New Plan: Day 1

Super bummed I missed signing up for NaBloPoMo! National Blog Posting Month is an awesome way to continue to blog, regardless of content and creative inspiration. A picture, a quote, "blah blah blah," has been known to suffice.

I'm going to make up my own monthly, daily blogging plan this year. It always starts on the 10th of every month, you guys! No sweat then. We're just in time.

Thank you for coming. For my first trick, I will try to stop thinking in Status Updates and actually complete a sentence. Facebook and my recent barrage of texting has really dummed down my ability to craft the written word.

[applause]

Business as usual?

I was checking in with Allie this morning to see how she's doing. Emotionally. While spreading her Nutella on one piece of bread and peanut butter on the other, without hesitation she describes a moment in the lunch line yesterday.

Our neighbor boy announced, "Wow. I can't believe your parents are getting divorced."

Asshole, I thought. I had just informed his mother the day before of the change occurring in our house.

Tears are filling Allie's eyes as I encourage her to continue the story.

We talked about the importance of Talking About Your Feelings and Not Keeping Them Inside. We discussed the members of Allie's support system; formal and informal. It was interesting to me how she labeled mostly formal - doctors, lawyers - as I was really pushing for recognition of informal - friends, family, teachers.

This also brought about the opportunity to talk about standing up for oneself.

"I know you believe in that, Mom. I know how important it is. Can you get the pretzels down, please?"

Liberation

I told you I'd be back, right? Well here I am. Now I vow not to announce myself like this anymore as I find it far more irritating than you do.

Today I sit with a somewhat-sick 4 year old laid out on the couch with the tones of Big Bird, Elmo, and Maria and Bob filling the air. I still have a hard time accepting that everyone, EVERYONE, can see Snuffy. Poor Egan may have contracted his cousin's illness of last week. The first Stay Home Sick Day, replete with the obligatory call in to the teacher who also, obligatorily, sighs and hopes for the best. After describing Egan's whiney begging to go to bed, glassy eyed, last night, "Well, that's not like him AT ALL!" No shit. Thanks.

After getting the kids off to school, my routine is to fill the biggest coffee cup possible with my freshly brewed joe, and set up shop at my desk to tend to computer and administrative responsibilities. Even if it is just facebooking, I'm still entitled to that time, right? But today I'm going through my bank account and student loan websites. My own. Cutting a check from my checkbook, from my checking account, for Egan's September tuition was quite liberating this morning. Adding various events into my upcoming calendar months, deciding whether I want to do this or that. It's up to me, you guys. And I really like that feeling right now.

Relief

Such the relief is sending one's kids off to school for the very first day of a new school year. Welcome Cliche Fest '09. Every parent-friend of mine on facebook documents the same milestone with photos and status updates, commemorating another summer over and a new year for students everywhere.

SAHMs or Ds, whatever the case may be, feel they can finally tackle the long awaited list of Shit To Get Done Once The Kids Go To School. Me? I call your bluff. Many of you are probably still sitting in your pjs with your Us Weekly on your lap only midway through your pot of coffee. Or maybe its whatever trashy cable program suits your fancy. One you dare never watch when the kids are in the house.

My mornings as of late involve combing over divorce petition and stipulation details. I too am embarking on a new year. Jon and I have finally decided to end the marriage we started ten years ago. Never fear, though. We are ridiculously amicable and looking forward to our continued partnership in parenting, albeit individually. But together. We are still a family. A nontraditional one at that. No need for apologies or heartache. Because, although it was a difficult to decision, we know it's right for our kids and us.

Gotta go. E! News is on.

The blogging continues

Ohmygosh, you guys. It's been so long! Part of me wants to drone on and on, filling in the blanks of the past few months. Instead, though, I'm just going to say hi and hope you've not given up on me and my tales.

Stay tuned, dear friends. Stay tuned.

A big red bow on top

There is nothing more satisfying than walking into my freshly cleaned house, inhaling the unmistakable fresh scent of lemons, pine, and Murphy's soap. What does that smell like? A church pew comes to mind.

You may recall my indecisive pride interfering with the common sense solution of hiring a cleaning lady while I was in school. This probably isn't the first time I'm reveling in the luxury, either. My great fortune of getting someone else to clean my house was like winning the lottery. For real. A friend of mine who also came to her senses said, "If I could win a million dollars or keep my cleaning crew? I'd keep my cleaning crew."

I couldn't agree more. I was even having my cleaning gal come once a week until Jon and I created our budget and, well, realized that was just plain ridiculous. After reevaluating, we opted for every other week. Which was going ok until The Day I Got the Call.

I left for work that day looking forward to returning home to a clean house. Have I ever told you how impatient I become around day 8 between cleanings? Remember, I was the spoiled brat who had someone coming every week for several weeks. An entire TWO WEEKS had gone by. Instead, I got home to a not cleaned house and a message on my answering machine from the woman I verbally praised, to her face, every time I saw her, while thanking her by throwing rose petals on the floor and bowing before her as she entered the house. Like that scene from Coming to America.

Her message did not sound like the woman I had gotten to know a little bit more each week. She very flatly explained into my voice mail that she would not be cleaning my house anymore because she was busy at her other job and her husband got a raise. Good bye.

This being the woman who I compassionately empathized with each time she called to cancel because one of her family members suddenly died. Again. Or her husband or daughter was hopitalized. Again. Or she herself had another debilitating illness keeping her home for days, making certain I can see the virus over the phone. As if Mononucleosis himself has rendered my cleaning pal hostage to his evil ways. Again.

Now I have another gal who came highly recommended by a totally separate pool of reliable cleaning women. I feel the need to gratefully praise her too because truly, anyone coming to clean my house? Even though I pay her? Is giving me the world's greatest gift.

Celebrating mothers everywhere

Mother's Day is the one day that I am able to shove off all of my usual parenting duties onto Jon. Without any discussion. From anyone. At all.

There is nothing sweeter than the handmade crafts my kids make. Except maybe when they bring me breakfast in bed, each one asking me, "Can I have a bite?" "Can I have one?" "Are you going to eat that?"

After graciously receiving my personally predetermined, menu-specific Mother's Day Breakfast in Bed, I requested not to see my family for the rest of the day. Jon and brother Nick took the kids out to a friend's farm while I spent the remainder of the afternoon in my sister-in-law's sunny back yard with other mother friends laughing and talking for 6 straight hours. Drinking beer and eating pizza.

And wouldn't you know? We talked about our families almost the entire time. We also had to remind ourselves to stop offering to help wash each other's hands, cut up each other's food, or put our drinks into sippy cups.

Value judgment

From my previous post about adults smoking in a kidfilled car with the windows up while talking on a cell phone, I received this reaction:

Judge not. Before you judge yourself. My guess is that the parents in question can look inside your vehicle and find something despicable too. Let's live in peace and harmony! The human species is very resiliant.
(Josh)

Wait. Are you referring to that empty fifth of Thunderbird? I've totally been meaning to throw that out the window and into the ditch on my way home.

Impatience

My toes are screaming for exposure to sunlight; to feel the tender caress of freshly cut blades of grass. My impatience for summertime warm weather is getting a little more intense than I'd like.

When the weather is cool and uncomfortable - or wet as it has been for the last few days - Egan and I are prone to staying inside playing Memory or watching Jimmy Neutron or Happy Feet over and over again. Allie and Gil, in contrast, are their father's children. Cold, overcast, 42 degrees and persistent preciptation? LET'S GO FOR A BIKE RIDE or better yet CANOE!

I've painted my toes black. Come on summer, let's go. I'm ready.

Couch potato

Jon's return home each week is more often than not about me and my needs than anyone else's. I punched out around 7:00 last night. A 10-year-old can totally watch Grey's Anatomy, right?

Laying on the couch together

Allie: Who is Grey?
Me: The main girl. That one.
Allie: Her name is Grey?
Me: That's what they tell me.
Allie: What's anatomy?
Me: It's, um, uhh...like, the make up of something? Your body parts are all your anatomy?
Allie: So why is the show about that girl's....EW! ANOTHER TURNING KISS!

Four days alone with the three of them and their myriad requests leaves this mother ready to make any inappropriate show suitable for her children. Except maybe not The Hills. That's my secret.

Spring is in the air

Almost every song coming up on Pandora sounds to me like a track from Lucious Jackson's Fever In, Fever Out. Is it because around this time of year over 10 years ago I was listening to this album with my stay-in-IC-over-spring-break Airliner friends? Seriously. Spring does something to me. When the sun shines and the birds sing I feel the instinctual need to put on a long skirt, sandals, a tank top, hook up with friends, navigate rural gravels, and, well... Who's with me? Better yet, who WAS with me.

You know what I hate?

Seeing an adult driving with kids in the car, windows up, and smoking a cigarette while on the phone. Jerks.

Technology

What's the deal with laptops and moving your cursor back, like, 3 words or 9 characters, only to begin typing what you're intending to type where you were typing where you have no intention of typing because you already typed?

For Daisy, wherever I may find her...

...having scattered cat litter on the runner in the hallway, on the rug in my bedroom, or sprinkled atop the hardwoods in any other given room in the house.

What's with dogs and eating litter-covered cat poop straight out of the litter box? Better yet, hastily searching for the any remaining moresels, having been dutifully scooped by a 10-year-old fulfilling her daily chore, in the garbage can. The latter, however, resembles more of a CAT SHIT EXTRAVAGANZA! As if Daisy discovered the scooped poop and, in her drunken excitement, ran to call her friends to share the good news, leaving several other unmentionables strewn about the bathroom floor.

A friend of mine referred to such delectable organic dog treats as Snow Caps. Like the movie theater white sprinkle covered chocolate candies? I prefer to think of Daisy and her cat shit eating habits as just plain disgusting. Especially when she actually has the nerve to approach me, mouth open, tongue wagging, ready to coat me with her slobbery affection.

Hands off

A lot of my girlfriends are finally having their first kids, some are on to the second. I'm beginning to realize the difference between the stages in parenting and I'm finding relief from what I'm discovering.

So many of my friends are all, "THREE KIDS?! How do you DO it?" And I'm all, "Ummm...I just, do?"

These girlfriends devote all of their time and energy to Kid 1, and of course Kid 2 if it applies. Most of them are SAHMs because I'm thinking, really you guys, that if we do work as mothers we're sort of frowned upon. Let's face it. We are expected to throw aside our goals, dreams, and professional aspirations to raising our kids. Or we satisfy all of those dreams and aspirations before having the family, but I don't know about that. What I do know is staying at home to parent children is of course a tremendous feat in itself while adding FULL TIME WORK on top of it means you're Super Mom. Or a selfish bitch, depending on who you ask.

What I'm really witnessing here is the different stages of parenting. I did my Kid 1 and Kid 2 obsessing when these girls were still worrying about which bar to go to. Of course, I would rather die than miss the party so I'd try to meet up with them, puking into bathroom sinks at 10:00, then pumping and dumping my beer infused breastmilk. Priorities, people! I devoted much of my time entertaining Allie and Gil, worrying about their soda intake and exposure to sugary snacks. Rigid schedule keeping and bathing every other day. Doing arts and crafts all day. Television watching for a two-year-old? Nothing but minimal PBS and maybe Baby Einstein.

I was just telling a girlfriend about Egan's exposure to things I'd never even dream of letting him experience if he were Kid 1. Or Kid 2. Nope, welcome Kid 3. Kid 3 knows the difference between Bob the Builder and Handy Manny, drinks soda when given the opportunity, stays up late, AND WILL GO WITHOUT A NAP!

My point here, dear readers, isn't about you and your parenting. It's about me and mine. You guys are doing the little kid stuff while I have moved onto the pre-teen big kid stuff. Having discussions about girlfriend drama and crushes with the same little girl who used to toddle up to me in her plastic footed one piece PJs, whispy hair in ever-requested "nuggets," asking me, "How are doin, Mom?" Or when not quite finished with her snack would announce, "I save it to later." Now I have to beg her to let me even think about putting her hair in nuggets. Or braids. Or ponytails. Apparently I don't know as much about fashion as I thought I did.

As I'm surrounded by you newer moms I found myself questioning the amount of interaction I have with my kids. With a sigh of relief, the big kid phase is far more hands-off. With the exception of Kid 3, Kid 1 & Kid 2 are independently brushing their own teeth, bathing themselves, playing outside for hours on end, packing their lunches for first and fourth grade. They read to me often times at bedtime. They even read to Kid 3 from time to time, giving me the opportunity to snuggle while reading but with my eyes closed. Until I'm woken up by Egan clip-clopping around in dancin shoes, asking me to paint his nails.

All's I'm saying, Internet, is that things change when your kids get older. You kind of feel like you still need to give them the same amount of hands-ON attention, when really, after you adjust and pat yourself on the back for a job well done with the little kid phase, it's a lot more hands-OFF.

Scooby Doo, where are you?

Our spare house key mysteriously appeared in the lock of our back door this morning. Kid-driven hyjinx? That's what I'm thinking, although both big kids denied it and Egan's up vacationing in Waverly. This mystery has my brow furrowed and my brain gears turning.

Did I go wandering about locking and unlocking doors with our spare key in a Zoloft-induced sleep walk? Did someone find it on the sidewalk and responsibly put it where it obviously belongs with our last name and address on it? What if they made a copy first? Or are now squatting in my basement! Before we left this morning I went down and surveyed the creepy, empty, squatterless basement. No evidence of unwanted visitors ... with the exception of spider web crowded corners and one of those Million Legged bugs dead at the foot of the stairs.

"What if we have a burglar?" Gil asked on the way to the Y. As if having a burglar is like having a bat in the attic. Or an overloaded lint trap in the dryer.

Stream on this

If you guys haven't ever heard of the South by South West (SXSW, as they say) weeklong event in Austin, Texas, you need to tune in. At least to the music part. I've become aware of its popularity over the years, and as I am now a working woman, I enjoy streaming music from my laptop to keep me company. Today I found The Austin 100. I highly recommend checking it out. It is so choice.

In the name of Egan

The other day I was tidying in the kitchen the way I do 137 times every day. This particular moment was just after school: the big kids were in their designated instrument-practicing locations while Egan freely roamed from room to room. This, however, is one of Allie's least favorite times in her little brother's afternoon. He'll loiter around her doorway until he slowly makes his way into her room only to pound on her keyboard or somehow cause a desk drawer's contents to tumble crashing to the floor. This is when I hear Allie shriek, "MAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHM! Can YOU tell EGAN to get OUT of my ROOM?!"

So predictable, isn't it?

Without a doubt, poor Egan's feelings have been crumpled like a spare sheet of office paper and thrown haphazardly out of Allie's room, door slamming behind him.

As Egan was making his sobbing way down the stairs to tell me all about it, with about 2 more stairs to go, Egan screams bloody murder. At the top of his lungs. Like was just BOO!ed at last year's haunted house.

Allie comes down the stairs, Gil comes running from the family room, and I walk over to find Egan slumped over, bawling into Allie's lap, refusing to go down those final two Steps of Doom. Allie responsibly reported "Egan says he saw a bug."

Gil and I searched around at the base of the stairs only to find a stale Cheerio, a knitting needle, and a stuffed lion puppet. "No bug!" we happily inform a terrified Egan. Only he's not buying it. I picked up Egan to show him the area is as free from bugs as a winter lawn.

About 10 minutes had past when I told the kids I'd offer to walk Daisy. Egan was assisting me, making sure I had everything I needed: leash, poop bag, a capeless right-legless Bizarro Superman. Just as I was shutting the door behind me, I hear Egan's shrill cries for help once more, only I don't buy it and continue to walk the dog. Upon returning, Allie, Gil, and Egan come to the door to inform me that yet again Egan was surprised by a bug. "The SAME bug!" Egan assertively stated, refusing to walk into the kitchen.

While rationalizing with Egan that no bug deserves that kind of attention, I turn to wash my hands and just about step on the very bug causing Egan's conniption. Quickly I squash the damn thing with my Croq (I don't think I look like a dumbass wearing them.). Being one of those Million-legged bugs, I had to stomp, drag, stop, drag, making sure all the little legs stopped twitching, proving the insect's demise.

To this day, Egan reminds me of the bug he once saw at the foot of the stairs and how I heroically killed it in the name of Egan.

Things are getting personal

After admitting to my therapist and doctor that I imagine great relief from various levels of anxiety and maybe a little depression at the mere thought of allowing myself to be a little stoned all day, among other symptoms YOU GUYS, I am now the proud owner of a so far unfilled Zoloft prescription. Even though the reason for my appointment may not be earth shattering to you, Internet, it is to me.

I sort of take this as a journey I'm leaving in the hands of my kick ass doctor and the pharmeceutical industry. Playing with little pills that change your brain chemistry? Make your pupils dilate? Cause dizziness? Maybe I need to do a little more research but YIKES! Those unknowns are awfully scary to me, you know, after you read all the potential side effects like weight gain, dry mouth, teeth grinding and night sweats.

At this point, though, I figure I'll take those potential side effects while squashing the inner yick any day. That and Ween sings a song about it so it must be good.

Happiness is...

...being three-years-old and enjoying the endless comedic affect of a Whoopee Cushion.

Egan will walk around the house, puffing his slobbery breath into said cushion, then squeeze out the air close to your unsuspecting bum saying, "Mom, you have gas."

His own greatest audience, he laughs hysterically as he continues the process only to sit on the cushion himself in the middle of the kitchen floor, stating through belly-laughing hilarity, "I have gas."