Eau de Glade

As I sat here at my computer, researching something or other (okay, 'window' shopping) I let out an unseemly noise.

Well, I tooted.  (We all do it.)

Kinda loudly.  (Um, pretty loudly.)

The next thing I hear is a little body flinging itself out of the recliner, then little feet running down the hallway.  Then running back.  And then I felt a little person standing behind me.

Right then, I hear:

Shh.....Shhh....... Shhhhh.

Oh, no she didn't.

Oh, yes, she did.

My daughter ran to the bathroom, retrieved the air freshener spray, and decided she would freshen the air I'd just polluted.

She giggled madly and ran down the hallway again.

"Ewwww, Mommy." 

To think, all the dirty diapers I changed, the butts I wiped....they mean nothing?

She better hope I never need Depends.

That blanket is not gonna cover it

Audrey will occasionally still shower with me.

Mainly because I am chronically running late, what with balancing the managing of my mini-empire and the general sloth that is the hour or so after the kids are off to school. 

It never fails, there is at least once a day that I look at a clock, look down at my pajama-clad, ponytailed self and go "oh, shit."  I've tried all the tricks: the set your clock five minutes, ten minutes fast; set your alarm and when it goes off, stop what you're doing and get ready; get up and do it before you wake up everyone else; lay everything out the night before (as if wardrobe decisions made that much in advance stand a chance of making it out of the house without, oh, say you dropping the mascara wand only to have it bounce down off your boob before angling back and glancing your favorite shirt just enough that you have to change.  Yes, the shirt ruined, I couldn't get it out; I'm no good at that.) 

I'm just always doing too many things at once, or trying to sneak in just one more thing before I go.

At any rate, it also never fails that I overshoot the time I need to get Audrey into the bath, and if it comes down to Mommy getting a shower or Audrey getting a bath, Mommy does take precedence.   Which led to me "saving time" by throwing her in the shower with me, because although she is small, and thus not too offensively stinky, there are only so many times I can ask her as I comb, "What IS that in your hair?" and let it go without my conscience nagging me all day.

I am envious, to the core, of a friend who once told me that occasionally,he showers "until all the hot water is gone."  So deeply envious that if there were a way for me to flush all the toilets in that neighborhood at once, thus depriving his house of all the hot water and giving him a nice cold jolt, I would.  Without hesitation, and I would giggle when I heard the ensuing shout.

And then I'd do it again.

One morning about a week or so ago, I was in  one of my gotta-get-going-shower frenzies, and I was running around in my underwear.  I had to get something out of the dryer and Audrey was coming up the hallway, wondering what was taking so long, why hadn't I called her to come get in yet?

She saw me, and disappeared. 

She came back, throw blanket in her hands, holding it up like she was in Pamplona.

"Here, Mommy,"  she giggled, as she wrinkled her nose, "you need to cover up."

Perfect.  Just what I needed.  As if self-criticism isn't enough.

Does she not realize that I carried her for nine months with these unsightly hips, walked miles around the house with her with these pudgy. dimpled thighs, and were it not for the magic of underwire...sigh. 

Instead, I popped the blanket at her as she passed me, "We can't all have perfect tushies."   I suppressed images, promises to myself that I'd seek out a Stairmaster with a vengeance that very day.  Because I realize I'm not that uber-Mom.

We made it through the shower just fine.

And for once, we weren't late.

Well, five minutes doesn't really count, does it?

One thing leads to another

I was walking down the hall this morning when it hit me.

No.  Please, no.  I have to wake up the kids, I slept a few minutes late, this is not a good time to have to be cleaning up dog poop.

One big whiff, and it didn't matter.  Fabulous.

My dogs are pretty good about their crates.  It's just really important that they have no late night snacks or I get a present.  Last night, as I put Shadow in, I thought I heard her chewing on something, but I was a little groggy and dismissed it.  I figured that there wasn't anything on the floor that would pose a problem.

I know better than that.  I've swept the floor enough times to know that not everything makes it into the mouths.  Sometimes, it gets "saved for later" and not put in the fridge. 

It's okay to say "eewwww" at this point.  I do.

Anyway, Ben was an angel and he made some waffles for himself and for Ryan, so I could take care of the mess.

I'm working on the crate and decide that I should really, get out the vacuum and get the floor behind it.  Hair, hair everywhere.  I should go into business making doggie wigs.  I finish the crate, collect all the trash in the house, make my trip outside to the trash cans....

Oh, it's trash day.  Roll them out to the curb.

Once inside, I decided that while I'm back here, behind the crate, I should pull out the couch.  Straighten the slipcover, as it always seems to be attached to someone's butt as they get off the couch and never stays nice for long.  Then I vacuum the area in front of the wall unit, where every little crumb seems to find its way.  Then I remembered the sight of what was under the loveseat the other night when Nolan lifted it while looking for something else.  (It had been so traumatic, I'd blocked the memory.)

I look at the slipcover covering this, and decide to throw it in the wash. 

Steeling myself for whatever I might find, I move the loveseat out and (steady, now) look down.  A few m&ms.  YuGiOh cards.  More hair.  Movie case.  Ugh.  So many crumbs, I'm surprised I don't support an ant colony.

I'm working away, vacuum at the ready, and get into the corner that is next to the loveseat under an end table.  Don't look, just vacuum.

What is that on the windowsill?  Vacuum the window sill.  Then the blinds.  Hmm, I should wipe that down...

I'm admiring my handiwork, and wincing at the realization (once again) that I need to replace these sunburned blinds.  Sometime.

As I reach for the vacuum cord to put it away, I notice the blinds in the dining area.  Guess it wouldn't be fair to not take care of these, so I start vacuuming them.   I'm stunned at how the children manage to splash up so high on these.  What are they doing, playing quarters with KoolAid when I'm not looking?

Is that dust on the back of the microwave?  Will the cord reach? I'm in the kitchen anyway, why not the blinds over the sink, too?  Do you, Spazilla, really want to risk that?  I risk it.

I catch myself eyeing the fridge, but I talk myself out of it.  I'm not pulling that puppy out unless they are installing a new one.  Or someone more strapping than I am is here to help out.  Spazilla draws the line.

I still need to clean the blinds splashed with eau-de-KoolAid, but it's a start.

I'm okay with it.  A win, no matter how ugly, is still a win.

You know how some people have plaques outside their door, or inside their houses, like "Home Sweet Home"  or something like that?  I know now what mine should say:

"Anna's House:  Losing the battle to dust, children, and pet hair since 1993."

But I saw the same thing

Saturday night was a good night for football.

The sky was clear, and the air a little crisp.  In Arizona, 'a little crisp' is always welcome.  (It just doesn't feel like a football game when you smell so much SPF 15 and see so much skin you may as well be at the beach.)

In the opening minutes of the game, our team scored quickly; my Dad missed this because he had to make a pit stop.

As he joined us, he asked, "What happened?"

I responded, "There were some good plays, and we scored."

Mr W leaned over me, all excited:  "On the kickoff, we nearly broke through, and he would've scored, but he got tripped up on the 35, 40 yard line.  Then they threw a 35 yard pass, then * another *, and we scored." 

This part, *another*,  I had to leave out.  He spewed so much information, so quickly, I can't remember it all.

I didn't say much, because although all the passing was exciting, I figured all Dad needed to know was that we scored. 

Guess I was wrong.  

And it's apparent I'm missing the ESPN gene. 

Gentlemanly behavior

There is just something nice about men who retain enough of the old school that they make you feel like a lady.

Even if you are wearing a tshirt with a questionable stain and jeans, when someone opens the door for you, you can't help but stand up a little straighter, you know?  They help ease you from point a to point b without making you feel as though you are inconveniencing them at all.

The younger me didn't get it.  I still remember in my late teens going out with Mr W's Dad, and nearly shoulder checking him in my clueless reach for the door as we entered a restaurant.   He is from Georgia, very Southern gentleman...and I sure had a lot to learn.  

It shouldn't have been that way, considering that I grew up around men that would not only open doors but would stand up when a woman would enter or exit the room.  Men who were polite to the ladies, almost painfully formal at times.  I was raised in the Spanish version of "Yes, ma'am,"  and "No, sir" and I should've known better. 

Somewhere in my teens I lost it.  Not the "yes, ma'am" part, but the part where I expected a door opened for me.  None of the boys I hung out with ever really did that.  Maybe it's because I was one of them, the buddy they talked to about whatever friend of mine had broken their heart lately.  Maybe it was a touch of "I'm not some helpless girl, I can open my own damn door" teen feminist rebellion; I don't know.

I do know that one of the biggest things that ever impressed me about my husband was that on the night I first met him, he gave me the nice-to-meet-you handshake. Then offered to walk us to my friend's car, because it was dark.  And when I had a heel-wobble because I was stepping over a flowerbed and lost my balance, he offered an arm so readily and perfectly, so naturally, that I recovered nicely and made it down on the other side without incident. 

The thing is, it was subtle, not something I really noticed until I replayed it in my head later.  It was evident to me then that this was just part of his nature.  I was impressed.  Sure, he slipped in a bit of a vulgar handshake at the end, because he was flirting with me, but I overlooked that because I was so dazzled by the whole package.

To this day, my husband is unfailingly polite.   He still "Yes, sir" s both his Dad and mine.  And he "ma'm" s my friends, much to their horror. 

He's passing it on to the boys, too.  I overheard him recently taking Ryan aside, as we exited a building, holding him back as he tried to sprint out in front of Audrey and me, "Son, you let the ladies go first.  And you hold the door for them." 

I felt myself beaming all the way to the car. 

Where he opened the door for me.

Luckily, there are a few of these guys still around.  They are so naturally good at being a little gallant, that it's nice to walk through the doors they hold.

Gentlemen. 

Hopefully not a dying breed.

Last day of preschool

Today was Audrey's last day of preschool for a while.  She's in a Parks and Rec preschool program, so her classes run about 8-10 weeks or so and then I sign her up again.

This particular class is different from the last one she was in.  It's an hour and a half long, M-Th, and they learn a different letter of the alphabet, and a new number every week.  When she starts up again in January, they will pick up where they left off.

We were invited to class today so the kids could show us what they've been learning and what they do in class.

It was very cute.  Alot of what they do is really kindergarten-ish, too.  Numbers, letters, what does this letter sound like, coloring, days of the week....enough that she's exhausted when I pick her up.

While it is true that what she is learning in class is something I could teach her at home, I have decided to let her learn it at preschool instead.

To familiarize her with playing with other kids her own age.

To familiarize her with the notion of a classroom setting, routines, organization, all that.

To give her a place all her own.

And the real reason, ladies and gentlemen, that I have chosen this route is to help me get used to her being gone.  I'm starting to saw away at the cord, because come July, when we start school for next year, she will be an all-day kindergartner.  I know, I know, it's a long way off.  (But is it, really?)

My heart breaks a little bit at the thought.  All.  Day.  Kindergarten.

Watching her concentrate today, seeing how much she's learned, it's easy to see she is well on her way to being ready for 'real' school.

At least one of us is.

Method

Nolan had an important question for his Dad tonight.

Already, his siblings had been in there, rallying for another cat.

Nolan's request was more along the love line, and I'm not allowed to talk about it here.  Fair enough.

I asked him, "Have you talked to your Dad yet?"  Nolan was across the hall, in his room.  I sitting on the floor in our room while Mr W hogg--I mean sat on the bed.

"No."  "Why not?"

"I'm waiting."  "For what?"

"It's three easy steps, Mom,"  he explained.  "1.  Extra work (hubby had a long day) 2.  Lots of food (we just had dinner) 3.  Wait a few minutes.  He'll be tired from all that and he won't want to fight."

I busted out laughing.  I looked over my shoulder to see Mr W laughing too.

Well. 

I have no idea where he learned that.

Last minute requests are what kids do best

Last Thursday night, at 8:30 pm or so, Ryan came bounding into my room.

"Mommy,"  he said.

"Shh,"  I told him.

"Mommy,"  he said again.

"Leave her alone,"  Mr W warned.

I was watching Grey's Anatomy.  No one comes between me and my weekly dose of McDreamy.  The kids know this.  My husband is good enough to let me have my moment, and keeps the riffraff at bay.

"Wait a second,"  I said, as I knew a commercial was coming up.

"What??"  I asked him.

"I was wondering, you know if you could make some cupcakes for my class.  You know, for tomorrow..."

"Tomorrow ?"

"...Yeah, for tomorrow.  I would like them for the kids that can go to Fun Friday. (the reward for all work done all week, homework turned in, etc.--usually an extra recess)  I asked my teacher and he said it was up to you.  So, so do you think you could do it?  Make them for tomorrow?  And maybe decorate them?"

I sighed.  Heavily.  And I didn't bat an eyelash as said:  "No.  No way.  Do you know what time it is?  It's 8:30 and you want them tomorrow??"

"Can't you just get up and make them right now?  It's not that late."  I must have looked at him like he had 3 heads, because he took a step back.

"Look, man, I need more notice than this.  I'm watching my show, and it's not over until 9.  I am not whipping up cupcakes right now, tonight, no way.  Maybe next week, for next Friday, how about that?"

He actually looked disappointed.  Like I was the one being unreasonable.

I forgot all about it until this morning.  I was reading his class newsletter, and it has all the info regarding what the kids are doing this week, etc. This week, they read a book called "The Hedgehog Bakes a Cake."  And the vocabulary words included buttery, yellow cake, batter, perfect, and recipe.

As I emailed his teacher, I shook my head at myself.  Surely, this something I will be doing at midnight, I thought.

Yup.  I offered to bake yellow cupcakes for the class.  For tomorrow.  With chocolate frosting, as the teacher told me (I asked) that as they read the story, that's what the kids said they would do.

I told Ryan about it when I picked him up from school.  "Yellow cupcakes, with chocolate icing,"  I said.

"Um, do you think you could make them white? With white icing and sprinkles or something?"

I had to stop and take a breath.  He's gotta be kidding.

"How about,"  I responded, "yellow cake with chocolate icing?"

"Moooom,"  he giggled. 

"Or how about,"  I added, "I make none?"

"Okaaay,"  he said, "you win."

Brat.

I am now, at 11:32 pm, baking cupcakes. 

I haven't made it into the long, hot shower I've been promising myself all day, but the cupcakes are lined up like little golden soldiers on my counter.

I dig it that a little batter, a little frosting, will make his classmates day tomorrow.

And even if I smell a little dicey right now, my kitchen smells great.

What party?

When I went to pick Audrey up from preschool today, she came walking out of her classroom all excited.

"I voted today,"  she said, pointing at her "I voted today" sticker.

"Really?"  I asked, raising an eyebrow at her teacher.

"Tell her what you voted for,"  her teacher said.

"I voted for cookies,"  she announced.  "See?"

She held up a little ballot, with an blue marker'd "X" in one of the boxes.  (The ballot was marked "cookies"  or "brownies" with little pictures of each.)

"So you're a member of the Chocolate Chip party?"  I asked her.

"Mommy, you're silly," she answered as she dismissed me with a wave of her hand.

If only all decisions we had to make were that easy.

Out and about

Friday night, I went out with a friend and her sister.  In my friend's ginormous truck, with the sunroof open, the light of the full moon shining in, it felt a little odd not to have to worry about whether anyone had forgotten their seatbelt.

We went to one of those boutique-y things where various vendors come to someone's house to show you their wares and separate you from your wallet; all in the guise of a girly party.

It was fun.

I was returned to the nest with nary a scratch on my head, and it felt like I'd been gone for days, but really, it had only been a couple of hours.  It was not even five past 9 pm.

Today, a very good friend of mine flew in to town, and she came over.  Yay!  I adore her.  Mr W likes her a ton too, even though she is one of the few people that can make him blush.  Once we'd had some lunch, off we went, to the mall.  Alone.  Without children.  Just the two of us. 

I introduced her to the crackhouse known as Sephora, where she picked up some makeup and we smelled the men's fragrances until our noses got confused. 

My favorite is Hugo, by Hugo Boss, the one in the container that looks kinda like a canteen.  Oh, wwwwow.  One of the salesgirls saw the look of bliss on my face, and offered me a sample...in exchange for me putting down the bottle.  

I guess you're not supposed to nuzzle it like it's a neck.

She was really generous with the samples.  I walked out with a bag full of free pheremone joy.  Oh, I'll be back.

I promised the bottle I'd call.

I'm still giddy.  It's amazingly restorative to be out and about without my posse.

I had an engagement at another friend's house this evening, and when I left, my friend Janna was busy tossing cheeseburgers at my children like frisbees, relieving Mr W of the doling-out-dinner duties.

I knew the kids were in good hands.

Alas, her visit was way too short.  Which I guess means it was ideal--always leave them wanting more, right?

It's a little unprecendented for me to go out like that.  I don't feel too guilty either, which means that maybe, maybe I'm ready to spread my wings a little bit, and leave the children alone with their Dad for an overnight....or <gasp> weekend. 

But until then, I'm Sixing.  

Saturday Six - Episode 134

1. How many trick-or-treaters did you have this year? Were that more, less, or the same as last year?

I have no idea.  We had a few.  Then we left the candy in a bowl out front, and took the kids around the neighborhood.  So maybe we had a few honest trick-or-treaters before someone dumped the entire bowl in their bag.   I like to think that didn't happen, but in all likelihood...

2. What kind of halloween candy did you buy?

I bought this giant bag of fun candies at Costco.  It had an assortment, Nerds, Starburst, Tootsie Rolls, Tootsie Pops, Laffy Taffy, Skittles, etc.--all candy my kids like, in case there is any left--but no chocolate, because I'd eat it.  I wonder if dentists look forward to Halloween like CPAs look forward to tax time?

3. What's the next topic you intend to blog about?

I don't know.  Quest for the perfect red lipstick?  

4. Take the quiz: What is your beer personality? 

Right now, I don't have one.  The hardest thing I drink right now is coffee.  MMMMmocha.  From a particular place, that's not Starbucks; unfortunately not close to my house, but worth the trip. 

For the record, the beer quiz said I was Heineken.  I'd like to say it's 'refreshingly retro' rather than 'so five minutes ago' but we all know the truth. 

5. Do you like the taste of beer? Have you ever tried this particular one?

I like the taste of beer.  I've never tried that one.

6. Which of the following in your home is more full: your dishwasher, your washing machine, your dryer, your sink or your hamper?

My husband just did the laundry, so my vote is the dishwasher.  It seems like we run it once a day!  But with all of us in the house, I'm not complaining unless I have to live without it. 

Recuerdos

When I was 8 or 9, my Dad's parents moved in with us. 

My Tata had some health problems brought on by driving the ice cream truck in the middle of a particularly brutal summer, and my Dad felt they'd be better off living at our house.

It was fantastic to see them everyday.

But it was hard too.  Our house turned into a sort of revolving door of relatives and friends who came to visit quite frequently.  It was hard to be on my best behavior ALL the time.  

I was worried, initially, when they moved in, because I didn't know where Nana and Tata would sleep.  I was relieved when they moved into my brother's room, but after a couple of months, I made my brother move into my room.

It is true that my Tata snored like a broken chainsaw, but I initiated the move mainly because early one morning, my Tata had gotten up to go to the bathroom or something, and he saw my brother was uncovered.  He bent over to pick the blanket up off the floor, to cover him again, and instead he fell and broke his hip. 

He did recover, and we went with him everywhere just like we always did.  We'd speak Spanish to all his buddies downtown at the Plaza, and he'd swell with pride when his friends complimented him on his well-raised grandchildren. 

Which made me, Little Miss Overachiever, try harder to be even more fluent, more smooth, and even better-mannered.

While my Mom is the one who actually taught us Spanish, I have to say, my love of the language and fluency came from my Tata.

I'm always grateful that he encouraged us to speak it.

There were other little things, too, that required some adjusting to.  Because my Nana and Tata were the elders in the house, we had to defer to them.  It was fun to do as we were told when it required lighting one of his cigarettes, but not so fun to do when we were required to give up our Saturday morning cartoons for Saturday morning baseball.

I'd sigh, roll my eyes, and change the channel when asked.  My Tata would tease me, "Cuando ya no estoy aqui..."  (when I am no longer here....) because as you may know, guilt knows no language barrier--and I'd have to sigh and apologize for being a brat.

Eventually, I learned to like el basebol.  I have fond memories of listening to the game, sitting on the floor by my Tata's chair, reading a book and looking up in time to catch a good play.

This leads to the reason my eldest son is named Nolan.  I'd first heard the name at my Tata's knee, watching a young upstart pitcher named Nolan Ryan.  When it came time to name my son, that name just rolled off my tongue like it was meant to be.  Perfect.  I'd held it close to my heart all those years, and never even realized it until I chose it seemingly out of thin air. 

Hey, I have a Ryan too.

As well as husband who also loves baseball.

So, in the end, I am grateful to my Tata for making me change the channel.

When we'd go on our road trips, 2 hours to the city, we'd have to listen to his station on the radio.  I remember feeling resentful and being sullen about it, as Radio Viva didn't appeal to my pre-teen tastes.   He'd chide me for not liking it,  "Como no puedes gustar esta musica bonita?  Cuando crescas, te va gustar mucho." 

And he was right.  I did like it when I grew up.  I love it.  I am always drawn back to Spanish/Latin/Mexican music.  There have been periods of time when I haven't listened regularly, but all it takes is the sounds of a cumbia coming to me as a car stereo blares by to draw my attention.  I like the words, the sounds, the way a lyric comes together.  I love the big horn sound of mariachis, the costumes, the whole bit.  Nothing makes me smile like hearing the opening grito of a good mariachi band.  I am recently re-addicted and my iPod is now full of sabor--I've jumped back in with both feet.

I'm sure this knowledge would make him smile, too.

At the beginning of the summer that I turned fifteen, he had a stroke.  He spent a couple of months in the hospital, until really nothing else could be done for him there, and we brought him home.  My Mom, my Tia, my Nana and I took care of him.  I'd do his speech therapy, and he'd glare at me as he reminded me that "no soy nino, no soy pendejo, porque 'ABCDEFG'?"

I waited and waited for him to bounce back, and he'd have good days, but he had a lot of bad ones.  It was hard for him to be unable to do the things he liked, to be so dependent on all of us for really basic things, like shaving.

It soon became apparent to me that the growing feeling of unease I had was because I knew somewhere deep down that he wasn't ever going to be the same, not ever. 

One day, I was particularly overwhelmed by the enormity of losing him, spent, sad; I went into his room and sat gently on the edge of the bed.  He was dozing, and I smoothed his hair back, feeling the ache rise in my throat as tears fell down onto the blanket. 

I looked away to regain my composure when I felt a hand grasp mine, squeezing it gently until I looked back at him.  He was very lucid, moreso than I'd seen in quite some time.

"Mijita, no llores.  No llores mas.  Y cuando es mi tiempo, no llores."

Mutely, I nodded and attempted a smile as he reached up and touched my cheek.  He brushed away my tears.  I sat there holding his hand until he dozed off before leaving the room.

I never had another good moment with him like that again, no matter how many times I'd enter the room, hold his hand, and try through the strength of my will to make it happen.

He passed away that October.

I have had him on my mind alot lately, and it took me a while to figure out why.  I've been listening to a song, and I was singing along one day when it hit me.

It's by Joan Sebastian, and it's called "Recuerdame Bonito."  It's not about death, but the lyric is this:

'Recuerdame bonito, y por favor no llores...por favor no llores, porque me voy, me voy, me voy.....'

(Remember me (prettily) and please don't cry...please don't cry, because I'm leaving, I'm leaving, I'm leaving...)

When my Tata died, it was the first time someone I'd loved so much had passed.  I just couldn't understand how science had failed me, that he was gone, the whole finality of it.  I didn't see then that I would carry so much of him with me, always.

He's with me everyday in the little details that make me me.

Funny how it's taken me this long to figure that out.

Don't try this at home

Mr W and I were watching "Las Vegas" on tv last night.

Although I tease him about watching it for the female eye candy, Mr W insists that really isn't what he likes about the show.  

The official line on why we watch it is because James Caan is one of the stars, and he kicks ass. 

Sure.  Okay.  Like he's not gonna notice the adorable Vanessa Marcil.  (Have I told you how many times he's seen "The Rock?")  Like I don't appreciate Josh's faux-hawk.

Anyway, there was this scene on last night, and really, it should have had a disclaimer on it, something for the rest of us mere mortals; for the rest of us who are, for the most part, less than graceful.

In the scene, there was a couple tossing around under the sheets, oh-so-artfully covering up anything not suitable for network tv or the weaker hearts of the AARP set.   Roll over here, <flash of muscled back> roll over there...with the last roll ending with perfectly poised woman on top, of course, vixen leaning over and reaching into the ice bucket (?) and pulling out a bottle of whipped cream.  She shook it up, and..cut.  

All executed perfectly, not a tousled hair out of place. 

Now, if  this were the real  world:

Roll over here....ow, that's my arm....roll over there...watch out, you're crushing me....<flash of oh, god, cover that up>....an arm is nearly broken trying to get the entire sheet unwrapped from around your left calf...and voila, miraculously, the woman is on top...whoa, nelly, watch it, flexibility has its limits...encouraged, she leans over for the can of whipped cream...which has rolled under the bed..wait, I can reach it, wiggle, lean, fingers feel  the edge of the can only to push it further away, she leans a little bit further and WHOMP! lands on the floor, knocking off alarm clock and phone off the nightstand...<possible concussion>...but it's funny, let's giggle....

<knock knock>  "Mommy, I heard a strange noise."

"It's fine, go back to bed."

<knock knock>

"I'll come check on you in a minute." 

"Are you alright?"

"GO to BED.  I'm fine."

The mood, killed, momentarily.  It's quiet now.

For about a minute. 

Before everyone starts crying, because they need to SEE you.  knock knock  KNOCK knock  knockknockknock!

"Those aren't the pajamas you were wearing when you tucked me in."

Maybe that'd be too-much-reality-tv.

Without a tousled hair out of place.

P.S.  Not us.  Are you kidding me?  I. Am. TOTALLY.  Graceless.  No way I'd attempt that.  I'd for sure have a black eye.  Stitches.  Something embarassing to explain in the ER.  LOL, although,I do recall the crying-need-to-see-you.  It's a miracle I ever conceived more than twice.

Take it easy

I'm taking a little too much time easing into my day.

I still have to get myself ready for work, and here I sit.  Procrastinating.  Making my to-do list and scratching things off of it for each minute I am planted here.

Do I really need to drop that stuff off at the school?  Is the paper place open tomorrow?  What will they eat for dinner while I'm gone?  Will they notice if I steal a Milky Way from their pile of candy?  Are we out of dog food?

Stop, stop, stop, I tell myself. 

Go, go, go, I hear instead.

There has to be a happy medium here somewhere, and I'm pretty sure I won't find it in my pajamas.

But I think the bunny slippers will go well with my lab coat. 

Mad scientist

My girl is under the weather.  She has a little cold, and to hear her tell it, she will have it forever.

"I dnon't want to be thsick" was the whine of the morning.

"Honey, it's gonna be ok." 

"Nwo, it's not, I'm gonna be thsick forever."  <stifled sob>

Ordinarily, when it's minor like this, I just let it run its course, but a few minutes of that led me straight to the medicine cupboard in hopes I'd find her some relief. 

No relief.  I'd given her the last dose of Pediacare yesterday afternoon, right before I made her take a nap.  

I figured we'd swing by Target on our way back from dropping of the big kids at the jr high, and I could have her back in bed by 9:30 at the latest.

Pediacare is one of those medicines you have to ask for at the pharmacy counter.  Because it has pseudoephedrine in it.  And in these parts, pseudoephedrine screams "meth lab."  

It's annoying.  I'm buying a bottle of cold medicine for the sick four year old on my hip, not running a drug lab in the garage.

They didn't have it in the pharmacy.  

I went to Costco, where they've always had it.  The girl chirpily told me no, that they didn't carry that anymore, and I had to resist the urge to reach across the counter and just smack the chirp right out of her. (Anyone who has ever been frustrated and out with a sick, whiny kid will recognize that flash of rage, irrational as it may be.)

Honestly.  I mentioned to my husband once, that I could see regulating it (pseudoephedrine) in the pill form, but I couldn't understand why they'd need to regulate the kiddie cold liquid.  Pills, I would think, would be readily usable, versus having to distill out or concentrate what you'd need out of a liquid formulated for children that would presumably have a lower concentration--you'd need more of it, and it would be another added step--not to mention the extra components that make the liquid palatable and in suspension, too.  Maybe they dump it in, chemical synthesis be damned, and the meth is cherry flavored because of it.

My grades in chemistry were far from stellar, so what do I know?

I know that Sudafed, the plain old Sudafed, is still something you have to request and sign for at the pharmacy if you are able to find it at all.  That stuff, the Sudafed PE you see out on the floor, is a different thing.  Phenylephedrine.  I guess it is supposed to work in the same way.  (Did I read somewhere that is doesn't?  Or doesn't for everyone?)

I settled for the gallon of Dimetapp.  No way I was dragging her anywhere else.

It tastes better anyway.

But not better than chicken noodle soup.

Which is probably where I should have started.

The posting challenge begins

I've thrown my hat into the NaBloPoMo ring.   Sort of, I have no idea if I've officially made it in, but I still have an hour or two, so who knows.

Even if I didn't make it in on time, I will try it.  An entry a day.  Doesn't sound like much, but you know, neither is remembering to feed the dogs.

A little kibble in the middle of the night never hurt anyone.

Speaking of kibble, last night's Halloween candy haul was impressive.  Audrey's bucket was full all the way to the top.  Her brothers were loaded down, too.

This morning, everyone was tired and not interested in their wake up call.  So I said these words, and everyone was scrambling into their shoes in no time.

"First one to the kitchen can have some candy with their breakfast."

But I'm the one with the tummy ache????