Livin' la vida Mommy

I could put out an eye with these

2010-09-30T16:46:00.002-07:00

I have been feeling a little boxed in lately. There is not one room in the house where I am truly alone other than the bathroom, and even that gets dicey depending on which dog is on my heels.

No, I am not referring to my husband.

It gets a little frustrating to walk into your bedroom, ready to: a) talk about my day; b) say something dirty to see if he is truly listening; or c) just change my clothes without stepping around bodies, or actually paying attention to my husband's frantic eye contact/head motion to not finish my thought out loud or flash him because there is someone right on my heels directly behind me that I didn't notice in my eagerness to *ahem* share.

If I get a drink, someone wants one too; if I take out the ice cream, everyone else wants some too; if I head for the computer, someone else is already on it....you get the picture. It's life in a big family in a small house, I'm the Mom, I know, I know, I signed up for this gig and I'm stuck with it for the duration. I know.

But I am allowed to let it get to me once in a while.

The thing that made me snap happened one evening happened after I'd come home from work to find my husband had been called in to work. I'd walked into my bedroom, and, after having closed the door behind me (but not completely shut or locked it), I changed the channel and went into the bathroom to change my clothes. I took my shirt off but realized I needed the sleeping bra. Ridiculous to some, it really isn't much, just like a tshirt, really, but I just can't imagine being um, free, with all these kids around, all wanting a hug at some point of the night..nope, can't do it. I had my pants on, and my bra on (nothing scandalous, a beige plunge somewhat-false-advertising but who cares, it does make for a nice rack) when I opened the bathroom door and was half a step out when I see Nolan sitting on the edge of the bed, not five feet away, about to look over and start talking to me. Of course he'd changed the channel, too.

I don't think I have moved that fast in my entire life, and the force of the door closing was lost in the level of my "GET OUT!"

He was gone when I stepped out three seconds later.

I got changed and as I was walking down the hall to find him, we bumped into each other.

"Look, Boy," I said, remarkably calmly, "You will get an eyeful of something that will scar you for life if you do not knock on the door or at least, at least, knock on the bathroom door and say 'Hey, Mom, I'm out here' before you plant yourself in my room. THE DOOR IS CLOSED. FOR. A. REASON."

When my husband made it home, I went on a rant. "I want my own room. I want my own computer that no one else ever ever touches. I want my own t.v. ....." I trailed off when the solution became clear to me.

"I want my own apartment. Hey! That's exactly what we need. We could leave for a couple of hours, here and there, and just hang out. I could actually sex you up whenever I want and not worry that someone is just around the corner. We could talk, uninterruptedly making it through a conversation without losing our train of thought because we stopped to sign something or deal with ;what's for dinner?'!" We wouldn't abandon anyone, we would just have a place to go that is just ours. For like a grown up timeout."

Of course my husband just smiled, patted me on top of the head....and changed the channel.

Stop looking at him like that, he's only a baby

2010-08-09T06:11:00.003-07:00

I was waiting for Ben to collect his instrument and backpack out of the van this morning when I dropped the crew off at the high school. I looked into my rearview mirror, to watch him get it. It's early when I drop them off, and I am still pretty sleepy, which means I am not beyond driving away before he's completely done, hatchback up and all.

I looked at the line of cars behind me and about two cars back, I see one of the girls I know--her hair is longer and I think she might be a senior this year. I was smiling to myself about how much she has changed since I first met her when I saw her cast a furtive glance at my van.

And push her hair over her shoulder and look back into her car (she was getting out too). And then look out of the corner of her eye at my car. As I watched her movements, hair swoosh- look-wait, don't look--no, I gotta look, it suddenly dawned on me what was happening.

Nolan and the others had walked away. This girl was eyeballing Ben, the boy wonder.

Ben has grown pretty tall over the summer and I predict he will be taller than Nolan by the end of the year. Big green eyes, nice smile---I have to admit that he is a good looking boy. But I am his Mom, of course I think he's a looker.

It appears someone else thinks so too.

Strangers like family

2010-08-06T06:12:00.004-07:00

It was like a scene from a movie:

The freeway had little traffic, a beautiful dawn was lightening the sky, and I had a van full of teenagers I was driving to the dreaded zero hour talking about their weekend plans. I saw a highway patrol motor officer coming up behind me and instinctively checked my speedometer to confirm I wasn't over the limit, then I continued on listening to the chatter of the kids.

I felt him rather than saw him slow down a bit as he passed me and looked over just in time to see him turn and give me a prolonged half-salute/wave. I smiled, returning the greeting, touched by the moment. As I watched him get smaller on the horizon, I swallowed the lump in my throat, reciting a little prayer that no matter what his day might bring him, that at the end of it, he be returned......safely home.

And then there are laughs that amuse only me

2010-08-03T05:45:00.002-07:00

We had "Meet the Teacher" recently at the elementary school. We always go just to make sure the teacher assignments are what I thought (ahem, unofficially requested) them to be. Since I have volunteered so much in the past, some of the teachers are old favorites, and I like to say hello.

Of course, I didn't leave work on time, so I was late, and the kids had already gone around to meet their teachers. I decided to make the rounds anyway and as we were heading back to the car, I ran into one, an old favorite who has a child Nolan's age. We've compared notes over the years about what the kids are doing and my two that are still there really enjoy his class, so I was a little surprised that as he came up to me, smiling, holding out his hand, he looked like he was struggling to remember my name.

"Hi," *pause* "Eri...Erika," he said, stammering a little. He had that look on his face people get when they know they are saying the wrong thing but it's too late and they've committed, so they say it anyway. He shook my hand a little awkwardly, so I said, in a low voice:

"I thought we agreed never to repeat my stage name."

Had he been paying attention and not looking over my shoulder to take in the chaos around us, it would have been pretty funny. Instead, he turned his attention back to me and asked "What?"

"I said, 'How was your summer?'"

An impromptu laugh

2010-08-02T20:05:00.002-07:00

I was laying in my bed earlier this evening with Audrey. I was stroking her hair and talking to her about her day. She is impatient about really, really wanting us to get a kitten. She asks about once a week, and I know her Dad is close to caving. Well, maybe not super close, but she looks at him, and pleads, and I can feel his resolve slip a little each time.

It's like watching an iceberg melt. It might take a while, but it still melts.

"Mommy, please can we get a kitty? Pleeeeeaaase?" she asked.

"Sweetie, no, not now."

"Why not?

"Because it's not the right time. We have 3 dogs. Coco wouldn't do well with a cat. And then there's the litterbox...."

"But I'll take care of it, I promise!"

"No, baby, I don't think so. You're gonna have to wait a while before we get a cat."

"Why do I have to wait a while? Why do I have to wait?"

"Because it's not always a good thing to get what you want right away. Sometimes, you have to wait to get what you really want...."

At this point, her Daddy exited the bathroom, and at just that moment, I continued: "...and eventually, if it works out, you get it. Your Daddy is still waiting for The Perfect Wife."

I looked over to see if he heard me just in time to see him lower his head and grin widely. Even after all this time, it is still nice to see him laugh at something I said like that, to render him speechless with something simple.

"Your Mama is perfect," he said.

Of course he did. He was just at the level of the bed that if he hadn't said that, or something, he'd have been speechless....and doubled over.

Five ounces of happy

2010-08-02T06:41:00.002-07:00

My former neighbor was once showing off her brand new fancy coffeepot one afternoon. "It's so much nicer being able to make our own espresso at home," she said, "because Starbucks can get expensive when you drink it all the time."

I commented to her that I only drank coffee when I was at work, so the occasional Starbucks splurge didn't hurt too much.

She looked at me, horrified. "How on earth do you make it all day, chasing around the children? I never would have survived mine without coffee."

"Lately, I'm either pregnant or nursing," I giggled, "so it's not such a big deal. Besides, I looove coffee, and if had my own pot, I'd be dangerously addicted."

Fast forward about 10 years.

I made it through two years of waking up at 4:45 a.m. to get the band kid rolling for zero hour. I stop on my way to work and occasionally get a caffeine hit at whatever place hits my fancy. At work, we have the fancy Flavia machine.

And this weekend, I bought my first real (not teacup sized) coffeepot. It's not fancy, but right now, it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

MMMMMMM. Bliss. Why did i deny myself so long??

It's that time

2010-07-25T12:13:00.002-07:00

Two weeks ago, I was doing an early morning Walmart run when I stumbled upon...school supplies. I was doing a little happy dance instantly and it turned into a little jump-up-and-down when I saw the bright orange, green, blue, magenta, and red post-its.

Of course, I know my weakness well enough to take a deep breath and reassess.

Right before I turned back around and grabbed some post-its and a couple of Sharpies...um, for work.

Yesterday I decided to go and actually get stuff for the kids as school starts tomorrow. It was chaos as every parent in town was thinking the same thing, but I know that over the course of this week, I'll be fielding "but I need it for class rightnowrightnowrightnow" every night when I get home from work. While a smart mother would wait until her kids go to class and THEN go get the supplies, I started thinking about it and decided that I didn't want to face the aisles at Target and Walmart every night after work this week for yet-one-more-item. I've been down this road before, I know what they will need.

And so I have my little chest of drawers full of composition books, folders, crayons, spiral notebooks, paper, markers, glue, glue sticks, index cards, colored pencils, highlighters, regular pencils, and notebook dividers. There's a towering pile of binders, a box of page protectors, and a 3 hole punch on top of it.

It sounds like a lot, but I guarantee by the end of this week, most of it will be distributed into the older kid's backpacks.

If not...I'm prepared for any school supply shortage.

You know, the ones that happen at 11 pm, the night before a project assigned 2 months previously is due?

You never know when the cosmos is listening

2010-07-24T18:31:00.002-07:00

One morning, about a month ago, I turned off the alarm. I didn't really want to get up, and the sigh on the other side of the bed told me I wasn't alone in my procrastinating to get the day started. I was idly scratching my husband's back, running my wardrobe through my head when I absentmindedly said, "I don't know what to wear today."

He rolled over and thoughtfully looked at the ceiling, all calm, as he said quietly: "I know. I have that same problem. I think that today I'll wear the blue one. Or the blue one. Or.....the blue one."

I smacked him on the arm. "That's not fair. You have a uniform, and you don't have to think about it."

He started listing all the reasons why he did have to think about it, something about different vests require different shirts, different pants, different this, different that, blah blah blah, and just as I was about to smother him with a pillow, he got up and started getting ready for work, so I snuggled the pillow for 15 more minutes instead, wardrobe forgotten for zzz's.

It's funny how the universe works. You meet strangers who know the same people you do at the playground; you run into relatives when you're on vacation; you say or wish something and suddenly, it happens.

That Friday, I got the news at work that the company decided that all lab personnel were going to be required to wear scrubs. They would buy them for us, and by the next Tuesday, we were trying them on. And they arrived about 10 days later.

They are black--we are a lab full of geek ninjas. And in spite of the fact that they are comfortable and it's like wearing pajamas to work, the first day I wore them, I felt as asexual as a sack of potatoes. Even though I was the first one to say that scrubs, with their utilitarian opacity, offered the perfect opportunity to wear wild underthings, I just couldn't get my groove on.

I'm hoping the zebra print clogs I am currently lusting after will take care of that.

Girls are made of...

2010-07-21T06:19:00.003-07:00

I'd just gotten in from work the other night and as I passed Audrey in the hall I was overcome with "gosh, she's so adorable." She was looking at me like she had really missed me so I stopped to give her a squeeze.

I held her face in my hands, rubbing her cheeks, "My lovely, my lovely, my lovely..." and she grinned up at me right as she said:

"Fire in the hole!" and promptly farted. Nothing silent or dainty about it.

Somehow, I don't think that hot air was supposed to be the "spice" in "sugar and spice."

Anyone got some scissors?

2010-07-17T22:02:00.003-07:00

Of all the things I do for my spouse, I never thought I'd be asked to publicly humiliate myself. (Although, writing in a public forum like this, I risk it all the time.) I did something today that my husband has been teasing me about all day, something I am certain to never live down. You'll see.

My oldest, who is now 16, asked us a while back if he could go to a concert with his older cousin, who is 19, in Tucson today. Because I knew that Nolan would just be finished with band camp, and down to his last week of freedom before school starts, I agreed.

This morning, while we were getting ready to leave the house and meet his uncle halfway between Tucson and Phoenix, I started to get a little worried.

**He's not really been down to hang out on his own in Tucson before.

**His cousin, while he's a good kid, does get a little distracted easily.

**I just handed him a chunk of change larger than any I've sent him with before out in public. ($50...which amounts to a windfall, especially when it's simply handed to you, regardless of what you're supposed to use it for).

**What if he gets separated in a sea of bodies from his cousin at the concert? He doesn't know Tucson! Who will he call? Will he think to call?

**What if he decides a mosh pit is a good idea?

**What if he spends his money on hookers and blow? (Okay, I know, $50 is not enough for that, but I'm his Mom, and occasionally, I have leaned toward the dramatic when I'm having a nervy spaz attack.)

In between the admonishments to "stay with your cousin--don't get separated--be polite to your Tia Emma--yes, you might have to go to church with her--no, your blood won't start to boil when you dip your hand in the holy water--make sure you eat something--say thank you" I decided to add "Don't be waving your money around--be mindful of your surroundings--hide some of it from yourself in your wallet so you don't spend it all in one place--maybe it would be a better idea to go into the bathroom, take out what you need, and then go buy your tshirt or whatever--"

At this point, my husband is looking at me like I am insane, and I'm realizing that it's quite possible the boy has put his headphones in and is not listening to me at all. With a roll of his eyes I am certain he saves only for special occasions, my husband does not miss a beat: "That's stupid."

"What? I'm just telling him to be cautious! There's nothing wrong with that! Shrimpy Nana does that all the time! She leaves her basket with me, and goes into the bathroom because she hides her money in her bra! It's not so crazy! You've had lots of money in your wallet at Disneyland, you don't open it up like an idiot and wave it around, do you? You've been behind people in line who pay stupid, with a giant wad of money that screams "rob me" and that's annoying! I want him to be careful!"

My husband shakes his head and right when I think he might be about to agree with me, he starts to mock me:

"No, when I'm at Disneyland, I don't wave it around, I just..." at this point, he starts semi-shouting "Hey everyone, I've got a TON OF MONEY! I'M GONNA PAY NOW! WITH ALL THIS MONEY!! I'VE GOT AN ATM CARD, TOO, BUT I'M NOT GONNA USE IT! BUT I HAVE ONE! JUST SO YOU KNOW!!!"

I'm laughing so hard I'm crying, because it's one thing to realize you're overdoing the parenting, and another to realize that yes, that was something completely ridiculous that not only came out of your mouth, but you were absolutely serious about it at the time. There is just no defense, no way to save face and recover from that. So I laughed at my own advice and figured it wouldn't matter anyway, he's a teenager and it's in one ear, out the other.

Geez. It's too late for me to consider loosening the apron strings, I need to cut them and be done with it. He's 16, and I need to let him experience some of the world on his own, bit by bit, beyond walking to Circle K by himself, before I kick him out the door in a couple of years.

My husband will have to answer any phone calls that might come in the middle of the night tonight.

I'll be in the bathroom, ripping out the seams of the pockets in my bras.

Because you never know! What if the man behind you in line wants to steal your purse! You'll be left with nothing! Cochinomaranos!

Shrimpy Nana. Sometimes, I wish the things she's said to me over the years would fade from my brain, like long division and the Pythagorean Theorem....instead of digging in, waiting for the right moment to come out of my mouth and confirm the truth about my precarious hold on sanity.

If it's in a pot, I will kill it

2010-05-04T06:29:00.003-07:00

Audrey is fascinated by plants.

Which is unfortunate, because I can't grow anything. I don't care what Martha has to say about how mint will overtake your yard, or how easy it is to grow your own herbs (oregano, basil, rosemary, not the medicinal kind)--I can't do it. Windowboxes, small containers, regular old school put-it-in-the-ground...I kill it all.

I was feeling little hopeful when I let Audrey buy a succulent plant. I'd just read in Martha Stewart Living about how easy they were to maintain. I had visions of growing up this plant to such proportions that I might be able to actually buy pots for it as it grew and someday, send Audrey off to college with her own plant that we grew together since she was a little girl.

She named him George.

And I underwatered him like I was supposed to. He eventually started to outgrow is little 2-inch pot so I got him a new home and we transferred him over.

He started losing leaves.

I didn't lose hope. His stalk was growing, I figured this was a natural progression, like when your child plumps up and then grows an inch overnight (there's a lot of that going on around here).

He eventually became just a stalk.

And now he's a stalk that's turning brown.

Only I could get a plant that usually thrives on a little neglect and still have it die. Ugh. I'm going to have a service for George soon, and I am sure the little one will be sad. He will join all the other plants I have attempted to grow for the children. I should put out little rock tombstones with their names painted on them: "Here lies Little Guy. He died with his roots on. RIP"

She will ask me to plant her sunflower seeds, and I will gamely try, just for her. We can plant them on the side of the house, the sunniest part of the yard. I will let her tend them and hopefully they will grow up and be taller than she is before long.

If only I could get the weeds in the backyard would succumb to my touch-of-green-death.......

Some food groups are better than others

2010-05-03T22:30:00.003-07:00

I recently started using a veggie/fruit co-op in my area. I really like it, because you don't get to pick what you get, and while sometimes, there are weirder veggies in the mix, mainly there is normal stuff in it to offset the oddness of kumquats.

Considering I usually always eat the same things, I am finding myself branching out into the unknown, looking up things I don't recognize on the internet (lavender lettuce with dark green edges?) and finding out how to use or cook said items.

My most recent foray into the veggie world was into the unknown goodness of artichokes. I've never cooked or eaten one in my entire life, and there were four in my basket this last weekend. I didn't want them to go to waste, as the last time I got a couple, I put them in the wrong part of the fridge and they froze into uselessness. I decided to look up how to clean and cook them, and do it right away.

I had them steaming while I was doing other kitchen duties when one of Audrey's friends' Mom called me. We were on the "whatcha doing?" track and when I mentioned "artichokes" she almost swooned through the phone...right before she let out a "You've NEVER eaten one before?" tsk tsk. She advised me to melt up a little butter and use that to dip the leaves in to eat them. "Just look at the base of the leaf, you'll figure it out," she said.

I have to admit some skepticism at this point. First of all, they are kinda weird looking. And even when they are in the spinach-cheesy dip, the only way I've ever encountered or eaten them before, they didn't bring out any oohs or ahhs from me. I have been told by others that they are just too much trouble to deal with, lots of work, little reward--so I was thinking that this exercise might turn out to be futile.

Once the time elapsed, and I had melted a little pat of butter all ready, I started peeling the leaves off. The first one made me gag a little--too close to the stem. I doggedly made my way through the rest of the leaves, finally figuring out late in the game that you can't really manhandle the leaf and start scraping it too far up with your teeth because nothing happens. Nope, the real goods are right at the tip of the leaf, and you have to be a little gentle or you'll miss the good stuff. I got to the middle and proceeded to try and remove the choke as effortlessly as I have seen it done on t.v. to get to what I'd heard was the real prize, the heart.

I looked at my meager bit of grayness in my hand and wondered why someone would work that hard for such a small return. I was unimpressed. What's all the fuss about? I thought to myself. I mean, if I am dipping something in melted butter, it had better be orgasmically good, otherwise, why bother?

I tried again with a second artichoke.

This artichoke was fleshier, and as is the natural course of things, the fleshiness made it that much better. I'd added a little lemon juice to the melted butter; by the time I got to the third leaf, my eyes closed, I let out a little sigh, and I let my tongue help coax the flesh out of the leaf juuuust so. It was heavenly. And I could see what the fuss was about. Yet I still mauled the heart into a pile of furry stuff and gray goo.

So I had to eat a third one.

I did much better this time, and the heart was worth the patience I forced myself to take with the choke. Wow. A reward at the end of all that work? Nice!

I am a little ashamed to admit that I did eat the fourth one, too. I felt somewhat hedonistic sucking the lemon butter off that last leaf, but I managed it without blushing, a tummy ache, or a cease-and-desist from the vegetarian lobby.

I don't know what got me, the warm caress of the leaf on my lower lip, or the melted lemon butter. (Seriously, you could dip a paper towel in melted lemon butter and it would be the best thing you ever tasted, wouldn't it?)

All I know is I am ready for more.

Bring it on, weird veggies. I got a steamer basket and a squeeze of lemon waiting for you.

How 13 bucks saved my mind

2010-04-28T06:19:00.002-07:00

I like order.

It's got a lot to do with my job, where I have to be precise and structured in my methods, spilling over into my daily life. I do things the same way every day, park in the same places, put my keys in the same place, even my purse has a special spot for everything and if something comes out, it goes right back in that spot when I'm done with it. (Which helps when I'm screeching down the highway and need a piece of gum right now.) Doing things the same way helps me keep from forgetting things, and helps me retrace my steps easily and find whatever it is I need, whether it's a kid left at school or my favorite pen. Not having things put back in the same place makes me craaaazzzy. (Just ask Ryan, who put my iPod back in my purse, but not in the same spot--I nearly drove off the road, I was so frantic, thinking he'd lost it.)

Right now there are a lot of things out of order around the house. It's not entirely laziness but a lack of motivation and time. Working full-time and trying to balance the time I spend with the kids has been a challenge for me this year, not to mention trying to balance in time for regular housecleaning. Not that I was super-super-eat-off-my-floor clean before, but I was considerably neater when I had an extra day or two to think about it.

I realized just how much the disorder was bothering me last week when I was looking into my pantry and it looked like Costco exploded in it. One of the problems we've been tackling is what to do during the time frame when the kids get home in the afternoon and we get home in the early evening, and dinner preparation is waiting on me, the last person into the house. A couple of 8:45 pm dinners made me realize that something had to be done, or I was going to be riding the guilt train forever; because that doesn't stop coming to your station just because you're working, and pizza all the time is not necessarily good for you. I gathered everyone together and proposed some solutions, the most obvious being that the older kids and Mr. W were going to have to pick up some culinary slack. Awesome idea, I told myself, let go of the kitchen, you control freak, and eat someone else's dinner once in a while.

The Marinade Explosion of 2010 notwithstanding (during which Ben found himself covered in marinade that "just exploded" out of the bag and my kitchen looked like someone committed a murder in it) this new regime had gone okay...until I looked into the pantry and realized that because it was such a mess, I knew where everything was...but no one else did, which is why Mr. W sent Nolan to the store to buy some spaghetti when there were 6 packages already in the pantry. And while I can throw amazing things together out of the supplies I have in there, Ryan is only going to see the Tostitos.

Inspiration struck me in Target, of course, when I was looking for a glass jar and saw shelves of organizers you can put in your pantry. Intrigued, I bought some plastic baskety-bins to house my baking supplies, as I had various chocolate chip bags about to stage an uprising with the sugar to take over the entire shelf, and an under-cabinet thing just the right length to hold a loaf of bread or two. I arranged that particular shelf when I got home and voila! a little pocket of order peeking out at me from the chaos. Thirteen bucks later, and I started breathing easier, and the spot between my brows unfurled, no botox required. Now, everytime I open the pantry, I look at that shelf and it makes me happy.

While I still can't look at the other shelves without cringing, I am feeling brave enough to tackle the rest of the pantry this weekend.

If only I felt brave enough to tackle the dust on my bookshelf, too.

Hug your favorite person in a lab coat

2010-04-18T23:40:00.002-07:00

It's Lab Week April 19-23rd. Ordinarily the lab I used to work in would have some contests and a couple of fun things, maybe a potluck, and maybe a management-provided catered lunch, and maybe some swag from our vendors.

The lab I work in now goes all out. There will be contests all week, like dry ice shuffleboard, LabLympics (there are three individual and one group relay event), a salsa/guacamole competition, and all kinds of food all week long (breakfasts, lunches, ice cream social, barbeque in the park). The bottom line is that I won't be able to come home and complain about being worn out at all this week, not without risking an "Oh, pleaaase!" eyeroll from the family. (That's what I get for bragging a little about how this group outdoes my old one.)

One of our contests is for people to submit an account of "How I Became A Scientist" which will be emailed out to all, and we have to guess who it is. I thought I'd post my story here, if only to get a post in. It's been a long time since I've done one, I didn't think anyone would mind too terribly much if I cheated. Just a little.

Here's my story:

I became a scientist because of two people.

My parents.

I remember being about 6, and stumbling across a book inside one of our living room tables called “Biology”. It was big, and green, and I started looking through it. In the middle of the book were transparencies of all kinds of things. Plants, animals, a human body; the transparencies were designed to be looked at separately to look at details of certain systems or structures, or all together to get the full 3-D effect. I was completely fascinated by the frog and would flip through those pages, trying to figure it out. Eventually, Mom would catch me with the book, and while she did not mind me going through it, she worried about the transparencies getting torn, so she’d usually take it away after a little while.

But I’d always find it again.

Mom would take the time to talk to me about her biology class, not squeamish at all about the dissection portion, and how interesting it was. It was from my Mom that I first heard about DNA and how things could be inherited from your family. She was always curious about science and her musings to me would make me think. I wanted to find out the answers so that I could share them with her.

My Dad, on the other hand, was all about airplanes and space. He told me stories about astronauts and fighter jets and all about the math and physics that went into those endeavors. He stressed that math was not something to ever be afraid of and when he talked about the laws of motion, he spoke about them like they were old friends. I could not wait to meet them. On road trips, on our way home at night, he'd talk about astronomy, mythology, and the first man in outer space.

Their combined influence made me want to pursue science as a career. And while I never knew I’d be in the field I’m in when I was a little kid, I always knew that I would be a scientist.

As for my Mom's book...I still used to find it from time to time, and I still turned to the page with the frog splayed out on it. I've not been able to find it for a while...

...because my nephew has it.

When cups attack

2010-02-26T06:47:00.002-07:00

Every had one of those days when things are going well?

*Kids off to school -- on time, permission slips signed. Score!

*Good, albeit big, hair day--I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille!

*Stop for my bagel and coffee, and get a couple of treats for the ladies I work with and still am running on time--Nice!

I'm feeling very "you got it going on, Mama-san" while bobbing my head to the music I'm listening to...and look down to see peanut butter from my bagel has left a dribble on my jacket. I have napkins aplenty so I dab at it and manage to make it not too noticeable (another wardrobe crisis averted). I'm taking a sip of my coffee, and just as the light changes and I am putting my coffee back in the cupholder, the sleeve of the cup takes a weird turn and I dump coffee all over my lap.

On the bright side, I laugh, and think that maybe the caffeine will reduce the appearance of dimples in my thighs, without the expensive spa treatment.

I'm convinced I am the only adult in the world who should not leave the house unless she's wearing a bib.

In my case, given my graceful eating tendencies, it would have to be a bib....the size of Montana.

It's raining, it's pouring

2010-02-21T15:14:00.002-07:00

Nothing like a little rain to make me feel lazy.

I should be cleaning the house and making beds and taking care of a little grocery shopping, but I've been baking cookies and blogging.

I know if I go lay down and try to read, I'll be asleep. The dishes will stay in the sink, the chicken will stay in the fridge, and I will still be in my pajamas.

Pajamas being a far cry from yesterday, when I enjoyed a rare moment of glamour. I got my haircut in the morning, and she dried it straight. I love it when she does that, but I can't get the same smooth-like-glass sassiness she does. It's so awesome. I'd dropped by the mall to check out a new lip color I'd seen in a magazine. It looked terrible. And the lady at the counter intimidated me a little. Okay, a lot. In spite of my sassy coif. I tried another color of theirs and decided thanks, but no thanks. As I was about to head out to the van, I realized I hated the way my lips felt and before I knew it, my feet were headed towards the MAC counter. Oooooh. They were hosting an event, to roll out the spring colors and usually, when they have that many people in that particular corner, I am, again, intimidated, and don't stop. But my lips needed to go there, and as I scooted past the man wearing an orange coat and purple pants, not to mention the pink-haired model, I wasn't sure if I would stay long enough to do anything but grab a Kleenex. But suddenly, there I was, chatting up a salesgirl and looking at the colors, wiping the other stuff off my lips.

"Try this," she said, as she handed me a wand. I looked at my mouth and was a goner.

We started talking about some other things...and the next place I found myself was in a makeup chair, sassy coif pinned back, at the mercy of the salesgirl.

Man, she worked a mean brush. It felt soooo good as she painted and applied and chatted and explained. I could have sat there all day.

She handed me the mirror and I braced myself for the inevitable face-full-of-ohmygod-I'm-a-drag-queen makeup before opening my eyes to peek.

Holy cow.

"You'll be coming over every morning to my house to repeat this, right?" I beamed at her. I looked amazing. Even if it was more makeup than I'd use in two weeks, it was the most amazing bronze-and-reddishpink-and-glossy as I've ever been. It took an armload of personal restraint to not buy all the stuff I had on...except the lipstick.

Viva Glam Cindy, meet Viva Glam...Anna.

Of course, my husband was not home.

Of course, there is no photograph to post.

But it's nice to know that Glam Anna is still in here, even if she's hiding in pajamas.

My shirt's staying on

2010-02-21T14:43:00.002-07:00

After my harrowing experience with the shrimp, I had to follow up with my doctor (who did prescribe me the epipen) and she recommended I go to an allergist (I'd already made the appointment).

The allergist was a little stymied, because usually, when people react to food, it's immediate. I was an unusual case. I told him I'd also poked myself on a cactus as I waited in line for my turn at the trough (who has LIVE cacti in a boardroom, I ask you?) and that I was not convinced that this event wasn't a contributing factor, considering I had to pull the thorns out of my arm (I had a sweater on and didn't realize they were there until they started making me itch) as I sat there having lunch. I'd cut some thorns off the thing to bring to my appointment and he said he'd make a concoction with them, and to come back for skin testing the following week. "No antihistimines in the meantime," he added.

Skin testing involves you taking off your shirt and allowing the nurse to poke you with little itty bitty needles that are dipped in various allergy-causing substances all over your back. And in my case, forearm and upper arm, too. I got tested for all the shellfish, fish, my cactus, nuts, and various "environmentals".

I knew I was not in for a good time when I felt spots on my back erupt and itch within two minutes of the nurse leaving. I'd giggled as she poked me as I am super ticklish, and now, in my agony, I felt I'd probably kick her the next time she came into the room. I concentrated on my iPod and just when I thought I'd not be able to handle it anymore, she came walking back in.

It's never good to hear a medical professional gasp as they enter a room and look at you. "I'm getting someone else to help me read this," she said, "so we can get it done as quickly as possible." I appreciated that effort, because had I not been sitting on my hands at that point, I'd most certainly have jumped off the table and started rubbing my back up against the door jamb like a bear. Maybe just a little rub here, I bargained with myself, gingerly easing my finger over a spot close to my shoulder just before she came back.

I heard series of numbers, like 8,20 and 11,45 and later I found out that the first number is the mm of width your hive is and the second number is for the redness/reaction flaring out from this. Once she was done, she wiped my back and arm off and then smeared anti-itch cream all over them. "He'll be in soon," she said, "go ahead and get dressed."

She didn't have to tell me twice. I got my shirt back on in record time and allowed myself to scratch a little. She came back in a few minutes later with a little cup of medicine and a pill. "For the itching," she said. While I reacted to the shellfish (the lobster hive was huge), my back reaction to me was by far worse.

My doctor came in and proclaimed, "You're allergic to the world."

I wasn't surprised. I knew this, but I didn't know to what degree. After we talked, we decided that I don't have a definitive answer for my reaction that landed me in the ER, but that due to my overall allergicness, maybe there were other environmental factors that, coupled with the shrimp, pushed me over the edge. Based on what has happened to me in the past, I was okay with this. I am not doing shots, and I will carry the epipen and liquid Benadryl with me at all times, and just be cautious, like I was before.

But I'll be a cheap date from here on out--no shellfish or lobster for me.

He did suggest I bring the food that I had that day to his office and eat it there, just to see what happens. I'm thinking I will pass on that--I'm just not up to it right now; maybe in a few weeks or maybe never...we'll see.

I called Mr. W as soon as I was out. "Guess what the doctor says I'm allergic to?" I asked with glee.

"Dust?" he replied hopefully.

"Nice try," I said. "Apparently, I'm allergic to everything in the world....except you."

I decided I'd wait to tell him I'd be needing a bigger purse. That Epipen takes up a lot of space.....

Purple is my color

2010-02-21T13:34:00.003-07:00

I've had allergies my whole life, most usually the seasonal kind and occasionally the hive-y kind. I never know when they are going to hit. While I am universally careful about things I put on my skin, and plants I am around, I've never had to worry about what I eat.

Not until about a month ago.

I was at work and we were having a lab notebook signing party. I know. "Lab notebook" and "party" are not two words that are usually strung together to good effect, but for me and my geek colleagues, it means someone else picks up the tab for lunch and we get to nitpick over each other's lab notebooks, ultimately signing off (on each and every page) that the documentation of everyone's experiments is done appropriately. This time, we had Chinese food, from a place I've eaten from before and really liked. I branched out this time, though, and in addition to the garlic chicken, I decided to try the shrimp with pine nuts. I love shrimp. I've eaten it before, but....

........it came to pass that about an hour and a half afterwards, I was working in the lab, and my palm started to itch like mad. I figured I'd gotten some water under my glove, and that was causing the irritation...and then the back of my neck started itching. "Are you okay?" one of my friends asked, as she noticed me scratching. "Yeah," I said, "I'm just itchy, it's nothing, it's just hot in this coat." I blew it off for a few seconds, but then my, um, groin started itching, and there was no way to gracefully scratch that in public. I told my friend to take over for a few minutes so I could check out what was going on, because by that point, I'd ripped off my gloves to scratch at my neck. Once I got into the bathroom, my forearm was itching and parts of me felt like they were on fire. I pulled up my sleeve, and watched hives start popping out.

It was very "An American Werewolf in London."

I knew I was in trouble. I called down to my other coworkers for help and started heading towards the basement (where we usually work) to look for my boss. As I left the bathroom, my lip started itching. My boss and I missed each other because she took the stairs and I took the elevator. She ran back down to me and started popping Benadryl pills out to me (I took a couple) as I tried to not scratch and she started making calls, for help and maybe an epipen. I felt something in my mouth and suddenly, the itching didn't seem so important. "My tongue is swelling," I said to her as she said "I'm calling 911." I headed upstairs (finding us in that building is impossible if you don't know where to look) so that I could wait outside for the paramedics. I'm sitting on the bench, scratching, holding my cell phone, and doing the Mom checklist in my head of where all the kids were at and did they have rides home and where is my husband? I'm frustrated, because even though as I'm trying to make calls, I'm realizing no one will understand me because at this point, I wath tawthing like thwis. Finally the paramedics arrive, just as I'm starting to really panic, because my breathing feels shallow, and they want to chat. Really? I'm thinking, fixthisgivemesomethingnownownow and I'm miming for my boss to speak for me and the paramedics start looking like they are standing behind a tv screen gone to snow.

After we've provided them all the names of everyone I've ever met, they give me some more Benadryl through the IV they've started and within a few minutes, the tv screen of snow is gone. As they load me into the ambulance, my itching has miraculously stopped (oh, thank you) and I can breathe better (blessed oxygen), and I am feeling much more kindly towards the paramedics...but it was still the longest 15-minute ride of my life on the way to the ER.

Gawd. More questions.

I'm wishing for more medicine, because I'm so afraid the itching will return and don't want any part of that again. And I look up, just in time to see my husband in the doorway. The doc is standing behind him, cracking wise, and finally, finally, someone puts something in my IV that is sure to make the itching stay away for a while. After about twenty minutes, I hear myself talking but it's from that lovely Benadryl twilight-chill and I know I'm babbling and dozing at almost the same time but I really can't help it.

Great. My husband gets a preview of our golden years, minus the drool and pureed veggies.

I got discharged a couple of hours later, and my friend (who is my boss) that accompanied me got to ride back to her car in the back of a police car.

"It's not every day you get to ride in an ambulance and a police car," she joked as she climbed in the backseat.

"You just remember that when it's time for my review," I replied.

Later, I asked my husband why he was so non-plussed, so calm, adding for dramatic flair emphasis on the part where I pointed out "You do realize these kinds of reactions can be life-threatening." He gave me the look that says 'you're pushing it' and said that by the time he got to the ER, I was over the worst of it, and since he didn't witness the whole thing, it was easy for him to not overreact. I rolled my eyes and let the Benadryl take over. It wasn't until I overheard him telling one of his coworkers a few days later, "She was still all puffy when I got there, like that girl from Willy Wonka," that I even detected that he'd been a little rattled in the tone of his voice.

And it also explained to me why, as I dozed off that night in my Benadryl haze, I heard him say: "Good night, Violet."

Day-to-day

2010-01-31T11:46:00.003-07:00

Black shoe polish, my post-it note read. I looked at it as I walked in the doors at Target, reciting it in a whisper as pondered what part of the store I'd find it in.

A smile like the sun interrupted my thoughts and the recollection of someone much taller than I was bobbing down into my field of vision came into play. "You must be Anna," he said, as we both reached out to shake hands and I read the name on his nameplate. "You're Eric," I said, smiling back. "I've heard a lot about you," he told me. "And I've heard a lot about you," I replied. "Only the bad stuff about me is true," I added. We both commented that it was nice to finally have a face to go with the name.

I wandered down past the makeup, finding myself in front of a shelf of brightly colored bowls, pausing to look at them, assessing their size and deciding that they were too small for my purposes. I turned towards the shoe department and went down an aisle about two steps before I was stopped by some lovely ivory cookware. Giada has a line of cookware in Target? I glanced over it and was scanning the shelf for mixing bowls when the voice in my head gently reminded me I was not going to find shoe polish in housewares.

I didn't hear the phone ring, but I heard my husband talking. I expectantly looked over, holding my breath, as he shook his head "no" and mouthed, "He didn't make it."

I put some cotton balls in my basket, and started heading for towards shoes. I stopped to look at the shirts in the men's department that were on sale, wondering if Nolan would wear the light blue one for his band audition the next day. Probably not, I thought, putting it back.

"Is this it?" the cashier said. "Yes," I answered, as I paid and left.

When I got to the van, a piece of paper fluttering down from the dash caught my eye. Black shoe polish, I read, as I sighed and headed back into the store.

Ordinarily, I find a lot of comfort in the mundane. I do the things I do for my family that keep them clothed and fed and supplied for their days, all the while feeling satisfied that the things I do are the family glue. I hope that they all go out into the world bearing the stamp of my love and are able to make it through the day gracefully because Mom remembered they needed new socks and put cookies in their lunches.

This day, looking for black shoe polish in Target, I am unable to find comfort in the mundane. This day, I am getting the things my husband needs so he can look his best out of respect for a fallen friend. The friend, Eric, who was such a joy to meet and whose smile could light up a stadium, was killed the other evening in the line of duty. He went to work. He made a traffic stop. He never made it back home. It is a horrible loss for the department and the community he served.

This day, while I am not taking comfort in the mundane, I am appreciating its subtle importance. Whether it's black shoe polish or the hugs we give each other as we head out the door, it's the glue that holds our lives together.

And hopefully, the glue that allows us to always come home.

It's been such a long time...

2009-09-20T23:53:00.002-07:00

*for the lovely Mrs L, who emailed me, wondering where I've been :)

It all started when I was looking for a shirt in Audrey's room. I had a bridal shower to attend in the afternoon, and I was considering taking her with me.

I wanted her to wear the shirt in question with a skirt I'd been eyeing at Target just the day before. It's so easy with a little girl to go overboard buying clothes, so I try to rein myself in as much as possible. She's been on quite the growth spurt this summer as well, all the more reason to exercise caution.

It's very hard to exercise caution, however, when the little girl in question is just so damn cute.

Anyway, as I searched her drawers, I felt my pulse start thumping as I realized everything was hodge-podge and things that should be here were there. Her closet was equally as bad and as I sighed and surveyed the room, it seemed as though every single scrap of paper, every single misplaced sock, every bit of ittybitty toy was screaming for my attention.

The huge pile of toilet paper, unwound in the corner is what did me in, and I less-than-calmly hollered for her and Ryan to come to their room and take care of things.

And so the rampage-rant began. It was not pretty.

I railed against the falling standards of their cleanliness and as I walked into the living room on my way to the garbage can in the kitchen, I went after my next target, Ben; and turned on my heel to reach out and grab Nolan's headphone from his ear, so that he could hear me too, when suddenly, Mr W appeared in the doorway and said: "Hey. Hey, settle down. Why don't you get ready, and go get the present for the shower, and head on over there?"

The look on his face was of the "my wife is a lunatic" variety and I was a little embarrassed that he was pretty much asking me to leave; deflated, I took a deep breath and agreed.

But the bridal shower was in like, oh, 4 hours or so and while my toilette can be dragged out when I want it to be, there's no way it's going to take me 4 hours to take a shower and put on some lipgloss.

He went back to our room and I decided that I was hungry, so everyone else must be, and I made breakfast.

I took his to him, and he looked up at me, surprised, and I half-expected him to ask me to taste the food myself first, you know, just to be sure I didn't lace it with rat poison; but instead, he asked, "This is for me?" as I rolled my eyes and put it in front of him. "Of course it is," I replied, making a face as I showed him the grape jelly on his toast.

"Do you know what I like about you?" I asked him. "I like it that when I am all sweaty, and I look awful, and smell worse, and we're leaving the gym, you still open the door for me." (which he'd done that morning) "And I also like it that when I turn the corner, onto Bitch Avenue, you always check me and let me know I should knock it off."

"You didn't just turn the corner onto Bitch Avenue, you gave it the gas as you took it on two wheels," he replied.

I hugged him anyway.

And I'm sure that after I left for the bridal shower, the kids all hugged him too.

Mutual appreciation

2009-05-27T15:19:00.002-07:00

We took the kids to see "Wolverine" a couple of weeks ago.

As the house lights went down, I leaned over to Mr W and I said, "Am I granted leeway this movie, to drool a little and make animal noises?" (I knew what Hugh Jackman was going to look like, and I also knew that not sighing at the sight of his form was going to be next to impossible.)

He laughed and told me that one of his colleagues had taken his wife to see the same movie recently as well, and had just outright offered his apology to her for not resembling Hugh in any way, shape, or form. "So I'm offering you my apology too," he added, "right now."

"Don't be silly," I told him, giving his arm a little smack, "that's not necessary."

The movie started and Hugh did not disappoint. (I am not exaggerating when I say woooowww.) There is one scene where he's out in the wilderness, in a cabin with his beloved, and he comes out onto the ledge in grey pajama pants and no shirt. I heard it in my brain before I even took it all in: "Thank you, God." I sighed and leaned over to my husband: "I accept your apology."

He didn't respond, but he hates to talk in movies so I figured he more than likely didn't hear me. When we were leaving, heading out to the van, I giggled, and asked him, "Did you hear what I said to you in there?" I was rubbing his back as we walked. "Yeah." He stopped. "Get your hands off me," he joked.

It was all in fun, but nonetheless, I felt a little bad about it.

We got home and everyone scattered. I went into the bathroom, the idea formulating in my head....and I took a picture of my cleavage (only that, nothing too risque) and I sent it to his phone with the message, "Please accept my apology, that my parts are not as perfect as Jenna Jameson's."

I heard him laughing before I clasped my phone shut.

Few of us out there have perfect parts, isn't it nice knowing that somewhere out there, someone thinks they are perfect, only because they're part of you?

Exorcise

2009-05-10T11:14:00.002-07:00

I have to stop having these impure thoughts, but my mind just cannot stop sneaking over.

I can feel it in my hand, it's the perfect texture and heft. I see it in my mind, it's shape is perfect and so pleasing to the eye. I can smell it, and catch myself breathing in deeply, inhaling, even as I sit here at home, at my desk.

I can't stop thinking about it. I've been thinking about it for months. I was visiting it from time to time but I had to stop myself, it was pure torture to run my hands along it and know that it was not coming home with me. It was certainly not mine; I would talk myself into biding my time, in hopes that someday, the stars would align and I would quite greedily take it home and just own it. I know others have heard its siren call, too, I just never imagined that I would be one of them, one of many who know its allure and succumb to its charm.

Recently, I couldn't help myself, and found myself parked in front, my eyes hungry for the prize, searching out the contours they know so well.

It wasn't in the usual spot, and it wasn't the usual color, but I still held it in my hands, turning it this way and that, appreciating the craftmanship.

I approached the saleslady. "Where are the rest of the Penelope shoppers?" I ask, because while the one in my hands would do, it's not The One. "That's one of the last ones we have," she answered, "but I can look and see if we can get any others from another store."

My heart sank, disappointed. I had hoped that if I waited long enough, I could talk myself into taking the plunge. The ladies out there will understand. The object of my desire, the thing I can't stop thinking about, is a....purse. I hang my head a little in shame admitting it, but I know if I admit it, and let my desires be known, I can hopefully exorcise this demon and get on with my life.

In the Coach store, a few months ago, I first saw the Penelope 'Shopper' bag. Now, I don't frequent Coach, although, occasionally, I do go in there out of girly curiosity. I love their stuff, I just have never been able to get my brain wrapped around the price tag. I'm practical, and I know that a nice bag around my little ones wouldn't be so practical. But now they're not-so-little, and I hide behind the price tag. The larger bag is just shy of 400 bucks. The smaller one? 350. I fell in love with the navy one, as it was perfect; the perfect-neutral-shade-that's-not-black, almost a denimy color. Great for jeans, but able to be dressed up for other ensembles. Oh, and the lilac colored one? Get out. Purple is my favorite color (but it was much too light--it would get dirty and probably only best trotted out in spring/summer). Now, navy is no longer available, nor is the lilac. There's black, tangerine (it looks tan online), white, and platinum. The platinum is nice, it's got a lilac-striped interior.

I didn't know Coach doesn't carry stuff for more than a couple of months (crafty bastards) and that once this style is gone, it will be gone indefinately.

I really, really, want it, too. It's ridiculous, the longing so unsensible it borders on annoying. Mr W has offered once or twice, but then I tell him no; objecting, "It's 400 bucks. Good lord, it's a purse. There are other, more necessary things we need more. No. Absolutely not." He gets pretty irritated with me, but I am firm.

Until I see myself with it in my head, it sitting in the spot between the seats. I see my iPod in it, and my latest read, I imagine it swinging off my arm as I go into work. I can feel the supple leather whisper in my hands...

Out, out, damned spot.

I'm usually not like this. I can talk myself out of most impulses, but this time...*sigh* I have resigned myself to admiring it from afar. In my mind, I can caress it and inhale, and let myself get a little dizzy from its light leathery scent.

Ridiculous.

The sensible part of my brain reminds me that Mr W has to have dental work (is that ever cheap?), there are band fees for Fall coming up, and dogs that need vet visits...it's an important reality check that makes me put it back on the shelf and head out the door.

As I make my way back out into the mall towards my car, I start to feel better, the little pang diminishing as I get further away.

I know the siren song will return. I will hear the call and replay the high points, admiring all the angles in my mind.

Purse Porn.

While not as nice as the real thing, it's a good substitute for now.

Boyspression

2009-05-10T10:45:00.002-07:00

I have to hope that it is an underlying love for each other, unspoken affection, that makes the boys in my house interact like this:

(in the van, at a stoplight)

Ben to Ryan: "Slug bug!" (muffled punch) "Slug bug!" (muffled punch) "Slug bug!"

Ryan to Ben: "Stop it! Mooom..."

Mom intervenes, can't these people see she's driving:

"Knock it off Ben, that's annoying. No more 'slug bug', or I'm changing the game to 'slug balls'."

Ben: "Awww, Mom, that's not funny, you don't joke about stuff like that!" he exclaims, crossing his arms over his pelvic area and doubling over.

Nolan to Ben: "I don't know why you're complaining, you don't have any."

Mom cracks up.

Nolan puts his headphones on, the van is quiet for now, mission accomplished.

It must be the heat

2009-05-07T15:08:00.002-07:00

Somehow the kids gave me the slip afterschool. I showed up to our usual meeting spot and they weren't there; and when I looked up, I saw Ryan's backpack across the playground, headed towards the place I park.

I was on the way to the van but stopped to talk to Audrey's teacher, who had crossing guard duty. I asked about the eggs they were incubating, because although the first grade does this every year, every year we never know who will have duds and who will have chicks. I told her about the talk I'd had with Audrey before they started the project. I know my girl well enough to realize that the second she saw cute fuzzy baby chicks, she'd be wanting to bring one home, and I had to nip that in the bud. "Sweetie," I told her, "when the eggs hatch, the chicks will be very, very cute. You may not bring one home. You and I," I pointed to each of us, "are the only chicks in this house." Her teacher laughed and said that Audrey had relayed the story to her already. We looked toward my van, and spotted Audrey headed back to me, a purpose to her step.

I figured she was going to come rush me along, but once she got there it was "Ryan grabbed my arm,", Ryan this, Ryan that...and once in the car, Ryan yelps and I look over my shoulder as he starts in with "She hit me when she went by with a water bottle," and the chorus of 'he said, she said' began.

I sighed and told them that neither one of them will be allowed to sit shotgun and once we got home, Ryan was to go to my room and Audrey was to go to their room and they would have to chill until I came to get them.

We got home, and I got busy with the dogs, of course, I needed the bathroom. Ryan was laying on my bed, but he's got a mild cold or allergies, so I figured he was just seeking refuge. After checking him out, I went into the kitchen, and realized Audrey was nowhere to be found.

"Where's Audrey?" I asked Nolan. I got no response. (That's it, I'm writing an article--Headphones: Blessing and Curse.)

Suddenly, she appears behind me, a little tear-streaked and contrite. "I was in my room, Mommy, you said I had to go there."

Let me preface the next part by stating that the distance from the school to my house is five minutes, tops. We'd been home for maybe ten.

And in that small nugget of time, I'd completely forgotten they were in trouble and that I'd told them to go to their opposite corners. Doh!

I can't believe I couldn't remember what I'd just said. No wonder my oldest tends to look at me like I'm insane. Because although I can't remember what I say, I know that he (and his siblings) always do. And they call me on it.

Ordinarily, I'd blame it on fatigue, or distraction, or their misinterpretation of what I meant.

But today, I'm blaming it on the heat....it's 104 today.

It will be 104 until October, which means I'm gonna have to start writing things down.

Because if I don't, I'll be building a coop in the backyard next Tuesday.

Soap opera

2009-05-06T23:18:00.003-07:00

I have been on hiatus.
It's been part self-imposed and part "Do I really want to bore everyone with my retread kid stories?" After a while, they start to seem the same. And I promise myself I'll come back at least once or twice a week, but time constraints intervene and I opt for sleeping. Or sleeping opts for me, and I startle awake at 2 a.m. with the remote clutched in my hand and my glasses askew.

No sleep makes me crabby and not able to function well in the Momdom.

But no writing creeps in and makes me feel off center, you know, that feeling of something not being quite right that you can't put your finger on. The Momdom suffers but no one knows exactly why.

I busted Mr W and Nolan on different occasions, too, clicking on in here looking for something new but hearing the crickets chirp instead. I realize that maybe that's how they take my temperature, stopping by to see what's on my mind, knowing that sometimes I will only spill my guts to the audience that doesn't live in the house.

All three of you.

So. Todays' installment of Anna's World finds me speeding to the high school to pick up Nolan, while calling Mr W to make arrangements for him to pick up Ben, while texting Nolan to let him know I was on my way to him. I was at work, asking a question that my director was explaining to me (with pictures) about something I was about to work on when my phone rang. Vibrating away, I knew it wasn't a text, so I looked at the number. Hmm. I ran through the prefixes in my head, that one is familiar...oh! it's the high school. "I am sorry, excuse me, I have to take this, it's the school," I said as I hastily stepped out into the hallway. It was the school nurse.

Uh-oh.

"Nolan is here now," she began, and my mind began with her (is he sick did he get in fight what's going on) and he's got a red cuticle, it's pretty puffy, and he said he took some Motrin this morning for it (what? when?) and I cleaned it and put some ointment on it but he will probably need something not topical as it's not open (staph, god, mirsa what did he rub against has he fallen lately wait is it his foot or his hand) ..." "Wait. Is it his foot or his hand?" I ask. "Hand, middle finger, it looks quite inflamed and he said it's hurting," she said, "Can he have some Tylenol?" "Of course," I add. "Is it oozing, does he have a fever?" I turn into lab-Mom. "No, it's not." I talk briefly to Nolan, envisioning all kinds of horrible red infections in my head (why didn't I sleep through that class) and getting my self worked up into a CDC-calling frenzy in moments while I wait for the doctor's office to answer and calculate mentally how I will make this work, picking him up, then Ryan and Audrey, and finally, Ben while getting him an appointment and then showing up to said appointment on time.

Picking up the kids from school should definately be an Olympic event, an event with two sections, the Planning being Part A and the Execution being Part B.

And not getting a ticket? Part C, the bonus round.

I am an Olympian today, Gold Medal caliper, as I whoosh along, get to the doctor, early even, Ben being the only duck not in a row.

The doctor visit was interesting, in that the boy is about 5'9" now and a whopping 128.8 lbs. Nolan pointed out that this was in jeans, with a cell phone, iPod, and a wallet in his pockets, wearing a belt. I resist the urge to counter with that even with all that cargo, he's still basically a supermodel with a cocaine problem, and surfing along at my ideal height and weight, all jutting hipbones and surly attitude that I would love to have for just one day. I'm sure to be reported somewhere to my relatives, the boy doesn't realize that a Hispanic woman with a child as skinny as he is borders on sacrilege and that a bucket of refried beans (with lard!) will be delivered to the door any day now to rectify the situation. "Que flaco!" I can hear them now, tsk-tsking and patting his back and handing him a tortilla, lamenting that I work outside the home so how can I be expected to feed him properly?

The bottom line is he's not got MIRSA, or anything life-threatening. "Keep an eye on it, here's an Rx; if it does get worse, start it and call me," she said, sending me on my way. "Shake out your bed," she adds to Nolan, "I'm not convinced it's not a bug bite."

This is where Ryan steps in. He cutely positions himself between the doctor and the door, "Really? We have cockroaches in the house," he begins, as I am immediately horrified, too mortified to get up and clamp my hand over his mouth. Of course, moments before the doctor came in, I gave him and Audrey a lecture about how they were to be quiet as the doctor was coming to see Nolan, not hear about how their day at school went. They're talkers, these children of mine, I have no idea who they get it from.

"No, we don't," I vehemently deny, even though we have had a couple, a few, sightings of them over the last couple of months. A stray one here or there promptly being dispatched by my "Ew" stomp reflex. "Yeah, Mom, we do," he insists, "remember, that one, the BIG one.." "RYAN!" I interrupt, exasperated. The doctor takes it in stride, but I am sure the "cockroaches in house, she must not clean" was added to the chart anyway.

The door is hardly closed before I am reading him the riot act and reminding him that he was supposed to be seen, but not heard. And that cockroaches, while unsightly and all, don't bite. (I hope. If they do, please don't tell me.)

Finally, in the car, we are leaving. I'm a little harried as we are all starving and Ben is still unaccounted for, and when I call Mr W, who agreed to pick him up, he tells me he's on a call (what? Ben is out in five minutes, and I'm about 15 away, you're not supposed to stop someone, aaarrgggh!) and I am trying to maintain my composure as Mr W says, "No, I got it" when I know he could be done in two minutes, or twenty, so I start heading towards Ben when Mr W calls me back to say that he's got it. Meanwhile, Nolan is excitedly telling me a story, and he's quite animated, when all of a sudden, I hear "and they don't understand that the fuuc--" I start raising an eyebrow, he's past the point of no return but tries to turn down his voice "cking, freaking..." and the rest of the story is now irrelevant as the boy realizes he's just made a HUGE error in front of the Mom and he's got the big-eyed holy cow look, the super she's-gonna-smack-me-cringe on his face. I realize, at this point, I can react one of two ways: Yell or let it slide.

I chose........let it slide. I doubled over the steering wheel, giggling, his face, oh, his face, so hilarious. I raised an eyebrow anyway and let him finish his story. Then I said: "Mijo, I remember when you were a tiny baby, and I couldn't wait for you to say your first word. From "Dada" to F-bomb, where has the time flown?" and after we both chuckled, I added, "You know that was totally not cool, right, and I'm granting you a pass this one time?"

Sheepishly, he replies, "Yeah." "Dude, now you know why I don't like 'freakin' either."

I don't plan on letting him live it down. I will continue to remind him to watch his language, knowing he will slip and hoping he won't.

I'll watch my mouth, too.

Especially the next time I kill a cockroach.

The roundup

2009-02-17T21:15:00.002-07:00

It's been quite a challenge, these last few weeks.

Sick kid, sick kid, sick computer, sick kid, sick kid....not all at the same time. Not really all with the same illness. Capped off, of course, with sick Mom.

Which is definately not allowed.

Everyone seems to finally be on the mend. (knock on wood-- cross fingers-- buy vitamins)

Just when I thought I could get back into the water, Audrey hands me a note afterschool, with the heading: "Letter to Parents Regarding Lice."

I almost dropped the page it was printed on immediately.

Ew ew ew ew freaking ew!

I'm still shuddering. I find myself checking her head every five seconds. Any minute now, I know I will throw her in the tub and scrub her to pinky-cleaness with a vigor that would make Shrimpy Nana proud.

I know it's probably not a big deal and the school has to send these notes home. But have you ever watched little girls play? All the hugging? All the handholding?

Resisting the urge to put panic in her, but unable to stop myself, I told her: "No hugging. No holding hands, no sharing jackets, no sharing ANYTHING."

(Come on. You cannot tell me that you haven't reached up and scratched your head once since reading this. I know at least one of you who's squirming right now. Because lice, they're really just head-ants, right?)

Lice are just one of those things I may have no control over, and I know from personal experience. I was a victim back when I was Audrey's age, and it cost me my long hair.

My Mom tells me it was the hair or her sanity, and I can't fault her for making that choice, especially when, now that I am a mother myself, I know what a beautiful, fragile thing sanity can be.

My hold on it slips by the minute, as I sit here and feel......itchy.

My idea of a date

2009-02-02T22:12:00.005-07:00

I managed to con Mr W into running errands with me on Sunday.

Partially because I wanted him to be aware of how much a trip to Costco really costs...so he'd understand why I blanch at his suggestion "Let's go out to eat" after I finish grocery shopping. (You just can't have it both ways with this many kids and that little money. Seriously. Dude.)

We were in PetsMart (the dogs eat too) and as we approached the checkout, he gestured for me to go in front of the cart. "Is this your way of saying I'm buying?" He nods. (I like to think it's just because he likes the view walking behind me. Or he's being a gentleman. Ladies first.)

"Why did I bring you along?" I sass. "Oh, I seeee. You're the muscle on this trip." (It was a big, hernia-inducing bag.) He nods as he says, "No."

I cock my head to the side, grinning, "Aaaahh, you're the eye candy, then."

He answers, "As long as you recognize I'm the eye candy that sits in the bottom of your Nana's purse, all covered in lint."

"Those always were my favorite," I giggle, as I turn to pay.

Flying is optional

2008-12-19T10:35:00.002-07:00

We'd been in the car about 1/2 an hour or so, first leg of the shuttling, and I hear Audrey pipe up: "Are we there yet? Don't you know a shortcut?"

I was about to say something when Ben said, "Audrey. There's a lot of traffic. It's not like we can fly."

"Only on my broom," I quipped, which made Ben crack up.

Minivans don't come with "flying package optional" on the sticker, but mine has something I'd consider the next best thing.

A DVD player.

I was resistant at first to the idea of one, but Mr W talked me into it by pointing out how nice it would be to have one already installed, ready to use at anytime; as opposed to our previous method, which involved a series of cables and headrest-mounted screens, the rigging up of which made a Space Shuttle launch look easy by comparison.

I'm all for reading and being bored on long roadtrips, but I have come to appreciate and love the DVD. Nolan sniffs with disdain when I use it for what he deems 'short' trips, but he's not driving. He has no appreciation for the silence-is-golden mood that spreads throughout the van whenever we use it.

Between that and the fat iTunes cards Mr W provides me, I maintain some semblance of sanity.

Even when I am turning down dark roads getting lost. :)

It's not only men...

2008-12-19T09:05:00.004-07:00

...who won't ask for directions.

I spend a lot of time ferrying kids back and forth, and for the most part, I am okay with it. At this stage of the game, it's just part of the deal. I've gone from spending all day at home covered in Cheerios to spending all afternoon in my van, belting out my favorite tunes, trying to make sure I don't forget anything important.

Like a child.

Just last week, Mr W was home, as were 3 of the kids. I was emptying the dishwasher, and he was playing a computer game, we were just going through the usual afterschool routine of watering and feeding, when I looked at the clock. I looked at Mr W, alarmed: "We gonna get Ben? Because he's getting out of school right now."

His school is about 15-20 minutes away. Oops.

Last night, I had the added challenge of being in two places at once. Audrey and Ryan had a performance, at the elementary school down the street. Ben had a performance with the jazz band at a Mexican restaurant, that for all practical purposes, was on the other side of the world. They all had to be at their places within 45 minutes of each other and their functions were ending at the exact same time. Mr W was working.

It's like a math problem, isn't it? "If one van leaves at 5:30, with three kids, and arrives at 6:30, with two kids, with a detour in the middle, how long will it be before the Mom is escorted away by the men in white coats?"

I left with what I considered plenty of time. I knew, roughly, where Ben had to be, and I'm always up for an adventure. However, I assumed that if we were going to a restaurant, that the area around the restaurant would be oh, I don't know, inhabited by other businesses; not be located on a dark, damp stretch of road that instantly brought to mind visions of Friday the 13th. I panicked, foolishly made a turn in a muddy stretch I thought was a private drive but was really an alley (cue the Jason montage) and drove back down the road a mile, near panicky tears, to the last set of businesses I saw. I was about to call my reinforcements, but stubborn, I-can-do-this made me snatch the map (Ben had neglected to show me at the house before we left) and study it again, telling myself to focus, to think. Oooooohhh. I was on the right track, I just didn't go far enough into no-man's-land to find it. I drove back to where I was just at, and went further, into the darkness. A tiny swath of light appeared, and in it, a tiny sandwich board denoting the restaurant's name. I turned in and there was all kinds of light, and a giant, two story building mocking me with its size, what-took-you-so-long smugness in its facade.

I was about to do the move where I slow down just enough to shove the child out the door, as he was totally, horribly late (25 minutes, which in band-geekdom, translates into an hour, which means I was about to break out in hives) and I had a scant 20 minutes to get the other two to the elementary school when his band director showed up at the side of the van, all friendly and genuinely nice, and asked if we were coming inside. I reminded him of our other engagement, and he reminded me to call him if we had any problems with picking up Ben. (Which also required strategery on my part, but worked out just fine.)

I learned my lesson, took the surface streets I knew back, and we made it.

With seconds to spare.

I pointed and pushed Audrey to her spot, I sat Ryan in his; and I found one for me along the wall next to a friend who must've seen the look on my face as I surveyed the packed house and waved at me across the room to come stand by her.

I was enjoying the chorus' first number (Ryan is in it) when I realized that Nolan was not there.

Wasn't he supposed to meet me.....?

I texted him and he assured me he was almost there. Which, in teen-speak, translates into "I'm just leaving the place I'm at."

After the performances, my friend and I decided to take all the kids to eat at McDonalds. I was halfway to leaving when I realized...

I was missing a kid.

We'd have to wait for Ben to get home.

The men in white coats are very nice. I have my own private room, and the food is okay...

My Christmas wish

2008-12-17T10:47:00.002-07:00

I was reading a magazine the other night, and in it, there were letters to Santa that different authors had written, as if they were writing a letter for themselves at any given age (like 5, or 35, or 10, or 77). One of the letters in particular intrigued me, because the author pointed out to Santa that what she wanted wasn't really anything that could be put in a box, but if she gave him ideas, maybe he could come up with something that would fit the bill. I started thinking about what my letter to Santa would be, and after casting aside "mistletoe in my doorway" (Who doesn't enjoy a good smooch? Although, I think the UPS man mind find it offputting to be smooched by a lady in pink flannel panda pajamas, crazy hair, and questionable-hygiene-at-the-moment. My packages might never make it here again.) I came up with this:

Dear Santa,
I realize that you might not be able to do it, but I believe in Christmas magic and I have to ask...can I have one more day?

I would like one more day of sitting at her feet and feeling the mysterious whisper of silkyness as my 3 year old self stroked her stocking.
I would like one more day of following her around her garden, to hear the names of her plants, even though I know now that I did not inherit her green thumb. I ask for one more day to see her facial expressions as she listens to what I have to say, waiting until I am finished before correcting my Spanish.
I would like one more day to feel her hands gently get the tangles out of my hair before making my braids. I want one more day to giggle at a shared joke at my father's expense, one more day to play Loteria--to hear her say "El Catrin" as she held up the card for us to see the picture, one more time to sit on the bed and watch her get dolled up for her weekly Bingo excursion. To sit in the car, finding the capacity to keep my teenage mouth shut and listen to her and her friend Catalina replay the evening, as I drove them home, hearing who won the most money, local gossip, and the jangle of their bracelets against each other as they punctuated their stories with their hands. I want to hear her sigh, the one she made when I had the water temperature just right, as I angled the shower hose to hit her just so on her back. To hear her comment on how wonderfully healthy the children look. To see her face, patiently enjoying Audrey's attempts to comb her hair. To hear her "buenos noches, que Dios te bendiga" as we all took our leave at the end of our visit.
I want watch her make tortillas, measuring everything in the palm of her hand, rolling the dough into balls that magically stacked perfectly in her big silver bowl.

I know, Santa, this is not possible.

And that's okay.

I know I have her always.

In the gentleness of my hands as I work out the tangles in Audrey's hair, before I make her braids.
In finding the capacity to keep my Mom mouth shut, listening to the kids talk about their days as I drive them home, listening for them to punctuate their thoughts with drumming on their pant legs.
She'll be in my kitchen, every time I pull out my big silver bowl, rolling balls of cookie dough.
She'll be next to me, shaking her head every time another plant becomes one of my helpless victims. She will be with me, giving me the patience to wait until the kids are finished before correcting their Spanish.
I will still always hear "buenos noches, que Dios te bendiga" as I end a visit to my parents and head home.

Thanks, Santa, for listening. See what you can do.
Anna

It's not that I have regrets, that I feel that I didn't appreciate her enough. It's just that like a spoiled, petulant child, I am unhappy about losing one of my favorite things in the whole world.

Grudgingly, I accept the fact that 94 years is a long time to be on this earth and that she certainly earned the right to finally go. I am willing to part with her only because I have such wonderful, rich memories of our time together.

Buenos noches, Nana. Que Dios te bendiga para siempre.

Not as easy as it looks

2008-12-17T10:13:00.002-07:00

Last week, I received word that my Nana was being moved into the hospice unit of the nursing home she was in. I wasn't worried, but I was sad that the end was approaching and when you're anticipating something like that, well, it's easy to lose focus.

I was at the elementary school picking up the kids when Nolan appeared out of nowhere. He'd forgotten his keys, and knew where to find me.

He very graciously occupied his sister on the swings while I finished up some stuff in the office. As we walked to our car, my thoughts were on calling my Mom for news, when I had a little brainstorm.

I decided I needed a normal, regular thing to keep my mind at bay for a few more minutes.

I cocked my head and looked at my tall, gangly boy and smiled. "Mijo," I began, not believing the next words that were going to come out of my mouth, "Do you want to drive us home?" (He'll be fifteen in about 12 days. The permit window is quickly approaching. He's gotta start sometime....)

"Really? You're not kidding??" he asked, incredulous. "Not kidding," I said, taking a deep breath as I handed him the keys. "Get in."

I made sure Audrey was buckled in, and I gave him some instruction on where the gas and brake pedals were, as well as how to get it into drive. "Let your foot off the brake, and it will roll forward. Get a feel for it and then you can put your foot gently on the gas," I said.

He listened. And concentrated.

I held my breath but was calm when I addressed him. "You're going to have to slow down up here to turn," I said, then I reached over and helped him make the turn. "Look in front of you, not at the cars parked in the street. Your hands will follow your eyes, and we will hit whatever you're looking at," I added.

Audrey started giggling like mad in her seat.

"Um, you need to step on the gas." Pa-whump! The van jumped a few feet forward, and I became reacquainted with the head rest. "Easy, dude. A little lighter with that foot..." "Sorry, Mom." "What are you doing, trying to kill us, Noey?" asked our little backseat driver.

We approached an intersection, and as people in our neighborhood don't always remember to slow down, I made him slow as we got closer. A car approached us, and we had a little standoff. You go. No, you go. No, really, you go. Finally, I semi got out of the van, standing up in the doorway, shouting over the top of it, "He's learning. Go ahead and go."

The other driver smiled widely, light bulb going off in his head, and I could almost see him remembering his first drive.

We made it up the street in fits and starts, and finally, we were at our house. "You're Dad's not home, so we have the whole driveway. I'm gonna let you pull in and park it." I helped him with the turn again, but as we hit the incline of the curb, we paused a little, so he goosed it enough to make it...but kept going.

"Brake, son. Brake. Brake NOW!"

He'd mistakenly hit the gas. Luckily, he recovered in time such that my garage door is remains intact.

Surprisingly enough, so do my nerves.

I should read before I sign

2008-12-09T06:36:00.003-07:00

I get pieces of paper shoved at me all the time, usually rumpled from being in the bottom of the backpack, and always of the highest urgency.

The rule of the house is no shoving paper under Mom's nose while we are pulling out of the driveway on the way to school. It took a while, but they are all on board with this, and it's gotten 100% better.

Now if I could get them to stop shoving paper under my nose at bedtime, when Mom's patience is short and all she wants is the breathy silence that accompanies 4 little bodies hitting the hay simultaneously.

Not that 'simultaneous' ever happens. Nope. There's one last trip to the bathroom, two drinks of water, and a "did you brush your teeth? get in there!" before I can even be assured that everyone is in their own bedroom.

All of which leads me to the papers...the papers I have to sign for field trips. Ryan had a zoo field trip a few weeks ago. Audrey has a field trip today.

I'm a sucker for "Mom, will you come with us?" because at the end of the day, I'll pretty much say "Okay" to anything if it means I can watch tv by myself, for the ten minutes I'll get in before I'm knocked out too, face down in the latest issue of "Real Simple." (You are what you read. ;p)

As a result, I went on a zoo field trip a few weeks ago with the fourth graders, the highlight of which were the giant poops in the rhino pen and the babboon's red asses. Try explaining babboon red asses without the real reason why and you will begin to understand why it is more fun to be at the zoo with kindergartners, whom you can easily distract with "Hey! Did I just hear the lions roaring??"

And today, I'm going on a field trip with Audrey to the local bowling alley. Six classes of 1st and 2nd graders. Just the thought of all those shoes needing to be changed is making me reach for the Excedrin right now.

Hopefully, she will be as sweet as her brother, and pat the seat next to her for me to sit down when we get on the bus.

I guess I should count my blessings, were it not for the kids going to all these local exotic places, the only time I'd do anything fun like this is.........

Order something else

2008-12-06T00:30:00.004-07:00

On the way to work this morning, I decided to drop in to Starbucks.

I usually try to avoid it, because I know it will make me late; but it was one of those mornings where I was trying to maintain that I wasn't really cranky yet knew, deep down, that I'd be better caffeinated.

It was unusually busy at my usual drive-thru, and I'm a patient kinda girl, even if I am cranky, so I parked my car and walked in. I tried not to feel a little smug as I watched all the 'gotta-go, gotta-go' types jockeying for the next available spot in the line of cars approaching the drive-thru entrance, knowing it didn't matter what spot they got, they'd still be waiting when I was heading back to my car.

Once inside, I had to wait in line, but it's fun for me to people watch in Starbucks, if only to hear what people order. I think the next time they ask for my name, though, I'm going to start amusing myself and try using different ones. Something easy to fit on the side of a cup, like "Tallulah." "Janet. Miss Jackson-if-you're-nasty." "George."

I was waiting for them to call my name, and listening to the barista as she called out what the order was/customer's name. I always feel a little weird when they call out my drink, as though the mere mention of what I'm having is some indication to the world of my psyche. As if "tall breve gingersnap latte" would reveal to the world that, heee-eeeyy, this chick, she's got a precious drink, but the breve, well, that's quite decadent, even on a Friday, you can bet she's rockin' some hot underwear, maybe a black bra underneath that tshirt, and whoa! matching panties, too; as a spotlight appears from nowhere and follows me out the door. (For those who don't know, 'breve' means that they make your latte with half-and-half, for heaven's sake, and yes, it is creamy goodness but really, if you're going to drink that, you may as well be drinking full-fat chocolate milk and having someone gently wipe off your chin when you're done.)

Anyway, I'm standing there, eyeing the crowd, hoping not one of the soy-milk-nonfat-sugar-free crowd judges my choice of butterfat with an indiscreet eyebrow raise when it happens.

"Venti caramel mocha frappuccino for Ryan," the barista calls out and I turn my head to see a dude in his mid twenties approach, and yeah, I'm thinking, surely, that's not his drink, but then I see the girl with him has a cup already and then I'm a little catty, a little judgmental, as I see him get his straw ready and take a drink.

He wasn't fruffy, but he wasn't dressed like he was doing any manual labor, either. And I couldn't help but thinking he looked a little ridiculous holding a giant, clear, domed lid cup, the upper half filled with whipped cream, the visible criss-cross of caramel up the inside of the cup making it look more like a confection than a real cup of joe. Again, I have no excuse, I mean, my drink is not anywhere near the truly hard coffee served in some places around here, but I just find it very emasculating for a man to be seen holding a cup like that, drinking something that amounts to a coffee-flavored milkshake. Clearly, his momma didn't raise him right. (I won't get started on the metro-hair.)

It made me wish I'd stopped at the convenience store just up the street, where the men are men, taking their coffee in giant doses and should they reach for cream and sugar, they might say "Excuse me, ma'am" in a voice that sounds like it's seen some real life, even though they know you heard them coming up behind you, because work boots always make that scuffy thud-step across the floor. Everyone just wants their caffeine hit so they can be on their way, not a frappuccino half-caf soy anything in sight.

Guess I know where I'm stopping next time.

Nice to be missed

2008-12-04T06:26:00.002-07:00

I got in from work the other day, and no sooner than I put my keys down, I had my circle of friends around me. Audrey hugging, Ryan behind her, and the little dog jumping up and down behind both of them.

"Mommy, why do you smell so good?" "Mommy, you're pretty." "Mommy, I missed you."

It was enough to stop the "Can't-you-people-let-me-set-down-my-purse-and-breathe?" snark about to come out of my mouth. Wooowww. Kinda hard to not like being loved like that.

I considered changing my schedule and working full time.

But then the real work started: "Mom, I'm hungry." "Mom, I need a book for school, can you take me to Barnes and Noble?" "Mom, can you help me with my homework?" "Mom." "Mom." "Mommm...."

"How was your day?" Mr W asked, as I walked into our room and made my Mr Rogers change-of-clothes switch.

"It appears it's just getting started," I answered, grinning at him as I finished putting my things away.

He strikes again

2008-12-03T17:32:00.002-07:00

I was hanging up clothes in my closet the other night when the little guy entered my room. He was on his way to bed and wanted his goodnight kiss.

I bent a little at the waist, he's much shorter than I am, and he gently placed his hand on both sides of my face, drew me in, planted one on me just as he slid one hand around to the back of my head to make sure I was in the right spot. "Goodnight, Mom," he said, as he left the room.

I doubled over giggling at the foot of our bed, shaking my head and asking Mr W, "Did you see that?" I straightened up, and raising an eyebrow, I could not resist this comment: "You don't even kiss me like that."

I hope this doesn't foreshadow a liking for chubby older women with curly hair who like their lip gloss.

Somewhere, I think Freud is chuckling in his grave.

Either way, someday, some girl will be very happy.

Okay, this one is weird....

2008-11-28T22:21:00.003-07:00

We were just finishing up dinner last week, pizza, when Ryan suddenly swooped in on me and gave me a kiss.

He pinned my head back, before I had a chance to wipe the pepperoni-ness off my mouth, and laid one on me. My lips were slightly parted as I was about to tell him "hang on a sec." MMMMMM-WAAAAAAH!! he smacked, turning on his heel and exiting the room as he noted, "Mmm, that was good!!!" complete with a fisted little arm swing for emphasis.

I had to wonder what he was referring to, me or the pizza. Mauled by my own boy.

I'm adding that to the "He did what?" list of parenting moments.

Granted, it's a little odd; but he's gonna not even want to be seen standing next to me in public soon, so I'll let this one slide.

A bar of soap should be on my plate

2008-11-25T17:02:00.002-07:00

I have no idea if the little scribbler guy is on this page.

Remo tagged me with it, and I am still working the kinks out over here (heh heh heh, she said "kink") so I have no idea if it will make it.

Fair enough. I have to think of some blogs to mention anyway, and I am pressed for time (have to go pick up the oldest soon, he's at a band thing, and---this will make Remo look outside to see if it's raining---I STAYED HOME.

But on with my post.

About 2 months or so ago, my brother called me and asked me if I would take in his dog. The dog is a Chihuahua, about a year old, and the poor little guy's name is "Coco." Very unmasculine, but I didn't name him. Anyway, the long story short is he asked me to do it because he knows Mr W likes the dog and the dog likes him; and he thought it would be better if the dog wintered with us (my brother lives in Northern Az, where it snows) and maybe, well "If he works out okay and everyone likes him, you guys can keep him, it can be kinda a present for Mr W."

I should have known better.

The only present from that dog I get are the tiny, brown kind. Well, unless you count the puddles.

He is not neutered. He marks.
He was not crate trained, but I won.
He doesn't even really come to his name. (I can hardly blame him.)

My lap and my attention are not what he seeks, unless I am in the kitchen, then all of a sudden, I'm his best friend. The rest of the time he treats me with the kind of indifference I last experienced from the boys I went to high school with.

I believe the dog hates me.

However, I am patient, and I still feed him and seek him out, making an effort to procure his friendship outside of the food I might have on my plate.

But even my patience has limits. And I think, if I keep it up, he will start answering to what I usually call him.

"Where is that Little Bastard?" I usually ask, through gritted teeth. Paper towels/chewed up shoe/peed-on item in my hand.

I had no idea I called him that so frequently until last night. It was Audrey's turn to feed him and Ben was with her in the garage, helping her out. Suddenly, he's doubled over in laughter.

"Mom. Did you hear that?" he gasps out between giggles.

"What? No," I answer.

"She went into the house, swung the door open, and said, "Where is that Little Bastard-dog?"

Ooops. In my head, I could almost hear her saying that....and I couldn't stop laughing.

I walked into our room and held my wrist out to Mr W. "Just smack it," I instructed him, as I tried to gasp out the story between giggles myself.

I had a word with Audrey later, about not repeating what she hears come out of Mommy's mouth.

And I made a promise to myself to refer to the dog as "LB" instead.

(I'll have to finish the tagging part later, it's time to go get the boy.)

Did I say that?

2008-11-21T06:42:00.000-07:00

I started laughing, snorting, crying...

Ben looked at me like I needed to be medicated. "Mom? What's so funny?" he asked.

I was on my way to take him to school.

Late.

He was missing his extracurricular class, but it wasn't my fault.

You see, there are some mornings my life is a sitcom, and yesterday was one of them. I was running late (for real) and trying to get everyone out the door, bad hair day be damned, and as I am ushering the chicks out of the coop, Ben stops dead in his tracks and announces he needs the bathroom, in the voice that tells me he's going to be a while.

Fabulous. Why? Why now?? It's deja vu, in a dirty-diaper-blowout-all-over-your-lap-as-you-are-about-to-leave-for-work sense. I sigh.

"Go," I point to the bathroom, "I'll drop these kids off and come back for you."

When I got back, he was heading down the hall to me. I throw some things in my own lunchbag, and grab my water bottle, I'm turning towards the door, when he gets a weird look on his face.

And says something about his underwear feeling funny, complete with hip wiggle.

"I think these are Ryan's," he explains.
"FIX them," I say through gritted teeth.

Finally, we are on our way, and about a mile down the road, when this rant just spews forth:
"I don't know what it is about you and taking a crap," I say (you have to understand, that for most of his early years, God bless him, he used to have to disrobe ENTIRELY when he was going to be a while, it was a production) "I mean, why should you take so long?" I start beating my open palm against the steering wheel for emphasis: "You go in." (beat) "You take a crap." (beat) "You get out." (beat) "What's so hard about that?"

I wasn't mad. It was just one of those frustrated-mom moments that bubbled out into the open. He looked at me, a bit chagrined, and I swear I saw him roll his eyes, 'is-she-done-yet-can-I-turn-up-the-radio?' all over his face.

We driven a bit further when I had my laughing fit. Which brings us back to the beginning of my story.

"What's so funny?" he asked when I paused for a breath.

"Dude, the things I find myself saying, the conversations I have with you kids, because of you kids, sometimes, it's absurd. You have to see how funny that is... I had a flash, of all the ridiculous things that have come out of my mouth: 'Don't eat your boogers.' 'Do that in private.' 'You take a crap too slow.' It's hilarious, when you think about it."

He started laughing too. "I guess so."

He was just delighted that I wasn't ranting anymore.

Just like his father, he's relieved when I stop raving and start smiling.

Anticipaaaation

2008-11-19T07:21:00.000-07:00

I have been obsessed, I am obsessed...with a much younger man.

Okay, a fictitious much younger man...who happens to be a hot teenage vampire.

I can't remember when I first read the book, but I can tell you I just finished reading Twilight again last week. The movie opens Friday, and I am like a man who has taped his favorite sporting event to watch later, I'm trying to avoid the newspaper, tv, and radio. Sure, I know what happens. But I don't want my anticipation bubble burst by someone else's opinion.

I don't know what it is about Edward, the hot teenage vampire, that has me so mesmerized.

Well, maybe I do.

He's polite, and old fashioned; handsome, articulate, heroic...and not necessarily the good guy, unless it comes to the lead female character in the story. He's amazing with her, for her.

I'll be sitting there, reading away, and as I get through certain passages, I find myself holding my breath, hand over my heart, melting.

I hope that happens as I see it onscreen.

Check please

2008-11-13T06:32:00.000-07:00

Last week our school had their fall festival. I didn't have to be there for a couple of hours, but a couple of the Moms from school that I am friends with had to stay at school for the set up, as well as through the festival to run it. As I went to pick up my kids, I thought maybe my friends' children might want to come and hang out with me, as opposed to being stuck at school while their Moms were busy.

The only fly in the ointment was that I had to go to Costco for one thing before getting Ben at school. No biggie, I thought, we'll still have time to get some pizza at the food court and zip on over for Ben.

I should know better. I should know better than to think that a quick trip to Costco with three 6 year olds and Ryan would not be quick.

The children behaved, but of course the item I needed had been relocated due to the Christmas stock and we wound up doing a couple of laps through the store while I hunted for it. "Wow!" "Look!" "Mommy, can I try that?" was all I heard as my little band stopped every fifteen feet to look at something "Cool!". Eventually we made it to the checkout, and after stopping a game of skipping that got a little rowdy (at an empty register nearby) I was on the home stretch. I mentally calculated the time to get the pizza and the time I had to get to Ben.

"Hey, you guys can eat in the car, right?" I asked, crossing my fingers against spills and choking.

"Yes," they chorused.

I was looking at the cashier as if that would somehow make him go faster when I heard a giggle. Giggle, giggle....and a pointed finger in front of me, "Ha, ha, that says NAKED," the adorable little guy along with me announced loudly with glee. "Naked!" he pointed it out to the girls. Who also started giggling and saying "naked" far more loudly than need be.

I sighed, stifling a giggle myself, wondering what his Mom would think when all he reported to her of our trip to the store was "Naked!" Luckily the gentleman behind me in line, to whom the Naked juice belonged, was highly amused, and chortled himself. My mind whirled, looking for a way out.....

"That's good reading, J," I complimented him. "Wow. You're getting really good at it!" Encouraged, he started reading everything else in front of him. "That says 'red peppers' and that says 'cheese'," he continued with pride as he touched each package. "Sugar," I stopped his hand, "it's probably not a good idea to touch other people's food like that," I said. "What kind of pizza would you like?" I asked, as I could see the finish line. "Can I have a churro for dessert?" he asked.

I love a boy who has his priorities straight.

They got loaded up into the van, three peas in a pod, pizza in their laps....churro by one of their sides. I drove carefully and tried not to worry about the time.

Finally--I pulled around the corner and saw Ben sitting on the curb. He scowled at me until he opened the door to the van. Upon seeing the children, and what they were eating, he grinned widely.

"I can see why you're late."

It's nineteen eighty-_______ ........

2008-11-12T00:29:00.000-07:00

In some parts of the lab, we aren't allowed to wear headphones. So when we are working in these places, we usually have a radio blaring or if possible, internet radio blaring. Internet radio is good because you have a better chance of finding music that pleases the masses.

The boys tend to listen to super hard rock, but I can't do that for extended lengths of time or I start feeling really aggressive, in a "You talking to me? Cuz I'll kick your ass..." kind of way. I tend to like pop-y stuff, stuff I can sing along to under my breath, stuff I don't have to think to hard about....like Madonna (a guilty pleasure, for sure).

One day, a couple of weeks ago, one of the boys left the room, and he set it to Madonna for me before he left. Another friend of mine was working with me and after about ten minutes, she asked if we could "maybe listen to something a little less...eighties?" "Whatever," I said, biting back a comment about how maybe she didn't want to date herself in front of the young man who just left us.

I also chuckled inwardly, as I thought to myself, "If she only knew...."

If she only knew that I had done something uber-eighties just that Sunday before.

Another coworker and I had gone to a concert together. A good friend of hers had extra tickets and she invited me to.......ahem...a Rick Springfield concert. It doesn't get any more eighties than that, does it???

It doesn't. And that is perfectly okay.

I went along because I figured there are worse ways to spend a Sunday night, the venue was small, and I knew I liked at least one of his songs.

Having spent my entire high school career wanting to be Jessie's Girl, or at least using that as the reason why I had no one beating down my "she's taken" door, I could not resist.

We dutifully went to our assigned seats, and made polite small talk while we waited for the show to start. About 10 minutes before showtime, we noticed a bunch of ladies all start walking towards the apron of the stage. No way, I thought. Rushing the stage at Rick Springfield? In 2008??

Should we? We looked at each other, naaaahhhh,, hesitating.

He came out.

We hesitated no longer. We were not disappointed, either.

Down in the front of the stage, a mere five people back from the front of it, I eyed his leather jacket. It was perfectly distressed, but it appeared to be from wear, not because he bought it that way. I kinda hoped he'd throw it into the crowd, but totally forgot about it once he took it off.

Because ladies, that man had a surprisingly impressive set of guns. Not too bulky, nicely defined--you know--the kind of arms that let you know you're being held. I poked my friend and mouthed "wow." Who knew?

I bounced around, singing along, surprising myself that I knew a lot the songs, not so surprised when I started placing them in my teenage timeline. He was really friendly with the crowd, and wasn't too cheesy at all (although there were, I admit, a couple of cheesy moments). He went to all sides of the stage, whipping the ladies into a frenzy.

I'd forgotten how good looking he was (how is that possible?) until I looked up at precisely the right moment, purely luck, as he looked right at me. (Okay, so maybe not right at me, but at the ten other girls around me and me.) . Hit fully by the force of those green, green eyes, I felt my heart just stop for a second. There he was, not fifteen feet away from me, all green-eyed, sweaty, six-foot-one of him. With his guitar. Oy. I swooned like the fifteen year old girl I once was.

It was great fun; I had a really good time. He went up into the audience, and was in the tiny space in front of some lady's seat, playing away. I thought she was going to come unglued, I still have no idea how she managed to stay composed when all the people around her were just going apeshit.

After the show, we stood around outside, marveling at how awesome he looked. We started speculating how old he must be, about how old we were (back in his soap opera days and now), finally settling on late 40's/early 50's. My curiosity was piqued, so I looked him up when I got home.

He's 59.

Which should make me feel "ewww" in a bad way, but instead makes no difference, as I feel "rrrrrr" in another way. (Seriously, his earring bothered me way more than his age does. You can check it out. Google him, there's pictures on his website.)

The show was about an hour, hour and a half, and he sang the entire time; totally energetic and interacting with the audience. Not bad for an old guy.

An old guy who is the new guilty pleasure on my iPod.

The Big Squeeze

2008-11-11T22:49:00.000-07:00

I was in Target with Audrey, walking down the aisles from point a to point b when I got distracted. I looked to my right, and she looked to my left----and bolted across the aisle to the ladies underwear section. She pointed to a rack of thongs, and asked, loudly, "Mommy! What's this?"

Before I could reply, she picked one up.

Not seeing this as a teaching moment, particularly since one of the boys was with us, I just replied "underwear" and "put it down" as I kept briskly walking by, knowing she'd follow me. I knew I wasn't off the hook, but I also knew she'd get interested in something else, why make a big deal out of it?

Of course, I still heard my Nana's voice in my head, hissing "cochinas!" as in "only for dirty girls." Nanas are kind of strict that way.

It made me think about my first bra. White. Unadorned, except for a little rosebud in the front. Because lace, color, and too much adornment--"cochinas!"

If she only knew what was in my undie drawer right now.....she'd whip out her rosary.

It seems a little odd, I know, for my Nana to have ever been interested in my underwear, but it's just one of those things; one of my Nanas lived with us when I hit puberty, and the other, being the mother of 3 girls herself, knew what was going on even without me telling her. There was no way they'd let me get away with "cochina."

But back to the bra. And what goes in it.

I had my first mammogram earlier this week.

The thought of someone else, even a trained medical professional, handling the tas made me a little queasy. Not to mention I've seen that machine. I know how it works.

I was all bravado, sitting in the lobby, blithely texting Nolan while filling out my paperwork.

Mr W showed up, there for yet another of my rites of passage, supportive as always.

When lady called my name, and he asked if he should accompany me, and I told him I'd be fine, handing him my book and turning around before he could see unease cross my face.

She led me to another waiting room, and inside it, opened the door to another little room, a dressing room. She gave me the instructions in a soothing tone, (what does she mean, wear that out open in the front?), and left me. There was a giant mirror mounted on the wall, fatly edged in gold. If I am going to be topless in front of a mirror like that, I thought, shouldn't there be someone sliding money through a slot somewhere on the other side of it?

I changed and went back out into the waiting room, where I nervously thumbed through a magazine, angled away from the door, holding the front of the gown together and hoping no one else was going to come in and join me.

A few minutes passed before the tech came back, signaling me to follow her down the hall to the room where we'd get the pictures. As I followed her, I noticed the door to the lobby was a little open, and I almost ran into her in my haste to get out of line of sight of anyone on the other side of the door.

And suddenly, I was face to face with it. The Flattener 2000.

My mouth was suddenly dry. The tech explained what she needed me to do, and I tried not to flinch at the coldness of her hands as she positioned Boob A on the equally cold plate. As she patted my breast into place, I resisted quipping, "Shouldn't we have dinner and a movie first?" or "Have we been formally introduced?"

I secretly hoped she'd say my boobs sure didn't look 40.

I mean, I don't mind my boobs, I think they are not a bad size (a nice handful) and they served me well in nourishing my children. But I still lament gravity. The brown vs. pink. Their tendency to look more National Geographic than Playboy.

Thank goodness for the smoke and mirrors of a good pushup deep plunge underwire. Not white.

If I hadn't been so nervous, I might have giggled at the coordination involved: "Okay, now turn your hips this way," as she positioned my hips; "good, now tilt your chin back," um, what?; "hold on here," as she moved my hand to the bar; "now, hold your breath," wait, I need to take one in; "good"; is it over? She stepped back around and freed my boob. Which, to its credit, sprang back into shape, offended. I started putting the gown back on my shoulder to take the other side off when she told me "oh, hang on, we need another picture" as the Flattener 2000 came to life and turned the plates 45 degrees.

I raised an eyebrow. Now, there's a trick, I thought, trying not to think about how my boob was going to get into that position. I mean, I'm limber, but there are limitations.

Getting the boob on the plate (pat, pat) was not that bad...but this view is one that gets up into your armpit too, and if I didn't feel like a piece of meat before, I sure felt like one now.

There was more choreography, of the same kind, but with "drop your other shoulder" added, five, six, seven, eight, jazz hands, aaaannnd "hold your breath!" I tried to think I was anywhere but there, but this is one of those things that you just can't really detach yourself from.

Literally.

Whew. Halfway there.

Crap. Halfway there.

Put the gown back on the right, take the gown off on the left, here we go, one more time! Aaaand high kick!

Once we were done, she explained to me how I'd get my results, hopefully by Friday. I nodded sagely, very 'I do this everyday.'

I walked back into my little dressing room, and I can honestly say, I have never looked at my bra with so much relief before ever in my life. It was one of my favorites, a smooth bright blue number with just the right stuff to make the girls feel better.

As we exited the building, Mr W looked at me, brow knit, patting my shoulder, "Are you okay?"

"We're fine," I reassured him. "Just a little cold."

I would ordinarily have suggested he help me out with that, but the tas just weren't ready to receive any more visitors.

Any couch in a storm

2008-10-28T06:30:00.000-07:00

There has to be something cosmically wrong when the tone of my daydreaming fantasies shifts from "rrrrrr, give me some of that" to "mmmm, a nap..."

I look at my bed longingly, the magic chair with a fondness usually reserved for loved ones, and am prone to Goldilocks moments where I imagine falling asleep at various friends' houses: "This couch is too big. This couch is too soft. This couch is juuuuust riiiiight."

*yawn*

Lusting for sleep.

Finally, a good excuse for the drool mark on my shirt.

The Look

2008-10-23T07:42:00.000-07:00

Ryan has a doctor appointment later this morning. He's fine, it's just a followup. I asked him if he brushed his teeth...

"Yeah, I brushed them."

I catch the look. The look that means I should press him again.

"Really?" I look at him square in the eye. "Because they're looking in your mouth later and we're not coming home beforehand." "Go brush them again. You need to brush them super-good, okay, bud?"

"Awwww, man...." he says, as he drops his backpack and makes his way back down the hall towards the bathroom.

"I brushed mine super-good, Mommy," Audrey announces, as she comes up to me. "Yeah?" "Smell my breath."

I hesitate but know I will need to do this. Semi-holding my breath, I lean forward and stick my nose into the lion's mouth.

"Maybe you should go have another shot at that too," I tell her.

Note to self: Next time, hold your breath. And add bubblegum to breakfast.

This is my now

2008-10-20T23:12:00.000-07:00

Right now I am in the throes of the marching band season. I'm officially a Band Parent. Nolan is in marching band and it has taken over my whole life.

Yeah. Really.

It's not like I'm performing myself or anything like that, it's just between making sure he's on time for the zero hour to making sure he's still on top of his homework to volunteering myself for the myriad of things that need to be done to keep the band things going; coupled with working and taking care of the other three, I barely can stay up until 10.

I will pay for this in the morning, let me tell you.

It's great fun being a band parent though. I've learned all kinds of things:

*that the word "shako" means hat, and not some new dance move
*that the show is the icing on the cake after weeks and weeks and hours and hours and hours of rehearsal
*there's no wrong way to insert a plume, but it better be straight
*bibs aren't just for babies
*watching from the track can be dangerous (don't lock your knees) (watch out for the football players)
*how to handle food (got my food handlers' license to work the concession stand--nachos, anyone?)
*riding the schoolbus is not a bad thing--it's a giant, yellow, limo. I can text in traffic and it's legal. :)
*timing is everything

Oh, yes. Timing. I am coming to understand that what I was told by former band folk is true. Band geeks are always on time. Their adage, "if you're not fifteen minutes early, you're late" is now my daily mantra. Who would ever have believed that "I'm running late" would slowly move out of my regular repertoire? As always, the child is dictating when I get up and I'm forced to be ON TIME. This hasn't happened since before he was weaned, and it's a feat I am starting to be proud of. Punctuality! What a concept!

I've enjoyed working the concession stand, even if I feel like I can't look at a hot dog or a vat of nacho cheese ever again by the end of the night. I smell like jalapenos and popcorn with a hint of churro by the time I get home. The dogs love me.

When I imagined being followed by admirers, having the dogs sniff away, tails wagging, at my ass as I walk down the hall, peeling off my shirt as I make a beeline for the shower, is not exactly what I had in mind.

At this point, however, I'll take what admiring I can get.

If only the posts made it from my mind to the page

2008-10-20T22:39:00.000-07:00

I know I haven't been here lately, but I do write alot. In my head.

Where to start..........?

I'll start at the beginning.

When I first received notice that we were going to have to move from AOL elsewhere, it got me to thinking why I'd ever started blogging in the first place.

I mean, I've always told other people stories about my kids, subjecting them to whatever happened that day that I found amusing. When you're home with four children, believe me, it's better to think about their antics as "amusing" and not "the reason why Anna drinks." Now that they are bigger, and I am able to talk to adults more, like at work, I find myself talking to them about.....my kids.

I remember one time at work, one of my colleagues mentioned to me that I should "start a blog...you know, write the stories so someone else can read them on the internet." At the time, I shrugged him off, and I stopped talking for a few days, thinking maybe he'd had enough of Ryan's last rash and how Ben told the saleslady in Home Depot that I was the reason we were there buying a toilet plunger and a mop.

And then one night, a few months later, I was waiting for my kids to finish a class, and another friend of mine told me that he'd just started a blog, and I should check it out. He also suggested I write down some of the things I would tell him as we waited for our children.

At the time, I was inclined to shrug him off. But something about the look on his face, the excitement he had on it, and the fact that he was gave me the address so that I, a friend, not even his teacher grading an assignment, could read it----I got curious. I'd not really ever pegged him as a writer, and that is my own bias--all the boys I know or ever knew up until that point were decidedly not given to writing.

I read. Once I got over my initial discomfort, that I was invading his privacy, I was dazzled. Impressed. A little intimidated.

I could never write like that, I thought.

Yet I found myself writing posts in my head at night as I fell asleep...in the morning as the kids and I made it through our morning motions....at the grocery store.....as I gave everyone their baths at night. Eventually I emailed my friend an account of what happened to me one morning, telling him that I thought I might post something like that. "Looks like you have the idea, " he encouraged. That evening, I bit the bullet and put it out there for the world to see. I made some new friends. Somewhere in the sharing of my life's little details, I was able to find a place of my own, a place I liked to visit and have others visit, too.

Which is what I hope to find here. I've felt a little off balance not writing anything at all. The posts in my head are staging a coup, they want OUT.

I still read everything my friend writes as soon as I know he's posted it. I am still dazzled, amused, impressed, and sometimes intimidated by the things that come out of his head.

So, to my good friend Remo, thanks for the nudge. I know I'll like this new place as much as I did my last.

Just settling in

2008-10-09T11:35:00.001-07:00

Hmm.
The floors are clean, the cupboards bare....and everything still smells new.

It still remains to be seen whether or not moving is all it's cracked up to be.

But I'll give it a shot.

Just leave the light on for me

2008-09-11T22:52:00.000-07:00

Wow.

So this is what this place looks like, huh?

By some miracle, I am still up. For how long--well, that's another story. Hopefully I can get through this without drooling on the keyboard.

Not much new going on in my house other than a lot of same-old-same-old routine: get 'em up, move 'em out, and pick 'em up, do-your-homework; sprinkled in with trips to the grocery store, my work, and the gas station. Lots of trips to the gas station.

One night last week, I fell asleep in the living room, which is not all that surprising.

I woke up and sleepily toddled off to our room, making a pit stop in the bathroom.

I had just stuck my thumbs into my waistband and was in the process of the mid-drop-trou sitdown when my spidey-sense started tingling.

Something caught my eye on the ground, right under my foot...because it was moving. Fast.

I stood up, yanking my foot up in the process, expecting -yuck- a cockroach (it was that type of moving fast).

Oh. Just a scorpion. About six inches long. Under my foot.

I gasped loudly, that "huugh!" intake of breath that makes you shiver. I stepped back and bent over a bit to get a better look, goosebumps erupting, forced to evaluate and formulate a plan.

I wasn't fully awake, but you know, that fight-or-flight thing is pretty good at making one snap-to.

Running through the potential weapons I had in the bathroom at the time, I decided an eyelash curler probably wouldn't do the trick, so I opened our bedroom door to go in search of a shoe.

Preferably something along the lines of a size 20 Doc Marten, but alas, Mr W has small feet and all we own are pretty much sneakers.

The light from the bathroom, combined with my "huugh" woke Mr W. "What?" "There's a scorpion in here." "Kill it." "Duh. I'm getting a shoe."

Quickly, I grabbed one of my heavier shoes, and I hurried back into the bathroom. I closed the door and took a deep breath, aimed and gave it a big whack. (You cannot hesitate, it's gotta be a good one, or why bother--it will scurry away.)

It crumpled a little, and oh, is that tail still moving??? WHACK.

I decided beige goo = dead enough so I cleaned it up off the floor and gave it a burial at sea.

I did my business, shuddering at how close I came to stepping on it. At this point, I was a little too adrenalized to sleep, and decided to watch a little tv to calm down. (I really wanted to go room to room and make sure I had no more guests, but 5 am is kicking my ass, so I knew I better settle down and go to sleep or live to regret it.)

Turning off the light, I exited the bathroom, and expected to hear a "did you get it?" and maybe a pat, pat, "are you okay?" but instead I heard...snoring.

My hero, I sighed as I walked down the hall.

It's never too early to crack up

2008-08-17T10:01:00.000-07:00

"When is your birthday, Mom?" Nolan asked, as he ate breakfast.

I was in mid-eyeroll, "Why do you guys keep asking me this?" exasperation when I heard Mr W pipe up "Tuesday" from the vicinity of his chair.

"Heretoforafter known as 'Black Tuesday'," I pointed out to Nolan.

Without missing a beat, he cocked his head sideways as if in thought, and he says, "Don't you mean 'Gray Tuesday'?"

Nice one.

I'll file that away for the day he comes to me, "I need you to sign for my driver's permit."

"Eh, sonny? What did you say??"

It's an adjustment

2008-08-17T09:38:00.000-07:00

When Nolan was a baby, and we were new parents, I remember a time when it took two of us to accomplish a somewhat simple task.

Changing the poopy diaper should not have seemed such a challenge, but when you are doing it on a newly circumcised baby, it seems impossible. With the added fun of postpartum hormones...in retrospect, I think I cried more than Nolan did.

I was thinking of this one morning last week, as Mr W and I shuffled around the house (and each other) in the predawn-5 am-quiet.

In theory, it shouldn't take two parents to wake up one teenager and get him ready for school. But it does.

I make the boy something to eat and get the lunches going for everyone. Mr W does the initial wake up and makes sure Nolan is moving around. Everyone is resigned to their fate, we all have our roles, and there is no grousing allowed.

Nolan stumbles to the table, and pretends to eat, and then Mr W drives him to school.

Nolan is in marching band. Which means he has "zero hour." I am appalled to report that means he has to be at school at 6 am so he can be ready to go at 6:15.

On the bright side, it's good to get up that early and get ahead of the wake-up-get-to-school routine.

On the not-so-bright side, it's waking up at 5 am, indefinately. *yawn*

I am learning the Tao of the High Schooler. The Tao of the Band Parent.

At the same time, I am coping with turning 40 this month.

Throw in some hormones....and it'll explain why the words "call time" can bring me to tears.

I swear, those are the two dirtiest words I've ever heard.

A Sharpie is a terrible thing to waste

2008-07-22T10:41:00.000-07:00

The boy returned from band camp Friday just fine. It was a little shaky there, for a day or two...where his phone calls were enough to make me want to zip right up there and bring him home.

By Wednesday, he sounded more like himself, just tired, and I was able to put my car keys back down.

The imprint of where they were gripped in my hand just wore off yesterday.

Now, it's on to bigger and better things.

We start school Monday.

I vowed this year to wait until school starts to by school supplies. This is a novel concept for me, as those who know me well can attest. The prospect of reams of pristine paper, new pens, and the smell of a new box of crayons is usually enough to make me veer into the nearest Target and load up like I have to supply the entire neighborhood.

I was doing quite well until a friend of mine told me that spiral notebooks were 5 cents at Walmart. 5 cents! And so the ball started rolling in my mind, the wheels turning...I mean, having gone through this so many times before, I kinda know what they're going to need anyway...and I can get those things first, the stuff the teachers want later....and I won't go crazy.

As I stood in the checkout at Walmart yesterday with Nolan beside me, stacks of 5 cent notebooks in front of my, I felt that pang, that good pang of "this is a great deal!"

There was also that control-freak pang of "I'm on top of things."

It was enough to carry me through the day, even though I resisted the siren call of "special edition" Sharpies in colors I'd not seen before but love. Later, I whispered to them, as I placed them back on the shelf gently, with the care of a lover.

I saw my friend last night, and I told her I'd checked out Walmart. "Did you see the Walgreens ad?" "No." "Five pack of Bic mechanical pencils, 5 cents each, you can buy 3 packs at a time. We bought like 30 packs, I cleaned out the one I went to, I'm hitting two more tonight."

I felt feverish.

So I went to Walgreens as soon as I got everyone home.

I am certain that by the time school starts, my friend's picture will be posted by mine---right next to cash registers all over town.

...."and one time...."

2008-07-14T14:12:00.000-07:00

"...at band camp..."

I just thought I'd get that out of the way. You'll see why in a minute.

I dropped off Nolan today at the school. He is going up north, a few hours away, to band camp. He'll be back on Friday.

All last week he would alternately sulk or make a face every time I reminded him of it or asked him about it. I was getting pretty irritated with him over his attitude until I decided to make a stab at why he was being such a pill.

"Is it because you know this means school will start soon?"

I opened the flood gates.

"Yeah. I'll only have ONE WEEK after I get back off, and then school starts again. That sucks."

Are you kidding me? I thought. A week up in the cooler climes, doing something you enjoy, away from us. No parents. No siblings. It's interrupting his busy schedule of sleeping in, playing Halo, and complaining about Ben; what was I thinking? Of course he's upset.

Suck it up, buddy.

Anyway, as with most camps, there was a list of items to take along. I've been collecting what he needed to take over the summer, and I was fairly comfortable (okay, and maybe, a little smug) that I had it under control. Missing him aside, this should be a piece of cake, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep last night. I went through the list in my head again. Check, check, check...I mentally ticked. Forms. Don't forget to fill out those extra forms, was the last thought I had before I nodded off.

This morning, I had him in the shower, all his stuff laid out to be put in his bag. I was filling out the forms, and I was copying the list of "field trips" aka 'away games and festivals' for myself when I got to "ASU Band Day."

This, for some reason, conjured up an image of...marching bands. (duh) More importantly, it conjured up an image of the thing that holds the music onto your instrument...because playing with two hands and holding your music, for someone who plays with two hands, like a clarinet, is probably important. (Although, I have seen music held in one hand, while the player wobbily held it and played his trumpet, while swaying, thanks to pregame libating...I won't name names; suffice to say, I know it can be done, just not in my son's case.)

I didn't even know what the thing is called, but was set straight soon enough after consulting the expert swayer, and as soon as Nolan was packed, we set off for the music store.

I managed to mangle the pronunciation of "lyre" but the guy understood what we needed, and I also picked up the flip-chart music holder that attaches to it. (I may be slow on the uptake, but I am thorough.) We brought the lyre home only to discover it didn't fit right.

Back to the music store, this time with all his gear as time was getting short. He went into the store, receipt in hand, as well as the part of the barrel he thought he needed to fit it on. A few minutes later, he emerged emptyhanded. I assumed he needed more money, but no, he needed the entire clarinet. My eye started twitching as I bit my tongue--I'd suggested that to begin with--and I waited long enough to wonder what was up, when suddenly, he reappeared. I couldn't resist asking, "What happened?" "He was putting it on the wrong part." "He was?" "He was. I was. We both were."

I kept my laughter and further comment to myself.

I got him a bite to eat, and dropped him off at the school. He probably would have bid me adieu in the parking lot, but there was a sign that said "Parents must check in".

To think, I shaved the "annoying overbearing mother" mole off my forehead, this would have been a fabulous opportunity.....

Once inside, we were directed on where to place his luggage and such, and I tried not to wince at the gross state of his pillowcase ("at least I'll know it's mine") and we got his nametag (haha!) and I handed over the forms. I looked around the room at these kids, none of whom I knew, and I spotted a neighbor of ours. I don't really know her either, just in passing, but when you are sending your child away, it's nice to see a familiar parental face. I said hi, introduced her to Nolan, and could almost hear him groan inwardly.

"Are you coming?" she asked. I knew already, from her past record, she was more than likely going along. "No. I was going to, but by the time I put my name in the hat, there were enough parents along." "Is this his first time?" "Yes." "I'll keep an eye on him." This time, I know I heard Nolan groan inwardly.

We stepped aside together, and I asked him if he was okay. "Yes." He paused. "I'll be fine." "You want me to leave, don't you?" "Yup." I stood there, not wanting to leave, knowing I had to...stalling, I asked, "Do you see anyone here you know?" "Yes." I thought, foolishly, he'd take me over to them, but he stood there, 'mom-go-already' all over his face. I told him to call us later tonight, and I left. Before I went out the door, I looked over my shoulder at him. He was already with the kids he knew.

When I was driving away, and I felt the pang I knew I would, but I swallowed it. I wouldn't want any of the people driving up to see me wiping away a tear or two in the car, lest I embarrass the boy. (As if anyone would recognize me.)

I hold my children close (sometimes too close to those on the outside) and that always makes separations like these difficult. The truth is, I wanted to go along, I did want to chaperone. But I know that the child needs his space, he needs to have these experiences away from me in order to grow. And so do I.

I know he will be okay and I hope he has a good time.

Hopefully, on his return, he's not going to begin any of his stories...the way I started this one.

I've never heard it called that before

2008-07-03T16:05:00.000-07:00

Audrey has been taking swimming lessons since we got out of school. She's as brown as a bean, truly a Coppertone baby, and I point at her as she prances around, lifting an eyebrow at Mr W: "Do you see my good work? That tan, that's all me," I giggle. Of course I can giggle now, after class--it wasn't so funny earlier, in the locker room, when I accidentally shot sunscreen right into her eye. Ooops.

Speaking of locker rooms, on our way out of the pool today, she was on her third "Mommy? I was wondering..." (it's her current way of phrasing a question, and I hear it a million times a day); I was on autonod, automm-hhm when I realized she was walking into the boys' locker room. "Let's go in here," she said, mischievous glint in her eye. "What? No," I said, as I put a hand on her shoulder to guide her back out. She giggled, then said, "I want to see the boys. I want to see...their...noodles." There's an interesting turn of events, I thought to myself, suddenly sensitive to the swirl of Moms and kids around us.

"Noodles?" I asked her, cocking my head to the side, moving her along ahead of the pack. "Yeah. You know, their wieners."

This is going from bad to worse, I thought. Aw, honey. If it's a noodle, you don't really want to see it. Whoa, girl, filter ON, snap out of it.

As we turn the corner, continuing our way out of the locker room, I ask her, "Where'd you hear that?" "Ryan. He told me not to hit Ben in his private place because I'd hit his wiener and that hurts." Ah, anatomical wisdom from a sage 9 year old. Fabulous.

Why am I squeamish? I wonder. Has it been that long since I had this discussion with her brothers? All that "use the right term" blather with all the adults who might be asked this question, and here I am, blanching at 'wiener'? Be the grown up, I scold myself.

I take a deep breath. "Well, honey, he's right. It would hurt if you hit Ben in his private place. That's because boys have their private parts on the outside. It's called a penis," I said, looking over my shoulder for eavesdroppers as we enter the parking lot, playing my sudden film of sweat off to the heat, as I walked her faster, faster, to the van. "A penis," she repeated, trying the word out herself. "Boy private parts are on the outside?" she repeats, as I see she has a spark of understanding, and moves on to the next question: "So what are our (girl) private parts called?"

Of course. Of course that was next, what did I expect? She's a bright girl. Too late to turn back now. I can do this, I reassure myself. I'm ready! I'm enlightened!

Still, I stumble on it. "Um, ah.." Do I give her the whole deal? Good lord. Keep it simple. "um...It's called a vagina," I replied, saying it out the side of my mouth, over my shoulder down at her, like I was asking for something illegal. "Ah-G-INA?" she parrots. I whirl my head, surveying the parking lot, estimating how many feet to the van, "No, sweetie, vagina," I say again. "An-gina?" I wish. "Vuh. VUH-JA-INA." Oh, the hell with it. I say it, intoning the syllables, restraining myself from the cutesy "va-jay-jay" (thank you, Gray's Anatomy), from "hootchiekoo", from every other thing that would make us giggle and probably entice her to repeat it wherever we go at random and at probably the worst time.

"And girl parts?...." "...are on the inside," I say, finishing her thought. Holding back: And neater. And prettier. Please. I'm a fan of the boy parts, but we all know that's true.

We are steps away from the van. "Because the boy private parts are on the outside, it's very important to not kick or hit your brothers there, it is very painful," I remind her. Besides, I think I might like grandchildren some day, don't knock your poor brothers' goods.

I realize I left out "scrotum" and "testicles". At this point, however, we were in the van, and she was more concerned with what we might havefor lunch. Parts were forgotten in lieu of:

"Can I have McDonalds?"

Honey, you can have Peking duck, I'm so glad you didn't say "noodles."

Top Ramen will never be the same.

Red is my color

2008-07-02T19:41:00.000-07:00

My forearm is riddled with little red slashes.

A sign that I should be under surveillance in the padded room of my choice?

No.

(Although, if the padded room was equipped with air conditioning set to "artic", I might consider it.)

No, these marks I bear are from my seatbelt. I miss the hole every time and when hot metal bumps up against your skin, and you hear a sizzle...well, it's bound to leave a mark. Who knew that taking Audrey to her swimming lesson would be such a challenge?

As I breathed in the superheated air of my van, I could feel my lungs crinkle in protest. So I felt kind of bad urging Audrey into her seat while at the same time, I have to chuckle at her ingenious way of buckling her seatbelt. She has taken an old knit hat, part of her winter hat-and-mittens set, and uses it to hold her seatbelt as she guides it in.

It's a sad day when your six-year-old outsmarts you.

Unfortunately, this happens a lot.

The boys are visiting with their uncle, three hours away, and it's down to me, the princess, and Mr W. I'm trying to focus on the boys having a good time, making memories with their cousins and family; and not that they are taking classes instructed by Professor Tio E, in "Porn 101: How the Internet and Cable TV Are Your Friends"; "When to Tip a Stripper"; and "The Physics of Quarters", accompanied by the seminar "Alcohol: Lowering Inhibitions or Broadening Horizons?"

I exaggerate, of course. My brother is a good guy and he enjoys my childrens' company. Besides, as he put it--"I'm not going to corrupt your kids." It's just that he is way more fun than I am, I know it. Less filter. Less "no, that's inappropriate." They will have enjoy their time there, no doubt.

I am, admittedly, a little overcome by the emptiness of the house. Not the quiet. Audrey takes care of that, no problem. And it is nice to not have to be feeding people all daylong.

However, even though I assured them that I rented their rooms out while they are gone, I miss them.

Maybe I need my own seminar.

"Yes, I'll Have a Margarita."

Babyproof

2008-06-27T12:47:00.000-07:00

"I won't use it," he said flatly, with the disaffected air of a teenager.

We were in Costco. During a trip there earlier in the week, I'd spied backpacks and a Camelbak. I took the oldest boy along with me so I could show him the stuff and so that he could pick out his own backpack color, even though I knew he'd pick black (he did). It was the Camelbak, though, that was supposed to be the main attraction.

Nolan's going to band camp next month and while he is going to be someplace cooler, he will be out on the field all day practicing, marching, and I thought (and it was suggested) that the Camelbak would be a good option. Hydration in the summer in AZ is not something to mess around with. And he's...well, he's what the old guys in Westerns would refer to as a "tenderfoot". That boy hasn't seen real physical labor ever, whether it's 75 or 110 degrees. I was just looking out for him.

Judging by his response, perhaps I should stop doing that.

It seems every attempt I make these days to guide him along is met with, at best, a sigh and an eyeroll. I know he's growing up, and would prefer to be left to his own devices. I get that, and for the most part, I rein myself in more often than not.

But.

But it's hard. It's not so out of character, really, to look out for the kids. It's been a part of my life, everyday, for the last 14 years. Surely he could find it in his adolescent heart to cut his mother some slack. Over the years, I padded corners, I locked drawers, covered outlets, and cut up his hotdogs--among myriad other things-- to keep him safe. Sleepless nights spent feeding him and fastidiously changing his diaper (no rashes for my boy) are ready in my memory as I walk by his room at night, doing my last lap of the house before bed. It's just that now, where I used to stand and marvel at chubby, cherubic cheeks, I find myself standing and marveling at cheekbones, lanky, long limbs, and the whisper of a mustache.

During the day, I find myself torn---letting him take his steps away from me while simultaneously fighting the urge to babyproof the world for him as he does it.

When we got home, I told Mr W what had happened, and that my feelings were hurt. And that Nolan's general bad attitude of late and his constant bitching about Ben were pushing me closer to the edge by the minute.

"If he wants to go to camp, ill-prepared, get sunburned, and dehydrated, and have blisters on his feet because he doesn't want to listen to me, then that's fine!" I exclaimed, exasperated and near tears. Mr W pointed out to me that perhaps I should let just that happen. I found myself sputtering, incredulous, at the thought.

(He obviously has not met the Good Mother Police.)

I was pondering his ideas when I overheard him talking to the boys in that tone he uses, the one reserved for affronts to the Mama. It's a 'she's upset, so I'm upset' kind of thing, where he has my back, and I am grateful for it.

Consequently, this week has been better.

And Nolan has learned how to ride his bike to friend's houses within a couple of miles of us....while encased in bubblewrap. :p

The bigger they are

2008-06-09T22:32:00.000-07:00

Towards the end of the school year, I had a brainstorm. I have been increasingly concerned over Ryan, he's gaining weight, and was trying to think of a way to up his activity level without making him feel like I was picking on him.

I realize that he may have a growth spurt in his future, but maybe he doesn't. And having a lifetime of "you'll grow out of it" still ringing in my ears experience behind me made me start thinking.

I decided that although our summers are brutally hot, we could do things together, as a family, that could be fun and get the kids off the couch, late in the day or early in the morning. I told them they would have to earn their video game time, and just to sweeten the deal, I made it easy--15 minutes of activity for 30 minutes of game time. I came up with things like kickball on Monday evening, maybe walking on Tuesday mornings, etc. We would all play, and it would be good for every one of us.

I invited another family with four kids to come and play kickball with us, and tonight we had our first match up. We had a lot of fun, even though I failed to take into consideration that they are quite athletic--soccer and running kids---and we are....not. LOL

We still had quite a good time, in spite of the fact that Mr W was not along this evening, and Audrey was not feeling well. The other family readily stepped in and rotated people onto our team once it became apparent that we were in need of help. :p

At one point, I was running to third base, my brain urging me to run faster to make it, just as my eyes noted one of the other kids moving towards me. I put on the brakes.

And still managed to trip. In a most spectacular, play-of-the-week fashion. It was not pretty, and it dispelled my thoughts of ever being a contestant on the Amazing Race, as clearly my talents are more of the MXC variety.

As the earth sped up towards me, I thought, sweet Jesus, this is gonna hurt, and I was right. My hips and legs came up off the ground, and I scraped up everything from my right boob on down. My hands are scratched up, my knee and ankle really hurt, and there's a fabulous bruise on my calf. Although I would have blamed no one for erupting in peals of laughter, my friends were good and asked me how I was before commencing to tease me and chuckle heartily. (My children later assured me it was hilarious.)

All in all, as I sit here nursing my wounds, I realize it's not such a bad thing to remember how hard the ground really is, and not so bad to embarrass myself publicly.

What's a little dirt amongst friends?

Besides, I'll be okay.

Once my ego stops smarting.

She toots her own...horn

2008-05-23T00:08:00.000-07:00

Ben, Audrey and I were hanging out in my room. We were lounging in my bed, and they were watching tv while I was surfing iTunes.

(I have to admit, I should be in a twelve-step program for my iTunes habit. It's that bad.)

Suddenly, Ben starts laughing. "Mom! Didn't you hear that?" "What?" I ask, removing a headphone from my ear so I could hear him. Audrey stood in the doorway of my bathroom, laughing maniacally.

"She was sitting here, watching tv, with me, and all of a sudden, she jumped up, ran into the bathroom, pointed her butt at the bathtub, and shouted "Fire in the hole!" and she let one rip. She farted! It was loud!" he starts laughing.

I couldn't help but giggle too, reminded that our resident delicate flower is not so delicate....in spite of what the pink dress says.

Anatomy of a backpack

2008-05-15T22:36:00.000-07:00

On Monday afternoon, Ben had to stay afterschool for a rehearsal. I offered to take his trombone and backpack home with me so he wouldn't have to lug them all the way as he walked home.

Now, I've watched him struggle under the weight of that backpack for quite some time now. I'd sigh, roll my eyes, and tell him to clean it out at least once a week. However, once we're in the door, and the backpack is in his room, I/we don't think about it again. At least not until the next time I'd see him take a few steps backwards as he put it on, in an attempt to maintain his balance.

He handed it to me and I swore gently under my breath. "This thing weighs more than your sister. I thought I told you to clean it out." "I know, Mom," he responded, as I held up my hand to shut him up.

I lugged it to the car (oh my aching back) and once I got it home, I put it on one of my dining room chairs (I heard it swear under its breath) and cautiously opened up the zippers.

I half expected a clown to jump out.

Nope. This is what was inside:

*Lots of useless papers. Some from December.

*A roll of aluminum foil, on a roll that was forever oblonged by the crush of items it was in between. Been there since the Science Fair....which took place months ago.

*Hey, a couple of field trip slips.

*The enrollment form I asked him to turn in for his siblings...in March.

*Four, yes four,water bottles, 3 16.9 oz and one 8 oz, all about 3/4 full, one of them cloudy enough that I didn't bother emptying it out, I just threw it away

*A dog eared book

*Math text and 3 ring binder

*3 pencils and a Pokemon keyring

*A few Valentines and Valentine candies

*A 100 pennies (finders keepers)

*4 batteries--3 C and one 9 volt (Science Fair)

Then there was the pocket I kept pulling sticky stuff out of. I had no explanation for this, and as he has a separate lunchbox, I had to wonder what the hell was making the stuff sticky--the Valentine's candy was sealed and non-chocolate.

I spied something putty gray-beige and for a minute, I thought that I was looking at the bottom of the backpack. But something made me reach in and poke it. It looked like clay or something. I pulled it out. It was a quart size ziploc bag and I was perplexed at the contents. I wracked my brain, no, I didn't make him Playdoh, no, that's nothing from any lunches...what did I send him to school with.....

Oh, yeah.

A couple of months, maybe more, ago, I made him salt dough for a project. Salt dough is flour, salt, and water--so it's white to start out with.

And definately not bubbly.

Yay, fermentation! (I got your Science Fair right here, beeyotch.)

After I was done with the "eeewwwww" dance, I stuffed the baggie in the trash, threw the backpack in the washing machine......

.......and made a beeline for the shower.

I may need a tetanus shot too.

The quiz made me do it

2008-05-04T22:20:00.000-07:00

This weekend marked an unprecedented event in my house: Nolan went out of town, out of state, without us. Specifically, without ME.

His school band travelled to California for a band festival and they left on Friday. They spent Saturday at Disneyland, and he came back early this evening.

Initially, I wanted to chaperone, but of course, being an 8th grader, he asked me not to volunteer. Then I plotted a trip with me and Mr W, but I ultimately talked myself out of it. We were just there. Who would watch the other kids? Who would watch the dogs? When am I going to trust I've been raising him right and let him go? He is going to be in high school next year. I gotta learn to do it sometime.

Not only did I let him go, but I made him pack his own bag. That I lovingly picked out for him, complimented by travel sized toiletries. Because nothing says lovin' like a teeny travel sized deodorant.

I didn't even call him.

Which was fine, as he called us. When he got there. In the morning. A text or two throughout the day, all of which made me smile; while he may not have been willing to admit it, he missed us. He missed ME.

Hey, everyone knows Mama is the most important.

He returned, triumphant (the band did well in the competition), tired, hungry. His siblings were ALL over him, and the only loud noises I heard were the cheers they let out as they played their games. Not a bicker in sight.

I think he even let Ben get a couple of digs in, without retort.

Good times.

Speaking of which, I was reading another journal and stumbled on the Saturday Six. I've not done it for a while because the last few have not floated my boat.

And I am tired of the Sunday-night AOL purge that usually eats my entries.

At any rate, I took the quiz Patrick included this week, and after that, I could not resist doing the whole thing.

Saturday Six - Episode 211

1. From your earliest memories, how many different career choices did you seriously consider?

Two. (Doctor. Scientist.)

2. Is the career you actually wound up in among those early possibilities?

The one I'm in was never on any list, although, I guess technically, I'm a scientist. I kinda fell into it and it wound up working for me. The Mom-gig, I always wanted; while I never considered it a career, it has turned into one. The toughest job I never knew I'd love...and to be honest, sometimes hate.

3. What’s more important to you: being successful in your professional life or your personal life?

I decided a long time ago that if one had to be sacrificed, it would be the professional one. Do I grit my teeth sometimes, because I know I could do other things or advance within my field? Of course. But my personal life is what I have to live with, what I come home to each day. Children are only children for a while; it's not time you get back. Besides, Mr W's job is hard enough, without my pushing my career goals ahead of everything else too. It's a delicate balance we have here, but it's a balance. I've got my foot still in the door, I can conquer the world after recess.

4. Take the quiz: What’s your priority?

Here, it is, the culprit....(and, hell yes, that's accurate :p)

What's Important to You... And What Isn't:

For you, sex is usually your number one priority.

You find getting things done to be fairly satisfying. You like feeling accomplished.

You attend to almost every priority in your life. You don't neglect much.

You want thinking to be a high priority, but you don't take enough time for yourself.

5. Are you more likely to let your personal life get in the way of your career, or to let your career get in the way of your personal life?

I answered this already, but personal trumps professional, every time. It all works out in the end.

6. If you were to make a list of things you will look forward to doing on Monday morning, would going to work be at the top of the list, the middle, the bottom, or not on the list at all?

I'm off on Monday. The only work I have to worry about is getting kids out the door on time. And keeping Mr W out of trouble.

Because it's his day off too.

It's Friday...where are the lunchboxes?

2008-04-18T16:28:00.000-07:00

I pack the kids their lunches pretty much everyday. I broke down and started to do it once I realized it doesn't take up that much more morning time. I figured, if they are gonna eat junk for lunch, at least it's junk from home.

Initially, my big battle was for the kids to return the boxes to me, so I could refreeze their cold packs. (A necessity here in AZ, like air conditioning and sunglasses.) It got to be ridiculous, my foot stomping and cursing when they'd forget. My morning would become an episode of Magyver, with me fashioning an ice pack out of common household chemicals and duct tape. (Really just a baggie within a baggie and regular ice, don't bring it back home to me.) Arrrgh--They couldn't remember, I couldn't remember...the punishment was "you have to eat at school, then" but I thought about it. I felt like this was a battle not worth fighting, not when the remedy was so easy.

I bought some more freezer packs, so that would no longer be an issue.

My morning irritation-stress-level dropped enough so that I could actually enjoy our time together in the morning. So zen.

Anyway, this last Monday, I looked for Ben's lunchbox, and it wasn't in the usual spot in the pantry. I asked him to bring it to me, *deep breath* not-a-big-deal in my voice. He brought it to me, and with a little dread, I realized it felt a bit heavier than it should.

Cautiously, I opened his lunchbox.

I think you know where this is going.

I looked inside, and there sat....half a tuna sandwich.

That I'd packed on Friday.

All I can say is that I have never been more grateful for the power of Ziploc, the ingenuity of cold packs, and the miracle of air-conditioning.

I also found another application for Lamaze breathing.

Decisions, decisions

2008-04-14T17:10:00.000-07:00

I have been watching the series on John Adams that has been airing on HBO. It's really well done, I highly recommend it. The acting is fantastic (Laura Linney is sublime); the sets are awesome, everything is just amazing.

But the best part is this (and I can feel my husband rolling his eyes at me, right now):

The actor's name is Stephen Dillane, and he is portraying Thomas Jefferson. I think he's dreamy.

I missed the episode last night and it replays tonight, and therein lies my dilemma.

James Adams is on at 9. A new episode of "Dirty Jobs" is on at 9 as well.

Mike Rowe vs Thomas Jefferson. *sigh*

Choices, choices.... ;p

14 yr old wisdom

2008-04-13T00:09:00.000-07:00

I initially planned on telling everyone how I got told today, at work, by one of the guys in my previous entry, how I was *ahem* "...not like any of the other middle-aged ladies I work with....", because, I am, quote unquote, "...the coolest one."

I think it was a compliment. (It's been a rough week, and I am holding up as best as an old lady in a push-up bra can.)

Instead, I have decided to share with you something Nolan said the other night.

We were out to dinner. Ben was yakking up a storm. Ryan, who is looking to beat Ben at Super-Yakdom someday, was yakking up a storm. Audrey interjected from time to time, and Mr W sat at the end of the table, pretending he didn't know us. He was prepared to leave at any time, who does he think he's kidding?

I sighed and turned to Ben, and I hugged him, and kissed his cheek as I said to him that I am pleased he is who he is and that I wouldn't change him...but I can hardly wait until he calls me to tell me, "Mom. My son(daughter) won't shut up," and how I will laugh the evil cackle of a mother who feels that karma has been kind to her.

I looked across to Nolan, who by now has resorted to discreetly sticking his fingers in his ears. Because that is so classy at the dinner table.

"No, wait," I said. "It will be you. You, who can hardly stand the yakfest that is my every day, will be the one blessed with a child/children that are just like Ben." And I made the universal talk-talk motion with my hand.

Nolan started laughing, shaking his head, and not missing a beat, he said: "If that happens, that will just be proof that God doesn't love everyone equally."

Mr W turned to me and commented: "That's you. That is ALL you."

I looked across the table and mouthed, "I love you, son." *wink* "You're my favorite."

He giggled and reached for my hand under the table, the gangly limb of his arm just barely closing the distance.

It was perfect.

As I looked around the table, I realized karma was being kind to me right now.

And I laughed the evil cackle of a Mom who appreciates it.

I'm too young to feel this old

2008-04-12T00:21:00.000-07:00

This week I was scheduled to drop slides at work. It's something I like to do, and we get to speak pretty freely in there as there are only a few people in the room, and there is a bit of down time as you wait for your slides to dry before you can look at them.

I was working with two guys, one about my age (but younger), the other about oh, 29 or so. They are quite brash, but they don't bother me. It takes a lot more than boys being boys to scare me off.

While we are doing this, we listen to music on the internet as it helps break up the monotony. The DJ duties usually fall to one of the guys (they brought the speakers, it's a fair trade).

Anyway.

We have some new trainees working now, and as my field is predominantly women, there are some who happen to be quite cute girls, ink barely dry on their college degrees.

The other day, one of the quite cute girls was in there with us. I had changed seats earlier that day, so I was across from one of the guys and she was next to him, and the other guy was behind guy #1. Still with me?

We're working along, and I'm amused, watching a mating dance that I've seen since jr high unfold. I'm ignored, aside from a comment or two, of course, that is the natural order of things. I am married. With children. Not on the radar for their purposes. Which is fine. Sorta. Sorta not, let's be honest.

It's all banter, banter, giggle, volleyball in high school, giggle, giggle, softball, giggle, intermural college team, giggle,(I think I'm nauseous); "Really? Didn't you use kneepads?" guy #2 asks (I can't believe she made any mention of her knees, in a room with these hounds) giggle, giggle, fucking giggle, (no, I'm not bitter), giggle.

A song comes on, and one of the boys jokes, "I bet you weren't even a romantic dinner when this came out." (eyeroll)

The song plays for a bit, and she recognizes the artist. At that moment, guy #2 says, "This came out in 1987."

And she says, and SHE SAYS: "I was FOUR when that song came out." Giggle.

kill kill kill kill caw caw caw caw kill kill kill kill caw caw caw caw

Oh, someone shoot me in the forehead with some botox now, I can't take it anymore. I'm sure there is some in my purse. Next to my Geritol and Prep H.

I rolled up my sleeves, walked around the corner, and smashed her head right into the table.

(I didn't really, but thinking it, writing it, was really satisfying.)

Don't they know women only get better as they age? That older women know what they want, and are more...direct? No appetizer needed, we'll take a big bite out of the main course. We're fabulous. We're hot. I could run circles around my 24 year old self, life experience wise, all kinds of experience wise, and not even bat an eyelash. Most of the women I know...ah, it's useless.

Some things are wasted on the young.

It's the natural order of things. Boys will be boys and all that.

Luckily, there are still pockets of a few good men. I hear one snoring right up the hall.

Giggle.

There's a reason only teenagers should text

2008-04-05T21:36:00.000-07:00

I was at work today, and I decided I'd send Mr W a text while I had minute.

It was, admittedly, on the racy side. It wasn't pornographic, just in the "I'm gonna get you later" vein. I do that from time to time, so he knows I'm thinking of him; so that he'll think of me and the suggestion that I sent him.

It's not a big deal, just fun.

A little anticipation never hurt anyone.

We engaged in a little saucy banter, and I went on with my work.

A couple of hours later, I had a minute again and I sent him another message. It was in reference to what we'd been "talking" about earlier, and really pretty mild in comparison.

Which wound up being a very good thing, because unbeknownst to me, Mr W had lent Nolan his cell phone. Nolan had ridden his bike to a friend's house, and Mr W let him take it with him for the usual reasons.

When my phone rang, all I saw was Mr W's # and you can imagine my horror when I heard Nolan's voice on the other end. "Mom, I have Dad's phone," he said.

Crikey!

All I could think about was that while the last message I sent wasn't bad, the ones before...well, he's a bright kid, he'd know we weren't talking about anything I needed to pick up for dinner. "Oh, okay," was all I could manage.

I laughed and blushed furiously at the thought that he might've seen the other texts. When I mentioned it to one of my coworkers, horrified, he reassured me that it wasn't anything to worry about; "...it's totally natural... just an expression of affection from two people who care about each other, and there are worse things in the world than knowing your parents still are into each other that way." I felt better, because I realized that what he said was true. (But I couldn't help feeling that Nolan was gonna be scarred for life.)

I called Mr W and told him about it. He was quite amused. "What did you send me?" he asked; I told him. He laughed at me. "Dude, that's not so bad, but if he happens to read the other messages..."

"I erased them." My hero! I thought. "Thank God," I said, as I breathed a sigh of relief.

I intended the messages to quicken his pulse and make his day.

I never thought I'd be the one winding up with palpitations.

Sand box

2008-03-20T22:50:00.000-07:00

The day we got to San Diego, we went to the beach. It was too cold to swim, sure, but since the kids have never really been to the beach, we figured they might enjoy walking along the shoreline.

The next morning we went to Sea World. That next evening we started our Disneyland shenanigans, yet I think that the best time the kids had was on the beach. They picked up shells. Nolan started digging a hole and soon after, they all joined in, even though the hole kept refilling with water and they were a muddy sandy mess as a result.

It was just like when they were toddlers, when the most exciting thing about the shiny new present was....the box it came in.

Is it really stealing if I plan on returning it?

2008-03-08T00:15:00.000-07:00

We are officially on Spring Break. I have to work Saturday, and then I am free.

We're going to Sea World. And Disneyland. And California Adventure, too.

All of them, not free.

I will be back at work in no time flat.

Here's the deal, though....

Wednesday after I picked up Ben, Ryan, and Audrey, we drove to one of my friends/coworker's houses.

And I told Ben to get out of the car and steal her lawn gnome. He gigglingly obliged, and even stuffed it under his shirt for effect. As if stealing a lawn gnome in broad daylight isn't effect enough, my friend lives right by the Pleasantville police station where my husband works.

Whew, who knew one speeding ticket was the gateway to a life of crime?

Ve haf plans for ze gnome.

I'm taking it on our trip with us, and we will take pictures to record his follies. I haven't decided yet whether I will email her pictures (from a fictitious email address) while we are there or just return him to his stump by her door with a fat wad of photos upon our return.

I'm hoping he doesn't decide on a side trip to Tijuana while we are in San Diego, and that he keeps his hands to himself while we are dining with the Princesses.

Speaking of keeping one's hands to oneself....

Mr W and I accompanied Audrey's kindergarten class to the zoo today. It was great fun, especially when Audrey informed me that the brightly colored macaws were "rainbow birds." I was hanging out with her and another group when I noticed Mr W had broken away from us to buy contraband (Diet Coke). I was momentarily distracted from him by a little girl, a classmate of Audrey's, who came up and hugged me, out of the blue. I'm not unaccustomed to that happening, I spend a lot of time at the school and a lot of the kids know me, but I was a little surprised.

A few minutes later, Mr W came up to me with a weird look on his face. I chalked it up to carbonation, but he said: "You know that little girl in K's group?" "Yeah, she hugged me as they went past." "She just pinched my butt..."

I am sure that the entire zoo heard me crack up.

"...and it wasn't a little pinch, either, she got quite a handful."

I could only howl louder.

He was traumatized. Goosed. By a five year old.

(Before anyone gets all crazed, she meant nothing by it, it was really innocent. The teacher was informed and after she spoke with Mr W, she said even though no harm was done, she'd have a word with the little girl about it, and let her know that it was inappropriate.)

I guess this means I'm going to have to stop teasing him about replacing me with a younger model. :p

Don't you know who I AM?

2008-03-03T15:35:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday, as I went about my business, ticking things off in my head in the usual fashion:

Kids up? Check. Lunches? Check. Ryandon'tforgetyourglasses? Check. 1st group on time? Check. Cut the clay for class taught later that day? Check. Deliver clay? Check. Nolan won't be late? Check. Speeding ticket? Check.

What's that last one?

Yes. Speeding ticket.

I was driving Nolan and a friend of his to school, and as I turned down one of my shortcut streets, I saw that a large truck-trailer was pulled over, off to the side. As I could see down the road that there was another officer, on a motorcycle, facing our direction, I thought, I should slow down, what's the limit here, anyway? I didn't see a sign but decided 40 should be a good guess--5 over if it's 35, 5 under if it's 45, not a bad bet, don't you think?

It's not a bad bet.

If it's a 45 zone.

As I drove past the officer, I got a little paranoid, so I looked in my rear view mirror.

And I saw lights.

Initially, I thought, 'Surely, they aren't after me??' but something about the steadfastness of his jaw made me pull over.

I didn't even do that right, as he asked me to pull forward a little more when he approached me the first time.

Great. Now Nolan will be late. "If this takes long, and you're late to school, I'll go in and let them know it's my fault."

I quickly considered my options. The "It's a new car, I didn't notice I was speeding, it's so much smoother than my other car was" argument. "I didn't see a posted speed limit sign. How to work the "you're doing a great job, just like my husband does everyday" angle. Lip gloss and cleavage --would only serve as window dressing for my mug shot. I found myself remembering every excuse Mr W has told me he's heard, and I couldn't bring myself to be that lame.

"Do you know what the posted speed limit is in this area?" he asked.

Sigh. "No."

"It's 25 and the laser got you at 45." Damn! Construction zone!! I inwardly groan as Nolan stifles a giggle. I knew what was coming next, so I handed over my license, and pulled the insurance out of the glove box...but couldn't find the registration. "I'll be right back," he said, giving me time to look for it. I was mentally cursing Mr W because I remembered seeing the registration on the counter, but couldn't remember where it went after that, and of course, it's absence in the car at that point was his fault.

Nolan spotted it, wedged upright, in the back of the glove box. It was in a black sleeve, and the sleeve's back was facing out--so to me, at my vantage point, it just looked like the back of the box.

My minor panic had nothing to do with my missing it.

When the officer returned, I handed him the registration. He went through his spiel, and I had to smile at how familiar that part was; I could almost hear it in Mr W's voice.

It sounds so much better when you're not the one being handed the ticket.

To his credit, the officer was not a butt, he was quite courteous, and the whole thing took less than ten minutes.

To my credit, I wasn't coy, I didn't flirt with him, I didn't cry, or name drop...I signed where I was supposed to sign and was on my way, a little embarassed but none worse for the wear. I wasn't thrilled (two words: driving school), but I figured at the very least, I set a good example for Nolan and his friend.

A ticket in the Mom-mobile.

I think it's safe to say the van has been christened.

Join the club

2008-02-27T01:59:00.000-07:00

Earlier this evening, Nolan was using my computer and surfing around the 'net.

His siblings took turns clamoring around him, in the "whatcha doin'?" fashion. Jostling. Asking questions.

I had my back to him, so I thought everything was fine and he was sharing things with them or something along those lines. Then I heard this:

"Guys. GUYS! Can't you leave me alone so I can do this? Why do you all need to come up here just because I am on the computer? I can't believe you can't leave me alone for FIVE minutes so I can look this up!!!" and so on.

I couldn't resist. I turned around and started to say, "That happens to me all the time! You know how I feel now, so you'll leave me alone!" but instead, I said this:

"Welcome to motherhood, son."

He was not nearly as amused as I was.

Wheelies

2008-02-27T01:50:00.000-07:00

As Remo mentioned in his comment, we have a new van.

My other van, a silver Dodge Caravan, was seven years old, and had just under 135,000 miles on it. Aside from the wear and tear associated with hauling all of us around, it's had some serious (read: expensive) mechanical difficulties over the last year or so. That, coupled with a drivers' side window that was broken, rear windshield wipers that didn't work, a temperamental heater that heated once you got to your destination, and a speedometer that was possessed by the devil...we decided it was time.

(The van was sighing, for pete's sake, every time I turned the engine off. As I started it up one icy morning recently, I swear heard it mutter "Bitch, are you kidding me ??")

We started hunting around last weekend, narrowing down the field, then we snuck onto some lots with all the kids and put our eggs in the carton, so to speak. We toyed with SUV's, to get me out of the van rut, but I didn't want one. There really isn't much room in those things, and the boys, well, they are only growing about a foot a week these days, so I had that to consider.

We tried another Caravan, but Nolan had to fold himself up into an origami swan to get into the back, so that was out. We were going to try the Honda Odyssey, but I had yet another one of my "This is the right one" moments that drive Mr W crazy (they occur often on the first item I see) when I saw the Nissan Quest.

I knew it was the best choice once I saw the kids in it, and the stars were in alignment, I guess, because we bought it yesterday. I say "bought it" but what I should say is "signed my life away for the next few years, in triplicate."

It's Lakeshore Slate, which is the fancy way of saying "blue-gray" with a gray interior. There's not much in the way of bells and whistles on it, I wanted it that way, except...except...there IS a DVD player in it, and it came with wireless headphones, and I am so very happy to have that in the arsenal for those days when they can't get along and my sanity is on the line, I just can't tell you.

Audrey has turned into mini-Vanna White, she shows anyone who will listen all the features, gliding her little hand over whatever it is she is pointing out. The boys love it, too.

So, in response to the comment Remo left me, let me repeat: There will be no van christening. Even though we have the capability of watching porn and making out in the backseat, it's not gonna happen.

I did all my backseat gymnastics in high school, and now I'm working on getting a medal inside my own four walls.

If only I could get past that Romanian judge, I'd be a shoe-in for the gold.

He's got it going on

2008-02-26T20:16:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week, Mr W and I were running errands. He stopped at the neighborhood QT because I wanted to get something to drink (love the ice there) and as we pulled up, I noticed two large piles of wood right outside the door.

I always get a chuckle that anyone in our city would use firewood, but to each his own. (Fireplaces in the Valley of the Sun just seem a bit much.)

As we were getting out of our seatbelts, Mr W gestured towards the piles, asking "Should we get some wood?"

At which point I leaned over a little, raised an eyebrow, leered a bit at his package, and said, using my best low voice, "I got all the wood I need, baby."

It was good for a laugh.

Besides, once in a while it doesn't hurt to remind him he's still got it.

Instantly a kid again

2008-02-24T10:55:00.000-07:00

My best friend had to go back to our hometown this weekend to attend a funeral. She's staying at home, with her parents.

I wanted to check on her and her family, once I knew the funeral was over. I'd called her a couple of times, on her cell, but she always sets it on vibrate. Which would be fine if it was in her pocket, but not so good when it's in her purse.

It was natural for me to dial her parent's phone number. I did it from memory, and as I punched it in, I smiled to myself. I found it reassuring that some things in life are constant...as their number hasn't changed since the day Jenny first gave it to me 31 years ago. It was even better when her Dad answered, and after he finally heard me talking (he must've said "Hello?" about five times--before I got up the gumption to speak loudly and we got on the same page).

Here I am, 39 years old, and I still couldn't call him by his first name. He was my high school biology teacher to boot, so old habits die hard, I guess. "Hi, Mr. H," I said, smiling. "You want to talk to Jennifer?" he asked. "Yes, please."

As he bellowed, "Jennifer! Phone's for you!" the surreal aspect of the whole thing hit me kind of hard. I mean, it was like I was 11 years old again, calling her to talk about our latest crush. (It reminded me of that scene, in "Peggy Sue Got Married" when Kathleen Turner picks up the phone in her house and her grandma is on the other side.) I thought Jen picked up the other phone, and I felt my eyes well up as I realized it was her Mom. It was so good to hear her parents' voices, and I shouldn't have been surprised that I was feeling a little emotional because of it.

Jen said everyone was fine, that the funeral was well attended, and she saw a lot of relatives she had not seen in a long time.

And then we started talking about our latest crushes.

All dry and 35

2008-02-24T00:36:00.000-07:00

It was raining lightly on Friday when I went to pick up the kids from school. I managed to swing by the house with time enough to spare to run in and get everyone's umbrellas.

The rain wasn't all that bad, but I know as soon as I am at the farthest point from the van, sans umbrellas, the heavens will open and we'd become a family of drowned rats. Besides, the kids love their umbrellas.

Audrey was thrilled when she saw that I had hers, and promptly opened it, brandishing it with gusto, endangering the eyesight of everyone around her.

We went for Ryan next, and his class was just letting out. I walked in and he came up to me, ready to go. "Where's my umbrella?" he asked. I held up the handle. "Right here," I said.

"Moo-om," he said, as he looked at it as though it was a bucket of snakes, "that's not mine." "Yes, it is," I said, holding it out to him. He wouldn't take it. I held the dinosaur handle up and showed him: "See?" He sighed a little, exasperated. "Mom. I thought you were getting me a new one." "There's nothing wrong with this one, it's just a little small," I insisted, again thrusting it towards him. "That's not mine. I can't carry that..." he said, a wrinkle across his nose, disgust on his face as he announced disdainfully, almost haughtily, "...it's childish."

What are you, 35? Childish?? I stifled a giggle. "I will look for one like Ben's over the weekend," I promised.

(Ben's is plain black, and quite grown up. Audrey has a pink Littlest Pet Shop one. Mine? It's an enormous rainbow paneled mombrella, and if I opened it strategically, I could use it as a weapon.)

Sigh. I remember when I bought two dinosaur umbrellas and a Teenage Mutant Ninja turtle one too, and it seems like yesterday. Now when the older boys hold them, I resist the urge to hand them a drink to stick them in, they look that small in their hands.

I handed it to him anyway. "Just use if for now," I pleaded. "Fine," he agreed, "But only for today."

As he walked out of the room, I looked at his teacher, who had caught most of the exchange and stifled a giggle of her own at "childish."

"Have a nice weekend," I said.

I couldn't help myself, I added:

"He'll be reporting to school on Monday in a smoking jacket and ascot."

There are times when I wonder if he's ever going to stop acting like "the baby".

And then there are times when he's the oldest nine year old I know.

Shift thinking

2008-02-22T23:30:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning was nuts. I overslept, the kids were hard to move (five more minutes), I didn't get to make their lunches so I planned on dropping them off on the way to work (I had stuff to deliver to the school for me, too). Dishes in the sink, a last load of laundry mocking in the hallway, I ran out of waffles. There were a couple of other things that had me on edge, and by the time I made it to work, an hour late, I was agitated.

I sat at my desk, trying to concentrate and count my cells, but my heart was pounding and I kept going over in my head the things I did wrong, the things that went wrong, and I couldn't settle down.

I switched my music to something soothing, and took a deep breath. What's wrong with you? I asked myself, as I sat, continuing to count and recount the same cell over and over. I took a deep breath. And I thought, this is crazy. I do a lot of things right. What went right this morning?

I was ready to leave before the kids were, makeup and all. We got to school and no one was late--I walked Audrey to her class. She gave me the biggest smile as she turned to run out and meet her friends. Later, I paid some bills before I left the house, delivered the lunches, and put the papers I needed to get out in the teachers' mailboxes. I picked up some birthday cards for our supervisor's birthday on my way in to work (a friend of mine called me and asked me if I had any at home and I said no, but I'd take care of it.) I got a compliment from one of my colleagues when I got to work, and fielded inquiries along the "Do you feel better?" line. (which was nice)

Small victories, it's true. Maybe even a little shallow, now that I think about it.

But my mood changed, and I settled down. It's really easy to get stuck in thinking that you suck when things are a little off. Or a lot off, whatever the case may be.

It's harder to convince yourself that most of the time, the things that agitate are not worth the effort of exasperation.

Like when you are getting married, for the lack of a better analogy, and you want everything to be perfect, everything to be just so....but the baker mistakenly gives you carrot instead of chocolate cake, you got a run in your hose, and your mother-in-law makes a pass at your brother. Yet you smile and pose for the pictures, and no one knows that anything is wrong at all. All they see is a beautiful wedding.

I like to think that on my frazzled, screaming-at-my-kids-in-the-parking-lot, surely-I'm-crazy days, all they see is a beautiful mom. It only is a disaster from my vantage point; I'm all grace under pressure to those on the outside.

And if I'm the only one who knows it's a disaster, than it's probably not a big deal at all.

Which leads to grace under pressure...on the inside.

Eventually.

It will be a miracle if they make it to adulthood

2008-02-22T22:46:00.000-07:00

Last week I went back to work. I still wasn't fully over my cough, but I soldiered on anyway.

But on Wednesday, I had a coughing fit...that scared my colleagues. I felt it coming on, and I went into the nearest bathroom. I let it fly, hacking away, it was awful, and awfully loud. Loud enough to bring the supervisors out of their meeting down the hall. Scary enough that as I was cleaning up afterwards, wiping my eyes and such, the bathroom door opened. Hey, I locked that...I thought. There stood two of my friends, water glass in hand, concern etched on their faces. Shoot. If someone is breaking down my bathroom door, I'd hope it'd be firemen. (Not that the two ladies were unwelcome, I'm just sayin'.) I assured them I was okay, but I was a little freaked out--as I hacked, I had a point where the spasm was so hard, I couldn't get air. Not good. (My doctor's office agreed and called in some more meds for me, and as of Friday, I was much better. I'm fine now.)

That night, I was just getting to bed after falling asleep in the living room when I heard Nolan start coughing. He was fighting what we'd had and I knew he'd taken Nyquil earlier in the evening. Sigh. I went and got him a dose of my magic cough syrup (w/ codeine). I dialed it back a notch as he is smaller; I woke him up and gave it to him in bed with a little water. I toddled back over to my bed, and promptly was out. I didn't hear him cough again.

The next morning, Mr W was getting ready for work. As he sat down on the bed to put on is socks, he said: "You might have trouble waking up Nolan today. He was coughing really bad last night, so I gave him some of your cough syrup." My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. "Um, when?" I asked nervously. "Around 12:30 or so." "No way," I said. "I gave him some too." "When?" "Around 12:15 or so." We looked at each other, horrified, giggling, and I said, "He's probably dead." I walked across the hall, and stuck my hand under the covers so I could feel him breathing. He stirred. Mr W and I looked at each other, "Well, he's not waking up....until next Tuesday." I said. Later that morning, I called to see if he was awake, as Mr W was coming home from work to take him to the pediatrician's office. For the cough. Not the overdose.

"Why didn't you tell your Dad I'd given you cough medicine already?" I asked.

"I didn't remember you doing it," Nolan said.

I decided to skip the stories about how being under the influence can make you forget what really happened. I explained to him our mistake.

I'm sure that will come up again during the deposition.

Laughing can be dangerous to your health

2008-02-12T20:14:00.000-07:00

Nolan had a mini-concert tonight. It was a solo one, and he played and two of his peers had to critique him. The entire band participated, everyone in different classrooms with set times. He did his bit, then we listened to two others; then he walked around looking for his buddies and I followed, a respectable distance behind, of course.

I got to put faces to the names I hear him say all the time and that was really nice. However, he never said anything in regards to me. Like "____, this is my Mom."

I called him on it as we walked to the car. "Dude. Do you have a problem with me?" "No." "Then why is it you never say, "This is my Mom"? when I'm here with you?"

"Because. I figure they know already, because you're following me." I sighed heavily. "Fine," I said, "I guess I don't mind if they think I'm you're older sister."

"No, Mom. They'd think you're my younger sister, because I'm taller than you."

I could hardly argue with that, logic, who needs it?

Once we got home, it was like someone sprayed hyper-dust in the air. The kids were all wound up. Nolan reminded me that they had a birthday party this weekend. I read the invitation, and one part caught my eye: "Please leave all jewelry and sharp objects at home." (It's a party at one of those bouncy-house places.) I cracked up. "Guys, you know what that means? No bling, no shanks." We chuckled together, and were walking down the hallway to repeat the joke to Mr W, when Nolan doubled over, hacking really hard.

As I passed him, I quipped, "Did you cough up anything pink and spongy?"

"Only my heart," he deadpanned.

It was my turn to laugh. And hack.

Doubled over, gasping for air, yet nonetheless, grinning from ear to ear.

I love that kid.

Orange inferiority complex

2008-02-12T01:10:00.000-07:00

Audrey likes Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

Believe me when I tell you that I am appalled. It's not like I've never eaten it (it's fine), it's not like the other children have not gone through this phase, it's just that mac-and-cheese is one of my favorite comfort foods. I make pretty good--no wait, I'm going to brag here--I make really very good mac-n-cheese from scratch. The only time it has ever turned on me is when I tried to bake it. With the crusty little breadcrumbly top? Disaster. The person who ate it said it was fine, but my regular mac-n-cheese...it's just so much better.

Creamy. Cheesy. It's like a hug from the stovetop, and should be eaten right from the pot. (Not that I've ever done that, of course.) I start by making a roux, with butter and flour...and I use 2% milk, or whole milk if I feel dangerous. Then I put in just enough medium or sharp cheddar, about 1-2 cups, depending on how much sauce I've made to begin with...and I mix it up with the pasta immediately after the pasta is done. It is probably the only thing I make that I won't leave the kitchen while I am in the midst of--why ruin the lovely sauce to break up a fight--and the kids love it. I vary the shapes, sometimes shells, sometimes radiatore, penne, rotini, or campanelle, but I think it's best with the elbows. I like the large ones, cooked to just al dente (not mush).

It seems ridiculous to be so picky about something as mundane as mac-n-cheese, but it's worth it, even if my husband doesn't eat it. My best friend moans when I tell her I'm making it, because it's her favorite too. I have another who teased me mercilessly one day, (hoity voice) "Oh, I'm grating the cheese for mac-n-cheese....don't you know that mac-n-cheese comes from the blue box? Your kids are so spoiled."

It always comes down to the blue box.

As I stood there today, coaxing the orange powder into a sauce-like state, I was transported back to these kids I babysat when I was in college.

You see, the act of making this mac-n-cheese never fails to remind me of the shame of being fired from one of my first jobs. Not even being fired, mind you, just never called again.

I had a childhood friend who was doing the sorority circle thing in college and she called me one day, telling me about this nice family who needed an occasional babysitter. She was too busy to do it. She knew I liked kids and needed the money. I was a little embarrassed that my social life/standing were such that I was not out gallivanting on campus leaving college boys in my wake, but I was a serious student, with a serious boyfriend (who lived out of town, I had all kinds of free time). Play Mommy to some little ones and get paid for it? Why not?

I've always been good with kids. I get it from my Mom, who is the baby-whisperer in our family. But I was still a little nervous to sit for a family I didn't know, with children who could be the brattiest children around, for all I knew.

My initial conversation with the Mom (was her name Maureen?) went well. She knew I didn't have a car, so she came to pick me up the first afternoon I spent with her boys.

She had an amazing house, an older one, with wood floors and a very "This Old House" feel about it. There was a playhouse in the backyard by the swings. It was the kind of house I envisioned myself living in some day. I got kinda a granola-vibe from her, like she had hippie blood running through her veins...and I wasn't far off. She was organic apples before they were cool.

And the boys, they were adorable beyond belief. Cute, pale with freckles; big, almost violet eyes; pointy (but not too pointy) chins; perfect rosebud mouths--they were breathtaking. My ovaries started the "youneedoneofthese" beats in triple time.

While the older one did prove to be a little bit of a challenge (he was smart, and a crafty bugger) we got along great. I remember following Maureen around the house, she with the luminous skin and barely-there makeup (yes, she wore Birkenstocks), as she pointed out that she'd made something for lunch, that the kids could eat soon. Wow, I thought, impressed that she'd done the work for me.

It was Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. And to boost it, she'd stirred cottage cheese into it. Clever. I'd never would have thought of that. She did it so the kids could get extra calcium, I think, if I remember correctly. I was to busy getting over her bathroom, her Kiss My Face toiletries, to really remember why she said she did it. (I'd never heard of Kiss My Face, never seen it in stores, but if I could boast skin like that, I'd certainly attempt to hunt it down.)

Anyway.

The kids and I had a good afternoon. I started babysitting for her pretty regularly, once or twice a week. One week, she asked if I was available on a Friday night. Her husband was away, and she was going to go out with a girlfriend.

Sigh. Yes. I was free on Friday night.

I played with the kids, we ate our mac-n-cheese, but as the evening got later, closer to eight (nine?), I got antsy to watch my show. It was Miami Vice time. Hmm. They're little. It won't affect them. The baby is almost asleep, anyway. "Conor," I said to my young charge (he couldn't have been more than 4 years old)--"I'm going to watch this tv show. Okay?" I started watching it, then had a thought that maybe that might not be such a good idea. "Um," I thought out loud, "Do you think your Mom will mind if you watch too?"

Now, I was what, 18? Who has perfect sense at that age? He would be falling asleep soon anyway, hopefully, I justified to myself.

We were about fifteen, twenty minutes into the show when his Mom got home and came in with her girlfriend. It was all sunshine and happiness, "Did you have a good time? The kids were angels, as usual"...and then a staccato burst of gunshots came from the tv.

Maureen's brows came together as she looked over at her boys, particularly the older one, and the brief look of glee that crossed his face. It was not a brief look of glee that crossed her face in return, but rather a questioning, slightly irritated one. "Ah, um," I stammered, "I was just watching Miami Vice," I explained, and I know I made some excuse for why I was doing so while the children were up, like it was a new episode or something (ha, life in the prehistoric pre-DVR/TiVo world) but I could tell she wasn't pleased with me.

She exchanged a knowing look with her girlfriend while I felt a little on-the-spot. It's not like I was caught there with my boyfriend in her house, making out on the couch while her children stuck forks into light sockets. But... I still had a feeling this would be my last time with the boys.

Maureen dropped me off at home that night, and the "you're setting a bad example" hung between us in the car, an unspoken sandbag. I never heard from her again. Ever. I cringe a little when I think of that. Even now that I'm a Mom, and I restrict my own children's tv watching, so I do sympathize, I understand; but on a scale of 1 to 10, I feel it's a .5. It was a minor transgression. It shouldn't matter anymore.

Yet part of me still can't help but feel like a chagrined teenager when I am stirring that orange powder into the limp macaroni (there is no way to cook those straight tubes al dente--it's raw, or overcooked, and that's that). Dumped. Fired. Over Don Johnson?

"Mommy, whatcha makin'?" Ryan bursts into the kitchen, and stands on tiptoe next to me. "Mac-n-cheese," I reply. "Is it the box kind or your kind?" he asks, angling around me to look on the counter. "My kind," I gesture to the pile of cheese. "Yessss!!!" he exclaims, smile on his face, as he goes to announce it to the other kids. I hear Audrey complain just as I hear the boys say, "You love us, Mom."

It turns out that I am not such a bad example afterall.

It's fair play hair day

2008-02-11T23:35:00.000-07:00

I'm still coughing. Sometimes it's a polite *cough,cough*, sometimes I scare the children. It's gonna be around for a while, too, at least that's what I hear.

I was excited this morning, to get up and not feel as though I had to lay down again. As I was waiting for Nolan to get ready, I washed dishes.

Nothing is gonna get me down today, I thought. After spending the last week or so in and out of pajamas, smelly, tired, no makeup, I was happy to be bursting out of my Kleenex cocoon. I had an appointment with my hairstylist, for a haircut and color. I was sure to emerge from her salon renewed, ready to shed my sick visage in for a newer, dark-and-smooth, sleek diva look. I love it when she blows my hair dry straight, it's just too awesome. Even if I am just running to pick up the kids, I feel like a million bucks.

I certainly could use some of that.

After yelli--reminding Nolan that he is not the only person in town who needs hot water, I came back into the family room and heard the chiming of my cell phone.

I glanced at the number, which was familiar but not recognizable. Assuming it was one of the other volunteers calling from the school, or one of my friends calling me from their place of business, I answered anyway.

"Anna?" squeaked out a familiar voice from the other end. Cool, maybe she needs me to come in early, I thought. Right on!

"Hi," I answered, trying not to get too excited. Wait a minute. That voice...

"I'm so sorry honey, but I don't think I can do your hair today," the voice cracked. Ohgodohdogod "I need to get to the doctor today." NOOOOOOOOOOO!

"That's okay," I reply. darnitdarnitdarnitcrapcrapcrap

"Can we reschedule?" "Um, sure." nonononoI'mgrayitlooksawfulwhat amIgonnadomybangs!mybangssuck!

"Will next Monday be okay?"

"Sure. Feel better." Awwwww,man!

Oh well. I'll be fine. It's really not a big deal. Yes, it is. But I know how awful she feels.

That's what ponytails are for.

I used my newfound time to go pick up my geekalicious prescription lab goggles.

Now there's a fashion statement.

It's liquid gold

2008-02-08T11:46:00.000-07:00

It's been a long, blurry week. I kept up my I'll-get-better-soon mantra for most of it, because I knew that running to the doctor would only yield the "keep up the symptomatic care" line and while I like my PCP, I don't love her. She's okay.

However, after a few nights of a cough that didn't let me sleep, I relented and called for an appointment yesterday. I probably would have let the exterminator examine me if he could prescribe medication, I felt that bad. Besides, it's hard to convince anyone you feel okay when you sound like a horrible, nonsexy version of Lauren Bacall--given you could speak between the cough spasms. I nearly wept when the receptionist found me an appointment at 9, which was a mere 45 minutes away.

The PA was in and out in a flash. I barely had time to think about an answer to his questions, but the bottom line was he said he thought I was probably getting better, but might be headed for bronchitis ("You sound on the line, but since your cough just started a couple of days ago" <--not his fault--I thought he wasn't listening to me, but truly, I forgot what day it was, so when I said "a couple of days" what I should have said is "five or six days") and gave me a prescription for antibiotics and one for cough syrup with codeine. He advised me to "wait a day or two and see how you feel, and if you feel worse, or aren't any better, start the antibiotic. Make sure you get some Mucinex, too."

Dude, you had me at "cough syrup with codeine."

"Yeah, that sounds reasonable." Now hand over the 'scripts, and no one will get hurt.

After my appointment, I took Ryan to the pediatrician, as he is suffering a cough too. They were b-u-s-y and we had to wait a long time (almost an hour, no joke), during which I did cough up a lung and nearly fell asleep in the exam room. The nurse practioner came into the room, looked at me, and said, "You sound worse than he does. Did you see your dr?" "Yes." "You have bronchitis, don't you?" Any doubt I might have had about starting the antibiotic the PA gave me was erased. Ryan sounded more asthma-y to her, so he is on some inhalers and I am taking him back on Monday for a recheck.

I got the antibiotic filled, I took it, I'm taking it--I got some sleep last night (certainly more than the night before) and today I feel almost human.

So much so that I was contemplating going to pick up my new geekalicious prescription lab goggles...but it's a 35-40 minute drive away, and I got tired just driving Nolan to school this morning. Besides, it's hard to drive a straight line when you're having a violent coughing fit.

Instead, I am taking a much needed shower, a shot of the elixir-from-the-gods, and I'm laying/lying/I'll be horizontal down.

If I nap, I'll just consider it a bonus.

They do give you one phone call, right?

2008-02-05T20:35:00.000-07:00

I must've reached my limit.

Tonight, Audrey took a second spill, a second blow to the head. (Earlier, she fell off a chair, and shattered a outlet cover with her head. Just as I was settling down in my room for five minutes. That type of crying will put the catnap on hold, I tell you.) She was playing with Ryan and a friend of ours, and for whatever reason, decided to hang off the back of Ryan, arms around his neck (shoulders?) and wriggled just so, Ryan moved backwards, and they both fell. He fell on top of her, and she hit her head on the corner of the wall. It made a horrific noise, I mean, it could have been his water bottle hitting the floor that made the noise, but it really sounded awful, and after this afternoon, I could only imagine that her brain would be reset to "scramble".

As we left the building, after I threatened Ryan with his life so I could check her, I decided to remind him (and all of them) that they need to be more careful with each other. They are growing, and getting stronger, but have not yet developed control of themselves yet--so there is quite a danger of someone getting hurt.

A rational argument, yes, but this is how it came out:

"Ryan, you are twice her size. Twice! Aren't you close to like, 100 pounds, and she's what, 50? You land on her like that, and she snaps her neck, she could die, do you want to kill her?" Ryan looks scared. Good. I'm about to lay into the two of them again, when Ben does something to Nolan, and Nolan flicks him, hard, on the arm.

It's a good thing they were out of my reach.

"Hey! Do you guys not hear me? I am just telling these two to stop hurting each other, and now you're doing it? GIVE ME THAT", I hold out my hand to Ben, carrying his new faux aikido knife, and put it in my bag. "Ben did something stupid with it to me, so I hit him," Nolan explains.

"That is not okay. I'm tired of you guys getting physical with each other. Someone is going to get hurt, and I swear to God, unless there is a bone protruding through skin, I am NOT taking anyone to the ER right away, you will suffer, for half an hour at least, because this is ridiculous. I'm tired. I'm sick. You're Dad is gonna be late getting home tonight, and I still have to feed you people when we get in. We get home, you get physical, I don't care, it's bedtime for you. KNOCK THIS SHIT OFF."

I realize that the attention span of the kids is probably not enough for them to catch all of that. And I'm not speaking right now, I'm croaking, and paying dearly for that speech as I type this, owwwch, my throat.

I noticed as I ranted that Nolan adopted that time-honored look--the one where the teenager looks at you, like they are paying attention, but really are looking through you, not truly listening but riding out the storm? The one he will probably use on ranting girlfriends, the same look his father adopts when he's had enough of my emotional outburst of the moment....the look that made me want to punch him just to get it off his face.

I felt myself ball my fist and take a step back as I recalled the look once we got in the door. I was upset in the car, spent, Mommy-meltdown on the horizon, I cried a little because my head hurt and really, I was done. But now, all I have is this ball of rage, and it's a good thing that once we got home, everyone went to their separate corners.

After I handed out the Nyquil. I'd have put it in dixie cups with Koolaid, if only to amuse myself, but I have caplets, so I took mine, and handed some to Nolan. (Who says he is sick now. Ryan is better. Audrey is better too. Ben looks to be escaping the scourge unscathed.)

Then I went to make dinner.

And I found cutting up the semi-frozen chicken breasts unusually therapeutic.

Maybe if someone else pisses me off in the next half hour, I'll make chocolate chip cookies, too.

I'm gonna have to remember this, to tell them when they have kids of their own, how homecooking saved their lives.

Right now the only question I ask is liquid or capsule?

2008-02-04T22:37:00.000-07:00

I am sitting here with the certainty that I have never been this sick before in my life.

Luckily, Mr W was indeed wonderful and was me today, which means he spent a lot of time in the car shuttling kids around right after tucking me into bed from as far away from me as he could get and still be supportive. He's doing his part to avoid the pestilence that surrounds me like a cloud.

My eyes are watering and I am sure a lung will pop out the next time I cough.

Unfortunately for me, Ryan has it now too, and I hear someone else coughing, I think it's Ben, and Nolan, he of the no-tonsils, had the gall to tell me he had a sore throat just moments before I placed him in a sleeper hold. I just couldn't take the thought of someone else stealing my sick thunder.

Anyway. I'll get over it. Misery loves company and all that.

I am throwing myself on the mercy of the 'quil gods, and heading down the hallway as quietly as possible, which means I will be hacking up said lung the minute I touch Ben's shoulder, and if that doesn't scare the sickness out of him, maybe my voodoo dolls will.

Curse for a cure?

A little ice cream will make it all better

2008-02-03T22:37:00.000-07:00

Ugh. I'm sick. And it's kicking my ass.

Finally, I admit it. Actually, I admitted it yesterday when I got to work and realized the place could run without me, and probably should run without me as my desk blotter was looking like a good pillow.

(I only drooled through two months.)

Anyway, on Friday, when I started feeling icky (thank you, Audrey) I whined a little to Mr W that if he really loved me, he'd get me some ice cream. Because that is what a rational person wants when their throat is starting to hurt.

I figured he would get it and bring it to me. On his steed, he'd go to Ye Olde Creamery and return with something decadent, and I'd not even have to lift my delicate head off the pillow to get my own spoon. (Delusional, even before I took the Nyquil.)

But nooo-ooo. No, he suggested we all go together, all of us, great, that's what I need. To feel a little crappy, and take the whole family. Whoo-hoo, sign me up. I pointed out I was in my pjs, and he rolled his eyes at me as he started telling the kids to fetch their shoes. I grumbled as I found my jeans. Fine. Whatever.

On our way to Baskin-Robbins, I remembered we were out of a couple of things and as the grocery store was right next door, maybe we could swing in and get them. "But I didn't bring my purse, so I have neither money nor my savings card to the store," I pointed out.

"That's okay," he replied, "I have my wallet." "But do you have the savings card?" I asked, determined to save my fifty cents on milk. "Yes." I looked over my shoulder real quick to make sure no one was listening in before I said "It's probably in there next to that condom you've been carrying around since you were 16," smugly, with a smirk.

"If I only knew ________" he faded out, as he turned his head, and started chuckling to himself, pleased with a retort he didn't intend on sharing with me. "What? What did you say?" I demanded, mockingly. "Nooo-othing," he insisted, giggling harder.

So I grabbed his arm and threw some punches at his shoulder, giggling too, "Tell me," and he still refused, continuing to get out of the van, rubbing his shoulder, muttering "bitch" under his breath. (I hurt him. Weenie.) "What?" I said to him, gesturing, half-joking, "there's nothing else I'd rather be doing, either?" I came around to meet him, surrounded by the kids, who wanted ringside seats. "I could be a doctor! I could be driving a Porsche...with the Blaupunkt!" as I gestured towards my well-used minivan, "and instead, I have this..." gesture towards kids, who are now not interested in me, and as if on cue, are jostling elbows and pushing each other, the picture of good behavior...just then Audrey decides to bend over slightly, wiggling her butt from side to side in the classic "stinky butt" maneuver, "I have wiggling asses in a grocery store parking lot!" sweeping my hand over her for emphasis.

The teenagers standing outside the car next to ours probably thought I was nuts.

Mr W, however, reached for my hand and pulled me towards him, "Oh, come on," he smiled, leading me towards the grocery store, our quail following us close behind.

What big brothers are for

2008-01-31T09:07:00.000-07:00

I was in the middle of making dinner, and needed to be in two places at once. Surprise, surprise.

I'd sent the boys to take their baths while I was cooking, and it was Ryan's turn in the tub.

Ryan is unusual, he likes to take a shower, then fill up the tub and sit in it. I am just happy that he's bathing, so I try to overlook the water he's wasting, and as he doesn't always get in the tub every day, I figure it all evens out in the end.

I was almost done in the kitchen, but not quite, so I asked Nolan to go tell Ryan to wrap it up as we were about to eat. "I'm going to open the door real fast and scare him," he said. "Whatever," I distractedly replied, trying not to burn myself.

The next thing I hear is Nolan, Ben, and Audrey giggling. Nolan is standing behind me, and he says, "Do you support me in doing this?" Initially, my response was going to be, "Yeah, yeah, do it, just get your brother out of the tub." But my Mom radar went off instead, and I turned around to see Nolan in a Halloween mask, a red one with nose rings and crazy black hair, very middle-Earth, along with Audrey and Ben beside him, giggling madly. I knitted my brow, "What?...."

"I'm going to barge in there, and really scare him!" Nolan was excited.

I have to admit, I really wanted to give him the green light.

Because I am a little evil that way.

However, I thought of little Ryan, naked and vulnerable in the tub, and I know that if it were me, I'd not appreciate it. And we all know how bathroom things like this tend to scar people for life.

"Ah, no, I don't think so," I said. "But MO-OM," they pleaded. "Sorry. No. You just don't recover from that kind of bathroom trauma," I stated, very matter-of-factly.

Sometimes Mom takes away all the fun.

Sometimes Mom hides the Halloween mask in her room for another day.....

Sugar and spice, alright, part 2

2008-01-20T09:51:00.000-07:00

Wednesday night, Audrey and I opted to wait inside the dojo for Ryan to finish his aikido class. We usually wait outside, as she likes to run around, have a soda or smoothie, or we go to the library; but it was quite brisk that night and she wasn't wearing a jacket. (I say "brisk" because if I say "cold" those of you who have to dig your way out of the snow to exit your houses will throw something at me.)

She squirmed in her seat, ants in her pants; I shushed her as someone was testing for their next level and didn't want to be disrespectful; to have to leave due to her antics. It was warm in there, and that is preferable to freezing my ass off.

About ten minutes into it, she wound up in my lap. At five, she's not always a comfortable snuggle in a plastic chair, but I held on to her, thinking she just might nod off.

Yeah. Thaaat's realistic.

The squirming continued in my lap. She'd sit still, settle, shift. Sit still, settle, shift.

I was wearing a zip up hoodie with a camisole underneath. Her shift, shift maneuver was coming dangerously close to exposing anyone near me to a dose of ta-ige but she was in my lap so I figured we were safe. I knew if I hiked my cami back up, I'd look like those women who constantly readjust the top of their strapless dress, and that is not pretty.

All of a sudden, she leaned back, looked a little embarassed, and hiked it up for me. I tried to look nonplussed, like, this happens all the time, when my knee-jerk reaction was telling me to jump straight up and yell "Stop that!" Admittedly, this was a far cry from when she used to pull my shirt down or up to get to food, glorious food; but I still felt like I was being groped by an overenthusiastic teenager.

I kept looking over her head at the test like nothing was up. Kinda like when you stumble over a crack in the sidewalk, but keep on walking like nothing ever happened.

She snuggled into me again, and I sighed, approaching the hissing-in-her-ear point. As she burrowed her face into the upper part of my chest, just over the top of my readjusted garment, she murmured, "I love to smell your skin." "What?" I asked her, not sure I heard her right. (And simultaneously wondering, if only her Dad would say that. :p) "Nothing," she smiled sweetly, and put her head back down. It brought to mind when all the kids were younger, and as I held them, they'd always put their little hands on that same patch of skin, Mommy-the-human-blankie. I'd forgotten.

It also reminded me of the smell, the baby smell; that top-of-their-head goodness in the middle of the night. How you could burrow your face into them anywhere and know that it was the greatest smell on earth.

This morning, I got up early with her. She came and sat in my lap, snuggling on the couch, and we were watching "Max and Ruby." I leaned my head down to smell her hair...and immediately wished I hadn't, because in an instant, I realized that the soury, off smell I attributed to morning breath was really emanating from her. entire. body.

Eau-de-trucker, not so pleasant on a five year old.

So much for rainbows and sunshine, the bubble bath scented like cucumber-melon; I may have to fetch the Lava.

And a hose.

Sugar and spice, alright

2008-01-20T08:42:00.000-07:00

The other evening after I got home from running some errands, Audrey came up to me with a picture.

She loves to draw, and there are several times during they day when I have a paper shoved under my nose, as a little voice proudly says, "Look, look at what I did, Mom!" Usually, it's a stack of pictures, variations on her theme of the day...multiple studies, if you will.

I had no sooner set down my keys when she bumped into me, vibrating with excitement. "Mommy, I made this while you were gone," as she handed me the picture.

There were lots of sticky figures, with hair and faces, some with glasses and some not...but under them, at about hip level, these black thorax-looking things, in addition to legs. I must've had a curious look on my face, because before I could ask, she explained.

"See, that one, that's Ben. And these," (she points to the black thorax-y thing), "these are his dumps."

I was a little horrified and a lot amused. I took the picture and her hand, and we went in search of Mr W, who was in his usual spot in our room--sitting on the bed watching tv.

Placing the picture in front of him, I started to tell him what she said, and he interrupted me, smiling, "Yeah, I saw those."

"You know," I said, "most little girls draw pictures of butterflies. Rainbows, unicorns, ponies...ballerinas....but my daughter draws pictures of her brothers sitting on piles of ...poop."

I am sure Van Gogh got started this way.

And then some things make your day

2008-01-20T01:22:00.000-07:00

I like to think that most people pluck, dye, put on makeup, appear their best for themselves, mainly.

But it is always nice to get a compliment, isn't it?

I've had a good streak lately. It's been cool, and unusual--this is really an unprecedented thing for me. Considering that most of the time I'm in the Mom-uniform (t-shirt or some combination thereof, completely washable and mainly handprint-free; jeans) a compliment has real make-my-day power. :D

Today, one of my friends at work said to me, out of the blue:

"Do you know who you remind me of/who you look like?"

"No," I said, bracing myself, because so many times in the past, this opening has not gone well, expecting to hear the worst...

"You look like the girl who plays the orthopedic surgeon on 'Grey's Anatomy'."

I was pleasantly surprised.

I was totally stoked.

For those of you unfamiliar with the show, the character's name is Callie Torres, and she is portrayed by the lovely Sara Ramirez.

I was so thrilled, that if decorum would have allowed it, if I may borrow one of my j-buddies phrases, I'd have humped his leg out of sheer joy.

I said "Thank you" instead. Right on! How cool is that??

She's fabulous, so of course I am insufferably big headed when I get home.

"Hey, guess what, honey," I burst out, right when I see Mr W. I relay the story.

His response: (shrug) "hmmmphf". Simmer down, buddy. Try to contain yourself. I'll take a little attitude from him on this one.

Because that comment just about made my month.

Sometimes it's Mom in the doghouse

2008-01-20T01:01:00.000-07:00

Wednesday morning, Ben woke up with a stomach ache. A three-alarm, is-he-crying? stomach ache.

Ben has a tendency to be a little dramatic. *ahem* I took a deep breath and spoke with him about what it was at school that was up that he didn't want to be there for.

As he told me about the book he was supposed to be reading/have read, I patted myself on the back for being intuitive enough to know my kid.

I reassured him, dusted him off...then I sent him off to school.

I had to do some things for my volunteer gig at the school before I went in to work. I had just finished, was just heading out of the office, running a little late...and as I reach for the handle on the door...who opens it but Ben.

I think we know where this is going.

Sighing, I signed him out. I was irritated, because now I was going to have to figure out, do I stay or do I go--(surely he could stay home alone, with check-ins by his Dad to keep him company)? Why couldn't he have said something before I got up at 5 am to get ready for work (it's better if I invade the shower before Mr W wakes up at 6 and before I rouse the troops)?? I was looking forward to going to work, because last week was so slow that they were sending us home, and that kind of slow makes me edgy and fearful that something is up with our jobs--even if I know better, that it's a seasonal lull.

We got home soon, but not soon enough that Ben was spared a little ranting from me. Not my worst moment, to be sure, but not my best one, either.

Imagine my chagrin when we got into the house, to hear Ben say, "I'm sorry," (oy, was my rant that bad?); hear all his belongings hit the floor...I turn around just in time to see him RUN down the hall to the bathroom.

My bad.

I thought about the situation. I am the part-timer. I have always, always, put the children first. Sick? I stay home. Something special goes on at school? I rearrange if needed, but I'm there 98% of the time. They need me to bake cupcakes? Call me Betty Crocker.

Why is it, I thought to myself, that when they were 3, and not going in meant no pay that day (no benefits) I didn't have such a problem with it, but now that I am working more, and have sick/vacation/etc time, I am bitching about it?

Tsk, tsk, Anna.

Besides, I can't predict when he'll (they'll) be sick now that he's 11 (14, 9, 5) anymore than I could when he was 2. It's totally not his fault.

I was on the phone before he was out of the bathroom. Sorry. Not coming in today.

I stayed with him on Thursday, too. Although Mr W has plenty of time to spare, come on. When you're sick, you want your Mommy.

I am happy to report, he got her.

And I even apologized as I tucked him into my bed and gave him the remote.

Other parents will understand

2008-01-15T11:03:00.000-07:00

I know I'm going out on limb here, with what I am about to say.

Black-tinted cars will pull up to take me away, but I have to say it.

I will probably be asked to burn my degree, but:

I hate the Science Fair.

There. I said it, and I'm a scientist. It's a complete waste of time, I mean, no one uses a battery made out of a potato unless they live in the wild desert surrounding my hometown.

I'm in the process of guiding Nolan through his project. I usually try to rein myself in and let them do their own homework, but when I saw his "notes" the other day, something in me snapped, and I sat on the dog food bin in the garage and hastily scribbled out something that resembled what he's supposed to be doing anyway, for fear that if one of my coworkers saw his efforts, my lab coat would be taken away. And burned.

(The last couple of weeks at the lab have been s-l-o-w, we're running out of entertainment there. I refuse to believe cancer takes a vacation, I blame it on the doctors taking a little extra r-and-r around New Years. Oh well. Who wants a hungover physician coming at your hip with a needle anyway?)

I think we have until the end of the week to kil--I mean, continue his experiment with plants.

If only we could use Mr W's Taser on something instead....

*zzzzt*

Of course I wasn't holding the remote

2008-01-14T23:14:00.000-07:00

I was putting groceries away, and the kids were watching tv. They like the George Lopez show, and I usually don't mind it too much, even if the kids are a kinda mouthy, the Nana is the anti-Nana, and it there is the occasional lean towards sexy.

I quite familiar with sexy Mexicans on tv (telenovelas are just visual bodice-rippers), so I'm usually only cringing a little bit when things go that way...but I still cringe.

I had my head in the freezer tonight when George was talking to his mother, who he'd taken to the gynie for her first visit in 37 years. The long story short is that his mom was dating a much younger man, went to the gynie for the usual tuneup and found out she had something else.

"What happened?" I asked from the kitchen when I heard the audience noises.

"She said she has the clap," Nolan said.

*gasp*

"Oh my god," I said, shaking my head, formulating the rest of my response as I moved around the chicken breasts. Small freezers suck.

"What's the clap?" Ryan asked.

*silent scream, hand slapping forehead*

"OH MY GOD!" I groaned, nearly smacking my head on the door as I whipped my head around.

"Um, I'll talk to you about that later," I said, "When I have more time to explain it to you."

"Oh, I know," Ryan postulated, "She must be pregnant."

"Who has the remote?" "Aww, Mom," Ben complained, as I said, "Look, I don't have time to explain all this to Ryan right now. This is inappropriate for him to watch, so change it."

"....but I've already seen this episode..."

Hole-leeeee cow. Not exactly what I expected to be thinking about when I was head first in the freezer. I thought about just staying in there, looking for my imaginary bottle of vodka...but I came out and made dinner instead.

Penicillin, anyone??

If you show me yours, I'll show you mine

2008-01-14T00:46:00.000-07:00

Upon receiving my new iPod, my precious, I vowed I'd still use the old one. I planned to mainly use it for work and when I went walking.

*ahem*

But.... because the new one is so damn cool, I find myself not willing to part with it. I've been taking it to work. Some of my coworkers have been interested in it, and they come and want to check it out.

I've found myself saying, more than once, "Sure, no problem. Just don't laugh at my music." I know I've mentioned before I have what I consider to be odd taste, and I have lots of different types of music on my system.

I've caught more than one mini-snicker, more than one grin, as my library gets perused. I stop myself from offering any explanations--I just give them my best "What?" look.

So, my question to you is, what are five of your guilty iPod (or other mp3 player) music pleasures? I'm curious.

I promise I won't laugh.

And if you show me yours, I'll show you mine.

(Here's one to get the ball rolling: "Brand New Lover" by Dead or Alive.)

We now return you to "Sounds of the Elderly"

2008-01-14T00:36:00.000-07:00

As any Mom knows, sometimes you can't even make it to the bathroom.

You're in the middle of pouring juice, folding laundry, or signing off on homework when suddenly you realize you're squirming.

Even Mommy needs a potty break.

I'm so bad about getting to it, that when I finally do get to the bathroom, the relief-moan I let out would get me some weird looks, were I in a public bathroom.

Don't even get me started on how the last time I was late to work, I forgot to go, got stuck in traffic, and got off at the first available off-ramp juuust as my eyeballs began to float.

Today was no exception. I was finally in there, so relieved (if you'll pardon the pun), and suddenly, I sneezed.

Again, most ladies know that this is a little bit of an impossible feat...you usually have to stop one to do the other.

However, I wasn't quick enough, and had to go that badly. I sneezed mid-stream, and instead of my usual moan of relief, I barked out "Yeo-owtch! SON OF A BITCH!" which earned me a weird look from Mr W upon my exit.

I don't know, but I think I may have broken something.

Hopefully, it's not something vital.

I've been up to...

2008-01-10T00:57:00.000-07:00

....taking Audrey to the Nutcracker. It was her first time this year, a present for both of us. I got really good seats, and we went on the 26th. I held her on my hip and we looked down into the orchestra pit before things got started. The ballet itself was amazing--the entire thing was like a painting come to life. We were very close and could see quite a lot of details, and I was dazzled by how the dancers made it all look so effortless. At intermission, Audrey said to me, "Mommy, that is just like the Nutcracker I saw on tv." "Where?" I asked. "The Tom and Jerry one," she replied. Fabulous. My kids are getting culture from cartoons. I remember that Tom and Jerry, so I chuckled. She then said, as her face lit up, that she would like to learn to dance too. Is there ever a little girl that doesn't want to be a ballerina at five? At ten? I know I did. It's a long story, but there is a horrifically embarrassing picture my Mom has/had (hopefully lost or burned) of the chubbiest ballerina ever.

....finally, finally, polishing off the last of the giant plate of almond toffee Jane so graciously made me (speaking of chubby). I came out of the candy coma just last weekend.

....serving as the iPod gatekeeper for the entire tribe. Ben got a new one as a late, late birthday present from my Dad a few months back. It started a revolution. As everyone knows, I love my iPod. Even when I was mocked by one of my son's friends, "Oh, look, how cute, you don't even have color" as he pointed to my screen (he may as well have said, "Oh, look, you guys still have an outhouse") I didn't falter in my affections. Until I held Ben's in my hand, and watched some videos on it...and the coveting began. I figured that I might get one on down the road, you know, break down for the newer model, the knee-weakening swoon-worthy version of my dreams...but I put that thought on the back burner, as old reliable still worked well, and let's not be frivolous, Anna. We decided to get Nolan a new one, like Ben's, and give Nolan's old one to Ryan, hey, everyone's happy, right? However, as always, Mr W knows his girl, and he surprised me with an iPod Touch for Christmas. *swoon* It's fantastic. I love it as much as my old reliable one, which I still use, on occasion. But the Touch has me seduced by its smooth screen, its lovely graphics, and the hot pink case he got me for it. If someone had told me even a year ago that I would be able to watch Top Gun and the 300 in the palm of my hand, I would never have believed them. And yet I have. Watched Top Gun. Thank you, Levi Strauss and Hanes. White tshirts, jeans, and sand never looked so good. Big screen, small screen--size really doesn't matter. :p

....realized the trauma that is coming up this year, as not only do I stare 40 right in the face, but in a couple of weeks, I have to start the process of picking the high school that Nolan will attend. And fill out papers for Ben to go to jr high. "I am not old enough to have a child in high school," I lamented to Mr W this morning. "Weren't we just there ourselves??" I smiled at the thought of a 17 year old Mr W, and I was inwardly pleased--and a little horrified--that he at least can conjure up an image of what things were like when they were in their original starting positions. Yet when I point this out, he still has the grace to pat my ass and assure me, sincerely, that everything is, still, in the right place.

....laughing out loud at Audrey. She got this giant paper doll as a gift from my brother and it has magnetic clothes you stick on it. (I stuck the magnets on the flippin' thing myself, some assembly required, of course.) I came into the room the other day in time to see the fully dressed Barbie being pummelled by small items as her brothers were knocking the clothes off (Barbie is not naked--she's painted underneath, so it's not that angle, thank God). "Stop!" I urged them, only to find out that Audrey dresses the Barbie for expressly that purpose, and helps bomb the clothes right off her. Nice. I know. I know. Oy.

....discovering that red lipstick is a commitment. Again, Mr W strikes gold with the "guideline" list I sent him to the MAC counter with, as he is the king of the cosmetic stocking stuffer. I like what he got, particularly when he told me, and this is so awesome I almost jumped him on the spot, that the makeup counter chick was putting the colors I picked on her arm, and he made his decision based on the way they looked and me. I don't care if she was the hottest chick he's ever seen in his life, and he really picked it based on the shade of her cleavage, he made good choices and told a good story. That alone is worth the commitment of checking it and reapplying it.

On that note...

Oh! Note...

Speaking of note...

Ben plays trombone, but he really wanted to learn trumpet, and he just let that cat out of the bag at the beginning of the school year. He's a good kid, and wants to please everyone, so when the band teacher talked him into trombone last year, he went with it; and when he finally told me this year what happened, he said he'd stick with it. But he's been dropping hints and asking, and asking, and so I finally offered to rent him a trumpet too, as long as he understood that he'd probably need private lessons to get up to speed and if he was willing to practice and be responsible about it, we'd spring for that, too. Yesterday, I finally got around to renting it and setting him up for lessons (Thursday is his first one). I figure there's nothing wrong with learning more than one instrument, he enjoys it, why not?

I was leaving work today, and stopped to say hi/bye to one of my friends. She invited me out to dinner on Thursday night, at 6. I said I could come, but suddenly it dawned on me that I couldn't, so I apologized and said I wouldn't be able to make it. I explained Ben's situation, and that he would be starting his first lesson...Thursday at 6.

"Your son is going to be a good kisser!" she exclaimed. "What?" I responded. "Oh, trumpet players make the best kissers," she gushed, sighing, grinning, "it's all about how they have to use their lips and their tongue," she went on, as I held out a hand and fanned my face, "You're making me blush," I said, and it's true, my face just burned, as she joked, "Well, I guess you wouldn't want to think that, not about your own son," she giggled. "Um, no," I giggled back ---at just that moment, one of our cuter coworkers walked by, and I didn't think it was possible, but I blushed again, more severely, that's lovely...

And it appears I am not staring 40 in the face, but 14.

It all started when...

2008-01-09T23:38:00.000-07:00

....I ruined a batch of Rice Krispy treats.

Who the hell messes those up? How? They're so foolproof that a 9 year old can make them, yet there I stood, with a pan of too-crispy treats, so hard that I feared for the dental health of my friends and family.

I blame it on bad marshmallows.

As I threw the mess out, it took the wind out of my cookie sails right before Christmas. My Tias may never forgive me the lack of holiday cheer I send them in the form of lemon bars and wedding cookies, but I'll make it up to them as soon as I shed the shame of the failed Rice Krispy treats.

(I did manage a batch of sugar cookies for Santa, at Ryan's insistence, on Christmas Eve, and they turned out fine.)

It seemed to me that the kids got out of school, I shopped like mad, late as always (because I couldn't trust myself not to spill the beans, really) and boom! Christmas was upon me. The presents were unwrapped, and it was Nolan's birthday. Then New Years. Mr W surprised me with some time off of work, and the stars aligned and I was able to take time off too. The kids just went back to school on Tuesday, and as of this today, things were back to normal.

As normal as can be for me, that is.

I thought of Martha Stewart, and those kid-cooking-expert gurus as I packed lunches this morning. I don't think that a box of Hi-C and a tuna sandwich would ever measure up to star-shaped pitas with hummus and veggies for dipping, but I do what I can.

The lunch boxes come back empty, so I guess I'm doing something right.

Stupid marshmallows.

It's the confectioner's version of "brick"

2007-12-16T03:11:00.000-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen, you will have to excuse me. I'm a little tipsy. In my cups, so to speak. And not the ones labeled a, b, or c. C, for the record. Yeah, baby.

Anyway.

I didn't intend to be tipsy, but I was Christmas shopping this evening with my Dad; then got home late. Mr W is out catching drunks, so I figured that since I've had a bottle of wine in my fridge since Thanksgiving, why not? The kids are asleep. I'm feeling a little...spirited. Maybe some wine will chill me out.

Um, no.

Not the chill factor I was looking for. If anything, I feel even more spirited, and just stopped myself short of sending a persuasive text message. Thank goodness for the internet. I'd really get into trouble without it.

Ahem.

Anyway, I cracked out some brie with my wine. Oh, my god. What happened to street tacos and tequila? Brie?

I succumbed to the siren call of the brie at Costco. Oh, yes, surprise, surprise, the sample ladies are on a mission. A mission from God, apparently, to let you have a taste, just a little taste...they are like the drug pushers of the culinary world. There you are, amidst gallons of olive oil, when a little old lady who looks like your Nana suggests you try some of her wares....and before you know it, you are justifying the purchase of a wedge of brie so buttery, so rich, that it's artery-clogging goodness could put down a brigade of Marines. Mmm. Marines...

Whoops. Distracted! Where was I?

I learned I have a new skill. Apparently, using a corkscrew is not as hard as it looks. Not only did I manage to open the bottle without incident, I saved the cork so I could at least pretend I wasn't intending on drinking it all and could re-cork like a pro. Sweet!

I took my chances with a knife, and there I stood, in the kitchen in my pj's; thin slices of a lovely apple, some round Melba snacks, brie, and a few glasses of wine. Throw in a hundred cats, and I'd be the perfect cliche.

I decided to put the bottle away, to maintain some semblance of dignity. (cue laugh track)

I took a gander at the Saturday Six, and here we go:

Saturday Six - Episode 191

Boy, that's big. Is that a title in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

1. If you could receive only the gift of food this Christmas, which single item would you choose?

No brainer. An obscenely large container of Jane's fabulous almond toffee. Oh, she gave me the recipe, but it makes me cry because I can't do it as good as she can. I can't. Yes, this is a shameless, shameless attempt to get her to give me some. If I'm an expert at anything, it's shameless begging. Just ask my hus--- Ooops. <blush>

2. Dessert. What’s the first food that just came to mind when you read that word?

Pizzookie. I am new to the Pizzookie; a local Italian restaurant makes it; it's a gooey, warm chocolate chip cookie served warm in a 6 inch deep dish pizza pan with quality vanilla ice cream on top. Mmm, mmm, good. Next time, I will skip dinner for that, and not share. It's that yummy.

3. What do you eat more of when you’re trying to lose weight? After my previous response, I'm supposed to think of losing weight???? Veggies, like, DUU-UUuuh.

4. Take the quiz: What holiday food are you?

I know, I know--"Stupid quiz alert." Yet, I couldn't resist.

You Are a Gingerbread House

A little spicy and a little sweet, anyone would like to be lost in the woods with you.

That's what I'm talking about---would this be the confectioner's version of "brick"?? Schhh--wing! :p

5. When you were a kid, did you ever really leave food for Santa Claus? If so, what was the typical fare you placed near the tree for Jolly Ol’ St. Nick?

Nah. But I may have left cookies and milk once. Now, as an adult, I am forced to leave out not only cookies and milk, but reindeer chow as well. Really. Maybe I'll leave out a little wine and brie this year. (Although I hear Santa is partial to margaritas.)

6. Do you tend to eat more, less, or about the same at Christmas dinner than you do at Thanksgiving dinner?

Bwahahahahaha. Really, who keeps track? I watch it, not to over indulge, but just try to get between me and my Christmas tamales. Try.

Hmm. Guess that's it.

Wow. It's 3 am. It appears I have a glass of wine to pour.

Eh, I'll probably just move Audrey over, and pour myself into bed.

**yawn**

Party's over.