Wherein a Cynic Rethinks Some Things

All those awesome happy beautiful good life photos we see on social media: they're all a total crock, right?

When my kids see their friends' super cool Instagram photos and respond by decrying their own boring lives, I whip out my tried and true lecture entitled The Problem with Social Media and wax on and on about the insidious nature of the filtered, photoshopped, edited, culled and selectively presented Beautiful Life we think everyone but us is having. 

It can make me crazy, this 24-7 invasion into our homes and minds and psyches, and I feel a certain sense of urgency about making sure my kids know that all those sick shots are not necessarily an accurate portrayal of life. 

As you might imagine, my kids roll their eyes at me a lot. 

I'm a bit of a fun sponge like that. 

Today I had occasion to re-consider my opinion.  Because ya' know what? This weekend has been super average -- dare I say boring. My house is a mess, I've been kinda grumpy and my kids have been unpleasant and annoying.  I'm half-heartedly cleaning a ridiculously cluttered garage and serving uninspired meals; my kids are half-heartedly doing homework and serving up complaints.  Rick is, as usual, working hard and not taking any time to relax.  Just normal, tilting towards Bummerville, ho-hum life. 

Who wants to document and remember that?

In the midst of all that mediocrity, this happened too. 

And I immediately grabbed my phone and posted these photos on Facebook because they're fun and cute. 

I chastised myself. Gently, of course--nothing too serious. But I did roll my eyes at myself for a moment. 

And then I realized that I would rather remember these moments, thank you very much, instead of the bickering in the car on the way home from Mass, or the mountain of laundry defying physics in my garage, or the truly inane battle of wills I got drawn into with my kid, or a hundred other challenging moments in this long, mundane weekend. 

Maybe it's narcissistic at worst or fake at least to only post what makes ours look like a charmed life. 

Or maybe it's what keeps me grateful, keeps me going, keeps my head in the game. 

Whaddya know, a cynic can still learn a thing or two from this crazy world.  Photographs of a happy family never tell the whole story. But the part they do tell is pretty damn important too.

#grateful

Neither Credit Nor Blame

I'd happily accept your praise

For mothering on my bestest days.

But if I do, then I also must

Bear the brunt of your disgust

When mommy's rules you do not like

And you'd like to see me take a hike.

You're a fickle bunch, you see,

Shifting sands, your thoughts of me.

So I'll eschew the credit and blame

For the never-ending Parenting Game.

Come to me in fifteen years:

We'll work things out over well-poured beers.

7 Quick Takes: Volume 52

We're very very busy and we've got a lot to do

And we haven't got a minute to explain it all to you

For on Sunday Monday Tuesday there are people we must see

And on Wednesday Thursday Friday we're as busy as can be

With our most important meetings and our most important calls

And we have to do so many things and post them on the walls.

This song, Busy Busy Busy, by Sandra Boyton, sorta captures our lives of late.  Barely time to stop and breathe.  (Do you know Philadelphia Chickens?  Oh, you must!)

So for today's Quick Takes, I bring you the antidote to being too busy.  Here are seven things that have made me smile over the past week or so.   Please visit Jen, our 7QT Host, and sample the links of other QT-ers.

~1~

Fun with schoolwork!

~2~

Found one late night...

~3~

Close up of our 4th First Communion banner

~4~

Creativity.

~5~

More creativity.

~6~

Cousins playing music together

~7~

Um, hello?  Weren't you just born like five minutes ago?

Find the things that make you smile.  Never be too busy for that.

* * *

Finding the Silver Lining

Cleaning is a drag. No one actually enjoys cleaning, right? My kids are no exception. But they have figured out that cleaning has a few upsides. Here are the positive discoveries they made tonight:

(1) If you are on dish washing duty, you can spray your siblings with water and create an impressive amount of chaos.

(2) If the living room floor is clear of socks, shoes, books, drawing stuff and jigsaw puzzle pieces, you can have a dance party to Michael Franti's Say Hey, even though Mom says the job isn't done until the dining room and kitchen are clean too.

(3) If you have to put away a long sheer white curtain (and no, no one knows how it got underneath the dining room table, Mom), you can wrap it around your head and shoulders like a shepherdess and sing Mary Had A Little Lamb in an operatic voice. The singing is fun, but the real benefits are annoying the hell out of your siblings, delaying any actual cleaning, and watching Mom do her imitation of Linda Blair because you are ignoring her completely.

(4) Cleaning can unearth buried treasures, especially if you decide to "clean" the bag of stuff mom set aside for Goodwill. All kinds of great stuff can be put back into the household mix, since Mom doesn't recognize real value when she sees it. She was going to give away those purple rain boots that haven't fit anyone in 2 years! She was going to toss a super dingy trashy- looking pink sequined purse with a broken zipper!

(5) If there enough people cleaning at the same time, Mom can't really keep track of all of them, so you can sneak off and draw a picture. She'll never notice you are gone, but she'll get a big kick out of this:

(6) And if your job is to straighten up the couch and neaten the blanket that hides all the cushion stains, you can tuck that blanket in between two cushions and make it look like the couch has a butt crack.

Sometimes, cleaning is just plain wonderful.

* * *

How's This for an Alarm Clock

Hello Blogger my old friend,

I've come to write for you again.

Because a notion softly creeping,

Came inside while I was (not) sleeping.

And the children that are sucking all my time

Still do whine...

And drown out sounds of silence.

* * *

It's 5:15am. My heart is pounding. I have just averted disaster, and I haven't even had a cup of coffee yet.

A few short moments ago, I was sleeping like a baby, a baby who shares her bed with too many other babies and is forced to make due with a small sliver of space so close to the edge of the bed the right side of her body actually gets a work out while sleeping, such is the effort to prevent falling onto the cold, hard-wood floor.

So it wasn't that restful to begin with, but at this point in my parenting, I take any sleep that knocks on my door with a "yes please and thank you for coming" and I don't complain. I sleep.

I came slightly awake when I heard another child come into the room. Two were already sprawled behind me on the bed, peacefully placing elbows and feet into awkward positions for me and their dad, and before opening my eyes, I contemplated how I was going to fit this one in as well. I opened an eye, expecting to see another daughter. Instead, without lifting my head, I had a level view of my son's waist.

His thumbs were hooked around his camo pajama bottoms. His legs were in "the stance." He was getting ready to relieve himself. His waistband was inches from my face.

This one has a short but colorful history of peeing in interesting places while he is half asleep. In a flash, I realized that I was this close to being his next interesting place, as it was clear to me that he thought he was standing in the bathroom and not in the bedroom of the woman who brought him into the world. At least I hope so. Otherwise, he may have been making a statement regarding my parenting skills. Let's go with mistaken bathroom location.

I woke up right quick. Before those thumbs had moved too far downward in their hooking motion, I barked: "To the bathroom! To the bathroom! Not here!"

Sleepily, he looked at me with hurt eyes: Why on earth is this lady yelling at me?

Seconds went by. Was he actually awake? Did he hear and comprehend me? I barked again. And Lord have mercy, he stopped mid-draw and stumbled over to the bathroom, mere steps from my bedroom door, and did his business. (Boys peeing is such a noisy business, isn't it?) Next, he turned to the bathroom door, closed it, locked it, and tried for several seconds to open it again. Finally, he got it unlocked, came out into the hallway and stood there for awhile, disoriented and confused.

"Back to bed, sweetheart. Go!" I commanded, a bit forcefully, because I was still stunned by what had almost just happened.

He looked hurt again, said something in a whiny voice indicating that I was being entirely unjust to him, and walked heavily into his room. I heard the thud of his body falling back into bed. I don't think he once fully woke up.

I, on the other hand, am wide awake. Having narrowly escaped a distinctly unpleasant wake up call, I'm pretty sure I can handle whatever comes my way today.

I'm glad it ended this way; this family does not need anymore stories like this one.

* * *

She's 100% Organic

I put Little T to bed tonight, after her long day of playing dollies.

My day included cleaning out my linen closet, which meant thinning through 5 babies worth of baby blankets. We probably got 3-5 blankets each time we had a kid, so...lots of cute blankeys around here. But I don't got no more babies! So the thinning begins.

It's hard to get rid of stuff with the kids around. I'm sure some of you know what I mean. Half of the cute blankets in the give away pile ended up in the You Can Keep Them If They Stay in Your Room Pile. So after unearthing a stray farm veggie box from the garage, Little T spent most of the day making comfy beds for her baby dolls.

I guess the box bed just looked too comfy to her. This is what I found when I went in her room to check on the girls after they were asleep:

That doesn't even look comfortable.

Just goes to show that not everything in a box labeled organic is trustworthy.

* * *

Go Climb a Tree

You might just end up being this happy:

And, if you learn how to get back down all on your own, your mommy will be happy too!

* * *

Another Reason Kids and Technology Do Not Mix

Stumbled on this blog today. Had to share this post. Classic.

* * *

52 T-Shirts

I am in the process of weeding through my children's clothing. This week, I’ve been focusing on the boys' clothes. Without finishing the laundry and before counting whatever t-shirts might by on their floor, behind their beds, balled up in their closet, cast off in the minivan, stuck God knows where, I have so far counted 52 boy t-shirts.

There is something seriously wrong with two boys owning 52 t-shirts.

I wonder how many shirts the average 10 year old boy in Haiti has. Or had, before the earthquake, and then how many he has now. I wonder how many shirts the average South African 10 year old boy has. How many shirts did he have to choose from to wear on the day he watched his countrymen play Mexico in the opening game of the World Cup? For that matter, I wonder how many shirts the average school-kid has in my own urban and afflicted city.

I'm guessing none of those three hypothetical boys has anywhere near 26 t-shirts (52 divided by my two male offspring).

I figure I'll find at least 10 more shirts scattered far and wide around this house. There are probably at least 1 or 2 in the backyard.

In our feeble defense, I will say that those shirts are mostly divided into four categories: (1) they came from the local thrift shop; (2) they are hand-me-downs; (3) they were gifts; or (4) they came from a camp, event, contest, team, or some other special event that included a shirt. I cannot remember ever once buying the boys a t-shirt from a regular retail shop, just because.

Of the thrift shop collection, we got one for our 2nd son that was spot on perfect for him during this past school year. He was mis.er.a.ble. the entire year, disliking his classroom with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns. Rick found him this shirt:



That right there is t-shirt perfection.

We've got shirts from Shakespeare camp (three of them), soccer camp, the garden tour, and the San Francisco Giants (at least 4). We've got the fun shirts, like the one pictured above, or the one that says "You Can Have My Sister." We've got a handful of plain white tees. We've got hand-painted Roberto Clemente and Willie Stargell Pittsburg Pirates t-shirts . We've got the One World, One Game shirts, one for every dude in the house; they're like a triptych in those things.

But the situation is out of control, so yesterday, the boys and I pared it down to 20. Well, slightly more than 20, because I decided to keep, for memory's sake, the Clemente and Stargell shirts I painted for them and the Murphy's Irish Pub shirt with my dad’s cartoon image of himself on the back.



We also weeded through their shorts, pants, jeans, sweatshirts, swimtrunks (they had seven!) and pajamas. I am happy to report that now, all of their stuff almost fits in their dresser drawers.

On to the girls next week. I already know I'm going to struggle with this one:



No one has fit into this dress or hat in over three years, and I still can't part with them. The nostalgia factor is just too high.

Why do we get so attached to our clothing? Or is that just me?

* * *

The Little Things

Rick took the four olders to school today. My job was to get the littlest muppet out the door and to daycare. Early this morning, I made a list of things I must accomplish today, this being one of the three days of the week I have no kids with me. That list is sitting on my dining room table growing fangs, hair and teeth.

Pressure. Pressure to get things done, to do things well, to go out into the world with confidence.

My response: "Ah, screw it. I think I'll read to Tallulah instead."

Well, that sounds more noble than what actually happened. What happened was my 3 year old TV addict was begging to watch "sumpin" before going to daycare, and I was standing firm: no TV before daycare. After 15 requests for TV, she switched to asking for a book. I tried to say no, I really did, because I was feeling rushed. But I figured, damn, I really should encourage the whole reading thing. So a little reluctantly, I sat down on the couch to read.

One book later, repeated five times, and I found myself stuck to my couch, cuddling with Tallulah and Bob Dylan, covered in a cozy blanket, and playing silly games. Oh, to clarify, Bob Dylan is her stuffed monkey. Anyway, her most favorite thing these days is for one of us to be Bob Dylan's voice and to have goofy conversations with her. Today, Bob talked about her recent pink eye, where she does (and maybe should) go poop, polka-dotted seals, his favorite food (bananas, of course), and how much he loves her. He lamented the fact that he cannot use medicine for pink eye, like she did recently, because, as she pointed out, he cannot blink his eyes for the eye drops.

They hugged each other many times. They kissed a lot. She was exceedingly happy.

I was half an hour late dropping her off at daycare. The to do list is now growling and throwing china.

It was worth it.

* * *

The Idiot's Guide to Knowing When You Are Really, Really Tired

You might think that being tired is fairly obvious. You might think that only an idiot would not be aware that she needs more sleep. Such is the nature of sleep deprivation, that those who suffer from it for long enough forget how important sleep is or how much they need it. But then, something usually happens to break that cycle and bring home the point that we mere mortals do need to sleep.

Here's how it happened for me:

My son goes to soccer practice in Alameda, a good half hour away from our home. Getting him there means hanging out in Alameda for two hours, rather than heading home only to turn around and go back when it's time to pick him up.

Which is how I found myself last Friday afternoon in Alameda, toting my 5 and 3 year old daughters with me, after dropping Sam at practice. I was looking for a Chase Bank, so I spent the first 30 minutes or so driving around, passing several watering holes and watching with envy all the after-5-on-a-Friday revelers, talking, laughing, drinking and relaxing on one of the first nice evenings of the Spring. In contrast, I was trapped in a mini-van with two complaining, restless girl-children who were picking at my nerves with abandon.

I finally found the bank, hauled myself and two wee-ones in and back out, loaded 'em back in their seats (my most favorite thing to do 10 times a day!), and started looking for a place to get them something to eat. I ended up, somewhat unimaginatively, at Starbucks. I got myself a tea --BOOOOORING -- because I really wanted a latte, but it was, after all, 6:30 in the evening and that would have been nuts. I got the girls some fruit and cheese trays and some chocolate milk boxes, and we set up shoppe at a little round table with a cushy bench.

The warm, yellow light of the April sunset streamed through the wooden blinds of the west-facing cafe windows. My two tired girls were mellowing, with food in their bellies and sunlight on their feet. One sat heavily on my knee, leaning comfortably into my chest; the other curled on the cushion next to me, her head resting on my unoccupied knee. All three of us sat hypnotized by the sunlight, the half-empty cafe, the lateness of the afternoon, and the soft music wafting over our heads. We sat for awhile in a very peaceful kind of state.

Which is what got the water works flowing. The very unfamiliarity of simply sitting and listening to music made me absolutely wistful for days gone by. (Even piped in Starbuck's music!) Rick and I really used to enjoy listening to music at cafes and bars, especially our very own Murphy's Irish Pub, back when my parents owned it. I have great memories of taking the boys there when they were babies. We were so much more mobile when we had two kids; now, the younger ones have no idea how much fun we used to be.

That made me sad for them, and sad for us, that we don't or can't make time for those kinds of simple pleasures any more.

And then, through the Starbucks speakers, came this song, one I have always, shamelessly, loved with that crazy sappy folk-music kind of love. And I started to weep. Couldn't stop. I buried my face in Tallulah's mass of curls, and let her hair soak up my tears. I'm sure I looked like quite a sight. Two strung out little toddlers in need of baths draped over me...crumbs splayed far and wide from their less-than-civilized eating habits...kid blankets, backpacks, books, detritus everywhere. I may have looked like a woman who grabbed her kids and the clothes on her back, and fled a bad scene, using Starbucks to plan her next move, figure out where to crash, or where to drive the camaro for the night.

This is how I came to realize how numbingly tired I was. Am. I'm a sucker for sappy music, but this was ridiculous, even for me. Right out there in public, I let memories, regrets, hopes, fears, a lilting guitar and some wicked harmonies get the better of me. A little time and space and quiet came up behind me and knocked me off my game, rendering me defenseless against the possibility that I'm not a perfect mom. Somehow, in that little world, all of the things I want to give my children seemed fleeting, like the afternoons spent watching Sam dance to fiddle music at Murphy's, gone and not appreciated nearly enough when they were here. So I cried and cried, and sniffled, hiding behind Tallulah and listening to Emmylou.

It went on for awhile. The girls were so sleepy themselves, I don't think they noticed. Or else they were just all "Oh, mom's crying again. Who broke something?"

Pretty soon, one of them had to pee, and the trance was broken. But the mood stayed with me for the entire ride home and on into the rest of the evening. I was suddenly, acutely aware of just how exhausted I was.

And that, my friends, is how you can tell when you need a little sleep. Or at least, that's how I was finally able to tell. I refer you to the title of this post.

Maybe I should go get some sleep?

* * *

Patience, Patience.

It's Monday again. Sigh.

* * *

Ice Cream: An Essay in Pictures

All while wearing big girl underwear.

* * *

Where Enthusiasm Gets Scary

My youngest helped me make dinner tonight. I started to wisk the eggs, but she got all excited that she wanted to do it. "ME ME ME ME, Mommy, I DO IT !"

Sure honey, you can do it! Here you go, here's the wisk, here's how you do it. Good girl!

"GOODY GOODY GOODY! I GET TO KILL THE BABY CHICKS."

She is truly terrifying.

* * *

Where Stubborn Meets Ridiculous

First of all, I kind of can't believe I haven't already told this story, but I searched my blog this morning and couldn't find it. If I somehow missed it, and I'm repeating myself, please have mercy and remember that I've lost more and more brain cells and memory space with each child and I'm lucky I remember my own name half the time. Caveat issued.

* * *

A few months ago, I was manning the controls of a routine school-night at our house. This involves making pasta, scaring up a vegetable, and keeping the little kids somehow occupied while helping the older kids do their homework. It's quite a juggling act.

At one particular moment, I was chopping carrots, correcting 4th grade math and helping my oldest figure out his science homework, when a blood curdling shriek interrupted the proceedings. I turned around to see my youngest, standing absolutely rigid, with a look beyond terror on her face, and a sound from the depths of hell spewing forth from her throat.

She was not standing near anyone, so no one could have hurt her. Everyone else was accounted for, so they couldn't have swiped a toy or lovey from her. She wasn't crumpled on the floor or recovering from a great fall. There were no tools or other implements near her. She was either in extreme pain or extremeley pissed off at someone, and I couldn't figure out what had happened.

I tried asking her what was wrong, and got screamed at for my troubles. I tried to comfort her, but she put her arms out in front of her and spit out several guttural NOs!, which I took to mean: Stay the hell away from me, lady!

Everything and everyone came to a halt. Good God in heaven, what is the matter with this child?

Diaper rash? Checked it out: all clean.

Tortured by siblings? Checked it out: they were all baffled and concerned.

The screaming continued, the rigidly stiff body remained so.

Is she hungry? Um, no, she just threw the crackers we offered her at my head. Thirsty? Um, she says no, and I'm not giving her a heavy sippy cup just to be sure, as I think it will end up in a trajectory towards my head.

Does she need her blanket? Not providing relief.

Tired? Just got up from a nap 30 minutes ago.

All I could do was gather her in my arms and hold her, screaming, angry, inconsolable child that she was. After resisting that for awhile, she finally let me. She settled a tiny bit, but was clearly just furious with the world.

With no idea how to help her, I rubbed her back, and tried to get back to homework help. After about 20 minutes, she was still distraught, and I had to do SOMETHING to break this cycle.

When in doubt, change a diaper; at least it gives you something to do. Maybe it's pinching her skin? So I took her upstairs and put her on my bed and proceeded to do the job.

When I lifted up her legs to pull the (clean!) diaper off, I got a look at the bottoms of her feet. There, lodged nice and firmly in her left foot, was a push pin. The neat red circle was flat and flush against her skin. It took a fair amount of digging to dislodge it.

OK, now tell me: WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS KID? Wouldn't a normal child indicate to her mother that her foot hurt like a mo-fo, and ask me to make it stop? She's verbal, she's not shy, she's clearly able to obtain things she wants from me, her dad, her siblings, her daycare provider, the neighbor, the mailman, and the grocery store clerk. She is, usually, the tail wagging this family back, forth, up, down, and sideways, and yet, and yet...

She left the damn push pin in her foot for over 20 minutes while I was quite obviously trying to make every effort to find out what was wrong and make it better.

* * *

W. T. F.

* * *

"Just Give Me A Big Push!" and other things I am trying to ignore

Rainy afternoons are...interesting. The kids a gettin' a little stir crazy around here, and with soccer practice canceled, and screen time maxed out, and not much homework to do in these waning days before vacation, I'm hearing the words "I'm bored" a little more than I care to.

Not tonight though! They've discovered a new activity: they are sledding down the stairway. I am trying my level best to ignore the things I am hearing, such as "Cenzo, I just need you to give me one really big push!" and "Hey, are you laughing or crying?" and "We need more padding!" and "If we could just get this to be more slippery!"

There is total chaos in my stairwell. They've got the Brian Setzer band blasting from the boys' room and they are taking turns seeing who can catapault themselves down the stairs the fastest.

If they can manage to leave me out of it, they might get away with it for another 20 minutes.

One thing for sure: they better be damn glad their dad is not home, because there's no way in hell he'd be going for this activity. I, on the other hand, am worn down and weakened by the call of the internet: if they're staying away from me, and letting me blog, check email, facebook, and obsessively check my stats, then I pronounce it good.

All I can say is if I have to break away from this computer to take someone to the hospital, mama will NOT be happy. And if mama's not happy, ain't NOBODY gonna be happy. They better say a prayer as they careen down the stairs.

* * *

Because I Can

I served brussel sprouts tonight.

This was received with a level of resistance that would impress most revolutionaries. I, however, am the Supreme Dictator, and the sprouts went down. Not before I uttered some interesting sentences, including:

"You cannot stand there with your mouth full of food! That's not how we roll! You have to swallow!"

"This is so good for you: learning to eat stuff you don't like! I'm so proud of you!"

"Not fair that she has two and you have three? You're right. I'll give her three."

They hate me. This gives me the glowing feeling of being sure I am doing something right.

* * *

And the new normal is...

On the way home from school today, the girls asked me if we could go to a local bakery. I said no, we weren't going to stop anywhere, we were going to go home and have a nice normal evening.

A few minutes later, I told them what we were going to have for dinner and I mentioned that maybe we would even sit down and eat at the table for once. (Our dining room table is rarely empty enough for all of us to sit together at the same time...too much laundry, books, school papers, etc.) Lola piped up: "I thought you said tonight was going to be normal."

Snide little thing.

* * *

Oh, and one kid threw up her brussel sprouts, so maybe that Supreme Dictator thing was a little premature. I'll have to refine my technique.

* * *

You Know You Are an NPR Family When...

...your 5-year old suddenly asks, after two months of being in school instead of with mom during the daytime hours: "Mom! We never hear Terry Gross talk anymore! Why???"

* * *

Working With--Yes, that tiara looks great--My Kids Underfoot

Dear Carol,

Thanks for your--no, you can't have a cookie!--email. Rick would love to--yes, you can have 15 minutes of computer time if you are finished with your homework.--meet with you about your--no, 5X9 does not equal 50.--garden.

Oh, hang it all.

I would
Tallulah, stop spitting at Elizabeth.
really love to
I'm sorry you got scratched up in the thorny bushes, I'm sure that hurt.
go for two minutes in
Tallulah! Stop! You will go in another time-out if you cannot leave her alone!
a row without
No, you cannot have a cookie!"
being interrupted.
Am I the only one who can hear that infernal timer going off?!?!?!?!

It just might be
You can have a turn after her.
physically impossible for
I'm sorry honey, your time is up. No, you don't get extra computer time. They don't get extra time either. They get the same amount of time. No, you don't get extra time. Please unclench your fists from around my arms and remove your stomping, crying, tantruming self from my presence before I visit sellyourkid.com and post a picture of your beautiful face with the headline: I'll pay YOU to take her off my hands!"
them to leave me alone.

Sorry, Carol. I couldn't
Are you going to ask me the right answer to every single one of your 20 math problems as you do them? I would prefer you let me check them all at the end.
finish the email I started to you.
Fine, I will unlock the garden door. Just stop screaming.
If we don't respond, and you get tired of waiting,
Don't go outside without shoes! No, I don't know where your damn shoes are!
and you find someone else to do your project, and we all end up on the street because my children
No, you can't have any candy.
won't shut their pie holes long enough for me to do any work,
Tallulah, stop pushing him! And if you all can't get along, you will go to bed and NO ONE will watch the Dancing with the Stars Results Show tonight!
please toss some money in my sons' upturned baseball caps when you pass us
CAN'T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE FOR FIVE MINUTES? STOP TALKING TO ME STOP ASKING ME THINGS STOP TELLING ON EACH OTHER DO NOT TOUCH THE COMPUTER AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SHUT UP!
on the street.

Either that, or come and visit me in the looney bin. I should be ready for visitors after about 67 days of total silence.

* * *

Post Pediatrician Ramblings

I took some kids to the doctor today. One had a well-visit. Three had to get flu shots. One had to be checked for wheezing, a follow-up to a visit two weeks ago. That's a lot of stuff, right? Well, that's nothing compared to the to-do list I left with. Check this out:

-- Get eye exam for one kid. (Poor thing bombed her in-office eye exam...just like her momma!)
-- Get chest xray for one kid.
-- Get KUB xray for one kid.
-- Fill prescription -- two different meds -- for one kid
-- Get over the counter meds for one kid.
-- Bring one back in a month.

In the next 5 weeks, four of my kids will have their regular well-visits. Some people think of November and December as the Holiday Season. I think of those months as "Time to Reconnect with My Pediatrician Season." Which is nice, because I have a wonderful pediatrician, and love chatting with her. How many of you are facebook friends with your pediatrician? See, she's just that awesome. In fact, she's so awesome that when she moved her practice to a town 25 minutes away from us, we stayed with her; we make that drive because we can't imagine anyone else caring for our kids. With gas prices as high as they are, this means that you have to be pretty sick to warrant a trip to the doctor's office at my house.

So by the time I picked them up at school, got them all in and out of the doctor's office, got them all fed (I heart In-n-Out), stopped briefly at home to get them changed into soccer gear, got them to their practice field, raced to pick up the little one from daycare, swung by the bank to make a deposit that reaaaaallllly needed to go in today, stopped by the pharmacy to drop off the prescription, I had been in my car for over four hours. Thank you Bay Bridge malfunction for making the roads ridiculous today.

In case you are wondering, if you spend 4+ hours in a car with rambunctious children and too many containers of soda/coffee, here are a few things that might happen to you:

Your 7-year old girl might spill her root beer on your 9 year old son's absolute favorite drawing, the one he did of a monkey in a school desk, raising his hand and saying: "Would you mind repeating everything you said after 'LISTEN CAREFULLY'?" And he might respond with a howl filled with so much despair that the flowers on the side of the road will wilt.

Your 5-year old might dump her french fries on the floor with just the right timing so that the 9 and 11 year old boys will smush them into the carpet when they climb over the backpacks in a headlong effort to get into the back seat.

Your 5-year old might kick your coffee cup while attempting to hightail it out of the front seat, where she is not supposed to be because "I have a cup of coffee there and don't spill it!" The coffee could get all over the diaper bag and all over the Kindergartner's homework assignment.

Your 3 year old might flick a straw full of Dr. Pepper in your face as you are trying to unbuckle her...which means you might walk around the house for 5 or 10 minutes with Dr. Pepper speckles all over your glasses before you manage to clean them.

You might notice, after getting rid of three of them at the soccer field, that a few more of them also spilled their fries in the back seat.

You might yell a lot at your offspring. You might hear yourself saying quite a few things you thought you'd never say, like "You never learn, you never ever learn!" because you've heard that one before, in your own childhood, and could have sworn you were immune from such nonsense.

You might arrive home with no plan for dinner, but an acute awareness of where exactly in the fridge is the last bottle of Pipeline Porter made with 100% Hawaiian Kona Coffee.

Put a fork in me: I'm done.

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