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.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
My idea of a date
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.
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.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Flying is optional
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. :)
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...
...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...
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...
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
My Christmas wish
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.
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.
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