Confessions from an Ex Soccer Mom

I felt relaxed, for a moment.
Alex was watching TV with Gage. Payton was at a friend's ball game. It was quiet, however temporarily, and I planned on enjoying it, as I turned the jets on in the tub and put my toe in the steaming, lavender scented water, glass of wine in one hand, Kindle in the other.

I sat poised to read, but instead  felt uneasy. Payton was at a friends ball game, and suddenly I wasn't sure that I liked that at all. I realized that I was feeling majorly stressed over  it, for two main reasons:

1) Guilt that I hadn't signed Payton up for ball herself. Now she's the neighborhood tag along kid while her mother gets drunk in the tub. Although, in fairness, I did ask Payton if she wanted to play ball and she did say no. However, as it turns out, ALL of her friends are in it this year, which hey, how was I to know that?  HOW???
Also, I wasn't planning on getting drunk in the tub. Just maybe slightly tipsy.  I wonder if it's too late to call the coach and beg him to let Payton play. But then I remember that I still haven't done my taxes, so there's a slim to none chance that I'll actually get around to calling the ball coach before the end of ball season, being the short season that it is.
Now I'm feeling guilt about the taxes. And possibly panic.
And then a hideous realization hits me hard.

 Oh God. I've become that mom.

 I've gone from being the quintessential minivan equipped with Granola Bars and 30% less sugar fruit snack driving soccer mom to drinking Chardonnay in the tub at 6:30 pm mom while kid goes out with random neighborhood people.
Which brings me to point number 2.

2) The fact that Payton had become a near resident of the house across the street. It suddenly seemed ironic that if they were going to say babysit her for a few hours a day or even a week, I would have done my due diligence as a mother and done a background check, home interview and contacted references. OK I wouldn't have actually contacted the references, not strictly speaking. I would have asked if they had them, and then basically taken them at their word.  But being the parents of other seven year old girl, I have given them carte blanche to take Payton on outings and even have her for sleepovers, after only brief encounters which consisted mainly of nodding and/or waving at each other from across the street. Although I did check out the mother on Facebook, and she does seem to be on the up and up, translation: She hadn't 'liked' any sketchy pictures of scantily clad kids or posted any threatening sounding status updates: in the vein of, for example: "Another home visit with Child Protective Services today, wish me luck!! Must remember to hide contraband this time."
So clearly,  she's a good person. Also, she has nice, shiny, hair and if there's one thing I know about pedophiles and/or other members of the criminal element it's that they mostly all have stringy, clumpy hair.
And conversely, I am also worried that Payton might be harassing the nice neighbor people  by popping by at random and inserting herself into their family outings. Must make myself more appealing so that Payton spends less time hanging off neighbor people.
 I vow to myself as I get out of the  tub that I will spend some serious--very serious,  mother daughter quality time with her when she gets home, perhaps even doing a craft.
A craft!!
Yes. That will make me feel like alpha mom again, and will also be a good opportunity to chat with Payton AKA interrogate her to make sure that there's nothing hinky going on over at the neighbour house. I picture trying to weave "have they ever asked to look at your panties?" into a casual convo but then decide against it, at least for the time being. Although I will do the craft, at least, for sure.

Except that when she comes home, I am no longer in the mood for a craft at all, on account of watching Bridget Jone's Diary on TV.
Also: do not really have anything in the house that constitutes "craft supplies"
Except for possibly a tampon and peanut butter. Am thinking bird feeder but not really sure how to execute.
Also: might kill bird, traumatize kids, etc.
Anyways.
Just screw the alpha mom. She just annoys everyone else, anyways.

Principles of Operant Conditioning Gone Terribly Awry

It sounds complicated but its a simple thing, really, operant conditioning.
You reward (or reinforce) good behaviour with positive reinforcement.
You use punishment for bad behavior.
Using this simple technique, you could, if you were so inclined, train a mouse to run a maze.

But could you get a two year old to go to bed at a predetermined bedtime.
No.
Hell no.
Not even close. You could get him to bed, perhaps, within a ninety minute time frame surrounding said predetermined time. But, then again, you could also do that using no intervention at all, which I found out one time when I fell asleep at 9pm and woke up at eleven, half expecting the house to be on fire or the windows to be smashed out. But instead, I found my little buddy asleep in a playpen. He had moved his pillow and blanky in there, climbed in and curled himself to sleep.

I know exactly what I'm doing wrong. Inadvertently, I reward bad behavior. He comes out, asks for a drink of water, I get it for him and send him back to bed. He comes out a minute later, asks for a hug, I hug him and carry him back to bed, tuck him in, perhaps even massage his back a little, cuz I know he likes that.
But what am I to do?
Deprive him of water?
Deprive him of hugs?
That's harsh. He's a toddler, not a lab rat.

Anyways, the other day, this had gone on for quite some time. I was feeling exhausted. Geoff was working late. Both Alex and Payton had been coming in and out of bed for over the two hour mark, and my patience was worn very thin. As thin as my husbands hairline, and that's thin indeed.

And then came Gage, my thirteen year old. "Watch and learn," he told me as he went into the room. He was in there for less than a minute. "They won't be back out," he said as he pulled the door shut behind him.
Sure enough half an hour went by and there was no sign of Alex or Payton.
"What did you do, put a sleeper hold on them?" I asked. Because if so, awesome, I need to learn the sleeper hold.
"No," he said. "I told them that whoever fell asleep first would get a prize in the morning."
"Actually," I said. "That's pretty brilliant."
Principles of operant conditioning, applied correctly.
Thirteen year olds will rule this world one day, I thought to myself. For once that thought actually seemed optimisitic rather than terrifying.

Nevermind the fact that I now have to give my kids chocolate bars for breakfast. That's another issue entirely. I'm planning on phasing that out by switching the chocolate bars to bubble gum flavored multivitamins. Then they'll be getting thier rest, and a vitamin as well.
Superkids, they'll be!!

Anyways, I really must apologize for not being around more- on here or on any of your blogs. Life is complicated for me right now, and I must admit that I am seriously contemplating the future of this blog. Too many things, too little time. But we'll wait and see on that.
One day at a time I guess.
Hope you have a good weekend.

A Brave New World

Tomorrow will bring big change in our house.
Tomorrow, my  lastest baby will shed his final vestiges of infancy- his soother.
At two and a half, this is long overdue. And it shouldn't be producing the amount of anxiety that it is.
The bad thing is that it's not even Alex who is anxious about it. It's me.
And I'm not anxious for the reasons you might think.
"He'll only cry for it for a day or so," people tell me. But crying? At this point in my maternal career,  I can handle that. Crying doesn't even phase me any more. In fact, I get more concerned when they're NOT crying. When things are too quiet, I begin to fear that something sinister is going on. They're in the kitchen drinking Draino, I think, irrationally. Because I don't even have any Draino. If my drains get clogged, too damn bad.

So what am I anxious about?
I'm anxious about letting go of his babyhood.
"But he'll always be our baby," Geoff told me, gently, when I told him of my fears. "Even when he's old, he'll be our baby."
"I know," I agreed. "But it's just the idea of what the sucky symbolizes," I said, which sound like I'm just all overly analytical about the whole thing, which of course, I am. But still- suckies were some of the first things I bought when I found out I was pregnant with him.I packed them in my bags to take them to the hospital. And he always looked so cute to me, so innocent and angelic, as he slept with his sucky in his mouth- pastel colors initially, which later changed to bolder colors with airplanes or dinosaurs on them, pulling at it at random intervals, sometimes lazily, sometimes furiously, his perfect lips curled into a perfect O.

So naturally, I 've given a great deal of thought to the fanfare with which Sucky should make his last curtain call. The plan for Sucky Quit date is this:

After supper tomorrow, we're going to go on a Great Sucky Roundup, as Alex has Sucky caches all over the house that we don't even know about. The sucky's will be collected into a gift basket. We will, as a collective, work on a letter to the Sucky Fairy, explaining that Alex has gotten too big to use them, and could she please find a little baby who could use them and give them to him? We will then leave the basket by the front door.
In the night, the Sucky Fairy will come. And we can't be sure, but we think that she MIGHT bring a present for Alex for being such a big boy and helping all the little babies of the world. I think it wold only be right and decent if she did.
Simple quid pro quo, and all that.

Alex seems excited by this plan. "I love the Sucky Fairy!" he told me.
I hugged him, and did a fake cry. "My baby boy is getting so big!"
He touched my face, and said "let's not be sad," which made me want to cry for reals.

It's pretty bad when a two year old has to console me. So I pulled myself together. This isn't about me and my need to have an infant to coddle. This is about him, and his need to grow up.  I can't infantilize him just because it makes me feel warm and fuzzy. Even though, yes, it does. It really, really, does.

But we have to take this step together, and embrace a brave new world. I think he's ready for it.



Bring It





Contemplating Kindle

So- I never thought I would say this but lately I've been contemplating Kindle.
As in- getting one.
I know, right.
I'm an old fashioned kind of girl. I love the way books smell, the way they feel. The excitement of starting a new one- I always skip ahead to the last page and just skim it. Ever so slightly. Just to see. And of course I read the acknowledgements, to see who the authors agent it.
But two recent events have made me start to think that it might be time to jump ship.

A couple of weeks ago, I was at Wal Mart and perusing the books. The selection was very minimal. Most of the books had 40% off stickers. Some of the books were in bins, one marked $5 one marked $7. Some of the books in the bin were hardcovers.
"I hate to say this," said a stranger who was standing beside me, in the same predicament. "But I think we're going to have to get an EReader soon," he said.
I nodded slowly. "You may be right," I concurred, with a sad sort of smile, though I wasn't quite sold on it.
At least, not yet.
Although I sensed something. That somehow, this strangers words were  important, that things were shifting for me. For us, even, as I felt connected to this person, as book connoisseurs.

And I thought about Under the Dome, which I happened to be reading when I went to Mexico, which was unfortunate, because the book is over a thousand pages, and very weighty. I dragged that ting through the airports, to the beach and back every day. It was cumbersome, even to read,  much less carry  around. I would have preferred, I told my husband one night, if he had written the book in two parts rather than one that size.
And for all of my lugging it around in Mexico, I read maybe only a hundred pages.
In two weeks.
Pitiful, I know.

But in my defense: this is an example of a day at the beach:

Get down to the beach.
Unpack the kids towells and sand toys.
Sit down to read book.
One sentence later: "Mom, I have to go potty!" Alex says, holding himself.
"Okay," I say, getting up and walking the half block or so to the bathrooms. Along the way we stop and observe birds, his bathroom needs seemingly forgotten. He chases the birds for a while, cries when they fly away once he's within a few feet. Then he sees the outdoor showers, and of course he has to go in, he stands in the shower, playing with the water. Doing a version of the hokey pokey, putting the left foot in, the left foot out. I drag him away.

Finally, we get to the bathroom.
I sit him on the toilet. He has to take his shorts completely off, and his shoes as well. Then he sits on the potty, dangles his feet up and down. Looks at me with an adoring smile and says "all done." as he hops off.
"But you didn't go!" I tell him.
"I don't have to," he says, as he tries to open the door. I hold him back, wriggle his little but into his shorts and his little feet into his shoes.

We make the slow walk back to the beach.

Along the way we pass the bar. "I need a drink," he tells me. So we stand at the bar, order a Spiderman, which is a convoluted drink that involves red Jello and blue ice cream.  Alex insists on carrying it himself to the beach. By the time we get there, he has spilled most of it on himself, and it's almost completely melted. He cries that he's sticky, and this necessitates another trip to the shower area. I can't get him away from the shower area. I walk away, thinking he'll follow. He does not follow. A security guard comes over and stands, protectively, beside the shower, observing Alex. I watch from the beach.

 "There," I say, as I pick up my book. "The security guard is looking after him." But then I remember that the security guards are all, apparently, crooked and possibly involved in the drug cartel, according to a lady we met who was either the most brilliant detective since Sara Sidle or completely paranoid and deranged. I look at him talking on his two way radio, and wonder what he's saying, feeling vaguely suspicious about it for some reason.

I sigh and put my book down, walk back to the shower, pull Alex away, causing a slight scene in the process.We get back to the beach, I sit down, poised to read my book again. It feels nice.
I feel the sun boring into me, and I look up at the kids.
Hatless!
"Get your hats on," I tell them. I pull the hats out of the sand, shake them vigorously, put them on the kids, who promptly take them off. This goes on for some time. Finally I convince them to wear their hats, and they do so but  begrudgingly.
Then I remember that I haven't sunscreened them recently, so I go and rub them down with SPF 50.

Then I sit down, poised to read, finally.

"I have to go potty," Alex says, again holding himself and dancing around, and I think- I think this is for real this time, although I'm never sure until we get there.
"Okay," I say with a sigh, getting up.
And so on and so forth.

Anyways.
Would a Kindle have prevented these problems?
No. Nothing could have prevented these problems, except for maybe birth control, but it was way too late for that.
But, still. I wouldn't have had to cart that damn book around with me, everywhere we went, for two weeks, so that I could read precisely one sentence every day.
So here I am, contemplating a Kindle.
I don't know what's happening to me, somehow, I'm becoming current. I even have a Blackberry now.
I even know how to use it.
Well, sort of. I mean, some stuff I can do.
What's next- maybe I'll read the Hunger Games or watch Inception.
Probably not. But you never know?

Anyways, you tell me: how do you read?

Misadventures in Reading

I was standing in the kitchen, playing an impromptu round of "What did I just step in?"
I do not like this game, but being that I'm inclined to walk barefoot in my home and live with three kids, a dog and a cat, this is a game that is thrust upon me quite frequently.
Tonight's rendition seemed too easy. The texture was slimy, the temperature warmish.
"Ugh, dog puke," I thought, as I picked up my foot to see what, indeed, I had stepped in, partly hoping that I was right (for the win!) and partly hoping I was wrong (cuz- ew, dog puke? Need I say more?)
I was puzzled, but pleasantly surprised, by the result. Canola oil. Because trust me, it could have been worse. A lot worse.
Just think of it like an abbreviated paraffin wax treatment, I thought at I dabbed at my afflicted foot with paper towell, which felt kind of gross as it oozed between my toes. I covered the oily splotch on the floor with a tea Towell, wiping it ineffectively with my foot.
Why there was warm canola oil on my kitchen floor, I wasn't sure, but left the matter alone. It's better not to ask questions sometimes.
Besides, the end result is the same.

I poured myself a glass of wine, which is what I had gone into the kitchen for in the first place, and returned to the living room. A few minutes later, I was interrupted by my kids. First the pouty cry of Payton, as she emerged from the bedroom holding her left arm. She was followed by Alex, who was also pouting.
"I'm hungry for a sandwich," he said, in a whiny voice that was not quite a cry, but verging on it.
"A sandwich?" I asked with a laugh, finding it strange that he would be asking for a sandwich at nine pm.
"And what happened to your arm?" I asked Payton, thinking the two incidents were unrelated.
"Alex bit my arm because he's hungry for a sandwich," she said, looking disgruntled.
I couldn't help but laugh at that.

Oil on the kitchen floor, the kids apparently cannibalizing each other out of apparent hunger.
What the hell was going on in my house, you might be asking yourself.
I'll tell you what.
I got my book shipment today from Amazon!!
I started reading, at noon, Heart of the Matter by Emily Giffin. I was still reading it at nine, when said cannibalistic act took place. Maybe I have a problem, I thought, but then dismissed that.
What could be wrong with reading?
Besides, it wasn't my fault that the book was so captivating and engrossing that I couldn't, not possibly, be torn away from it, despite my initial misgivings.
I wasn't sure about the book in the beginning. The back jacket made it sound like there was some cataclysmic event, but then I found out a few pages in that said event was a boy burning himself while roasting marshmallows at a sleepover party. Now granted, his burns were somewhat bad.
But still.
This did not seem cataclysmic to me.
I realized with some shock and horror, that I had been fully expecting, and even hoping I think, that the boy would die. I felt oddly deflated when I discovered that no such death was forthcoming (what's wrong with me? I thought). But, in my defense, I mean, really? Four hundred pages about a boy who got burned while roasting a marshmallow?

I felt that I was the one who had been burned.

But then I found that that wasn't the cataclysmic event, but more or less the precipitating factor which led to this event- which as it turned out, was even better (or worse, because for me- the worse, the better) than I thought-
a cheating husband. This topic appeals to me, because I have often wondered why a person would choose to go down that road. It's a slippery slope, I've always thought. More like a series of small transgressions rather than one big one. And the book ended exactly the way I thought it should, which was nice. I hate it when I don't get my way in the end. But I have to say that even I was surprised that I was satisfied with the outcome. Well, I guess I can't say much more than that. Don't want to ruin the ending for anyone who hasn't read it.

Anyways, that was my day yesterday.

I have to deal with my procrastination problem, but I'll do it later.

Every year, I promise myself one thing.
Actually, there's several, but for the purposes of this post, one thing.
I promise myself that I won't be that mom- not again-, standing before a near empty shelf, at ten pm on February 13th looking for Valentines for my daughters class, trying to convince her that Thomas the Tank Engine could be for girls, too.

But alas, this year, there I was.

Actually, I thought I had the jump on it. On Saturday I went to Superstore to get the Valentines, I brought Payton with me. "What kind should we get?" I asked, thinking that there would still be tons of possibilities.
But we couldn't seem to find any.
So I asked someone working in the cards section. "Where are the Valentines cards for kids?"
"Like, in the boxes you mean?"
She looked kind of baffled. I nodded.
"We sold out of those. Like last weekend," she said.
"What? Really?" I asked.
My daughter looked disappointed, but hopeful. "Maybe we could make them!"
I groaned. It's not that I didn't want to, but...
OK it is that I didn't want to.
There are twenty six kids in her class, which has to be against the law I think, or against something.
I just couldn't imagine cutting and pasting and coloring twenty six valentines.
It was bad enough just helping her write the kids names on it. You would think it would be easy, but this itself is a long, slow process. Especially when we lost the class list, and had to brainstorm all the names ourselves.

"Maybe we'll try Wal Mart," I said. "I'm sure they'll have them."
"But what if they don't?" she asked.
"Well- then we'll try another store. They've got to have them somewhere," I told her, but I wasn't sure myself.
"OK, let's go," she said.
"We'll go tomorrow," I told her. Because one crazy busy store was enough for me in one day.
So the next day found me at Wal Mart. Luckily they still had a reasonable selection. I remember one year when I went the day before and all they had left was The Wiggles, and my son was in about Grade four he was kind of humiliated, but it was all I could do.
Besides, what are they doing exchanging Valentines in Grade 4? I mean, really. Grade 4!!
Grow up already.


Then there was the 100th day of school. I read something about it, somewhere, made a mental note of it and forgot the whole thing.
And then on Thursday night, I tucked Payton into bed. "But tomorrow's the 100th day of school!" she said. "We were supposed to make a poster with a hundred things on it!"
"What? That's tomorrow?" I asked, panicked.
She nodded. "Are you sure?" I asked her. "It can't be," I said. "I thought that was next week."
"It's tomorrow!" she said, nearly shouting. "My teacher said it is because there were 100 Teddy bears in the jar and today when we took one out and there was only one left so that means the party's tomorrow! And we're supposed to bring a poster of 100 things." I groaned. Honestly, I didn't really understand the whole teddy bears in the jar thing, it sounded kind of out there, but there was enough urgency in her voice that I believed her.
And so there I was, at nine pm on Thursday night, buying poster board.
Sometimes I feel bad for my kids that they have such a scatter brained mom.
But then again- all's well that ends well. The Valentines went out this morning. And we even got pencils and erasers to put in them, so this made her happy.
She had a project for the 100th day of school. It wasn't exactly what they were supposed to have. We ended up making a necklace with a hundred Cheerios, because it was late and I was really too tired to tackle the poster anyways.
But still. It was fine.
And I will deal with my procrastination problem.
Just, you know- later.

The Mother Load

You don't get a vacation from being a mom. Even when you're on vacation. Maybe even, especially on vacation. There are a lot of things that could go wrong. Starting with the airplane ride.

I'm not afraid of flying. At least, not per se. But it doesn't make me feel very good when:

-in the boarding area an air traffic personnel person tells me, chirpily, that we'll commence boarding right away. They're just fixing our plane's flat tires.

-once we board, the captain announces that we'll spend a good deal of time de icing the plane. And a distant memory surfaced. Somewhere, sometime, I remember watching on TV- maybe an episode of Mythbusters, I couldnt' be sure- but something along the lines of even a tiny little drop of ice or condensation of the wing of the airplane could bring the whole thing down. I look at my kids, who are innocently and happily licking their lollipops, which were for take off. "I can't wait to take off!" Payton tells me. "Mmm Hmmm," I reply, absently, still watching the crew spray some sort of chemical on the wings. I hope they get it all, I think.

-The flight attendant approaches me and says, again chirpily- why are they always so chirpy?- that "the captain has decided to make this a four hour flight instead of five and a half. So I thought I should give you the heads up that you might want to keep your kids seat belts fastened for the duration of the flight. I'm expecting a really bumpy ride." I force a smile and nod.

Fucking awesome. Our pilot has apparently decided to go Kamikaze on us. Thanks for keeping me in the loop. Maybe I would rather not know that, I think, as my heart rate begins to speed up. I glance again at my kids, still licking their lollipops. For some reason it wrenches my heart to see them like that. So blissfully unaware of my deepening unease. I begin to wonder if my unease is a sign. Something more than just a feeling.

An intuition.
A premonition.
My heart rate speeds up again. And I think what if...
I have a sudden vision of the cabin losing pressure. Oxygen masks deploying. The children looking at me, eyes wide with fear. And I just know that I wouldn't be able to put my own mask on before helping them. The one thing you're supposed to do in an emergency and I don't think I could do it.
The engine revs, and the kids look at me with anticipation. "Here we go," Payton says.
"Here we go," I say. For better or worse, here we go.
And the thought occurs to me: I wonder if they keep on Valium on here- for emergency purposes? I mean, what if someone has a panic attack while they're on board? It's not like you can get off. All they offer is a barf bag?
Thanks.

But that flight wasn't bumpy at all!
In fact, the worst thing that happened was the in flight movie was Eat, Pray, Love. And that was pretty bad.
I was almost wishing that the plane would go down.

Anyways. That feeling cropped up, on and off during the vacation. We got to our suite on the third floor. I felt a lot better about that one than the one that was practically inside the parking lot (AKA possible crime scene.) Until I went out on the balcony. What if?

 I thought as I looked at the table and chairs that were near the railing. Knowing Alex he would try to...
"Keep this door locked when we're not out here," I told Geoff.
Paranoid?
Maybe, but bad things do happen, even in paradise. That thought was never far from my mind. I thought of Madeiline McCann often.

And of course, it doesn't help when I meet up with some kook in the hallway (at least I'm hoping she was a kook) who tells me that the hotel has MAJOR security issues. She emphasizes the word major so much that it actually becomes two words. May and Jor. Apparently, the staff is all corrupt and the maids are in it with the security guards and they communicate everything on two way radios- who's in what room, when they're in or out of their room, what kind of stuff they have in their rooms. It was hard to believe that Bertha, our maid, who was about seventy years old, who walked with a limp and had a dowagers hump, could be plotting against me. But then again- you never know.
And not only that, but the locals (read: drug cartell) can and do watch the movements of everyone on the third floor because the shrubbery doesn't go up that high and there's a clear view to the interior of the rooms. "Just keep your shades down," she said. "And you should be all right." Emphasis on should.

And so I felt, among other things, when I got home a sense of profound relief that we were all home and we were all safe. Payton had a slight sunburn on her cheeks. Alex had gotten a rash from his bracelet. Other than that, we had survived, unscathed.

Anyways, I think it's about time that I started to post some GOOD vacation stories, because believe me, there are lots- and I will do that. Mondays post: parasailing.

The Gritty Beginnning

Vacation is like childbirth in a way. A less bloody and gory way, generally speaking, depending on what floats your boat. But you tend to, when all is said and done, forget about the bad aspects of it and glorify the good.

Reflecting back on my vacation from last year I remembered nothing but palm trees, hot sun, pina coladas, a stunning view and three kids that might have been a throwback to a fifties sitcom. "Gee Wilikers, Pop, I'd love another soda! That's dandy!" Of course there were moments that were frenzied and chaotic and sometimes even awful - moments where Payton had a temper tantrum or Alex had diarrhea, or God forbid- both. Or the kids spilled their drinks in the restaurant and dumped their food on the floor accidentally on purpose because they were tired and cranky and probably had too much sun.
But those moments, it seemed, were completely forgotten.
Until we went back.

I was so looking forward to that magical moment when our vacation would start, to feel that warm sun our face. We would be glowing under it! Or so I thought.

Strangely, though, I cannot recall with any clarity or precision the moment that I first felt the sun on my face. I was bogged down with three kids, two carry ons, my purse, two fleece blankets, a plush dog and a plush monkey. I trudged down the stairs of the airplane and onto a tarmac, which I realize now must have been hot. Surely it was. But all I remember thinking was "Do I have our passports and our papers" Doing a head count of the kids. Shepherding them onto the bus, holding them close. The thought occurred to me that it was hot, but not in a "Wow this is amazing" way but more in a "Good God could they get some A f'ing C on this  thing? And would it kill the guy next to me to be a little less stingy with his deodorant?" I fanned my face with our passports, but then stuffed them back down into my purse. Would people kill me for my passport? I didn't know. I looked around. They looked like mostly older, white haired touristy people, but you never know.
You never do.

Finally we got to the airport terminal. People were swarmed around the luggage belt, which was spewing out black bags. Thousands of black bags. Ours was one of them. Ours were six of them.

Alex stood too close to the belt and someone nearly took off his head with their suitcase. I picked him up, consoled him, the offending party turned, gave me a dirty look. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but I wasn't sure if you could be arrested in Mexico for saying fuck or what, so I smiled and muttered sorry while my baby's lip bled on my shirt.

OK there was no blood. I'm just being melodramatic here. But it was not good times in the luggage line. Bloody lip or not.

Then he had to go potty. Then Payton had to go. And then the stroller wouldn't unfold and I was sweating and holding the baby and pushing a now defunct stroller along, or trying to, but the damn thing was being so stubborn. And Geoff was giving me the look, the "I TOLD you not to bring that goddamn stroller!" look.
Yes- we have an "I told you not to bring that goddamn stroller" look. We have a lot of looks.
And did I mention that I was sweating?

And I wasn't sure, when we got to our hotel room an hour or so later, whether to be horrified or proud when my daughter, six, surveyed the room and then declared, quite matter of factly. "This is not acceptable."
"Hey," I told her. "Don't be like that! This is! Just great!"

I looked out the window. It was on the ground floor, facing directly onto a parking lot. Some faded yellow ribbon cordoned off the perimeter, and I wasn't sure if it was crime scene tape or not.
Probably not, I told myself. Hopefully not. It could have just as easily been left over from some kind of a fiesta night or something, although something about that didn't quite ring true. I mean- would you have a fiesta in a parking lot?
I doubted that.
But then again- what do I know about fiesta's?

In the parking lot, a truck pulled up and a couple of lanky looking locals unloaded a donkey (for the fiesta??)off of a flat bed while speaking loudly Spanish. I wasn't sure what they were saying. But they didn't look happy. Neither did the donkey.
The windows didn't lock.
Our room smelled like sewage.
"It's just not what I suspected" Payton told me, hands on hip. "Not at all."
Myself, I find it kind of endearing, but I pity the man who marries her.

But my point is this: all of that stuff was almost immediately forgotten, rather coincidentally, around the same time that I had my first rum and coke on the beach. We upgraded our room and got a beautiful suite with an ocean view. We looked out onto our parking lot (AKA possible crime scene) and said sienera with a stiff upper lip.

 The kids played in the surf, laughing and giggling and throwing sand all around. It was cute- that first day, anyways. After a little while- getting sand in your eye, and most importantly- your drink, not so fun.

We stayed like that until the sun went down and it got cold on the beach.

And, now, honestly, looking back on it- I even think that it was strangely beautiful, being in that crowded airport with the kids, holding them close, carrying that cursed, fleece Monkey blanky around with me, sweating with Alex on my hip.
Because it marked the beginning. A tough and gritty beginning, but beginnings often are?
No?


Anyways- the rest of the vacation?
was perfecto. We went parasailing and swimming with dolphins and on a pirate ship and up in the mountains and to the old down town, our children became performers, we got to know the locals. We had too much fun.

But I'll write more about that later.

Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice??

This is what little girls are made of: sugar and spice and everything nice.
So says a nursery rhyme that I recall from my childhood, when there were less taboos about political correctness and something like that could be published without fear of backlash from feminist protesters.

But let me ask you this?
Would sugar and spice throw a plastic hamster (who knew it could be used as a weapon?) at your head and order you to "Get out and stay out" when you try to wake her up in the morning??
She's not a morning person, I figure.
Honestly, I'm kind of scared of her.
And the really scary thing is-

she's only six.

So I finally roused my sleeping princess at quarter after 8, after about an hour of trying.
"Hurry up," I told her. "We have to go in ten minutes." (Which was actually twenty, but I say ten in the hope that she might be motivated to budge from her perch on the top bunk, with her pillow held firmly over her head.)
I gave her her clothes, nervous to see what she would say about them.
But she didn't say anything. She just took them wordlessly.
Relieved, I left the room to give her some privacy to change.
I returned five minutes later to check on her progress.

She had one sock half on.
"Payton! You have to HURRY" I told her, now on the verge of hysteria.

And then she flung herself to the ground, collapsing into a puddle.
"You YELLED AT ME!" she said, crying. Her words quickly became unintelligible.
"Oh for God's sake," I said, leaving the room.
I passed my husband in the hallway.
"She is going to bed EARLY tonight!"
My husband nodded. But we've had this conversation before. Every day.
That early bed time?
 Never comes.

Anyways, by the time I get to work at nine o'clock, honestly, I'm already spent.
And then I have to work eight hours.
I'm very tired, my stress is high and my energy is low.
At work the first thing I saw was a poster that said "Tips for dealing with stress:"
So I read it earnestly.
(I love the word "earnestly" and it's really very sad, because so few opportunities come up to use it. So when I do get to use it, I get really excited about that.)
Anyways the tips were crap.
"Talk about it" "Laugh about it" "Exercise" "Plan ahead" "Relax"
I do not know who designed that stupid poster.
Because I didn't see on there anywhere- binge drinking, drug overdose, or stabbing, which was really too bad.
So I tried to talk about it- but everyone at work was like 'Ohya. That's girls for ya. Just wait a few years."
And then an evil laugh.
I mean, where's the love? I'm still feeling like stabbing something.
And speaking of stabbing-

You would think that when you go to a hotel and you approach the front desk and you ask them for a knife and a stack of heavy duty paper towels that they might ask a bit more questions than "what kind of a knife?"
"Oh, I don't know," I said. "Something sharp."
"Okay," she said with a nod. "Sure thing."
So they went and got me this seriously scary looking knife and a big stack of napkins.
"Enjoy your stay," she said with a smile, and then I had to carry this knife all through the halls, and I felt more than a little conspicuous let me say, but people merely smiled and nodded, as though seeing a knife wielding woman in the hallway was pretty common.
Maybe it was.
What the hell kind of a hotel was I in, exactly??
And then I thought- I hope no one gets stabbed here in this hotel, and then they canvass all the rooms, and the people are like "come to think of it I did see someone walking around with a carving knife."
Anyways- all I needed it for was to cut my sons birthday cake, because we had forgotten to bring a knife with us. I mean, who thinks of bringing knives to a birthday party??
I felt the need to tell that to every person I passed, but then, as it turns out- no one is really that interested in entering into a dialogue with a person carrying a knife that looks like a prop from Night of the Living Dead.
Go figure.
Anyways-
writing makes me feel better.
Now I can breathe.
So thank you, dear reader.

And please tune in tomorrow where I will publish my post "Thirteen Things I Want to Tell My Thirteen Year Old Son."
Have a good day!!

Hip to Be Square.

We took the kids water sliding this weekend, which seemed like a good idea at the time.
I find myself saying that a lot- it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Things rarely go so well as I envision them.
I envisioned:
- A family of five frolicking in the pool, splashing gently, heads thrown back in laughter. The kids looking very cute in their trendy bathing suits. Later, we would order pizza and the kids would high five us for being such cool parents. After getting the kids settled- which would be a quick and easy process- "Time for bed, Kids!" we would say and they would leap up, "Swell! We're awfully tired!" We would tuck them into their beds, peer at their sleepy faces and pull the covers up around them. Geoff would kiss me on the nose and we would agree that we have the most wonderful kids in the world.

Then Geoff and I would go down to the lounge for a glass of wine, whereabouts we would gaze intently into each others eyes. "I'm so lucky to have you," Geoff would say, and I would, of course, agree with him on that.

What I ended up with:
-A pool crammed to overflowing with kids, who all seemed to be overweight-- this obesity epidemic is for real  and not just something they make up on Dateline for ratings- you know how they have those  "teenage epidemic" segments which sound really scary and sinister and it always ends up to be some obscure thing.
Anyways, these overweight kids all had a strong propensity towards cannon balls. I clung fearfully onto the kids as I stood on the sidelines, wiping heavily chlorinated water from my eyes. Alex continually tried to take his shorts off, insisting that they were WET. Payton wanted to play this game where she lunged at me.
And my husband?
There was a football game on. So he was in the room.
"Well, I don't like going in the water," he said.
"And I do? I'm scared of the water slide and I can't fricking swim."

At ten pm, I was tired and ready for bed. Geoff looked me.
"You're tired? Really? Already? How could you be?" he asked, accusatory.
"Well, it's no picnic in the park getting the three of them ready, packed, changed into bathing suits, going in the water with them." -although in all honesty- Gage is old enough to do everything on his own, so really there are two, but that's not the point.

And then the kids go and tell Geoff that he's cool and I'm not!!
What a slap in the face that was.
I was like- "But he didn't know even what a disco stick was!"
Seriously.
The first time he heard "Love Game" by Lady Gaga he was like "What the hell is a disco stick?!"
Gage and I just looked at each other. "Well, it's a metaphor," I said.
"What do you think it means when they say "I want to take a ride on your disco stick?" Gage asked.
"They can say that on the radio? What the hell?"
Gage and I just looked at each other. "They can say that and a lot worse," we told him.

But I think I am getting uncool.
OK. I've always been uncool, at least a little bit. But I think I'm getting uncooler.
I noticed that I've started saying bogus, hokey things that flaky moms say.
Payton comes up to me. "Mom, Alex did hands on."
"Alex," I stay, sternly. "Did you do a hands on? You know we do hands off. Hands are for helping, not for hurting."

And then there was this morning.
Both of the pop 40 radio stations were playing songs that I couldn't stand to listen to. One of which was a remix of "I've had the time of my life," which started off quite promising. I turned the radio up, a rush of nostalgia coursing through me. And then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, this techno like beat starts up and the whole thing goes to shit. The other ones most predominant, and possibly only lyrics, were "I'm awesome."
You're not awesome, I told the radio, feeling irritated.
So I turned it to the easy listening station, "just to see" I told myself.
When I heard Hewey Louis and the News playing my heart quickened. I started tapping my fingers on the steering wheel. "It's the p-p-power of love," I sang along.
And then I realized. Hewey Louis and the News!!
I turned down the music,  looked around, feeling self conscious.
Ah, screw it, I thought, turning it back up again.
What image, exactly, am I holding onto, or trying to? I thought, driving my fifteen year old minivan with a "Baby on Board" sticker on it and CJWW bumper sticker- from a previous owner, in my defense.
But it is, after all, hip to be square.
That's what Hewey himself says.

Time Flies When You're Having Fun

Sorry it's been so long.
It's been a busy week. And by busy I mean lousy.
My husband decides he needs to go on a vacation, on account of how "overworked" he is, which honestly, I don't understand. I mean, he works at a country club. Like, literally. It can't be that bad. Anyways, he wanted to go golfing, and go to hockey games and the like. At first I was like "Whatever. I can handle the kids by myself. I always do, anyways,"which was meant to be a jab at him, but of course he doesn't get that. He's like "Cool. Thanks, you're awesome. See you Wednesday."

I've said it before and I'll say it again- being passive aggressive does not pay.
 My advice: just be aggressive. F the passive. It'll get you nowhere. Except for stuck at home with three kids.

A mere few hours after he left I was already starting to feel overwhelmed. My morning consisted of various complaints, lots of whining, lots of hitting, subsequent time outs, potty training mishaps, a dog that ran away, and several renditions of Alex's creative spin on "Oh Canada," which contains the line "I can't fix your trampoline" which is also sometimes "zamboni."
By nine fifteen I was feeling like a caged animal.
Caged with other animals. Annoying ones, like hamsters who look cute at first but then then they just keep on digging and digging and getting wood chips everywhere, and running on their wheel which keeps on squeaking, and then suddenly you look at their big hamster teeth and their cheeks all puffy cheeks and you suddenly have the urge to take that little hamster and gouge his eyes out.
Like that.
So I decided to take them out. "I just need to get out of the house," I thought.
That was a mistake. It's kind of like those people,, who have bad marriages and they think that having a baby will fix everything. But then you just end up with an even worse marriage, a lack of sleep, a perpetual puke stain on your shoulder and bladder control problems.

Rule Number 2: If your kids are driving you crazy at home, they're only going to drive you crazy in public. Which is worse. Cuz then you're in public. With crazy kids. And you can't even yell at them or threaten them that if they're not good you'll go get Shadow- which is a dog that they're scared of.

Brunch did not go well.
The person sitting behind us may or may not have suffered a mild to moderate concussion after Alex threw a fork at him. He tried to climb on the table, spilling his orange juice in the process. Which might not have been that bad, except for the fact that Alex had shredded all of the napkins, which I sat back and let him do, maybe even slightly encouraged it, because after all-- he can't give anyone a concussion with a napkin.
"Alex," I told him, tyring to be firm. "You are going to go in time out right away."
Payton looked at me. "Where are you going to put him for time out, mom?"
"Touche," I said.

Anyways, when my husband came home it wasn't one of those emotional reunions you see on TV where the woman runs and lunges at her husband, wraps her legs around him and shrieks with excitement.
It was more like: I thrust Alex at him, who'd recently had another potty mishap. "Welcome home. He shit."

And then the next day he didn't even want to get out of bed.
He was like "Ohhh, I'm so exhausted. I need a vacation to recover from my vacation."
And I was like "You're not getting any sympathy from me, asshole."
Like seriously? Maybe if he hadn't drank his weight in beer he would be feeling better.
And his weight in beer, BTW, = a whole lot of beer. Like, A LOT.
Okay, that's kind of mean.
Anyways, that's why I haven't been around.

It Could Always Be Worse

On Friday I was in a state.
Payton had forgotten her lunch at home.
This we realized as I dropped her off at school. The bell had just rung, and there was no time to turn around and get her lunch- I was due to be at work in ten minutes.
"Go home with Gage," I told her, and instructed Gage (13) firmly to pick his sister up at her locker and take her home for lunch.
This didn't exactly sit right with me, but I had virtually no other choice.
I felt uneasy pulling away, although I always do, for some reason, as I watch Payton struggle with her back pack to the doors.

I phoned home at lunch time to be sure that they had made it okay.
Gage answered on the first ring.
"Oh, you're home!" I said with relief. "Can I talk to Payton?"
"Payton --didn't come home with me?" he said, like he was asking a question.
"WHAT?"
"Well, she wasn't by her lockers when I went there, and she wasn't in the lunch room."
I slammed down the phone, feeling a little ill, and phoned the school, in a panic.

"Oh, yeah," the secretary said. "Payton's here. The teacher took her for lunch since she didn't have anything to eat."
OK. That's good news, I suppose.
I mean, certainly it's better than what I had been thinking- that she had been lured away by that dodgy guy with the combover that lives across from me that wears heavy industrial coveralls when he mows his lawn- even in the summer. Now I don't know if wearing coveralls in the summer makes you a pedophile for sure, but it definitely makes you suspect in my books.
Anyways, I was relieved for a second.
But then I started to panic again.  It's just that, and I hope don't sound too insecure when I say this, but it kind of makes me feel like a bad parent when the teachers  take my kids home with them on their lunch break, like their the "special project" and they all discuss her at the meetings and decide that "with a little bit of TLC this kid might have some potential" Perhaps someone even says  "to try to mitigate the harmful home environment" or something like that and they all exchange knowing  glances and say "Has anyone actually seen that mother? She's, like, never here. I'm beginning to think there's no mother at all in this equation, which might explain the way that kid dresses sometimes."
Which- I know isn't always appropriate, but is it MY fault that she has such strong ideas about wearing miniskirts and flouncy dresses in the middle of winter with tons of accessories and eye shadow and lip gloss.
She looks adorable, what am I gonna do??
I swear she'll be a fashion designer someday and then I'll tell THEM miss haughty school people, that her upbringing was JUST FINE, thank you very much.
I mean, unless she's one of those fashion designers that's bulimic or on crack or whatever.
Then I'll just keep my mouth shut, let bygones be bygones. You know, to be the bigger person.

Anyways was at work, and I was in a state.
My coworker was able to calm me down.
"Randine," she said. "It could always be worse."
And immediately I calmed down.
What was I freaking out about?
That my daughter is part of a community that cares about her?
I mean, it could be worse.
A lot worse.
I just have to watch the news to find that out for sure.
Or look at across the street at my sketchy coverall wearing neighbor.

That's all for now.
Have a good day.

Creative Financing

"It's called creative financing," I told my husband when he reacted with less than enthusiasm about the fact that I had recently acquired a new (low interest!!) platinum Master Card. I really tried to sell him on the low interest rate, but it didn't seem to matter.
"It's called going into debt," he said with a dour expression on his face. "And creative is bad when it comes to finances. Very bad. 'Creative' and 'Financing' just don't go together."
"Mmm," I said, pausing, as though thinking about it, but really I was thinking about something else, namely the trip to Mexico I was planning on booking ASAP.

"We can't afford to go to Mexico," my husband said for the millionth time on that matter.
Which was true, to a certain extent. There wasn't exactly money in the bank to fund it. But that's where the creative financing comes into play.
"We can't afford not to," I told him.
"What the hell does that mean?"
I wasn't exactly sure, but I had heard Suze Orman say it once, although it sounded much more convincing coming from her. Why I was even watching a crap financial show like that, I can't imagine. She must have been on Oprah or something.
In fact, I think she was.
People in the audience were asking her if they could afford this or that, and she would give her take on it, which was usually no, by the way. According to that lady, from what I could gather, it was all about squirrelling all your money away like chipmunks during- whatever- monsoon season. Whenever they do the bulk their storing. I don't know. I don't know that much about chipmunks and their habits, quite frankly. 
Anyways, in this one instance, a lady asked if she could afford a divorce.
Suze broke down the numbers.
Sadly, she couldn't. They were up to their eye balls in debt, house was being foreclosed on. They had like seven kids, no savings.
But she said yes!
She said "the reason being: there are some things in life that you can't afford not to do."
And I know that sipping tequila in the sun is a divorce not, but- but I quite honestly feel that if I don't get a vacation at some point, I might as well reserve a room in a mental institution sometime soon.
Quite honestly, I feel that I left a piece of myself there last year. A piece that, who knew, wasn't opposed to drinking daiquiris at ten in the morning.

Leaving Mexico last year was tough, to say the least.
We took the kids to the beach, dug our heels into the sand, looked up at the sun.
"Feel the sun on your face," I told the kids. "And try to remember that feeling," I said, knowing that we would return home to a city blanketed in snow, amidst a winter that was dark and oppressive and unrelenting.

Later, as our cab pulled away from the resort, Payton looked up at me, tears threatening to spill from her eyes, her chin wobbling.  I squeezed her hand, and she smiled at me through the tears, a sad sort of smile, which made me start crying, which made her start laughing. "Mom! You're crying!"
And then we were both laughing and crying all at the same time.
"We won't say good bye," I told her. "We'll say "see you later!"
And only with that were we able to board the plane, and watch Mexico disappear beneath us.
I feel the need to go back there physically, viscerally.
Hopefully we will get there, somehow.

Beautiful Distractions

Tonight I bathed my kids, rinsing suds from their hair, water rushing down their backs in soft, streaming rivulets, the scent of Johnsons soap hanging in the air.
I put their pyjamas on. We sat down and read stories. Payton is learning to read. I pointed words out to her carefully. I cleaned the kitchen. I put a load of laundry in. And for once in my life, I was grateful for these tasks. These wonderful distractions that smell of baby soap and laundry detergent and bubble gum toothpaste. Their warm bodies that press against me when we read in a slow cadence. Their incessant, sometimes overlapping, chatter.
My beautiful, noisy, distractions.
I reflected tonight on the irony that I complained bitterly that these same distractions made it nearly impossible for me to write Having Grace.
And now that the writing is done, it is these same distractions that keep me sane while I watch and wait for word on my full.
Life has a certain structure to it. A loose and chaotic, but charming nonetheless, structure.
What am I so afraid of? I asked myself as I tucked my little kids into their respective Princess and Toy Story beds, hair spilling across their faces, back lit by the soft glow of a Sesame Street Night Light.
In many ways, I am already rich.
In many ways, I am already successful.
In many ways- in most ways, actually, I've already made it.

I remind myself why I write.
Not to be represented.
Not to see my name in print (although, OK, I wouldn't totally hate that.)
Not to get rich.
But simply because I enjoy doing it.
And because I honestly don't know how not to do it.
So I've let it go. Whatever happens, happens. With Tricia, with anyone. With Having Grace, with any future projects.
My manuscript is my baby, yes, to a certain extent.  But I have real babies.
My beautiful, wonderful, distractions.

State of Disaster

I spent seven hours last night reading my manuscript.
I recant what I said yesterday about still laughing out loud when I read it.
There was no laughing out loud. I have now, officially, read it too many times. I'm kind of starting to hate it.
It makes me sick. Literally. I got motion sickness from scrolling through the document, and a headache as well.
And my house looks like a pack of rabid animals ransacked it, which in a way- is exactly what happened.
At one point, I glanced into the living room to check on this kids. They were supposed to be watching Marmaduke. Alex was sitting, sans diaper, on a pot.
And no, when I say 'pot' I do not mean 'potty.'
I mean an actual pot. 
"Where's your diaper?" I asked him, alarmed.
"In the wagon," he said.
Naturally.
"Why did you take it off?"
"Because I pooped."
Oh God. Which was bad enough.
But then I caught the dog in a compromising position with the diaper.
This morning when I woke up and opened the fridge I found the entire crate of juice boxes I had bought for back to school opened, with straws poked in them, some in various states of emptiness.
"I did it!" Alex said, proudly.
Note to self: do not leave two year old unattended.
Well, in retrospect that should go without saying.

It was with some happiness that I hit the send button and sent that blasted manuscript away.
But then when I crawled into bed, I started second guessing everything. I should have changed that, I should have looked at this or that- even though I did, but I should have looked harder. I remember that feeling of intense vulnerability from the last time I sent out the full.
It almost made me wish that I hadn't brought any of this on myself at all.
Almost.
But not quite.
Anyways, at least I didn't have to print it off this time.
But then I started to become paranoid and agitated that it got lost in the cyber world. I still don't completely trust my hotmail account since it was hacked, though I did recover everything and they say it's OK.
Note to self: Never give your password to so called Hot Mail Account Manager.
In retrospect, that, too sounds like it should be obvious.

Anyways, things are out of my hands, at least for the time being.
And now we wait.
And restock the juice boxes.
And the cookware.

Grim Statistics, Speed, and Ineffective Threatening Techniques: My plans for the Long Weekend.

We're going to the lake for the long weekend, which I was pretty excited about. Until I drove to work this morning. And heard this: "Your chances of dying in a fatal collision on the highway doubles on the long weekend"- said in sinister tone, which suddenly becomes light, adding: "Please drive carefully."
What the Fuck.
I don't much like the fact that there's a chance I might die out there on the highway, period. The fact that it has just doubled, as of midnight tonight, kind of has me freaking out.

So I plan on leaving tomorrow morning instead of tonight. As early as possible- 7:30. Get on that highway before all the drunk people.
7:30 is too early to be drunk, isn't it??
I think anything before 10 am is too early to be drunk.
Buzzed, maybe, yes, okay.
But if you're drunk on your ass at 7:30 am then you might have a problem.
Maybe.
Unless you're still drunk from the night before. Which is another story. Then you don't have a problem. You're just awesome to party with. Or you overstay your welcome. Or you're on drugs that make you stay up all night- "uppers" "meth" "speedballs"
I know all the lingo.
I watch Intervention.

Anyways. We're going to the lake tomorrow. Hopefully we will make it there.
I am considering whether or not to buy the kids a portable DVD player so they can watch a movie on the way up. The drive is two and a half hours, which doesn't sound half bad, but when I'm on my own (which I will be, of course. Honestly- if I ever get married again, it will not only be to an Irish dude, but to someone with a nice 9-5 job, a tax accountant or something. Not a food and beverage manager.) with the three of them, it's not pretty.
Frick, who am I kidding? Even if Geoff is with me, it's not pretty. He doesn't do anything. Last time he got mad at them, said if they didn't stop fighting they were going to have to walk.
That totally backfired.
"I want to walk!" Alex said, trying to break free of his restraint. "Walk!" he kept on calling.
Yes, threaten a kid that's writhing against his restraint system that if he doesn't stay quiet we're going to let him free.
That should work bloody brilliantly.
For the rest of the way there he screamed to get out and walk.
Way to go, Geoff.

Actually, honestly,  it was me who made that threat. I cannot lie to you.
I don't know what I was thinking.
It's not the first time I've made a no good threat.
Last month when Gage had a dentist appointment he presented himself wearing a ripped pair of wrinkled jeans that were way too short on him- he looked like one of the kids I saw on a Dateline special- Children of the Appalachia.  I told him to go change and he refused.
"If you're not going to change, then I'll just leave you at home."

Wait a minute. What did I just say??

As soon as I said it I knew it was a mistake.
"Sweet," he said, throwing himself back on the couch and picking up his DS.

Anyways, I don't care what Geoff says. The DVD player is an investment in myself and my sanity- possibly my safety. Last time I drove home from the lake with those kids I made it home in under two hours- and we stopped for lunch in PA. I accomplished this feat by first of all going way too fast, and secondly by passing nearly everybody that I saw, even if I was driving myself straight into oncoming traffic.
They'll swerve, I thought.
And if not, I'll either die on impact or be brain damaged enough that I cannot hear the constant bellowing of poorly sung Usher songs alternated with Dora songs alternated with urgent demands to go poopy and soothers being thrown at my head.
Either way, NO DOWN SIDE.

Have a good long weekend.

First Day of School

She looked so small, laden with a back pack that weighed at least as much as she did.
I brought her to her classroom, where she took a seat next to her friend, Taylor- the boy that she "broke up" with in the spring to "focus on her studies".
Were they back together? Or just mere friends? Whatever "dating" means in Grade 1 terms.
You see? There's so much I don't know about her already.
Some girls filed in and huddled around Payton, commenting on her clothes and hair and backpack.
I stood back.
She waved at me, giving me the signal to go.
Still, I stood there.
She looked so small.
Another mom stood by the door way, half in and half out, which was sort of how I was feeling.
"I feel kind of bad just leaving her here," I told her. She nodded her understanding.

Reluctantly, I left after another, more emphatic, good bye wave from Payton.
For some reason, I felt a sense of sadness come over me.
It was entirely unexpected. When I dropped her off at Kindergarten for the first time I was like "Hallelujah, she's someone Else's problem now. At least for three hours a day, most days."
Three hours a day is one thing.
A full day is another.
And it made me so sad that once, I dropped Gage off at Grade 1, in that very room. Payton was a newborn, swaddled and sleeping in her stroller. The other kids swarmed me every day, looking at the baby, little faces peering into the stroller, firing questions at me: how old was she (that one I could handle) , where did she come from (er, ask your own parents, kid) and what she ate (how to explain breast feeding to a six year old?)
And today, that baby started Grade one herself.
I wonder where the time went.

Oh well, at least I still have one (sort of) baby- as long as you don't call him a baby to his face. That might get you slapped.
But he calls waffles 'tacos', which is sort of endearing, once you get past the confusion of him demanding tacos at seven in the morning. And Kleenex is still contraband in our house, which is also sort of endearing, the way he plucks each and every one from the box with reckless abandon.
We use toilet tissue on our nose.
It works well enough.

Anyways, I did not post yesterday. I was sharpening pencils like a madman and smoothing nerves (mainly my own) and picking out clothes with Payton- which you know is an ordeal, and at the end of the day I had a headache.
And a heart ache.
Oh, well. At least we are saving on daycare fees??

Hell at 8 Sharp.

I still remember my first day back to work following my year long maternity leave.
Geoff and I both woke up at six, had coffee together, got stuff ready for the kids, checked the weather forecasts, selected outfits for ourselves and the kids, showered, woke the kids up, made breakfast, ate breakfast with the kids, walked them to daycare, since it was a nice morning, came home and then left for work in our separate vehicles after a hug and some softly spoken words.

Fourteen months have interceded.
And things have gone to hell in a hand basket.
No more chit chat over coffee before the kids wake up.
No more early morning walks to daycare.
This morning went like this:
The blare of the alarm clock, which I promptly shushed with the most wonderful invention in the world:: Snooze.  Finally get out bed, grumbling, at 7:30, throwing objects at Geoffs snoring head to get him out of bed (not sharp objects- just little things).
Go into the kids room, give them their first gentle shake that it's time to wake up.
Quick shower.
Second, not so gentle, shake for the kids to get up. Lights on in the bedroom.
The cats meow at me, circling my feet, waiting not so patiently by their food dish. "Shut it," I tell them.
(Oh, I feed them- eventually, so don't be getting all humane society on me.)
Do my hair haphazardly.
Pull the one or two shirts that is hanging limply in my closet out and get dressed.
Extract the kids from their beds by force.
Throw a pair of clothes at them, grabbed at random.
Payton throws her dress back at me. "I don't want to wear this dress. I want to wear this dress," she says, pulling out a dress that's two sizes too small. "It doesnt' fit," I tell her, bracing myself for it.
She throws herself on the floor, crying. No, not crying. Shrieking. Howling. Wailing.
Alex looks at her. "Sisters crying," he tells me, as though I can't hear her. As though everyone within a five mile radius can't hear her. I walk away from that scene, closing the door behind me. The thought crosses my mind: I wonder if they still perform exorcisms?

I start browning beef to throw in the crock pot to make chili for supper tonight.
Payton yells at me from her room, demanding something.
I rush to help her get dressed.  I comb the snarls out of her hair. I put a bow in it. I watch at the window with Alex on my hip as the Garbage Truck comes,  a weekly must see spectacle in our house.
I give the kids cold cereal for breakfast and a half a banana for Alex. Payton regards the banana with loathing. "I hate bananas" she says.
Yesterday, she liked them. I can't keep up.
Finish making the chili.
Look all over the house for a stray shoe. Find the stray shoe in the laundry hamper, of course, where else??
Help Payton pack for her field trip today.
"She has a field trip today?" Geoff asks me as Payton and I discuss it.
He is so out of the loop sometimes. I give him a look.
Rush out the door ten minutes before I'm expected at work.

And my husband?
His schedule?
Wake up. Go to garage for a cigarette.  Come inside for long shower. Shave-- lengthy process. Get dressed-- another lengthy process. Grab a cup of coffee and leave.
I think I need to start drinking something stronger than coffee in the morning.

Feeling Stabby

Every morning when I wake up, I tell myself: "I am not going to feel stabby today. NO MATTER WHAT. Not even a little bit, Randine. And I'm serious this time. You're not going to pull that shit you did yesterday."

Don't look at me like that. Everyone talks to themselves sometimes, I think.

"Choose Your Attitude" I say, thinking of this work- what do they call it- morale, I think- thing that we had to watch at work where people threw fish at each other and laughed about it and a bunch of weird shit like that.
But the stabiness comes, anyways.

Eg:

Geoff and I have this ongoing feud between jasmine rice and sticky rice.
I prefer jasmine rice, and being the buyer and preparer of the food- jasmine rice it is in our house.
Geoff always sulks about this.
Tonight we sat down to eat, he scooped the rice on his plate with a heavy sigh, as though burdened by this hardship.
"Look." I said, dropping my fork with a loud clank.  "If you don't like the rice, don't fricking eat it."
"I didn't even say anything about the rice. I was just breathing."
And suddenly I'm stabby again. I'm looking at my fork and thinking about making it into a shank. Or better yet- I could just use that steak knife right beside it.

And then I go on my Facebook page and I see someones status update:
"I would rather go to jail for spanking my kids than see them go to jail because I didn't."
Three people "liked" this status.
Which, whatever.
But. First of all: as if you're going to go to jail for spanking your kid. You're not getting any sympathy from me on this.
And secondly, don't take the moral high ground on me because I'm not a spanker. I doubt, highly doubt, that my children are going to end up jail because I didn't spank them.
In fact, I'm pretty sure that if you go to a prison right now- any prison- and asked any random inmate in there what caused them to become criminals, "Too much coddling from my parents" would not be the first thing out of their mouths.
In fact, I think that's just about the last thing they might way.
So SHUT IT with your self righteous status updates.
I don't freaking need it.

But now I know why I'm so stabby.
Vitamin D.
I read on a website- very legit I'm sure- that Vitamin D deficiency is basically the root of all evil.
Feeling tired?
Vitamin D
Feeling cranky?
Vitamin D
Cancer?
Vitamin D
Sores?
Vitamin D
Syphillis?
Vitamin D
Married to Mel Gibson?
Vitamin D

So I'm going to start on Vitamin D, and see if I feel less stabby in a week.
And to test my hypothesis, I'm going to self administer a stabby scale, which I created just now in my head, which has basically no psychological validity at all whatsoever, but I think it will be a good pre test post test measure.


How stabby do you feel on a scale of 1-10: 10
What are you wearing right now: Pyjamas
Pink or purple: Pink
Favorite Pizza Topping: Cheese
The first word that comes to mind when I say knife: stab
Yellow or orange: neither
Was Lassie good, or evil: Evil. That's why they shot him.

OK. So now we wait. I'll start taking the Vitamin D and let you know in a week if I'm less stabby.
In the meantime, do not stop by, unless you want to get stabbed. We can just chat online, it's better that way for both of us: less stabbing for you, and I can stay in my pyjamas, and I don't have to clean my kitchen. Not that I would anyways. I would just steer you clear of the kitchen.

My poor,dear aunty decided to pay me a visit this weekend past. I wasn't in a very good mood. The kids had been in and out for about a solid hour, always leaving the door wide open. The dog had run away about eleven times. Alex had woken up from his nap about three times.
"Stop coming in and out," I told them firmly, shutting the door behind them and locking it.
Three seconds later. Ding Dong.
"I told you to stay out!" I said as I flung the door open.
And there stood my dear old aunty with a sheepish look on her face and pink present in her hand.
"Sorry, I guess I should have called first."
I kind of felt like an asshole about that.
Anyways. Blame it on the Vitamin D.
I'll let you know how it goes.

Pimp My Life

It started raining when I was driving home from work last night, which was fine with me.
Geoff was working late (again)-- either he's having an affair or he's one busy guy at work.
Let's hope for the latter.
Either way, the result is the same- pick up the kids from two separate day cares, go home, cook supper, clean the house, bath the kids, get them to bed, feel exhausted at the end of the day, and ironically- lonely- given that I never get a mere moment to myself from the time I open my eyes in the morning until the time they close sixteen hours later.
It occurred to me when I was driving home that my life feels sometimes like it's just a series of tasks I have to tick off of a list.
Being a list inclined person, this suits me most of the time.
But yesterday it just felt... dreary or something.
Bleak.
Maybe it was just the rain.


"Do you want to go to Petland?" I asked the kids once they were picked up, thinking that I could use some puppy love.
The kids were ecstatic, and this pleased me.
Temporarily.
We had to walk through the mall, which was an ordeal, to get to Petland.
Payton wanted to buy a purse she saw in a window.
Alex wanted to buy a motorcycle he saw a poster of.
They both wanted to get some candies from those blimey machines they have every three feet. Every three feet brought another temper tantrum.
Finally we got to Petland. And there it was: brace yourself. Another make shift sign on the door.
The store was closed.
Come Back Tomorrow! the sign said.
Argh.

So.
There was still the matter of supper of to contend with. Passing by Safeway, I decided to pick up a Rotisserie chicken.
I trudged through the store with the kids, who were still pissy about the whole Petland thing. They wanted to buy everything they saw along the way- didn't matter if it was a loaf of rye bread or a package of Chicken Oxo. They wanted it.

Finally we got to the deli. No make shift sign this time, but as I approached the spot where the chickens would be I could see that it was devoid of any chicken. A lonely box of meat loaf sat instead, a pale glob of gray meat smothered in a mysterious orangey sauce.
I knew this wouldn't go over well with the kids, but I felt entirely out of options, so I picked it up.

I got home, setting the bags down to hurry to the bathroom.
"NO JD!" I could hear Payton shouting from the living room a few seconds later. (JD=our dog, by the way.)
And then more insistently; "JD!STEP BACK!!GET!!"
And then she was banging on the door, screaming "Alex tried to open the meatloaf and he dropped it on the floor and now the dog's eating it."

OH GOD HELP ME

So the dog ate the dinner and Alex was screaming in protest- who knew that he was so attached to meatloaf??

The only thing that lightened my mood was when I was driving home, I saw this sign on the pickup truck in front of me: "I spent most of my money on women and booze.  I wasted the rest."

Someone commented to me once "I really like these stories you come up with."
I was like these are not stories.
This is my actual life.
Pimp it, someone.
Suggestions??