boingerhead

why i will just never have a maid...

2012-01-10T14:03:00.001-06:00

...even though I really want one and could probably afford one as long as it was one of those shady CL maids who robbed me a little every week.

There are the usual reasons. Embarrassment. I would feel compelled to clean my house before the maid arrived so I might as well pretend I hired a maid and psych myself into cleaning up. It's cheaper and most amusing for Bryan to watch me argue with myself over whether or not the fake maid should fold the toilet paper into a near corner so we'd know she'd been there.

Shame. How could I spend money on such a luxury when that is money better spent on any number of other things? Not the least of which are college savings accounts and new shoes. Someone always need new shoes. Usually me. Okay, always me. I can't help it! Damn you, shoefab and shoedazzle and shoesfuckedupmybudget!

Of course, guilt. Who am I to have a maid? My mom doesn't have a maid. I should get my mom a maid. She is always complaining that she needs help with her house. Or my mother-in-law. She would love a maid. My best friend works so hard. She definitely deserves a maid! I will gift her a maid! But wait...what if she thinks I think her house is dirty? What if she thinks I think she is a crappy housekeeper? No, just forget the whole thing. No one needs a maid!

But ....the #1 reason I will never have a maid is because once upon a time, I was the maid.

And let me tell YOU something...people pay no attention to the maid, but the maid pays all kinds of attention to people. To the boss, to the spouse, to guests and friends. To children and friends of children. To rivals and to men in tight jeans. Nothing escapes the notice of the maid. Not the overdue bills piled on the corner (better pay in cash!) or the kid watching porn while Dad's at work. Not the bottles of pills and gin under the bathroom sink behind the gigantic stash of maxi pads and cotton balls where no one else goes except me because that's where you also keep the Barkeeper's Friend. I heard the gossip and the dealing; I knew it was Plan B.

The sex toy drawer, the food served with the expiration dates carefully peeled off, the spot behind the ficus plant where the toddler wipes his boogers. That last one? That's actually on the side of the sink in the basement bathroom in my house. Sorry in advance.

Beyond that, there is the fact that I know how judgmental I was/am and there is no way I need to spend money on someone judging me. I get enough of that for free, thankyouverymuch.

I was fond of the elderly couple who were gleefully spending their termagant daughter's future inheritance on cleaning ladies, gardeners, and unnecessary repairs to the house because every time she came over she'd take something "for safe keeping."

I remember best the father who was fighting his wife for custody of their daughters. At one point I was climbing the stairway and looked across the open beam ceiling to see the carcass of something long dead just dangling from a web of I don't know what over the family dining table. I reached out with my broom and poked it gently. The whole thing disintegrated into a cloud of animal-spider-dust bits and settled onto the head of my partner. I thought it looked really pretty in the sunlight streaming in from the now-spotless windows. She disagreed.

One of the last houses I cleaned was owned by the parents of a classmate. Not as awkward as going on a blind date with the widowed father of a former classmate who had committed suicide, but it was up there. Another house, about 5,000 sq. ft., was completely uninhabited except for the kitchen and the bathroom just off it. The room was caked with grease, food, dishes, and human ickiness. And those people just sat there and wanted to talk the entire time we were scrubbing their shit from the walls. Not only figuratively.

I still get unbidden images of other peoples' homes. Like every Halloween when I go down basement steps, I always get an image of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre basement with the gigantic spiders that dropped down from their webs with a mmm, dinner click of their fangs. And every time Husband wants to get bookshelves, I mentally calculate (usefulness + aesthetics) - 2(how long to dust) and always come up with = "maybe next time, dear!"

I know most people are not that gross or shady, but all the houses I cleaned where the owners were very gross and very shady all had one thing in common: none of them seemed to have any idea how wrong they were. What if my fictional maid knows better than I do?

Can't risk it. I can fold my own toilet paper into a point and forget I was ever there.

This italics-laden post was inspired by the recently read The Help by Kathryn Stockett. No one paid me to read that book, but they should have because that would make me happy.

beyonce gives birth to a baby girl and the crowd goes judgemental

2012-01-10T12:52:00.000-06:00

Congratulations on the safe, healthy birth of your daughter.

May she grow in health and happiness to a ripe old age.

May you enjoy a loving, conflict-free relationship with her.

May she achieve all of her dreams, big and small, with a sense of accomplishment and pride.

May you and her father have a loving partnership in the raising of your child; may your love expand to new horizons with the addition of this brand new, completely innocent life you've created together.

May you enjoy motherhood and may it make you a better person. May it help you better understand your own parents and strengthen the relationship you have with them.

May you look at other women with new eyes and see other mothers, other daughters, and have compassion always.

Again:
Congratulations on the safe, healthy birth of your daughter.

To the rest of the world: mind your own.

An actual opinion worth reading:
Crunchy VT Mommy, "All The Judgey Ladies, All The Judgey Ladies"

PS: I am aware that Mr. and Mrs. Beyonce will probably never see this and why would they care if they did. On the other hand, maybe they'll send one of my ninety kids to college which would be like $10 to them. Who knows. This post is actually for everyone who heard about it and thought anything other than, "Good for her, hope baby and mom are healthy and safe, but what a douchey mcdouchenstein move by the hospital. Someone oughtta do something about that. Oh right, I ignored Occuption #MyLocation and must accept the broken society I've helped create."

twenty eleven: i think i won

2011-12-23T12:23:00.000-06:00

I have closed out the past few years with an overwhelming sense of, "thank God that one is over." I let each sad, mad, and unglad event overshadow my many blessings. This year, I simply cannot do that. 2011 was a year of serious downs, but it also gave me incredible highs and I would be setting myself up for a backhanded 2012 if I didn't give it up for my friend, 2011.

Oh sure. I got hit by two cars. I almost lost the tip of my finger. I spent several months estranged from my parents and that hurt. I lost my godmother and hero, my Aunt Laurie, to cancer. I weighed more than I had in years and that resulted in poor health and a general feeling of unhappiness and discontent. My job was stressful and as it became ever clearer, a complete dead-end. My husband was not happy. Chicago was still great, but we had to face the fact that our quality of life there was never going to be what we'd hoped it would be.

Early in 2011, we gave voice to feelings we had been having for more than a few years. We love Chicago, loved living in the city, and we would never regret the decision to move there. We became a family in Chicago. Most of the Bigg'ns early memories will center around Chicago and they became independent, self-sufficient kids there.

Although Isa could really lose this seizure-like conversatin' habit now:

Regardless of all that we loved about the city, Chicago was not the best place for our family to continue growing. We knew we did not want Isa to attend Chicago Public Schools after 5th grade and since we were coming up on that milestone, we had to make a decision.

Suburbs. Shudder.

But...which one? We looked around. We house-hunted. We realized that if we were going to move to the suburbs, we might as well move back to Michigan.

So, we did.

In a scant three months, we went from living in a 3-bedroom apartment, no vehicles, crappy public schools, a dead end job, and much stress to living in a 4-bedroom house (with garage!) for the same money, two cars, great public schools, two great jobs with growth potential, and easy breathing :)

The children are getting to know their extended family and get to see their grandparents often. I am so proud of how easily they transitioned to several huge changes at once. We added a new member to our family in the form of Lala, the Hipster Nanny. I've lost 35 pounds since May. I've made new friends and I love my job.

The kids are growing too fast, though. Someone make them stop. We cut off Van's goldilocks curls and he looks like a real toddler now.

My mother-in-law had a successful knee surgery with better than expected results. My brother-in-law just landed his first real career-oriented job. My sister-in-law built a new house with her significant other. My own sister has seen several successful publications of her erotic fiction. My best friend in the whole world celebrated a new marriage and the birth of her first child (EV) who I adore and completes any lingering baby-making desire I may have had.

If we can take this excellent mojo into 2012, there is no stopping us.

I wish and pray with all my heart that you, dear reader, have the same blessings upon you and your family.

any mention of this post is in violation of the code

2011-12-02T11:31:00.001-06:00

In my dreams, it is beautiful. It is private. It is mine.

My bathroom. Pure white tiled walls. Jetted bathtub surrounded by candles and a large privacy window. A two-person shower with a rainstorm showerhead. My own sink. My own cupboards full of my own stuff. My mirror with no one's toothpaste spit speckling its pristine surface.

It is upstairs, en suite to the master bedroom and accessible only through the master walk-in closet. Count: 1, 2, 3 doors, a hall and a whole bedroom and a stairway between my bathroom and the rest of the house.

And yet, they find me every time.

No matter what they are doing or where they are. Aub can be engrossed in the adventures of Peppa Pig. Van can be in the basement playing trains and cars with Ike. Isa can be pretending to read or write but in reality watching pre-school television with her little sister. Or maybe they are all outside. Or maybe they are all fast asleep in bed. Or maybe some combination of all of the above. Maybe even out shopping with Husband.

They do it on purpose.

In 2010, I instituted the Gross Code in our house. Anything beyond a polite belch or accidental toot resulted in an automatic fifteen-minute time out. No more discussion as to the timing, consistency, quality, or artistic value of bathroom productions. None, I said. No more. But then we had a lot of euphemisms in our house that were worse than the medical terms. Hence the Semantic Ammendment to the Gross Code of 2010.

Van and Aub are on the cusp of thinking about potentially agreeing to attempt potty training, maybe.

They are still conducting market research. This involves bearing witness to all bathroom usage, sometimes with the user's consent. They have become the household announcer of bathroom stats and they are too cute to punish for repeated violations of the Gross Code.

"You pooped!" Van will happily inform you. "In the potty! Disgusting!"

Yesterday, I was not feeling well. I did not want company in the bathroom or anywhere else, but there I was with two miniature ISO9000 auditors on hand to make sure every step was complete. I thought it might work in my favor when I realized (too late) the facilities were not stocked. It did not:

"Van, I need toilert paper. Go tell sissy, toilet paper."
"No."
"Aub, go tell sissy to get toilet paper."
"No."

Then Ike decided to throw a rubber snake into the bathroom because why not and it landed by Aub, who was then too silly to walk past it and instead huddled beneath a hanging towel shrieking and giggling in a disturbing fashion. Which was fine except it was behind me and I certainly violated several child protections laws somewhere by allowing her to stay there.

"Isa! I. Need. T. P!!!"
"We don't have any."

Notice how fast she determined that. Between three bathrooms and a storage room you would think there might be some somewhere if she would only look. Clearly she either DID NOT LOOK or already had gone through this with someone else and failed to report the depleted inventory. Meanwhile Ike returned to lay on my closet floor and try to tell me a joke he remembers was funny but the only part he knew was, "and then the chicken said, 'what?" hahahahah!"

"Ike. I'm sorry to interrupt, but I need tp. Can you please go get some from one of the other bathrooms."
"Sure."

He never came back.

Van by this time had pulled out every tray, box, and jar he could find. I was helpless to stop him. Once he managed to unearth some schedule c narcotics I told him to go downstairs and eat cookies. Aub scampered off after him and I realized I was finally alone.

Well, almost.

parenting truth #2: no matter how certain you are about some things, there will always be something that jerks you from a sound sleep, convince you are going to Mommy Hell

2011-11-03T08:00:00.000-05:00

This is the second in a series of disjointed articles intended to explore some fundamental truths of parenthood. Let me know how I am doing.

If you are visiting from Momalom, where I am a guest writer for Jen and Sarah's MomMamaMommy series today, welcome! Please leave a comment - I would love to return the favor.

In a conversation with another mother blogger some time ago, she told me that she picks her deeper topic essays according to what she feels most embarassed, ashamed, vulnerable, or guilty over. Her rationale is that if she feels that way, there is another mother out there who feels the same. By exposing herself, she seeks to support and offer compassion to a faceless sister-in-motherhood that she will likely never speak to, or get a comment or email telling her, "thank you."

I'm honestly not sure why I do this anymore. I recently told Husband that I felt it was time to shut Boingerhead down. I didn't feel like I had anything worth writing about. But Husband said he loved my blog. He loved the funny, vulnerable side of me here. Please keep writing.

You know, people are surprised when they find out that Bryan is not the biological father of Ike and Isa. Just ask the child-kidnapping prevention girl from Chuck E. Cheese who did not check Ike's wrist stamp, instead saying, "Oh, he's clearly yours." But it is true - Bryan is their step-father.

Long before I knew for sure Bryan was the guys for me, it became readily apparent that he was the dad for Ike. He gets him. He sees through the manipulation and the excuses. He recognizes the signs when Ike is about take a dive at school. He knows when Ike needs alone time and when we need to lean on him. He knows when Ike is lying and when he is earnest. I look at Ike and I see my home birth baby, my teddy bear boy. Bryan looks at him and sees him for the singular dude-in-progress that he is.

And that is my deep, dark shameful secret about Ike. I am just not certain that I am the right mother for him.

I just get so tired. Tired of repeating myself. Tired of constantly having to stop everyone else's progress to make sure Ike is on board. Tired of having to physically walk over, make eye contact, and use the Dora 1-2-3 method to make sure my 9yo understands what I am saying. Tired of every time I say no to anything no matter how big or small, seeing it reflected back in his eyes as a rejection of him. I get tired of the endless questioning of my judgement and my decisions. I get tired of having to figure out nine different ways to explain one concept. Because with Ike, it isn't a mood or a stage. It is how he is, every minute of the day without fail or relief.

Ike is a hyper logical child. The problem is that his tunnel-vision allows him to only see his own logic. Case in point: today at the grocery store-

-Aside: I wrote my post for Jen and Sarah almost a month ago. What are the odds I have another harrowing trip to the grocery store to relate? Peapod, you can't come to Detroit soon enough!-

- today at the grocery store, I said we needed cheese. In Ike's mind, it made perfect sense for him to go across the store to the deli counter, where he last saw cheese, and get a block of it for me. When he returned to me amid applause and a huge crowd of onlookers, he had no idea why we had sealed the entrances to the store, why seventeen employees had dropped what they were doing to look for him, why his sister was crying or why I clung to him so hard. He had the cheese. Wasn't that what I'd said I needed?

I have no idea how long he was gone from my side. I think it was about twenty minutes until the store manager walked him back to me. It felt like hours. It felt like an icy hand was creeping from my toes to my heart. And let me tell you, I nearly lost it. There was no calm, cool, collected Boingerhead. I cried and my voice wavered. Isa sang songs and fed crackers to the twins. I ripped out half my left eyebrow. But he was ok. He handed over that block of $10 cheese with a grin that faltered only slightly when he realized there was Something Going On.

I showed him all my new gray hair, then checked out without finishing my shopping. My hands shook the whole way home. I wished badly that I smoked because it was still too early for a drink and I don't emotionally eat anymore.

Who, me?

As Ike and Isa dramatically recounted the tale over lunch, I imagined a different outcome. One with an empty chair where Ike animatedly laughed, "You said you wanted cheese. I got cheese!" I imagined how smooth, how comfortable, how routine our lives would be if Ike was anyone but himself and actually did what he was told to do, nothing less and absolutely nothing more. I imagined how boring it would be, and realized that no one pushes me like Ike. No one makes me practice patience, see things a completely different way, or pray to Jesus, Mary and all the saints, like Ike.

Not that I ever want to go through that or anything as frightening again. But my God. The kid keeps me on my toes. I love him so much I physically ache at the thought that I am not the best mom for him. But...even if I am not the right mommy for him...maybe he is the right boy for me.

Now to figure out what I am going to do with all that cheese...

foto friday: sing a me, mama yes?

2011-10-14T15:03:00.000-05:00

My boy twin, my Van. He and I had a rocky start, but we have more than made up for it since.

He is a hugger, that one. Big hugs where his little arms and legs snake around you and squeeeeze tight. But even more than a hugger, this boy is a talker. I don't know fifteen year old girls that talk as much as this kid.

It started in June. Shortly before Husband and the twins moved to Michigan ahead of me and the Bigg'ns, Van seemed to realize that the words coming out of our mouths were not the same as the chatter he and his twin had employed since they were about ten months old. The sign language we used to help communicate "hungry," "thirsty," "more," and "sleepy" began to be accompanied with the correct approximation of the word.

And jokes. Van began to tell jokes.

Knock, Knock!! he shouts
Who's there?
Hahahahahahahah!! he yells and runs away.

Ha, ha, ha indeed, sir.

Oh, those baby blue/gray/green eyes get me every time

Van's mind seems to race a little faster than his speech can keep up. His English compresses into some kind of Pidgin variation. You just have to figure it out, and quickly.

Sing a me, mama yes? he will say.
Sing to you?
Sing a me.
Say, sing to me, please, mama.
Sing a me, mama! Yes!

I was bringing laundry upstairs when he ran up to me, one hand outstretched to stop me. "Te gad ano, ano. Kist gea. But I got it! I got it!" he assured me, then scampered away. I did a quick check for Sharpies, broken glass, and chewing gum, but everything seemed okay...

What else about Van.....the boy loves hats. We have lots of hats. We have our dapper Florida retiree-about-town hat, complemented with yellow Wellies.

We have a fireman hat, a corduroy newsboy, a dozen stocking caps in various shades and patterns. We have cardboard boxes. Those are hats, too. We have buckets and bowls.

Upon further review, he might actually have fallen asleep in this one.

I think what anyone needs to know the most about Van, though, is how much he adores his twin sister. He always makes sure that she has her stuffed kitty. He makes sure her diaper is changed, that she has the books she wants before nap time, and that we do not miss her turn in any rotation. I know she can talk, but why should she when she has Van to tell the peasants what she wishes?

Not that he doesn't give her the odd push or take away something he's given her, or mess with her just a little. He is a brother, after all.

Just don't you mess with her!

parenting truth #1: the days are long and the years are short

2011-10-10T07:00:00.000-05:00

This is the first in a series of articles intended to explore some fundamental truths of parenthood. Let me know how I did.

My best friend had her first baby recently, and sent me a text late the other night.

"It's like a punch in the ovaries, isn't it?" it read, accompanied by a pic of the little lady with a truly adorable baby-gas smile. And it was like a punch, but possibly not the way she intended. I figured she meant how unexpectedly deep is the love a mother feels when she holds her new baby, so I replied in that spirit.

But the punch I felt resonated from my ovaries, through my uterus, and into each of my bones with a pang of fear. You see, I had spent the day going through boxes of photos and since I still used a film camera when the Bigg'ns were little, the majority of the baby photos were of them. They were inseparable at that age, barely 22 months apart, so very few photos exist of Ike where Isa is not there also. And it hit me hard how long ago those days were, how quickly the years were slipping by.

In the middle of my project, the subjects of those pictures came into the room. "Awww," Isa modestly cooed over her own baby portrait. "I was so cute!"

"You're still cute, except for your face," I teased. She laughed, and then unfolded her absurdly long legs and sprinted gazelle-like from the room to catch up with her Chicago friends. I noted that her prepubescent body is not as pre as I thought.

How can she be so tall? When did she develop her own sense of humor, her love of cooking? Where did eleven years go in such a hurry? Will she and I have a better relationship - any relationship - in twenty years than I now have with my own mother? Am I doing everything I can to teach her strength, courage, and resilience? Does she remember when it was just the two of us? Do I?

"You know, Mom," said Ike, drawing my attention to him. "I don't look like anyone. Was I adopted?" I was surprised. Couldn't he see how much like his birth father he looked? Hadn't I told him again and again that he had my grandfather's red hair and cornflower blue eyes, my round face and freckles (poor kid) and his paternal grandmother's facial expressions?

I told him again, to be sure, but he didn't seem to pay me any mind and went back to his Lego fort project. He actually left the room before I finished speaking. Not in a rude way; just in his way, the one that lets me know he has moved on and nothing I say is going to change what he has already decided: his lack of resemblance is just one more disconnect between he and his family.

In nine years, I have yet to figure him out. Will I ever? He wants to join the army and be a soldier. At nine years old, he sees every situation as a fight to be won or lost and I ache to know how to teach him peace. But Ike is a child who is very much at war with himself, and I can only remind him that he is loved. More importantly, that he is deserving of love. Will he ever believe that?

When I gazed at the sweet new life my best friend had brought into this world, I smiled and felt an urge to write her a long letter with all the gushy emotion that overcame me. The mushy love, paralyzing fear, sinful pride, the humor and joy, and yes, the disappointment. All those emotions and so many more hit me hard when I realized that Isa was less than halfway to leaving home for college, that I could not clearly recall a time where Ike was not contentious, that time was racing forward without any care for whether or not I was ready to move with it.

Another new mother I know asked me, "I can't imagine doing this with twins. What was it like?"

I had to respond, "I don't remember. The first year is a blur. All I know is that they seem all right now."

At the end of these very long days, sometimes that has to be enough. Because at the end of these short years, the one emotion I don't want to feel is regret.

british cartoon animals need not apply

2011-10-08T17:59:00.000-05:00

"What is this?"
What is what?
This. What is this, on the TV?
Peppa Pig.

{silence}

Didn't we just get rid of one limey dog?

I chuckled. You see, my younger daughter is a bit of an Anglophile. Last winter it was Kipper. She loooved her some Kipper. It was all she ever wanted to watch during tv time. She would watch him intently with her thumb poised at her lower lip, her rosebud mouth soundlessly forming Kipper's words.

Then it happened. "Mum," she said. Not Mom, Mama, Mommy, Mother, or even Natalie. Mum. "This dog has got to go!" Husband decreed. "We play football, not rugby!"

Aub has always liked piggies

Poor Husband. Life is so different than he imagined it would be six years, eleven months, and two weeks ago. That's shortly before he met me, you know. Me and my two little kids, still reeling from a not-quite-finalized divorce and in no way planning to make room in our lives for a man.

Ha ha on both of us, and happily so :)

Oh, but he does grumble a little. "It's college football!" he says. "I am watching football. Daddy is watching football. It's football time!"

Until it happens. "Mo'....pig. Peees?"

{silence}

♪♪ Pe-ep-pa Pig! {snort} ♫♫

how to work and be a mom at the same time and not suck at either task, for reals

2011-09-27T22:01:00.003-05:00

You know all that stuff I said about starting my own company? Forget it. I got a new job instead.

In some ways, life is going to become much better. For one thing, my shoe budget just got a jolt of yes, please and thank you. For another, I now have a much-needed reason to stop eating Nutella from the jar while still in my pajamas, and instead eat Nutella from the jar in actual clothes.

In other ways, life is about to become logistically challenging. All those studies that say it's better for kids to grow up in a household with a stay-at-home parent? I would bet you my firstborn son that it's because in those households, there is no question who has to go to the school and pick up the puker. In case you didn't know, my firstborn son is the puker in this house.

Although it has been almost three years since we were a dual income house and I couldn't fob the school off with a blithe, "Dad will be right down as soon as you call him, ta ta!" - I feel like I have learned from past mistakes enough to compile some tips on the subject of how not to suck at the whole work-mom thing.

First, Save the Guilt for the Confessional

Do not feel bad about working. Just don't. Feeling bad about something introduces the idea that you are doing something wrong. And you are not doing anything wrong. You are working to put food on the table, a roof over their heads, and some money in the bank for their futures. If you refuse to feel bad, your children will only see pride in a job well done, or at the very least, pride in the fruits of your labor. It's also unhealthy for your productivity. If you feel bad about going to work, those negative emotions are going to come through in some fashion and people will pick up on it.

Boingerhead says...
When your kids ask you what you did at work, or what you do for a living, figure out a way to translate it to what they are interested in, or what they are learning in school.

Compartmentalization: Not Just for the Sock Drawer

It isn't as easy as it sounds, and yet, it should be. It has to be. Work at work, home at home. Do not pester your caregiver every half hour to see what is going on. Do not Google "What happened to Steve from Blue's Clues" during work hours. Read a news outlet every morning or listen to news radio on the way in. It will give you something to talk about besides Junior's potty training issues. Conversely, do not plug in your laptop before the kids are in bed. Do not take work calls during his solo or her turn at bat. At work, work. At home, home.

Boingerhead says...
Block out all personal appointments just like you would a meeting, but color code them so that you can quickly distinguish between personal and professional obligations.
Give your personal items just as much priority as work, too.
For help prioritizing, use the Rule of 10. Will missing your daughters recital bother you in ten minutes? Ten hours? Ten days? Ten months? Ten years? Then don't miss it.

Let the House/Stuff Go (A Little)

I was supposed to finish unpacking today, and hopefully start prepping the backyard for gardening next Spring. Instead, I spent the day tickling my children to incontinence. Not everyone can sleep with the knowledge that the living room hasn't been vacuumed in two weeks, that the fish tank stinks, that it's the first day of the first month of the new quarter and you did not change everyone's toothbrushes for new ones, and what is that beeping? Did you change the batteries in the smoke detectors??

I highly recommend you try the lost art of "relaxing." You can be awesome at parenting and awesome at work, but seldom can you also be an awesome housekeeper, volunteer firefighter, beekeeper, novelist, and landscaper. At least, not without performance enhancing drugs. Choose the few things that really truly need to be done on a regular basis so you don't lose your mind and let the other things just....slide. Eventually you have to clean the fish tank (preferably before there is a casualty) - but not at the expense of your sanity.

Boingerhead says...
Allow your children to help! Let your third-grader set out bowls, spoons, and cereal the night before so breakfast is as simple as grabbing the milk and sitting down.
Any child sleeping in a big kid bed can tidy their own toys and make their own bed, too.
On a similar note, only sign up for committees and activities that mean something to you or add value to your lives.

While You Let the House Go, Tighten Up Other Stuff

Like schedules. Schedules are a non-negotiable in this house. It's tough when you are naturally a bit relaxed about things like naps and mealtimes, but the schedule isn't really for you. It's for the kids. Life is hectic enough without depriving them of the peace of mind that comes with knowing when dinner should be on the table and who is picking them up from school.

Piggybacking on the schedule is the all-important routine. Bedtime in this house is the same every night:

The Bedtime Bell is rung. That sounds fancy, but it is just Husband or I loudly yelling that it is Time. For. Bed.
Twins are herded upstairs for cleaning and pj-ing.
Twins then run around their bedroom room screeching "Go Crazy! Go Crazy!" until they inevitably collide, cry, are consoled, and kissed.
Twins are tucked into bed with the necessary arrangement of stuffed animals, blankets, and books

An hour later, Act II commences for the older two kids. Every night. World without end.

Boingerhead says...
Come up with routines that work for you and your family, and then stick to them. The sticking to them is the important part.

Remember: Nothing You Do Will Ever Be Good Enough

Until you are the boss or your kids become parents themselves, you are just never going to be able to please everyone all of the time. So don't kill yourself trying. Do what you know to be right. Do your best. Nevermind the rest.

seven minute snapshop

2011-09-21T13:35:00.002-05:00

In seven minutes, I need to go pick Isa up from school. I have much to do before I get into the car and fly away.

But I'm checking in with you instead.

My hair is wild, my pajamas loose against my thinning body because I've lost 30 pounds since last summer. Yet I still can't find a pair of boots that fit my fat calves. Twins are still sleeping. Van has a cold and Aub has the sniffles, too. Is there anything worse than a sinus headache, unless it's a sinus headache in your baby's face, where you can't fix it? I had two interviews this week that I am SO excited and nervous about.

Isa is doing marvelous in her new school, making friends and excited about her teachers. Ike is doing ok. He has a number of young ladies on the line, and he only punched one kid so far. So there is that.

What do you have going on today?

foto friday: a nice photo for grandma

2011-09-09T06:00:00.000-05:00

Aub, Isa, Ike, Van

The answer is no, we can't sit still for two minutes.

to my daughter, on her first day of middle school

2011-09-07T05:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Isa,

Let's not forget for a second that we don't do the maudlin mommy-daughter emotional maelstrom stuff. This is straight talk from me to you. Middle school was, for me, absolute hell and I mean to help you navigate a little better than I did. Not that it would take a lot; I absolutely tanked middle school. I probably would have killed myself if Grandma hadn't moved us 70 miles away to a place where flannel was function, not fashion (no matter what Kurt Cobain had to say about it.)

First, looks count. Find a hairstyle you can do in two minutes so no matter what, your hair isn't a source of concern. That way you can concentrate on science and not whether anyone is throwing spitballs at you.

Second, spitballs happen. Pick them off, drop them on the floor, roll your eyes (you are very good at that) and proceed with your day. Don't ever let them see you sweat.

Next, the learning part is important. If you really want to go to that fancy private high school, Dad and I will figure out how to make it happen. You have to do your part and get the grades for a scholarship. Have fun, join clubs, explore different interests, change your mind about things. Don't think for a second any of that is going to take precedence over academics.

Last.....please don't take everything too seriously. Please have fun. Please don't rush to make friends for the sake of having friends. Please value yourself higher than anyone else. Please remember that what I love most about you - your strength of conviction, of what is right and what is wrong - is not always going to be popular, but it is your BEST and STRONGEST characteristic, and will guide you when I cannot.

You have a good head on your shoulders. Use it.

And don't kiss anyone. You can still get herpes that way.

Love,
Mom

breast cancer awareness for the tacky and tasteless

2011-09-05T08:00:00.000-05:00

When the latest Facebook meme came out re: breast cancer awareness, I literally hit the ceiling. I forgot about the low, peaked ceiling in the office alcove of my new bedroom and I hit my head on it. I saw stars. I sat down. I reread the email again.

[Paraphrased] Don't tell the boys, just post your [fake] pregnancy week and craving as your Facebook status. It will promote breast cancer awareness, honest!

Nope - absolutely still pissed.

First I had a flash back to last year's stupid idea (post your bra color) - which I admit, I did. I posted it and forgot about the whole thing until the next week when it popped back up in someone's feed and I remembered something that had happened nearly fifteen years ago, when I was 18.

I was in Virginia. My godmother and dearest aunt was well on her way to recovering from a radical double mastectomy. She was going through her closet to pick out my first real suit following high school. She picked out a lovely green suit with delicate rock bead embroidery on the cuffs and a Marlene Dietrich silhouette. I felt very grown up, and smart. But you needed breasts to fill it out, which I had in abundance.

She didn't, not anymore.

I twirled a little and she went to her drawer for the right bra. Her drawer was full of bras. White, black, nude, red, flowers, lace, all kinds of bras. I had never seen so many bras.

Bras for breasts that were no more.

And she said, "I know I don't need them anymore." And I felt like she was going to say something else. But she didn't. I put my arm around her and she leaned on me. We looked at the slips of silk and cotton, hooks and ribbons, and we each said nothing.

I thought about that day, and I felt ashamed. I think about today, when I realized that my friends weren't all suddenly knocked up again, and I feel sad for us. Sad, disappointed, and more than a little frustrated. I think about my aunt, who died this past January, and how she would have felt about such stupid gestures as Facebook memes. My aunt was a woman of action. She never let the cancer win. It might have finally taken her, but she never let it. She never stopped living. She never stopped fighting.

She called me once and told me to talk to my doctor about a prophylactic breast removal procedure. No, I thought. Not my breasts.

But if we don't all stop fucking around and thinking insensitive FB memes count as "doing our part" it will be my breasts, and your breasts, and maybe your brother's breast tissue, or your son's. That's right, boys can get breast cancer, too. They can even die from it.

That's one side of my anger.

The other side is...I have friends who are going through a profoundly difficult time trying to get pregnant. I cannot imagine how difficult it was for her to see all of her friends were pregnant before she realized what was happening. I am sure she doesn't expect us to all walk on eggshells and hide our baby business from her, but goddamn it. If we had used our heads in the first place and come up with a meme that drove action, we could have avoided hurting 10% of the population (roughly how many couples dealing with infertility.)

But my theme for this blog is action. So I am acting. My next Facebook post is going to be:

Breast Cancer Awareness - new meme! Post your breast cancer health goal and/or a breast cancer support action you intend to take before the end of 2011! My goal is to admit to my doctor I am not comfortable checking myself, and my breast cancer support action is to attend a Gilda's Club new member meeting before December. What are you going to do?

what next

2011-09-04T12:42:00.000-05:00

I used to work for one of the top three pay-TV companies, but I could never really talk about it too much and anyway, that is done now. I had to resign when it became clear a transfer was not forthcoming. So here I am in Michigan, with a gigantic hole where professional pride used to be. I recognize now that I was getting a little burned out and a change had to happen soon one way or another.

But....now what? I've been home with all four kids for a total of two days and I realized an hour into the first one that I just cannot do this stay-at-home thing well. No matter how guilty I felt at the long hours I (used to) work, I knew that I was damn lucky to have a husband who could handle the cooking, diapering, incessant bickering and complaining, schoolwork, doctor/dentist appointments, finances, etc. with an enthusiasm and good nature that I just don't have.

I think part of it is that a large part of his identity is happily based on his status as a father. He loves being a dad. He loves being "that dad" - the one that all the neighborhood kids come to with their problems and to talk about this and that. He loves being the fun dad. He is good at it.

Me? Not so good at it. Not bad! Just not as good. Example: Instead of helping them unpack their rooms, I just kicked my older two kids outside with peanut butter sandwiches so I could work on my office. By work, of course I meant blogging.

One idea I have been kicking around for a while has been instead of looking for a new corporate gig, setting myself up as a virtual administrative assistant. It is pretty close to what I have been doing for two years - my boss traveled so much plus my region stretched from Minnesota to Tennessee. I've picked up a few freelance jobs that have been decent. Database scrubbing, some proofreading and minor editing. I think it is something to keep doing for the money regardless, but I need to do more research into it before I officially set anything up.

I could work from home. I could wear bunny slippers with my suits. When a difficult client became especially unpleasant, I could look down at my slippered feet and think, "He is being a jerk because he can't wear bunny slippers like me."

Many successful businesses have been built on faultier logic. Of this, I am certain.

boingerhead: take two

2011-08-30T19:17:00.000-05:00

I haven't posted in so long that the whole blogger platform has completely changed.
I haven't posted in so long that I lost three followers (sorry, guys.)
I haven't posted in so long that I'm not sure where to begin.

Except...

Damn. It's good to be back.

You know that Husband and the kids moved ahead of me to Detroit exactly three months ago. What you maybe only got a small taste of since then is how I have been coping being ~~footloose and fancy-free single~~ a hard-working and dedicated wife and mother from afar in Chicago with very little Internet and way too much time on her hands. Way too much time. But way too little money.

And do you know what I found out reasonably attractive women with a lot of time and very little money do with themselves when in a city far from husband and children? Well I am not sure what most floozies do, but I can tell you what I did: I spent my honeymoon goodbye period in Chicago wisely. I visited some old haunts, made friends with some new, and enjoyed every part of every day right up until the last piss-soaked train ride.

It's been a summer to remember for me. Husband, I know, had a drastically different one. He spent it learning a new company and a new job, being a single dad to four children with a huge commute and a great deal of responsibility. If even one piece of his carefully crafted plan had gone awry, we would have a very different ending to our summer.

But it seems God favors our undertaking. We are moving into a beautiful new home Thursday in a neighborhood we both love with schools that will actually teach and challenge our children. We are looking forward to our kids and our cousins' kids growing up together. We are within an hour of our parents and siblings (not counting Aunt C) and we are within an hour of all the things we love about Detroit.

I face September with a sense of calm and hope that the pieces of our new lives here are going to fall into place. I will find a new job that I love and that loves me back. The kids will do well in their new schools; the twins will acclimate to daycare. The twins will soon be potty trained without any difficulty!

In the scotch-soaked words of Ron White....it's gonna be a good day, 'tater.

single, child-free boingerhead

2011-07-05T20:50:00.000-05:00

How many times have I said something that begins with, "If I didn't have children..." or "If I was on my own..." or "Except for my family..." and then ends with something supposedly what I really want to do? Examples:

If I didn't have kids, I'd go out every weekend and attend unpretentious dinner parties and I would have lots of friends and go to flea markets and redecorate every six months and be very fun.
If I was on my own, my house would always be clean, my checkbook always balance, my credit would be through the roof, I would own my own house, and I would travel all over the world at a moment's notice. With the Peace Corps!
Except for my family, I could afford to be selfish. My decisions must be made with others in mind.

But as I have learned in the last month of singleness...that is all such bullshit. That might have been the romantic sitcom I envisioned for myself in high school, but the truth is that no one really changes that much. Not really. The things that are important remain important. Priorities might change. But the fundamental aspects of one's personality do not.

I haven't been on my own, ever. I moved out of my overbearing mother's house when I was eighteen and into an apartment with my older sister and her future wife. From there I lived with my best friend, then other friends, and then into a house with my first husband. Then back in with my mother. Then, to Chicago with Husband. The truth is that I have never as an adult truly been on my own. I don't know who I am if I don't have five people demanding something of me at any given moment.

The last month has been....educational. I have had to tackle closing down this apartment, sorting and purging and packing and selling things, a car catastrophe, deep disappointments at work, devastating disappointments at home, and other normal life things all without my partner here to support and guide me. I am an incredibly organized, assertive, and practical woman at work, but in my personal life that's been a little longer in achieving. The last two weeks have been a crash course in "On My Own-ness."

Some of the truths I have discovered about myself are this...

I watch just as much television without Husband, it's just less fun and now I can't blame the chores not being done on him.
I am a workaholic. I will arrive early, leave late, log in from home, and spend precious shower time thinking about work process flow charts instead of how best to shape my recovering nail bed.
I don't like picking up my socks, either. So I stopped wearing them.
I am never, ever, ever going to care about a balanced checkbook. Ever.
I can't write without the kids even more than I couldn't write with them.

Although I did befriend some Gypsies and have a backlog of hostile opinions toward Craigslist trolls I've been wanting to write about

I really would starve without Husband, if there was also no takeout option. On the other hand, this yogurt and egg diet has resulted in a dress size reduction
I hate working out. It's stupid. I thought I was tired from taking care of the kids or didn't want to bother people with work out time, but I just plain hate it.
I really can do things myself. This broken bike has been taking up space in my bedroom for months waiting for Husband to fix. The other day, I fixed it in ten minutes and rode it for two hours. And then sat on a boppy for two days.
I don't mind laundry, but will eat over a sink to avoid dishes.

Last but not least....living alone is ok, but vastly overrated. I do better in children and chaos.

And you can quote me on that.

dear mom, you're mean

2011-06-23T21:12:00.001-05:00

My daughter, who is going to be eleven in August if she doesn't choke on her own drama first, has always been fond of the melodramatic letter. Many is the time I have been alerted to impending drama by the rustle of paper beneath her door.

Dear Mom,I know you hate me for not eating the peas BUT I HATE PEAS! Okay so you can hate me but you'll never hate me as much as I hate peas!Love,Isa

Dear Mom,Just take all my stuff and give it away. Then my room will always be clean and you won't have to yell at me anymore. Love,Isa

The best part were always the illustrations. The stick-figure princesses with the streaming tears locked in towers and cages are very metaphorical, you know. They made me ~~laugh so hard~~ feel so bad it hurt.

As she has gotten older, the letters have evolved:

"Do not disturb
am reading long and
thought-provoking book and
book reports"

And as she has approached tweendom, the letters evolved again. My sweet little girl is giving way to a hormonal little thing who is given to passive-aggressive tantrums:

Yeah great. Thanks mom. I can't do anything fun. I can't go on Monkey Quest, I can't blog, and what's the point of having of Facebook if your stupid 'safety program' say's it's an adult site? huh? I'm surprised I can e-mail you. All because you don't trust me. Thanks.

I know, right? That poor child with her own laptop and cell phone is soo very put upon by those dastardly parental controls. How dare I put a timer on her laptop? How dare I track her web traffic? How dare I enforce limits on her access?

Mean old Mommy.

[EDIT: Isa followed up this morning with the below email. I would think one of her aunts helped her compose this except this is how she actually talks.]

Mom,

I am sorry that I blew up at you. I am politely requesting that you change the permissions on my netbook. I have found out that I can't blog or try out a popular internet game called Monkey Quest which I have heard is very fun. I also have concluded that Facebook might be considered an 'adult site' by the filter you installed. I am asking that you just consider this.

Love you lots,
Isa

dear husband

2011-06-08T22:14:00.000-05:00

Did you see the cute/sweet thing I did today where I tweeted a series of "Three years ago today..." in honor of this, our third wedding anniversary? You thought the fact that I was one day late was even more adorable, right? Especially considering the irony:

boingerhead Natalie

Three years ago today, I was late for my wedding #happyanni

Right?

Warning: Sloppy love talk ahead. I am allowed to be sloppy today. I miss you so much.

Three years doesn't seem like very much, nor does seven if we're counting the total investment. I find it astonishing to think that ten years ago, I was someone else's wife. It's inconceivable to me that I have ever belonged to anyone but you. I have known you my whole life; or at least, some level of my soul was aware of yours, was always working toward finding yours

And I do (belong to you) - my feminist heart agrees that when love is based on giving and receiving, rather than taking and losing, possession can be a liberating thing. I am the woman I am today because you force me to give myself permission to be me. You push me to love myself, to respect myself. You forbid me to allow anyone, even you, to discredit or mistreat me in any way. I am, because you are. And I always will be.

Enough of that. I'll make myself puke.

Let me instead fill you in on the children.

Isa - is too grown up for her own good. She took it upon herself to write Ike a note excusing his lack of a school uniform today. She told his teacher we were doing our monthly laundry and his pants weren't done yet. Granted, she has definitely stockpiled a month's worth of her own laundry. Also, I agreed to help out a friend with their cats while they are on vacation. You remember, D and L helped with our big-headed dog once. Anyway, on the instructions, one of the cats is listed as "prone to binging and purging" so Isa decided to call one of the emergency contacts to find out how best to deal with that. Turned out to be L's brother in Saskatchewan. On the other hand, she had a toddler-sized tantrum over eating green beans with dinner tonight. So there's that.

Ike - is liking being the 'man of the house.' I told him that every good morning he has will result in an evening where he is "King of the Wii" - so of course he has been an angel all week so far. I will stand all the James Bond he wants to play if it makes him happy. Shocker - He invited his bully to their party on Saturday. He said, "at the end of a war, you make a pact." I had to leave so he wouldn't see me weep over his naive wisdom. If that little bastard doesn't do the right thing, I might declare war of my own.

Oh, Ike also announced that he knows what you and I have been doing the last seven years, and it is called "sexing." He wanted to know why we don't have more kids. I turned on iCarly and left the room. So you have that conversation to look forward to.

One other thing - I vacuumed the last remnants of the babies' wandering snacking. I actually considered letting Ike eat his cereal in the living room just so I could pretend they were still here by the crumbs. Give them a huge hug and kiss from their mother.

Til tomorrow, I remain your loving

Wife.

be careful what you wish for

2011-06-06T01:02:00.000-05:00

Is it horrible that I often put myself to sleep imaging what I would do if the unthinkable happened, and I lost my husband or children or both? It's true. I have over ten years worth of "In Case of Emergency..." lists and contingencies filed in my head.

But it turns out, when something does happen - even if it isn't bad - there is no preparation. Nothing goes according to plan when it comes to the heart.

Husband and the twins have gone to Michigan for at least the next six weeks. The Bigg'ns will follow at the end of the school year. That means for the first time ever, I'm basically a single mom completely on my own with my original brood. What if I fuck it up? And I have no idea if/when I will be able to follow [we're not getting a divorce, kids. This arrangement is due to family need and is temporary.]

How many times a month, week, day, HOUR? do you wonder when you'll ever have a moment to yourself?

What will I do with myself, I ask you. I'll work out more. I'll have a better diet. I'll write. I'll read. I'll have so much time. I'll go to the library, the coffee shop. I'll do my nails and my toes. I'll take those photographic walks I always imagined I would take. Then I will print my photos into Snapfish albums so one day I can bore the hell out of my great-grandchildren. I will put on a sundress and go for a walk and be pretty for no reason except because I am.

Yes. I will do those things. In theory.

Do you know what I did with my entire Sunday once Husband and the babies were on the road? I took to my bed and cried for two hours until I fell asleep. Then Isa went to switch her laundry, found a tiny little pair of Aub's pants, and took to my bed crying which started me back up. Then, Ike heard our caterwauling, started crying because he'd been left alone with two crazy women, and took to my bed, too. And he fidgets.

And now it is nearly one am. I'm listening to light FM radio, praying to God everything works out, and trying to figure out how I'm going to make it through the next six weeks without turning into a basketcase. I fear it may be too late.

five foto friday

2011-05-13T21:33:00.000-05:00

Dear reader,

If you're still with me, you know I've been losing steam for this blog in the last six months. But I am still here, partly because you are still here. So, thank you for that. It means more than I can say.

Here are some photos from yesterday at the park.

Can I help you?

Hehh, heh he heh, eh heh, heh

No, Aub, you go this way

Dad! Daddaddaddydaddy Dad Dad!

Whhhhheeeeeeeeeeee!

sunday funday

2011-05-01T14:59:00.000-05:00

the slumber party

2011-04-26T23:06:00.003-05:00

There some things that have come late into my kids' lives.

Isa learned to ride a bike last summer, at age nine. Granted, she had had the bike for three years and just refused to learn until I put her on it and shoved her down the sidewalk.
Isa and Ike went ice skating for the first time this winter. We used to live in Michigan where kids learn to skate before they learn to walk.
They were four and six when they attended their first major league baseball game.
They were seven and five when they went on their first real vacation.

There is a part of me is that a little glad for the delays because I was so young when I embarked on all of these adventures that I don't have any recollection around my very first bike ride, vacation, or ballgame. I just know Isa is never going to forget her mother releasing her bike into an overgrown patch of daylilies. But there is a larger part of me that feels like a bit of a failure as a parent for not making sure these quintessential Kid Things have been checked off in a timely manner. Except for one thing.

The slumber party.

Specifically, the gaggle of pre-teen girls slumber party, like the impromptu one we ended up having Saturday night. See, Full-Disclosure Child was in town for a visit and was a for-sure sleepover guest. But she was palling around with her other close friend, Ag, who is in Isa's class at school. They were playing when the new neighbor girl stopped by, and then Ike's friend came over with his twin sister in tow (also in Isa's class.)

That's seven kids, in case you lost count. Isa, Ike, FDC, Ag, Twin Girl, Twin Boy, and Neighbor Girl. Plus my twins makes nine. NINE kids in my 500 sq. ft. worth of available kid play space. I mean, yes, it was my idea, but I was picturing a sweetly domestic scene like:

and

Alas, as I was loudly and repeatedly reminded until 2:00am, it is 2011, not 1911. My daughter has a mouth on her, and her friends take her lead.

Granted, I probably shouldn't have told them Bloody Mary was nothing compared to her sulky sister, Suffocating Sally, who attacked the last girl to fall asleep by pulling her head into her pillow and ... well, you know. She came by her name honestly.

I'm sure midnight pizza and soda probably wasn't a great idea if I really wanted to settle them down...and while we're on that subject, let me just warn parents with girls coming up behind mine in age: tween girls have NO idea how much pizza they will eat. Whatever they tell you, divide it by three and bank on the dog gaining five pounds from discarded pizza crusts. However, they will definitely drink all the soda.

And yes, I am sure those girls were just gaga at endless viewings of such classics as Bring It On, Bring It On Again, No YOU Bring It on, and I Brought It On Last Time. I knew it was inevitable that the twins would be woken up at some point and would take a while to get back down. I knew my husband would at some point make the remark that a deep and abiding love was the only thing preventing him from leaving me alone with all. those. kids. I knew my son and his out-gunned, lone friend would complain repeatedly that the girls were hogging everything (which they were) until I sent them to Ike's room to play Legos or something.

I knew they'd have a good time. And they did. And if I am honest, now that the ringing in my ears has subsided, so did I.

And no, I was not the last girl to fall asleep!

everyone but me is pregnant and i am totally okay with that

2011-04-14T18:31:00.000-05:00

PREGGOS ARE FREAKING EVERYWHERE!

I cannot go anywhere without bumping into someone's swollen uterus. It seems like everyone I know is pregnant. My best friend. My co-workers and/or their wives. If my friends aren't pregnant, then they are planning to become pregnant this year. On the bus, train, sidewalk. The deli. The bakery. The pharmacy. My neighbors. The girl who walks down Milwaukee Ave. in the opposite direction and always manages to bump into me no matter how far apart we are when we pass. She's preggers, too. One of my favorite actresses, too.

Extreme measures are being put into place to make sure that this house escapes the present pandemic unscathed. That's right - I'm not drinking out of any cup that might have man-spit in it, I've sworn off tequila, and I'm not giving away any more baby stuff until all these fertility cooties go away, because it never fails. Every time I get rid of stuff, I suddenly need it.

Abstinence, you say? See above re: tequila.

Pregnancy: For You, Not Me

Not that I don't looove babies. I love them lots. But this factory started production in 2000. Our first prototype is going into the second decade of life and our most recent one, a dually, is only just getting into more vigorous testing.

Bad car analogies aside - I love Top Gear - I am so happy for everyone else. I cannot wait to plan my best friend's baby shower. I cannot wait to give her all this baby crap (after she's delivered and no longer contagious.) I can't wait to listen to everyone else be tired, hormonal, and covered in spit and poo. I am really looking forward to being on the other end of the phone for the frantic calls.

"What is this white crap on my baby's tongue?"

"Why is one breast making more milk than the other?"

"Should poo be yellow and seedy?"

"I can't find my ring - how do I know if the baby swallowed it?"

"I accidentally pricked the baby with a diaper pin - I'm going to Mommy Hell, aren't I?"

"It's only been three weeks, but I feel fine and I am horny as hell."

"I changed my mind - I can't do this!"

It occurs to me that all my drastic measure will come to naught if I don't put Husband in lockdown. You're all put on notice: No one is allowed to engage Husband in any kind of preggo-related activity or conversation. Especially preggo-related activity.

few people annoy me as much as i do

2011-04-07T22:47:00.000-05:00

It's time to get up.
No, it's not.
No, really it is.
We can doze for eleven minutes more and still catch a bus in plenty of time.
But we decided last night that this is a hair-washing morning, and you have like three zits that need cover-up.
.......Eh. Sleep.
Come on. Time to get up and goo-o-o-o.
Shh. Sleepy time now.
...
...
...
Hey, remember how we were going to start working out in the morning? It's morning.
I thought we decided that was stupid. We'd wake up the twins. Plus we don't like showering in the morning. We shower at night.
I take you back to my earlier point - it's a hair-washing morning. And we're doing so well with the workout routine.
We haven't worked out in a week.
You've been sick, you need to take it easy.
Right....so, no working out, and no getting up yet. Sleepy now.
...
...
...
It's quarter after. We're going to be late now.
Nahh. As long as we make the 7:25 train, we're good.
Can we at least figure out what we're going to wear, so we aren't scrambling when you do decide to get up?
Grey slacks, white button-down, blue sweater. Done. Zzzzzzz.
...
...
...
That scarf you've been knitting for four years is dusty.
Seriously shut up now!
...
...
...
Kiss me, k-k-kiss me! Fill me with your love, infect me with your poison!
Katy Perry, really?!
Take me, t-t-take me! Wanna be your victim, ready for abduction!
LALALALALALALAAL I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!!
IT'S SUPERNATURAL, EXTRATERRESTRIAL!!!
NO! NO! NO! ALL RIGHT, I AM UP!
...
...
If you'd just gotten up when I told you to...
...
...
Bitch,

balance is key, and yet i'm not sure what lock it opens

2011-03-25T22:32:00.000-05:00

This might come as a surprise, but I sometimes forget how many children I have. It's true. I just flat out do not ever stop to think, "How many kids do I have? Four? Really, serious?"

That's a lot to have these days. Everything is expensive and only getting costlier. Women are waiting longer to marry and even longer to have their first child. They are having fewer children and spending more money on their personal development.

Not me. My friends have college degrees and travel slideshows. I have one, two, three, four children. Four little persons in varying stages of dependence on me. And sometimes, I forget what a big deal that is.

I forget that the hippie is only ten because she says things like, "How is knowing how to make espresso going to put me through college?"

I forget that my husband's redheaded stepchild is already eight because he says things like, "I don't need to go to church, because when I was baptized I swallowed some of the water, and now I am holy."

I forget I have two toddlers because life is generally less stressful when I pretend they are just two kids I happened to have at the same time instead of the ubiquitous term twins, and all that it entails. They are just a couple of really funny kids that go with the other couple of really funny kids.

What is the point, Boingerhead? What are you trying to say that you haven't already said, better, at some other point in your blog?

The truth is this: I wanted to tell the espresso and holy water comments without flaking out another blog entry, and then I would also like to share my other tips for balancing work, family, self, life.

Don't clean every day. Straighten up a little before bedtime (get everyone to pitch in) but don't break out the Lysol more than once a week. Let your kids remember you for keeping a fun house, not a sterile one. Make cleanliness a goal, but not a priority. Floorios are every toddler's favorite snack.
No matter what is going on, always tuck your kids into bed, even if they are old enough to menstruate and/or impersonate Dad when the principal calls. Especially if they are old enough to do those things. This is much-needed time to reinforce how much you love them and will always be there for them, no matter how much you argued at dinner or how many detentions they have, or how badly you fucked up at work that week. Your kids are why you do everything you do - remember that with a hug and kiss goodnight.
Always wear lipstick and good shoes. You will feel more put-together and more likely to do things, like run up to the library, say yes to a neighborhood walk, let their friends come over, play hopscotch. Plus, you will have better pictures of you over the years instead of being Mom, the Shlub on the other side of the photo. Don't you want your kids to have beautiful photos of you?
Compartmentalized. Work stays at work, home stays at home. This is not always easy for me because of the nature of my job, but it's a truth fact that when work encroaches on my family time, it's because I let it. So, don't let it. Similarly, don't let family stresses impede your professionalism. If things are that bad, take a couple days off. Don't be the office Drama Llama.
Eat. I must eat a light breakfast, protein-heavy lunch, and simple dinner, with a couple small snacks between, or I am an unbearably whiny brattykins with no energy and no humor.

And that is really all I had today. :)

foto friday: h is for hairs, everywheres

2011-03-25T21:26:00.000-05:00

Some recent photos of the peanuts:

try to look at my son through my eyes

2011-03-10T20:17:00.001-06:00

Something happens when boys like my son make the transition from isn't he the sweetest to please stop growing so fast. People - that ubiquitous, all-knowing, all-seeing mass of People - aren't as forgiving of their boyness. They are quick to frown, quick to judge.

The loud laughs, the ill-timed armpit farts. The amazing penchant for saying things like "that lady's butt looks big" during a lull in the rest of the store. The 'why walk when runningkickingleapingclimbingsomersaulting is so much more fun?!"

My son is what happens when fifty-six cubes of sugar meets Tom Sawyer and a pound of bouncy-balls. Loud, proud, and no end in sight.

Then he started to tell me all about the latest developments in school. You might have heard - there's a bullying problem in America. I'm here to tell you - this isn't news. He told me he was very upset because his arch nemesis [his words] had written a love letter to a girl, and said it was from him.

Boy: It's not even my handwriting, Mom. I think they stole my pencil.

Next to where we were standing, an older lady was ready with a hmPH and an eye-roll every time his voice became audible over the train, or he rotated in her direction, or seemed like he might - gulp - get within a couple inches of her. It used to be, I would shush my son and remind him to use his indoor voice. Stop moving, don't be so wriggly, shhh.

But not anymore, because there was a time a scant two years ago when he was quiet, and still. He was pale, withdrawn, and had no energy. He had to be on medication or face expulsion from school. We moved. We quit medication. My son came back.

And so when I look at little boys bopping around the floor, war-whooping in the laundromat, eating spaghetti with two knives like chopsticks in a diner, or poking their big sister until she shrieks on the train, I give their parents a big smile. I give the boy a big smile. The alternative is a legion of zombie-boys. Having once had one of my own, I say to the disapproving biddies of the world: Eat me. Move on. Get over it. Stay home and live off Home Shopping Network.

Or...

Smile back at him. Listen to his chatter. Learn what our youth is interested in. His jokes are offbeat and funny. His wisdom is innocent still, and that's amazing. Be amazed. Be patient. He wants to hold open the door for you so he can show off his manners for me. He said hello. Say hello back. We're on this train together. You're doing nothing but sitting for at least three minutes. In three minutes, you could teach my son a lot.

You could teach him that people are kind, and respond to good manners. You could teach him that courtesy is rewarded with courtesy. You could teach him that old age is not synonymous with a bad mood. You could teach him he's a valuable part of this society, not to be ignored or scoffed. You could smile back at him.

Because quite frankly, if you choose to sit there and let your bad mood, bad life, bad attitude color how you treat a child who is just being a child, then you probably either were a bully or raised a bully of your own. And if that's the case, I go back to my earlier sentiment:

Eat me.

two years old

2011-02-19T15:48:00.001-06:00

Two years ago, I called my husband to tell him that my 35 week check up had turned into the twins' birthday. I was in labor, and as soon as he arrived the doctor was taking me into the operating room.

And that's exactly what happened. We went from a we four to a we six in the space of sixty-one seconds. More about that on the Birth Story Posts, 1 and 2.

A lot has happened since then. We're a lot older now.

Old enough for time outs:

Old enough to feed ourselves:

Old enough to play Rock Band!

Old enough for hair cuts, even though we really did not want one:

Old enough to pose:

Old enough to play jacks with Aunt D:

Old enough to read a book!

Old enough to be tired of the mammarazzi:

foto friday: l is for logic

2011-02-11T10:39:00.003-06:00

After pushing me to the absolute EDGE of my temper and patience ALL MORNING...

Mom, why are you so stress? What's causing you to be in so much stress?
Besides your refusal to listen to me today? I miss my aunt. I'm sad your friend's mom passed away, too. Work. And there's just so much to be done before tomorrow.
Well...you invite your aunt over for a nice dinner.
The aunt I am missing is Aunt L.
Oh.
Yeah.
Well....I can't do anything about the dead mom or the dead aunt, but Isa and I can help you around the house. How would that be?
That would be...really very nice. What about listening?
Well...you gotta do the best you can with what you got.

where would we be without henrietta lacks

2011-02-06T22:19:00.001-06:00

I read a book yesterday in one sitting. Well, I read it in several short, successive bursts highlighted by diaper changes, refereeing squabbles, and realizing my entire Saturday was slipping away. But I could not put it down.

It's called The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, by Rebecca Skloot, and it is a portrait of the woman on whose cell cultures much of our scientific progress since 1951 has relied, as well as a look at the moral and financial impact of cell culture on our lives and society.

I'm a pseudo nerd, so the science was at once interesting and compelling. The questions posed by the author are not insignificant and should incite the masses to consider the issues of medical privacy, donor rights, and what role government plays in protecting both donors and scientific progress. I highly recommend it, but I do not lightly recommend it.

Those questions are not what kept me up long after I finished the story of Henrietta and the fates of her children. The thought of some lab squint performing experiments on my tissues I might not like, or of Pfizer making millions off my blood proteins is not what made me cry without realizing it. What kept me up, what dampened my cheeks, was the story of a young, uneducated mother dying a terrible death and leaving behind five children to the vagaries of poverty and what passed for race relations in 1950's America.

I kept thinking that there is someone else I never met - my grandmother Caroline - who died before her thirtieth birthday, also of a devastating cancer. My father doesn't talk about that time very much. He was only twelve, and the last in a long line of manly stoics. His memories were always about the Caroline still at home, cooking for her children, and only rarely about the Caroline bedridden and unable to speak for long periods.

I loved stories about the former Caroline. My favorite is the one where she chased off two neighborhood bullies with a pair of butcher knives when they threatened her and her son. She loved to dance, and she would go rollerskating with my grandfather. She was disowned by her family for marrying an Irish farmer from West Virginia, but she traveled with him and their three children wherever the Navy sent them. She had bright eyes and a wide smile, and my father says she would have spoiled me and my sisters. He says I look like her.

There is a photo of her and my grandfather standing cheek to cheek in front of the family homestead in West Virginia. When I was younger and felt particularly misunderstood, I would dream that I could run into that photo where she was waiting. She and my Grandpa Lee would catch me up in their arms and we'd go running into Great-Grandma Vestie's vegetable garden, where it was hot and spicy with the scent of peppers, beans, and tomatoes. She would swing me in a circle until we fell dizzy in the tall grass, and watch the clouds go by.

Why do I feel closer to the dead than the living? Why did I lie awake last night and grieve for Henrietta Lacks until I fell asleep in a way that I have yet to be able to do for my aunt? I cannot get her out of my mind because I never really thought about what it meant to die of cancer in 1960. Was it so different from 1951, when Henrietta was admitted to Johns Hopkins? Henrietta left behind five children; Caroline left behind three. Henrietta's husband was a philandering factory worker who let a cousin move in and subject their children to terrible abuse and neglect. Caroline's drank himself into an inconsolable, angry alcoholic. My father and his sisters were on their own except for the summers they spent on the family farm.

At least that's what I remember my father telling me. Poor Henrietta. Poor Caroline.

I don't pretend my perception, my reality is factual. It's all based on the memories of a twelve year old boy who really lost two parents at once. The thought of talking to my dad about any of that now is absurd. Something meaningful might be said and right now I am walking a precarious emotional tightrope with my family.

One year ago this week, I was giddy with plans to surprise my own mother on her sixtieth birthday. We were talking at least once a week for a significant length of time. I actively ignored the derogatory remarks she made about my husband and life and clung to the bits of loving wisdom and family gossip. She was my crazy mother with her foibles and idiosyncrasies, but she was my mother and I did not doubt her love or respect or pride in me, and the life I was making for myself out here.

Happy Bday. Don't forget to get a mammogram.

That was my birthday text from my mother. It was followed by a little back and forth before she called me at my desk and began to regale me with details from my aunt's deathbed. It might not seem like much, and it might have been pretty upsetting to hear about that at work...but that's my mom. My crazy, foibly, idiosyncratic mom. She's trying.

I meant to write about how our children are our true immortal selves, and we live in them. But I just watched The Lion King for the ninth time in two days and seems like they said it better first.

Caroline and Henrietta never had the chance to be friends with their daughters. I feel like my mom and I owe it to both of them to try again.

potluck monday: we are really, really trying here

2011-01-30T20:35:00.001-06:00

It doesn't help that I just lost everything I had been able to write...damn it, Janet...

Holly at June Cleaver Nirvana is still one of my most favorite bloggers. I've swiped her Potluck Monday more than a couple times. I've been trying to "write through" and while I am mildly impressed with the amount of crap I've managed to produce, I have been trying to come up with something I can actually publish.

We'll start off easy.

I cleaned off my desk and rediscovered my aine true luv, Lola. Fortunately, I had a whole new trainwreck in my house. See, I have four kids and one clotheshorse husband. As the children show no signs of shrinking and as Husband shows no sign of not shopping, we generate a lot of cast-offs.

Inexplicably, we also have a beer keg and beer wench costume set. I have no recollection of acquiring or ever wearing it. Today, I was able to unload the bulk of the baby clothes and one of our two little-people table and chair sets. Valuable real estate has been recovered, people! But before I did, this is what half of the den looked like:

Can you Find Lola?

While we're on the subject of a whole lotta shit, Van has recently figured out he can get a HUGE reaction from Mom and Dad every time he sticks his hands in his pants and pulls out poo. He is always in a backwards onesie now.

In keeping with the fecal theme...Stone Fox came by with a great tip to overcome the writer's block. What doesn't wine fix?

"so you're all bunged up, eh? maybe you need a brain laxative. like wine. i hear that loosens the screws; maybe enough to pass the block?"

I know why I'm having a hard time writing. My aunt died; and my mother and I are going through an all-time low in our relationship. As I try to keep this a light-hearted blog, and as I am not certain who all from my family reads this, I don't feel like I can freely write about either subject. My aunt was my godmother, and my hero. She is the one person from my family who always unquestionably and unconditionally believed in me. And now she is gone.

At the same time, efforts to patch things up with my mother this past Christmas ended badly.

I cannot be the only blogger who has ever gone through a period where everything you needed to write about - you couldn't.

So I don't know what to do about all that. Husband got our other desktop computer fixed so I am going to try my hand at seven days of cartoons in a row.

writing...you know, what i haven't been doing...

2011-01-15T12:07:00.002-06:00

I haven't written anything since my last post - not a draft, not a letter, not a grocery list. I haven't started and deleted a post, I haven't jotted down ideas for posts, I haven't let myself think one thought along the lines of, "I must blog about that." I haven't done more than open the new post screen a dozen times, stared at it, and closed it back up.

Husband says I am just refusing to do it and need to push past the block. I tell him he doesn't understand block. He says there's no such thing. I remind him he has written five posts in his blog, and the last one was in July. He says it's time to set the table for dinner.

Seriously. I thought I needed a break from blogging to let my brain regenerate, but it seems like the longer I let it go, the more it resembles marshmallow.

I'll leave you with this:

Ike doesn't want to play in his room because it is boring. His new computer, DS, books, and other toys are boring.

So instead, he created a 2'2' fort between the ottoman and the couch, had me throw a blanket over him, and is now content. Wait, I just had to add a DUPLOS block flag to the top.

Okay, now we're good.

pulling a ross and rachel

2010-11-28T10:38:00.000-06:00

I'm taking a break from the blog for ONE MONTH. I have GOT to finish knitting this scarf before my brother-in-law sees I unraveled it yet again and started over from scratch.

In the meantime, from my family to yours,

Happy Holidays!

giveaway: billy's first flight lesson [WINNER]

2010-11-21T17:31:00.000-06:00

Congratulations to Kerrie G, at kerriekg@yahoo.com, the winner of my latest giveaway. Kerrie's favorite book growing up was Oh the Places You'll Go, which happens to be one of our favorites, too.

Kerrie, I hope Little Billy becomes a family favorite, too.

Thank you again to all of my participants!

True Random Number GeneratorMin: Max: Result:11Powered by RANDOM.ORG

giveaway: billy's first flight lesson (a children's book)

2010-11-10T23:12:00.000-06:00

I would like you all to give a warm welcome to Elaine Barber, the author of Billy's First Flight Lesson. This light-hearted tale of a boy falling in love with aviation would a sweet addition to any child's bookcase.

So please make sure to comment on the blog (not my Facebook page, Aunt Peggy) for your chance to win a copy of Billy's First Flight Lesson.

But first, please read the author's interview below.

Thank you for sending me a copy of your book, Billy’s First Flying Lesson, which I was very excited to share with my children. Can you tell us a little about it?

The idea to write this children’s book came to me by listening to people in the aviation community who voiced their concerns with young peoples’ lack of interest in flying. This made me think about my husband Bill who, as a little boy, dreamt only of flying. I hoped that his story would inspire children to fly. After all, he is a real person who flew as a child and who grew up to be an accomplished pilot.

You mentioned on your website - http://www.elaine-barber.com - that your husband was the inspiration for the character of Little Billy Barber. What particular qualities of Little Billy would you say are like your husband?

"Little Billy" and my husband share a great desire to fly. Bill wanted to be a pilot from the very moment he first saw an airplane, at the age of three. When he was a young boy, he rode his bike to and from the local airport just to watch the airplanes. The pilots at the airport saw his enthusiasm; and so, they gave him a job helping out around the hangar and they paid him by taking him up for flight lessons. These early lessons allowed Bill to solo at the age of 11.

You started to write later in life, after your husband’s death and three full careers in real estate, art, and nursing. What kind of advice do you have for other authors who get a late start in their writing career?

Don’t give up!

I first had the idea to write this book ten years ago, and wrote the first draft in 2006. I wanted to see the story inspire children, and so I never gave up. It took a decade to see the story go to press and the journey to get the book published has not been without its trials and tribulations. Despite this, the process was a great learning experience and the outcome is well worth the time and energy.

Is it true that you are self-published? Can you tell us a little more about that journey?

I bought just about every book there is on how to write children’s books and how to get published. I submitted the story to publishing companies which I felt were a good fit for my book. Although I received several rejection letters, one publisher expressed interest in my story and seriously debated picking it up. Although they ultimately decided not to take a chance with a first-time author in such an unstable economy, their interest meant that people indeed liked my story. With a renewed sense of purpose, I went on to explore the world of self publishing. There are a number of self-publishing companies out there, and I recommend you take the time to research each one to see which is the best fit for you. Things to consider are: cost, how professional you would like the book to look, is the book for retail sales or just to give to family and friends, if it is for retail sales how are you going to market it, do you need an illustrator, and do you need someone to help with design and layout work.

I love the art work. How did you come to collaborate with the illustrator?

After I sold my art gallery, I went to work in the framing department of Michelle’s craft store. There, I met Linda Terentiak. One day, I was talking to a co-worker about my Billy Barber story. She knew an artist who was also an airplane enthusiast and recommended I get in touch with her. Linda ended-up coming into the store to introduce herself to me and left me her card. I put the book on the back-burner, unsure if I would ever get it published. A year after meeting Linda, her card fell out of my wallet; I took this as a sign that it was time to move ahead with the book. The rest is history.

What are your plans for future adventures for Little Billy Barber?

I see The Adventures of Little Billy Barber as a trilogy. I am currently working on the next two books in this series. You can expect to see Billy and his friends have many wonderful adventures in aviation. I hope the next book will be available in time for the EAA Oshkosh Wisconsin air show which takes place in July 2011.

Learn more about Elaine and Little Billy at her website, www.elaine-barber.com.

Make sure to leave a comment telling me your favorite childhood book, the one you read over and over until you had to get a new one, but then still read the old one because....well, that was your favorite. Winners will be selected by random drawing next Foto Friday.

Disclosure: I received two copies of the book as gifts for my sons as well as another copy as a promotional gift from the author for this giveaway.

the science project

2010-11-08T21:37:00.000-06:00

When I was a kid, my parents helped with my school projects. I clearly remember being scolded for letting things go until the last minute. I remember staying up very late the night before something was due and then scrambling to get something that didn't suck ready in time.

I have spent many years wondering why my parents didn't take the time to teach me better time management and project development skills. I wondered how different my life would be if I had just learned not to leave shit until the last minute just a little bit earlier in life.

And now I know the truth. It's genetic. My parents never had a chance.

Six weeks ago, the hippie brought home a sheet outlining a science project due today. We knew about it. We read it together. She formulated an experiment and we discussed what we'd need to make it happen. We talked about the steps of the scientific method. We talked about not procrastinating.

We wrote a calendar of events.

And yet. And yet! Last night at nine pm, I found myself stapling my finger to a triffle board and digging crushed shell out of my dishwasher. Here's our version of the scientific method, complete with a glossary of terms.

Triffle Board: how the hippie was pronouncing "tri-fold board" which resulted in a delay of one week while we pretended to know what she was talking about in a vain attempt to not appear stupid. FAIL!

That's the only term in the glossary...

Step 1: Ask a Question
Just how crazy can I make my mother?

Step 2: Research
Every day is research. What happens if I let the baby pull all his clothes out of his drawers and throw them around the living room? What happens if I throw out the old coffee grounds...on the pantry floor? How red will Mom's face turn if I tell her I have to actually print out my report, knowing we don't have a printer and have to take it to the nearest Kinko's, before closing, on a Sunday, at five pm? Yes, that's it!

Step 3: Construct Hypothesis (If-Then Statement)
If I wait until Saturday night to start writing my report, formatting my triffle board, and compiling my data into charts and graphs, then my mother's head will explode.

Step 4: Do Experiment
For weeks leading up to the due date of my science project, tell Mom that I am almost done with the whole thing. One week before, actually do the chemical reaction part. On the Saturday, start writing report, put together triffle board, format report with graphs and charts, organize photos....get tired before it's all done and leave it until Sunday. Show Mom what I've done around noon. Watch her face turn a funny color.

Step 5: Analyze Data, Draw Conclusion
There is a direct correlation to the amount of Halloween candy I am willing to part with and the amount of brain matter that actually leaks out of her head.

What? So I can be bought....don't judge me!

my secret election

2010-11-02T09:21:00.030-05:00

Today is the anniversary of a very special election. A secret one.

Today is the anniversary of the very first time Husband asked me to marry him.

The officially official date is Christmas Eve...in front of my entire family. On his knees, with a sparkly diamond in his hand.

But the for real and for true date is November 02. Election Day.

I'm not sure why I remember the entire day and night with such clarity. I remember being sick as a dog, so sick I called in to work sick even though it is worlds tougher to be sick at home with children than it is to be sick at work away from children.

It was Election Day, 2004. Husband was not yet AlmostHusband then. He wasn't even MaybeHusband. He was just Bryan, a guy I was falling head over heels in love with that I was certain was going to disappear at any moment.

I was a single mom. I had two children, one of them still in diapers. I was living in my mother's basement. I was 24, in college for the second time, and working part-time at a real estate office.

My other sister lived with our parents, too, and was pregnant. And not cute, adorable pregnant but brimstone and lye pregnant with angry pregnant fire coming out of her perpetually-dragon-faced face.

Things were never, ever dull but they weren't exactly always pleasant, either

Bryan was living and working an hour away in retail. Yet, he came over every day after work. He played with my children. He changed diapers. He got the Hippie to eat her peas.

He curled my toes with his kisses.

The day of the Bush v. Kerry election, I was too weak to get out of bed. It was very important to me to vote, but I didn't think I was going to be able to do it. I come from a very vocally political family and voting has always been something that we just do. You know that scene in The Breakfast Club when the dork character says he forged his ID so he could vote? That was me in high school.

Anyway.

Bryan picked up me and my bitchy, pregnant sister as soon as he got off work and took us to vote. He stood in line with us and held me up for two hours until it was finally my turn. Then he took me home, tucked me into bed, and settled down to watch the exit polls with me for the next nine hours while also feeding, bathing, and tucking in my monsters.

We whispered to each other all night.What we wanted to do, where we wanted to go. Changes we wanted to make. We talked about our childhoods and our families. I told him that I loved him. He confessed he loved me, but not as much as he loved my children.

I told him that I had just fallen in love with him all over again.

At some point in the night, between whispered plans for the future and trips to the medicine cabinet for more Sudafed, he asked me to be his wife.

And I said yes, yes, yes.

Then he said, but I'm not asking you again until I have a ring for your finger. I giggled and thought to myself, Check yes or no, but don't tell anyone. And I didn't, because it was a precious secret I carried close to my chest. It was my fuel and my shield.

And four years later, we made our promise into a vow before man and God.

I know today is going to be super busy - we've got four kids now to juggle with voting - so Husband, this is me telling the world and you that I remember that night, and what today is, and I love you just as much now as I did then. Maybe even a little more.

freestyle

2010-10-28T18:04:00.000-05:00

Tonight, while the children feast on Floorios, I am going to sit in my room with a Coke in one hand and a brick of chocolate in the other and read books of dubious quality (Karen White, your sentence structure stinks and you need to cut out every other adjective, but I have been sucked into another of your stupid, stupid novels so I submit! I will read it! And then I will review it, and then you'll pay. Or I will, since I bought the damn book. Curse you...)

Sigh.

There is a dead mouse in the fan. The one in our bedroom, that Husband insists should be kept on at all hours, waking or otherwise. Husband and I got into such a big fight over who should get it out that we have both stubbornly left it in there. It totally grosses me out so I make sure the fan is always blowing on him.

My mom always kept a fan going in her room. But her fan was always on during the day. She worked midnights most of my life and that was the sound I always waited for when I opened the door. Silence - whrrrrrrr. Then I would know she was still in bed and we would have to be absolutely quiet. Or else.

Not or else there would be hell to pay. More like, or else you would suffer a cold, bitter withdrawal of affection. Things like that imprint on kids. I do a lot of things with my kids that I always swore I'd never, but that isn't one of them. When I am mad, I act mad.

Sometimes.

There was a knock-off Cinderella record I had as a child. One of the songs went, "Work, work, work, it's all I ever do." Many days, I feel this is the theme of my life, but not like, woe is me, I have stuff to take care of and a job. Darn it. Like, I spend my day making sure people are getting their pay tv in the best way possible. Not quite what I thought I'd be doing with my life.

Then again I never had a picture except lots of kids, so actually I am doing awesome!

Diets aren't for me, not because I don't have the discipline to stick to one but because I really hate when someone says, "oh no, that's not on my diet." "My diet doesn't allow that." "I can't do that, it's not on my diet."

So the way around that is that I've just decided to just be all Jersey about it. Fried cheese? My gawl bladda can't take it! Bacon? Okay!

the asshole parent at the dmv with the screaming kids and no goldfish? that was me

2010-10-24T20:09:00.002-05:00

I had the grandest plans for last Friday. I was going to go to the Social Security Administration and then the Illinois Dept of Motor Vehicles to get an IL license.

It was going to be cake, people. I had every single government document I have ever been issued in one envelope sorted by person, agency, and importance. I had my route mapped on CTA. I had nothing and no one standing between me and a Friday afternoon of successful errands.

Cake. Because no government agency is busy on a Friday afternoon, right?

My business at the SSA was simple, but top secret. I'd told Husband that I had chosen, at long last, to take his name. That is a very big deal in this marriage. Just telling him that seemed to be enough to put him over the moon. But since I'd told him that over a year ago, I don't think he believed I was going to actually do it.

This day, I was making it official.

I didn't lie when I told Husband that I needed to get my oldest son's SS card reissued. I always leave work early on Fridays due to the amount of hours I end up putting in on the front end of the week. I told him I was going to stop by the SSA and then the DMV, and would be home around four.

Once there, I efficiently presented all my paperwork only to have the clerk take away my existing social security card.

Oh, I need that!

Sorry.

No, really, I need to get my Illinois driver's license issued.

Sorry.

Can't you stamp something on there that makes it only valid for that? And then they take it?

Sorry.

Well what about a print out showing you're sending me a new card? And I really do have one?

Sure, but they won't accept that.

What if we scrap all this, I go get my license, and then come back here?

Sure, and then we charge you with perjury for having a government ID issued on a card you've just sworn is no longer legitimate.

Oh well. The biggest thing was taken care of - my official name change. According to Uncle Sam, I was now a hyphen and I would show Husband that soon enough when my card came.

Husband was in the neighborhood when I texted him that I was on my way home. We decided to grab some lunch with the kids (no school today) and then do some shopping. I explained that I couldn't find my SS card, so I'd had to scrap the DMV. He said that was too bad because he'd lost his license and needed to get a new one, too. We could have gone together.

At one point I stopped to make sure all of my Most Important Documents In The World were safely stowed in my backpack. While shuffling birth certificates, I happened upon my old social security card from my first marriage, with my old married name on it. Since I happened to also have my old marriage certificate and a copy of my divorce decree, I said Hey! Let's go to the DMV on this sunny fall Friday afternoon with our four children and see what happens!

We arrived at the first cattle line where they make sure you have all the required paperwork and tried to circumvent by parking the stroller to the side of the screener's desk. The idea was that just us adults would go through the line. A disapproving clerk said, You can't do that. So we pushed that sucker through the roped off line and had to move every single pole twice. Once when we went up the left, once when we went back down the right. This did not put us in a good mood. Or the twins, who wanted to keep each pole we passed for their very own. Or the people who had to keep moving aside for us to pass on the opposite side.

We finally got up there and the woman accepted everything Husband presented. She accepted everything I finally presented as well, but let me tell you, I didn't honestly think it would work so I didn't have all the old documentation ready.

We then waited. A really, really long time. We paced, bounced, walked, sang, played, and did everything we could to keep the babies at some level of contentment. We failed. Mostly because we had no Goldfish.

Then, Husband was called. A few seconds later, I was called. But then Husband came storming back. Because his social security card wasn't signed, the clerk wouldn't accept it and sent him back. Said he had to come back the next day even though he signed it in front of him right then, and had a bajillion other pieces of identification.

I got called so fast because it was the same clerk. Now, my husband is a perfect gentleman most of the time and he will be the most polite and understanding and patient of men no matter who is behind the counter. But he was livid and I just knew he'd done or said something rude to that clerk.

I went up and first smoothed the clerk's ruffled feathers, then said, "I've got nine other pieces of valid documents, don't you think we could get him taken care of today?" And the clerk said yes.

Okay, no he didn't, because that would mean I was in some other parallel universe where the DMV hands out ice cream and ponies. He said, after a brief lecture to me about procedure and respect, "He'd have to go through that line over there and speak to the supervisor and then go to someone else's line, because I don't need to be disrespected like that."

Which isn't the same as no, so I smiled and motioned Husband over, and bid him to take a deep breath, chill out, and go get in that supe line. And take these forty pieces of ID! That are signed! In the meantime, I struck up a conversation with our miffed clerk about the Marines based on the Semper Fi lanyard he had around his neck because jeez, if he didn't like that Husband's SS card wasn't signed, what was he going to say when he saw my card didn't even have the right name?

Cake, people. We're having cake here.

About this time, Van bit me really hard on the shoulder and I was so startled that I kind of shouted. Twenty minutes later, Hot-Tempered Husband had his stuff all done. Turns out the next clerk he had was an apathetic twentysomething who just wanted us and our screaming brats out, so he walked him through the rest of the cattle line and out the door.

This sentiment was not shared by my Modern Major General. An hour later, I was in my fifth cattle line waiting for yet another step in the driver's license process when my kid just freaking had it and started to flop about like an epileptic fish in my arms. I got kicked out of line.

I should have, I'm not arguing. Like the title clearly says, I was the asshole with the tantrum-throwing toddlers and absolutely No Goldfish Crackers. So I went out and found my posse, who was happily bouncing around the big, echo-y Exit Lobby, handed the baby off to Husband and returned to the soul-crushing process of getting an Illinois driver's license.

I took my test. I told Husband I scored 100% but that was a lie (shh!) as I mixed up the blank RR sign and the blank inverted triangle. Hey, they were blank. When I see them in real life, there is black markings on them called symbols and sometimes even words that tell me what the sign means. For your information, dear reader, the RR crossing sign is the only road sign that is round. I also think I was processed a little extra slower because one of the clerks at this station clearly thought I was a terrible mother.

I went to get my photo taken. I looked really nice two hours earlier before I walked into a DMV on a Friday afternoon with four kids.

Click. Not cake.

But that is what I get for no Goldfish crackers.

Anyway, I got my license. I went out to show Husband.

I may or may not have lied about my weight

The look on his face? Cake.

But we both agree that next time, we'll remember the Goldfish.

i want to move to south carolina, palmetto bugs and all

2010-10-20T22:16:00.000-05:00

there was something both refreshing and frightening in how easy

my wee ones ran against the vast backdrop

of the Atlantic

there was something endearing about how kamikaze boy

eschewed the ceaseless rise and fall of the water

and made his own peace, his own way

and then there was my water sprite

who couldn't get enough water-sand-water-water-sand-water

and come home nut-brown, salty, and pruny every day

we only take one kind of family portrait

Caper Island, the last undeveloped barrier island in SC

thank you, Angela and Lance-Butt, for a truly memorable time

even if you did ruin me for any other coconut cake on the face of the planet.

Seriously, I hate coconut. But I ate that whole cake myself.

hiatus

2010-10-06T21:19:00.000-05:00

bye bye

for now :)

giveaway: torment [WINNER]

2010-10-06T09:55:00.000-05:00

Congratulations,

Eric

You have won a Michele Zurlo eBook of your (wife's) choosing.

Thank you again for participating,

Please check back for more giveaways.

october is breast cancer awareness month

2010-10-02T16:05:00.000-05:00

I grew up being told I look a lot like my father's mother. I don't think I do as much now, but growing up, I identified more with her than anyone else as far as looks go. Caroline.

Caroline died of cancer before her 30th birthday. It was a terrible death, my father tells me. He was 12 when it happened. He remembered that she was in a lot of pain, and it devastated his father, and destroyed their family.

His sister is battling to this day. And it is a battle. It is a war. And she is a general, four star. She looks a lot like Caroline, too.

Kids get funny ideas, you know? I think there has always been a small part of me that thought I'd die of cancer when I was 29, too. Just because I look like her and nothing like my petite, flat-chested maternal relatives. The ones without any known cancer on their side. Or bras.

Stupid, isn't it? But the truth is that I've always been kind of afraid of my breasts in that way.

This woman understands:

I told my dad that I have been regularly doing breast self-exams since I was sixteen, but the truth is that I never have. Not regularly. Because....what if I found something? Like a lump. I don't think I could handle being the first one to know.

I'm the kind of nerd who reads the end of a book first because I can't stand not knowing what happens. Husband watches our shows first so he can tell what is happening. That, folks, is love.

He does my breast exams, too. A more enjoyable display of love.

But I know most women probably don't have a problem with examining their breasts.

And don't let's forget the menfolk:

I buy candy bars and pink pens, but this month I'm going to try to do a little more. I've signed up at Army of Women. Viva la Pink.

foto friday: f is for 'fro

2010-10-01T15:42:00.004-05:00

This picture is for my brother-in-law, Derek.

You're welcome!

Leave a comment here for an entry into the giveaway for my sister's blog!

giveaway: torment [novel]

2010-09-29T20:52:00.004-05:00

My sister...finished her Master's while on bed rest pregnant with twins. Teaches middle school (the stinky grades) and is the popular teacher. Lives close to our neurotic mother. Writes - and publishes - novels under the pen name Michele Zurlo.

Lots of novels. Good novels. Novels like Hanging On, and its sequel, Letting Go. Serious people having seriously wild revelations between the sheets. It's a rare story that makes you think and quake at the same time. You will enjoy her novels even more because you won't have the issue I do where sometimes I hear the story in my sister's voice. Hello, Freud.

I should hate my sister, but I am just so damned proud of her.

You should look her up on her website, www.michelezurlo.com, and check out the buy link for Torment.

But before you buy....

Giveaway: Torment

Now through 03 Oct, leave a comment and one lucky winner will receive a copy of one of my sister's eBooks: Letting Go, Hanging On, Irrepressible Force, or Torment.

BLURB:

Magic has always been part of Torrey’s life, but without a mentor, her mastery of nature is decidedly inept. When a werewolf kidnaps her sister and demands payment for mystical medications, Torrey’s life takes a turn for the worse. She doesn’t have the money, and the medication did more harm than good.

At her most desperate moment, a mysterious stranger appears. He presses a piece of paper bearing an address in her hand. When Torrey arrives, she finds another werewolf.

Shade is convinced Torrey is the reincarnation of the witch he loved—the witch his twin brother murdered all those years ago in a ritualistic sacrifice designed to steal her powers. Torrey doesn’t remember. She wants Shade to find her sister and let her handle the issue.

Can Shade convince Torrey of who and what she really is in time to stop her from offering her powers and her life to his brother again?

Rules:

Simply leave a comment telling me about your overachieving sibling or friend, and the eBook you'd prefer, along with your email address. Winners will be by random drawing and announced next Wednesday.

Disclaimer: copies of eBooks by Michele Zurlo are gifts to me from the author because I am her sister and she loves me. Giveaway winners will receive their eBook directly through the author.

wiggle, wiggle

2010-09-28T05:57:00.004-05:00

this is my 250th post. Although, I suppose if I go back and delete a couple more drafts I never published, this might be only my ninth post...

I have a loose tooth. Actually I have a lot of loose teeth. I have one literal and many figural* loose teeth.

The real and for true loose tooth is a tiny baby tooth I still have owing to the lack of an adult tooth beneath it. Apparently that runs in the family [like twins!] It never bothered me before, but in the last year it has kind of fallen apart. I never had cavities before I had children. Since then, my mouth has been steadily committing mutiny. All have been taken care of except this wee baby tooth.

Part of it has completely broken off. The rest of it just kinda wiggling around, hanging on like a boyfriend who no longer wants you but doesn't really want anyone else to have you either. See, as soon as this sucker finally comes out once and for all I am going to get an implant [we been savin' up!]

But I'm in no hurry. No rush. It still works. It keeps me from eating caramels. And apples. It doesn't hurt. It's fun to wiggle. Wiggle, wiggle.

The other loose teeth in my life I have far less justification for ignoring.

The 5K looms over me and while I have been steadily walking and running, I'm not on pace to complete the whole race without walking. And maybe that's ok. But I feel like I should be just a little closer to my goals. Run more now, suffer less later wiggle.

I started scribbling a story about a modern-day Nancy Drew type for the hippie, only she found it and now I've got to finish it for her. Damn kid. Got me running races, finishing stories, and painting my toenails. But when do I have time for all that? Make time wiggle.

The sink needs to be cleaned out. Husband wiggle!

I noticed that three pairs of my shoes have badly damaged soles and cannot be repaired. New shoes! Happy wiggle!

I keep meaning to turn off and unplug all the electronics before I go to bed, but Husband is always the last one up. Power wasters. Guilty wiggle.

I have ninety posts I want to write. They would be informative, coherent, and relevant posts. One on the ridiculousness of the Katy Perry-Elmo thing. One on the Ground Zero mosque and increasing hostility toward Islam in America. One on gays in the military. One on Mayor Daley's retirement. One on the Tea Party candidate. One on death in children's books. One on the adult bookstore that just opened up on the corner by our house.

And one, with cartoon art, on the story of my brother in law and husband chasing a wee mouse out of the house with a colander and a pokey stick.

Write. Wiggle.

M'kay, no more list-posts after this one.

*I enjoy doing that to the English language.

things i say i am going to do but we all know are never going to happen

2010-09-20T18:56:00.004-05:00

I'm never going to make my own eye appointment. Husband is going to have to make and then trick me into thinking we're going to buy shoes, but then really? He's going to make me get my eyes checked.

I'm never going to organize my hope-chest-slash-huge-memory-box. Ever.

I'm never going to read Pride & Prejudice. Just going to watch the BBC production with Colin Firth over and over again.

I'm never going to unpack the clean clothes I didn't wear on vacation until the next time I need that suitcase.

I'm never going to remember that drinking coffee at 8pm makes me like WHEEEEE!!! all night long. Which would be great if Husband were also like WHEEEE!!! but he's typically more like zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I'm never going to think there's anything funnier than an ill-timed toot.

stupid joke

2010-09-18T17:35:00.003-05:00

Hippe said, "Mom, what do you call it when a horse is taking a siesta?"

I said, "I don't know, is he taking a na-a-a-a-a-ap?"

She laughed really hard, but then again she still thinks the "orange you glad I didn't say banana" joke is funny.

foto friday: b is for busy

2010-09-10T15:09:00.003-05:00

“It gets you nowhere if the other person's tail is only just in sight for the second half of the conversation.”

Winnie the Pooh

memories, dark and light in my mind

2010-09-08T20:24:00.003-05:00

Silly. When the Hippie was three, she pulled out an orange from the bottom of a fruit tower in the grocery store. It went ev.er.y.where, just like in the movies. I still remember the expression on her face, complete outrage, and I giggle.

Love. The first time Husband proposed to me is a secret, and I cherish it close to my heart where no one else can see.

Bored. When we lived on Poplar St., they redid it so it wasn't dirt and there weren't any ditches. I remember riding my bike up and down the piles of crushed rock and dirt, and one of the neighbor ladies coming out on the porch to watch me. I remember thinking, old bat, old bat, old bat, old bat, old bat.

Macabre. I was eight when I found my grandfather's dead body. I remember clutching his dinner plate, heaped with fish sticks, Kraft dinner, and canned cord. I pretend it doesn't bother me, but to this day I cannot eat that combination of food.

Bittersweet. I remember the last time I nursed the Hippie. She was sixteen months old and were sitting in the living room of our chiropractor's house in Madison Heights. I was babysitting so he and his wife could go out. I remember how her legs dangled off my knees and I thought, this is it. this is the very last time, i just know it. And it was. She never sought to nurse again.

five ways my husband is a bigger woman than i...

2010-09-06T16:30:00.009-05:00

**Foto Friday is on hiatus, owing to our 'big' computer taking a nosedive and me not being able to find any of our system disk drives.

...And might I add, a better one.

My husband bakes cookies.

I buy premade rolls of Toll House. He gets out the mixing bowl, sets up a math lesson on fractions, assigns tasks to each Bigg'n, and makes perfect, chewy, melty cookies with them. He has a patience and a joy in the kitchen that I've never known. I am content to fix the sink and then wait for the cookies to be done.

My husband watches Lifetime Movie Network.

Okay, that's a lie he is probably not going to forgive, but the truth is that he is a total sap. What's recorded most on our DVR? Ally McBeal. Two and a Half Men. Steel Magnolias. A League Of Their Own. I always know when my period is going to start because he's stocked the freezer with chocolate and gotten a stack of frou-frou girl magazines, and leaves me alone to watch Buffy with minimal sarcasm.

My husband fixes the boo-boos.

I will never forgot this moment: Husband and I are asleep in our beds. We've just moved to Chicago and just gotten the bigg'ns into their own rooms. Daredevil comes padding down the hall, coughing. He doesn't feel good. He says, "Bwyan, I don't feel good." And Bryan gets up, goes into the hall, and the kids throws up all over his feet. I'm laying there waiting for him to wake me up, but he doesn't. He cleans it up, cleans up the boy, and comes back to bed.

This is a story that repeats itself regularly. Sometimes it's a nose bleed, sometimes it's an upset tummy, sometimes it's a bad dream. But if he's awake and hears them, he's right there. Keeping the shadows at bay, hugging the hurts, and giving the random infant cpr training dissertation over dinner.

My husband sings the lullabyes.

Time for bed? Baths completed? Hair brushed? Teeth brushed? Clothes out? Backpacks packed? Daddy's baritone will fill the house with the all-call for sleep, settling down antsy-in-the-pantsy babies and signaling to everyone in a 1.3 mile radius that it is n'night time in our house.

My husband always says he is sorry.

Bryan is confident enough in his masculinity that he doesn't believe a lack of humility or an outrageous display of douchebaggery makes him A Man. It might take a minute, but he always recognizes when he is in the wrong, and he has a way of zeroing in on just how I am wrong without making it seem like he's saying I am wrong. So I admit I am wrong all by myself, he admits he's wrong all by himself, and we generally apologize all at the same time in a mushy lovey huggy mess. Yes, it's true. We are gross.

the well is dry

2010-09-05T15:29:00.011-05:00

This past week has been difficult for me. It has been laborious. It has been tough.

Tough to get up. Tough to care. Tough to get to work. Tough to get through work. I set up a conference call for my boss - and invited everyone except my boss. Tough to eat. Tough to clean, cook, or play with the kids. Tough to sleep.

It has been more than a lack of motivation. I was just down. So down that I had a hard time seeing up.

What the hell is wrong with me? I wasn't sick. Maybe it's a tumor. I couldn't sleep. Couldn't stay focused on anything. My son had to repeat himself nine times to tell me my phone was ringing. I let it go. I didn't want to talk to anyone I knew. I didn't want to hear that I didn't sound like myself.

Get it together, Nat.

Every time I have sat down to write in the last two weeks, I've had nothing.

Nothing.

Like a light went out, like there's nothing on the end of the line, the cupboards are bare, my favorite jeans ripped, the one song I always know is in a different language. Nothing growing in my garden. Nothing to say.

Nothing.

I've never had writer's block before. I have not felt like writing, but I've never not been able to sit down and have words pour forth from my fingertips when I wanted to. I might not publish everything I write, but it's there. My words. My ideas, my thoughts. To have nothing there has been terrible. I feel lost. I look in the mirror and see only confusion. My eyes are dull.

This is my voice. When it is silent, it's like punishment.

Am I depressed? I sat at work with tears threatening to stream down my face. I must be depressed. What else is this? I sensed myself making just-sucked-a-lemon faces, and sitting with my legs crossed, drinking endless cups of tea. All I needed was a cigarette and I would be my mother.

I called my husband. He said to come home and let him take care of me. Tell him what I needed. How can I tell him what I need when I don't even know?

A coworker called me from the Atlanta office and I found myself violating my own code to keep my personal life separate from the professional. All she said was, "you don't sound like your peppy self." And I vomited an emotional mess of hooey all over her. "Oh honey," she said, as only southern women can without sounding the least bit patronizing. "Your well is dry! You've got too much going on. It's okay to say no, and do for yourself once in a while." And just like that, I felt better.

My well is dry! I'm exhausted. I need to refresh, rejuvenate, remember that I am only one woman. !!! Thank you! Permission to be tired! Permission to be selfish! This is temporary, this is fixable!

It has to be.

foto friday: s is for sailships

2010-09-03T15:26:00.004-05:00

The tall ships came to Chicago last week...

With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed...

~William Wordsworth~

The Unicorn: noteworthy only for being crewed entirely by women:

My family poses for a "nice photo":

Maybe this time...

Forget this...

I was practicing artsy focus shots....

Okay, no I wasn't.

But it was a great day. Especially when I made the wise decision to not get any more ships.

what do you wish you'd known at thirteen?

2010-09-01T21:49:00.004-05:00

That's the question posed to me by Dove® in my inbox today.

Included were a few wise but trite examples. I laughed and then...thought....Jesus, what do I wish I'd known when I was thirteen??

Stay away from Belinda Mown (totally fake name) - she is trouble with a capital White Trash.
Short hair is never a good idea for a big girl.
It's okay to get lost in the world of fiction for a little while, but it's equally important to come back. Often.
Education really is important. No, really.
Best friends are underrated. When you get yours, cherish her a lot more.
Don't be fat.
Get as much health care stuff as possible done while your parents are willing to pay for it.
Three words: Facebook, Yelp, and Google.

Honestly, if I could tell Thirteen-Year-Old Natalie one thing, it would be don't take everything so seriously!

Due to lack of a time machine or a fold in the time-space continuum, I can't tell my younger self any of that. Younger me is lost somewhere in the smushy folds of adult me, her failures and disappointments making today's triumphs all the sweeter. And yet, lately, I've been realizing that adult me could use a couple trite and true reminders.

For example.

Stand up straight. Belly in, shoulders back, hips out. It makes a difference.
Stop apologizing for everything.
Popular magazines are the DEVIL. Jersey Shore is better for your ego and the environment.
When people don't like you, it's okay to not like them back.
Scrambled eggs and cereal for dinner every other night is healthier and cheapier than ordering out nine times a week.
Cheapier is not a word. At least, it wasn't.

Speaking of Jersey Shore...

If I have a motto like the Situation does, it's DBN - Diaper, Bottle, Nap. Does everything have clean pants? Is everyone nourished? Has everyone had their nap today? Succinct priorities, simple and easily served. Genius, really, and it covers all ages and stages.

Some days, DBN is all I can hope for and most days, it's all I need.

you never ever ever know

2010-08-30T19:07:00.005-05:00

Have you ever strayed from your normal routine only to later find out that had you not strayed, you could be DEAD? Or, MAIMED?

That's such an excellent word, maimed. I don't get to use that word enough. I'm going to maim the English language and use it five times tomorrow. Let's see if my boss catches on. He's pretty good about noticing my crazy.

Back to me.

I leave the house at the same time every morning. I take the same train operated by the same conductor who, every single goddamn morning, announced that the doors are closing before they have even opened. I take the same bus which I ride with the same group of commuters. It's all right as far as routines go. I know not to sit by the stanky hoochie who favors knockoff perfume or the husky bearded fellow who chain-smokes right up until the bus doors are about to close. Pee-yew.

Seriously, bring back the Dial commercials. Even if they don't get people to use Dial soap, body odor was at least somewhat prescient in peoples' minds. Stop with the stink!

Anyway.

I was running to catch that same bus one morning last week when I realized there was no way. Sweet Pea just has not been sleeping through the night and it's catching up to us. I caught the next bus - no worries, I'd still be on time - but I was a little put out. No big deal, I am just a crybaby. I always sit in the back left corner seat because I like to face forward, I don't like my back to others, and there's a little extra room for my long legs over the wheel well.

I think those are some left over issues from middle school. Taking the bus home, I always had to sit sideways because if I didn't I would inevitably end up with a head full of spitballs. That sucked on many levels, but also because I would get bus sick after thirty minutes into the ride home unless I was sitting forward. So it was be sick or suffer the spitballs.

I digress.

As I was turning around in my side-facing seat in the middle of the bus to see why the bus was moving so slowly, I caught sight of a lot of flashing lights ahead. Soon, a firetruck raced by us. We came to a stop. The avenue was shut down to one lane on our side as emergency personnel converged to pull bodies out of a wrecked SUV.

Which had crashed into the a bus. The back, left corner of a bus. Full of people I recognized. People I know, but don't really know. I ride the bus with them every day. I give them makeovers and assign life stories to each of them from my perch at the very back, to pass the time every morning. Except that morning. The morning an SUV smashed into it so hard it pushed my preferred seat a good three feet in and over from its correct location.

I don't remember the moment I stopped thinking one day I would be famous or rich or powerful. I don't recall the occasion on which I let go of the life I always wanted and accepted the life that I deserved. I can't for the life of me think of when I understood what a tiny, insignificant speck I am in the grander scheme of things. I do recall that the moment I passed what could have been the scene of my death, I simply thought, "Thank you."

Thank you for more. More time, more love. More chances, more of this and more of that. More time to clean out my closet and pick the underwear up off the floor. Another chance to teach my daughter what an amazing person she is. More Daredevil hugs. More time spent in Husband's arms. More time to imprint myself on my babies' minds.

Thank you for reminding me why I smile at strangers, give away my last quarter, and always always say "I love you" before I leave the house.

Because you just never know.

foto friday: p is for purpose

2010-08-27T19:33:00.002-05:00

these are the moments

these sweet, endless, nothing moments full of everything

when there is nothing but breath and dream

that i remember why

i do what i do

the almighty text

2010-08-20T14:05:00.009-05:00

In 2006, my fiancee gave me my first cell phone. You read that right, 2006. My best friend had always been a slave to her cell phone and I just did not see the need for it. When I am out, I'm out. When I'm home, I'm home. Why did I need another bill? Another something to keep track of?

But [future] Husband insisted. I was commuting over an hour, we had two children and no friends in our new city. So I consented to letting him get me whatever phone was free to a new line on his account.

I quickly learned to hate the expectation of 24/7 availability that comes when people find out you have a cell phone. Even faster did I learn to hate voice mail, and the long-winded automated operator that made me jump through hoops to listen to them. So I stopped listening to them. Far faster and easier for me to just go through my call log and actually call people back.

That really annoyed [future] Husband.

Why do you have a phone, you don't answer it.

I didn't leave you a voicemail because you never listen them.

I'll just text you.

Yes, do that. Just text.

Because I will always text you back. In fact I live for texting. It saves me time and prevents miscommunication being my fault.

Pick up milk and a pound of chicken.

Milk and pizza, got it.

No, hamburger.

Right, pizza. On it.

Fixed the computer. Dirty.

What?

You know.

....my grilled cheese crumbs?

Stop dl'ing porn.

It lets me take a deep breath and regroup.

Boy just puked everywhere from top bunk. It's Linda Blair in there.

I think the baby is having an allergic reaction. Is it bad if his fingernails are blue?

Did you say you did or did not care about that Tiffany lamp? And where is the glue?

Texting is high quality entertainment in the hands of the young, the aged, the crazed, and the infirm.

Hi mom! :) :) :0) that's a big nose. Not that you have a big nose! Cuz you don't. Can I have five bucks?

I am swyping and i took a muscle relaxer. wheeeee!

I just drove to Milwaukee for no reason and realized I forgot my wallet.

I like texting for the little bit of courage it gives me. Not like I would text anything I wouldn't say in person, but you know...sometimes it is just a little easier to be a hussy when my husband can't see me blushing like an idiot.

What do you want for dinner?

[censored. my mother-in-law reads this blog!]

And on that note....

Texting is like the take-back I wish I had when I answer the phone and then really wish I hadn't answered the phone.

You left your panties in the bathroom and now the children want to know if you're dying.

Did you tell her teacher that I would help with Hispanic Appreciation Month?!

You should probably switch it so I'm not next to your husband in your contacts list. See you at work.

And yet, I wouldn't say I've got the texting thing down because I tend toward complete sentences, correct spelling, and punctuation to denote sentence structure rather than emotion.

foto friday: r is for roseola

2010-08-20T13:46:00.004-05:00

poor sweet pea has got the roseola

and he is all bumpy like someone spackled his cheeks with pink cottage cheese

but that is not bothering this tyke.

nope

look at that pudd'n

before you, after you

2010-08-13T20:33:00.009-05:00

before you

there was only me

and not me

before you

I was a great

charybdis of ego and self-deceit

before you

life yawned, stretched

and went back to sleep

every day

but then

there was you

amazing, miraculous

perfect you

you with my heart

held fast in each tiny beat of yours

after you

i knew what i'd forgotten

that the seas are full of mermaids

clouds are made out of marshmallow

there is magic at the end of every rainbow

faeries are real and pigs?

they do fly, and giggle

after you

i knew real strength

the kind that comes from

loving something more than yourself,

from seeing innocence in its purest form

and knowing that it is yours to protect

and cherish

after you

i understood

my purpose in life

my gift to the world

is you.

Happy Birthday, Isa

foto friday: b is for bicycle

2010-08-13T09:13:00.000-05:00

whheeeeeeeee!!!

i accidentally got on the cover of the newspaper

2010-08-11T20:08:00.010-05:00

Okay, not for sure the cover and not really an accident, also not really a big paper, but that's an eye-catching blog post title, right? My runner-up post title was, "how endlessly bitching on the internet can get you in the news" but apparently some guy just made news about bitching on a loudspeaker before going down the emergency chute on a plane, so I didn't care for the upstaging.

Remember seven months ago when I used to have a Blackberry? I used to spend my hour-long commute doing constructive things with it like complain about my commute. @cta_bitch had a lot to say about Chicago Transit Authority. I also enjoyed surreptitiously snapping photos of random people and giving snarky commentary on their clothing and manners [or lack thereof.]

I have found that if I don't let my bitchy out in small doses like that it tends to stockpile until a spontaneous combustion like a Dutch flour-mill [that's a great metaphor because there are so many of those around.]

Anyway, I was followed by @tracyswartz, a Chicago Tribune reporter for the Redeye who covers homicides and public transit [coincidence?! I think not!] and we emailed back and forth a bit. She's used some of my comments in previous columns, especially when the CTA cut service a lot this past February. She's writing an article due out tomorrow on how things are going six months after the cuts and is featuring me along with a few other commuters.

I thought it would be kinda like before where I'd tell her what I thought about the whole mess and she'd pick some useful comments to quote me on, and ya know, nothing major. Turns out the photographer she sent to get a photograph of me was [maybe] shooting for the cover and was a lot more than click-click-done. I don't know what all those people on the train thought was going on during the process, but I know what I was thinking:

1. Goddamn this humidity. Sweating like a pig and channeling Ben Wallace's hairdresser has not made my day.

2. This guy is totally going to fall down and my portrait is going to look like this:

3. Why did I wear this blouse?

I saw some of the pictures, though, and not to worry. My portrait is definitely going to look like this:

Seriously, what is UP with big photography moments only happening to me on the hottest, nastiest, most humid day of the year? My high school graduation. My wedding. Newspaper article. Everyone is going to think I am perpetually tomato-red, frizzy, and sweaty.

I am here to tell you that I am normally Elmer's glue white, frizzy, and drier than a popcorn fart.

In other news....Daredevil wasn't ready for football, I gave myself whiplash, the hippie is turning ten this Saturday, and the twins suddenly decided to start speaking English.

What have you all been up to?

apple, soda pop, cherry on the top

2010-08-02T22:59:00.007-05:00

Questions: Why do larger ladies always wear yellow? They look like the sun, big and round and a blinding eyesore.

Today, I went to Family Day at the all-girls sports camp attended by the hippie and her bff-4E, Full-Disclosure Child. It's a great program called Girls in the Game and it's had a hugely positive impact on both of their lives. More about that in a second.

Few things irk me as much as a parent with a puffed up sense of importance. Like the guy pushing a stroller and updating his Facebook via iPhone, Just pushed Junior into an old lady's heels. She cussed me out. Sad how old people refuse to be cute and cuddly anymore.

Or the mother who comes to her kid's camp and sits under a tree 'working' all day. For the love of pancakes, people, the only person who thinks you are so important as to be indispensable is the child you are supposed to be giving your undivided attention!

I don't often advise anyone to follow my lead, but today I really wish I could have. I wore sweats and sneakers, squashed my hair into a frizzed out bun, and I played like I was a little kid again. Only, even more awkward and ridiculous than I was then.

We played a charming game called "3 on 2, 2 on 1." Three girls played offensive against two defense, and when one shot a basket, she and one of the other offensive players raced to the other side of the court to block the two defense who were now trying to score on them. It was by far the most awkward thing I've tried to do this year, and that's including when I fell running up the escalator to catch a train last week. Most shocking revelation: tall, coltish Full-Disclosure Child is a natural. I need to remember to talk to her grandma about putting her in basketball.

There was a health and leadership segment where we reviewed what they'd been learning about hygiene and self-esteem (toothpaste good, bullying bad.)

Then, we had a jump rope session and my daughter got to witness her mother having a flashback to the glory days of her elementary school days. See, that's all I did during recess until I simultaneously got glasses, developed breasts, and received a classic 80's mullet haircut from my mother. Then, I hid.

But before that! I skipped rope for hours. I can't believe I've never shown her how to do all that stuff before, but I made up for lost time today. I taught the hippie to jump with me, jump in and out, how to run and skip, skip backwards, and I wanted to teach her how to double dutch, but no one else knew how! What is this world coming to? Anyway, I am proud to say that although I resembled a boiled lobster freshly plucked from the pot, I got all cardio in for the week today and had an absolute blast doing it.

Then we had pizza and carrots (no joke) for lunch, and then we went home. Tomorrow, she leaves for sleep-away camp and won't be back until Friday night. I'm going to miss her so much, but I've got plans.

I've been poking away at a half-ass training schedule for the November 5K she talked me into running with her. Now it's time for me to get serious. My stamina is up and I'm no longer wheezing like a broken accordion every time I pick up the pace. When she gets home, I want to have a real schedule in place and be a couple days into regimented running so that she can fall into it and help me keep it going.

I feel sad for the girls whose parents couldn't make it out today, but I am even sadder for the girls whose parents did come and then just watched them from afar. See, the days are already coming now and then when I can sense that she's slipping away toward that world she knows only as As Far From Mom As I Can Get. She's already got the attitude, the mouth, the head-weaving temper.

Days like this fewer and farther between. When she was asked, "Is that your mother?" she replied, "Yes!" with pride. How long until she mumbles, "sadly, yes" or "I'm an orphan" with blithe disregard for that hosebeast who insists on existing.

She's not going to be a little girl much longer. These days of hand-clapping games, braided hair, and dolls are passing faster than I can believe. I refuse to allow a blackberry to taint these memories for either of us.

foto friday: v is for vuvuzela

2010-07-31T21:12:00.003-05:00

*Foto Friday is late because our Internet was kicked out during Chicago's storms the other night. And then I just forgot. Also, I know "V" doesn't follow "A" and I did start this new alphabetical foto friday shtick, but hey, it's my blog, right? I don't want to wait 25 more weeks for these gems.

What is this?

Ohhhhhhhhhh, I get it!!

I have to show my sister!

I just do this thing here, like this?

Just like this. All day long. 'Til Mama hides it on top of the fridge where she thinks we can't see it and will forget about it. Which we will, but eventually she's going to forget why it's up there, take it down, and then, then! we will do it again!

i kin cook: peanut butter frosting and yellow cake

2010-07-23T22:22:00.006-05:00

It's 2:00 am.

And you know what? No one is asleep here.

Not Cousin Itt.

I mean, Aub.

Not Van.

I decided I would make a cake for Husband's birthday. But he doesn't like cake, so I thought I'd try a recipe for peanut butter frosting that I saw on this one site called Southern Plate.

Let's be clear, there is nothing healthy about this. That is sugar, lard, butter, and more sugar. Some milk, but mostly sugar.

I meant to have two nice, big, fluffy cakes, but no. I didn't quite pour enough batter into one of the pans. That's a clear half-inch of pan around the cake.

Nice shot of me frantically whisking the peanut butter into the boiling sugar. Disregard my dirty stove! No Lola there!

Did I mention I also couldn't find the other round pan? Who needs a matchy-matchy cake, anyway? He doesn't even like cake. What kind of man doesn't like cake? My man. And that's good because guess who doesn't bake? This girl.

One thing, if you try this: it cools really freaking fast. Please believe there is a ton of frosting on the opposite side of the cake (not pictured here for the sake of my dignity)

It's 3:12 am. Still awake. Not interested in sleep at all.

Party on, party people!

You should click the link to get the whole story behind the author's recipe. It's pretty sweet.

Yellow Cake Old Fashioned Peanut Butter Icing

Any yellow cake mix, made according to package directions and cooled.

1- 1/2 C sugar
7 T milk
2 T Shortening
2 T margarine
1/4 tsp salt
1 tsp vanilla
1/2 C creamy Peanut Butter

Combine sugar, milk, shortening, margarine, and salt. Bring to a rolling boil in a heavy saucepan, stirring constantly to prevent scorching. Once it reaches a boil, let boil for one ot two minutes without stirring. Remove from heat and add vanilla and peanut butter. Beat until smooth and quickly spread onto cake.

foto friday: a is for aunt carolyn

2010-07-23T22:07:00.005-05:00

the only things cooler than aunt carolyn

is aunt carolyn's shades.

why i think building a mosque near ground zero is a good thing

2010-07-20T19:25:00.003-05:00

I saw on the news today that there are development plans to build a two blocks from Ground Zero.

My daughter - the hippie - didn't understand why there were so many people opposed to it. I had to explain terms like bigot, culture insensitivity, cultural whinebaggery and stereotyping. Okay, I made up cultural whinebaggery, but you know what I mean.

We had a good talk about the emotions behind the issue, but the moment of truth for me came when she said, "I wish I knew a Muslim, so then I would know the difference between the real ones and the terrorists."

I about fell out of my chair.

"Hippie, are you kidding me?!" I said. "Don't you remember Sofia? Don't you remember our friends Omer, and Sofia and Zane and Noah?"

"They were Muslim? Why didn't you tell me?" she cried.

Because...it didn't matter. They're our friends. That we have different names for God doesn't have anything to do with our friendship. And anyway, I thought you knew.

"We went to Catholic school together, Mother. How would I know?"

I could hardly argue with her logic, but even if I could have I was crying too hard from remembering that Sofia is gone forever.

But not her memory, and not the lessons she taught us all.

See, in the quiet town of Sheboygan, WI there was a growing immigrant Muslim population. A mosque was planned, and a mosque was protested. The [mostly white, Christian] townspeople did not want it.

And yet, the entire town came out to support the Khans when their daughter went missing on Lake Michigan earlier this summer. People can be brought together despite their differences to forge the friendships of a lifetime. They can overcome their fear and their lack of knowledge to see truth, to see the humanity in us all regardless of our differences.

I hope that the people of New York won't allow themselves to be blinded by their fear and ignorance. I hope they will take this as an opportunity to embrace our Islamic neighbors and prove that Americans are more than the sum of their sins.

We are who we are because everyone is welcome.

maybe i'm not as friend-worthy as i think i am

2010-07-16T21:56:00.007-05:00

When my son goes onto a playground, this is what happens:

"Hi, I'm Ike. Want to play?"

The answer is always yes. Play ensues. When play is over, the conversation continues.

"Want to come over? How about a sleepover?"

Sure!

When I go onto a playground or other child-centric location, this is what happens:

"Are they twins?"

Yes, they are.

"They are soo cute."

Thanks.

There have been a few times where I've said, "This has been so nice, we should get together soon. Maybe without kids." A panicked light appears in their eyes, they hedge, and then that's it. Quick escape. B'bye.

I actually had a mom give me a fake phone number once. Another time, a mom was actually "mom-blocked" by her friend from talking to me at the mall food court where we were both breastfeeding incognito.

It's not really good for my ego, you know. In my head, I'm the cool mom. Yet, it's hard to be the cool mom if I'm the only one in the cool mom gang.

It's not just the playground.

At a recent work event, I struck up a conversation with a visiting manager. It was my goal to discuss anything but children and work. We ended up discussing the weather for ten minutes.

Ten minutes.

I had a slew of topics unrelated to children/parenting I'd thought up after this epiphany but I couldn't think of a single one. Because Raspberry Beret came on the jukebox, I admitted to once dating a Prince impersonator. Crickets. Back to the weather, Jim.

I realize I'm looking for another Aunt Lawyer. But there's only one Aunt Lawyer.

And friendships like ours only happen under very specific conditions. A chance encounter, absurd circumstances, vulnerability, humor. A kick in the head. A match made in junior high.

Still, I can't help but hope that I haven't used up all my markers for a great friendship right here in my own backyard. Someone who just comes over. Someone who just knows. Someone with her own brood to mix and match with mine.

She is out there, I just know it. I'll probably meet her while I am packing to move somewhere else.

foto friday: how much food can you shove in your mouth?

2010-07-16T11:28:00.001-05:00

torture, a/k/a my vacation slide show for you

2010-07-13T19:28:00.001-05:00

We started off with a birthday celebration for the daredevil at a water park, inviting family and friends to join us if they wished.

Not that we saw much of him.

Aub has a smooch for Grandpa.

Then we headed up north, where we were able to get ONE NICE SHOT of all four kids together.

We discovered that Aub loves the sand.

But that her twin brother does not.

However, he is fully capable of taking out a goose with a bouncy ball.

We asked the bigg'ns to do a couple menial chores.

The Oppressive Regime in action.

By Day 3, I was in full Haus Frau mode.

Daddy won't let Mommy cut my bangs. No chance it's affecting my vision.

Saginaw Bay

It's our home away from home. And we act like it.

the three things i will most remember this summer (so far)

2010-07-10T10:59:00.005-05:00

1. Fearlessly wearing a bathing suit on the beach for the first time since I was nine.

2. Discovering the hard-bitten novels of John D. MacDonald.

3. My son's relentless quest for diet soda, which he is not allowed under any circumstances.

how things change

2010-07-10T10:11:00.002-05:00

I'm starting to think that adulthood is measurable by how much stuff one packs for a weekend getaway.

When I was seventeen, I went camping with several of my friends. The tents wouldn't stay up, we only brought one package of hot dogs and a cake, and the boys all got sick on Red Dog.

In my twenties, I went away for a weekend wedding. Dress, cute underwear, good book, dancing shoes. Arsenal of makeup and hair product.

Last week, we trekked across Michigan to the family cabin on Lake Huron. Double stroller. Pack'n'plays (2). Clothes (for 6). Sunscreen by the barrel. Car seats (2). Pillows, blankets, and sheets. An errant laptop bag. Beach toys. Car toys. Inside toys. Outside toys. Coolers and bags of food. Sippy cups (3 - odd number, I know). Golf clubs. A tent.

I packed a muumuu, people. And wore it.

I thought a lot about all the stuff we'd packed and after careful analysis I've come to the conclusion that most of our luggage was packed out of fear.

We packed the double stroller because we were afraid it would be tougher to get them back and forth from the car to the beach. We were afraid we would't be able to stroll Main Street without it.
We packed so many clothes because we were afraid we'd run out of clean ones, even though we're guilty of wearing the same clothes several days in a row on any other weekend of the year.
We packed a gigantic camera bag because we were afraid we'd miss The Shot. I packed so many toiletries because I was afraid I'd be in The Shot and ruin it.
We packed Pack'n'Plays (2!) because we were afraid the babies wouldn't be safe sleeping anywhere else (likely true)
We brought a tent because we were afraid the older kids might want to sleep outside and it might be too buggy.
We brought so many toys because we were afraid the babies would get bored. Their favorite toy? SAND.
We brought coolers and bags of groceries because we had a lot of people to feed. Nevermind there is a grocery store less than two miles away!
We brought linens - I don't even know why. There is always a gigantic supply of freshly laundered stuff up there.

What am I teaching my kids (if anything) with this bag lady approach to packing? I know it's better to be prepared (with babies especially) but at the same time, my best memories are of times when I didn't have what I needed and was forced to be resourceful, to make do. Be creative.

We had to upgrade to a bigger rental to hold all of our stuff.

I'm itchy just thinking about it.

peace out!

2010-07-02T08:39:00.000-05:00

See ya next week!

sabt: leon burns

2010-07-01T08:18:00.000-05:00

In April, I posted about, Dominick Calhoun, a four-year-old boy tortured and beaten to death in Michigan for wetting himself.

There was so much outrage over it, that I - and the rest of the world - overlooked another innocent child, Leon Walker, also innocent, also tortured and beaten to death for wetting himself. Also in April.

So, I've got some advice for the useless wastes of skin masquerading as would-be fathers.

When a child pees himself, it's not about you. They didn't do it to ruin your day.

So. What you do is this: CLEAN IT UP AND MOVE THE FUCK ON WITH YOUR DAY.

Same things goes for spilled milk, broken lamps, crayons on the wall, refusing to eat dinner, lying, and refusing to nap. THEY'RE KIDS.

And for the women, the so-called mothers of these children: STAY SINGLE. It really isn't that bad. Certainly it's better than shacking up with some dickless bully who takes his discontent with life out on your children.

Alternatively, to both parties: DON'T HAVE KIDS. ASSHOLES.