for 36 HOURS at week's end.

Dear God, is this REALLY what you wanted my September/October to be about?

So, Mike ran a half-marathon today, which is a big deal, and also, not such a big deal, because he does this kind of thing on a regular basis, and his bones don't appear to be degenerating like the crypt-keeper, as mine do after 13.1 miles of running torture.  As a general rule in our household, it's not life changing unless it affects your actual anatomy--and this includes, but is not limited to, a boob job.

To celebrate, we took the kids out for a dinner of soft foods tonight; and we had every intention of this being a family affair, but Miss Sheri's Cafeteria does not accept credit cards, and so it became more like a riddle of how many gelatinous foods could be purchased for $28.  As it turns out, pretty many.

How to describe Miss Sheri's, exactly?  Well, it's old as dirt.  And it's the consistency of pudding--the pasta shells, the broccoli with cheese, the pot roast, the jello salad--all of it.  They have a theme, and I have mad respect that;  and also for the sheer number of industrial-sized steamers that I imagine it takes to cook food to the point where it spontaneously bursts into liquid.  Lest you think I didn't enjoy it, I will tell you that I found my wedge of breaded cod delightful, and could make a case for the minimal amount of energy I expended while never having to chew it--which is good, considering all that work I did WATCHING those poor bastards run 13.1 miles this morning.

The kids were initially resistant to this meal plan, or "eating adventure" as we attempted to spin it--except for L, who is a lover of soft foods.  If you are new here, then you should know that our darling L was fed by a feeding tube for 4 years, which was a straight portal to her stomach that allowed us to pump her full of  liquid formula at various times during the day, and ALL NIGHT LONG with the help of an electronic pump.  It's too bad I didn't consider Miss Sheri's at all during that time, as it's quite possible I could have pushed an entire chicken-fried steak straight through her tube; but you live and learn and you retain this kind of knowledge for the next time a family member is on a liquid diet or you simply lack the energy to chew.

Here's to the start of a great week...and a diet of solid foods for you, blog world.

Mentally scheduling my revenge for Homecoming 2019.

Dear Son,

If you accidentally-on-purpose left your backpack in the mini (van) during drop off yesterday as payback for the gigantic lunch bag debacle (link HERE)--thereby forcing me to, gulp, walk it into school on the one 40th day that I happened to crawl out of bed, bra-less, with a simple fleece jacket thrown straight over my pajamas?   Well, let me be the first to congratulate you.

It seems that the threat of embarrassing photos at your rehearsal dinner is inadequate, probably because you think girls have cooties.  But one day, not so many years from now, you will be a freshman in high school--and chances are good that you will ask a girl to your first Homecoming dance.

And I shall be your chauffeur.  Or worse, your CHAPERON.

And I will chose that EXACT moment to honor the 2011-Carpool-Walk-of-Shame--bra-less, in simple fleece jacket thrown over my pajamas.

xoxo,
Mom

The very beginnings of this year's Christmas aneurysm.

I have been meaning to tell you, blogworld, that I have secured my Christmas tree.  Purchased just this very week off of Craig's List for $15, because sometimes I grow strangely obsessed with these types of things at midnight.  This is important, because on many levels, purchasing a fake Christmas tree six weeks ahead of schedule and storing it (right outside my pseudo-front door) and arranging to pick-it up from a total stranger at the home of her parents is LESS complicated that our standard plan of purchasing the largest freaking tree at the Farmer's Market,--which, I gotta tell you, sounds a lot like rocket science these days.

Because here's the thing, friends--ALL of our Christmas stuff is in that stooooopid POD.  I know, because I saw it there last week, right next to all those boxes and boxes of yearbooks.  I did manage to sneak the box containing the Christmas garland that I normally hang on the mantle, because it is OBVIOUS that I need one more thing on my flat surfaces; but I drew the line at the singing Penquin and the actual Christmas Tree stand.  A girl has to have boundaries, or else she will starve to death when she accidentally traps herself into her basement bedroom with her 376 boxes of old college t-shirts.

But also, there are a million Christmas trees for sale on the Internet, and some people want $200 for these things, and they are straight-up CRAZY.  People, plastic Christmas trees DO NOT retain the value that  you paid for them 8 years ago, I don't care if it is "pre-lit".  Pre-lit does not mean "made out of diamonds".  And I'm just curious (really curious, not sarcastic curious)--what happens to a pre-lit tree when one of those little bulbs burns out and the whole thing goes dark?  Do you just shake it really, REALLY hard?  Because that's what I would do.   Or if you are Mike, you would use the Light Keeper Pro, and sport a Richard Simmons-style fro for a few days, or until all your hair falls out (link HERE).

There is also the issue of having NO ornaments--and I'm not gonna lie, I see this as my year to pretend like Mike never bought that hideous, 3-foot tall Alpine Santa ornament (link HERE).  It is finally MY TIME to find deep, personal fulfillment in a bright felt garland with a theme!  And make ornaments with the children and insist that it be magical, so long as not-a-single-drop of acrylic paint falls upon a monogrammed holiday tee.  Have the kids wear clothes that won't send me into a seizure if they are paint stained?  What the hell, those DO NOT make for good photos, blogworld, and Jesus came to earth for PHOTOS.  Get with the beautiful-but-miserable holiday plan because we are creating TRADITIONS and therapy-inducing memories.

I just wanted to share that I have a new fixation for the holiday season, and it is likely to take over my life, during the precise 4-week-period in which we celebrate Thanksgiving, G's birthday, the twins birthday, and Christmas itself.   Add to this a couple of ruffle skirts for the girl's Christmas outfits and a potential book report, a science experiment, or a toad dissection (or whatever it is you do in 3rd grade around Christmas)-- and you are sure to experience my actual, spontaneous combustion.  My little gift to you, friends.

How you can love baseball without actually knowing anything about it.

Today marks the start of the World Series, for our St. Louis Cardinals--and as most of you know, ours isn’t *necessarily* a sports-watching household, except for the post season of any hometown team AND any runs Butler University makes for the college basketball championship.  However.  It’s impossible to live in this city and NOT be fired up about this 
World Series; this terribly unlikely, who-died-and-made-them-national-league-champions, World Series. 


In the 13 years that I have lived in St. Louis, I have: watched Mark McGwire break the homerun record, seen the BEGINNING of Albert Pujols major league career, been present when the President threw out the first pitch on opening day 2004, watched the 2004 World Series from my Lazy-Boy (bedrest with the twins), attended the last game at the old Busch Stadium (pregnant with Little J), cried when I had to give away my ticket to the first game in the new Busch Stadium (bedrest with Little J), and suffered through mastitis and a 101 degree fever to BE. THERE. when they won the championship in 2006.  And I’m not even close to being considered a superfan, but I like being part of the fuss, I guess.


I do, however, love the history of the Cardinals, the way they’ve existed as a form of family-friendly entertainment through the ages, long before Britney Spears was simultaneously appealing to pre-teens and flashing her hoo-ha in public.  While it’s true that there is a demographic of partial nudity at the ball park, it generally stands as the home of old traditions--and children are easily distracted from debauchery with its offerings of cotton candy, Fred Bird and the Clydesdales.  It’s near impossible to do what the Cardinals have managed in the past three? four? weeks; and even harder to believe an entire team of men has managed to escape marriage with a proverbial-Kardashian type in the age of reality television.  I won’t say it’s perfect, or the sport without it’s vices--but a World Series is like Amish entertainment compared to performers whose song lyrics include the term “Menage-a-trois”, and sport underwear made of whip cream and cherries (I’m talking to you, Katy Perry).  


But ours is also a big, small town; we go to church with a retired Cardinals pitcher, and I see Joe Buck at 7-11 sometimes.  We share mutual friends with Albert Pujols--but everyone here, particularly  in the St. Louis Christian community, does.  One time, we passed him in a hospital lobby, and I watched him turn to face us and say “Hey--” with a look of *almost* recognition, while I froze, in what I can only be considered an extremely awkward blessing--because getting my arm caught in the closing elevator door that seperated us, only to stop time and explain to Albert Pujols that he does not actually know us would have been much, MUCH worse.  If I love the fuss of a championship, it seems that I am paralyzed when face to face with it in a tight waffle tee.

Tonight we are a city sharing the intimacy of facebook and Twitter, cheering for that guy we saw that one time in a hospital lobby, a restaurant, a grocery story. I’m actually nervous about something I was oblivious to a month ago and excited about something beyond me, even if it’s considered to be generally uncool to come late to the party.  We are slow to jump on bandwagons, to be loud, to cheer because it’s fun--and not because we memorize statistics.  

Unless you accidentally find yourselves in the World Series, and then you can jump and scream and wear clothing adorned with the “rally squirrel” (???), because it’s all just a part of the fuss.

Go Cards!

The post where I give you the first thousand words of my SOUL.

This whole business of writing a book is...complicated. There are surprisingly less hours in the school day; and once you account for my morning run, a shower, a few (hundred) log-ins on facebook and a perusing of Pinterest--well, that leaves approximately 43 minutes for book writing a day. To say that my focus is challenged, is an understatement.

Add to this the fact that I am fiercely guarded about my work--but for once, I have a theme, based LOOSELY upon my life, that I am pretty fired up about. The whole concept centering upon what my STUFF says about me, and how it is, mostly, dead wrong. This is a very condensed version of the idea, but in the past few weeks, I have been more open about talking about the book in conversations, and this is what we call PROGRESS, as it relates to me seeing myself as an *actual* writer, verses the imaginary kind.

Splitting my time between my blog baby and my book baby and my ACTUAL babies is challenging...and so, to uncomplicate things, I am putting on my big girl pants and using some of my raw material for your reading enjoyment. You probably won't be able to tell the difference, because what I am sharing with you I have condensed to read like a blog post; but you should know that sharing them feels like actually being naked on the Internet. SCARY.

Here is the first of many peeks into my WORK...enjoy!

*********

For eight years, there were fingerprints covering every matte-wall surface in our home, goldfish crackers ground into fine powder under our kitchen table, dried milk in our vents and upon our sofa cushions--until one day, dressed in their most school-appropriate outfits, the kids were gone. I was unprepared for what a mess our house would be apart from the context of children, or how long the day would feel; the silence alone sent me in 15 different directions at once, without constant, urgent voices screaming for justice, for help, for attention, for ass-wiping.  Their indiscretions had prioritized me and kept me sharp, lest I find a half-eaten lollipop adhered to a child’s hair come midnight--but in making me oddly vigilant and untrusting, my children had managed, over time, to strip me of the unnecessary, the time-consuming, the hobbies and interests and opinions about things other than food allergies, that stole my focus.  

The baby was starting kindergarten and I had survived infancy and it’s goon, sleeplessness; premature twins and the SURPRISE fourth baby that followed. We were past nap schedules, baby proofing and the flu that disguised itself as teething, intermittently, for five years.  By the grace of God, they all slept in cribs with crib bumpers and managed to avoid strangulation.  I mastered baby suppositories and decided organic, homemade baby food could suck it because $.50 Gerber jars and whatever diseases you get from preservatives were WORTH IT.  My kids were potty trained, they could dress themselves with forty-three percent accuracy, and, despite every last, ill-conceived plan they had to drown themselves in a public pool without floaties, they were officially school-aged.   

It was my mid-August coming out party--the very year I would become interesting, organized, and thoughtful enough to gift Christmas presents of homemade soaps wrapped in scarves I knitted from lambs wool.  I was standing, unshowered, on the verge of something great, about to meet my new and amazing self, and she deserved an irresponsible glass of wine at lunch.  

Except that after six weeks, my new, uninterrupted self was still spending all of her time doing laundry.  She was too busy, too tired, too unsure of how to be anything but a mother--until word came that Pottery Barn Teen was hiring, a rumor which sent the entire stay-at-home mommy world into a ten-dollar-an-hour-fueled frenzy over comforters and peace-sign luggage sets.  It seems that we were all ripe to redefine ourselves apart from our children, but didn’t know what that looked like beyond coordinating their bedding needs at a discount, apparently.  

“I was thinking about applying at Pottery Barn Teen, I hear they’re hiring?”  I casually mentioned to Mike.

“Are you kidding?” he asked, with genuine fear in his eyes.

“No, I love Pottery Barn Teen, and I was thinking of getting the kid’s sleeping bags there this year anyway.”

“You want to get a job to buy sleeping bags?”

“And other stuff.”

“Then please, for the love of God, just buy the sleeping bags and whatever, and write a big check and be done with it--because this will end up costing us thousands of dollars and all of your time.  Please, PLEASE, listen to me.”

“Stop being dramatic, it wouldn’t be that bad.”  

“Listen, if you really want to get a job, I am all for that--but it sure as hell better be something you like, because it is going to make your life a lot more complicated.”

“I LIKE Pottery Barn Teen.  I’d be damn good at it, too--a dream actually.”

“But is that what you want to do?  Is it how you WANT to spend your time?  You’re very little time?

“I want to do something besides clean this house, and I might as well make some money while I'm at it.”

“Just so we’re clear, this isn’t making money.  This is spending money at a discount.”  

“No, it’s spending LESS for something I want to buy anyway.”

“But do you want to do it? This job that pays in sleeping bags?”

“I want to contribute.  I want there to be a value to what I do with my day.  I want to walk into our house, or your parents basement, or wherever the hell it is we’re living, and see paper all over the floor and markers everywhere, and a sink full of dirty dishes and know they are there because I am WORKING and not just sucking at staying home without the kids.”

“So write, then.  It’s what you want to do, right?  This lifelong dream of yours, to write a book?”

“It’s not that easy, I need more time to focus.”

“So quit that fake job at Pottery Barn Teen. I just gave you 20 more hours in your week--you're welcome.”

*********

Monday culminated in a kick to my imaginary testicles.

Fresh off of yesterday's Hallmark-style-pumpkin-carving-love-fest, we seem to have hit a new low--and it is after-school-pickup in the pouring rain, or more specifically, trying to adequately cover FOUR CHILDREN with one umbrella, which is very much like a four-minute case study in the social class system of circus monkeys.


There was a great shuffling of feet, and every 4.5 seconds, someone would touch Little J and he would  SCREAM like he was on crack--to the extent that obscenities would have been less alarming.  This would be just two octaves louder than normal pick-up (but also with an awkward, pointy object), except that I also happened to get into a conversation with another first grade mom regarding the potential risks of hosting afternoon pickup on the front lawn of the school during a thunder/lightning storm.  Still shuffling, but now it was THREE semi-wet and screaming children, while somehow, L shimmied her little self all the way up the umbrella and ACTUALLY hung from my bicep as I shuffle-step-and-nodded in agreement with the need for revised policies concerning pickup on storm days.  


It took 12 years to get to the damn car, and this was simply the prelude to Little J puncturing the styrofoam cup of his gas-station slushie with a straw EXACTLY 11 days after it's inadequate detailing.  Eventually, we  returned home, or to my in-laws basement, or wherever the hell we are living right now--only to learn that Big J and L shall henceforth be given a spelling test every week.  Because if we have the time to happily carve pumpkins, then we can certainly drill a dyslexic kid on spelling words EVERY WEEK.


Touche, universe.  My brain is officially bleeding.


Granted, their THREE words this week are: and, of, the.  Totally manageable, until spelling homework called for the twins to write sentences, at which point it became so. very. obvious. that six-year-olds cannot self-initiate a sentence properly utilizing the word "of".  I'll be damned if the ONLY sentence that popped into my mind during this little exercise was "My country 'tis OF thee" and I don't even know what that means, but I know it isn't really a sentence AND it certainly aint gonna fly on first grade homework.  Forty minutes later, we reached sentence #3, Big J was crying upside down and I still had TO EDIT G's two-page research project--because, quite honestly, I have limits and they are 12 hours of work on a single assignment that still isn't done.  


If you think I'm going all "Tiger Mom" over a nine-year-old's research project--then you obviously haven't studied the fennec fox, because there are 32 different websites and sources for information, each with a ONE sentence description, and I'm still not convinced this thing isn't imaginary.  And I KNOOOOW that this is supposed to be done at the level of a third grader (sans editing), except that they are being graded on spelling AND punctuation, and so OBVIOUSLY, these teachers don't really mean all that age-appropriate mumbo-jumbo, and this project is just a test to cut the fat and see which parents can still rock a poster-board research project, yo.  


I TOTALLY get it (wink).   

A yearly assessment of my parenting skills involving sharp knives and other tools of death.

Today, at 11:12 a.m., we decided to carve pumpkins.  In years past, this kind of spontaneous decision making was likely to end in a severed appendage, but time is proving seasonal-activities-involving-serrated-knives to be less of a blood sport.  I like to consider this the "Age of Minor Bruising and Minimal Blood Loss", where common sense (barely) surpasses electrical outlets; this period of relative sanity will likely last until my children discover matches or are allowed to drive cars, and then, I'm sure I will be begging them to partake in less dangerous activities like lawn darts and running with scissors.


This reminds me of that time when I thought parenting my ONE newborn was like domesticating Satan, only to realize that toddler walking + anything with corners was so. much. worse.  This of course was followed by the phase of premature twins and the 3.5 years that L defied death by sleeping with 15 feet of plastic tubing--and ultimately, I figure that the danger of pumpkin carving will one day be trumped and laughed upon, particularly during the college years when my children will be surrounded by recreational drug use on a daily basis.  I look forward to that kind of perspective.


Anyhoo.


It took less than two hours to carve four pumpkins, and no tears were shed--minus the few I *may* have cried over that clown nose Mike added to the pumpkin I was sharing with Little J.  Technically, Little J wanted the nose there, but Little J is 5 and he doesn't *really* know what he wants--and it is my job to *parent* him toward nose-less pumpkins and converse sneakers and clothing without cartoon characters .  Whatever, this one was literally "for the kids", and I am nothing, if not charitable with my holiday crafting.


I'm not sure when it got to be "easy", but there were years where activities like these took multiple days of errand running and weeks worth of planning to carry-out; when last-minute schedule changes required a pack & play and baby gates and permission from God himself, because it all seemed to be so, SO complicated.   And then, one day, it just wasn't.  One day, they walked into a pool and didn't sink, they sat on a toilet and peed in it, they carved a pumpkin without losing a finger (or their very frail patience).  


These years have their challenges (G working on her research paper for 2.5 hours, including ONE HOUR to type 3 paragraphs), but overall it is glorious, and characterized by a shared love of Kelly Clarkson and Lady Gaga.  


Life is good, friends.

Proof that I lost my battle with sobriety around box #93.

s

Thursday, you are like a prison visit.  

As it is pretty obvious that this 80 degree weather isn't going to last forever, Mike and I decided to buck up and pay a visit to our LIFE, which is currently incarcerated in a POD.  Just to recap: I packed all winter clothing in this portable jail because we were supposed to be in a new house...oh, 4 months ago.

POD #1= impressively, on my A-game, organized.  And aside from the fact that we were going to have to sort through 60-ish boxes, I was actually thinking we were going to get through it in no time!  Shoes were found, then coats.  Eventually, a box of my sweaters and winter wear.  But no signs of the kid's winter clothes.  

And that's when we opened this hell hole.

...and the garage shelving, that triggered the patio furniture, that triggered the angled bin, that triggered the THREE disassembled cribs, that finally shot the Radio Flyer sled STRAIGHT toward Mike's jugular, which, coincidentally, was left wholly unprotected as he was lifting the POD door.  It was all very Three-Stooges-in-the-Temple-of-Accidental-Doom, and I laughed until I cried, until I REALLY cried, because the SOLE PURPOSE of our trip to the POD was in...there.  


Except that it wasn't.  The kid's winter clothes must have taken a shiv to the kidney, and the Lazy-Boy ate the bodies, or I simply imagined that we owned anything with sleeves, because they WEREN'T FREAKING IN THERE.  Two pods, two hours, every possession we own, unloaded and awkwardly shoved back in.  STILL. NOT. THERE.  Although, to be fair, I did find Big J's soccer cleats in a box labeled "garage", and there were actual lamps-taped-to-chairs-taped to walls in the POD, so it's fairly obvious that I was drunk when packing.  But there is simply no excuse for the 11 years in which we managed to acquire NO LESS THAN 50+ boxes labeled as yearbooks, miscellaneous kitchen items and picture frames--except that I am working on a theory that my wedding registry has RUINED MY LIFE.  


And somewhere in this POD is a never-used-bread-machine-costing-us-a-monthly-storage-fee, to prove it. 

Flat Stanley is my Freddie Krueger.

Flat. F-ing. Stanley.


Eight?  Ten?  Twenty-four days ago?  Little J received his Flat Stanley in the mail.  The instructions are the same-ol'-same-ol', we're supposed to show the guy around town and photograph him in a number of compromising poses and locations.  In theory, I LOVE this project; until I remember it involves developing pictures, and then I KNOW it is going to hell in a hand basket REAL fast.


I should probably tell you that we have a less-than-successful history with Flat Stanley, as last year, G's class made ENORMOUS Flat Stanley's, which were then sent to family and friends around the globe.  Always one to come up with a very complicated idea/ grow bored with the details necessary to actually carry it out, I suggested we send Flatty to BRAZIL, because Hawaii seemed not *awesome* enough.  G agreed with this idea, we made contact with our friends there, and then we embarked upon a WEEK LONG research project into the costs of sending an over-sized (yet FLAT!) package to South America.  Initial inquiries estimated $78.32; but we kept plugging random weights and measures into the post office website, and at some point, we just slapped $2.47 worth of stamps on the envelope, loaded it up with some flat donuts, and hoped for the best.


This seemed to be a VERY poorly conceived plan, as THREE WEEKS later, our friends had yet to receive Stanley.  Until finally....word came that he had ARRIVED, and suddenly, pictures were being posted on my facebook page of Flat Stanley at the beach!  On a hike!  On a camping trip!  And then we totally lost interest, or G had addition homework and I was beside myself trying to teaching her how to add double-digit numbers WITHOUT carrying the "1", and life just went on, painfully with number grids, until it was the last few weeks of school and G's teacher inquired about Stanley (3-4 months after the project began), and apparently our friends didn't know they were supposed to send him back...and well, to this day, I have no clue where the hell he is.


So, Little J's Flat Stanley project was slightly less involved, with us being responsible for photographing him in our LOCAL community.  Mostly this means that Flatty hung out on my desk under a pile of papers for a couple of weeks, until CRAP!  I remembered he was due yesterday and we had -1,465 minutes to plan a Stanley photo shoot.  Little J suggested we take Flat Stanley to DisneyWorld, Monkey Joes or Darth Vader's Death Star; I suggested the pumpkin patch down the street, which is about as cool as the pediatrician's office on a five-vaccination check-up year, apparently, because this was met with the kind of hissy fit usually reserved for measles, mumps and rubella.   Mothers are made or broken at moments when planning fake outings, for fake, flat kids--and so I calmly explained that talking mice don't really live in castles, and the rest of the Jedis live in a galaxy far, far away, and while we're at it, Santa and the Tooth Fairy are MAKE BELIEVE so a trip to the North Pole or the island made out of kid's teeth would be impossible, even for the sake of a highly * believable* flat kid that travels the world in an envelope.  Because mommy has limits, and they are anything involving a space ship or a flying sleigh.  Thus, the protesting continued passive-aggressively with car seat thrashing, until we arrived at the pumpkin patch, and Little J discovered the large metal bin of corn, and how pouring it into his underwear is just as awesome as traveling forward in time to visit the imaginary Millenium Falcon.


I want to tell you this ends happily at the pumpkin patch--however, there were details and logistics to suck at, such as PRINTING the stupid picture, remembering to pick it up, remembering to carry it in the house (true story) and actually getting it in the backpack.  ALL FAIL, as I haven't seen Flat Stanley, the mo-fo, in a few days and he *might* be suffrocating in the corn bin at the pumpkin patch, except that you can't actually kill him because he's NOT REAL, and yet still lives to TORTURE me every year like Freddie Krueger. 


In any case, our Flat Stanley experiences have shown me the reason why worksheets are an adequate form of education and how real life application outside of the classroom is OVERRATED.  

My life is defined by a $29.99 price point.

I'm going to let you in on a little secret.  Beneath the food stains, multiple summers of petrified milk in my van, dust bunnies and general disorganization... is a PERFECTIONIST.  I like things to look a certain way, to smell a certain way, to usually be wrapped in cellophane with a grosgrain ribbon in a certain way; except that mostly, I don't have time for that kind of anal-ness and so I just settle for really gross with a side of crunchy.


All or nothing.  But mostly nothing.


Because we learned our lesson with the whole massage debacle (link HERE) which led to the firing of an employee, I am NOT going to name names or companies.  But last week's detailing of the mini (van) was LESS than spectacular, and really, the thing was so damn dirty, it's almost impossible not to succeed here--but when it was quite obvious, upon MERE SIGHT, that things like wrappers in the cup holders and stickers on the windows and remnants of bird sh#! on the doors were not removed, well, we have problems, and they involve prying money from my cold, dead, fingers.


Not unlike the disgruntled massage therapist, I'm sure the car detailer thinks I am a stuck-up, snotty witch who lives in a big house (not MY house, remember), that no one ever lives up to my expectations, that I am generally miserable and never pleased.  Their are aspects of this that are undoubtedly true at times, but the reality is that I would NEVER SPEND $80 for someone to clean my car or give me a massage, because it's a lot of money for something I consider a luxury, particularly when vehicular-cheese-making provides endless fodder for your blog-reading entertainment, friends.  Aside from first row tickets to Bon Jovi, $80 rarely satisfies me--and this is especially true of cleaning services that could be rendered null and void upon a single visit to McDonalds.  For that kind of cash, I tend to prefer five items on clearance at Target, and not "services" that fall in the gray area of value.  


I can do better than the gray area, though I usually don't.  All or nothing.  Mostly nothing, but I sure as hell aint paying $80 for a half-assed middle.


And to be clear, the service we paid for was DETAILING.  As in DETAILS like the leaves in my door frame, or the dust on the lip of my DVD player.  If fine print renders you unable to clean any part of the automatic doors or the windows or the trunk because there were a few chairs in it? Might I consider that this service you are advertising is not actually "detailing" but WIPING.  $80 worth of wiping, which better include an actual human ass for that price.


Let me also say, I never expected the mini (van) to be returned to it's original 2004 glory--friends, that would require the coming of Christ and some kind of inferno.  However, I did expect cleaner; I expected the use of Q-tip-like devices; I expected a little elbow grease, and not a slew of evidence that this dude probably just facebooked in my driveway for two hours.  


And let's put this into perspective, shall we?  We have gone through seasons where it became NECESSARY to employ a twice-monthly house cleaner, particularly during the years when we had twins who were simultaneously crawling/refluxing.  A 2-4 hour cleaning session for an entire house speckled in vomit cost $80, and for a year or so, this involved a 3-4 person team of Asians; last week, for the same price and amount of time, we paid one guy to wipe down an area equivalent in size to a closet.  And it is still freaking dirty.


And just because I am an endless pit of examples that prove $80 can actually wound me to the very SOUL?  While I was on bedrest with the twins, Mike and I were forced to hire a nanny for G; and this is where I learned that there is only one thing more painful than having to hand your life over to someone who is single without children, and it is watching her fall short in all the ways I am used to failing.  And having to PAY for it.  


$29.99 is the upper limit I am willing to spend to try to meet all of my needs in material things and services-- and wouldn't you know it, Target just happens to have a yellow, velvet-y pea coat for $30 at this very moment, and that is EXACTLY love without guilt, friends.  Anything over that $29.99 mark usually disappoints in some way, fails to live up to my hopes, dreams and expectations, OR, gets NO USE because I hold it in too high of a regard for my everyday, mess of a life, like that worthless KATE SPADE DIAPER BAG, I just HAD. TO. HAVE when pregnant with G.  It looked pretty awesome too, when paired with overalls and breastmilk stains and my 8-week postpartum figure (which was also, coincidentally, my 32-week pregnant figure).  I can't really fail for $29.99, because for that price I don't really CARE.


Nothing is worse than the guilt of an expensive purchase, and the regret of having to stick with it.  Hello, wedding registry!  If I could go back 11 years and register for a giant metal rooster?  I would be all. over. it. because that it something I can build a life upon.


I don't know where I was going with this, except that buying stuff rarely fulfills me; and if you want me to buy something and love it, then charge $29.99 and sell it at Target.  And DO NOT, under any circumstances, get my car detailed, because that is a way to make me feel unsettled with life in general.  FYI. 

The one time where I glued someone else's hair to my face.

Last night, the dress made it's debut; and shoot, I haven't worked this hard on a single "look" in, maybe, my entire life, or at least, since I was Smurfette in 1981.  It was 70% fun and 20% exhausting and 10% involving glue.   I tried to get several photos to document my appearance, but I'm not going to lie, friends, that makes me feel kind of douchey.  Also, I tried directing Mike in photographing my eyes ONLY, and this went on for many minutes until the awkward moment when I realized, ohmygod, my face actually looks... like that.  Note to self:  Photoshop is the new eye-lift.


Also, Mike failed to include my shoes in any of the photos taken--which is a crying shame, because they are black suede, rounded toe, 22-inches high, beautiful, completely impractical.  I do love these shoes and I bought them for myself on my 30th birthday in Chicago...however, they are SO tall, that when worn with tights or nylons, my heels slip right out of them, which then results in me having to take very small steps while using the Jedi mind trick AND every. f-ing. muscle. below my knees just to keep these very beautiful, and yet, terribly unwearable things on my feet.  It's not so much suffering for fashion, as it is slowly shuffling to avoid buying another pair of shoes.


But really, this isn't about the dress or the shoes that make me move like I have a bone disorder; no, the news here is that I wore false eyelashes for the first time, though the package says they are made of actual human hair and that makes me feel nauseous.  Following Big J's soccer game, the kids and I headed to Target, for various eye make-up products in gray hues; while there, I perused the fake eyelash section and interviewed a college-aged girl as to whether these things actually work.  She said yes, but that they take some practice, and I though SWELL!  I've got an extra seven minutes, so that should make for a helluva disaster (and subsequent blog post) when I laugh fake-eyelashes-made-of-not-my-human-hair into my Caesar salad at dinner.  


I'm always looking out for you, blogworld.


To counteract this foreseeable *issue*, I might have gone a little crazy with the glue--because for a second there, it was like I secured the fake-but-real eyelashes to my face with a bottle of Elmer's.  I'm not gonna lie, it was a tense few minutes, what with me looking very much like a 1st grade art project and that being NOT the look I was going for; but as it turns out, the human-hair-glue-makers were correct, and their product does indeed dry clear, even when applied in liberal, dripping globs.  This success was followed immediately by a few minutes of intense eye-watering-- a result of the four, cumulative pounds of eyeliner, eyeshadow, glue and fake-but-real eyelashes, dumped upon eyelids that are ill-prepared for that kind of load.  This weeping, however, only benefited the smoky-eye look I was going for, and that, folks, is what we call an inadvertent win. 


And then Mike was put on eyelash duty AND there was free wine AND I stopped short-shuffle-stomping my feet, or I stopped caring, or I got myself on the dance floor and people just thought I was krumping awkwardly.   In any case, I did not cry fake-but-real human hair into the two wedding cupcakes I ate demolished.  


But the take-away from today's post?  If you glue someone else's hair to your eyelids, your Little-House-on-the-Prairie dress will be the LEAST of your worries.

Picture day 2011.

Oh, friends.  School pictures made their way home last week, and they DID NOT DISAPPOINT.  Mike and I are in discussions, as to whether or not to have a couple of these retaken; however, we believe that we are currently in possession of great material for blackmailing in the teenage years, and that is kind of priceless.  You be the judge.

G, 3rd Grade:

HUGE improvement over last year, when we forgot all together that it was picture day.  Also, we worked hard to shed the over-forced smile, and obviously, we were 65% successful.  This is huge, when compared to picture #2....

Little J, Kindergarten

We were 2% successful in battling the over-forced smile with the baby, but damn, it kind of works, mostly because of the half-squint.  I don't know, I just walk away from this one wanting to eat him like a cookie.  Yep, that's the baby alright, and what a perfect representation of him it is, mostly because the kid knows how to turn it on for the camera, unlike....

Big J, 1st Grade

...who took the memo on forced-smiling to the EXTREME, opting instead for moderate irritation.   So there's that, but also, it became glaringly obvious to me AFTER seeing this picture, that Big J *probably* needs his glasses adjusted, just like I realized both boys needed haircuts after last year's shots.  So, SO awesome.  But not as awesome as....

L, 1st Grade 

Gasp!

Again, no forced smile (yay!), but can we talk about the teeth...ohmygod, the teeth, particularly the one that looks like it's sideways.  I guess I didn't realize how loose that front tooth was until I saw it ACTUALLY growling at me in this photo, all snag-ally and disproportional to the size of her entire mouth/face?  She has since lost that tooth, but not after it PERMANENTLY defined her 1st grade year, on film.  In all of the years ahead of us, I'm not sure we could EVER recreate this little gem.

Happy Picture Day, 2011!!