I occasionally use the phrase "So-and-so makes me understand why some animals eat their young." I never thought I'd insert my older son's name in that sentence. Don't get me wrong; I knew the oh-so delightful teenage years were inevitable. I was just hoping for a gradual segue into the depths of hell. A forewarning of some sort.
Instead, Jack went to bed one night my considerate, loving, loyal son, and awoke the next morning a sullen, mouthy teenager, full of piss and vinegar.
My little boy, my firstborn. He was a little surprise I got at Mississippi State as a sophomore. A small "oops" that I now tell him and others was the best thing to ever happen to me, the best decision I ever made. He was born in two and a half hours, a mercifully short labor for a scared-out-of-her-wits 20 year-old single mother (two months past the teenage-mom stigma - YES!), alone in the delivery room, save a close friend. I remember he came out perfect. Oh-so perfect. You usually find that babies with a headful of hair tend to be dark-haired, while blond babies come out as little cueballs, "bald as a peckerwood", my Granny used to say. Never understood why she inverted that word. Anyway, he had a thick, soft generous amount of golden blonde hair. The nurses ooohed and ahhhed over him. He would gaze up at me with startling, crystal-blue eyes. Pink and delicate. Just heavenly.
Yes, prejudiced mommy. Say all you want... I gave birth to the freakin' Gerber baby. He slept through the night at 4 weeks old (just in time for me to start back classes, woot!), he was joyful and giggly and chubby.
The perfection continued through the years. Super bright, he was reading at 4 years old. He started prefacing his phrases in preschool with "actually" and "eventually", moving on to second grade with "Hypothetically speaking" and the like. The Gerber Baby was the next Einstein. Only with better hair. Surely my ovaries were coated in 24k gold. Hold your applause. No, really.
Starting at 8 years old, Jack endured several surgeries and months upon months of physical therapy for an orthopedic issue. It was like caring for a 90-pound newborn back then, but he rarely complained. He missed all but two months of third grade, yet went on to score the second highest number of AR (reading) points for his entire elementary school, only slightly behind a fifth grader who'd had the entire 9-month school year to accumulate what Jack had in less than 8 weeks.
His baby brother, our fearless Finn, came along when Jack was 9 years old. It was love at first sight. Finally, a little more testosterone in our home after two stinky ol' sisters. You've never seen siblings this far apart in age so unusually close. My husband and I have said they'll both have separation anxiety when Jack goes off to college (Harvard or Boston College? We'll keep ya posted...). Jack wants to play with Finn, babies him, fixes him peanut butter and banana sandwiches. It is the sweetest thing watching the two of them together. Makes me farklempt (tawk amongst ya selves).
Though his affection and attention towards Finn has not faltered, the remnants of my once-sweet boy are slowly slipping away. Who are you, and what have you done with Jack???
All of my kids were excellent babies. No colic, nothing. We never have been the red-eyed, sleep-deprived parents. I always joked that because of that, we were going to catch hell when they became teenagers. Who knew how right we were? I'm waiting for even my older daughter's head to start spinning as she projectile vomits split-pea soup all over her Pepto-Bismol pink bedroom.
"You do NOT put your sister in a headlock!"
"What do you mean, this project is due tomorrow? When was it assigned? LAST MONTH?!?!"
"You shut your mouth when you're talking to me!"
"If you roll your eyes one more time, so help me God, I'll knock you into the middle of next week and be there on Wednesday to smack you again!"
"Why? WHY? Because I said so!"
"You slapped your sister?"
"Wipe that look off your face right this minute!"
"Do you want to get your cellphone and XBOX back before you turn 30 or what?"
The sullen looks, the silent stares of contempt... where did we go wrong? I don't care if it's the norm. I want to spray him down with Teenager-B-Gon. I buy him Gap and Ralph Lauren and Wallaby's. They get shoved to the back of his closet while he mumbles something about only wanting Levi's, Nikes, and hoodies. He has a thing for graphic tees, in an astounding array of black and grey. Sometimes he even gets a little crazy and might wear NAVY. Srsly. I will have to try to push the Alex P. Keaton look on Finn in later years, I suppose, because Jack ain't havin' it.
He's still a good kid. Most parents would give their eyeteeth to call Jack theirs. It could be so much worse. But to go from angelic, polite Jack to bordering-on-emo Jack in a short time frame has knocked me for a loop. I don't know if this is the worst, or the calm before the storm. Whichever it is, this is why God begat the scientists who begat Xanax. Praise the baby Jesus.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Yes, I'm still alive... and I'm bitchy.
So... wow. It's been close to three months since I posted anything. No excuse but laziness and indifference. Frankly, I am in a state of discontent at this moment in my life.
I'm tired of working this much. The saying is you should work to live, not live to work, right? I'm at the wrong end of that. In all honesty, things aren't so peachy with my husband, and I blame the job situation. How long should he be able to only work part-time? He would disagree, but I think he's got it made. I work like a Hebrew slave (a friend's statement, not mine, so no offense...). He works 25 or so hours a week. He says all he ever does is clean the house, and that equals more than a full-time job. If that's the case, then why does the house always look so awful? What does he truly do with his time when I'm not home?
I get maybe 5-6 hours of sleep if I am lucky, after working a 12 hour shift. nearly 14 if you count the time I leave the house until the time I get home. His shifts last about 5 hours. So he gets home usually 3 hours before me in the morning, and leaves about three hours later at night to go to work. So why is it he gets 8-9 hours of sleep? How is that fair?
I've been seeing a therapist for several reasons; my husband being on of those reasons. A big one. She asked if we had agreed to this situation years ago, and was I, ergo, reneging on it? NOOOOOOO, MA'AM! No, there was never an agreement that Momma would bring home the bacon and if she was lucky, Daddy might occasionally cook it. Nope.
He has worked part time for 9 years. Did you catch that? NINE years. The company for which he works is a massive corporation, and he insists that one day, he's going to make it into management. He's been saying that for the past six of the nine years.
I told him a couple of weeks ago that he had one year to find full-time employment, or he was out. I know that sounds harsh, but I didn't sign up for this. "For better or worse" doesn't mean "pay all the bills, work 72 or more hours a week, run yourself into the ground, and make sure his beer is stocked and he has ample time for XBox." It also doesn't mean spill your guts to Mommy and Daddy and hide behind them when wifey gets mad. I pretty much told him it was good that he was so attached to his parents, because he would most likely be living with them full-time in a year.
Most recently, I decided to go back to school and finish my nursing degree. I will actually be taking a pay cut once I finish, but it is something I have wanted for a long time, and in the long run, there are more opportunities. So I informed my husband - mind you, I didn't ask... I *told* him - that he had until January 1 to find a second part-time job. I told him I was quitting my second job (which I work in addition to my full-time job, which means I work usually double to triple the amount of hours per week that he does...) and going back to school. Surprisingly, he immediately agreed, as it meant he could stay at his (falsely) rewarding part-time job he has held for nine years.
Now I get to deal with my monster-in-law, who no doubt will insist that her baby boy shouldn't have to work two jobs. I mean, let's not forget how much I work. How dare he have to do his share. Sheesh.
Yes, I know this post is bitch, bitch, bitch; whine, whine, whine. But this is simply what's been going on for a while, and I'm spilling my guts. Momma has had enough. It's my turn to relax. And how sad that I consider going back to school my chance to finally relax.
I'll keep you posted on the job hunt. Cross your fingers, say a few hail mary's, what have you. I'll be in the corner with my Jose Cuervo and Xanax as usual.
I'm tired of working this much. The saying is you should work to live, not live to work, right? I'm at the wrong end of that. In all honesty, things aren't so peachy with my husband, and I blame the job situation. How long should he be able to only work part-time? He would disagree, but I think he's got it made. I work like a Hebrew slave (a friend's statement, not mine, so no offense...). He works 25 or so hours a week. He says all he ever does is clean the house, and that equals more than a full-time job. If that's the case, then why does the house always look so awful? What does he truly do with his time when I'm not home?
I get maybe 5-6 hours of sleep if I am lucky, after working a 12 hour shift. nearly 14 if you count the time I leave the house until the time I get home. His shifts last about 5 hours. So he gets home usually 3 hours before me in the morning, and leaves about three hours later at night to go to work. So why is it he gets 8-9 hours of sleep? How is that fair?
I've been seeing a therapist for several reasons; my husband being on of those reasons. A big one. She asked if we had agreed to this situation years ago, and was I, ergo, reneging on it? NOOOOOOO, MA'AM! No, there was never an agreement that Momma would bring home the bacon and if she was lucky, Daddy might occasionally cook it. Nope.
He has worked part time for 9 years. Did you catch that? NINE years. The company for which he works is a massive corporation, and he insists that one day, he's going to make it into management. He's been saying that for the past six of the nine years.
I told him a couple of weeks ago that he had one year to find full-time employment, or he was out. I know that sounds harsh, but I didn't sign up for this. "For better or worse" doesn't mean "pay all the bills, work 72 or more hours a week, run yourself into the ground, and make sure his beer is stocked and he has ample time for XBox." It also doesn't mean spill your guts to Mommy and Daddy and hide behind them when wifey gets mad. I pretty much told him it was good that he was so attached to his parents, because he would most likely be living with them full-time in a year.
Most recently, I decided to go back to school and finish my nursing degree. I will actually be taking a pay cut once I finish, but it is something I have wanted for a long time, and in the long run, there are more opportunities. So I informed my husband - mind you, I didn't ask... I *told* him - that he had until January 1 to find a second part-time job. I told him I was quitting my second job (which I work in addition to my full-time job, which means I work usually double to triple the amount of hours per week that he does...) and going back to school. Surprisingly, he immediately agreed, as it meant he could stay at his (falsely) rewarding part-time job he has held for nine years.
Now I get to deal with my monster-in-law, who no doubt will insist that her baby boy shouldn't have to work two jobs. I mean, let's not forget how much I work. How dare he have to do his share. Sheesh.
Yes, I know this post is bitch, bitch, bitch; whine, whine, whine. But this is simply what's been going on for a while, and I'm spilling my guts. Momma has had enough. It's my turn to relax. And how sad that I consider going back to school my chance to finally relax.
I'll keep you posted on the job hunt. Cross your fingers, say a few hail mary's, what have you. I'll be in the corner with my Jose Cuervo and Xanax as usual.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Buying Healthcare in Bulk
"Welcome to Holy Moly Children's Medical Center, can I take your order, please?"
"Yes; I would like a knee immobilizer, lidocaine gel, lycra sutures, ummmm... solumedrol with a 22-gauge IV, supplemental oxygen, and a dose of IM Rocephin."
"Would you like that Holy Moly-sized?"
"Errrr... sure; why not."
"OK, your co-pay will be $100; please pull around to the first window."
OK, so that's not exactly how it goes, but that's how I feel lately with the various calamities involving my four rugrats (OK, three, really; Diva reminds me that she has done nothing in her life to contribute to our health plan's two million dollar lifetime maximum). I'm just waiting for Child Protective Services to come bang on my door and start questioning the children individually. "Does your mommy ever hit you?" "No, sir! Wait - do wire hangers count?"
Let's backtrack, shall we? Waaaay back in October of 2007, Finn was jumping on the trampoline (which I vehemently resisted letting the outlaws buy my kids for Christmas, yet was informed that I was being hysterical and over-protective), and broke his tibia. It was a buckle fracture, commonly known as - guess - a trampoline fracture. He was our first to break a bone; not bad for being baby #4. We made a tidy profit on the trampoline when Scott dismantled it. Father out-law asked if he was going to get the money from the sale, since they bought it. I informed them that, sure, they could have the money, but we were planning on using it to pay his grandchild's medical bills. I never heard a word about it after that. But I digress...
In October 2008, Finn had to have his tonsils and adenoids removed and his turbinates done. That was not an accident, but it connects to the next injury. The tonsillectomy recovery was quite an ordeal, and was capped by an injury sustained while rough-housing with his sisters at church a few weeks later. Shattered nasal bridge. Reconstructive surgery two days before Christmas. Finn was given Versed. Mommy took Xanax.
March. Jack showing off hisnewborn baby giraffe-like mad skills in the skating rink at a friend's birthday party. Took a spill. Braced himself with his arms. Broke his radius. Cast for six weeks. He got Motrin as needed. Mommy upped her Zoloft dose.
May. Finn rebreaks aforementioned post-tonsillectomy, post-reconstruction proboscis at the hands ofan evil little girl a classmate at school. Not serious enough to require surgery. Whew - that was a close one. Had his fifteen minutes of fame on Facebook, describing on camera the dastardly deed blow-by-blow. "Ms. Pam tell her, 'Say you're sowwy'... but her didn't."
Yesterday. I'm looking forward to chillaxin' in a t-shirt and shorts before I go to work a night shift. I'm standing in the kitchen, making a sandwich, when a muffled, approaching wail emanates from the front of the house. The front door opens and the wails get more desperate, and you get that chill where you know something's really wrong.
In walks Fifi, looking like Sissy Spacek in the prom scene from Carrie. OK, so maybe I'm exaggerating a wee bit, but it was bloody, and it scared the hell out of me. Seriously - about five drops of pee came out. Mass pandemonium ensues as Fifi, Diva, and the neighbor kid all try to explain what happened. I grab a cloth, wet it, and put it to Fifi's face. From what I could gather from Alvin and the Chipmunks (that's how they sounded, all trying to talk at once, hyper, and I'm sure there was some helium involved at some point), Fifi was running from a barking dog, scared out of her wits, and ran smack into the neighbor's pool deck. Results:
Ouch.
So I had to go to work two hours early and play Mommy, while wearing scrubs. Then I had to clock in. She got stitches. She has a ballet recital in three days. Is it OK if I become an alcoholic now?
It's pretty bad when you've gotten to the point where you're numb to your kids' injuries. Don't get me wrong... you're not indifferent to their pain; you still baby them and love on them and kiss them and make it better. But you aren't panicked; you simply take charge and do what has to be done, whether that is take them to the doctor or call the ER (AKA your place of employment) and tell them, yep, you're bringing your kid in again. And nope, they don't need to consult Medical Social Work.
So the drive-thru scenario was just a comical bit on what has become my life as of late, but we practically do need to start a tab at the children's hospital. Yesterday, I told the admissions clerk to bill me as usual for our co-pay. He laughed uncomfortably and then stopped and said, "Oh - you're serious. Oh, OK."
Is it just me, or are you envisioning my health plan company(*koff koff*CIGNA*koff koff*) getting pissed and making voodoo dolls out of my family? Wait - I take that back. That would make no sense. Because any injuries they'd inflict on us in some primitive, mystical manner; well, they'd have to pay to fix. Hmmmph.
I just have to accept the fact that as long as I have the fruit of my loins under my roof or claimed on my insurance, my employer will get $50 per paycheck toward the hospital bills I owe them. Even if I get the balances paid off 6 months from now, they might as well keep drawing it out. Because we'll be back.
"Yes; I would like a knee immobilizer, lidocaine gel, lycra sutures, ummmm... solumedrol with a 22-gauge IV, supplemental oxygen, and a dose of IM Rocephin."
"Would you like that Holy Moly-sized?"
"Errrr... sure; why not."
"OK, your co-pay will be $100; please pull around to the first window."
OK, so that's not exactly how it goes, but that's how I feel lately with the various calamities involving my four rugrats (OK, three, really; Diva reminds me that she has done nothing in her life to contribute to our health plan's two million dollar lifetime maximum). I'm just waiting for Child Protective Services to come bang on my door and start questioning the children individually. "Does your mommy ever hit you?" "No, sir! Wait - do wire hangers count?"
Let's backtrack, shall we? Waaaay back in October of 2007, Finn was jumping on the trampoline (which I vehemently resisted letting the outlaws buy my kids for Christmas, yet was informed that I was being hysterical and over-protective), and broke his tibia. It was a buckle fracture, commonly known as - guess - a trampoline fracture. He was our first to break a bone; not bad for being baby #4. We made a tidy profit on the trampoline when Scott dismantled it. Father out-law asked if he was going to get the money from the sale, since they bought it. I informed them that, sure, they could have the money, but we were planning on using it to pay his grandchild's medical bills. I never heard a word about it after that. But I digress...
In October 2008, Finn had to have his tonsils and adenoids removed and his turbinates done. That was not an accident, but it connects to the next injury. The tonsillectomy recovery was quite an ordeal, and was capped by an injury sustained while rough-housing with his sisters at church a few weeks later. Shattered nasal bridge. Reconstructive surgery two days before Christmas. Finn was given Versed. Mommy took Xanax.
March. Jack showing off his
May. Finn rebreaks aforementioned post-tonsillectomy, post-reconstruction proboscis at the hands of
Yesterday. I'm looking forward to chillaxin' in a t-shirt and shorts before I go to work a night shift. I'm standing in the kitchen, making a sandwich, when a muffled, approaching wail emanates from the front of the house. The front door opens and the wails get more desperate, and you get that chill where you know something's really wrong.
In walks Fifi, looking like Sissy Spacek in the prom scene from Carrie. OK, so maybe I'm exaggerating a wee bit, but it was bloody, and it scared the hell out of me. Seriously - about five drops of pee came out. Mass pandemonium ensues as Fifi, Diva, and the neighbor kid all try to explain what happened. I grab a cloth, wet it, and put it to Fifi's face. From what I could gather from Alvin and the Chipmunks (that's how they sounded, all trying to talk at once, hyper, and I'm sure there was some helium involved at some point), Fifi was running from a barking dog, scared out of her wits, and ran smack into the neighbor's pool deck. Results:
Ouch.
So I had to go to work two hours early and play Mommy, while wearing scrubs. Then I had to clock in. She got stitches. She has a ballet recital in three days. Is it OK if I become an alcoholic now?
It's pretty bad when you've gotten to the point where you're numb to your kids' injuries. Don't get me wrong... you're not indifferent to their pain; you still baby them and love on them and kiss them and make it better. But you aren't panicked; you simply take charge and do what has to be done, whether that is take them to the doctor or call the ER (AKA your place of employment) and tell them, yep, you're bringing your kid in again. And nope, they don't need to consult Medical Social Work.
So the drive-thru scenario was just a comical bit on what has become my life as of late, but we practically do need to start a tab at the children's hospital. Yesterday, I told the admissions clerk to bill me as usual for our co-pay. He laughed uncomfortably and then stopped and said, "Oh - you're serious. Oh, OK."
Is it just me, or are you envisioning my health plan company(*koff koff*CIGNA*koff koff*) getting pissed and making voodoo dolls out of my family? Wait - I take that back. That would make no sense. Because any injuries they'd inflict on us in some primitive, mystical manner; well, they'd have to pay to fix. Hmmmph.
I just have to accept the fact that as long as I have the fruit of my loins under my roof or claimed on my insurance, my employer will get $50 per paycheck toward the hospital bills I owe them. Even if I get the balances paid off 6 months from now, they might as well keep drawing it out. Because we'll be back.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Perfectly imperfect
Sometimes in my mind, I find my self apologizing that things in my life are not as they should be, according to my mother-in-law's um, public opinion. My house is always in shambles. And while a lot of it is just clutter, oftentimes, the basic cleaning gets overlooked more than I would like to admit.
I forget to sign homework a couple of times a week or send lunch money, and each sibling thought the other fed the puppy. Or the cat. Or the ever-forgiving elderly dog. I will forget dinner or just lay in bed too long to have time to start dinner before I leave for work. So - surprise - it's take-out time again. Chinese or Sonic?
My SUV has food containers and old mail and miscellaneous crap spilling out all over the floorboards. But it's new and dependable and the vehicle of which I've dreamed, so that's OK. It's MY SUV. So what if it looks like a family of transient Guatemalans lives in it?
There's still areas in the playroom that need to be sanded and repainted because I changed my mind about the design and removed a wall full of shelves. It doesn't look great, but it will get done eventually. All that matters right now is that there's a super-comfortable, kid-friendly microfiber sectional in there on which to lay and watch a SUH-WEET Sony Bravia flat screen TV. You'll just need to sweep the Doritos crumbs to the floor and arch your back to avoid the hair clippie wedged in between the cushions.
My bedroom looks like it should be declared a disaster zone. But again, it's MY mess, and I go into convulsions when HH tries to organize it. The dead roses on the dresser from Valentine's Day? My excuse is I'm trying to grow colonies of bacteria that my high school biology teacher could only dream of I don't want to empty the vase until I have something to fill it back up with. Hubby has yet to take the hint.
My kids? They can be unruly and spoiled and are very difficult when it comes to getting them to help around the house. Our son's lackadaisical attitude towards it cost him his summer trip with his youth group to Florida. Do I beat them daily or accept that they're never going to reform? Not like I'm gonna come home to my seven year-old greeting me at the door with a smile on her face, saying, "Let me take your satchel, Mother Dear. It must be dreadfully burdensome. Diva is upstairs drawing you a bath, and Father has prepared a feast. I had to help him make more broccoli, because I ate all of mine. Finn is already bathed and in bed and only watched twenty-two minutes of television today. It was a documentary on the environmental devastation of the Exxon Valdez. He was taking notes on an Etch-A-Sketch."
Shyeah. Back to reality.
Bottom line - the mess? It's our mess. You don't have to look at it. The unruly kids? They're my kids. I either love them, or start Googling "Chinese water torture". It's all imperfect - perfectly imperfect. But it's the home we've made, literally and figuratively. Take it or leave it.*
*:Just be careful where you step, because I think Fifi forgot to clean up after Susie when she ate the grass clippings and barfed on the Pergo in the living room.
I forget to sign homework a couple of times a week or send lunch money, and each sibling thought the other fed the puppy. Or the cat. Or the ever-forgiving elderly dog. I will forget dinner or just lay in bed too long to have time to start dinner before I leave for work. So - surprise - it's take-out time again. Chinese or Sonic?
My SUV has food containers and old mail and miscellaneous crap spilling out all over the floorboards. But it's new and dependable and the vehicle of which I've dreamed, so that's OK. It's MY SUV. So what if it looks like a family of transient Guatemalans lives in it?
There's still areas in the playroom that need to be sanded and repainted because I changed my mind about the design and removed a wall full of shelves. It doesn't look great, but it will get done eventually. All that matters right now is that there's a super-comfortable, kid-friendly microfiber sectional in there on which to lay and watch a SUH-WEET Sony Bravia flat screen TV. You'll just need to sweep the Doritos crumbs to the floor and arch your back to avoid the hair clippie wedged in between the cushions.
My bedroom looks like it should be declared a disaster zone. But again, it's MY mess, and I go into convulsions when HH tries to organize it. The dead roses on the dresser from Valentine's Day? My excuse is
My kids? They can be unruly and spoiled and are very difficult when it comes to getting them to help around the house. Our son's lackadaisical attitude towards it cost him his summer trip with his youth group to Florida. Do I beat them daily or accept that they're never going to reform? Not like I'm gonna come home to my seven year-old greeting me at the door with a smile on her face, saying, "Let me take your satchel, Mother Dear. It must be dreadfully burdensome. Diva is upstairs drawing you a bath, and Father has prepared a feast. I had to help him make more broccoli, because I ate all of mine. Finn is already bathed and in bed and only watched twenty-two minutes of television today. It was a documentary on the environmental devastation of the Exxon Valdez. He was taking notes on an Etch-A-Sketch."
Shyeah. Back to reality.
Bottom line - the mess? It's our mess. You don't have to look at it. The unruly kids? They're my kids. I either love them, or start Googling "Chinese water torture". It's all imperfect - perfectly imperfect. But it's the home we've made, literally and figuratively. Take it or leave it.*
*:Just be careful where you step, because I think Fifi forgot to clean up after Susie when she ate the grass clippings and barfed on the Pergo in the living room.
A child of "firsts"
Considering the number of children we have, things are not as chaotic as one might think. At least they weren't until August 13, 2005, when Finn came with a whimper into this world. Who would've thought that the little runt who arrived five weeks early and refused to take a first breath, scaring the bejeezus out of us all, would end up our fearless one?
This post was inspired by a text message from the hubby while I was at work: fyi - having kids clean up the backyard. Finn just pulled his pants down and peed on the patio. The antics that ensue with this child have us scared out of minds one minute and laughing until our sides hurt the next.
Recently, we found out the hard way that he now knows how to unlock the deadbolt on the front door. He woke up before his daddy and me, and decided that he would go play at the neighbors house three doors down. Thank God we live on a cul-de-sac. According to our neighbor, he walked over to her front drive where all the children from her home daycare were playing and joined in the fun. She asked him, "Finn, do your mommy and daddy know that you're here?" "No. They're napping." So she let him play for about twenty minutes, then walked him home and told him to lock the door. She heard it click.
Daddy went and bought door latches today. Methinks he should install them pretty high, because Finn is also talented at using chairs and other height-assisting devices to obtain the forbidden.
With three siblings born years before him, he also was our first child to break a bone. Hubby and I had been home from our Mexican siesta (read: cruise) just a couple of days when he jumped on our trampoline and landed off-kilter, thus earning himself a buckle fracture. AKA a "trampoline fracture". From the trampoline. That my inlaws bought the kids. That I vehemently objected to and was told I was being hysterical and overreactive. Ha.
Six weeks after his Halloween Eve tonsils and adenoids surgery in which his turbinates were reconstructed due to obstructive sleep patterns, he broke his nose while rough-housing with his siblings at church. He had to have reconstructive surgery two days before Christmas. (Should I be scared anytime there's a holiday looming?) Less than a month later, he ran into the doorknob in the kitchen. Square on his nose. The sickening thud filled me with visions of yet another ENT consult. And a DCS visit. A few days ago, he got pushed on the indoor playground at his day school by a little girl, and - yep - broken again. But not bad enough this time to justify surgery. I have a video of him describing the heartless assault - when I figure out how, I will post it.
He rarely has a clean face. He looks like a male toddler Carrie Bradshaw if you let him dress himself. He has taken up a new hobby: biting. A little late in development for that, don't you think? He's clingy, he has meltdowns if you dare tell him "no". He helps himself toEaster candy on top of the fridge four pudding cups at once snacks without asking. His nails stay dirty. Currently, we are having to slowly wean him off watching TV until he falls asleep, a coping mechanism used when we had a night-time babysitter while we worked. He's having withdrawals akin to a crack-fiend.
I've been a mother for nearly thirteen years, and never have I heard one of my children (or any children, for that matter) utter such a bizarre statement as the one Finn blurted out in the kitchen Monday... "Mommy, I wish I was a toilet so you could go poo-poo in me."
Crickets chirping... Excuse me?
Moving right along.
Spoiled rotten by his siblings, Finn is rushed upon when he falls, with his ever-attentive sisters and brother cooing, "Bayyyyybeeee! Are you OK?" Yet HH and I aren't totally blameless - when the older kids do something bad, we scold and bark and carry on. Yet when Finn commits one of his daily felonies, oftentimes we bit our lip to keep from laughing.
He climbs! Did I mention he climbs? None of my older three ever climbed! Yet Finn scales stationary (and sometimes non-stationary) objects with great frequency in pursuit of adventure or chocolate.
He's loud, he's mischievious, he's whiny, he's dirty, he's rough, he's everything "all-boy" his older brother never was. It's been quite an adjustment, but I'm acclimating. For instance, he informed me today that he wanted to pee outside. I wasn't paying any attention and just muttered, "Uh-huh." Hubby cocked an eyebrow and asked "Do you even know what you agreed to?" We both look over, and Finn is "watering" the lamb's ear in my flower beds. So we've graduated to peeing in the front yard. In plain sight of neighbors.
I shrugged. Party on.
This post was inspired by a text message from the hubby while I was at work: fyi - having kids clean up the backyard. Finn just pulled his pants down and peed on the patio. The antics that ensue with this child have us scared out of minds one minute and laughing until our sides hurt the next.
Recently, we found out the hard way that he now knows how to unlock the deadbolt on the front door. He woke up before his daddy and me, and decided that he would go play at the neighbors house three doors down. Thank God we live on a cul-de-sac. According to our neighbor, he walked over to her front drive where all the children from her home daycare were playing and joined in the fun. She asked him, "Finn, do your mommy and daddy know that you're here?" "No. They're napping." So she let him play for about twenty minutes, then walked him home and told him to lock the door. She heard it click.
Daddy went and bought door latches today. Methinks he should install them pretty high, because Finn is also talented at using chairs and other height-assisting devices to obtain the forbidden.
With three siblings born years before him, he also was our first child to break a bone. Hubby and I had been home from our Mexican siesta (read: cruise) just a couple of days when he jumped on our trampoline and landed off-kilter, thus earning himself a buckle fracture. AKA a "trampoline fracture". From the trampoline. That my inlaws bought the kids. That I vehemently objected to and was told I was being hysterical and overreactive. Ha.
Six weeks after his Halloween Eve tonsils and adenoids surgery in which his turbinates were reconstructed due to obstructive sleep patterns, he broke his nose while rough-housing with his siblings at church. He had to have reconstructive surgery two days before Christmas. (Should I be scared anytime there's a holiday looming?) Less than a month later, he ran into the doorknob in the kitchen. Square on his nose. The sickening thud filled me with visions of yet another ENT consult. And a DCS visit. A few days ago, he got pushed on the indoor playground at his day school by a little girl, and - yep - broken again. But not bad enough this time to justify surgery. I have a video of him describing the heartless assault - when I figure out how, I will post it.
He rarely has a clean face. He looks like a male toddler Carrie Bradshaw if you let him dress himself. He has taken up a new hobby: biting. A little late in development for that, don't you think? He's clingy, he has meltdowns if you dare tell him "no". He helps himself to
I've been a mother for nearly thirteen years, and never have I heard one of my children (or any children, for that matter) utter such a bizarre statement as the one Finn blurted out in the kitchen Monday... "Mommy, I wish I was a toilet so you could go poo-poo in me."
Crickets chirping... Excuse me?
Moving right along.
Spoiled rotten by his siblings, Finn is rushed upon when he falls, with his ever-attentive sisters and brother cooing, "Bayyyyybeeee! Are you OK?" Yet HH and I aren't totally blameless - when the older kids do something bad, we scold and bark and carry on. Yet when Finn commits one of his daily felonies, oftentimes we bit our lip to keep from laughing.
He climbs! Did I mention he climbs? None of my older three ever climbed! Yet Finn scales stationary (and sometimes non-stationary) objects with great frequency in pursuit of adventure or chocolate.
He's loud, he's mischievious, he's whiny, he's dirty, he's rough, he's everything "all-boy" his older brother never was. It's been quite an adjustment, but I'm acclimating. For instance, he informed me today that he wanted to pee outside. I wasn't paying any attention and just muttered, "Uh-huh." Hubby cocked an eyebrow and asked "Do you even know what you agreed to?" We both look over, and Finn is "watering" the lamb's ear in my flower beds. So we've graduated to peeing in the front yard. In plain sight of neighbors.
I shrugged. Party on.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
T&A on the kiddies' field trip (and it wasn't me!)
I decided I would be a good mommy and accompany Fifi on her class field trip to a smelly-stinky farm. I flew down I-55 in my oversized SUV, daring any subcompact to get in my way. I thought I was running way late, but I got there before they even finished unloading rugats from the school buses.
Things seemed quite normal until I saw a child's mother wearing... the unthinkable. A head-to-toe size up uncovered the following fashion faux pas...
* Uber-short shorts. if she bent over, you could've seen her hoo-ha; of that, I am sure.
* Peroxide-blonde, permed hair with two-inch roots.
* The remnants of a black eye
* The beginnings of pink eye.
* A bra that lacked support and surely had seen better days.
And last but not least... drum roll, please...
A skin-tight shirt, accentuating her gargantuan muffin top, that read: "How do you like your eggs in the morning?"
Since when is it OK to dress like this in public, and, more importantly, why in the hell would you dress like this for your first-graders' field trip?
Iknow hope her child did not know what the words on his mother's shirt meant, but I sure as heck did, along with the other bazillion chaperones. Super classy. What was she thinking?
I took a picture with my Blackberry just so my husband would believe me. As soon as I can doctor it a little to provide someill-deserved privacy, I might just add it to this post.
Moral of this story: if you're gonna chaperone your child's school field trip, don't dress like a dime-store floozy. Your kid may not notice, but the rest of us will have to stifle our vomit. Thatisall.
Things seemed quite normal until I saw a child's mother wearing... the unthinkable. A head-to-toe size up uncovered the following fashion faux pas...
* Uber-short shorts. if she bent over, you could've seen her hoo-ha; of that, I am sure.
* Peroxide-blonde, permed hair with two-inch roots.
* The remnants of a black eye
* The beginnings of pink eye.
* A bra that lacked support and surely had seen better days.
And last but not least... drum roll, please...
A skin-tight shirt, accentuating her gargantuan muffin top, that read: "How do you like your eggs in the morning?"
Since when is it OK to dress like this in public, and, more importantly, why in the hell would you dress like this for your first-graders' field trip?
I
I took a picture with my Blackberry just so my husband would believe me. As soon as I can doctor it a little to provide some
Moral of this story: if you're gonna chaperone your child's school field trip, don't dress like a dime-store floozy. Your kid may not notice, but the rest of us will have to stifle our vomit. Thatisall.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
In Which MsMommy Forbids the Hubby from Ever Going Out of Town Again
"I've got a room by myself with a king-size bed," so sayeth the text that my husband sent as soon as he got to Atlanta for a children/youth ministry conference. I rolled my eyes and put my phone back in my purse. Smart men don't send texts like that, knowing there's even a remote possibility that their wife is breaking up the 24th sibling squabble for the day.
I had to work on my birthday since Daddio was going to be out of town. First offense. Hubby didn't catch up on laundry while I worked in the days leading into his departure. Second offense. Inlaws backing out on helping me, kids rolling their eyes at me, dogs going apeshit at night during the thunderstorms... what's a Mom to do?
She eyeballs the tequila in the fridge and goes for it. Strawberry margaritas after the kiddo are in bed. She partakes in a little retail therapy and then comes home and does NOT do housework. She gets a wild hair up her ass and starts a home improvement project and refuses to divulge details to hubby on what exactly she is doing, only sending cryptic texts to him, such as, "Where are the tile nippers?" "Did you know that there's wood underneath our siding?" And... "Wow... your shopvac is lighter than I thought it would be..."
THAT'S what a Mom is to do.
I also have to deal with the dogs more, too, when hubby is gone. I bought the Maltipoo for Fifi, and I do think the pooch is pretty stinkin' cute. But she is a small yip-yip dog, and they have a tendency to be difficult to house-train. There have been a couple of times when I have stepped in one of her little piles of poop, and envisioned making one of those furry white rugs out of her... Sheepskin rugs can be pretty expensive, so I would save some money. Wait - I paid $350 for the dog. Maybe not.
(FWIW, I find it pretty creepy that single-pelt sheepskin rugs are shaped like, well; a sheep...)
Anyhoo, as bad as this sounds, handling the house and all that goes with it ain't my bag. I work a lot. I don't do much housework. That's the hubby's thing, since he's only part-time at his job. And I know it must come across that I can't handle things by myself, that's not entirely true. I'm just not used to it. Kudos to you Moms who scrapbook, have playdates, go on outings every other day to various cultural and educational kiddie venues, teach Sunday School, commit yourselves to PTO. If I did all that, I would, well... commit myself.
I refereed, took a couple of Xanax, recruited some child labor in my home improvement project. Counted at one point a total of FOURTEEN neighborhood children in my front yard. Resisted the urge to backhand my mouthy soon-to-be-teenager. Chased my three year-old who refused to be convinced that skid-marked underwear is not OK, and that one should ask Mommy for wiping help. Reminded a tearful seven year-old that she was not in love with her classmate, and to stop talking like that before her Daddy gets home and has a heart attack. Took a couple more Xanax. Rebandaged Finn's scraped knee with not-yet-paid-for BandAids in WalMart so he would quit having a meltdown over the fact that I removed his old, dirty BandAid and thus exposed him to ridicule from his preschool buddies that "They can see my BWOOD!" Argued with my tween that, yes, consistently wearing Sperry's without socks makes your feet smell like hot, buttered ass. (I lost that argument.)
Though I work a lot, I am still the main chef in the home. Hubby was living off of grilled cheese and frozen chicken nuggets when he met me. I'm the best (culinary) thing that has ever happened to him! Weekly menus are planned out so that the "hard" stuff is served on nights I am home or able to cook before leaving, and the easy stuff for him so he doesn't poison the children. My point in saying all of this - and I do have one - is that while Daddy was living it up in his king-size bed at the Hilton, I... didn't... cook. If memory serves me correctly, the kids ate at On the Border the first night, pizza then second night, and Interstate BBQ the third night. Total of spent on take-out: $150. My sanity retained: priceless.
I still have about half a fifth (is that mathematically possible?) of tequila left but I'm nearly out of strawberry puree, I'm down to a handful of Xanax, my gas tank is nearly empty (that's usually his job, too), and the house is ready to be declared a natural disaster.
I wouldn't want be a single Mom again, not with four kids - it's never been more obvious now. So I guess I will forever tolerate hubby's 30-minute bathroom sojourns, complete with his novel of choice; his driving skills that morph me into a white-knuckled screaming banshee, spinning tales of him possibly splattering my children all over the highway while I'm not in the truck with him; even his smug texts describing his enviable solitary sleeping arrangements. I can tolerate it all. Just as long as he doesn't make a habit of forcing me to wing it solo.
I had to work on my birthday since Daddio was going to be out of town. First offense. Hubby didn't catch up on laundry while I worked in the days leading into his departure. Second offense. Inlaws backing out on helping me, kids rolling their eyes at me, dogs going apeshit at night during the thunderstorms... what's a Mom to do?
She eyeballs the tequila in the fridge and goes for it. Strawberry margaritas after the kiddo are in bed. She partakes in a little retail therapy and then comes home and does NOT do housework. She gets a wild hair up her ass and starts a home improvement project and refuses to divulge details to hubby on what exactly she is doing, only sending cryptic texts to him, such as, "Where are the tile nippers?" "Did you know that there's wood underneath our siding?" And... "Wow... your shopvac is lighter than I thought it would be..."
THAT'S what a Mom is to do.
I also have to deal with the dogs more, too, when hubby is gone. I bought the Maltipoo for Fifi, and I do think the pooch is pretty stinkin' cute. But she is a small yip-yip dog, and they have a tendency to be difficult to house-train. There have been a couple of times when I have stepped in one of her little piles of poop, and envisioned making one of those furry white rugs out of her... Sheepskin rugs can be pretty expensive, so I would save some money. Wait - I paid $350 for the dog. Maybe not.
(FWIW, I find it pretty creepy that single-pelt sheepskin rugs are shaped like, well; a sheep...)Anyhoo, as bad as this sounds, handling the house and all that goes with it ain't my bag. I work a lot. I don't do much housework. That's the hubby's thing, since he's only part-time at his job. And I know it must come across that I can't handle things by myself, that's not entirely true. I'm just not used to it. Kudos to you Moms who scrapbook, have playdates, go on outings every other day to various cultural and educational kiddie venues, teach Sunday School, commit yourselves to PTO. If I did all that, I would, well... commit myself.
I refereed, took a couple of Xanax, recruited some child labor in my home improvement project. Counted at one point a total of FOURTEEN neighborhood children in my front yard. Resisted the urge to backhand my mouthy soon-to-be-teenager. Chased my three year-old who refused to be convinced that skid-marked underwear is not OK, and that one should ask Mommy for wiping help. Reminded a tearful seven year-old that she was not in love with her classmate, and to stop talking like that before her Daddy gets home and has a heart attack. Took a couple more Xanax. Rebandaged Finn's scraped knee with not-yet-paid-for BandAids in WalMart so he would quit having a meltdown over the fact that I removed his old, dirty BandAid and thus exposed him to ridicule from his preschool buddies that "They can see my BWOOD!" Argued with my tween that, yes, consistently wearing Sperry's without socks makes your feet smell like hot, buttered ass. (I lost that argument.)
Though I work a lot, I am still the main chef in the home. Hubby was living off of grilled cheese and frozen chicken nuggets when he met me. I'm the best (culinary) thing that has ever happened to him! Weekly menus are planned out so that the "hard" stuff is served on nights I am home or able to cook before leaving, and the easy stuff for him so he doesn't poison the children. My point in saying all of this - and I do have one - is that while Daddy was living it up in his king-size bed at the Hilton, I... didn't... cook. If memory serves me correctly, the kids ate at On the Border the first night, pizza then second night, and Interstate BBQ the third night. Total of spent on take-out: $150. My sanity retained: priceless.
I still have about half a fifth (is that mathematically possible?) of tequila left but I'm nearly out of strawberry puree, I'm down to a handful of Xanax, my gas tank is nearly empty (that's usually his job, too), and the house is ready to be declared a natural disaster.
I wouldn't want be a single Mom again, not with four kids - it's never been more obvious now. So I guess I will forever tolerate hubby's 30-minute bathroom sojourns, complete with his novel of choice; his driving skills that morph me into a white-knuckled screaming banshee, spinning tales of him possibly splattering my children all over the highway while I'm not in the truck with him; even his smug texts describing his enviable solitary sleeping arrangements. I can tolerate it all. Just as long as he doesn't make a habit of forcing me to wing it solo.
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