Double Trouble

My twin girls, Izzy and Sophie, are as different as night and day. Izzy (left) is the happy-go-lucky, bubbly, outgoing girl who happens to have a bit of a temper primarily when technology is yanked out of her little hands. Sophie (right), on the other hand, is completely unpredictable in her actions (and anger) but is overall a much more mellow, introspective child who enjoys employing clever humor and getting everyone's goat. (That includes making up stories and stubbornly presenting them to everyone as truth, including Izzy who gets particularly upset as she vehemently argues against such fictions).
Izzy (short for Isabella Grace)and Sophie (short for Abigail Sophia)are fraternal twins, which means they also look as different as they act. Izzy has fair skin, freckles and bright green eyes. She's also the only lefty of the bunch (though she may well be ambidextrous). Soph, by comparison, has an olive complexion, the giant brown eyes of an old soul and the most hilarious expressions to complement her outrageous sense of humor. She is my "wild child," without doubt.
The two are as close as any set of non-twin sisters, in that they fight like cats and dogs. They are fiercely competitive and always trying to outdo one another. I ask them repeatedly to "be good twins," which means I expect them to look out for each other and play together without conflict. Sometimes, this works rather nicely; more often, one of them runs down the stairs whining after just a few minutes of play, reporting the wrongdoings of her twin and advising me how to punish said twin. The twin in question is usually never far behind with a different take on the altercation and an alternate plan for punishment.
When Izzy and Sophie were tiny, they really didn't seem to notice one another during the day. But an inadvertant bond was present nonetheless. They slept in the same crib, and I laid them to bed on opposite ends, but I'd always find them curled together like yin and yang in the mornings.
Izzy quickly showed herself to be the one in charge. While still crib-age, I'd lay the twins side-by-side and give them their bottles of milk in efforts to fill their bellies and put them down for naps. Izzy would drink hers with quick, steady gulps, while Sophie liked to take her time. Izzy figured out fast that there was another baby with another bottle right beside her. She would give Sophie a piercing glance (we used to refer to this as "shooting prisms") and, without looking, toss her bottle off to the opposite side, roll sideways and--with both arms--grab Sophie's bottle. Sophie would wail hysterically while Izzy nonchalantly rolled back and began gulping Sophie's bottle as if it were her own. They did this, without fail, so many times a day that I decided I would pitch this routine to the "Got Milk?" campaign. I actually made it as far as the head of the campaign when I was told they had abandoned their trademark lifestyle ads for more "celebrity-focused" campaigns. I still think the "Got Milk?" campaign was seriously missing the boat on this!
For a while, after the milk incidents subsided and they reached the terrible two's and three's, Izzy and Sophie were "good twins." They kept each other entertained and found their way into all kinds of trouble. They hid inside the kitchen cabinets together. They drank from a bottle of Benadryl together and got rushed to the hospital together (disclaimer: The bottle was nearly empty and they probably didn't drink too much, but just to be on the safe side, we had to go anyway) where they drank charcoal "shakes" together to offset any negative effects. And, one time, they dressed in swimsuits and filled a large ice tub with various colors and flavors of Kool-Aid coolers because they wanted to go "swimming." When I discovered them, I had to make them stop (it was getting very sticky and messy) but it was so funny--and creative---that I couldn't get too mad at them about it.
Though temporarily equals, Izzy re-established herself as the dominant twin through the preschool years. Sophie clung to Izzy like glue and used her as a "buffer" between herself and their newfound friends. At this point, Izzy could do without Sophie; Sophie could not do without Izzy.
To keep Sophie's anxiety to a minimum, I asked that the twins be kept together in elementary school (parents always have the option to split them if desired). Now 7 years old and in first grade, they are both at the head of their class and in the advanced reading group together. Izzy, however, still the more outspoken of the two inside the classroom, bonded better with their teacher, thus landing her in the gifted and talented program for art and creativity. When Sophie found out, she was devastated and didn't understand how Izzy got picked over her. Truth be told, this is more Sophie's niche...but somehow the teacher has not recognized as many of Sophie's efforts in the art department. (Izzy was probably more the standout as she drew pictures of herself with Mrs. Baker and gave them to her as gifts every week). So, in the interest of easing competition, I have been thinking about separating Izzy and Sophie for the coming school year so they could each shine individually. (My thoughts are to remove Izzy from the class since she makes new friends easily, leaving Sophie with the kids she knows the best so she can stay inside her comfort zone).
Incidentally, in spite of Izzy's years of reigning as the dominant twin, something interesting has happened over the past few months: Sophie has begun to assert herself, to the point of constantly pulling the "I'm older than you" card to coax Izzy into doing as she wishes. She barks orders at Izzy non-stop, and Izzy actually listens 90 percent of the time! Sophie is exactly two minutes older than Izzy, which makes this whole routine even more absurd.
A few days ago, Sophie broke my heart when she returned home from school fighting with Izzy. I told them they needed to end the agression and "be good twins," but Sophie insisted that she would no longer stand for being twins with Izzy.
Too bad for Soph she has no say in this factor!
I'm glad that Sophie has finally found some of the confidence she has been lacking in social situations. However, I am still holding out for the day that Izzy and Sophie learn how to "be good twins" and express the love they have for one another even as they make their own disparate ways in this world.

Af-FUR-Mation

A little more than a week ago, I found myself revisiting our favorite hospital, this time with a head situation of my own...a massive sudden, crippling ache (which in the end was relatively benign in and of itself but it unfortunately merited some serious tests-including a lumbar tap-to arrive at that conclusion. And the invasive spinal poke apparently resulted in the nasty side-effects that necessitated several subsequent return trips to treat my nausea and a series of even worse headaches). During my many turns in the ER, I did encounter a number of cool doctors and nurses, a few of which I found greatly fascinating and entertaining. There was Leviticus, our good-looking, young and free-spirited ER nurse who shares the same name with our only son (though ours is simply, "Levi"); Darren, my super-groovy "headache concierge" who appeared out of nowhere in our darkened room and talked me through the headache sequence in a voice as smooth and easy as Barry White (so smooth, in fact, I had to double-check with Kevin to ensure he was not an apparition); and, finally, Marylin, an old bohemian granny who was upbeat, humorous and a little too candid about her own health woes(Turns out she suffers from "dumping syndrome").
But the hospital shenanigans are really not the point of this blog. I would like to mention, though, that each of the aforementioned medical professionals received a "WOW" card, which is sort of like a restaurant comment card except you can only fill these cards out for exceptional service. The cards provide a diversion from the pain and are the closest thing to "fun" that exists while waiting to be discharged, although attempting to guess why the poor soul next door is screaming in agony and why no one can find him any morphine does help to pass the time.
The POINT of this blog does have to do with the fact that my ER nurse with dumping syndrome loved, loved LOVED my bunny fur, which launched quite a conversation that would have had anyone listening in roll on the floor in stitches.
I have been rocking said bunny fur this winter since my black wool Kenneth Cole coat went out on a three-week fashion parade that culminated in a look that said "I spent weeks on end rolling around in a dog house and I think it's perfectly ok and even quite respectful to show up for social gatherings draped in fuzz, food, and filth."(even though I was never in contact with an actual furry animal or its dinner).
Out of desperation, I visited the basement for an alternate coat and turned up with the celebrated vintage long black fuzzy bunny fur I purchased years ago at an estate sale for $5 but had not been in circulation for the past few winters.
As Marylin and I discussed, the coat made me either feel super glam and stylish (when paired with the right pieces) OR like a total bag lady. The bag lady feeling was the more common, especially when the coat was employed to top off my school-morning car-line ensembles. She was in full agreement and, despite the fact that it has a missing patch of fur on the right arm AND the fact that I ripped a giant tear in the left sleeve seam when reaching over the backseat to hand a stuffed elephant to Levi...assured me that the bunny was in fact super-fab and probably worth about $500. She then proceeded to tell me about each of her five fur pieces to the point that I decided I was not only going to continue wearing my bag-lady sophisticate bunny...I was also going to add more crazy fuzzy pieces to my cache.
My taste is offbeat to say the least, but I know it gives the PTA moms (though not the PETA moms) a giggle when I roll into the school parking lot each morning in my "car-line" clothes. The straight truth is you just never know what you're gonna get.
Kevin and I are both hoping that Stacy and Clinton (and the rest of the TLC crew) are secretly filming us. Sometimes I add extra special touches just in case...because wouldn't it be grand if they awarded one of us with a $5,000 credit card and a trip to NYC?
Like, for instance, I LOVE to set off the fur with a pair of knee-high Frye boots and whatever old T-shirt and baggy yoga pants I happened to be wearing the night before. To finalize the look, I can usually be seen sans make-up, sans bra and sporting a 1/2 up, 1/2 down ponytail that I haven't even bothered to comb since I rolled out of bed at the last minute in my usual mad morning rush.
I would like to say for the record that I would have a hard time letting go of many of my wardrobe items following Stacy and Clinton's assessment in the 3-way mirror. "Hippy Dippy Trippy" to them is "stylish bohemian ease" for me. No way am I letting go of my long patchwork hippie skirt, the bunny OR the white go-go boots I haven't had a chance to wear yet but am saving on the off chance I may someday fit back into my electric pink paisley Jackie O. style 60's sheath I bought on Haight Street in San Fran. And I will not let Nick cut my hair. Carmindy, however...is welcome to approach me with makeover tips. Makeup is easy to replace.
Kevin is a much more likely candidate for the show, since his wardrobe consists of a couple corduroy sports coats with patches on the elbows that he either purchased straight from Goodwill or stole from his father's closet...his infamous Rolling Stones "1/2 top" and various other rarities from the "too short old concert T-shirt collection" and several dilapidated button-ups in colors that do not flatter. Stacy and Clinton would have a blast with his year-round, all-occasion flip-flop array and the tiny spectacles with the loose screw that make him look not unlike a soft-spoken, near-sighted serial killer. C would have a heyday with his thick, busy blond brows (did you see the episode where she ripped the gal up and down for her hairy, overgrown "monkey" eyebrows?)I will physically harm Nick, though, if he tries to give Kevin another hair cut (Kevin has a bad habit of growing his hair out to an acceptable length and then sneaking off to the most ancient barber he can find to undo all that is good. At press time, I'd like to add, it is looking really nice...which is making me extra antsy).
As it turns out, the real likelihood is that Kevin and I will probably continue to put together half-baked looks until either a)Stacy and Clinton rescue us out of a ditch b) our numbers come in or c) the kids are grown and stage an intervention and/or become financially independent. Because everyone knows when you're raising five kids, your entire wardrobe must suffer at the expense of clothing the children. At least that's our rationalization! And as far as I know, Levi is the only one of the five who's ok with running around naked. Correct me if I'm wrong, children...I could use another bunny fur!
For now, I'll bask in the delusion that, like the old granny nurse with the dumping syndrome affirms, I'm flaunting a fabulous fur with double blowouts that makes me look like a million dollars even when I physically feel like I'm gonna puke on Kevin and my head is going to explode. That's exactly why she got herself a "WOW" card.

Babies Kissing Mommies!

I have no doubt that all of my children love me. I know this because they each have their own special way of letting me know.
My oldest daughter, Kyla--who is nearly 13 and quite a reasonable age to be publically embarrassed and humiliated by my every action--insists on leaning over in the car and giving me a hug on her way out the door to school. And, at night, if I ever let her go to bed without tucking her in, she will physically drag my butt out of bed and up the stairs for a goodnight hug and kiss.
Raleigh and Izzy are my cuddly girls. Raleigh never hesitates to find me the second she or I return home, smiling with her pretty little dimple, then throwing her arms around my waist and tucking her head in for a hug. Izzy is much the same--always smiling, climbing into my lap for a cuddle, hug or kiss. She throws her arms around me so tightly at bedtime I nearly have to pry them off.
And Sophie--whose affection is the most elusive of the four girls--comes to me frequently for comfort when she thinks the whole world is stacked against her(namely, her sisters). She's good for a cuddle on her own terms, but the most heartfelt gesture is to draw happy little pictures of birds and hearts and puppies on little pieces of paper with touching captions like "I love you mommy" and "Mommy and Sophie." Sometimes she slides one into my laptop. I hide them all over the house, so when I come across them I am reminded that my "wild child," too, has as softer side.
And Levi--though his love is sweet and tender, his kisses are hard to come by. He is the first of the five who did not give kisses freely from the second he learned how to give them. Sure, he'll come to me for a cuddle at night with his thumb in his mouth, leaning his head lovingly upon me...but he holds the real deal--those sweet, wet, open-mouthed "soap opera" kisses--ransom.
It's no surprise he's inherited the "mean German streak," or, in lay terms, hereditary stubborn nature, that seems to have been passed mainly down the female side of my family. Some days, I'll get 7 or 8 kisses in a row. Most days? I'm lucky if I even get one. Fortunately, Levi does not just single me out; he is equally evasive with Kevin and the girls.
I have tried everything I can to increase the frequency of Levi kisses.
I have given him a mantra: "Babies kissing mommies" (said in a singsong, sickeningly syrupy voice) and even googled images of babies kissing mommies to reinforce this important bonding ritual. He loved looking at the pictures with me; however, the routine did not translate.
I tried to have my cousin demonstrate "babies kissing mommies" at a wedding reception with her tiny little blond boy. Miraculously, Levi got caught up in the moment and gave me one kiss...but the other baby's mom got many,many more.
And, (I am not proud of this one), but I almost had it out a couple weeks ago with a stuffed animal named Sally. Sally is a seal puppet Izzy purchased with her holiday money a few years ago from the book store. Levi adores Sally and Sally adores him. She has such a presence in our home she has taken on anthropomorphic qualities. And,on Kevin's arm, she gloats at me and challenges me every time Levi gives her scores of french kisses. Sally is very lucky to still be among us.(Though she is on the endangered list....you'd better watch it, Sally)!
Finally, to add insult to injury, Levi developed a "fake-out" kiss that goes something like this: He moves in for the kiss...fake puckers and pops his lips while leaning closer, then quickly turns his head to the side and laughs at the very last second. This one is especially frustrating and nearly always elicits a fake cry from me, which sometimes scores me a kiss. (Kevin is jealous because this tactic only works for me).
However, since Kevin and I are equally distraught over the kissing dilemma, we decided it was time to get to the root of the problem: Did we scar him? We may have sort of pushed Levi in the direction of not freely giving kisses early on when he just began to give them by emphatically shouting "NO!" and "Don't you give mommy/daddy a kiss!" while he was mid-pucker. Perhaps it was our jealousy of each other that drove the poor boy to this state in the first place.
We have taken note that Levi intends for us to earn his kisses. He's quite the clever one and will not be outsmarted. For instance, if you follow him when he tugs at your pants leg and make him a bowl of ice cream, you might get a kiss. If you are a sister who rolls him around in a plastic storage tub, you will most likely get a kiss. And if you lie down with him and read "Brown Bear, Brown Bear" and "Moo Moo Brown Cow" over and over and over again...chances are pretty good a kiss is coming. It seems this child has the entire family wrapped around his tiny, sticky little fingers, and he knows how to cash in his chips. Or, kisses, as the case may be.
For now, I'm holding onto every little precious kiss I get--and trying to figure out how--and when--I'm going to settle the score with Sally. And, I will continue to revel in the fact that each of my children love me. In their own, very special ways.
--A

Wii are Family

I should admit that I am a well established techno-phobe. I suppose I could blame it on "2001" (I mean the movie not the year). When I was a kid Hal really freaked me out and for that matter so does Bill Gates. Pac-Man on the Atari is still advanced video gaming for me. I am one of those sad fools that you see in the coffee house that can't get the computer to do what she wants fast enough so she just keeps pushing the button with increasing force and repetition as if communicating in morse code. Yes, I am one of those people and no it never works.
For the most part, I still only write with a pen and paper even though it creates much more work. It just feels better to me, though I must admit my living room looks quite a bit like that shed The Unibomber lived in. I don't have a Blackberry or iPhone. I think my phone can do more than make calls but I wouldn't know since I pretty much restrict myself to dialing and answering. I just recently accepted that maybe digital photography is here to stay. And I completely despise all of the home video game systems including the Wii.
I really tried to give it the benefit of the doubt. The Wii involves getting off your hiney and moving more than your thumbs. That's an improvement to be sure. And it is marketed as if its a great way to play with the family. I however, have come to the conclusion it is not a good way for me to play with my family.
Before this weekend, it had been a while since we had played. Because of the time that had elapsed, I somehow managed to forget how quickly it reveals some of our lesser traits. First of all, I behave badly after losing. I am a terrible loser and because of my continued unfamiliarity with technology it is a total inevitability. I have the slowest motor skills on the planet. Most people wouldn't play this slow if they were on barbiturates. Now, I think overall, I am a good mom and model good behavior. Losing gracefully is clearly my Achilles heel however, and I often make a total ass of myself pouting over Guitar Hero. Meanwhile, the glee my daughter takes in defeating me only makes me worse! Sam accuses everyone (including those not even playing) of undermining his abilities by standing too close or speaking or doing something really offensive like looking at him. Ray gets totally OCD about the Wii and will not stop until he meets whatever arbitrary goal score he has set for himself. Does this really sound like fun family time to you? To me it sounds more like a Dr. Phil episode. I can only imagine what pearls of wisdom that goon would have for us.
So I thought it might be better if we got a game where we would compete against ourselves and the activities encouraged more physical fitness. So we got Wii Sport. I thought I had issues before! When you start playing this game, you have to step on the Wii board so it can weigh, measure balance, center of gravity, etc. When I stepped on it, the Wii voice actually shrieked "Oh!" like it was in pain from the weight of me! Seriously?!? I have had two kids and could probably stand to lose 20 lbs. but I am not going to accept any trash talk from a computerized stair step! So my question is who invented this Wii and did they know that it could make an otherwise nice little family into a crew of belligerent neurotics? Shouldn't there be a warning on the box or a deprogramming feature? I may be a dinosaur when it comes to technology but I can't help but think there is a better way to spend family time. Call me old fashioned but I think I miss the good old days when it was real sports in the back yard and an actual family member that implied you were fat.
-M

Another Day in the Life

So, it might have been presumptuous to assume the GOOD DAY GODS would smile down upon me this morning due to the incredibly chaotic day I had yesterday, but I think the BAD WEEK GODS are winning out thus far.

To start, I awoke 6:40, which is the exact time it is when the alarm has gone off five or six times and the morning news is delivering it's 6th or 7th weather report and just enough time to get Kyla's clothes ironed, scrounge for a single pair of socks and pack 4 school lunches. Thanks to my new drowsy pill (this is not habit-forming, folks...a simple prescription under careful supervision of my dr.), I was up for several hours of the night with piercing cramps in my right side (HEY, I have nothing else to blame)!

I'm feeling rough and so is Kyla, which would generally make for disastrous mother/pre-teen interaction, but this morning happens to be an exception. "It's snowing and they're STILL making you go to school this morning," I tell her, just so she starts off the day knowing I am on her side.

Unfortunately, you have to find creative ways to play "head games" with the pre-teen set, so you are the "frienemy" but not the enemy. For example, "Get up, Kyla...we're LATE!!!" would set off an unsavory set of circumstances in which mom is purposely trying to stack the odds against her by making her a)have a bad hair day, b)cause her to miss breakfast and c)intentionally force her to attend school with a still-damp uniform shirt making its way upstairs from the dryer at the last minute, which I often do anyway.

As it stands, Kyla is on my side this morning because JCPS (our county's public school system) is SO UNFAIR...so it's all good. Odds in my favor.
I rescue clothing from the dryer, iron her pants on the leather ottoman in the living room (there's an ironing board in the basement, but there's spiders there, too) and sleepwalk my way through packing four school lunchboxes.

It's now 7:30, and we really are late. AND, in an unfortunate slip-up, I leave Kyla to fend for herself in the game of sock-match while I rush outside to warm up the car and rescue her hairbrush from the back of Kevin's truck.
The snow is exceptionally gorgeous this morning, peppered with tiny shimmering accents that make our entire front yard look like a bowl of glitter. There are still more shiny specs falling upon us, and I almost get lost in the snow's intrinsic beauty in spite of the fact that we are late. I warm the car.

Kyla rushes outside, crying. This is at least a once-a-week occurrence, due to the fact that she is almost thirteen and her hormones tend to fluctuate. She, however, thinks it is because yet again, she's late, which is my fault...and if she's late twice in one week, she will have detention on Thursday.

I look on the bright side: "Well, have you been late yet this week?" Of course not; it's only Tuesday, and her daddy took her to school yesterday and, according to Kyla, her daddy is NEVER late to anything. To which I retort, "If you want to act like a crybaby about it, go ahead. Or, you can relax, because it's snowing and they'll understand if you're late. EVERYONE is late when it snows."

Yeah, I know, not winning any parenting awards with my reassuring words, but it worked, because she started eating the yogurt I gave her and quickly calmed down.
We slip and slide down several streets, one in which I have to carefully maneuver my car so we don't slide into a group of 6 or 7 middle-schoolers awaiting their bus. The roads are exceptionally slick this morning. Kyla is going on about how JCPS should have just canceled school, and I happen to agree...and again, we're back in sync.

There is one main thoroughfare on the way to and from school, and we are now on it. It's a two-lane road for the most part that also opens to our local freeway, and on this particular morning it is Completely. Backed. Up.

More chatter between child and "frienemy" about JCPS's poor decision.
The road is a sheet of ice. We sit quietly in bumper-to-bumper traffic while the clock edges past 8:00. I try to call Kevin to let him know I will not be taking the others to school. We are lucky to have two cars today: my mom's suburban, which I am driving, and Kevin's truck.

Kevin does not answer his phone, which makes Kyla laugh hysterically because no one can ever get either of us to answer. It's become a running joke in the family.
I cross my fingers and hope he's smart enough to prod the other children forward in their morning routine. Finally, he returns my call and yes, everyone is ready, and also....Sophie almost made it out the door wearing her brand-new sparkly flip-flops to school. Helllooooooooo, parent-teacher conference!

I point out that whoever runs the JCPS school cancellation system needs to take a drive around town before deciding to send children to school during inclement weather. Kyla grumbles about how it's some old man who sits home in a chair watching the weather report and forces them to go anyway since he had to walk five miles in the snow when he was a kid.

She is in rather good spirits when I drop her off, which makes me happy. Except I am also feeling rather defeated, considering the long drive home I must now endure.

I wait on the main road for a while, then follow cue from other cars to turn around and hop on the freeway. Which is worse. I come out on another main road that is equally backed up. Kevin meets me with my purse at the gas station, as I have been on low fuel all morning and am now wavering below the danger zone and understandably panicked. Then, I stop by mom's at her request, get the low-down for the day(which Kev has already given me since he dropped Levi off just 10 minutes prior) and make my way home. I almost slide directly into the tree of my own front yard.

All-in-all, it took more than 2 hours round-trip drive to take Kyla to a school merely 3 miles from our house...and Kevin an hour to take three children to a school just a few blocks from home. In Kev's words from a morning email....."Levi and I were both cursing JCPS in our own way...he just screamed out loud and I uttered obscenities in my mind while the traffic creeped along past cars and buses that had spun off the road...."

Now, safely tucked away and 1/2 bowl of Cheerios, one banana and one blog later, I ponder what to do with the rest of my day that is already half-busted. And I am thoroughly convinced that although the Good Day Gods might not be smiling upon us, they surely had a good belly laugh looking down at all of our morning madness.
--A

Just Another Manic Monday

I'm with Melissa on the whole Monday thing......it's bad enough we spend our entire weekend cleaning the house so we can function somewhat properly during the school week (by Friday it's TOTALLY WAY OUT OF CONTROL again)...but today it's even worse: Cleaning is not quite finished and we have a friend coming home with the oldest after school. I should probably Mop & Glo the kitchen floor, but Dr. Oz has convinced me that household chemicals are bad, bad, Bad and I must use the more eco-friendly Ivory suds instead. (Which I somehow doubt have the same capability to clean up 5-day-old yogurt blobs, smashed blueberries and petrified dried-on multigrain Cheerios).
But I digress. Today is the return to the workweek, which for me, means getting back to waking up early and dropping the kids off to school, putting semi-healthy lunches together (In the event I have enough cash on hand for a school lunch, it's time to start bribing) and then returning home in my car-line clothes (as of late this has been a bunny fur, workout pants and knee-high Frye boots and a half-up, half-down ponytail) to shower and snap out of my regular morning haze before sitting down
to either work on my book project that I am not yet getting paid for, work on the blog you are now reading....or search for full-time jobs via internet. Of course there's a day full of intermittent Facebook checking and several trips to the kitchen in search of something palatable...and anything else that comes up that day I might have to work into my routine. (i.e. errands, dr. appts. or work-related meetings).
This day, however, is particulary problematic, as I have yet to re-gain my footing. The morning begins with its usual post-slumber pains, a massive headache....and a LOUD knock on the door. It's my daughter, Raleigh, returning from her dad's house and ready for breakfast. Judging by the volume of the knock, she must have been trying for at least a few minutes. It's well past 7 and time for the rest of us to get moving. However, this morning I can still feel my jaw muscles tense and trembling from an intense night of bruxism (for you laypeople...this is the scientific term for jaw-grinding. OUCH). Yes, I have the fancy biteguard, which I have been wearing, but lately the pain is unrelenting. That, combined with sudden breathlessness and chest pain (stress or sleep apnea?), have me making a mental note to call my doctor as soon as I return home.
We shuffle through the morning routine.....feed breakfast/pack lunch/brush teeth/comb hair/match socks/grab coats....with Kevin prodding us along..."Come on, what are you doing playing video games, you're supposed to be finding your shoes...I can't roll into work at 9:00 every day!"
Kev and I are in the unfortunate circumstance of sharing one car (my minivan has been parked at my uncle's shop since August because I can't afford a new engine), so he is especially anxious of our progress--or lack thereof.
I briefly ponder taking my new muscle-relaxing medication on my way out the door: "Warning," the label said, "May cause drowsiness or dizziness." Oh, that's why I haven't started it yet, I silently remind myself. I have a lot to get done! We drop the kids off at school and take Levi to my mom's. She is especially grumpy and demanding in the mornings and I am in too much pain to deal...so I sit in the truck while Kev. takes him in. As it happens, there is a major family crisis unfolding that I, thankfully, have no part in...but it has my mother in tears so I spend the better part of the next 90 minutes being a good listener, feeding Levi breakfast and giving him a tub before convincing her to try to get some rest and re-packing Levi to come home and spend the day with his mommy instead.
The first order of business is to check email and see what other family members are saying (everyone has a completely different perspective),stress out about it, and make my way to the shower. I vow to find the home phone and call my sister afterward, pacify Levi with a couple of books and stuffed animals, and start the water. Sophie's German Shepherd webkin, whom Levi dragged through a plate of pancakes and syrup this morning, joins me. So does Levi's toothbrush. (Thanks, Levi)!
Then, fresh and clean, I make my way toward the home phone, which as usual, is not on the charger. We actually have two of them and one is permanently missing, PLUS I have a cell phone sitting here beside me on the desk, not charged. (You will hear a lot more about this in an upcoming blog concerning our technology woes, but long story short, Kevin and I are sharing a cell phone charger which he keeps leaving behind at the office). Thank GOODNESS for the wireless internet--or I would be completely ill communicado today!
The rest of the morning goes like this:
Found cordless phone on fireplace mantle. Mantel?
Place on home charger.
Blow dry my hair and Levi's (he likes the hot air).
Get dressed.
Lie down for 5 mintues spacing out and surviving headache.
Shake it off, make it into hallway just in time to see Levi puke.
Wipe up puke.
Wonder if I should call his doctor as well.
Pick up phone, call sister.
Leave message.
Wonder why I didn't print that email with her new cell number.
Call Kevin.
Place phone on charger to use speaker feature while phone charges.
Phone doesn't work that way; phone hangs up.
Phone continues charging.
Search for Chi Iron.
Wonder why oldest daughter has taken it upon herself to take Chi Iron to Dad's house when I bought two explicitly for this purpose? (I draw this conclusion by minutes of frantic searching, along with the discovery that the Chi Silk Fusion oil is missing as well). Darn her!
Decide it's ok because Kyla is young and therefore must look far more fabulous than her mother.
Write the blog entry you are now reading while pending problems continue to multiply in time and space.
Finally, give in to new medication in favor of drowsiness and dizziness.(I could use a little rest now).
--A

I don't like Mondays (but I don't want to shoot the whole day down or anything...

For the record, I have no idea why the print is gi-normous and/or underlined this morning! I swear I didn't do it on purpose and have tried for 20 minutes to fix this-I give up! So all of you fans of large print books and billboards this post is for you :)

Another weekend has come and gone without me doing anything even remotely constructive. Unless you count finding the lost remote control (I guess I don’t have to declare it a total loss). I wish you could have seen the well crafted ‘To Do’ list complete with numerical notations indicating the highest to lowest priority. As of this morning, not a single thing can be checked off. So now it’s Monday and my driveway still looks like the beginning of Sanford and Son.

I will admit that in many ways, I may be a bit of a hothouse flower. It’s possible that my sensibilities are too fragile and I just need to suck it up. But I really struggle to have a good attitude about the week when I am starting out already in the weeds.

I do this to myself every weekend. All week long I think like a domestic survivalist. Monday through Thursday I function by considering the answer to the just a few questions; does it contribute to our basic existence? Can we eat it, drink it, sleep in it, wear it or use it to fend off interlopers? No? Then, I’ll think about it this weekend. Meanwhile, like some kind of sado-masochist, I spend a whole Wednesday evening making my husband watch that A & E show Hoarders with me so I can shout things like “Oh my God, 2 years and we’ll totally be them!” Or reassure myself with “Okay, at least we have never resorted to using our kitchen sink as a toilet…”

While recognizing that my house isn’t yet pathological, I remain pretty self conscious. So much so that I avoid letting anyone inside. I have even caught myself attempting to block others’ view into my house with my body. Yeah, it looks as weird as you imagine it. I’m pretty sure my next door neighbor thinks I’m making crystal meth. Even my kids have gotten in on the neuroses. My uncle came over to bring me a birthday gift and according to my uncle, the kids intercepted him as he approached the porch, shouting “Mom is napping, just give it to us and we’ll give it to her later. Thanks for stopping by!” I wasn’t napping. I have read this is one of those things that the poor enabling kids of alcoholics do. But since I am lucky if I manage to have a beer once a week, I’m pretty sure I’m not an alcoholic. If my kids are enablers, what are they enabling? I’ve wracked my brain on this one and I can really only come to one conclusion. They are enabling my immaturity. How long can my home look like a frat house before I step up to the plate? A long time apparently. Because while I can be counted on to make a heck of a ‘To Do’ list on Fridays, come Saturday and Sunday the siren song of Beatles Rock Band or hanging out with friends will prove too strong, leaving the ritual of Monday morning malaise well intact.

So I have decided the first thing I am going to put on my ‘To Do’ list this Friday is having the new doorbell installed to play the Sanford and Son theme. That way if it is the only thing we get done over the weekend, at least people will know what their getting when they show up at my house!

-M