Chronicles of a Clueless Mom

Time to Pay the Piper

2012-02-10T08:27:00.007-06:00

It’s that time of the year. Lent is approaching. My Catholic friends amongst you may be contemplating giving up certain vices for Lent. Sodas…chocolate…alcohol…meat. I am writing today to implore you to seriously consider your Lenten sacrifice. Before you rashly make the decision to ward off sugar this Lenten season, please take a moment to listen to what I am about to tell you. This is of crucial importance and may very well change you life…

My daughter is selling Girl Scout Cookies.

That’s right. Girl Scout Cookies. Thin Mints. Samoas. Tagalongs. Starting tomorrow, I will have boxes and boxes of cookies at my house for sale. $3.50 a box. For the past couple of years, my loyal readers, you have received free entertainment reading this blog. Chuckling at the misfortune that is my life. Giggling at the idiotic antics of my brood. Thanking God above on a daily basis that they are not your children. As you know, we live in a commercial world. Nothing is really free. It’s time to pay the piper. That’s right…I am expecting you to buy Girl Scout cookies from my daughter in exchange for this blog. There is no limit to the depth of depravity I will sink to on my daughter's behalf. So please do not even try your petty excuses on me. But I live 750 miles away. But I don’t like cookies. But my neighbor’s daughter is selling cookies. But I am diabetic. Here are my answers to your flimsy justifications:

1. I will mail you the cookies. I will even pay for shipping. Just buy the damn cookies from my daughter.
2. Yea…right. You weigh 200 pounds if you weigh an ounce. Don’t even try to tell me you do not like cookies.
3. Is your neighbor kid as cute as my daughter? I don’t think so.
4. Diabetic? One box of cookies won’t kill you. Oh yea…it might. That’s okay. You will have died supporting a good cause.

In all seriousness, here is the low-down on the cookie sales. The proceeds from the cookies are going to benefit the Hennepin County Humane Society. The girls will be taking a field trip to the Humane Society to see all the cuddly puppies and kittens and present them with a check at the end of the cookie run. If you seriously do not like Girl Scout cookies (and if you are one of those people, I’m not sure I want to know you), you can still buy cookies to donate. The donated boxes of cookies will be given to the Joyce Food Shelf to help people in need. The girls will also be taking a field trip to see how the food shelf works and to learn about giving to those less fortunate than themselves. All in all, two very well-deserved causes and two causes I am proud to have my daughter support.

So really…there is no excuse. I expect orders to pour in. And to my family in Kentucky…how many times did I buy the cheap crap your kids were peddling? I love you and expect you to step up to the plate.

That’s all.
Tomorrow is the day.
Buy the damn cookies. Please don't force me to eat my weight in Samoas.

My Father's Daughter

2012-02-09T09:04:00.005-06:00

When my mother found out my uncle had been diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer, she took to her bed in tears for an entire day. I have not shed a single tear despite adoring my uncle. I told my mother this past weekend that I was trying not to think about my uncle because it makes me sick to my stomach. So I try not to think about it. I try not to dwell on the savagery of a cancer that lurks in the depths of a person I truly adore. My mother responded by saying that is how I have always been. I shove things down. Ignore them. I got the feeling she was implying that was an unhealthy reaction. I’ve been thinking about that brief conversation ever since.

Perhaps it is true. Perhaps I am an emotional black hole. I admit to being rather stoic. No one would ever accuse me of being prone to histrionics. I am Even Steven. Calm, cool, and collected. When my grandmother died a few years back, my aunt wailed at her funeral. Literally wailed. Like you see veil-adorned women doing in footage from the war-torn Middle East. I remember staring at her in absolute awe. What is it like to be able to express emotion in that way? What is it like to carry your feelings so close to the surface? Ready to reupt at any moment. I am afraid I do not know. I have never wailed in my life. I can’t even picture myself wailing in my wildest imagination.

I think I am more like my father than I am like my mother. He was a quiet man. A stoic man. A good-hearted, funny, happy man, but an unflappable man. I remember my parents’ occasional fights when I was a child. I don’t think you could really call them “fights,” as they were really quite one-sided rants. My mother would scream and wail and rave and stew. My father would sit quietly and listen. Or worse yet, he would chuckle at her hysteria, which never failed to put her over the edge. He did not fight back. He did not get angry. He did not give in to emotion. Whereas my mother functions in a state of constant emotional upheaval, my father rarely showed emotion at all. I am afraid I inherited a bit of that from him.

It is not that I do not feel emotion. I do. It is just that strong emotion is disturbing to me for some reason. It upsets the balance. I don’t like the feeling of being unbalanced and upset. I don’t like it, so I avoid it. My mother tries to get me to read sappy, emotionally wrenching books. She adores stories full of heartache and tragedy and doom. She doesn’t understand why I don’t care for Jodi Picoult. She can’t fathom that I stopped reading Sarah’s Key as soon as I realized the little boy was locked in a cabinet. Why would I willingly--and unnecessarily--inflict that kind of sadness upon myself? Why would anyone?

There are times when I wish I were more like my mom. More like my wailing aunt. More open to all of the intense emotions inherent in the human experience. But that is simply not me. I love my family with my entire heart. I would do absolutely anything for my uncle and the thought of losing him is unbearable. But I am not going to take to my bed in grief. I am not going to wail. There is a very real chance that I will not cry a single tear. And I will feel like an emotional pariah because of that. But that does not mean that my love is any less real or my sadness any less true. I cope the way I cope. I don’t have it within my make-up to respond in any other way. I am my father's daughter.

That's not such a terrible thing to be, is it?

Growing Up and Growing Old

2012-02-09T08:24:00.001-06:00

Things are changing. And I do not like it. My uncle Chris—my mother’s brother—was recently diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer. It is not good.

I am afraid for my uncle. I love him dearly and do not want him to feel pain or know fear. I am afraid for his wife who I adore. I can’t imagine what I would do if it were Ruanita. I am afraid for his two kids. They are grown, but even college kids need their daddies. I am afraid for mom and my ten other aunts and uncles who have been untouched my loss amongst them. I am afraid of living in a world where people are struck down willy-nilly in the prime of their lives. Mostly—and most selfishly—I am afraid for myself.

My dad died when I was eleven years old, so I am no stranger to the fact that people die. It happens. People get sick and they die. Regardless, I have always thought of my mom and her eleven siblings as invincible. Somehow untouchable. Frozen forever in my mind as they were when I was a child. Brazen twenty-somethings splashing around in the water at Miller’s Lake. Playing cards and drinking beer. Tossing a football around at Legion Park. Idiots laughing at all of the Hardesty inside jokes. Forever young. Forever healthy.

Today, that facade is being lifted. Reality is setting in. My aunts and uncles are not the twenty-somethings I remember from my youth. They have become older and wiser and, in some instances, frailer. My heroes are aging. My protectors and biggest fans are not as strong as I once knew them to be. And it scares me. What does it mean for me? For my generation? For my brother and sisters? For my cousins? I am almost forty years old and have children of my own, but I don’t know that I have truly felt like a “grown-up” until this day. Adulthood is upon me.

I don’t like it.

Feeling Pissy Today

2012-01-29T19:37:00.002-06:00

My uncle Chris—my mom's brother—was just diagnosed with cancer. I always thought all twelve of the Hardesty siblings were invincible. I am realizing now that might not be true, and it pisses me off.

When it gets really cold outside, the driver-side door on my minivan freezes. It will open, but will not close again. That is, until I trudge back into the house, get a pitcher of warm water, trudge back outside again, and pour the water on the door. Then, and only then, will the door latch shut. On a below-zero day—when I should expect it, but do not—that really pisses me off.

My dog needs a second surgery on her eye. I knew there was a chance the first surgery wouldn’t take, but it still pisses me off.

My eldest son is brilliant….but different. Schools are not equipped to handle smart kids who think differently. Ruanita was the same way as a child and grew up hating school and thinking she was not as smart as everyone else. That just pisses me off.

My cell phone will not display the correct scores on Words with Friends. No matter how many times I uninstall and reinstall it, it still lists wildly inaccurate scores on every game. That pisses me off.

I want to lose weight before our beach trip this summer. No matter how much I want it, however, food sings to me. Mexican, Chinese, American, Indian, Italian…I am not prejudiced against any nationality. I will eat it all. And I do. And that pisses me off.

My children are addicted to screens—computer screens, television screens, video game screens. And worse yet, I think it is my fault. That really pisses me off.

I have more gray hair than Ruanita despite her being eight and a half years older than me. That pisses me off.

The Godiva Chocolate Cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory has 1109 calories per slice. That is so wrong for something that tastes so right. And it pisses me off.

Third grade homework, as a general rule, pisses me off.

After giving birth to twins, I wet myself when I cough. Considering I am not even forty years old yet, that really pisses me off.

Parents who do not teach their children even the most basic concepts of respect and good manners really piss me off.

Pompous asses touting the merits of “traditional marriage” while cheating on their spouses and divorcing left and right really piss me off. Yes…I am talking to you, Newt.

People who give up and shut down when the going gets tough piss me off.

Money pisses me off. When you don’t have it, it sucks. When you do have it and everyone else wants it, it sucks. When you fight with your spouse about it, it sucks. When you try to save it, but manage to fritter it away anyway, it sucks. When you spend it on yourself and then feel guilty for weeks, it sucks. In general, money is a necessary evil that just pisses me off.

My Uncle Joey, who has been living with AIDS since I was a senior in high school (many, many years ago) isn’t doing so great. After decades of watching friends and loved ones die, he is still hanging on. Everything he has seen and everything he has been forced to endure really pisses me off.

I can’t button the third button of my winter coat without it gaping unattractively. Man, that pisses me off.

I do not like the people who go to Target on Sunday afternoon. People who are there at 8:00AM like me are serious shoppers. We adhere to proper shopping etiquette. We know what we want. We smile politely at one another as we push our carts at a reasonable pace around the store sipping our Starbucks lattes. Target is an oasis in an otherwise crazy world at 8:00 in the morning. Afternoons are a different story. Sunday afternoon shoppers are a different breed altogether. They bring their children along. They refuse to move said children when they stand in front of your cart blocking your way. As a matter of fact they, themselves, will stand in an aisle with their cart parked sideways blocking all traffic as they discuss the merits of chili beans versus kidney beans. They're freaking beans, for God's sake! They do not understand—or perhaps simply they do not care about—the basic social graces of shopping. Sunday afternoon shoppers piss me off.

On a related note, I also hate the check-out crowders. You know the people. The ones who are so very anxious to get through the check-out line that they will not wait their turn. As you step away for a brief moment to put your bags in your cart, they assume their position in front of the credit card machine. Refusing to budge. Even as you tap into your inner contortionist to try to sign your name on the little credit card machine without getting intimate with a total stranger, they do not move. Back the hell up, dude! Check-out line space invaders piss me off.

I hate having to parallel park my minivan in front of my own house. I believe the entire neighborhood should give my minivan wide berth. Anything less completely pisses me off.

Yea, I am pretty pissy today.

National Push Weekend

2012-01-25T14:50:00.004-06:00

This weekend is National Push Weekend. Sounds kind of exciting, doesn’t it? Like maybe I get to push people I do not like off a tall ledge. Or I get to push all of my worries right out of my head. Or, in the immortal words of Salt’n’Pepa, I get to “Push it good. P-push it real good.” Alas, none of these are the case. Rather than anything provocative, or even moderately interesting, National Push Weekend is a work event.

National Push Weekend is an all-day event Saturday and Sunday dedicated to trying to tackle our backlog of cases and “push” through the work. That’s right. I will be working a full eight-hour day on both Saturday and Sunday of this week. It’s voluntary, of course. As a leader on the team, however, it is “voluntary” for me in much the same way as taxes are voluntary or breathing is voluntary or my eventual return to ashes (sorry…feeling a bit morbid today) is voluntary. Actually, I am sure I could say that I already have plans and my manager would be okay with it, but that certainly wouldn’t be very leader-like, now would it?

In actuality, I really do not mind going into the office this weekend. My business trip to New York was cancelled in lieu of this team-wide Push Weekend. Given the option of a few extra hours on one weekend or spending two full weeks away from my family working night and day, I will happily take the Push Weekend. Plus, the company is providing breakfast and lunch each day. What, really, is there to complain about? I anticipate I will be chowing down on bagels and rocking out to Florence and the Machine on my iPod while plugging away. Poor Ruanita, on the other hand will spend not two…not four…not six…but SEVEN entire long days alone with our children this week. And then turn around and do five more starting on Monday. I suppose she is really the one who deserves a bagel, huh?

A Grand Scheme

2012-01-24T08:45:00.001-06:00

I am in the midst of a grand scheme. A plot I devised with complete confidence that it could not fail. It would not fail. Ruanita signed onto my plan, no doubt impressed by my innovative thinking and sexy bravado. Life was about to change on Columbus Avenue. My children were going to sleep in their own beds. After weeks of not one…not two…but all three children sleeping in my bedroom every night, I was completely confident that I could turn the tides. Our bedroom would once again belong to Ruanita and I. We would be able to sleep through the night without getting up and stumbling blindly to the bathroom to hand Sophie the toilet paper that was just out of her reach. We would be able to sleep through the night without getting up three times to tuck three separate children—who, by the way, spaced their arrivals just far enough apart to prevent their mothers from entering REM sleep at all on any given night—into sleeping bags strewn around our chair, loveseat, and bedroom floor. No longer would Ruanita, in a state of forgivable exhaustion, forget our agreement that the children were not allowed in our bed and lift Sophie’s lanky body over the edge of the bed and plop it right in the middle of us where she could toss and turn and kick and otherwise bruise me all night long. Once again, we would have a sex life. That elusive marital perk that has managed to evade us for so very long. Things were changing. Life was on the mend. I would not fail in my pursuits.

Confidence is an odd thing. It fills you with a sense a power. A sense that you are infallible. That your ideas are nothing short of golden. Confidence is a strong force. Unfortunately, the will of my children is a stronger force. And confidence can be shaken when it comes up against a wall as sturdy as that of my children’s resolve.

So what is this grand scheme that seemed so foolproof a few short days ago? It’s simple really. I decided to employ that most basic of parental tactics: Bribery. We sat our children down and offered them a deal. For one week, we would pay them to stay in their own beds at night. Cold, hard cash. For one week, we would offer them each one dollar for every night they slept in their own beds. At the end of the week, they had the possibility of earning $7.00 and on Friday evening, we would take them to Target to spend their money. One week would not solve all of our woes, but my belief was that, once my children slept in their own beds for a week, they would gain the confidence necessary to stay there for good. I was simply using cash to reinforce a behavior that we desired. Classical Pavlovian conditioning.

Lucas received a Skylanders video game for the Wii for his birthday. It’s a weird little video game that requires kids to buy small figurines of dragons and trolls and gnomes and other odd little creatures that are placed on a “Portal of Power,” thereby allowing the kids to play those particular characters in the game. Basically, a gimmick to make parents not only fork over $60 for the game, but also buy all of the additional characters their child is sure to want to collect. And, conveniently, the characters cost about $7.00 apiece. Did my children’s newfound obsession with this game figure into my fail-proof plot? Absolutely!

We began our trial run on Thursday evening last week. The first night, all three children slept in their own beds. My plot had worked! They awoke the next morning chattering excitedly about their hard-earned cash. I was a success! Success was short-lived, however. Friday night, Sophie cried hysterically at bedtime that she could not sleep in her own bed. Then she wailed that she would not earn a dollar and it “was not fair!” I explained that coming to mommy’s room or staying in her own bed was a choice. A choice only she could make. She was welcome in our room, but she would not earn a dollar. Needless to say, this was not a choice she was happy with and our struggle continued night after night with bedtime becoming nothing short of a hellish experience where Sophie was concerned. To date, she has earned $2 total. And the second one was a total fluke.

Lucas did quite well the first three nights. Amazingly, his late-night claims of anxiety disappeared when cash was involved. No longer was he coming out of his room multiple times to tell us that he was scared to go to sleep. He put on his headphones, rolled over, and was snoring in no time. Who needs weeks and weeks of therapy when cold, hard cash is much more effective? That is, until Sunday evening. He had his birthday party on Sunday and, in addition to a bunch of great presents, he also received $20 in cash. Apparently, he did the math in his head and quickly discovered that he could buy three new Skylanders with his $20 plus the additional $3 he had earned sleeping in his own bed. Three Skylanders were enough for him. He was done with our grand experiment. He did not need more money. Once again, he was coming to bed with us.

Nicholas is currently our last man standing. With Christmas past and no birthday in sight, Nicholas’ only shot at earning money is to sleep in his own bed. As a future con man and master manipulator, money talks where Nicholas is concerned. Not once has he questioned the deal. Not once has he argued about going to bed. Not once has he tiptoed to our bedroom in the middle of the night. I even found him asleep on the living room couch one morning, no doubt awakened during the middle of the night but coherent enough to choose cash over his parents’ warm embraces. I have no doubt he will endure until the bitter end. Come Friday night, he will most certainly have $7 to spend at Target. And come next week, I am equally confident that he will return to my bedroom.

So…what to think of my grand scheme? A failure? A partial success? What lesson did I teach my children? That there are rewards for good behavior? Not a bad lesson, really. That there is value in earning money on your own merit? Again, a decent lesson for young children. That you have choices when it comes to your behavior and you must weigh the pros and cons and choose wisely? Perhaps a bit much for five-year-olds. Or perhaps the only lesson learned through this experience was that mommy could be bought and bad behavior, if continued long enough, will result in financial gain.

Okay…maybe it wasn’t such a “grand” scheme after all.

The Prodigal Blogger

2012-01-18T08:15:00.001-06:00

It is me! The prodigal blogger. It has been entirely too long since I have written in this blog. My life is just very busy right now. I would like to say that I am enjoying the busy-ness. I would like to say that hard work and a busy schedule is proof that I am living a full and rich life. I would like to say that my lack of blogging is symptomatic of immense happiness that is impossible to express in mere words. Unfortunately, that is not the case.

In reality, I am just too damn tired to blog. The words do not flow from my weary brain the way they used to flow. My kids still amuse me. They still utter the craziest, most bizarre phases, but I can muster little more than a grin in their direction. I don’t like it. Writing used to be my saving grace. The final, thin thread linking me to sanity. Now that I am not writing as often, I miss it terribly. If the time does not exist in my schedule, I need to make time to write in this blog. It’s that important to me.

So…rather than putting you through any more melancholic drivel about a writer’s need to write, I will update you on my life.

Work is going well. It is keeping me much busier than I imagined. I have been skipping lunch and working non-stop from the minute I sit my butt down in the morning until I leave late in the afternoon. It’s probably not a healthy habit, but I have to find my rhythm. My supervisor will be leaving for her 12-week maternity leave in two short months and I will be stepping into her shoes in her absence. Am I prepared? Ummm…no. Not even close. But I am sure I will get there.

The children are doing well. Nicholas, my little savant, is reading up a storm. He reads constantly. Street signs. Cereal boxes. Commercials on TV. He reads anything and everything he can find. It borders on nauseating, but I admit to being a bit smugly proud of his aptitude with words. He’s a chip off the old block.

Sophie is also doing quite well in school. Whereas Nicholas is reading everything, Sophie is reading all of the words she’s been taught in school. She gets upset that Nicholas is able to take it a step further and apply his knowledge of a few words to a multitude of words. Though doing extremely well, she’s not able to expand on her word lists the way Nicholas does. She compares herself to Nicholas, which really isn’t fair at all. He’s always been freakishly adept at picking up on things quickly. Reading, math, computer games…you name it. He sees or hears something once and is an instant expert. Sophie, on the other hand, is a normal five-year-old. Granted, she is also extremely smart and does well in school. I have a feeling that Sophie is going to be my child who works incredibly hard and gets straight A’s, whereas Nicholas will be my child who puts forth absolutely no effort and sails through with B’s. We shall see, but I suspect we will have some academic rivalries in their very near future.

Lucas is still struggling a bit in school. Mostly with reading and writing. And his attitude about school, in general. He hates school. He hates reading. He hates homework. He was, however, put into an advanced math class this year. He is quite good at math. Finally, in third grade, he has a teacher who is focusing on his strengths rather than his weaknesses. So that’s a good thing. He is still struggling with reading and writing and gets extra help at school. I have finally accepted the fact that my son will never be a lover of books. I seriously doubt I will ever find him holed up in his bedroom reading the day away. It’s kind of sad when you discover that your children are not interesting in the things you hold most dear. But I suppose that’s life, huh? They are ours to raise, but they belong to themselves. He’s an amazing little boy….even if he chooses math and computers over reading and writing.

Ruanita is also doing well. She’s studying very hard for her upcoming licensure exam in April. I bought her an iPod for Christmas and we put all of her study CD’s on her iPod. She listens to it constantly. Walking the dog. Cleaning the house. Taking a bath. It’s been well over ten years since she was in graduate school, so she has had plenty of time to lose a lot of what she learned. She is intent, however, on hammering that information into her brain. I am vey proud of her.

So there you have it. An update on every member of my family. We are all doing quite well. I plan on making the time to write in his blog more, as it is my sanity. Sad, but true. Stay tuned for more crazy stories from the Pierce-Ralph household…

Tripping

2012-01-10T06:11:00.002-06:00

It looks like I am going to be heading off on my first business trip here in a couple of weeks. My manager wants me to help tackle a rather large backlog in our New York office. Before you get incredibly excited for me, please note that it is Kingston, New York. Not New York, New York. Despite the less-than-stellar location, I admit that I was initially excited about a trip. Three or four days without kids. Three or four days of expense account meals. Three of four days with sole control of the television. Cable television. Three of four days of peaceful sleep in a king-sized bed with no children to interrupt my slumber. No dog to steal the covers. Three of four evenings spent with my nose stuck in my laptop with no comments from the peanut gallery about my internet addiction. Sounds an itsy bitsy bit sublimely blissful, huh?

But here's the thing. It is not going to be three or four days. It is going to be closer to two weeks. Three or four days is blissful. Fourteen days is lonely. Cold and lonely. In Kingston, New York. As a matter of fact, those are the exact words my supervisor used when trying to talk me into taking the trip. Way to sell it, Sara.

My family's reaction to my upcoming trip was strangely divided along genetic lines. Ruanita was visibly upset. It could be the fact that she is being left alone with three children to care for, however, I prefer to think that she was wracked with emotion because she would miss me dearly. She does not sleep well when she is alone in bed. She worries entirely too much. I have no doubt that she will spend every moment of my two-week absence obsessing over the ways in which I will meet my untimely demise hundreds of miles away from her. She made me promise that I would no go into the city alone (NYC is 90 miles south of Kingston). Have I mentioned that we haven't spent a night apart since she was pregnant with Lucas?

Speaking of Lucas, when he overheard Ruanita and I talking about my trip, he began to cry. Rather hysterically. He wailed, actually. Out of the blue. “You're leaving, momma? Are you coming back?” Of course, I assured him that I would only be away a short time. But that did not assuage his tears. He blubbered for quite some time about how he loved me and would miss me while I was gone. It was equal parts incredibly touching and sadly pitiful.

Sophie and Nicholas—the lucky children who possess my genetic material—simply stared at me blankly. There were no tears. There were no declarations of love. There was no need for hugs and kisses and reassurances. There was, however, palpable disdain directed at their whimpering elder brother. Otherwise, they were completely dispassionate and disinterested. They only perked up and showed the tiniest iota of feeling when I promised Lucas that I would bring back presents from my trip.

It feels good to be so loved.

Superfluous Goals

2012-01-05T12:54:00.003-06:00

I just realized today, on January 5th, that I did not make any New Year’s resolutions this year. That is very unlike me. Typically, by January 5th, I have already made and broken at least half a dozen New Year’s resolutions. What is wrong with me this year? How did I get to January 5th without a single reflection on the upcoming year? How did I manage to make it to the fifth day of the year without a marathon goal-setting blog? In the spirit of tradition, I present to you my superfluous and entirely dispensable goals for 2012:

1. Get down to my birth weight. Okay, maybe not my birth weight, but at least my post-seven-months-of-puking weight I had reached after the birth of my twins. That would me nice—minus all the puking, of course. I am taking my children to the ocean this summer, and I am far—oh so very, very far—from being swimsuit ready. I seriously doubt, even if I starved myself, I would be swimsuit ready by June, but at least maybe I could avoid wearing a MuMu if I started working on it now.

2. Start writing my book. Yea…yea…I talk about it all the time. “I am going to write a book about my experiences in the trenches of parenthood.” One day I will. This may very well be the year. Then again….2020 sounds like a nice round year to write a book.

3. Read more books. I got a nice Nook Color for my birthday this year and I absolutely love it. I find myself, however, spending more time playing games on it than I do reading. I could easily become a professional Globs player, if such a thing exists. Don’t get me wrong…I do read. I have read several books since getting my Nook, but there are a ton of books on my wish list that I have yet to tackle. In 2012, I definitely want to read more.

4. Unplug. In 2012, I would like to spend less time on the internet. Less time with my nose in my laptop. Less time surfing the web. Less time on Facebook. And Etsy. And eBay. And Pinterest. Over the New Year’s weekend, I was without internet because the power cable to my modem had gone bad. My internet provider shipped me a new one, but not in time for my four-day holiday weekend. I was a bit crabby, to say the least. As a matter of fact, four days without the internet put me into a funk that was both pathetic and moderately disturbing. No one should be that addicted to something as expendable as a laptop.

5. Eat at home more. This one actually goes hand in hand with #1. If I ate out less, it would most certainly be a step in the right direction away from the beach MuMu. The problem is, as a working mother of three children, I am just too damn tired to cook sometimes. A lot of the time. Eating out is convenient. It is easy. It tastes better than what I would likely cook at home. There are no dishes to wash. I can focus time and energy on things more important than cooking. All in all, the restaurant is one of humankind’s greatest creations. Am I right? See…odds are stacked against me. With all of the perks of eating out, it is difficult to focus on the reality. The insane amount of money better spent elsewhere. The burgeoning waistline. The processed food taking the place of the fruits and vegetables my kids are not eating. It’s an atrocious habit, really. A tough one to crack, but one I plan on tackling in 2012.

6. Say no. As a good little lapsed Catholic girl, I have a lot of guilt. I carry guilt around like an infant in a sling, closely cradled to my bosom. I nurture it. I hold it tightly. I talk sweetly to it and kiss its fleshy, rotund cheeks. It is my baby. In 2012, it is time to kick that baby’s ass to the curb. I cannot be everything to everyone. As a modern woman, I try desperately to be exactly that. As a good little Catholic girl, I try to be perfect in all endeavors. As the eldest child in my family, I try to take care of everyone. As a Libra, I strive for harmony and peace in all interactions with all people. It’s exhausting! It’s time, at the ripe old age of 39, for me to learn to say no. Let go of all the guilt. Do what I want for a change. I am responsible only for myself, my children, and--to a lesser extent--my partner. I am not responsible for the happiness of anyone else. In 2012, I resolve to remember that fact. And to say a resounding “No!” when my guilt is being put before my own happiness.

There you have it. My goals for 2012. I can’t help but notice that they are eerily similar to my resolutions for 2011. As I explained above, I typically scrap the resolutions by mid-January, so it comes as no surprise to me that my goals are reminiscent of this time last year. Therefore, finally, I give you Resolution #7:

7. Stick with your resolution until at least February 1st. A lofty goal, no doubt, but one I hope to reach. I’ll let you know how I am doing in 27 days.

Cruel and Unusual Punishment

2012-01-05T08:33:00.003-06:00

Parenthood is brutal. That's no secret, of course. We all know it's brutal. There are days, however, when its brutality can take your breath away. You are endowed by some miracle that can only be described as awe-inspiring with this tiny little creature to care for. You come to love it more than you love anything on this Earth. More than you love chocolate. More than you love books. More than you love the internet. More than you love yourself, even. You want nothing but the best for your child. You want that child to be the strongest. The bravest. The smartest. The fastest. The cleverest. The happiest. You want your child to be everything you are not.

As your child grows, you come to the realization that your child is not the strongest. She is not the bravest. She may not even be the happiest. No, she is you. She is more like you than you ever expected. More like you than you would ever have wanted her to be. More like you than you would wish on your worst enemy.

My daughter, Sophie, is the spitting image of me at five years old. From her long, skinny legs to her stringy dirty-blond hair, she is me. I am amazed on a daily basis how very me-like she is. Last night she was particularly me-like, and I’m afraid that “me” is not what I want for my beloved daughter.

We had our second Daisy Scouts meeting last night. At the first meeting, Sophie did surprisingly well. She joined the group right away with no encouragement needed. She sang songs. She crafted crafts. She recited the Girl Scout Promise. She appeared to be in her element. We did have tears toward the end of the meeting when she did not understand what she needed to be doing during a certain art project, and subsequently was the first one out at a rousing game of musical chairs (how is it that my child has made it to the age of five without ever learning how to play musical chairs?!). Despite the tears, she did amazingly well considering her usual modus operandi.

Last night, however, was a different story altogether. I felt as though I was re-living the whole ballet nightmare all over again (remember when I had to join the circle and clumsily pirouette my way through ballet class?) Sophie did not want me to leave her side the entire night. I was not allowed to join the other mommies happily chatting and knitting (God, I wish I knew how to knit!) at a table on the sidelines. No, I got to join the Daisy circle. I got to sit in a chair directly behind Sophie while she buried her face in my knees. Despite my encouragement and constant whispering of, “You’re fine. You can do this,” Sophie was terrified. She repeatedly told me that she was scared. Scared of what? It was Girl Scouts. They are about as non-threatening as any group I can imagine. They are five-year-old little girls and perky moms. They are encouraging to the point of near nausea. What in the world could my daughter have to fear?

Unfortunately, I know the answer to that question. Everything. Everyone. Sophie is shy. Painfully shy. She doubts herself in social situations. She is terrified of failing. Of making a fool of herself. Of the judging eyes of others. I know this feeling all too well. I was the same way as a child. It’s heart-wrenching to see my daughter suffer through new situations the same way I did. I want so much for her to join in with the chatty, giggly, vibrant little girls that make up her Daisy Scouts troop. Instead, she hangs back. She clings to me. She wants desperately to be like those girls, but she doesn’t have it in her. She wants nothing more than to be something she is not. And it kills me. Why does she have to be like me? Why do genetics have to be so cruel? Why does her self-talk have to be a litany of disparagement? I lost count of how many times I heard her say “I can’t” and “I’m not good at that” last night.

The girls played a game of hopscotch last night instead of the heinous musical chairs that destroyed my daughter’s tiny psyche the week before. I thought to myself, Sweet! Sophie plays hopscotch at home all the time! She is going to ace this! Unfortunately, my Downer Debbie of a daughter proved me wrong. She tried it once, had trouble picking up the little turtle that was used as the “stone” on one foot as she was supposed to, and immediately ran to me extremely upset. She refused to try a second time because she “didn’t do it right.” She didn’t notice the other girls flopping around like epileptics in their attempts at hopscotch. She didn’t notice that most of the girls hopped on two feet the whole way down and back. She didn’t notice that she may very well be the most athletically gifted girl in the group. She didn’t see any of that. She only saw her own imagined failure.

What do I do with a child who is so much like me? How do I make her believe that she is beautiful and smart and clever and capable? How do I make her see the exquisite beauty within herself when, at the tender age of five years old, she already has a constantly running tape recorder in her head telling her otherwise? I don’t know the answer to these questions. I only know that I adore my daughter. I adore her with every fiber of my being, despite being so much like me. Perhaps even because of it.

Parenthood is cruel and unusual punishment.

Defenders of All Things Decent and Chaste

2011-12-30T11:32:00.003-06:00

It has come to my attention that many readers of this blog, including myself, are suddenly having difficulty accessing my blog at their places of employment. Somehow, for reasons unbeknownst to me, my blog has quite suddenly and inexplicably been categorized as “porn” by the software that a lot of companies employ to block such sites from their employees. I do not know why my blog has been categorized as such, as it is SO incredibly far from porn. My blog—and by extension, my life—is so non-sexual these days that I could very well be initiated into nun-hood. I think I would look good in a full-on habit. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about my stringy hair anymore. And black is quite slimming, I am told.

I can only surmise that the word “lesbian” is what is tripping the software to flag my website, as people are able to access their other friends’ blogs. Though the word “lesbian” is not in the title of my blog, it can be found dispersed among my blog entries. I realize that there are pornographic websites that employ the use of “lesbians” as sex objects. But come on…do I look like one of those so-called lesbians? No, I am a real lesbian. A true lesbian. A sit-around-in-my-sweatpants-and-eat-Ben-&-Jerry’s-while-watching-Gray’s-Anatomy sort of lesbian. A sit-in-a-cubicle-all-day-to-pay-the-mortgage kind of lesbian. A haul-the-kids-to-Girl-Scouts-and-swim-lessons-and-school-carnivals lesbian. A love-my-family-and-honor-my-parents kind of lesbian. A rule-following, in-bed-by-ten-o’clock lesbian. A struggling-to-raise-good-kids lesbian. A married-the-love-of-my-life-only-to-find-that-marriage-is-hard-work lesbian. A despising-third-grade-homework-but-doing-it-anyway lesbian. A too-often-doubting-myself-but-trying-to-feel-comfortable-in-my-own-skin lesbian. A lesbian who is also a rabidly devoted mom. And a loyal and loving partner. And a daughter and a sister and an aunt and an employee and a reader and a writer. As a matter of fact, I am a lot like all of the other lesbians I know. In other words, we are just like the rest of you out there. Trying to survive parenthood and partnerhood, and maybe have a few laughs along the way.

Definitely sounds pornographic, doesn’t it? It is heartening to know that there are companies out there protecting their employees from the likes of me and my obscenely scurrilous writings. Way to go, guys.

Keep up the good work, ye defenders of all things decent and chaste!

A Year In the Life-2011

2011-12-27T08:28:00.007-06:00

In the spirit of the upcoming New Year, I wanted to write a blog entry that would encapsulate everything that happened to me in the past year. The mundane and the life-altering. I wanted to write a blog entry that would sum up the craziness that was 2011 in a nice, tidy package. Alas, my thirty-nine-year-old brain has trouble remembering what I ate for breakfast yesterday, much less what I was doing in February of this past year. Therefore, in typical lazy blogger form, I am presenting you all with “A Year in the Life” via Facebook posts. These are actual status updates I posted on Facebook in the year 2011.

Nicholas just came out of his bedroom to ask me the following: “Did you know that in real life your pee is the things you drink and your poop is the things you eat?” Apparently, Lucas is doling out biology lessons in their bedroom this evening.

Thinking about busting into the Bailey’s. Is that completely pathetic, all alone on a Thursday night? Or it simply a little sad? I can live with a little sad.

Monday confession: I live in fear of accidentally hearing a Justin Bieber song and liking it.

Mailing off Ruanita's last graduate school student loan payment today. We are officially a student loan free household now. Woo-hoo!

Holy Jesus! Lucas is fever free and going back to school tomorrow! Praise the Lord! Can I hear an Amen?!

To the chick at McDonalds who inadvertently gave me ONE boy toy and TWO girl toys: Thank you for the hell that is unfolding in my house this evening. Try as I might, Lucas is simply not buying that a My Little Pony is a super cool equine super hero.

Do a handful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and a glass of Bailey’s constitute a well-balanced dinner?

I think my cat just uses me for food. I feel absolutely no affection coming from her. As a matter of fact, I am pretty certain she despises me.

Bad headache today. I think I am going to lie on the couch and let the children run rampant around me. As long as there is no bloodshed, I should be able to manage them from my horizontal position on the couch. I hope.

Happy Fat Tuesday to all my fat friends. Finally! Our very own holiday!

It is taking every single ounce of mental fortitude I possess not to strangle my children this evening.

Only in Kentucky will they hand out suckers for the kids at the drive-thru liquor store. I love my homeland!

My eight- and four-year-old sons just beat Super Mario Galaxy 2 on the Wii today. Got all the way to the end and saved the princess. Not sure if I should be proud or mildly disturbed.

I think that people who drive around without insurance and then cause wrecks should be arrested. My $1000 deductible and I are just sayin'.....

Watching a documentary called “Cosmic Collision: the Birth of a Planet” with Lucas. Help me. Please. Anyone?

All three of my kids have new electric toothbrushes they are incredibly excited about. I can’t help noticing, however, that they haven't quite mastered the art of the electric toothbrush. All three brush their teeth with their mouths wide open. There is a foamy drool-fest going on in my bathroom at 8:00PM every night now. Ick.

Just saw a rabbit in the back yard and told the kids the Easter Bunny had his minions out in full force tonight watching them. They are cleaning their bedrooms as we speak. Tee-hee.

Lucas just asked me if I know how to hot-wire a car. I am concerned.

Spent all afternoon putting together an iron gazebo thingy in my back yard. I would like to apologize to my family, my neighbors, and anyone walking down the street within ear shot of my cursing. It got a bit ugly there for a while, but the detestable thing is assembled and up now.

I need to do laundry so I have clean underwear for the Rapture tomorrow. I would hate to meet my maker in my holey skivvies.

Talking to my kids just now about the proposed constitutional amendment to ban same-sex marriage, Lucas turns to me and says he wants to vote NO because when he grows up, her wants to marry his brother, Nicholas. Hmmm....better not let the evangelicals hear that one.

My daughter wants a princess backpack for kindergarten. I am looking at them online and they are all hideous. Sparkly, gaudy, glittery, Pepto-pink bags. Do I really have to spend my hard-earned money on one?

Selling the kids' double stroller. As era has passed...kind of bittersweet.

So out of the blue, Lucas asks me this afternoon, “So if Minnesota votes yes and girls can't marry girls, will Nicky and Sophie still be my brother and sister?” He was actually, genuinely worried. I am one pissed off momma right now.

If my daughter does not stop following me from room to room telling me how BORING all her toys are and that she NOTHING to do, I am going to sell her on the black market. I swear I am. Then I am going to buy myself an iPad with the proceeds.

Just bought a piñata for the twins' birthday party next weekend. I am taking bets now on which child will get hit in the head with a baseball bat.

Heading out for Mexican food with the family tonight. Celebrating my twins' 5th birthday with margaritas. It feels wrong, but it's going to taste oh so right.

Lucas: So we're going to Pride today?
Me: Yep
Lucas (looking a tad worried): “Pride” isn't a fancy word for church, is it?
Me: Ummm....no.

I think Polly Pockets are the work of the devil.

Tried to lie on the couch and take a nap with the windows open and the awesome breeze coming through. Apparently, my children can only survive without me for exactly 23 minutes.

Ruanita will appreciate this. I had to vacuum the living room tonight and couldn't figure out how to turn the damn thing on.

I have a dirty little secret. I like watching Phineas and Ferb.

Sophie is no longer a terrible two. And she hasn't yet hit puberty. So I don't really know how to explain my five-year-old's tearful, moody, somewhat bitchy PMS-like symptoms today. Personality disorder, perhaps?'

So is it an act of blasphemy or devotion that my son just made a new character on the Wii and named him Jesus? Looks freakishly like him, too. My kids are just odd.

As we were answering our usual “What was your favorite thing you did today?” question around the dinner table this evening, Lucas answered with, “I loved every freaking nanosecond of this day.” Me thinks he was being sarcastic.

I can no longer watch my youngest son eat hot dogs. Without a bun. Holding them horizontally in his hands. Corn-on-the-cob style. Blech.

Filling up the ice cube trays will NOT cause brain damage. Just an FYI.

My dog just chased down and killed Thumper in my back yard. Ruanita refuses to go out there. I am going to have to take care of it. I think I might be ill.

My mother is moving into my house today. Please pray for us all.

I have strep for the first time ever in my life and I truly think I am going to die.

I am taking a poll. Is it sadder that I went to Target today with the intention of purchasing a Phineas and Ferb Christmas CD? OR...that it was sold out?

I HATE rush hour traffic. I am packing up my kids and moving to Mayberry!

My eldest son may not survive this long weekend. If he calls one more person this house “butt-cakes,” I am going to go all Ninja on him. He doesn’t realize I am a woman on the edge.

Please, for the love of God, go to bed. I love you more than anything on this Earth, but I am just really tired of your faces today and do not want to see them again until tomorrow. Good. Night.

I believe my five-year-old daughter has, without my previous knowledge or consent, converted to Pentecostalism. She refuses to wear pants to school anymore. Dresses ONLY.

So my twins have their kindergarten play tomorrow. Their class is doing “The Three Little Pigs,” and Sophie and Nicky are—wait for it—brick walls. Obviously, they impressed their teacher with their acting skills. So all day, Ruanita and I have been singing Rick James’ brick house to them. Loud. In stereo. They do not think we are nearly as funny as we think we are.

They are capable of driving me absolutely insane, but there are moments when I am mad, crazy in love with my little family.

There you have it. Despite driving me mad—despite the screaming and fussing and ludicrous phrases I am forced to utter on a daily basis—I love my little family. This year, like so many years in the past, they have been my rock. My strength. My saving grace. In 2012, as history has proven, I know all things will be possible with my family by my side.

Here’s to a phenomenal New Year!

A Life-long Dream Realized

2011-12-22T08:07:00.004-06:00

I realized a lifelong dream last night. It is not often in life that one can claim that she realized a dream she has longed for her entire life. But last night, I did just that.

The story begins thirty-two years ago when I was a mere girl. When I was a stringy-haired, knobby-kneed little waif in the second grade, I wanted nothing more than to be a Brownie. The sash. The badges. The cookies. I went to Catholic school and we wore uniforms. Unattractive navy blue polyester pants my mother made herself. But once every couple of weeks, when the Brownies had meetings after school, they were allowed to wear their Brownie uniforms to school. I vividly remember sitting on the playground staring in wonder at these brown-clad beauties. When they donned their sashes and brown ensembles, they were nothing short of breath-taking. None of the Brownies were “too” tall or “too” skinny like me. None of them had knobby knees or stringy hair. Rather, they all looked like they had just stepped out of a Breck commercial. They were the epitome of seven-year-old perfection and I desperately wanted to join their ranks. I just knew that I would be stunning in brown.

That year, my mother decided she was going to volunteer to lead a Brownie troop. I was beyond excited. A new troop was starting and I—skinny, gangly Shannon Ralph—was going to get to be one of those flaxen-haired beauties dressed all in brown. I began daydreaming about our meetings. We would learn to sew. We would make milk-jug Easter baskets. We would have Easy-Bake Oven cook-offs. We would throw our brown beanie-adorened heads back and toss our perfectly curled hair around as we giggled with haughty derision at the poor girls dressed in their navy blue polyester pants. My life was going to change. I was going to be a Brownie. An IT girl! A Girl Scout!

Unfortunately, my life-changing brown transformation was not meant to be. At the last minute, my mother found out she was pregnant with my brother, Matt. She decided that she would not be able to be a Brownie troop leader once she discovered her pregnancy. As no other mothers stepped up to the plate, my dreams of Brownie-hood went up in smoke. The new troop never materialized. Rather than sashes and cookies and milk-jug Easter baskets, I got a brother. To this day, I don’t consider that a fair trade.

All of these years, I have been mourning the loss of my Brownie-hood. Last night, however, redemption was mine.

My daughter, Sophie, has joined a Daisy Scout troop (Daisy Scouts are one age level below Brownies, for those of you not versed in the world of Girl Scouts). Last night was her first meeting. To my surprise and utter excitement, I found that I, too, was inducted into the Girl Scouts last night. In order to volunteer with a Daisy troop—to chaperone, sell cookies, collect money, participate in the meetings, etc.—all the moms have to sign up to be Girl Scouts. I actually had to fill out an adult Girl Scout joining form. Yes, it is probably just a racket to get my $12 annual dues. But you know what? I don't care. I did it! Finally, thirty-two years later, I am a Girl Scout. I am an official Girl Scout. I didn’t get a sash, but that’s okay. I can have my mom make me one. There were no brown beanies (do Brownies still wear those cute little beanies?)There were no milk jug Easter baskets (though that would be a bit odd four days before Christmas) and we did not learn to sew (not yet anyway). There was, however, a Girl Scout pledge to recite. And there were songs. And arts and crafts. And even snacks…though Sophie avoided the fruit like it was the plague. At the end, we made a mom/Daisy Scout bridge and my big butt had to run under all of the out-stretched arms of the other moms and scouts. I could sense them scooting back to make room (I am no longer skinny and knobby-kneed…as a matter of fact, I probably have more fat on my knees right now than I did my entire body thirty-two years ago.) But that is beside the point. I am a Girl Scout. A Girl Scout!

Finally—FINALLY—redemption is mine. All of those Brownies who tossed their perfect hair and laughed at my blue polyester pants can kiss my ass! I am one of you now.

I think I might cry.

10 Reasons I Love Christmas

2011-12-18T14:09:00.004-06:00

1. The hideous yellow, plastic, glittery Christmas ornament that I got when I was in kindergarten. It hangs on the back of our tree, hidden from visual consumption, every single Christmas. It's too ugly to hang in the front of the tree, but it makes me happy to know it is there.

2. Our annual tradition of heading downtown on Christmas Eve every year to see Santa at Macy's. I love our album of annual Santa pictures. Facial expressions range from utter terror to distrust to complete ambivalence. Not a single smile on a single child. I love it.

3. Listening to my youngest son sing “Holly Jolly Christmas” along to the radio in the backseat of the car. As loud as he can. He closes him eyes a la “American Idol” and really makes it his own. I can't help but grin from ear to ear every time he sings that song.

4. Lucas' desire to believe in Santa Claus despite the odds. He is in third grade. There are beginning to be rumblings among his classmates about Santa being a figment of their parents' imaginations. Lucas hears the chatter. He knows many of his classmates no longer believe. But he wants to believe. He needs to believe. His desire to hang onto the magic of Christmas—at least for one more season—warms my heart and makes me smile. It probably won't last much longer, but I am enjoying it while I can.

5. Our stockings hung my the chimney with care. My mother made all of our stockings. She cross-stitched intricate Christmas designs on each stocking. Every person that joins our family gets a homemade stocking. She has yet to make my dog a stocking, but I am confident it is coming.

6. Watching all of the classic Christmas programs with my children. Seeing them stare wide-eyed as Santa visits the Island of Misfit Toys. Watching them cheer as a certain lovable lout has his heart grow three sizes in one day. Listening to them warn one another, “You'll shoot your eye out, kid.” Some things are simply timeless.

7. Christmas cards. It's true that fewer people send Christmas cards these days. I understand the argument about the environmental impact of Christmas cards. I understand that they can be cost-prohibitive for some people. But I can't seem to help myself. There is something about the giving and receiving of Christmas cards that simply makes me happy. And my children have inherited my love of cards. They excitedly check the mail each day to see how many cards we receive. We read the cards, ooh and aah over the pictures on the fronts, then we lovingly place them on display on our mantle. What can I say? I am, and have always been, a sucker for old-school pen and paper greetings.

8. Wrapping Christmas presents. I love wrapping presents. I love picking out the colorful paper. I love Scotch tape. I love ribbon. I love crisply creased corners. I love curly bows. I love the potential inherent in a beautifully wrapped gift. It is hope. It is joy. It is love. There is nothing more exciting than watching someone open a gift you lovingly chose and carefully wrapped. I would rather give a gift than receive a gift any day.

9. Christmas carols. I begin listening to Christmas carols the day after Thanksgiving. The radio in my car is permanently tuned to 102.9 Lite FM's 24/7 Christmas music from Thanksgiving to Christmas. As I've mentioned before, I am a purist when it comes to Christmas carols. I like the classics. Bing Crosby. Burl Ives. Nat King Cole. There is no need to “jazz up” a good Christmas carol. They warm your heart with their simplicity. I do, however, allow for a few modern versions in my carol repertoire. When I hear Josh Groban sing “Oh, Holy Night,” I get actual physical goosebumps. Every single time.

10. I love the gaudiness of Christmas. I love going to the mall and seeing 30-foot-tall garish white Christmas trees. I love the chintzy gigantic ornaments that hang from the ceilings. I love the wreaths that are a good ten feet across. I love twinkling lights. I love check-out girls with dangling bell earrings. I love people who ridiculously dress their pets in reindeer antlers. I love ugly Christmas sweaters. There is no such thing as too over-the-top when it comes to Christmas. And the tacky red-neck in me revels in the vulgarity of it all.

May you all have a fabulously tacky Christmas and a wonderfully joyous New Year!

Tantalizing Tuesday Tidbits

2011-12-13T11:49:00.003-06:00

Looks like I am going to officially be a scout mom. My daughter is joining a Girl Scout Daisy troupe. They meet every other Wednesday night at a local community center. My friends’ little girl, who Sophie loves playing with, is in this troupe. So it should be fun for Sophie. Having two brothers and all male cousins, she needs to be surrounded by something other than stifling testosterone occasionally. I have already emailed the troupe leader all of Sophie’s logistics, including her tunic size. We will be heading to our first meeting next Wednesday with large check in hand. Lord, help us. And be forewarned, dear family and friends: In a year or two, I will likely be peddling cookies. And I don’t want to hear any excuses about “diets” or “watching my figure.” I’ve seen you people put away ungodly amounts of beer and barbecue and enough cheese to permanently clog your colons for life…in one sitting. So no excuses!

As I type this, Ruanita is rummaging through the kids’ bedrooms finding toys to donate to Goodwill. Santa’s visit is quickly approaching and, as usually, Santa outdid himself again this year. We are going to have more toys in this house—toys that my beloved children may play with once or twice and then ignore completely until we try to toss them—than any child needs. It is really quite ridiculous the amount of “stuff” my kids possess. And Santa—stupid decrepit elf that he is—keeps bringing them more. I think it is time for a moratorium on toys. No more toys. My children have spent the last three weeks playing with a cardboard box in the basement. And this past summer, they spent every day outside catching tiny frogs. They don’t need the fancy electronic, talking, peeing, barking, screeching toys they see on commercials during Saturday morning cartoons. They simply need an old rusty bucket for catching frogs, a cardboard box, perhaps some duct tape, a #2 pencil, and a couple of crayons. Maybe a stick or two. A mound of dirt. Santa is getting off cheap next year!

I have had a cold for three weeks now that I cannot seem to shake. Ruanita says I am not taking care of myself. I try to drink water. I try to take my medicine. I try to rest. But come on….this time of year is not exactly conducive to “rest” and self-care.” I try to drink water—to thin the mucous, I am told—but we all that know a 20-ounce hazelnut latte tastes much better. I try to take my medicine, but frankly, in the words of my children, “It’s yucky.” Cough syrup has to be the most foul, noxious, revolting concoction ever created by humankind. Why would anyone in their right mind—with the exception of skid row alcoholics—willingly and purposefully drink the stuff? And Vicks Vaporub? Don’t even get me started. Ruanita is constantly telling me that I should coat my chest in Vicks Vaporub. That would all be well and fine, were it not for the smell of that stuff. And it lingers. And it discolors your clothing. And your sheets and blankets smell like Vicks for days. And if I am already feeling exhausted and under-the-weather, why would I apply something to my body that requires me to then strip my bed and wash all my sheets and blankets? Sounds like a hell of a lot of work. So here I sit…coughing up obscene items from my chest and snotting and drooling like an English bulldog. Yea…I love winter.

And speaking of winter, I live in Minnesota. It is December 13th—MID December. And we have no snow on the ground. This year was the first time since moving to Minnesota that I have not experience a white Thanksgiving. If my Christmas is brown, too, I don’t know what I am going to do. If I move any farther north for my guaranteed white Christmases, I am going to have to convert to Canadianism. Catholicism to Canadianism is a tough transition. And try as I might, I simply can’t eat gravy on my French fries.

Oh, woe is me….

An Evil Plan Backfires

2011-12-12T13:05:00.002-06:00

Yesterday was my family’s annual all-day Christmas candy-making extravaganza. We had a smaller group this year. Less alcohol, which meant less horribly painful Christmas carol karaoke. It did not, however, mean less candy. We managed, yet again, to create an ungodly number of sugary confections. By the time bedtime rolled around last night, I had a nice little champagne headache going, every pore of my body was oozing peanut butter, and my children were bouncing around in a sugar-induced mania like crack addicts on a three-day bender. At that point, I came to a conclusion. The candy had to go.

I boxed up a huge amount of the candy in a pretty purple Christmas box, lovingly covering it with parchment paper and making it look utterly divine. My intention was to pawn it off on my unsuspecting coworkers. I did not need to eat it. Ruanita did not need to eat it. My dog, who managed to sneak more than her fair share yesterday to the complete outrage of my sisters, did not need to eat it. And my rollicking children certainly did not need to eat it. It was going to work with me. Out of my house. Out of my mind. From across the office, the candy would be incapable of singing to me in that sweet, buttery voice that flows from my fridge at home. Or so I thought.

Apparently, I was not the only one who had baked this weekend. When I arrived at work, smugly prepared to pawn my sweet wares off on my coworkers, I stepped into my cube to find a festive plastic goodie bagged filled with candy sitting on my desk. It included a cute little tag that said, “To: Shannon, From: Melissa.” And it was cracker candy. That delicious chocolate toffee treat made with saltine crackers. The one candy I can’t simply walk away from. The one candy that no one at my house made this year. Damn.

I quickly stuck the cracker candy in a drawer and composed an email to my entire team letting them know that I had brought in exorbitant amounts of Christmas candy to share with them. Candy of every ilk, flavor, and variety. I hit “send” and smiled quietly to myself. I did it. With the exception of one bag of cracker candy safely hidden from my view, I could resist. I could place the candy in an empty cube two rows over. I could not hear its velvety songs. I could not smell its peanut buttery richness. I could not ever hear my coworkers ooh and aah over it. I was a success.

Then it happened. The emails began. “Oh my God, this cornflake candy is so good.” “Oh my goodness, this peanut butter fudge is the best I’ve ever had.” Then the instant messages. “Shannon, you are evil!” “Shannon, I want your recipes.” My plan to drop the candy and avoid its temptations was failing miserably.

Then came the final blow. An email from a coworker stating the following: “I did some entertaining this weekend and people brought lots of treats to our house as hostess gifts - way more treats than we can or should eat. So I brought in to share with all of you - cookies from Wuollet Bakery and peanut brittle! Enjoy!”

Enjoy? Enjoy?? Did she not realize that peanut brittle is my weakness? It is the one candy no one at my house has ever made. The one candy that I have not had a single bite of all season! I could ignore my own candy. But peanut brittle?! I possess no defenses against peanut brittle! I indulged. Then I indulged some more. Then…what the hell…might as well have a cookie, right? Anything from Wuollet Bakery is nothing short of a spiritual experience. So I ate a cookie. Or two. Maybe three….they were small.

I was defenseless. A pitiful brittle-eating glutton, ensuring yet again that my fat ass will remain safely attached to my backside for the remainder of the holiday season.

Merry Christmas to my new coworkers. Their evilness knows no bounds!

Merry Christmas to Us!

2011-12-11T20:08:00.004-06:00

For several years now, Ruanita and I have not bought one another Christmas presents. I could easily buy enough presents to fill the space below our tree. Ruanita, however, hates to shop. She despises shopping to her very core. And in all honesty, though she has many amazing and outstanding qualities, picking out gifts is not really her forte. Out of the kindness of my heart and in order to keep the holidays from being torture for Ruanita, we made the mutual decision years ago that we would not buy Christmas presents for one another. We have happily watched our children open presents on Christmas morning without a single gift under the tree with our names on them.

This year, I thought it would be fun if we simply did stockings for one another. I broached the topic with Ruanita, who grimaced in response. Yes, stockings can only hold small gifts, but small gifts must be purchased from a store. That means that Ruanita would have to shop--that dreaded activity she hates more than dental work and the DMV combined. She quickly hid her grimace (but not before I saw it) and attempted to smile sweetly. "Sure," she said. "We could do that. Sounds like.....fun!" Yes, at that moment, I realized that my proposition would bring Ruanita nothing but anxiety and despair. However, when I mentally weighed her despair against my own desire for delightfully small paraphernalia (tiny iPods, watches, jewelry, gift cards, etc.), I couldn't help myself. "Great!" I effused. "It WILL be fun!"

Despite my best attempts to assuage my guilt by planning my shopping list, I couldn't help feeling bad about the way in which I had ambushed Ruanita. She truly hates to shop. She would gladly hand me a credit card and tell me to buy whatever I wanted, but that's not the same as opening a surprise gift. Right? Don't I deserve a gift?

Well, fast forward to today. The stocking idea has been shelved. We are not buying one another stockings this year. Rather, we have decided to put our money and energy toward something we can both enjoy without Ruanita having to do even a minuscule amount of shopping.

We are going on a family vacation.

We have decided that our Christmas gift to one another will be a week-long beach vacation. Ruanita, the kids, and I are going to spend a week at a rented beach house in North Carolina. We've done our homework and I think we have decided on Carolina Beach on the south shore of North Carolina. It is a cute little, family-friendly, less-touristy-than-Myrtle-Beach, less-expensive-than-the-Outer-Banks beach town.

After we thought about it for a while, we realized that we have not been on vacation together since two years before Lucas was born. We go to Kentucky every year, but that doesn't count. As much as we love seeing our family and friends, it is not the same as lounging on a beach with no agenda and no timeline. We usually feel like we have torush around to see all of our family. All of our friends. Ruanita's mother, who is in a nursing home. Who is crazy. Who is not nice to Ruanita. Who will send our kids $20 and say $18 is for Lucas, and Sophie and Nick can have a dollar apiece. Seeing her makes Ruanita anxious. Makes her frustrated and angry and guilt-ridden. Not exactly emotions conducive to a "vacation." We need a real vacation.

We won't be heading to North Carolina for another six months, but I am already dreaming of white sandy beaches. I am dreaming of loading my Nook with a half dozen excellent reads and lounging in a beach chair all day. I am already envisioning the excitement on my kids' faces when they see the ocean for the first time. I am already imagining the peace of watching a bright red sunrise on our private deck overlooking to ocean while sipping my coffee and breathing in the salty air.

Merry Christmas to us!

Fame & Fortune:Tempered with a Little Shock

2011-12-09T14:56:00.000-06:00

Alrighty….time to update the old blog. I’ve been a sucky blogger again this week, but what else is new? That’s the norm these days, so we will just go with it. Yet again, I do not have a topic of interest (Note to self: check WebMD for ADHD self-evaluation) that is riveting enough to fill an entire blog entry. So, yet again, you—my loyal readers—will be getting a condensed version of the multitude of thoughts that run through my head on a daily basis. This should be fun.

1. My youngest children are going to be in a play at school next week. Their classroom is putting on a production of The Three Little Pigs that will, no doubt, be fabulous. Sophie and Nicky have the dubious honor or playing…wait for it…brick walls. Seriously. My children are going to be brick walls. Obviously, they have made quite an impression on their teacher. Broadway, here we come! And yes, I am taking off work to see my children stand still perfectly still and say nothing. Theater at its best!
2. I received confirmation in the mail this week that Lucas is signed up for the winter term at Foss Swim School. We signed him up in a last-ditch effort to find something—anything—that interests him beyond staring at a computer or television screen. Lucas has flat feet and is a bit…ummm….awkward. His podiatrist told us years ago, when he was being fit for his second pair of foot orthotics, that he will likely never excel in sports. Because of the shape of his feet, he can’t run or even walk for long distances without a lot of foot pain. So any sport where he would be required to run is pretty much out of the question for him. But it’s okay. He possesses not a single iota of interest in anything even vaguely athletic. However, the boy likes the water. He could spend all day at the pool and never once get out of the water. So I started thinking. Hmmm….a boy that is somewhat of an airhead. A boy with little interest in athletics. A boy with little interest in anything at all, for that matter. A boy that is tall and long and lean and lanky. Why, he could be the next Michael Phelps! That’s what I am banking on, at least. Foss Swim School, here we come!
3. You guys know I love my dog, right? I love her dearly and she is in need of a new collar. She’s a wiggly little thing and manages to wiggle herself right out of those collars that slide back and forth to tighten. Somehow, she manages to slide it loose and wiggle right out. So I recently went in search of a collar with a buckle. Believe it or not, these are not easy to find. Even in one of those huge pet warehouse type stores, I could only find the sliding collars. So I did what any self-respecting shopper would do…I turned to the internet. Just now, as I was procrastinating about writing this blog, I logged onto Amazon.com to see what they had in the way of collars. Imagine my surprise when the first two things that pulled up were a choke collar and a shock collar. WHAT?! Amazon sells choke collars and shock collars?!? Who in their right mind—and with a single ounce of compassion in their hearts—would think that choking or shocking a dog into submission is the way to handle your family pet?? I can’t imagine ever putting a choke or shock collar on my dear Stella. One look at her sad brown eyes, and I would be a heaving puddle on the living room floor. Does Amazon know how inhumane these things are? A dog is the only creature on this Earth—with the exception of your momma…maybe—that loves you more than it loves itself. How in the world could you look at your adoring, tail-wagging, little pup and then choke her? Or shock her? I don’t get it. Shame on you, Amazon.com!

So that pretty much sums up my thoughts for the day. I have two children well on their way to a career on Broadway and one who I anticipate will be winning multiple Olympic gold medals some day in the near future. So, I guess all is well in the Pierce-Ralph household.

For today, at least.

My Latest Obsession

2011-12-05T20:53:00.005-06:00

For a very long time, I was addicted to Facebook. I spent precious hours of my short life scrolling through page after page of inane and ridiculously drama-heavy status updates from people I didn't like in high school but was incapable of ignoring when they sent me a friend request. Then I discovered Etsy. Pages and pages of homemade items. And I could buy them! Spend money! Purchase merchandise! Cute little skirts for Sophie. Artwork for my living room. A new keychain. A cute mousepad. The artsy, crafty homemade possibilities were endless. Hours and days and weeks could be whiled away pointing and clicking.

Recently, I discovered a new online obsession. This one may very well be the most addictive of them all. Pinterest. Are you guys on Pinterest? Have you heard of it? The concept is incredibly simple. You create boards and “pin” items from the internet that interest you. There are pages and pages of items to scroll through. My personal favorites are the ones under “Home Decor” and “Food and Drink.” I could—and do, actually—spend hours scrolling through these pages getting ideas on cute designs for my home. Yummy recipes to try. Funny posters that make me laugh.

Despite my obsession, there are some things on Pinterest that simply make me scratch my head and wonder to myself, “What the hell?” There is a whole section titled “DIY and Crafts.” Some of the ideas in this section are cute. Some are actually useful. And then there are the ones that are obviously posted by people who have 1.) entirely too much time on their hands, or 2.) entirely too much prescription medication in their bloodstream.

Case in point:

1. A Christmas wreath made out of shotgun shells. Ummm....what kind of message does this send. Peace on Earth? I don't get it.

2. A recipe for homemade Snickers bars. A Snickers bar costs less than a buck if you have a craving. Who needs an entire BATCH of Snickers bars. Seriously? Can we say diabetes?

3. 10 ways to cook quinoa. I am pretty certain that I will never in my lifetime need to know more than one way to cook quinoa.

4. Martha Stewart's recipe for homemade chalkboard paint. First, who in the hell makes their own paint? That's just weird. And secondly, any Martha Stewart recipe—be it paint or apple pie—can be guaranteed to have about thirty-five too many steps and use ingredients only found on foreign soil.

5. Make your own bouncy balls from scratch. This sounds like it would involve a healthy dose of chemistry—not my best subject in school. Considering that you can get a bouncy ball in any gumball machine for a quarter, why would I risk blowing my house up via chemical reaction to make homemade bouncy balls from scratch? People are nuts.

6. Make your own spoon and fork jewelry. That's just dumb.

7. How to fix a compact if you drop it and the powder breaks. Something about drops of alcohol. Not sure. Am I bad person because I would simply throw it away and buy a new one?

8. 10 recipes for Homemade Dog Biscuits. If I am going to put the effort into baking something, it better include chocolate and healthy doses of butter. And I better be able to nosh on it after the kiddos got to bed. Despite loving my dog dearly, I do not see myself baking homemade dog biscuits.

9. 101 Elf on the Shelf Ideas. I have considered buying an Elf on the Shelf for my children but, frankly, it just seemed like a lot of unnecessary work. I already have to wrap all of those presents. I already have to fight the crowds downtown at Macy's so my children can stare wide-eyed and terrified at Santa, while refusing to talk to him. I already have to pretend I enjoy snow and sledding and making them hot chocolate they beg me for and then immediately put in the fridge and refuse to drink. Must we really involve an elf in our holiday festivities?

10. Make your own small gift boxes out of toilet paper rolls. Who would I give them to? Would you want a gift wrapped in a toilet paper roll? Doesn't exactly say that I cared enough to give the very best, does it?

11. Make your own coffee creamer. Why? Why would I do that when Starbucks makes it for me with little to no effort on my part?

12. And then there are cakes like this:

My boys would love this. I consider myself a fairly good baker, but this is just asking for demoralizing defeat. Am I right?

Well Played, My Boy

2011-12-01T20:31:00.004-06:00

So, have you ever been proud of something your child said? Something endearing that you desperately want to share with your family and friends? But you hesitate. You want to expound on the sweetness and virtue of your child, but you have a secret inkling that you may have just been played? Yesterday, I had one of those moments. My oldest son said something so incredibly sweet that my instinct was to say, “Get the hell out of town!” I want to believe it was heartfelt, but I have a feeling he was simply telling me what I wanted to hear. Or, probably more accurately, telling the big man in the red suit what he wanted to hear.

I will let you be the judge.

Last night, Ruanita and I were both feeling rather lazy, so we talked ourselves into getting Chipotle for dinner. I was nominated as the lucky woman who would run out and pick it up. Any time I run an errand, I try to take one of the kids with me for a little momma/kid one-on-one bonding time. This time, I said, “Come on, Lucas. Ride to Chipotle with me.” He happily complied.

We chatted on the way there about various unimportant and inane topics. On the way home, I decided to do a little Christmas fishing. We have pretty much completed our Christmas shopping for the kids at this point, but I wanted to gauge how well we had done. So I asked Lucas, “If you could have one—and only one—present for Christmas, what would you like?” Only one. I figured he would say “a giant Bionicle” or “every Pokemon card ever made.” Actually, I quickly thought of half a dozen things that I am sure Lucas would like. I suspected he would have trouble limiting his desires to one toy. My children are not shy about telling me exactly what they want exactly when they want it. They tend to have a bad case of the overly entitled “I-want-its.”

Lucas was quiet in the back seat for a few minutes. Yep, definitely having trouble narrowing it down, I thought. Eventually, he spoke up. He asked, “Does it have to be something Santa brings?” Umm....weird question. I guess not. I suppose it doesn't have to be something Santa brings. I explained it had to be reasonable, however. No requests for a million bucks or anything like that. Lucas thought for a second longer. Then he said, “I would like my one present to be spending Christmas with my family.”

I sat there dumbfounded for a moment. Finally, I responded with, “Yea....right, Lucas. That means that you would get no presents. No toys. Your only gift would be spending the day with your family.”

I peeked at Lucas in the rearview mirror. He smiled at me. “That's okay, mom. I love my family, so that's the only present I need.” He grinned from ear to ear.

So? Total BS, right? Totally scamming me and Santa both? I wanted to believe he was sincere in his lovable sweetness, but my Spidey sense was tingling like crazy. I suspect my little charlatan of a son was playing me like a fiddle.

Well played, young man. Well played, indeed.

Living the Dream

2011-11-29T12:57:00.003-06:00

Fear not! The balance of the universe has been restored. Nicholas woke up this morning with a fever of 102 and our minivan is leaking copious amounts of antifreeze. I knew "perfection" wouldn't last for long.

Feels good to be living the dream again...

Waiting for the Other Shoe to Fall

2011-11-28T15:17:00.001-06:00

Life is good. As a matter of fact, life is a little too good right now. I find myself waiting for the other shoe to fall. Everything can’t be all roses and sunshine for long, right? There has to be either tragedy or trauma lurking right away the corner. Am I correct? The thing is, however, I don’t see any trauma on the horizon. Every aspect of my life is going quite well right now. And frankly, it scares the living shit out of me.

All three kids are doing well in school. Lucas, who has spent his entire school career surrounding my doom and gloom over his reading and writing skills, is suddenly being hailed as a math whiz. His teacher has moved him into an accelerated class for kids who are gifted in math. Rather than focusing on his problem areas, she is encouraging him to focus on the tasks he can excel in. And he is developing a confidence that I am sure will spill over into his less skilled areas. Sophie and Nicholas both tested very well in their first round of kindergarten testing. They are both well above where they need to be academically. Sophie is making friends left and right. She’s become a little social butterfly despite being shy. And Nicholas is beyond excited to be learning to read. He constantly—and by “constantly” I mean all the freaking time—wants me to quiz him with words to spell. I am pretty impressed with his ability to sound out words. My little savant is continuing to amaze me on a daily basis.

This time last year, Lucas was wracked with anxiety. It had become almost paralyzing. Today, his anxiety is well under control. He still has his little quirks—his odd little “weirdnesses” that we brush off as just “being Lucas”—but he is a happy, healthy, friendly boy who is blossoming into a wonderful young man.

I am truly enjoying my new job. I have freedom to work at my own pace. The work is challenging without being overwhelming. The people I work with are friendly. My manager has repeatedly asked me if I still enjoy working for the company, which makes me think she intends to keep me around. All in all, I am happy at work.

Ruanita is enjoying her time at home with the kids. I was initially worried that she would regret quitting her job, but she loves it. Yesterday, she actually said to me, “My life is pretty perfect right now.” That phrase was actually uttered by the Queen of Pessimism herself! I don’t think I’ve ever heard Ruanita say that life was perfect. Or even good, for that matter. Not on our wedding day. Not at the birth of our children. Never has she said that life is perfect. Usually, all she can muster is an “all right.” So perfect has to mean something, right?

We are getting new windows and making other changes to make our home feel homier than ever. I painted our bedroom yesterday and we have a new floral down comforter in pretty shades of red. Crawling into bed last night felt like staying in the finest hotel in the world. It was pure luxury. We’ve also rearranged our living room and bought new pillows and a gorgeous chenille throw. It feels like two new brand new rooms in our home. The kitchen is next!

So….home is good. Work is good. The kids are good. Ruanita is good. Everything is good.

I don’t like it. It makes me nervous.

Epic Fail

2011-11-27T19:54:00.003-06:00

So last week, Sophie and Nicky's kindergarten teacher asked each child in the class what they were most thankful for. She then compiled the answers and sent them home in her weekly classroom newsletter. Being the on-top-of-it-all mom I am, I just cleaned out the kids' backpacks today in anticipation of school tomorrow. So I read this list after Thanksgiving, but found it no less heart-felt than I would have before the holiday.

Some of the responses the children gave to the question "What are you most thankful for?" were truly endearing. Here are a few examples of the mindset of my children's fellow classmates:

"My grandpa because he works and helps me."
"Parents because they give me food and take me places."
"My grandma and grandpa because I like to cook with them."
"My mom and dad because they love me and treat me good."
"My mom and dad because they help me ride my bike."
"My mom because she sleeps with me and she is a good mom."
"My family because I like them."
"My home because my family is in it." (Can I get an "awwwwww?")
"My brother and sisters because they care about me."
"Jesus, because he helps out the Earth."

Notice a trend here? That's right. FAMILY. Even at the tender age of five, these children know to be thankful for their families. (And Jesus....you can't forget Jesus.) As I read down the list, I couldn't help but smile at the sweetness of these young souls. Their all-encompassing love for their mommies and daddies was palpable. It was truly a joy to read.

Then I got to Sophie and Nicky's responses. Umm....yea. Not a mention of their mommies. Not a word about their brother. Nothing about their home at all, actually. Sophie responded to the question about what she was most thankful for by saying, "My dog because she doesn't bite." Yes, we all love Stella. But most thankful? I don't see Stella getting up with her in the middle of the night when Sophie has to pee and can't reach the toilet paper. I don't see Stella putting up with the attitude that oozes from every pore of Sophie's little body. I don't see Stella coloring with Sophie. Or baking with Sophie. Or making potholder after potholder after God-forsaken potholder with Sophie. I must say...I am a bit disappointed with her answer.

And Nicholas....oh, Nicholas. What is Nicholas most thankful for? After reading sentence after sentence of lovely little children espousing their love for family, I had the privilege of reading Nicholas' response. "Money. So I can buy stuff with my own money." Yep, my youngest son is most thankful for money.

Epic fail.

A Decorating Project Out of Control

2011-11-25T21:09:00.001-06:00

I am in the midst of a home redecorating project that is quickly growing out of control. We're not busting down walls or anything. We're not remodeling, which is an altogether different sort of hell. We are simply redecorating. Or rather, rearranging. As a result, my knees are swollen as I type this and I am trying to figure out how in the hell I am going to make it up the stairs to my bedroom tonight. So, what is going on? Allow me to explain.

As you know, we are getting new windows throughout our entire house. We are extremely excited. Considering that we have not washed our windows once in the five years we have lived in this house, we are looking forward to windows that actually let sunlight into our home. In our anticipation of the new windows and the impending sunlight, we have begun to think of ways we can “pretty” our house up a bit. Immediately we decided we need new window treatments in our kitchen bay window. Being odd-sized windows, we're going to have to go with custom window treatments. That was the first project we decided had to be done. Nothing major. We would spend a little money, but certainly nothing outrageous.

A few weeks ago, I casually mentioned to Ruanita that we should consider moving our basement family room furniture upstairs. The couch and chair in our living room had seen better days. With a cat and now a dog climbing all over them, they were beginning to look a bit shabby. The couch and chair in the downstairs family room are rarely used. They are more comfortable and in better shape. Logic would dictate that we should move them into our living room and put the rattier furniture in the basement. Ruanita immediately dismissed the idea as insane. Moving the furniture was a challenge she simply wasn't up to facing. Her back ached at the mere mention of her. Her knees twitched and her shoulders spasmed. I dropped the subject and did not mention it again. Unfortunately, Ruanita did not forget it so easily. Despite her protests, a seed had been planted.

Yesterday, rather out of the blue, Ruanita began talking about moving the furniture again. Seriously? I thought that was a stupid idea. Eventually, after some wrangling, we decided that we would attempt to move the furniture today.

Our basement stairs are off of our kitchen. It is a ninety degree angle from our kitchen to our stairs. There was no way a couch, or a chair for that matter, would make that angle to go into the basement. The only way we would be able to do it would be to take the furniture out the front door, around the house to the back yard, through the back door, and straight down the basement steps.

Before we even began, as we were laboring to unscrew the feet from the living room couch, I declared that I was done. Ruanita was yelling already. I was tense. We were bickering before we even began. After a small blow-up on my part, we decided to make the move. Using all of the high school physics we could recall, we managed to angle the first couch out of the front door and around the house. Let the dog in. Let the dog out. Down the stairs was utter and complete hell, but we managed. We crashed onto the floor. Only three more large pieces of furniture to lug up and down stairs. As I was screwing the legs back on the couch, I smelled a foul odor. Dog poop. I had stepped right in it. I changed my shoes and tossed the stinky ones out the back door. We then repeated the process three more times. Once again, I stepped in dog poop and tossed my second pair of shoes out the back door. We grumbled at one another. We yelled at the kids. It was pure and utter hell. But we did it.

Tonight, as I sat with ice packs on my knees, I looked at our new living room. The furniture looks nice upstairs. It is plain brown, so we need to buy some new colorful pillows. Cha-ching. And we really need a nice new throw or blanket of some sort to drape on it. Cha-ching. The couch, though a bit wider, is a more modern style with a boxy shape and tiny arms. The old couch had huge, overstuffed, steroidal arms. With its tiny arms and boxy shape, the new couch takes up much less space in our living room despite providing more seating area. As a result, we have a an empty corner. So whatever shall we do? Ruanita thinks we need to buy a new chair. Cha-ching. Looking at chairs online and in catalogs, we've decided maybe a chaise lounge would be nice. Cha-ching. Of course, if we buy chaise lounge, I want one of those nice cable-knit throws. You know? The blankets that look like cable-knit sweaters that a girl could get lost in. Cha-ching. We also will need some new artwork to hang above the chaise. Cha-ching. And perhaps a new floor lamp. Cha-ching.
See what I mean? A small redecorating idea is quickly growing out of control. But you know what?

Our living room is going to look fabulous by the time we are done.

Giving Thanks

2011-11-23T13:30:00.004-06:00

This time last year, I made a list of the things for which I was most thankful. I listed fifteen items. Aside from the obvious spouse, children, and extended family that everyone is grateful for, I tried to list things for which I may not always remember to express my gratitude. My family is the thing for which I am MOST thankful. However, I tried to look at my less obvious blessings. I tried to make the list obscure—sometimes silly—but meaningful. Since Thanksgiving is tomorrow, I figured it would be an appropriate time to make another list. My goal this year is to list fifteen NEW things for which I am thankful, not repeating anything I wrote last year. Let's see how it goes, shall we?

1. I am thankful that my team at work now has a Keurig. I am thankful for the amazing revelation that is the K-cup. This thing is nothing short of awe-inspiring. It is beauty and functionality and spiritual enlightenment all rolled into one shiny, heavenly-smelling black package. I am in love.

2. I am thankful for my health. After the recent bout of Strep I endured, I am eternally grateful that I am relatively healthy. Yes, my knees creak and my joints ache. I don't get up from a sitting position as quickly as I once did. My bladder has seen better days. But all in all, I am a fairly healthy thirty-nine-year-old woman. I don't have any debilitating conditions. I am not bed-ridden. After spending three days on my back in my bed, I can't begin to express how grateful I am that being bed-ridden is not an everyday occurrence. I would go mad, for sure.

3. I am thankful for my Nook. I am thankful for the ability to lay in bed at night with all the lights out and read to my heart's content. To play games. To check my email. It is the best birthday present I have ever been given. And it makes me happy in a way no inanimate object really should. Yes, I am shallow like that.

4. I am thankful for YouTube. Normally, I do not log onto YouTube very often. As a matter of fact, before this evening, I cannot tell you the last time I watched anything on YouTube. However, tonight it affected me profoundly. I sat in my living room chair with two excited five-year-olds sitting on top of me. We listened to Christmas carols on YouTube and sang to the top of our lungs. Nicholas didn't know the words, but he did not let that stop him. He sang his little heart out. There is truly nothing more beautiful than the sound of children singing.

5. I am thankful for Ruanita’s failing vision. She has always had 20/20 vision. However, in recent years, she has had to resort to reading glasses to read the newspaper, read menus in a restaurant, play on the computer, etc. She loses her glasses constantly, so she buys them in bulk. Reading glasses in every color and shape litter every room of my house. I carry them around in my purse, as well. I admit to making fun of her at times for her inability to read without her glasses—which is ironic since I’ve worn glasses since second grade and am completely and totally helpless without them. The reason I am thankful for her glasses has nothing to do with fodder for jokes, however. Rather, I am thankful for her reading glasses because she looks so damn cute in them. When she is reading the paper in the morning with her hair all tussled and sticking up like a teenage boy (Lucas tells her that she gives him Bieber Fever, which cracks me up to no end) wearing her reading glasses, she looks nothing short of adorable. I fall in love with her all over again. The ability to fall in love with your spouse anew every day is something worth immense amounts of gratitude.

6. I am grateful that my children like one another. Yes, they fight. Yes, Lucas has been known to spit on his sister and sit on his brother’s head. Nicholas lives to torture Lucas and Sophie never passes up an opportunity to tattle on her brothers. But at the end of the day, they are the best of friends. Every day when Ruanita drops the kids off at school, Lucas stops in the hallway and hugs both his brother and sister before they separate and go to their own classrooms. He’s never been asked to hug them. He is probably risking ridicule and third grade pariah-status by hugging his siblings in public. But he does it anyway. Because he loves them. I am thankful for their bond and hope it continues well into adulthood.

7. I am thankful for glass. More specifically, I am thankful for the new windows Ruanita and I just ordered for our entire house. They have not been installed yet. They are going to be custom-made windows because our house is old and has irregularly-sized windows. But the deal is that they will be completed and installed by Christmas. I cannot wait. It’s strange…the things that make you giddy as an adult.

8. I am grateful to be ending the year in a new job. A job I actually enjoy. A job I don’t dread going into. A job with capable and competent boss. It really is a gift to work with people you admire and respect.

9. I am thankful that we have the ability and stability for Ruanita to take a year off work to be home with the children. After working opposite shifts and crazy hours for five years, she deserved a break. She deserved a sabbatical. I am immensely grateful that all of the stars aligned in just such a way that Ruanita was able to quit her job on her terms just as her team was going under. And I was able to find a new job that makes me happy. We could not have planned it better if we had tried.

10. I am thankful for a spare bedroom. No, it is not ideal to have your mother move in with you when you are a thirty-nine-year-old adult woman with a family of your own. But, given the situation, I am thankful that I had a bedroom to spare. I am thankful that my mother is not destitute or homeless. I am thankful that she does not have to worry about where she is going to sleep or what she is going to eat. I am thankful that I have the unusual opportunity to give a little something back to her for all of the heart, soul, blood, sweat, and tears she has given me through the years.

11. In a similar vein, I am thankful that my children are getting closer to their grandmother. My grandmother was my rock growing up. When my life was turned upside down after my dad died, she was my world. My constant. My refuge. I want my children to experience the unconditional love of a grandmother. For that reason, I am thankful that my children are able to have this time living with their grandmother and spending time with her on a daily basis.

12. I am thankful for my oven. It is old—probably as old as I am. It is outdated. It doesn’t cook quickly. It doesn’t cook evenly. It will probably be our next appliance that has to be replaced. But from my oven comes the most delectable treats. In recent years, I have discovered a love of baking that can only be described as therapeutic. My oven has saved me thousands of dollars in therapist fees. I bake cookies. I bake cakes. I bake pies. I have tried homemade bread and would like to get better at it. My daughter loves to help mommy bake and it is something we enjoy together. My oven, despite being old and decrepit, is a Godsend. And I love it

13. I am thankful for Amoxicillin. The nectar of the gods. We buy the stuff in bulk. The inside of my fridge is decorated with little red Target Pharmacy bottles of liquid Amoxicillin. It is really quite festive. I am considering stringing them together and making a garland for my Christmas tree. What do you think?

14. I am thankful for Target. How in the world did I miss this one last year?! Target is my Shangri-la. It is my happy place. I can spend hours in Target perusing the aisles. Sipping my pumpkin spice latte. Checking out the clearance racks. Dawdling in the magazine section. Target has everything a busy mom needs to wind down and relax. Plus, it is not Wal-mart. Because Target exists, I have no need to ever step foot in a Wal-mart. That alone is reason to be grateful.

15. Finally, I am grateful for the readers of this blog. Those of you who have been friends since I was a small girl, as well as those of you I have never met. Your comments and commiserations keep me going. You give me a reason to write, something I enjoy more than anything in this world. For you, I am eternally grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all!

Tuesday's Random Thoughts

2011-11-22T19:28:00.005-06:00

Nicholas correctly spelled word after word after word tonight. He did beautifully executed handstands in the living room floor. He sang Christmas carols with perfect pitch. He mapped the human genome--blind-folded (okay, that last one is not true, but the kid is weirdly savant-like in his ability to quickly master tasks). After seeing him display amazing feats of accomplishment this evening while Sophie--a perfectly normal five-year-old little girl--looked on in utter defeat, it was refreshing to discover that Sophie has one talent that Nicholas has yet to master. Finally Sophie can do something Nicholas can't. She can outperform him in one aspect. The girl can snap her fingers. Nicholas tries, but he can do no more than clumsily rub his finger together in a strange motion that resembles a Tourette's tic. Sophie can snap! And she does it with panache. That's my girl!

The next five weeks are probably my very favorite weeks of the entire year. I love the holidays. It is really quite obnoxious how much I adore Christmas. I have already begun listening to the dreaded 24/7 Christmas carols playing on 102.9 Lite FM. I am a bit disappointed in their playlist, however. I think I am entirely too much of a traditionalist for Christmas radio. Just because a song has the word "Christmas" in it does not make it a carol. I've never even heard half of the songs they are playing. And what is the deal with artists trying to "update" the classics? Is there really a need to funkify "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire..."? It's not really meant to be a get-your-groove-on song. Am I right? Seriously...I need more Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole and Burl Ives and a little less Mariah Carey and Taylor Swift. Is that too much to ask?

I hate rush hour traffic. I despise it. My commute isn't really horrible. Three shorts jaunts on three highways get me home. But every time I get on a new highway, I need to cross over at least two lanes of traffic to get where I need to be. It stresses me out because people are idiots. And they are driving their gigantic steroidal SUV's and talking on the phone and texting and refusing to allow people like me in normal cars to merge. I hate it. I am considering packing up my kids and moving to Mayberry.

I have come to the conclusion today that Ruanita is trying to torture me. As you know, she has historically refused to fill ice cube trays, leaving me scrambling to find one or two pitiful cubes to chill my Diet Pepsi. Now that my mother has moved in with us, my mother dutifully fills the ice cube trays. She compensates for Ruanita's complete lack on freezer decorum. So Ruanita has moved on to bigger and better things. No longer able to use the ice cube trays as her passive-aggressive torture device, she now employs the almighty toilet paper roll. That's right. You guessed it. She has begun putting the toilet paper roll on backwards. Under instead of over. Everyone knows that OVER is correct. Under is just plain sick and wrong. But she does it anyway. And I am sure she chuckles silently to herself every time I excuse myself to go to the bathroom.

The first snow of the season, which is now a sludgy, muddy mess, ushers in the advent of that most hideous of tasks--wiping the dog's feet every time she goes out to pee. Not only do I have to stand at the door in the cold begging her to come back in at ten o'clock at night, but I also have to chase her, catch her, wrangle her into a sitting position, wipe each of her four paws, and then get down on my four paws to wipe her prints off the kitchen linoleum. I think I should maybe join the rodeo when I move to Mayberry. Bucking broncos can't possibly be any harder to wrangle that an overly-affectionate butt-wiggling boxer.

Just my thoughts for the day...

A Perfectly Logical Accessory

2011-11-20T20:09:00.002-06:00

I did something today.

I did something that I have made fun of other people for doing. Something that I have characterized in the past as “crazy” and “freaky” and just plain “flaky.” I did something that only those people do.

I bought my dog a quilted vest today. In my defense, I live in Minnesota. It gets pretty damn cold here. We got our first snow of the season this weekend. My dog is a boxer. She has extremely short hair which provides very little protection from the elements. And she does not like the cold. A canine winter coat is a perfectly logical accessory for a pup living in the frigid northland. Right?

She really looks quite chic in her warm, quilted vest. It is a nice rust color with orange accents. It brings out her eyes. Now that I think about it, her vest is the exact rust color of my favorite hooded sweatshirt that I wear all the time. So not only am I buying clothing for my dog, I am dressing her like me. Mommy and me clothing, canine version.

Yes, I have become one of those people. I am okay with it, however. There are worse things I could do. I could be one of those weirdos who train their cat to pee in the toilet. Now those people are freaks. I am simply a conscientious pet owner.

Next month, we are having an ugly Christmas sweater contest for our monthly Bunco game. Target has Christmas sweaters for dogs. Hideous Christmas sweaters adorned with gigantic peppermints and poinsettias. I am dying to buy one for Stella. Ruanita, however, has forbidden it. But...you know how that goes. I will probably buy it anyway.

And Stella will be stunning. Absolutely stunning.

A Non-traditional Thanksgiving

2011-11-18T14:34:00.002-06:00

Next week is Thanksgiving. However, in my house, gluttony will reign supreme tomorrow. My mother is going to Kentucky to spend Thanksgiving with my brother, and my sister has to work on Thanksgiving Day. So we decided to forgo the usual Thursday festivities and have our annual Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow. I have already baked my world-famous (well, famous in MY house) walnut streusel apple pie. I will be waking up early tomorrow morning to put the turkey in, praying to God above that it has thawed enough during its week in my fridge to get the neck and back of giblets out of its chest cavity. (The last two years, I removed the neck, but ended up baking the bag of giblets in the turkey. Ew.) I will also be mashing potatoes and putting together Paula Dean’s crockpot macaroni and cheese (a new recipe this year). My mom and sister will be supplying the rest of our traditional meal. My tomorrow night, I should be in a tryptophan-induced coma. And I plan on loving every minute of it.

I admit that it will be a bit strange having Thanksgiving dinner on a Saturday. However, I am kind of excited about our plans for next Thursday. With my mom and my sister Amy out of the picture, that leaves my little family and my sister Jennifer to spend Thanksgiving Day together. We have concocted a tremendous plan for the day. My nephew, Jonah, received the entire Star Wars saga for his birthday last week. All six movies. Wednesday night, before everything closes for Thanksgiving, I am going to stop at Papa Murphy’s and get a few take-and-bake pizzas. Thursday, sometime mid-morning, my sister and nephew will arrive at my house all decked out in their pajamas. All seven of us plan on being in our pajamas all day. We are going to spread blankets and pillows on my living room floor and have an all-day Star Wars marathon and pizza party. Yes, we are geeks. And yes, I am super excited. My nephew and my son, Lucas, are big Star Wars fans. But I have to admit, their Star Wars knowledge pales in comparison to my own. I could practically recite the movies for you…the old-school ones, at least. Ruanita likes Star Wars, though she is not as fanatical as I am. The twins will probably be completely unimpressed, but they will enjoy lounging around on blankets and eating pizza, I am sure. My sister Jennifer, a 34 1/2 year old woman—a woman born in 1977 for God’s sake, the year that Star Wars was born!—has never seen a single Star Wars movie. Her son is fanatical about Star Wars, but she has never even bothered to watch the movies. She has no concept of the sheer coolness of Darth Vader. She has never seen Princess Leia half-naked with a chain around her neck. She has never seen Han Solo flash that mischievous grin. She has never possessed the ability to compare herself to Jabba the Hut when feeling bloated and generally unattractive. She has never cheered when the Death Star was destroyed. She has never oohed and aahed over the cutesiness of the Ewoks. She has never wondered aloud if carbonite is real. She has never made light saber noises in inappropriate places. She has never roared a Chewbacca roar just for the sheer hell of it.

In other words, she has no idea what she has been missing! And I have every intention of introducing her to the awesomeness that is the Star Wars saga.

So there you have it. My non-traditional Thanksgiving plans.

Eat your heart out, Jessica Bylund!

Chauvinistic Ramblings

2011-11-18T08:43:00.000-06:00

I have not written in my blog all week. I’ve been really busy at work, and when I get home, I just want to relax. So writing has been shelved for the week. But here I am…it’s Friday and I am feeling a bit of relief. So let me apologize in advance for the rambling blog post I am about to write.

I have discovered something mildly disturbing about myself this week. Something I did not expect. Something I am not sure how to process. Here it is…I am a male chauvinist pig. Okay, actually, that is biologically impossible. Rather, I am a female chauvinist pig. I always considered myself a raging feminist. But now…I am not so sure. And I don’t know how to handle this new self-enlightenment.

It all began when Ruanita ironed my shirts. I came home from work one day last week to an announcement from Ruanita that she had ironed seventeen of my shirts that day. Seventeen?! These are shirts that I have simply been avoiding wearing to work because they needed to be ironed and I simply had neither the time nor the inclination to lug out the old ironing board. But Ruanita, without being asked to do so, ironed my shirts. When I asked her why, she responded, “I noticed you hadn’t been wearing them, so I ironed them for you so you can wear them to work.”

Ruanita’s deranged ironing spree got me thinking. It was a lovely gesture and one that I greatly appreciated. I began to think about all of the other things Ruanita does while I am away at work. The dishwasher is loaded and emptied every day. The laundry is all washed and neatly put away (though she still has no clue when it comes to our socks versus Lucas’ socks or Sophie’s jeans versus Nicky’s jeans, but I can forgive her that small blunder). The children are fed and happy. She turns off the television and limits their computer screen time. My carpets are vacuumed. My children go to the library and the park. My dog gets walked every day.

When I was a part-time stay-at-home mom, I absolutely sucked. If I made it to the end of the day and no one had inflicted bodily harm on anyone, I considered the day a success. Laundry sat in piles taller than me. We simply grabbed dishes from the dishwasher when we needed them. I did not, and still do not, know how to turn on the vacuum cleaner. The kids watched television and played video games and stared at the computer screen all afternoon. I was an utter failure as a stay-at-home-mom.

As a working woman, however, I rock. There is something inherently thrilling about putting on nice clothes and shlubbing off to the office every morning. I love suit coats. I love checking email at my desk while sipping my morning coffee. I love meetings and conference calls. I adore being part of work groups and committees. I love having lunch with other adults. I even like working against deadlines and feeling under the gun. I simply enjoy working. It makes me happy. My desk is littered with pictures of my children that I stare at all day. I do not, however, feel a longing to be home with them. Does that make me a bad mom? Though I love coming home to their smiling faces in the evening, I am content to have them in Ruanita’s safe keeping during the day.

So what does this say about me? I love being married to a housewife. Not being one. I love that Ruanita takes care of our home. I love that I walk into the house in the evening to the smell of candles burning and the sound of kids’ laughter and sight of smiling faces running toward me to tell me about their day. If Ruanita had a glass of wine and some slippers ready and waiting for me, my life would be damn near perfect. Is that a horribly chauvinistic thought or what?!

I love living with a stay-at-home mom, but would probably have to fight the urge every day to flush my head down the toilet if I were one. Don’t get me wrong. I still cook dinner every night and do homework with the kids. I don’t come home and plant myself on the couch and veg out. But I certainly don’t do as much around the house as Ruanita does.

What kind of mother happily leaves her children to head off to work every day? What kind of mother would prefer working late to complete a project rather than going home to her family? I have nothing but complete respect and adoration for stay-at-home moms. These women who can be loving and nurturing 24/7 amaze me. I simply do not have it in me. I think working makes me a better mom than I would be otherwise. A more patient mom. A more appreciative mom. I wish I could be the hands-on, 24/7, pearl-wearing, cookie-baking mom of the Leave It to Beaver era. Alas, I cannot.

Luckily for me, however, I can live with one.

The Plague

2011-11-11T23:34:00.005-06:00

I have a little piece of advice for all of you this evening. A nugget of wisdom from the trenches of parenthood. The next time your child contracts strep throat, get him the hell out of your house. Pawn him off on a grandparent. Find a nice convalescent home. Hire the homeless guy on the corner who is willing to babysit for some spare change and a tube of toothpaste. Whatever it takes to get your germ-infested child out of your house, DO IT. Or better yet, leave him there and get out yourself. A few nights in a swanky hotel certainly wouldn't hurt any of us, now would it?

I do not tell you this in an attempt to undermine your relationship with your child. Rather, I have your own best interests at heart. When a child contracts strep, it is certainly not fun. It is miserable and pitiful and heart-wrenching. However, a quick trip to urgent care and all is well. By the time a child gets one or two doses of an antibiotic in him, he is back to his old running, jumping, howler-monkey self. When an adult contracts strep, however, it is much uglier. The recovery time is much greater. The illness is much more sinister. I know this from experience now.

Yep, that's right, I am no longer the last woman standing in my house. I succumbed to the dreaded Streptococcus bacterium. Apparently, to my utter surprise, I am not Wonder Woman, nor do I possess a super-human immune system. I am a mere mortal. And for the first time ever in my life, I caught strep.

It was nothing short of hell. I have never in my entire lifetime been that sick. I've had colds and stomach bugs. Hell, I even had a twin pregnancy and a C-section. And never—EVER—have I been as sick as I have been for the last three days. One minute I was standing upright and healthy. The next minute I felt as though I had been whacked in the knees with a baseball bat. I was knocked completely horizontal and stayed that way for three whole days. My throat was on fire and my tonsils were covered with white pus pockets that made it feel as though I had popcorn kernels stuck all over the back on my throat. The glands in my neck were swollen to the point that it hurt to move my head or simply lay on my pillow. I felt as though my neck would explode at any minute. And my head....the pain in my head was like no headache I had ever had in my life.

And can we talk candidly about something really gross for a second? I am a firm believer in full disclosure on this blog (also known as TMI). So let's talk about post-nasal drip. We've all had it at some point, I am sure. That utterly nasty feeling of snot sliding down the back of your throat. A river of snot. Snot you try to cough up, to no avail. Snot you try to suck down, with no success. But that doesn't stop you. You continue to make hideous coughing and hacking and sucking and gagging noises, to the complete repulsion of everyone in your house. This afternoon, I was doing just that when suddenly, a huge chunk of something “came up.” Having never eaten an oyster in my life, imagine my surprise when I hacked up what could only be described as an entire oyster. I spit it into a tissue. Then I screamed. Then I think I cried a little, as screaming was painful. I ran to show Ruanita the oyster I had hacked up (because she married me, and therefore, signed up to look at any marine life I may or may not expel from my body). The kids wanted to see it, too. So, being the paragon of saintly motherhood I am, I showed all of my children the oyster in my tissue. Nicholas recoiled in revulsion and screamed, “Throw it in the trash!” Lucas immediately turned green and said he was feeling nauseous. Sophie was completely unaffected and simply said. “Hmm.”

The throat pain and headache and swollen glands and post-nasal drip and hacking up oysters I had never consumed were all bad. However, the worst part, by far, was the fever. Or rather, the chills and the sweats that accompanied the 102 degree fever. I would spend hours lying in my bed covered up with a comforter, a quilt, an afghan (doubled over), another quilt, a double-layered fleece blanket, and one of my kids' sleeping bags zipped open. I would lay under the weight of all of those covers and shiver. I had goosebumps and could not lay still because my entire body was spasmodic with chills.

Worse than the chills, however, were the hot flashes. I would lay there for hours on end with no blanket in sight. Just sweating. Not moving. The ceiling fan on high. And perspiration would just pour off my body. It would drip off my face. Run down my chest. I would completely drench one shirt, only to put on another and soak it within a matter of minutes. My bedsheets were wet. My pillowcase was wet. I could eventually smell myself, too, which was disturbing to no end. Now, I normally pride myself on being a fairly hygienic person. To lay in bed in a puddle of your own sweat, smelling your own B.O., without the physical ability to get up and shower was nothing short of pure hell. On a positive note, however, I lost five pounds in three days. Five pounds of sweat.

After three solid days of laying in bed, I am finally feeling better this evening. I am certainly not 100%, but the fever has gone away and my head is pretty much ache-free. My throat is still popcorn kernelly, but I know that will eventually fade, as well. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. I am no longer praying for God to end my life merely to end my sweat. And finally, at the end of day three, I remembered ice cream. That ice cold creamy confection that soothes even the most kernelly of throats. I had a gigantic peanut butter milkshake for dinner while wrapped up in a snuggie watching Kissing Jessica Stein. And I didn't perspire a single drop.

The next time my kids get strep, I am moving out. Seriously. I may have to leave the state. I hear New Mexico is nice this time of year.

Halleluiah!

2011-11-08T14:50:00.000-06:00

Ruanita is feeling better today. Not exactly well—or even close to it—but better. Just in time to stop the oncoming swell of anarchy. Let me tell you, never in my life have I seen a more glorious sight than that of Ruanita standing upright and vertical. I felt like yelling “Halleluiah!” Suddenly, there was a song in my heart and prayers of Thanksgiving on my lips. The storm clouds have parted and the warming rays of the sun are shining down upon us.

Okay, I realize that all sounds a bit melodramatic. But it is 100% sincere. My household is completely dependent on Ruanita. I had to make a grocery run over the weekend. Without Ruanita to tell me what to buy, I am going to have to make another run today. We are out of all of the necessities I overlooked.

In addition to grocery lists, Ruanita knows where everything is in my house. We ran out of little Dixie cups in the bathroom over the weekend. Ummm…..no clue where they are kept. I knew we had some, but had no idea where they were stored. Laundry is piling up because, while I was happy to fork over the money for the super nice front-loading industrial strength washing machine, I have used it only once or twice. I would probably need to read the manual before I tried to wash clothes.

So, for the love of clean underwear, I will yell out another resounding Halleluiah!

Ruanita has risen from the dead! We are saved!

Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

A Photographic Essay on Uselessness

2011-11-07T19:58:00.016-06:00

I have come to the realization that I am pretty much useless around my house. Yea…I am a fairly decent mom. And a great taxi cab driver. And I can find a mean bargain at the grocery store. But when it comes to the day-to-day running of this household, I am as useless as a screen door on a submarine. Ruanita rules the roost. She is the queen of my castle. The heart of my family. The backbone of my household. And she has been deathly ill for three solid days. Bed-ridden. She’s been completely out of commission. And we are all paying the price.

Case in point:

This would never ever happen if Ruanita were at all coherent. Dishes simply aren’t left to soak in my sink. And really…these aren’t soaking anyway. They are just randomly stacked. Hanging out. This is the second batch. I caught Ruanita, in a fever-induced stupor, standing at the sink washing the first batch this morning. I had to firmly usher her back to bed. But here the dishes sit….

Last night's brownies. Not even covered, for the love of God! And that steak knife sitting there—is that an invitation to an emergency room visit or what?!?

The plan for the weekend was to rake the leaves in the yard. Now, I am capable of raking leaves, though it is probably my least favorite chore in the world. When Ruanita fell ill, I could have raked the lawn without her. Surprised her with one less chore she had to do. But….the leaves remain. A tangible symbol of my pitiful don’t-give-a-shitness. What can I say? I suck.

In my defense, my mother bought the cheesy popcorn. I am not a fan of it. However, I obviously have not rid my house of it either. Were Ruanita vertical and in her right mind, these would have been tossed out by now. And there would not be dirty cups sitting on the counter. Nor would there empty soda bottles. As a side note, the circa 1999 cell phone belongs to Ruanita. Not only is she an exceptional housekeeper, she is a frugal head of household. Her motto is, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Honey, that cell phone may not be broke, but it breaks me heart every time I see it.

Who do you think reminds the boys to flush the toilet? I’ll give you a hint. Her name does not start with an S.

I am not really a believer in making beds. Actually, that is not true. I love a made bed. As a matter of fact, I enjoy staying in fancy hotels for the sole purpose of climbing into a freshly made bed. So I believe in made beds. I just don’t understand quite how they apply to me. It probably comes as no surprise to you that Ruanita usually makes the kids’ beds. Quite obviously, as you can tell by this photo of my hoarder son’s bed, it has not been made since Ruanita fell ill three days ago.

Yes, I remembered to get the mail out of the mailbox today. I even looked through it. I ripped up the credit card offers and other junk mail with my personal information on it—as Ruanita has so diligently taught me to do. Then I left it all laying on the living room end table. Yea….Ruanita would have totally picked that up by now.

A random baby wipe. Not sure where this came from or who last used it. It is certainly used. And it is sitting on my living room floor where said user discarded it—lying in wait for my dog to swallow it and choke. See, not even the dog is safe when Ruanita is incapacitated!

Lucas' lunch box. Still laying on the table where he dropped it when he came home from school. He’s lucky he got lunch at all today. I did a fairly decent job of feeding everyone this morning. I got everyone dressed. I made sure they were all wearing shoes and their homework was in their backpacks. As I was ushering them out the door, I heard Ruanita rattling around in the kitchen. Thinking she was looking for the cold medicine that was on the microwave, I was surprised to see her walk into the living room with Lucas’ lunchbox in hand. “Oh, shit! I forgot his lunch. Let me make it real quick.” With a quivering voice and a shaky hand, Ruanita handed him his lunch box, fully prepared. Even with a fever of 102.7, she did not forget that her child needed to eat. She was even thoughtful enough to wrap up a brownie for him…to make Monday a little brighter. My children would certainly starve if they had to depend on me!

My poor, depressed dog has not been walked in three days. My suckage does not differentiate between man and beast. I let them all down. Waaaaay down.

Ummm…yea….after all the housework I did not do today, I simply didn’t have the stamina to cook dinner.

Sadly, not a single one of these pictures were staged. In my defense, I was working from home today. I had computer issues that frustrated the hell out of me and five conference calls I had to dial in to. That’s my story, at least. And I’m sticking to it.

We need Ruanita to get better. For the well-being of the entire house (not to mention for sanity’s and sanitation’s sake), we need her to be well again.

Please, baby. Get better.

Paranoia

2011-11-05T20:18:00.004-05:00

First Lucas contracted it. Then Nicholas was deathly ill for days. Then Sophie. And now....it got Ruanita. With a temperature of almost 103, I took Ruanita to Urgent Care this evening. A quick swab of her throat confirmed our fears. Strep. It is spreading like wildfire through my house. I am the only hold-out. The lone survivor. The last woman standing.

Paranoia is beginning to set in. As I type this, I am slathering my entire body with Purell. I am also online searching for an antibacterial bubble I can move into. There has to be something on eBay. Or Craigslist. If nothing else, I bet I can find a do-it-yourself panic room. Or maybe just an industrial strength surgical mask. Something. Anything. Tonight, I refuse to brush my teeth. My toothbrush sits precariously close to Ruanita's toothbrush in the holder. Bacteria could easily jump from her bristles to mine. Tooth decay or fever and vomiting? I would choose rotten teeth any day. I am thinking about sleeping on the couch tonight. I don't want to risk breathing in air Ruanita has exhaled. She snores. As loud as she snores, there has to be some saliva escaping her mouth. Spewing into the air. Germ-infused droplets of phlegm floating in the atmosphere in search of healthy nostrils to inhabit. I am considering a Lysol bath this evening. It can't hurt, right?

I do not want to get sick. I can't get sick. I don't have the time. I don't have the energy. I don't have the sick days.

Oh, shit. I just realized Ruanita was using my laptop earlier today. Touching these very keys.

Uh....gotta go.....

What if?

2011-11-05T07:22:00.006-05:00

I have found myself in recent weeks—amidst feeling like I am being pulled in every direction—wondering what my life would be like if I had never had children. Amidst an outbreak of strep throat and homework hell and hectic schedules, I have found myself wondering silently if it is really worth it. How would my life had been different if I didn't have the three little creatures who occupy my space and my mind at all times? Quieter, certainly. But better? Happier? I am not sure. In an attempt to sort out these feelings that are not unusual, but moderately disturbing, I have been pondering the “what ifs” of life. I have been trying to recall what life was like before children. Let me tell you, it's not easy to remember a life before children. What did I do with my time? What was I interested in? What was I good at? What would I have missed had I not had children? In an attempt to remember, I've compiled a list. A compendium of things that I never would have done had I not had children. It goes a little something like this.

Before I had children, I never...

Touched another person's booger. Found rocks in my coat pockets. Suffered from insomnia. Collected human teeth in a box. Wished time would literally stand still. Woke up to the warm sensation of pee on my leg. Had another human being know what my heart sounds like from the inside. Questioned every decision I made. Had a topless (the kids, not me) dance party in my living room. Made—or had the desire to make—homemade crayons. Knew the correct pronunciation of Pachycephalosaurus. Knew that I carried a gene for cystic fibrosis. Shared my chewing gum. Caught vomit in my hands. Baked cupcakes with orange icing. Loved someone enough that the thought of losing them stole the breath from my body. Memorized all of the dialogue from every Pixar movie ever made. Took a rectal temperature. Felt a strangely compelling desire for religion and answers to the meaning of life. Feared leukemia. And asthma. And Downs Syndrome. And autism. And meningitis. And scarlet fever. And Lyme disease. And weird allergic reactions to mosquito bites. Allowed glitter in my house. Bought life insurance. Ordered photo Christmas cards. Ate Go-gurt. Stuck my hand in a suspiciously bulging diaper to “check.” Went to bed at 8:00. Woke up at 5:00. Shared my bed with four people and a dog. Walked in on someone trying to put a snorkel on his penis. Bought multicolored sprinkles by the pound. Was struck speechless. Paid a babysitter $40 to go out to a $20 kid-free dinner. Came home early from a date. Scooped poop out of a bathtub. Had a fridge full of Amoxicillin. Found myself humming the theme song to Phineas and Ferb in inappropriate places. Stepped foot into the bacterial cesspool that is the Mcdonalds playland. Marveled at the utter coolness of a worm. And a frog. And a spider. Carried around little Dora underwear in my purse...just in case. Sat perfectly still for hours on end so as not to wake the tiny person asleep on my chest. Chose a quiet night in over a loud night out. Wet myself when I laughed. Drank coffee by the boatload. Understood how my mother could possible love me when she screeched at me until she was hoarse. Obsessed about what another person ate or did not eat. Used, or ever thought I would use, the television as a babysitter. Possessed firsthand knowledge that sleep deprivation is eerily similar to the after-effects of drinking two bottles of wine. Kissed an angel.

Yea...my life is certainly different today than it was pre-children. Life is hectic. Fast. Busy. Loud. Crowded. Messy. But you know what? It's also better. Richer. Fuller. Lovelier. Livelier. Sillier. Happier.

What can I say? I am a mom. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

A Pink-Tinged Rant

2011-11-04T15:21:00.004-05:00

May I rant for a moment? As you know, my twins are in kindergarten. Kindergarten, as a rule, is a fun place to be. One of the fun things they are doing this year is having two weeks of “color days.” Each day is assigned a color and the kids spend that day talking about that color, reading books about that color, exploring things that are that color, etc. You get the point. Of course, in addition to color activities, the kids are asked to wear that color to school on the assigned day. We’ve done red and green and blue and purple and orange. We did black on the Friday before Halloween. All have gone well…until this week. Well, that’s not entirely true.

Nicholas missed purple day. When I went to set out his clothes the night before purple day I realized, to my great chagrin, that he did not own anything purple. I looked through all of his drawers and his closet. I looked through his summer clothes from August that were boxed up and put away. I looked through Lucas’ old clothes that might be big, but acceptable, on Nicholas. Nothing. I did not find a single article of clothing that contained any hint of purple at all. Since it was already bedtime the night before purple day, we decided that Nicholas simply would not participate in the clothing portion of purple day. He was not at all affected by this news. When I sadly told him of his fate, he responded with a smile and a quick, “OK.” I, however, was devastated. My darling little boy was missing out on purple day. What kind of mother was I? We survived. However, I was not happy.

This week, we ran headfirst into pink day. PINK day. I am a firm believer that little boys can wear pink. Actually, grown men can wear pink, too. And they all look nice in it. Nicholas even received a pink vacuum cleaner from Santa one year, his very favorite present that Christmas. So imagine my disgust when I—a self-avowed progressive, modern mama—discovered that my son did not own a single pink article of clothing. We had survived purple day, but it was a hellish experience. Granted, it was only hellish for me, but I certainly had no intention of reliving the horror. So I did what any good mother would do.

I went to Target.

As anyone who reads this blog knows, Target is my Nirvana. My Garden of Eden. My Happy Place. Generally speaking, I love Target with a devotion that is both weird and probably unhealthy. But this week, the love of my life disappointed me. I looked through every article of clothing in the toddler boys’ section. I looked through every article of clothing in the big boys’ section. I even looked through every article of clothing in the men’s section (which is really ridiculous considering that Nicholas weighs 30 pounds soaking wet). I did not find a single piece of clothing—not one shirt, pair of pants, hat, scarf, or sock—that included any shade of pink anywhere on it. In my defense, I was not even being a purist. I was not dead-set on carnation pink. I would have settled for rose. Or salmon. Or mauve. Or fuscia. Hell, I would have been happy with light red. But I found nothing. Nothing even remotely pink.

I briefly tried looking in the little girls’ section of the store for a simple t-shirt in a hue of pink that could be considered even moderately masculine. Unfortunately, that was a dead end. Everything in the little girls’ section was adorned with sequins and hearts and roses and kittens and ruffles. There were no simple t-shirts. There was nothing a self-respecting five-year-old boy (or a 39-year-old lesbian, for that matter) would ever consider wearing.

So I went home angry. Irritated that Target—my Target—would not sell pink clothes for little boys. Why is pink such a taboo color for boys? Is it because boys who wear pink are gay? Queer? Homos? It amazes me that a little boy who is a mere five years old—a baby, for God’s sake—cannot like the color pink without raising eyebrows. Cannot wear pink without incurring unwanted attention. Nicholas used to love pink. He loved his pink vacuum cleaner with all of his tiny little heart. He wore a pink polo shirt at his first birthday party. He was my little pink prince. Then something changed. His brother started school. His brother learned that pink is a “girly” color. He told Nicholas that real boys don’t like pink. “Real” boys? As opposed to fake boys? Nicholas internalized this lesson. These days, he tells me that he doesn’t like pink. He doesn’t want to drink out of a pink cup. He doesn’t want to eat out of a pink bowl. He doesn’t want to wear pink clothes.

And apparently, he has nothing to worry about because his mama can’t buy him pink clothes anyway.

Grrrrrr.

Healthy Living

2011-11-04T14:27:00.003-05:00

It’s been a very long time since I’ve written in my blog. Well, actually not that long. It seems like an entirety, however, to someone who was writing multiple blog entries a day at one point. This working stuff sure interferes with my ability to ramble incessantly about my life. Instead of rambling about life, I am now out living my life which, in all honesty, hasn’t been nearly as exciting. I have discovered that I greatly prefer sitting at home writing about things to getting out and doing them. Does this make me lazy? Perhaps. Does this make me pathetic? Probably. Does this make me about fifty pounds overweight? Most certainly.

Speaking of my weight, the place where I work now places a great amount of emphasis on healthy living. There is a “Cooking Light” menu in the cafeteria. There is a walking trail that circles the building and parking lot. There is also a walking path inside the building that has been defined and measured so people can walk a definitive mile on their breaks. There are ping-pong table set up in the halls. One must duck and weave and hop when walking by them in the afternoon, lest you be pinged in the head by an errant ping-pong ball. Or worse…tripped and made to look like a fool sprawled across the floor for all to see. There is also a foosball table near the cafeteria, though I don’t know if I would consider foosball an athletic pursuit.

In addition to the walking paths and ping-pong tables, there is a fitness center and locker rooms in the building. There are classes people are encouraged to take during or after their work hours. Zumba. Yoga. Pilates. All of the trendy classes are offered. There is a room you can hang out in with a Wii and—I think—an X-Box for playing video games….preferably of the active nature. There are numerous bicycles you can "check out" if you feel the need to take a ride around the booming metropolis of Golden Valley, Minnesota. There are even treadmills with docking stations for our laptops. We can carry our laptops down to the treadmill area and actually do our work while walking on a treadmill. Now that’s dedication!

Have I taken advantage of any of these healthy living incentives? Ummmm….no. As a matter of fact, the most exercise I get most days is strolling past the ping-pongers around 2:00 every afternoon on my way to the little in-house convenient store to buy a bag of Hot Tamales.

Will I take advantage of these healthy living incentives in the future? Perhaps. Maybe one day. One of my coworkers has invited me numerous times to attend her Monday and Friday afternoon Zumba class. I have declined, but one day I may just surprise us both and join her. Stranger things have happened.

I did miss signing up for the free massages today. Now that is a healthy incentive that I could definitely embrace.

I Love My Dog

2011-10-29T07:27:00.005-05:00

I love my dog. I love that animal more than I thought I'd ever be capable of loving a critter. Despite having only lived in my house for a few months, I have already come to the conclusion that she is canine perfection incarnate. Yea, she has repeatedly chewed the eyeballs off of Sophie's favorite stuffed animal. And yes, she (accidentally, I am convinced) chased down and killed a cute, fuzzy little bunny in my back yard. And, despite numerous pleas to stop FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, she can't seem to stay away from the garbage can. But these actions are just a dog being a dog. They simply endear her to me more (with the exception of the dead bunny I had to dispose of...that was just plain morbid). I thought I would take a few moments on this fine morning to expound on the reasons why I love my dog.

I love that she is a wiggle-butt boxer. I love that she, without any provocation, assumes the pillow position every morning for Nicky to lay on her and watch cartoons. I love that she follows me from room to room with utter devotion. I love that she scratches on the bathroom door when I am trying to pee in peace...because she misses me, of course. I love that she positions herself in front of me as my protector and growls at strangers she envisions as threats...even when it only my brother-in-law who is about as scary as chocolate covered marshmallow. I love when we play fetch in the house and she gets so excited by the chase that she forgets the kitchen floor is slick linoleum and slides head-first into the dishwasher. Repeatedly. I love that she has accepted our decision, for our own peace and sanity, to buy her a doggy bed and kick her out of our bed. I also love that she patiently waits until we both fall asleep and THEN quietly and stealthily sneaks into our bed and snuggles up to my butt. I love those chilly weekend afternoons when I am exhausted and climb the stairs with Stella in tow. I love when she jumps in bed with me for a little nappy...and we spoon. Is that too much? Is it weird to spoon with your dog? We don't think so. I love her boxer grunts and snorts. I love that she snores louder than Ruanita...okay, in all honestly, that's not so much an "I love" as an "I tolerate." I love that my sister Jennifer can't stand my dog, but Stella is convinced to win her over. I love that Stella jumps up on the couch and snuggles Jennifer every time she comes over, and I secretly love that Jennifer goes home smelling like a dog. I love the way she patiently allows my kids to bathe and dry her in our bath tub. I love that she is a morning person...er...dog. I love that she wakes up all happy and wiggly-butted. I love that she feels everyone in the family needs to get up together in and the morning and, therefore, jumps up on my mother's bedroom door at 6:00am and flings in open to wish her a happy day. Every morning. I love that she is happy. And I love that she makes everyone in my family happy with her sweet, gentle, silly ways.

I love my dog.

An Excerpt from the "What the Hell?!" Files

2011-10-26T19:11:00.008-05:00

Some parents amaze me. In general, I think I am a pretty decent mom. That is not to say that my children will not end up in therapy one day, but I am fairly confident—at least as of today—that they will not end up in jail. I try to be an engaged parent. A loving parent. A consistent parent. I don't always succeed, but I try. It is hard some days. There are days when I want to scream, “Get the hell away from me and stop calling me mom!” Instead, I bite my tongue and spend a precious hour of my short life searching through crates of too-small and too-large clothing in search of a purple shirt for my son. It is official that Nicholas does not own a single article of purple clothing that he can don for “Purple Day” tomorrow at school. I offered him his sister's lavender socks with the ruffle trim to wear, but he passed. Oh, well.

Now what was I talking about? Oh yea....parents who amaze me. Today, Sophie brought home a card from school. A business card. Her little BFF at school, Zoe with an E (not to be confused with Zoey with a Y who is not Sophie's BFF), gave her the card. Weird. A five-year-old carrying around a business card? I assumed she had stolen one of her mom's or dad's cards, but I was wrong. Zoe with an E gave Sophie her very own business card. Yep, that's right. Zoe has business cards for the purpose of arranging playdates. It was a cute card. Adorned with giraffes. It had Zoe's name at the top and her father's name, home phone, cell phone, and email listed below. It was cute. And convenient, I suppose. I can simply email Zoe with an E's dad to arrange a playdate for Sophie and her BFF. I was sincerely impressed. And a tiny bit jealous.

At first.

The more I thought about it, however, the more I began to wonder what kind of parent has the time to make playdate business cards for their kindergartner. Seriously? Who are these people? Where do they live? I scarcely have time to bathe myself some days. And, admittedly, I have been known to skip the shower altogether (as I did yesterday). My children are teetering on the edge of malnutrition, as a body can't live on hot dogs and Go-gurt alone. My basement playroom looks as though a tornado swept through it. Yes, a “tornado” analogy is cliché, but entirely appropriate considering the sheer magnitude of Legos littering the floor. They had to have blown over from Wisconsin. I wonder aloud where my cheap plastic lidded cups go, but I really know. My kids are growing their own penicillin in my basement. I refuse to go down there for fear of inhaling curdled milk spores and developing an incurable disease. Does curdled milk emit spores? Probably not, but one can never be too careful.

Zoe with an E has to be an only child. That's the only explanation I can come up with. There is no way her dad—I am not sure if she has a mom, as she is not listed on Zoe's business card—could possibly have time to create business cards if he were pulling siblings off one another all day. If he were constantly yelling, “Stop licking your brothers feet!” then he most certainly would not have the time nor mental fortitude to design cute little giraffe-adorned business cards. Yea...Zoe with an E must be an only child.

Or maybe her father is a creepy, sociopathic schizoid with control issues and a weird giraffe fetish?

You just never know about people.

Living the Dream

2011-10-25T20:24:00.007-05:00

Getting up in the morning is hard. Just plain hard. 5:30 comes entirely too early in the morning. The dog is nestled in my crotch and Ruanita has her arm around my waist. I simply can't find the resolve to untangle myself and climb out of bed. So I lay there. I skip the shower. When I finally get up, I lean over the tub and wash my hair instead. I have oily hair. I can skip bathing, but the oil slick on my head has to be washed daily. I probably could have taken a shower in the amount of time it takes to wash my hair, but it feels quicker this way. I apply an extra layer of lime verbena Body Butter. Just in case. I stop at Bruegger's on my way to work and pick up bagels for my team. I tell them I am thanking them for being so welcoming my first two weeks on the job. In reality, I am bribing them to continue being nice to me as I bombard them with half a million questions a day. I am not above buying affection. I drink too much coffee. And forget to eat breakfast. Despite buying two dozen bagels, I forget to eat. By 10:00am, I feel as though my skin in crawling with ants. Or worse...centipedes. Caffeine is creepy in high doses. I should have given a little more thought to the polyester pants I wore to work today. All day long, I hear swish, swish, swish. I feel as though I am being followed. At some point in the day, I find myself humming...The wipers on the bus go swish, swish, swish. My right trouser sock will not stay up. Only the right one. It drives me insane. It falls into a huge heap around my ankle. When I cross my legs, the unsightly hair covering them is exposed. Grrrr. Perhaps I should shave. Of course, if I can't find the time to bathe, shaving certainly isn't going to happen. I spend the day in meetings. Trainings. Preparing for an ISO audit. Reviewing appeal cases. My grammar Nazi ways are going to be my undoing. Missing commas drive me mad. Run-on sentences irk me to no end. I leave at 3:45. Calling it a day. I almost get rear-ended by a semi on my way home as a distracted driver runs a red light to turn right in front of me. My bag--and the laptop in it--go flying into the floorboard. Luckily, I got my new laptop bag yesterday. And it is highly padded. I make it home just in time for the daily 5pm hysteria. What is it about 5:00 that makes my children act like crackheads on a three-day bender? Are they tired at 5:00? Hungry? Yea...me too, but you don't see me running from room to room screaming like a banshee. Though I admit, I am tempted. I cook dinner while Ruanita does "First in Math" online with Lucas. As hour of online math games. My idea of hell on Earth. Dinner is turkey burgers and roasted potatoes. I eat. Ruanita eats. The kids move food around on their plates as they haggle with me about precisely how many bites they need to eat before they can be excused. Then it's homework time. Lucas complains. He "hates" homework. I do, too...though I don't tell him that. I scratch my head and wrack my brain to come up with an answer to "3 triangles is a trapezoid. 6 triangles is a...what?" Ummm...okay. A parallelogram, of course. I am a 39 years old professional woman. I consider myself somewhat intelligent and moderately literate. And I am completely dumbfounded by third grade homework. Tomorrow is "blue day" in the twins' kindergarten class. I spend half an hour rummaging in junk drawers and toy boxes in search of a couple of blue items for the kids to glue to their blue poster. Eventually, we settled on a Smurf figurine from a long-ago-eaten Happy Meal and a tube of "Peeps" chapstick. From Easter, perhaps? I set out clothes for the kids for school tomorrow. Blue clothes, of course. Then its time for our nightly tooth-brushing struggle. Sophie is vehemently opposed to brushing her teeth. Why? No clue. Perhaps...no, really, I have no clue. We put on pajamas. Supervise as the kids (slowly and with a great deal of grumbling) pick up the Legos that had been poured all over the boys' bedroom floor. Then all five of us--and the dog--squeeze onto the couch for story time. I read as the kids jostle around and complain about who is touching their foot or breathing in their ear. Finally, bedtime is upon us. The kids sloooooowwwwly trudge toward their beds. They are slower than a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter. We tuck in the little monsters. Kiss them. Hug them. Tell them that we love them to the moon and back. Then we tell them that we do not want to see their faces again until morning. They do not heed our warning and get out of their beds numerous times. I crash into the chair in the living room. Ruanita falls onto the couch. I commence writing this lackluster blog entry as Ruanita begins to snore. I should go to bed. I need the sleep. But honestly, I am enjoying the peace and quiet. Going to bed will only hasten the morn. And tomorrow...I have to do it all over again.

Yep, I'm living the dream.

A Self-Involved Blog

2011-10-23T15:17:00.002-05:00

I am incapable of writing these days. Stories that used to flow out of me are simply not there anymore. It's been a tough two weeks at my new job. Not that the job is incredibly tough. It's just a lot of information to learn and, being a bit of a perfectionist, I do not do well with the new new job “learning curve.” I want to know everything. I want to be an expert. Right now. So I have been cramming. Trying to retain every bit of information I am given. As a result, there is little room left in my tiny brain for creative thinking. So writing has been difficult, at best. Impossible, at worst.

Since I am not really capable of putting together a story right now, I thought I would regale you with one of my lazy lists. You know...the lists I create when I am not in the mood to write but fear that you will all go find a better blog to read if I don't post something. So...here it is. Another lazy list. This time, it is not only a lazy list, it is a self-involved list. This is a list of things that you may not know about....ME! That's right. Not only am I uncreative, I am also self-involved. Feel free to go find a more interesting blog to read. I won't hold it against you. I promise. In the meantime, below is a list of factoids about little old me that you, my loyal (I hope) readers may not know. Maybe you can relate? Maybe not. Here goes.....

If I ever had to run for my life, I would probably die. I love that my family doesn't camp. I spend way too much time on Pinterest. I always tip 20% and I judge people by how they treat waiters and waitresses. When I am home alone, every noise I hear is a a serial killer. Target is my happy place. When I was a kid, I was convinced that Barbara Mandrell put me up for adoption and was going to come get me and take me home to Nashville one day. I'm still waiting. I love my family more than anything on this Earth. People think that I am quiet because I am shy, but really I have been judging them from afar and have determined that they are all crazier than shit. Christmas is my favorite day (actually, my favorite month) of the year. I love nothing more than Christmas cards, Christmas trees, Christmas decorations, Christmas carols, Christmas treats, and Christmas presents. What I love the most about my home is who I share it with. Given the option, I could easily spend an entire day doing nothing more than converting oxygen to carbon dioxide. I am entirely too competitive for my own good. It is the thing about me that drives Ruanita the craziest. I would be willing to have another baby if Ruanita was up for it. Baking is my therapy. I am an optimist at heart. I don't really care all that much for chocolate, but could eat my weight in potato chips. I am a total nerd. I could watch Nova for hours on end. I am a grammar Nazi. I wish my life were a musical. I love musicals. I believe Diet Pepsi is humankind's greatest creation. I don't have an athletic bone in my body, but I love, love, love college basketball. I am extremely proud of my southern roots, despite never wanting to live there ever again. On the rare occasion (like right now) when my daughter falls asleep on me, I will sit still for hours just listening to her breathe. I think entirely too much. I believe that good manners are not optional. I believe everything happens for a reason. Perhaps this is naïve and simplistic thinking, but I believe it anyway. The Sound of Music is my favorite movie of all time. I am not really a religious person, but I recite Catholic prayers over and over again when I can't fall asleep at night. I am kind of a hotel snob. I can no longer eat the food I grew up on. My 39-year-old intestinal tract can not handle my mother's fried chicken and fried cornbread and fried potatoes. I don't like seafood. It all tastes too....um....fishy. Yoga gives me a headache. I buy my children clothes at Goodwill. Despite being 100% lesbian, I like to watch mens' rugby. I am a morning person. I have a hard time staying awake after 9:00pm. I used to consider myself a pretty good writer. Now, I think you would all agree, it's debatable.

An Exercise in Letting Go--Part Two

2011-10-21T16:52:00.004-05:00

My mother is in the kitchen cooking dinner. Sophie is helping her. I am sitting in the living room fighting the urge to go in there and "supervise." Ruanita is sitting on the living room floor wrapping my nephew's birthday presents. Tomorrow is Sullivan's second birthday party. Ruanita and the kids went to Target today while I was at work and bought his presents. Normally, I buy all present. I wrap all presents. I cook dinner. But not today. I am actively practicing my new mantra.

Let it go.

If I were wrapping those presents, they would be in boxes. There would be right angles. Lots of right angles. The paper would be neatly creased. The stripes on the wrapping paper would line up perfectly. The bows would be centered. Ruanita says, "It's for a two-year-old. He's just going to rip it." She's right. Of course she's right. Sullivan will not care in the least what the wrapping looks like. But I do.

Let it go.

My mom is letting Sophie crack eggs. I never let Sophie crack eggs. As I type this, she cracks one right onto the kitchen floor where the dog quickly attempts to lick it up. That's why I never let Sophie crack the eggs.

Let it go.

Ruanita did a wonderful job of picking out Sully's presents. And my mom raised four children--she can most certainly cook a dinner. It's actually nice to NOT have to cook dinner for once. So why do I feel so conflicted? Why do I feel like I am losing my place in this house? My place in this world. Ruanita bought presents. Ruanita wrapped presents.

I went to work.

Let it go.....

A Mouth-Breathing Moron

2011-10-20T19:07:00.001-05:00

I have a head cold. One of those colds where you can't breathe through your nose, thereby making impossible to chew politely and breathe at the same time. I've become a mouth breather—neither attractive nor conducive to eating my weight in chocolate. And I feel as though I have swallowed a handful of razor blades. Thick mucous has formed a river running down the back of my throat. And I've just started coughing. All in all, not a fun state of being.

Today, my brain finally reached the point of complete informational overload. After a week and a half of information cramming at my new job, I reached a tipping point today. Perhaps it was the head cold. Or maybe the lack of sleep I have been experiencing due to the head cold. Or perhaps the ludicrous amounts of coffee I have been drinking to compensate for my lack of sleep due to the head cold. Whatever the reason, my brain shut down today. I could not remember a single thing I had learned in my multiple trainings at work. I suddenly had no idea how to do anything. I could barely form a coherent sentence. I simply stared into space blankly and smiled idiotically. I couldn't even write. I had to compose a letter today—a template letter, even—and I completely blanked. Normally, I am a total grammar Nazi. Misplaced commas and misused semicolons drive me absolutely mad. Today, I actually typed a letter with grammatical errors in it. Me?! The grammar Nazi?! Grammatical errors?! I felt like a total moron. A mouth-breathing, snot-spewing, coffee-guzzling, blankly-staring, stupidly-smiling moron. You know how some people do yoga or meditate in an attempt to clear their minds? To cease thinking? To become a blank slate? Well, I was exactly that today. My mind was completely blank. And frankly, it's not all it's cracked up to be. I greatly prefer having intelligent thoughts and intelligible conversations. Blank gazes and stupid smiles are a little disconcerting.

I think I need a good night's sleep. I am hopeful that tomorrow will be a better day. I am drugging myself with nighttime cold medicine and I hope to sleep the sleep of the highly medicated tonight. Tomorrow, either my mind will be clearer or I will have fallen into an antihistamine-induced coma. Either way, it'll be Friday. At least I will have that going for me.

TGIF.

An Exercise In Letting Go

2011-10-17T21:16:00.004-05:00

This week has been an exercise in letting go. I knew I would be busy when I started back to work full-time. I expected to be tired. I expected to have to deal with spending less time with my kids. Less time with Ruanita. I didn't, however, anticipate that I would have to be letting go of so much.

Twice in the last week, my children have needed to go to the doctor. Lucas had strep. Sophie had a urinary tract infection. Since the time my children were born, I have been the “doctor” mom. I have always been the one to take them to the doctor when they were sick. Or needed immunizations. Or needed their well-child visits. Or needed to see a therapist. Or were puking up their guts and oozing snot in colors that aren't found in nature. I scheduled all appointments. I attended all appointments. Sometimes Ruanita was there, too. Other times she wasn't. For the first time since they were born, I missed a doctor appointment this week. Two doctor appointments, actually.

It's hard to let go of some things. It's not that Ruanita is incapable. She is perfectly capable of taking our kids to the doctor. I trust her implicitly. Though I did make her take a hand-written note to Sophie's appointment today. I am not a control freak. I simply had specific things I wanted the doctor to know. Yes, that may have been a bit much, but it's so difficult to let go.

And it's not just the doctor appointments. Ruanita is folding clothes now. And she doesn't fold them like I have always folded them. Socks do not look the same. They are these odd, shapeless bundles of cotton that border on obscene-looking. My socks are showing up in Lucas' drawers. And she rearranged Lucas' drawers. Rearranged! Without my prior knowledge. She just casually mentioned one day that she moved Lucas' socks and underwear to his bottom drawer. What?! Bottom drawer?! Is she five cans short of a six-pack? Two tacos short of a combination platter? What is she thinking rearranging the system I have had in place for years. I am at work two days and all hell breaks loose! Armageddon has arrived at my house!

And this week, she is taking Nicholas to get his hair cut. Did I mention that I have always been the “haircut”mom, as well? I wonder if I should send a hand-written note to Kids' Hair? Maybe a pictograph? A visual aid of some sort?

We want it all. We want the career. We want the children. We want the blissfully happy home life. I have it all. I really do. I simply need to learn to let go a bit. I can't control everything. I can't be the “doctor” mom and the “clothes” mom and the “haircut” mom forever. But I want to be. I don't want to let go. I don't want to forfeit the reins.

But I must learn to let go.

Breathe.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Let go.......

Day Two

2011-10-11T20:18:00.002-05:00

My second day at work went well. It's been a long time since I've worked eight hours in a day and I am learning some valuable lessons.

#1: Work is exhausting. Eight hours at work, come home, cook diner, cuddle the kids, baths, bedtime stories, tuck them in, crash. Repeat. That leaves little time for blogging, Facebooking, and generally keeping on top of my social networking. My priorities are all out of whack.

#2: Do not, and I repeat, do not wear a brand spanking new bra to work on your first day of work. I could practically hear the girls groaning by the time I got home. I took my bra off at home and the sigh of relief that escaped my lips was audible all over South Minneapolis.

#3: In a similar vein, do not wear a brand spanking new pair of shoes to work on your second day. Today, the bra was better, but the blisters on both my little toes are not fun at all. I have no idea what shoes I am going to wear to work tomorrow. The thought of putting on anything other than flip-flops with these blisters is enough to make me cry. I doubt my raggedy old Teva flip-flops would be considered business appropriate footwear.

#4: I should have just announced at the "Welcome Shannon" potluck on the first day that I was married to a woman. I should have just stood up and said, "Yo peeps, I am gay." By not announcing it, everyone on the team assumes I am straight. And I have been asked numerous times about my husband. I always manage to be caught off guard by the question--yea, I am slow--and I end up inadvertantly humming and hawing before finally spitting out that my partner is a woman. Come out to new coworker. Rinse. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

#5: If it has a modem, a hard drive, or a keyboard, it is going to hate me. Seriously. Mapping my drives? Umm....what? Mapping my printers? Uhhh....yea. Setting up remote access on my laptop so I can work from home? Huh? I am not computer illiterate. I know my way around a desktop. That being said, however, computers tend to hate me as a general rule. Nothing works as it should. Nothing installs as it should. I have just enough knowledge to be dangerous, but not nearly enough knowledge to be effective. *Sigh*

So that is my first two days in a nutshell. My eyes are crossing and my head is spinning. I despise the feeling of not knowing what I am doing. I assume I will one day figure it all out, but that day certainly can't come quickly enough as far as I am concerned.

Tomorrow is day three. Stay tuned.

Day One

2011-10-10T20:12:00.004-05:00

Today was my first day of work at my new job. It went well. Better than I anticipated. My supervisor emailed me last week telling me to skip breakfast this morning because the team was planning a "Welcome Shannon" breakfast potluck. Immediately upon reading that email, I thought "oh, shit." Being a bit of an introvert, that sounded exactly like my idea of an excruciating hell on Earth. It's not that I dislike people. Generally speaking, that is. It's just that I don't always feel comfortable around people I do not know. Individually, I am fine. However, a group of people I do not know is nothing short of terrifying to me. I imagined myself standing before them with armpit stains and sweat dripping off my forehead while I tried to remember even the most basic grammatical rules of the English language. A sudoriferous (look it up) babbling idiot. So I wasn't exactly looking forward to meeting everyone in a large group setting. While eating. Around a conference room table. With all eyes on me. On my way to work this morning, my sister texted me to wish me luck and to ask me if I had a speech prepared for my potluck. Bitch. As if I was not nervous enough.

Surprisingly, however, I survived. The people on the team were extremely warm and welcoming. I did feel a bit like all eyes were on me, but I managed not to be a blubbering idiot. At least I think so. The people on the team might tell you otherwise. The potluck was actually pleasant. My new coworkers are funny and engaging. I thoroughly enjoyed meeting them.

But I am glad it's over. Introductions have been made. First impressions are done. Now I have to go back tomorrow and see how many names I can remember. Michelle? Lindsey? Sara? Ummm...David?

I am SO not good with names.

And the Oscar goes to...

2011-10-06T18:29:00.004-05:00

Our kitty cat is no more. Actually, that's not true. She still inhabits the land of the living. But she no longer inhabits my house. We decided on Tuesday that she had healed sufficiently from her run-in with our boxer to take a little trip to the Humane Society. They interviewed me and examined her. After a 45-minute visit, they deemed her to be adoptable, but stipulated she go to a home with no dogs and no children under the age of eight. I happily left her there with the understanding that, once deemed adoptable, they would keep her until she found a home. There was no time limit on a pet considered adoptable.

Ruanita and I decided prior to taking Molly to the Humane Society—we assumed that she would be considered too aggressive for adoption and would ultimately be euthanized—that we would lie to our children about her demise. When she was thankfully not put to sleep, we decided to stick with the lie we had put together regardless. I am not above lying to my children. I have no qualms whatsoever about misleading them, particularly when it is for their own good or when it keeps the peace in my household.

As Ruanita and the twins headed off to pick Lucas up from school, I put Molly into her carrier and loaded her into the car. We told the children that I was taking her back to the vet for a check-up. When I came home cat-less, we (or rather, I) explained that the vet had suggested that Molly was not safe in our home. I told the children that the vet was concerned that Molly was in danger of being killed the next time she had a run-in with the dog. I made it appear that the vet suggested getting rid of Molly and that it was not our idea. It was not our fault. I told them that I left her with the vet and the vet was going to find her the perfect home. The kids bought it hook, line, and sinker. That is not to say that the whole scene was not hideously painful.

My children cried. Actually, they wailed. All three of them. The sounds coming out of them were nothing short of tortuous. Lucas was truly sad. He sobbed like a baby. Sophie, I suspect, was simply enjoying the drama of repeatedly wailing, “She's gone.....I'll never see her again....never! Nev! Er! ” Nicholas did not shed a tear. That is not to say that he did not wail with the rest of then. He laid on the couch. Closed his eyes. Scrunched up his face. And he howled. Occasionally, I would catch him peeking out of the corner of his eye to make sure he had a captive audience. Then he would yammer even louder. The whole scene went on longer than I am certain it would have if one of their own mothers had passed away. It bordered on ludicrous. But Ruanita and I were the ever-patient parents. We wiped away tears (except for Nicholas, of course) and we rubbed backs and we petted heads. We whispered, “there...there” and “we'll miss her too” and “she's in a better place now.” We warped into full-on grief counselor mode. It was really quite phenomenal.

The acting skills inherent in this family are nothing short of amazing. Lucas was the only honest one at our little pow-wow. He was the only one who was truly sad. The rest of us were simply acting. And they were Oscar-worthy performances all around. Sophie acted like she was being psychologically tortured in a foreign internment camp of some sort. Nicholas acted like he was not a sociopath who had to fake an emotional attachment to the cat. Ruanita acted like she was not thanking the Lord above that the unnaturally gargantuan clumps of hair that fell off the cat would no longer be clogging up her vacuum cleaner. And I acted like I did not feel a swell of maternal pride for having successfully lied to my offspring. I really think we should take it on the road. Von Trapp family-style. The Pierce-Ralph Family Players. What do you think?

You would think...

2011-10-03T18:27:00.005-05:00

You would think that I would have more free time to write since I have not worked in two weeks. You would think I would be posting two or three blog entries every day. You would think, being home with my children all day every day, that I would have numerous entertaining (and mildly disturbing) stories to share. You would think I would have nothing but free time to ponder the mysteries of the universe on this little old blog.

You would be wrong.

Let me tell, being unemployed is hard work. Between Dr. Phil and Ellen and The Talk, I barely have time to think. Between going out to lunch every day and shopping for new work clothes and buying Christmas presents online, I am exhausted. And don't even get me started on my new Nook Color. Angry Birds and Doodle Jump and Bubble Burst take hours and hours of practice to master. It's all quite time-consuming.

I promise to write more soon when I have less free time.

Really. I promise. This morning, I am just too busy watching The Today Show and wracking my brain trying to come up with an exciting lunch destination.

Oh yea...I am sucking at Weight Watchers, too.

Life will be back to normal as of Monday and so will this blog. Stay tuned.

Peeing in a Cup

2011-09-30T08:04:00.005-05:00

I am a woman. I am happy being a woman. Despite the whole menstrual cycle and cramps and bloating and childbirth thing, I can still confidently say that I am thrilled to have been born a woman. Despite the glass ceiling and sexism and sharing a gender with Michelle Bachmann, I am still happy I am a women. Seldom do I wish I was man. Actually, almost never do I wish I had been born a man. Never, that is, with one small exception. Drug tests. When I am spread eagle precariously balanced on a toilet with a cup in my hand trying desperately to navigate my stream into the cup rather than all over my hand, then—and only then—do I wish I had been born a man. Men are custom-built for peeing in a cup. Their nozzles are designed for that exact purpose—to get liquid into a small vessel. My lady parts, on the other hand, are spewers. I haven't spent years perfecting my aim as men have. I, and women the world over, are really at an unfair disadvantage when it comes to urine collection.

So why the urine talk? I had to go in to get a drug test for my new job this week. I naively thought it would be a quick in and out experience. I made my way to Edina to the lab, only to find a tiny waiting room crammed full with about twenty-five people also waiting to pee in a cup. It's amazing the diversity of the human experience you will encounter in a waiting-to-pee waiting room. All walks of life are represented. Every nationality. Every race. From the impeccably-dressed African American man to my right to the freckle-faced teenager across from me who texted the entire time she was there to the construction worker who was there with his manager—who, by the way, had no qualms about announcing loudly that his worker was there for a blood alcohol level. We were all there for a singular purpose. To pee.

I was surprised when I only had to wait thirty minutes before my name as called. I expected it to be much longer from the looks of the waiting room. I was taken back to a room where I was asked to lock up my purse and wash my hands. I chose my own pee cup that the attendant—I'm not really sure what the term is for the pee collector—opened for me. I was then taken to the bathroom where the attendant put a tablet in the toilet to turn the water bright blue. I was informed I could put toilet paper in the toilet but, under no circumstances, could I flush. I felt like a druggie. A suspected felon.

The attendant left me to my task and I attempted my awkward and uncomfortable balancing act. Nothing happened. I sat there. Nothing happened. I sat there longer than I suspect is normal, thereby perpetuating my guilty felon feeling. I couldn't do it. Mere droplets landed on my hand—my hand I had been informed I was not allowed to wash until the urine had been measured and packaged for delivery. I had performance anxiety. Rather, my bladder had a bad case of performance anxiety. I simply cannot pee on demand. In my defense, I have a tiny urethra. Twice in my life—once as a child and once as an adult—I have had to have a balloon procedure performed to widen my urethra. That's probably too much information. Sorry. But considering that my urethra is one of the only “tiny” parts of my body, I am proud of it. I will sing to the mountaintops about my tiny urethra. I may have a big ass, but I have a slender and sexy urethra. But I digress. Suffice it to say that peeing on demand is not one of my strong suits.

The attendant informed me that I would have to wait thirty minutes before trying again. I took the walk of shame back to the waiting room and was pointed in the direction of the water cooler. I was informed to drink 4-5 cups of water and wait. So I did just that. I waited. I drank. I watched the young couple to the left of me kiss and flirt and giggle and nuzzle noses. For God's sake—this is a pee room, not a hotel room! I listened to the obviously drunk construction worker telling his boss he hadn't had a sip. I watched as new people joined our happy little group as everyone else was called back only to emerge a few minutes later and leave. I was obviously the only one working on my second try. And I drank. I drank five cups full of icy cold water.

Finally, thirty minutes had passed and I got a second shot at it. We went through the same routine. Lock purse up. Wash hands. Pick a cup. Blue dye in toilet. Shut the door. The attendant needed me to fill the cup to the 45 mark. 45 milliliters? 45 cc? Isn't a milliliter and a cc the same thing? I don't know. I just know I needed to hit the line marked 45. The second time, I filled it to a paltry 40. Then my bladder panicked. It went into hiding. It had nothing left to give me.

A second embarrassing time, I was walked to the waiting room. This time, I was informed to wait 45 minutes. And to drink. More water. I felt as though I was going to float away. I was informed that if I left the waiting room, it would be considered a refusal of the drug test. So I hung out with my drinking friends. As I was drinking the water and enjoying the pitying glances of my peeing cohorts, I looked down and noticed that my fingers were blue. Apparently, during my last balancing act on the toilet, my fingers had come in contact with the blue dye in the toilet. So there I sat, looking like a disgraced Smurf chugging water like I was at a keg party. Not my finest moment.

Eventually, I did pee. On the third try. As a matter of fact, after a total of nine cups of water, I peed enough to fill four cups. And my urine was crystal clear. Like the finest bottled spring water. After two solid hours at the lab, I was finally free to leave. Free at last. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, I was free at last.

Moral of the story: Fight your urge to be jealous of me. A slender, sexy urethra is not all it's cracked up to be.

Magic Shell and a Dirty Mind

2011-09-26T11:05:00.003-05:00

Last night for dessert, my kids had vanilla ice cream and Magic Shell. Remember Magic Shell? That uber-cool concoction of chocolate sauce and crazy chemical conjury? Last night may very well be the last time my children get Magic Shell. At least until they are eighteen years old and can purchase their own bottle. Have you ever had the experience of eating Magic Shell with a group of kids? Let me tell you, that stuff should have a warning label. Or at minimum, a rating. NC-17, perhaps.

For the most part, I do not have a dirty mind. I am a fairly unsophisticated person. A simpleton, even. My mind does not immediately shift into the gutter at the mere mention of innocent words that could possibly be construed as vulgar. Weenie? I assume you are talking about hot dogs. Bush? You're talking shrubs, right. Shag? Oh, you're getting new carpet. I prefer Berber to shag any day. Dick? Van Dyke? Hump? Where did you see a camel? Are we going to the zoo?

You get my point. I am what people refer to as “slow on the uptake.” I don't always “get” dirty jokes right away. I like to credit my good Catholic upbringing for my general naivete when it comes to vulgarity. I played the organ at church for God's sake! No, not that kind of organ.

Last night, despite my relatively innocent mind, I was “getting” everything my kids said. I was hearing it loud and clear. I am even a bit embarrassed to be typing it here. But, in the interest of perpetuating the good ole' classic dirty joke, I will share it with you. The conversation around my dinner table last night went a little something like this:

Me: So how do you guys like the Magic Shell? It's pretty cool, huh? Yummy?
Sophie: Yes, it's yummy.
Nicholas: I like it.
Lucas: Mine is getting hard already.
Sophie: (whining) Mine isn't getting hard yet.
Lucas: If you blow on it, it'll get hard faster.
Sophie: Really? I'll try it. Pphhphphffft.
Nicholas: Mommy, mine is still soft. Can you make it hard for me?
Sophie: Mine is getting a little hard now. Try blowing it, Nicky. It works.
Lucas: If you're just patient, yours will get hard, too.
Sophie: Can you feel mine and tell me if it is hard?
Nicholas: You're right. Mine is getting hard now.
Sophie: Oops. I dribbled.
Lucas: It's okay. Just lick it up.
Sophie: It gets soft again when you lick it. Cool!
Nicholas: Mmmm.....this is the best thing ever.
Lucas: Ooops....I got a little on your shirt. Sorry 'bout that.

There you have it. My children's first—and likely last—Magic Shell experience.

Never again will we speak of this. Okay?

Scooby Snacks

2011-09-26T09:41:00.008-05:00

We are on week three of kindergarten and I think my son has a girlfriend. Or at least a little admirer. He doesn't know her name. He doesn't know the names of most of the kids in his class. He tells me she has brown skin and black hair. She sits at his table. The blue table. And she is nice to him. She is "very nice" to him.

Last week, his little admirer informed him that she is coming to his house. Uninvited. Unannounced. She plans on just showing up one day. Apparently, they were having a spirited conversation over snacks on the playground. Nicholas told this little girl that he has pretzels at his house. And Scooby snacks. She informed him, with her hand on her hips no doubt, “I've never tasted Scooby snacks. I am going to come to your house and try them.” Nicholas, confronted by this bold and brazen feminine creature he has never experienced before, simply nodded in agreement with his mouth hanging open, as men the world over have learned to do. His first lesson in the fine art of women.

Today, Ruanita is volunteering is Sophie and Nicholas' classroom. I sent her to school with an assignment. A mission, if you will. Check out this forward little hussy and report back posthaste.

A mommy needn't be lax about little girls wanting to taste her baby's Scooby snacks.

The Ickiness Factor

2011-09-20T07:36:00.003-05:00

This morning, I allowed a spider free reign over my home. Shhh...don't tell my family.

Those of you who read this blog regularly may know that I am not a fan of bugs. We have an equitable distribution of critter duties in my house. I handle anything furry. Ruanita handles anything buggy. We share bird duties. Over the course of our many, many years together, we have run into mice, numerous bugs, and the occasional dead bird that needs disposing. I am, in no uncertain terms, NOT in charge of bugs.

This morning, as I was getting out of the shower, I noticed something moving on the bathroom wall. I didn't have my glasses on, so I couldn't make out the shape. Only that something was moving. Since it was 6:00 in the morning and I had consumed neither liquor nor illicit drugs (yet), I assumed that it was not the bathroom tile that was moving. I panicked momentarily, and then got my wits about me enough to grab my glasses. Standing buck naked and dripping wet in the bathroom, I peered closely at the moving object. It was a spider. A rather large spider. Not tarantula large, but definitely big enough to make me uncomfortable. I do not like bugs. (For those nit-picky people among you, I realize that a spider is not technically a “bug.” However, I am not a fan of arachnids either. Nor arthropods. Nor crustaceans. Nor fossilized trilobites, for that matter. Even gorgeous brightly-colored butterflies simply freak me out. For ease of purpose, I will refer to all of these classifications in this blog as “nasty bugs.”)

Ruanita was upstairs sleeping. I debated calling her down to perform her wifely bug-killing duties. However, upon further consideration, I concluded that she would not appreciate being roused from bed a half hour before she had to get up. Instead, I grabbed a huge wad of toilet paper. I stood with the toilet paper dangling above the spider—its shadow confusing the creepy creature. I couldn't do it. I simply do not have it in me to dispose of nasty bugs. There is something about the crunching noise they make when you squish them. Those damn exoskeletons possess an ickiness factor that I simply can't get past. I have been known, when feeling bold, to grab a bug and cradle it gently in tissue until I make my way to the toilet to toss it in and quickly flush it away. I don't know if drowning a bug is more humane than crushing it. The ickiness factor is certainly diminished in a flushing homicide.

This morning, though I was standing right next to the toilet, I couldn't find the resolve within myself to squish or flush the spider. It was early. I was naked. I was feeling neither bold nor heroic. I pictured the spider—did I mention that it was pretty dang large?—finding its way out of the tissue in the millisecond it took me to toss it in the toilet. I imagined it climbing up my arm. Onto my shoulder. Into my hair. I imagined myself screaming like a little girl and running—naked and dripping wet—out my front door in a fit of pure terror.

So I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed my clothes, rushed into Sophie's room where my baby girl was sleeping, closed the door for fear that the spider was chasing me, and got dressed in the pitch blackness of the early morn. I left the spider. I surrendered my bathroom to the tiny creature.

As I type this—safely ensconced in my cubicle at work—I imagine the spider is making itself at home in my house. Perhaps inviting friends over for a party. Maybe getting its freak on. Having numerous tiny spider babies in the nooks and crannies of my happy home. I imagine an invasion in imminent. All because I did not have the nerve to crush a spider.

I may just have to move.

Television Throw-Down

2011-09-18T19:39:00.003-05:00

It's time for a throw-down. The time has come to wrestle the television back from Ruanita. Since she's not been working, I have pretty much given her complete dominion over the television. It was summer. Nothing was on. Most evenings, I would sit and piddle around on my laptop while she performed her nightly whiplash channel-changing ritual—eventually settling on something freakish or, at minimum, oddly disturbing.

That is all about to change. Television is back. The new fall line-ups are beginning this week and I intend to watch some television. I need to do some research. I know Modern Family has its one-hour premier on Wednesday. Beyond that, having not watched television all summer—I have no idea when my shows come on. Gray's Anatomy. When does that come on again? Glee? I like The Big Bang Theory and Raising Hope. The Good Wife? I love that show. I know that is going to be on Sundays this season. I have never watched a single entire episode of Dancing with the Stars, but I feel the need to support my homeboy Chaz this season. Only because he is getting shit from ignorant people. I love to support an underdog. And there are a couple of completely new shows that look interesting. I have to watch Persons of Interest because it has the guy from LOST in it—only my very favorite show ever. And that new show Once Upon a Time looks promising.

I think I need to make a graph. A flow chart, perhaps. I need to figure out exactly how and in what sequence I plan to spend my fall and winter comatose in front of the television screen. I need to wrestle the remote from Ruanita's icy death grip and change the channel. No longer is she going to be allowed to fill my living room with the freaky prison soundbites of Beyond Scared Straight. I am taking control.

Yes, those are fighting words.

Distracted Story About My Hair & Other Important News

2011-09-17T09:38:00.003-05:00

My mind is distracted this morning. So much so, in fact, that I put body wash on my hair this morning instead of shampoo. When I realized my mistake I rinsed out the body wash and then put shampoo on my head. Apparently, however, I did not rinse well enough because I ended up with an unprecedented amount of lather on my head. I had nothing short of a giant white afro. After repeated rinses—a lengthy rinsing—my hair felt like straw. So then I did something I never do. I put conditioner on my hair. My hair is stringy and oily most of the time. So much so that I must wash it every single day to control the oil. And I never condition because that only intensifies the stringiness and oiliness. But this morning I did. So I am sitting at work looking like I just stepped out of the shower. I could probably fry up some chicken with all of the oil I have on my head. Nice.

Okay, so that was a long ramble about my hair. See....distracted. So why is my mind so distracted today? I received an email from my previous co-worker—the one who turned me onto the job I recently interviewed for. She said that her managers “loved” me and that I would be receiving a call from their recruiter next week with an offer. She actually used the work “love.” She didn't say “tolerated” or “resigned themselves to.” No, she said her managers loved me. So apparently, to my utter dismay, I am being offered the job. I simply have to wait to hear from the recruiter to negotiate salary and all the of logistics. I haven't officially accepted the position as of yet.

Needless to say, I am excited. After six years of scheduling furnace maintenance appointments on a part-time basis, I am excited to be starting a new chapter in a new job that actually utilizes my brain. The job is with Optum, a division of United Health Group. The position is the lead position on a team of sixteen people, working in the appeal department for a medical insurance company. I worked for years in the insurance industry prior to having my twins. I have a lot of experience. It can get quite complicated, as insurance is a highly regulated industry. So it's challenging work, but work that I find rewarding and enjoyable.

My only concern is that I will be coming onto a team in the midst of a shake-up. The managers are making fairly large changes and I have been told that some people on the team may not make the cut. They are looking for “new blood' and “positive attitudes” to energize the team. To create a “power team” (their words, not mine). I have been warned that I—as a new person coming into a leadership position—will likely encounter a lot of distrust. At least initially. But I have also been told that I will have the full backing of the management. So....though I am incredibly excited and energized about the prospects, I am also a tiny bit weary of what I am stepping into. Change is tough, but necessary to be successful. So we shall see. All in all, I am thrilled and ready to get started on a new challenge. I am feeling thoroughly positive about the whole thing.

The best part of the new job? I get to go shopping. No longer am I going to be shlubbing off to work in the morning looking like a slob on the way to a tailgating party. No, I am going to look like a professional again. I actually have occasion to buy a suit again. Maybe two...or three of four.

Woo-hoo!

It keeps getting better and better...

2011-09-16T08:30:00.004-05:00

Remember my cat trauma? The evil cat who attacks the dog and refuses to back down? The cat who smacks my poor daughter out of the blue for no apparent reason? The cat who has been living for weeks in solitary confinement in our upstairs bedroom and office? The cat who can't be trusted not to be aggressive? We've been living a fairly peaceful existence lately while keeping the dog and cat separate. That all changed yesterday.

Ruanita called me at work in tears mid-morning. The dog had slipped past her into our upstairs office that is now solely the cat's domain. The cat, being the evil creature she is, immediately demonstrated her displeasure at the canine interruption. The cat attacked. The dog retaliated. After having endured numerous swats to the face and painful bites and scratches to the head over the past months, the dog no longer wants to play with the cat. Initially, she wanted to play. Now, she is out for blood. She has learned her lesson. The cat does not play. She is a serious aggressor and yesterday, the dog finally responded in like. When a six-pound cat and a forty-pound boxer get into a brawl, you can imagine who is going to be the likely loser.

Ruanita apparently screamed like a banshee and made several attempts to separate them. I am sure curse words permeated the air. A normal cat would have retreated behind the couch or up on the dresser or under the bed or into some other nook or cranny or high place where the dog could not reach her. My cat, however, is not a normal cat. She obviously does not grasp that she is out-sized and out-matched seven to one. She continued to attack.

Eventually, after several failed attempts, a lot of blood-shed, and a near nervous breakdown, Ruanita was able to separate the animals. When she called me in tears, we made the decision right then and there that the cat was gone. We can't live in fear of bloodshed in a house full of children. I told her that I would take the cat to the Humane Society and drop her off that very afternoon when I got home from work. Little did I know that you can't simply drop a pet off at the Humane Society anymore. You have to make an appointment to surrender your animal. There is a 45-minute long consultation in which your pet is examined and its adoptability is gauged. If it is determined your pet is adoptable, it will stay at the Humane Society until it is adopted. If it is determined that it is not adoptable (perhaps due to aggression issues?), you can take it back home with you or leave it there to be humanely euthanized. So I called and scheduled a surrender consultation for Saturday. We would just have to deal with the cat for two more days.

When I got home from work yesterday afternoon, I went upstairs to check on the cat. She was hiding behind the couch, still in an obvious state of distress. Upon examining her, I found that she had several open puncture wounds on her abdomen and was unable to bear weight on one of her legs. I immediately decided to take her to the emergency vet. No matter how evil she is, I don't want an animal to suffer for any time whatsoever.

As my vet did not have any available appointments, I drove to Eden Prairie to the nearest emergency vet. The cat was extremely sweet the entire way out there. She does not like the cat carrier, so I petted her through the wire door to try to calm her. She purred and rubbed against my hand the entire way there.

The vet immediately examined her and discussed options with me. I had secretly been hoping that she had internal injuries and would have to be put down. I know that is a horrible thing to hope for, but I truly believe she is not happy in her current situation. I know we are not happy with our current situation. And I doubt she will be a highly adoptable pet with her having shown extreme aggression toward other animals, and having bitten and scratched every member of my family on numerous occasions. So I thought the vet might be able to put an end to the situation for us.

No such luck. Molly's leg was not broken. She did have several deep puncture wounds. I discussed our situation in depth with the vet, who was extremely understanding. She explained that the concern with dog bites, as opposed to rather shallow cat bites, is possible crushing to internal organs. Molly was alert and active. By the time we got to the vet, she was bearing weight on her leg, though she did have a puncture wound to that leg. After a lengthy heart-wrenching discussions, we decided to do the minimal treatment for Molly and go from there, I didn't see the point in paying for exploratory surgery for a pet we did not plan on keeping.

$350 later, Molly was cleaned up, the areas around the puncture wounds were shaved, she received a couple of staples, and I was sent home with antibiotics, pain medication, and instructions to monitor her closely for any signs of complication (lethargy, refusal to eat, not urinating, etc). I drove home from Eden Prairie in rush hour traffic.

So...our appointment to surrender the cat on Saturday has been canceled. I can't exactly pawn off a traumatized, stapled, half-bald cat on the Humane Society. Talk about not adoptable! So until she fully recovers, she remains our pet. I have fallen into the role of her primary care-giver. Let me tell you, getting a syringe of medication into a pissed-off cat's mouth is no picnic! Two is even more fun. And her wounds, left open to ooze, are doing their job. Oozing all over the place. She is eating, though I have yet to see her drink or urinate.

I am not a heartless woman. Despite the bloodshed and trauma she has caused, I do feel incredibly bad for my cat. She can be sweet at times. I don't want her to suffer. I don't want her to be put to sleep. I am an animal lover at heart. I would like Molly to be adopted into a loving home. I am sure the perfect home is out there for her. One without other pets she can attack. Or small children. Or large children, for that matter. Really, a house without people might be the best option for her.

Until the time that a home is found, or at least until she is fully recovered and her hair grows back enough that we can put a positive spin on her for the Humane Society, she remains our pet. Our expensive, aggressive, borderline wicked pet.

Freaking lovely, huh?

The Wait

2011-09-15T09:47:00.002-05:00

Well, the hard part is over. My big interview is done. I think—I hope—I managed not to crash and burn. I was a nervous wreck beforehand. I won't go into the ugly details, but suffice it to say that my stomach was not happy with me. However, once I got in the building, I was perfectly calm. Strangely, I was not nervous at all. I actually enjoyed meeting the two managers I interviewed with and had a good time chatting with them. I am going to take the optimistic approach and say that this was a good thing. It was not a sign of naïve nonchalance. It was not a sign a cocky bravado. I truly felt at ease discussing my skills and abilities. Positivity is my new mantra.

So now I wait. I am not good at waiting. Like two-year-olds the world over, I prefer instant gratification. I would have been okay with being told yesterday, “Ummm.....you suck. We don't want you. Get out of our building.” At least then I would have my instant gratification. Instead, I was told, “You're a really excellent candidate for the position and we will be in touch soon.” So now...I wait.

Change is scary stuff, folks. But I am excited about the prospect. It is time for a shake-up. Time for a huge upheaval. Hopefully, this position—if I get it—will provide me with the earth-shaking change I am craving.

Stay tuned.

Happy New Year!

2011-09-13T07:37:00.006-05:00

Happy New Year!

No, I have not been smoking anything. Yes, I realize it is not January. However, parents the world over are well aware that the new year does not start on January 1st. Rather, a whole new years begins every September when we send our darling little ones off to school. A new school year presents a whole new world. A new opportunity. A new routine. A new pace. A new season. Most definitely a new year.

In honor of the new year, I am making some New Year's resolutions. It is time to transform myself into the woman I want to be. So, in the interest of full disclosure (and so you can all laugh and point and say "we told you so" when I inevitably crash and burn), I am going to share my resolutions here.

Resolution #1: I am going to lose weight. I realize this is cliche. Could I possibly find a more utterly predictable resolution? But here's the thing...I've gained 50 pounds in the last 18 months. 50 pounds! That's a child. A large dog. A hell of a lot of Doritos. As I am making major life changes, it is time to let go of that weight. I put it on in a state of stress and loneliness and chaos. I plan on taking it off in a state of calm and relaxation and peace.

Resolution #2: I am going to start flossing my teeth. I must admit to having less than stellar dental hygiene. I have been genetically blessed with good dentition that I need to protect. I brush my teeth, of course, but very rarely floss and I seldom go to the dentist. I still have my wisdom teeth and am terrified of being told they need to go. As we all have heard from Dr. Oz and Oprah and The Doctors on numerous occasions, gum disease has been linked to all sorts of crazy catastrophic illnesses such as heart disease. So time to start flossing those pearly whites.

Resolution #3: I am going to have faith in my abilities. Yesterday, I met casually with a previous coworker about a job she is interested in hiring me for. A full-time job. A grown-up job again. I will have an interview with her director later this week. After five and a half years of working part-time in a fairly dead-end job, it was strange for me to hear her gushing about my abilities. She thinks I would be the perfect person to work in a lead position on her team. She praised my writing skills, my organizational skills, my work ethic. It was refreshing to receive praise for my work (though it's been six years since we worked together), but it also felt strange to me. She has more faith in my capabilities than I do. I know that I am a capable person. I know that I have skills and talents that are useful. I need to start honoring those talents. Like Stuart Smalley before me, I need to tell myself, “I am good enough, I am smart enough, and doggone-it, people like me!”

Resolution #4: I am going to start slathering on the lotion. As we enter fall and the eventual deep freeze lurking right around the corner, it is time for me to stop looking like an alligator and start looking like a human again. Lotion is my friend. I need to remember that when I am rushing around in the morning in a state of tardy harried-ness. There is always time for moisturizing.

Resolution #5: I am going to try a new recipe every week. Since Ruanita has been home, we have been eating family dinner together at the table every night. I cook and Ruanita cleans. I am not a great cook. However, I have a small handful of signature dishes that I can cook well. But I anticipate that my family will quickly tire of chicken lasagna and potato soup. It's definitely time to expand my culinary skills. So, I intend to try one new recipe per week. Feel free to email me any suggestions.

Resolution #6: I intend to let go a bit. Everything is not within the realm of my control. Everything does not have to be neatly completed and tied up with a bow immediately. Life if often messy and that is part of the fun. I can live a life devoid of analness. It is okay. It is also okay to end this on resolution #6. Life will not end because I did not make my list of resolutions divisible by five. I hope.

Time to have a glass of champagne and toast the new (school) year! Oops...it's 7:42 in the morning. Perhaps I should have a mimosa instead? You know...vitamin C to start the day off right?

Hang-over...And Not the Fun Kind

2011-09-12T07:32:00.005-05:00

I think I had my first migraine headache last night.

I come from a long line of migraine sufferers. My mom has had migraines since she was a child. Both my sisters have them occasionally. Every one of my aunts and uncles have them. I am sure I have numerous cousins who have them. I am the sole hold-out. I had never had a migraine before prior to last night.

I've had headaches that I've said were migraines. They were merely sinus headaches or the occasional tension headache. Allergy headaches. More an annoyance than anything else. Certainly nothing debilitating. Last night was something altogether different.

I had had a bit of a sinus headache all day. Nothing major. As I was cooking dinner at about 5:00, my head began throbbing. Within a few minutes, I began feeling nauseous. I immediately went to lie down on the couch while Ruanita was bathing the kids. I tried a wet washcloth on my head. I tried an ice pack. I was convinced that if I could take enough Ibuprofen and lie on the couch long enough, it would go away. But it didn't go away. I tried lying in Sophie's bed for a few minutes. I wanted to have dinner with my family, so I did not want to go upstairs to bed.

Eventually, however, the headache won out. With a meatloaf in the oven and Ruanita left with the task of feeding the kids and getting them ready for bed, I headed upstairs to bed. The mere act of walking up the stairs made me have to rush to the toilet, certain that I was going to throw up my guts. However, since I have been doing Weight Watchers and had not eaten dinner yet, my stomach was completely empty at 6pm. There was nothing to come up. I gagged several times and then stumbled to my bed.

As I lay there, my head throbbed. You know that feeling when you accidentally hit your thumb with a hammer? It hurts, but there is also a throbbing/pulsing sensation. That is exactly how my head felt. The ceiling fan was on in my bedroom. Normally, I would not notice the fan at all. However, last night it seemed to be the loudest thing I had ever heard. Scratching, whining, grinding noise. I couldn't get out of bed to turn it off. So I lay there reciting Our Fathers and Hail Marys and Glory Bes (what I do when I can't sleep--a throw-back to my Catholic school upbringing).

Eventually I did fall asleep. When I did, I slept the sleep of the dead. I did not dream. I don't think I moved. I was comatose for almost twelve hours. I do not remember the last time I slept twelve hours straight. I was probably a teenager. Or maybe in college--though I remember pulling more all-nighters than sleeping jags.

Today, I stayed home from work. The bulk of my headache is gone, but I feel hung over. Exhausted, despite sleeping 12 hours. Achy. Completely hung over, minus the cotton-mouth sensation and all of the drunken revelry that usually proceeds a hang-over.

No fun.

Reminiscing

2011-09-08T07:52:00.008-05:00

So with my babies in kindergarten now, I am feeling a real sense of "empty nest" syndrome. Never mind that I am at work the entire time they are in school. And their smiling faces are waiting at the door for me when I get home. Never mind that, except for occasional homework assignment, there has been no real change in my routine since the children started school. It's the point of the matter. Intellectually, I know a page has been turned. A page that can never be turned back. My babies are no longer babies. They are children now. And it makes me sad.

As a result, I have found myself perusing old pictures of the kids lately. Pictures of crazier, louder, wilder, busier times. Lovely times. Here are a few of my favorites:

Big Red Balls

2011-09-06T19:40:00.003-05:00

My daughter is a better person than I am. As a matter of fact, she is a better human being than any of the other four people living in my house. Whereas the rest of us are willing to laugh at the suffering of other people, Sophie takes the high road. She walks the path of compassion.

Over the summer, my family has developed a tradition of watching “Wipe-Out” on Tuesday nights. For those of you unfamiliar with “Wipe-Out,” the premise goes a little something like this: Adults act ridiculous while trying to maneuver their way through an obstacle course intent on knocking them into the water below in the most embarrassing of fashions while commentators give them silly nicknames and make fun of them. It is riveting television at its best. Last night, one of the obstacles included giant vats of baby food, into which contestants fell head-first. Ha-ha!

Sounds like something kids would enjoy, right? Yes, my boys do enjoy it. But Ruanita and I are the one who hoot and holler the loudest. I think I actually snorted on more than one occasion last night. There is something inherently hilarious about adults being flipped upside down and twisted in the air while trying to jump across big red balls. It is nothing short of awesome.

While Ruanita, the boys and I are roaring with laughter at the poor contestants' misfortune, Sophie sits stoically looking at the television. Occasionally, she will glance over at us, studying us like lab rats. Trying to decipher what it is about this banal television show that we find entertaining. She does not smile. She does not laugh. Milk does not come streaming out of her nose as she tries to regain her composure. She is the picture of poise and dignity as the rest of us are laughing lunatics.

Apparently, Sophie did not inherit my lowbrow humor. She does not find the misfortune of others to be a laughing matter. She walks the path of good and light, whereas the rest of her family inhabits the land of darkness.

Come on...big red balls. It's funny stuff. Am I right?

Stairway to Hell

2011-09-04T16:59:00.008-05:00

If ever there was a weekend that proved to me exactly how out of shape I am, this weekend was the one. This weekend was an exercise in humility. And humiliation. I got bitch-slapped by reality. Needless to say, it was not fun.

On Sunday, Ruanita and I had the seemingly harmless idea to take the kids to Taylor's Falls. Taylor's Falls is about an hour or so away from the Cities on the St. Croix river. On our way, we decided to stop in Stillwater, an extremely cute little town also on the St. Croix river, for lunch. Ruanita had packed a picnic lunch and we found a nice spot on the ground near the Stillwater lift bridge and had a chilly picnic lunch. After lunch, the children had this bright idea to climb the stairs.

As you enter Stillwater, there is a set of old stairs that ascend up the side of a cliff and disappear into the trees above. We have passed these steps on numerous occasions. Never have I ever felt compelled to climb them. Never have I ever wondered what is at the top of them. However, I am not an eight-year-old boy. To an eight-year-old boy, steps that lead to a mystery destination in the sky are enchanting. An adventure. A mystery that must be solved. How in the world Ruanita and I were talked into climbing those steps completely mystifies me. But somehow, we were convinced that it was a good idea. Stupid kids.

The steps appeared to be about 100 (though I didn't count) concrete steps straight up the side of a cliff. I began strong, but faded quickly. The kids' excitement over what treasures were to be found at the top of the stairs was the only thing that kept my creaky old knees moving. As I neared the top of the stairs, I admit that the children's excitement was beginning to be contagious. I also found myself—between gasps for breath—wondering what we would encounter in the tree tops. You can imagine my disappointment when we found a quick turn, a small landing, and another 100 steps at the top of our climb.

At the halfway mark—the spot that I thought was the top of the staircase—there sat a bench. Ruanita and I unceremoniously collapsed on the bench. I was straining to get enough air into my lungs to supply my body with oxygen. As I took deep, frantic breaths, my lungs felt as though they were going to explode. I clutched my chest. My mind was screaming, This is the big one! You hear that, Elizabeth. I'm coming home to see you. (Yea, that was a Sanford and Son reference. Not only am I telling you how out of shape I am, I am also letting you know that I am old. Damn old.) The kids were anxious to keep going. I thought I was going to die. Literally. Die right there on the spot as my limp body plunged back down the staircase in the sky to land in a heap in the middle of downtown Stillwater. It would be quite dramatic.

Unfortunately for me, I did not die. My excruciatingly painful lungs miraculously continued to provide oxygen to my equally painful limbs. As I sat gasping for air, a group of people passed us on the stairs. No one in the group appeared to be younger than 65. And no one was even breathing heavily. What the hell?! With the spry geriatric group as my motivation, I stood and continued my trek up the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing and willing my less-than-stellar knees to please—for the love of God—do not fail me now.

Eventually, we made it to the top. Of course, my kids made it first. The minute they reached the top, I heard their cries of disappointment. There was nothing “cool” at the top of the stairs. There was nothing exciting. Certainly nothing worth nearly ending my life to see. The stairs emptied out into a neighborhood. A nice neighborhood, but just a neighborhood full of houses. With a bench at the top for me to collapse upon. And collapse, I most certainly did. There was a nice view of the St. Croix river from that vantage point, but my kids were completely unimpressed. And I was too busy warding off the grim reaper to enjoy the view.

Eventually, we made our way (slowly) back down the stairs. I briefly debated asking Ruanita if she would climb down and bring the car around up to pick me up, but thought better of it. I was already near death, so why not finish the job? End the misery. Unfortunately for me, the misery was only beginning.

After we descended the cliff and made our way back to our car which, mercifully, was parked pretty much right at the base of the stairs, we made our way to Taylor's Falls. For those of you that have never been, Taylor's Falls has a cool park made up of cliffs overlooking the St Croix. The cliffs are full of sink holes and cool geological formations. The kids absolutely loved it. I love Taylor's Falls, as well. However, by the time I got out of the car after making the 20-mile trek from Stillwater, my legs were complete jello. They barely held me up. It was nothing short of comical to watch me try to climb over rocks and cliffs with the kids. I did more sitting on my butt and scooting like a toddler than actual climbing. At one point, I was sitting on a large rock while Ruanita took the kids down some stairs into a particularly deep sink hole. I stood to look over the rail at them, and immediately fell back into a seated position. Like an old granny who needs a mechanical chair lift to get out of her moth-eaten recliner, I could not get my ass into a standing position. My knees buckled and I landed with an “oomph” right back on the hard rock. Nice.

Eventually, we left Taylor's Falls. On our way home, we stopped at the Franconia Sculpture Park and decided to walk around looking at the cool—and somewhat freakish—sculptures. Very cool place. It is basically a large field full of sculptures. More walking. Lots more walking.

This morning, I am back at work and barely able to move. A 38-year old woman should be able to climb stairs. And climb across rocks. And walk around a grassy field. Perhaps it is time to get into shape? Perhaps I should start an exercise regimen? Finally get the motor on my dead treadmill repaired and start walking again?

Or I could just stay home. Adventure is highly overrated.

On Being an Adult

2011-09-04T07:58:00.006-05:00

Being a grown-up sucks on many levels. From insignificant things like being required to pour apple juice for all three of my children in the morning before I am allowed to suck down my diet pepsi, to bigger things like pricing and comparing private insurance plans--adulthood sucks. Right now, I am in a state of transition. Adulthood is a pain in the rear end when things are going smooth and one has her life in order. However, when plans are up in the air, routine exists in a state of limbo, and responsibilities seem overwhelming, adulthood takes on a whole new realm of infernal hellishness.

Right now, I am job searching. Not fun. Not productive, either. I am also insurance shopping. With COBRA coverage being an absurd $1300+ a month, I am shopping for a private plan to cover my family for the year Ruanita plans on staying home to work on her licensure. Or at least until I get a full-time job with benefits. I worked for seven years in the medical insurance industry, and the options are still mind-boggling to me.

And on a slightly smaller scale, I am still wiping my son's butt--another "adult" activity I am not fond of. As I was sitting here typing this just now, I was summoned to the bathroom with Nicholas' sing-songy call of "I pooped and peed." When I told him that he knows quite well how to wipe his own butt now, he responded with, "I can wipe my butt at school, but I don't like to do it at home." Why? Simple. "It's not fun," he said.

That, my friends, says it all. Adulthood is not fun. Can I be five-years-old again? Please? Can someone bring me juice and wipe my butt and let me monopolize the television watching episode after mind-numbing episode of Hello Kitty's Fairytale Theater? Come on...at least Phineas and Ferb are entertaining! But Hello Kitty?

Ooph da!

The Beast

2011-09-02T08:09:00.004-05:00

Ruanita just called me in tears. Why? Sophie. My daughter. The little girl who is more like me than I care to admit. My little girl who is equal parts painfully shy and stubbornly beast-like. She reduced her other mother to tears already today.

Ruanita just dropped Sophie off for her third day of kindergarten. Day one was tough, but manageable. Day two was pretty hard for Ruanita. Day three was obviously nothing short of hell on Earth. Sophie refused to go into the classroom. She stood in the hall wailing. When Sophie gets scared, she gets defensive and downright hateful at time. She screamed that she was scared. That she didn't want to go in her classroom. That she didn't want her mommy to leave.

Sophie's kindergarten teacher came out into the hallway to ask Ruanita what she wanted her to do. Ruanita was at a loss. The teacher tried to coax Sophie into the classroom, to no avail. My stubborn daughter had dug in her heels. Though I was not there, I have no problem whatsoever envisioning the look on Sophie's face. Pure beastly defiance. There was no way she was willingly going to enter that classroom. Eventually, the teacher simply grabbed Sophie, picked her up, dragged her into the classroom, and told Ruanita to leave. It was at this point Ruanita called me in tears. “I could hear her as I walked away, Shannon,” she cried. “She was crying hysterically and yelling that she was scared. She was the only kid crying.”

I wish I was able to be there to take Sophie to school. Not that it would make much of a difference. I am sure my stubborn daughter would still refuse to enter the classroom. However, I tend to handle Sophie better than Ruanita does when she is upset. Ruanita has an extremely soft spot in her heart for our only daughter. She hates to see Sophie upset. Sophie's tears have a profound effect on her.

I, on the other hand, am much more heartless when it comes to Sophie. I can be mean when it is for her own good. I adore my daughter. I worship the ground that child walks on. However, I understand her on an intimate level. She is me. She is so much like I was as a child. I understand her motivations. I know how to handle her. Ruanita, being a therapist, tries to rationalize everything. She tries to reason with Sophie. She tries to explain situations. Frankly, she talks entirely too much. Her methods are ineffective because Sophie's will is stronger. Sophie's resolve is impenetrable. There is no “talking her into” something she does not want to do. There is no rational discussion. She is not easily manipulated like our boys are. She is pure raw emotion, and logic is no match.

Unfortunately, I am not able to be there when Ruanita drops Sophie off at school. I imagine Tuesday will be even worse after a long holiday weekend. Poor Ruanita. Poor, poor whipped Ruanita.

She hasn't got a chance in hell against the beast....

A Lazy Blogger's Update

2011-09-02T07:20:00.001-05:00

I find myself not feeling like writing lately. Perhaps it is the five-day weekend I am still recovering from. Or maybe that all three of my babies are in school now. Or perhaps it's the fact that I am fully involved in a search for a new job now. Whatever the reason, every time in the last week or so that I have sat down to write, I have come up with nothing. Nada. Zilch. I have plenty going on in my life to write about. As a matter of fact, I am in the midst of huge changes that should evoke some funny, or at least moderately embarrassing, stories to share. But here I sit with nothing to write.

Rather than staring at this page, wracking my brain to come up with something—anything—even remotely creative or entertaining, I am going to take the easy way out. Rather than stringing together words to make sentences and sentences to make paragraphs and paragraphs to make titillating narratives, I am simply going to use that age-old blogger's tool of laziness and creative inertia. I am going to make a list. A list of the highlights of my recent days. I apologize in advance.

1. Sophie did fairly well the first day of kindergarten. There were a few tears, but she managed to be somewhat brave. Day two was a different story altogether. Reality sank in and crocodile tears flowed. She clutched Ruanita's neck with eagle-like talons and refused to let go. Ruanita ended up hanging out in class for quite a while before Sophie finally settled and she was able to sneak out the door.

2. Nicholas does not need his mothers. He is a kindergarten rock star. On the first day, he clapped his hands enthusiastically and actually yelled “Weee!” when his teacher asked him to find his hook and hang up his backpack. He went straight to his desk and began looking at books. When Ruanita and I left the room, he didn't even making eye contact as he waved us out the door.

3. I am not sure about Lucas' teacher this year. We loved—LOVED—his second grade teacher. She was warm and enthusiastic and sweet and warm. Did I mention warm? His third grade teacher is cut from a different cloth. Of course, I am going by first impressions here. Snap judgments are the work of the devil, but I can't seem to help myself. Whereas his previous teacher was tall and, umm, voluptuous like yours truly, his third grade teacher is this tiny, mousy little thing. Not much taller than Lucas. With a pointy nose and beady little eyes. She looks fragile. Like a third grader could easily break her in half. She was nice enough, but she didn't ooze warmth. I didn't connect with her the way I did Mrs. Alman. It's early in the year, however. Lucas seems to like her well enough. We'll see how it all plays out.

4. I am need of a job. A full-time job. My first full-time job in almost six years. Though I was completely convinced that my current employer could absolutely not manage without me and would jump excitedly at the chance to have me as a full-time employee, things did not pan out as I had imagined. There is no room in this small company's budget for another full-time employee at this time. So.....I am tweaking my resume and sending out applications. We would be perfectly fine financially with Ruanita at home for a year were it not for insurance costs. We received a notice in the mail the other day about COBRA coverage to continue our current insurance though Ruanita's employer. $1300-something a month. I almost choked on my Diet Pepsi. That's nearly as much as our mortgage payment. So against my will and against everything that is decent and holy, I am going to have to get a job. A real job. A grown-up job. Anyone want to hire me?

5. Ruanita and I are doing better than I expected living together again seven days a week. I expected a fairly lengthy adjustment period. I expected some major arguments as we both encroached on one another's territories. Let's be honest—I expected full-on screaming throw-downs as we acclimated ourselves to seeing each other more often than simply on weekends. None of that has panned out. We have managed to adjust fairly smoothly. I love having her at home. The kids love having her at home. And I think she is finally letting her guard down a bit and allowing herself to enjoy being at home, as well. We eat dinner at the kitchen table as a family. We turn off the television in the afternoon and make the kids play as kids should. Video game time is more limited. We read stories before bed—all five of us and the dog crammed together on our living room sofa. It's been the picture of familial bliss. If I am being honest, it is freaking weird. But I am not going to over think it. No, I am not going to analyze it. Rather, I am going to laugh haughtily in the face of my natural instincts and just enjoy it.

My life is busy these days. And weird. Weird in a good way. But definitely still weird.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words...

2011-08-27T21:25:00.006-05:00

When You Least Expect It

2011-08-25T12:40:00.011-05:00

They always get you when you least expect it. When you are minding your own business, trudging through the day. After precious hours spent yelling and begging and lecturing your children, they can still astound you. They swoop in when you should feel nothing but disdain for them. When you are vulnerable and emotionally spent. After they have pushed you to the edge of sanity for the 854th time that day, they offer you a look or a word or a phrase that changes it all. In a matter of mere seconds, your frustration melts away and you are swept up in a deluge of awe and utter devotion. The emotion can be overwhelming. Yesterday, I experienced just such a moment.

Yesterday afternoon, I caught Lucas standing in the bathroom mirror preening and smiling at himself. We had just picked up his new glasses earlier that afternoon and he was obviously admiring his own "hotness". I walked into the bathroom to grab a comb to try to do something about his bed head prior to heading out to his 3rd grade orientation. I quickly ran the comb through his insanely thick mop of hair and started to walk out of the bathroom. As I walked by, he grabbed my arm and said, “Momma, stand beside me so I can see us both.” My initial instinct was to brush him off and tell him I was too busy to stand idly looking in the mirror with him. But something in his tone struck me, so I stood beside him.

I stood looking in the mirror as Lucas' reflection smiled back at me. My baby boy who was no longer a baby. My handsome young man who would soon enough be taller than me. Third grade. Is he really in third grade already? I looked at his big blue eyes. Eyes that did not belong to my side of the family. Dimples that lit up his face. His other mother's dimples. His strong chin and pale skin. His big ears. The ears that belonged to his uncle. His mother's "born-again" brother who wanted nothing to do with this child of lesbians. As I looked at his face, I saw none of my own family staring back at me. He was a genetic stranger.

I stood there pondering the mysteries of love and relationship. As I did, I had a flashback of bathing Lucas in the tiny house we lived in when he was a baby. Every time I would take him out of the bath tub, I would wrap him in a thick towel and hold him in front of the bathroom mirror. Lucas would giggle at his reflection as I bounced him up and down and told him what a pretty boy he was. "Momma's pretty boy," I would sing to him. I would cuddle him tightly as he fell asleep on my chest. Kiss his wispy blonde hair. Read to him book after book after book, trying to infuse into him a love of reading. A tiny grain—just an infinitesimal speck—of who I am. Willing him to be like me in some miniscule way. To be my baby boy.

While envisioning my sweet, flaxen-haired little baby, Lucas reached up and put his arm around my neck. I was startled back to the present. Lucas pulled my head down and leaned his forehead against my own. He smiled his huge dimpled grin. And he said, “We sure do look good together, don't we, momma?”

Yes, my baby boy. We look pretty damn amazing together.

My hip, cutie-patooty, hottie-boom-a-lottie son in his new Elvis Costello look-alike glasses...

2011-08-24T15:21:00.005-05:00

We're Old. Really, We Are.

2011-08-24T07:50:00.004-05:00

Okay all of you late-thirty-somethings out there, want to feel old? Not that we really need help these days to feel old. Our babies are starting school and gray hairs are popping out all over our heads and our bladders have become less than 100% dependable. There is no doubt in my mind, and I am sure in your minds, that we are getting old. However, I thought I'd provide a public service today and make certain you realized exactly HOW old you are. You know...the truth shall set you free and all that crap.

Each August since 1998. Beloit College has released the Beloit College Mindset List, providing a look at the cultural touchstones that shape the lives of students entering college this fall. This morning I happened upon the mindset list for the class of 2015. Today's college freshman was born in 1993. Seriously? 1993?? I graduated from college in 1994. Man, do I feel ancient this morning. Here are some of my favorites from this year's Beloit College Mindset List:

1. There has always been an Internet ramp onto the information highway. (Remember “mainframe” computers in college?)
2. Ferris Bueller and Sloane Peterson could be their parents. (This one just kills me—drives a dagger deep into my heart.)
3. States and Velcro parents have always been requiring that they wear their bike helmets. (I am now one of those Velcro parents. Ugh.)
4. They “swipe” cards, not merchandise.
5. “Don't touch that dial!”...what dial?
6. Amazon has never been just a river in South America.
7. Women have never been too old to have children.
8. We have never asked, and they never had to tell.
9. Life has always been like a box of chocolates.
10. “Yadda, yadda, yadda” has always come in handy to make long stories short.
11. Women have always been kissing women on television.
12. Faux Christmas trees have always outsold real ones.
13. Unlike their older siblings, they spent bedtime on their backs until they learned to roll over.
14. Music has always been available via free downloads.
15. Sears has never sold anything out of a Big Book that could also serve as a doorstop. (My sister and I used to sit for hours with the Sears Big Book circling everything we wanted. Not just toys either. We planned our entire future homes out of that book.)
16. While they've been playing outside, their parents have always worried about nasty new bugs borne by birds and mosquitoes.
17. They've always wanted to be like Shaq of Kobe...Michael who?
18. They've often broken up with significant others via texting, Facebook, or MySpace.
19. Frasier, Sam, Woody, and Rebecca have never Cheerfully frequented a bar in Boston during primetime.
20. Altar girls have never been a big deal. (Altar girls were a HUGE deal when I was a kid. I was in college before girls were allowed to be alter girls at my church.)
21. Andy Warhol is a museum in Pittsburgh.
22. PC has come to mean Personal Computer, not Political Correctness.
23. Few in the class know how to write in cursive. (This one makes me very sad.)
24. “Caramel macchiato” and “venti half-caf vanilla latte” have always been street corner lingo.
25. The Green Giant has always been Shrek, not the guy picking vegetables. (Ho, ho, ho...Green Giant.)
26. Fergie is a pop singer, not a princess.
27. They never twisted the coiled handset wire aimlessly around their wrists while chatting on the phone. (With the phone cord pulled as far as it would go from the kitchen to the living room recliner.)
28. Computers have never lacked a CD-ROM disk drive.
29. Czechoslovakia has never existed.
30. Second-hand smoke has always been an official carcinogen. (We should have all died of lung cancer by now.)

On a related note, I have a phone JUST like the one in the above picture hanging in my kitchen. I paid a small fortune for it from Pottery Barn because it was "retro." And now I don't even have a land line. Yep...that's what we are, folks. Retro.

She Wins Her Over!

2011-08-23T11:11:00.007-05:00

Stella finally did it. After weeks of enduring Ruanita's ambivalence toward her—her complaints about dirty paws and chewed up toys and shedding hair—she finally won Ruanita over in the wee hours of the morning today. I had begun to become concerned that I had inadvertently married a cat person as Ruanita complained about our dog being...well, a dog. Today, however her complaints turned to compliments and her sneers to kisses and hugs.

This morning, I reluctantly got out of bed at 5:30 to start getting ready for work. The house was silent and dark. I let the dog out to pee in the back yard and then sat in the chair in the living room to check my email quickly before hopping in the shower. Stella, my constant shadow in the morning, laid down on the couch near me. As I was sitting there in the dark—the only light was the downstairs bathroom light we keep on for the kids and the faint glow coming from my laptop—someone knocked on my front door. I instantly froze. It was still completely dark outside. Who would be knocking on my door at 5:30 in the morning? No one I know would knock on my door that early without calling first. And most of my family was in Kentucky this week, anyway. Whoever it was, they knocked lightly, as if not to wake anyone who might be sleeping. Had I still been upstairs, I would certainly not have heard the knocking. However, I did hear it. I was instantly terrified. There was no way in hell I was going to open the door to see who it was.

Stella also heard the knock. My puppy who was lounging peacefully on the couch immediately jumped up and stood at attention. She seem to instinctively understand that no one should be knocking on our door at 5:30 in the morning. She began to growl. I quickly stood up to get out of the living room. I didn't think the person at the door could see me, as we have leaded glass in our front door with an intricate pattern that makes it hard to see in or out. But I wasn't taking any chances. As soon as I stood, Stella jumped off the couch and positioned herself between me and the door. She began to bark. Loudly. Stella is a boxer and the sweetest little butt-wiggler you've ever seen, but as a boxer, she has a pretty loud, ferocious-sounding bark. If someone stormed through my front door, she would probably do nothing more than wag her stubby tail and smile her goofy doggie grin. But the person on the other side of the door did not need to know that.

I moved toward the hallway and sat down on the steps. Stella stayed in the living room and continued to bark. There was never another knock at the door. Eventually, I heard Ruanita began to yell, “Stella, shut up!” from the top of the stairs. She no doubt thought I was in the shower and Stella was barking at who-knows-what. I went upstairs, with Stella following me, and explained to Ruanita what was going on. I recounted how Stella had jumped to attention when the knock came and then placed herself between me and the door. She had most obviously scared off whoever was knocking at our door. Whoever it was and whatever their motive may have been. Ruanita came downstairs with me and sat guard—along with Stella—in the living room as I took my shower and prepared for work.

When I emerged from the bathroom, I found Ruanita sitting on the couch with Stella snuggled up against her. She was hugging and kissing on Stella and telling her repeatedly what a great guard dog she is. And it is true. Had she not been there barking her ferocious-sounding bark, who knows what might have happened. I can't imagine what the motive might have been for someone to knock lightly on my front door at 5:30 in the morning when the house and the street outside were completely dark. My guess, however, is that their motive was not exactly admirable.

Today I am thanking the heavens for my wonderful, smelly, messy, hair-shedding, toy-chewing, butt-wagging dog.

I love her so.

Day One: Kind Words

2011-08-23T08:04:00.004-05:00

So yesterday was day one of Ruanita's foray into stay-at-home motherhood. It was not all the peace, love, and sunshine I expected it to be. While in the car yesterday afternoon, following our unfortunate Open House incident, Ruanita asked me if I was was planning on paying attention while driving. I quickly responded by asking her if she was planning on being judgmental and bitchy all the time now. Oops!

In my defense, Ruanita has been told for thirteen long years that nothing annoys me more than her criticism of my driving. Particularly considering the fact that I drive everywhere we go because her aggressive driving style scares the entire family.

I suspect we are going to experience a short adjustment period while we learn to live together again seven days a week. We were able to laugh off the words we had yesterday. I suspect there will be more to come. However, despite petty arguments, it was nothing short of wonderful to have her home last night. I am looking forward to many more nights to come.

The Story of Two Detail-Oriented Dynamos

2011-08-22T20:09:00.005-05:00

Today was the first official day of Ruanita being a stay-at-home mom. I have been informed that I am not to joke about her joining the throngs of the unemployed because a stay-at-home mom is NOT unemployed. And apparently, I am NOT funny.

So tonight was the first official work day that Ruanita did not go to work. One would think that, with both of us at home at night, we would be an organized duo. That we would be be a lean, mean, coordinated team. A couple of detail-oriented dynamos. Two minds are better than one, right? Umm....theoretically, that should be the case. But this is Ruanita and me we are talking about here. Theory and reality do not always mesh where we are concerned.

This afternoon, we took the kids to Target to buy their school supplies. We forked over our nearly $100 for pencils and crayons and markers and Kleenex and hand sanitizer and paper plates and printer paper and Clorox wipes and hand soap and all the other necessities the school budget no longer covers. We then bagged them up neatly, with the intention of taking them to school with us this evening for the twins' kindergarten Open House.

All day we had been talking up the Open House to Sophie and Nicholas, who have been decidedly less than excited about the arrival of the new school year. You're going to meet your teacher. You're going to meet the kids who will be your new BFF's. You're going to get to see your classroom. Today is an exciting day! Open House was scheduled from 5:00 until 7:00 this evening. Ever early to a fault, we arrived at school at precisely 5:00pm on the dot, with the intention of getting in and getting out before the masses arrived. The kids' classroom door was shut, but the door was unlocked. We knocked and then peeked our heads in to say hello. The classroom was empty. We waited in the hall for a while, thinking maybe their teacher had stepped out for a soda break...or a cigarette...or a fifth of vodka. You know, whatever chemical comfort kindergarten teachers need to get through the day.

After about ten or fifteen minutes, we noticed that there was not another living soul in the building. We began to think that perhaps we were off on the time. Perhaps we had read wrong and the Open House did not start until 5:30. We decided to take the kids outside to play on the playground for a bit as we waited for other parents and kids to arrive.

It was hot. I began to sweat within seconds of settling myself on the uncomfortable metal bench overlooking the playground. The playground at the kids' school sits directly in the sunlight. Not an inch of shade to be found anywhere on the playground. After a few minutes, Ruanita and I decided it was more than we could handle and we dragged the kids, against their will, back into the air conditioned school.

As 5:30 rolled around, we were still the only human beings in the building. Hmmm...perhaps we made an error of some sort? Not having a smartphone (disclaimer: thinly veiled Christmas gift hint), I do not have 24-hour, portable access to the internet. So I could not check the school calendar online. We decided to drive home and check the time on the paperwork we received from the kids' school. I sat in the car with the kids as Ruanita ran in to grab the paperwork. Sure enough, we had made a mistake. Not only were we off on the time, but we had the date completely wrong. The kindergarten Open House was not at 5:00 today. It is at 6:00 tomorrow. How did we make a mistake like that? We had wasted forty minutes of our evening. The kids were actually dressed in presentable clothing. Their hair had been combed. Their teeth had been brushed. To the untrained eye, they looked like perfectly pleasant children. It is not often that our children are dressed to the nines, so we decided to take advantage. We did the only thing we could think of in that particular circumstance.

We went out for Mexican food.

The Dawning of a New Day

2011-08-19T18:21:00.004-05:00

This evening marks the end of an era. For six years Ruanita and I have worked opposite shifts. For six years, I have been alone with my children five nights a week. Alone with dinner time. Alone with bedtime. Alone with time outs and tantrums and skinned knees and kissed boo-boos. Alone with doctor appointments and dentist appointments and therapist appointments. Alone with the hell that is second grade homework. For six years, I have gone to bed alone five nights a week. Snuggling a dog or a cat or any of my children willing to fall asleep pressed up against me. I don't like to sleep alone.

For six years, Ruanita has woke up to an empty bed. For six years, I have been gone before my children wake. Ruanita has been alone with breakfast. Alone begging our beloved children to please, for the love of God, get dressed for school. Alone washing laundry and emptying the dishwasher and vacuuming the floors. Alone coming into a dark house at eleven o'clock in the evening, with nothing but the walls and a houseful of snoring people to share the joys and frustrations of her day. Falling asleep late into the night, only to get up early in the morning to do it all over again.

Tonight, a page is being turned. Tonight is Ruanita's last night at work. This evening in the very last Friday night I will spend alone with my three children. The last time I will order nasty Papa John's pizza in a desperate attempt to avoid cooking. The last time I will allow my children to stay up watching movies because, by Friday night, I simply do not possess the fortitude to wrestle with them over bed times.

Come tomorrow, Ruanita will enter the throngs of the happily unemployed. The few. The proud. The brave. It will be an interesting turn of events. Will we argue? Will we quickly tire of one another? Will we resent the other invading our turf? Interfering with our routine? Perhaps.

More likely, however, I think we will relish the simple act of being together as a family. Watching TV. Going for walks. No longer will weekends be reserved for the 7,346,124 chores we are unable to accomplish during the week when we are each de facto single parents. Weekends will be weekends again. Sitting down to eat dinner as a family will become our new norm. Bedtime stories and baths and homework—these will become a tag-team effort for the first time since our twins were born.

To say that I am excited to have Ruanita at home with me may just be the biggest understatement of all time. It's going to be a whole new world. A new adventure. This could get interesting.

Stay tuned.

My Son, The Retiree

2011-08-17T16:51:00.009-05:00

I adore my son Nicholas. That's a given, of course. Most mothers adore their children. I love his smile and his hugs and his kisses. He has the best giggle I have ever heard come out of any child. Any person, for that matter. I even adore his stubborn streak that runs deep and wide. Despite everything I truly love about him, there is one trait that bugs me to no end.

Why must my youngest son insist on dressing like a Boca Raton retiree?

Case in point:

And:

What the hell is with the socks?

Nicholas is a cute boy. Of course, I am a bit biased, I admit. But I think he could easily be a Gap Kids model. The blonde hair. The infinitely deep dimple in his right cheek. He is long and lean. Clothes hang on his frame perfectly. He has definite male model potential. Yes, I realize most mothers probably assume that their sons have male model potential. But, for argument's sake, let's just say that I am the only one who is correct in my assumption. Nicholas is the complete package.

Well...except for the socks. And the plaid shoes. And the shorts that are typically hiked up to his nipples.

Seriously, Nick?

From Babies to Kids

2011-08-16T07:48:00.006-05:00

It's official. My sweet, sweet, tiny little babies are no longer my sweet, sweet, tiny little babies. Granted, they are still sweet. But they are no longer babies. Yesterday my twinnies went to see their pediatrician for their five-year check-up, kindergarten health evaluation, and dreaded immunizations. I expected utter chaos. As a matter of fact, Ruanita took the day off work to go with me to the appointment. It was going to be a tag-team effort. I was ready for all hell to break loose.

The last time my children got shots, Sophie screamed so loudly that she could easily be heard across the river in Saint Paul. Not only did she scream during the shot. She screamed for a good fifteen minutes afterward. Her face became one big red splotch. She was gasping for air and clinging to me with sharp talons that pierced my skin and made me cry out in pain, as well. Getting her out of the building was an exercise in wild animal wrangling. It was hell on Earth, plain and simple.

This time, I was ready. I had Ruanita there as my muscle. Whereas I am weak and don't have it within me to physically hold my children down to inflict pain on them, Ruanita has no qualms about it. She is willing to put them in an unbreakable physical hold using her entire body weight to hold them still as their shots are administered. She is my muscle. Her will is as steely as they come. She gets the job done.

So I was ready for the imminent chaos. Sophie started the appointment completely uncooperative. I thought, This does not bode well for the upcoming events. She refused to get weighed unless I stood right beside her holding her hand. She refused to do her hearing test. Rather than raising her hand when she heard a beep as her brother so perfectly managed to do, she sat in my lap and whispered “mommy” when she heard a beep and I raised my hand. Her hearing evaluation was a team effort. Likewise, she assumed the fetal position in my lap when our pediatrician tried to listen to her heart. It was quite a feat getting her to cooperate, despite our pediatrician being the unequivocally greatest pediatrician in the Twin Cities. When it came time for shots to be administered, I braced myself for the banshee-like wails.

The nurse suggested that one of us take Nicholas for a walk around the office while Sophie received her shots, then vice versa. I grabbed Nicholas by the hand and left Ruanita to wrestle with the bucking bronco. Nicholas and I walked around the office talking about the gum he wanted as a reward for being good and the game he intended to play on my phone on the way home. I listened carefully for the screams I was certain would permeate the air. Instead, I heard nothing but the cries of infants in the waiting room. Eventually, Nicholas and I headed back to the exam room to find Sophie standing there with a mere hint of tears at the corners of her eyes, grinning profusely, and clutching a Dora sticker in her hand.

I wasn't sure what to make of this turn of events. Did I miss the screaming? Should I get my ears checked? Was this a sinister ploy to throw me off balance before unleashing the tsunami of pandemonium I was expecting? Apparently not. According to Ruanita, Sophie was a trooper. She was brave. She was calm. She was a picture perfect little lady.

Huh?

Nicholas followed Sophie and did not shed a single tear. He merely uttered a quick “owie” when he received his two shots. He picked out a Despicable Me sticker and quickly resumed his interrogation about the flavors of gum I had in my purse.

I am still in a bit of a stupor about the whole thing this morning. What happened to the babies clinging to me for dear life? What happened to the tiny little creatures who desperately needed mommy to kiss away all of their pain? What happened to my babies?

Apparently, they are no longer babies. They are officially ready for kindergarten now. My babies are kids now. Brave kids capable of handling themselves with grace and restraint and composure. I should be proud of them. I told them I was immensely proud of them. In actuality, however, I am sad.

Would it be the utterings of an insane person to say that I actually miss the screams?

Luxury and Life Lessons

2011-08-15T07:38:00.003-05:00

I had an amazing weekend. I spent a lovely childless twenty-four hours with my partner at the Grand Hotel downtown, followed by an awesome afternoon with the kids at Lake Minnetonka yesterday. Beautiful weekend. Exquisite accommodations. Gorgeous lake. I am feeling rejuvenated and relaxed today. I also learned a few things this weekend. Life is always full of lessons, isn't it?

Lesson #1: Ruanita and I have still got it. Granted, we get it less than we used to. But we've definitely still got it.

Lesson #2: I need cable. More specifically, I need Bravo. I need The Millionaire Matchmaker. I need Rocco's Dinner Party. I need The Housewives of Wherever the Hell Vapid and Shallow People Live. I need cable.

Lesson #3: Along the same line, I need a deep-soaking tub and a television in my bathroom. Were I to have these two things, I am certain every speck of stress inhabiting my body would float right out the window. I would be a new person. A relaxed person. Dare I say it? A positively pleasant person.

Lesson #4: My mother would do anything for my children. My dog, however, is a different story. The next time Ruanita and I go away for a night, we will have to board the dog somewhere, lest my mother sell her on the black market while we are away.

Lesson #5: A fancy dinner out is nice. However, eating room service dinner in bed while wearing plush bathrobes and watching trash television is immensely nicer. It is probably a good thing I don't have someone to deliver my meals directly to my bedroom or I would never see the light of day. Seriously. I would never leave my bedroom.

Lesson #6: I would like to hire my very own personal concierge. I would like to have someone who greets me with, “ How may I help you, Ms. Ralph?” every time I pick up my telephone. In a similar vein, I would also like someone to “bring my car around” every day. This would come in especially handy in the winter when I could emerge from the warmth of my home to find my car cleared of snow and nice and toasty.

Lesson #7: I do not make enough money to live in the style that I could very easily become accustomed to. Therefore, Ruanita needs to up her game and make me some more money.

Lesson #8: I can survive twenty-four hours without any electronics—except for the television, of course. No laptop. No Facebook. No Words With Friends. Wow...who knew?

Lesson #9: I am quite certain my dog missed me more than my children did.

Lesson #10: Hmm...I don't really have a tenth lesson. Ten just seemed like a nice, round number to end on. Ending on nine would have bothered me to no end. Perhaps the lesson here is that I am still rigid and anal, despite a weekend spent in the lap of luxury. That, my friends, comes as no surprise.

Change is Coming

2011-08-12T07:44:00.004-05:00

Change is scary business. Change is tough. Change is nerve-wracking and exciting and hives-inducing all at the same time. Change is also necessary. Without change, nothing grows. Nothing develops. Nothing flourishes. Without change, we become stagnant. We become set in our ways. We become comfortable, yet less than the person we could be. Less than the person we should be.

Right now, I am in the midst of some pretty big changes. After six years of working opposite schedules and barely seeing one another, Ruanita and I are in for a big change. In the upcoming months, we will be seeing a lot more of one another than we have in half a decade. Perhaps more of one another than we care to see. Ruanita has officially given her notice to her employer. Friday the 19th will be her last day as an employed person. What the hell, right?

Ruanita's employer is phasing out her current position. She has the opportunity to take a different position with her company. However, the positions that interest her all require she be a licensed therapist. She is not. Ruanita completed her Master's Degree in Marriage and Family Counseling ten years ago. At that time, she took a position with Cigna coaching people with depression, with the intention of studying for the National Counselors Exam (NCE) and becoming a licensed therapist. As is often the case, life took over and she never got her licensure. It wasn't required for her job. She had one, then three kids to contend with. Studying was not a priority. Now, ten years later, her licensure has become a necessary priority.

Rather than taking a job—another high-stress position—that is not what she truly wants to do, we have decided that she is going to quit her job and take a year off to study for and pass the NCE. She will then be a licensed therapist and can go back to Cigna or another company making a significantly higher salary and, more importantly, having completed the goal she set for herself decades ago. In the interim, she will be a full-time stay-at-home mom for that year. She deserves a break. We deserve a break. Our twins are starting kindergarten in a couple of weeks, which means Ruanita would have less time with them. We also feel that third grade, with his new IEP, is going to be a crucial year for Lucas academically. He is also struggling a lot with anxiety, which I suspect may get worse when school starts. We need to present a united front to get him on track to be successful in school and to learn to manage the anxiety that isn't going away anytime soon. In her current position, Ruanita would only see Lucas on weekends, making it impossible for her to be of much assistance with his everyday school life. He needs us both this year.

For all of these reasons, we have decided to completely shake up our lives and have Ruanita resign. We will be fine financially, as we are dipping into our savings to cover the year. Insurance coverage will be an issue, however. COBRA is outrageously expensive and we would rather not pay for it. Therefore, I am finding myself in the position of looking for a full-time job for the first time in six years. I have talked to my manager at my current position about making this job full-time. My company offers domestic partner benefits. Though not ideally what I would like to do with my life, my job is flexible, practically stress-free, gives me the opportunity to do a lot of writing which I enjoy immensely, and would give me the time and energy to focus on my family. Besides, this somewhat humdrum, stress-free job pays me practically the same amount I made at my last higher-profile, high-stress job. So I can't complain in that department. We'll see. My manager was not sure where the company stood on adding another full-time employee. If not, I suppose I will be job-hunting. Not my idea of fun, but definitely worth the effort to have Ruanita at home.

So there you have it. Change is sweeping through my household. It's nerve-wracking, yes. But it is also exciting. I feel good things on the horizon for us. This shake-up is just the thing we need to reconnect, rejuvenate, relax, and refocus.

Speaking of rejuvenating, Ruanita and I are heading downtown tomorrow for a 100% kid-free night spent at the Grand Hotel (thank you, mom). I love that place. From the doorman who opens the door, tips his hat, and says “Good evening, ma'am” to the snow white down comforter (there is nothing white in a house with three children) to the fully-stocked minibar to the deep soaking tub with the television built into the wall at your feet to the plush bath robes to the decadent room service breakfast...it is a luxurious experience. We typically spend at least one night there each year. Tomorrow evening, you can find me in a state of bliss—soaking in a bubbly tub, eating chocolate covered strawberries. A champagne glass precariously balanced on the edge of the tub and Paula Dean teaching me to make chicken and dumplins' on the television above my feet. Does it get any better than that? I don't think so.

On today's episode of "Disturbingly Large Vegetables From the Pierce-Ralph Family Garden"...

2011-08-09T14:32:00.006-05:00

We have zucchini. Wow. Just....wow.

Someone Smack Me. Please.

2011-08-08T07:42:00.011-05:00

Someone grab a fire extinguisher and douse me. Pinch me. Pour water in my face. Do something. I am afraid I have finally gone off the deep end. I am thirty-eight years old and as I type this, I feel my fertility oozing out of my body. Fertility that I have never really cared about in the past. Fertility that has been a non-issue for me for five years now. Suddenly, inexplicably, I have a desire to have another baby. What the hell?!

It all started with Ruanita. At least, I like to blame her for everything. Prior to a few months ago, the thought of having a fourth—FOURTH—child never even crossed my mind. I have never been a women who had an overwhelming need to have children. I wanted children, but didn't feel like I had to have them or my life would an empty shell. That is, until we started the process of trying to become pregnant. Then it became a competition. My will versus the family uteri. In the end, I was victorious. Don't get me wrong. I like kids okay. Babies are cute. But puppies are cuter—and they learn to take that messy business outside after a couple of weeks. I've never been the type to ooh and aah over babies in the supermarket. I don't feel the need to hold every baby that comes within an arms' length of me. I adored my own children when they were babies, but I rarely notice babies I am not related to, if we're being honest.

Ruanita, however, is my polar opposite in this matter. She holds any and every baby whose mother is willing to give her up to the stranger foaming at the mouth over her child. She kisses and pinches cheeks and fawns all over other people's children. It should have come as no surprise a couple of months ago when she started making thinly-veiled comments about having another baby. Or rather, not having a baby. Out of the blue, she would announce that we were, in no uncertain terms, NOT having another baby. While laying in bed doing a sudoku puzzle—with not a word of conversation passing between us—Ruanita would turn to me and say, “We're not having another baby.” Ummm...okay. Or while emptying the dishwasher in the morning (Ruanita insists on emptying the dishwasher the minute she gets up in the morning—before breakfast or caffeine or any other wake-inducing substance) as I sit in a stupor at the kitchen table catching up on Facebook and chugging a Diet Pepsi (my rebellion against the crucial 6:00AM dishwasher purge), she will look up and say, “There's no way we're having another baby.” Ummm....okay.

This has gone on for months now. Obviously, Ruanita is thinking about having another baby or she would not be so vehemently opposed to something that we never discussed as a possibility to begin with. So now she has planted a seed. A seed that has rooted and is beginning to grow in my feeble, baby-indifferent mind. Suddenly, I find myself wanting a baby. The thing is, Ruanita is older than me. Significantly older. I am 38. She is 47. If anyone in this duo is getting pregnant, it will certainly not be the 47-year-old. Strangely, I find myself not entirely opposed to being pregnant. See...I have lost my mind. Nine months of puking up my guts. Breaking out in a pimply rash from head to toe. Peeing on myself every time I cough. Gas and heartburn galore. Sounds heavenly, doesn't it?

This weekend, I broached the topic of having another baby with Ruanita. She held firm and refused to do it. Thank God! However, I am afraid her resolve is not the impenetrable fortress I need it to be. I can be persuasive when I want to be. We were in no uncertain terms NOT getting a dog—until the day we went out and adopted a dog. It's a slippery slope we're treading. I have gone so far in recent days as to peruse sperm banks online. Last night, while Ruanita was channel surfing and I was checking out the alumni baby announcements in my college's quarterly magazine, I actually found myself saying to Ruanita, “I like the name Griffin” and “Eliza is a nice name.” To which she did NOT respond by chucking the television remote at my head. She actually said Griffin was nice and asked me how I would spell Eliza. Come on Ruanita, you need to be stronger! Get violent with me if you have to!

Yesterday, we took the kids to the zoo. Babies as far as the eye could see. Babies in strollers. Babies snuggled all cozy in carriers. Babies toddling through the crowds. Babies smiling toothless grins. I miss my sweet little babies. Those cuddly, sweet-smelling little babies who are starting kindergarten in a couple of weeks. Someone stop me. Please...

My Requisite Friday Morning Blog

2011-08-05T08:31:00.005-05:00

I recently had a friend tell me that she reads my blog first thing every morning at work and is disappointed when she logs in and does not find a new blog entry waiting for her. I admit this is a bit flattering. I am not above enjoying a good ego stroke. But you know, in all honesty, that's really a lot of pressure. I feel compelled to write something today so as not to disappoint my friend. I mean, I don't want tears and wails of grief on my conscience. The only problem is, there is absolutely nothing going on in my life. Nothing of interest to write about. Nothing at all that would entertain my friend on this steamy Friday morning. But am I going to let that stop me? Of course not..

Let's see....ummm....hmmmm....what to write about. I finished reading The Hunger Games trilogy last night. I loved it. The books were great and completely absorbing. I am a bit disappointed that the story is over. And even more so, I am disappointed that I now have to go back to engaging my children. Anyone have a good book I can read? I rather enjoy the exhilaration of being absorbed in a book while thoroughly neglecting my children.

Ummm....what else? My cat bites/scratches appear to be healing with no signs of infection. As of yet. My tetanus shot was relatively painless. At least the needle was. The after effects, not so much. Right now my arm is utterly useless. It hurts to move my shoulder at all. I am pecking at the keyboard with my right hand as I type this. My left hand is attached to the end of an immobile lump of flesh. Painful to the touch and perfectly useless. No, I am not being melodramatic. No, I am not a wimp. I am just anti-pain.

Speaking of the cat, we have yet to make a decision. Then again, the last brawl happened on Monday and Ruanita and I don't see each other except on weekends right now. So I am sure we will discuss it this weekend. Personally, I think the cat needs to go. She's just too aggressive to live in a house full of kids. She used to attack Sophie out of the blue for no reason prior to us getting a dog. She'd just walk up and bite the top of her head while Sophie was watching television. She's not really an incredibly pleasant cat. However, being a mostly unpleasant and frequently aggressive cat, taking her to the Humane Society would be a death sentence. Who would want to adopt her? Certainly not me. So what do we do? We can't live in fear of one of the kids accidentally letting Stella slip upstairs like Nicholas did on Monday. I can't break up another fight. And though Molly has lived with us longer, Stella is clearly the best choice for a family pet for us. That is, according to Ruanita and me. And Sophie and Nicholas. Lucas, however, feels differently. Of course my anxious, nervous son would be a cat person. Of course he would be the ONE person in the house who would defend Molly and grieve her ouster from the house. So do we keep the cat and live the rest of our lives in fear of our calculating kitty scratching out our poor dumb puppy's eyes, stalking us as we sleep, and infecting us all with cat scratch fever? OR...Do we traumatize our eldest son by sentencing his beloved pet to a certain death and being forced to live with the psychological fallout of being known cat-killers for the rest of our lives? Nothing can be simple, huh?

Okay Sharon, you have your blog entry for the day. A pitiful excuse for one, but a blog entry nonetheless. I have to admit that this particular blog didn't exactly do wonders for my mood. The agonizing realization that I am going to have to actually engage my children today...the reliving of my painful and traumatic tetanus shot...delving deeply into my moral angst over my cat predicament. All in all a rather depressing stream of consciousness this morning.

I think I need a donut now.

Owie!

2011-08-03T10:46:00.005-05:00

I am not a fan of needles. I would not go far to say that I am afraid of needles, but I have a healthy respect for the pain they can inflict. This is not some random, unreasonable dislike for needles that I possess. Rather, I have a logical rationale for my weariness around needles. I was born with tiny veins. Yes, you may look at me and wonder how that could possibly be so, but it is true. My rather large body is filled with itsy bitsy teeny tiny veins. I don't know where I inherited these tiny veins. I can only guess they came from my father's side of the family. Having lost him when I was eleven years old, I have trouble remember his face sometimes, much less the width and heft of the veins in his arms. I can guarantee you that my small veins did not come from my mother. She has veins that practically pop out of her arms the minute a rubber tourniquet is applied. The phlebotomist could easily extract gallons of blood from her veins with minimal effort. I am a different story altogether.

Not only are my veins tiny and barely discernible under my skin, they also are of the “rolling” variety. I have never drawn blood from a person, but I have had my blood drawn enough to know that tiny “rolling” veins can reduce an otherwise perky phlebotomist to a cursing, sputtering pool of contempt. As a result, I never—and I mean never—get blood drawn on the first poke. As a matter of fact, it typically takes several pokes before the blood-drawer can find a vein. Sometimes they will take the needle out and re-poke me a couple of time. Other times, they will leave the needle in and play a painful game of let's-wiggle-the-needle-around-aimlessly-until-we-get-lucky-and-hit-something. The former hurts. The latter is excruciating.

So, as you can see, I have a perfectly rational cause to be uncomfortable around needles. I don't like them. They hurt. I am not a masochist. I don't enjoy pain.

As a result of the brawl I interrupted a couple of days ago, I am going to be receiving a tetanus shot this afternoon. I am pretty certain that I have not had a tetanus shot since living in Minnesota, and Ihave been here fourteen years. So, I suppose it's time to get one. At least that is what Ruanita is telling me through clenched teeth. As much as I despise needles, I would probably hate developing lockjaw, foaming at the mouth (no, that's rabies, right?), and uncontrollable tonic muscle spasms even more. So I am conceding defeat in this circumstance. I can't stand up to Ruanita and logic at the same time. I will get a tetanus shot. No, the nurse practitioner will not be fishing around inside my arm for veins this time, but she might as well be as far as I am concerned. A needle is a needle is a needle. And they all hurt.

I am not happy today.

CSI: Minneapolis

2011-08-02T10:28:00.006-05:00

They have surprised me yet again. Just when I think I know exactly how my children will react in any situation, they go and take me by surprise. Yesterday, I discovered that my children have skills and talents beyond what I ever imagined. I uncovered some truths about my children of which I was not aware. Perhaps it is in their genes. Coursing through their blood. Years of ancestral ne’er-do-wells passing down their genetic material to my children. After yesterday, I have come to the conclusion that my kids would make the perfect accomplices if I ever wanted to go on a violent crime spree. They appear to be savants when it comes to covering up a crime scene. They have an innate talent for evidence tampering. Allow me to explain.

Yesterday was not a good day. I was cramping all day. Work was busy. Stressful. It was rainy and dreary. I left work in the midst of a storm and arrived home tired and wet and bloated. In a bout of pure stupidity, I had promised to bake a strawberry cake for a coworker's birthday the following day. So I had to drag all three of my children to Target to pick up a few groceries. When we arrived home, amidst wrangling my highly energetic (I have no idea what the hell Ruanita fed them yesterday) children, I prepared to bake my cake. As I was sifting flour, I turned the oven on to pre-heat it. Within a matter of minutes, smoke was pouring from the oven. The top, the sides, through the door. Toxic smoke was pouring out of every crevice possible. My throat began to ache and I quickly shuffled the children out of the kitchen. I turned the oven off and opened the windows to let in the heat and humidity and let out the toxic fumes. Covered in sweat, I ended up scrubbing the entire inside of the oven once it had cooled completely. Some sort of goopy I-don't-know-what on the bottom of the oven was creating the smoke. After spending a good chunk of the afternoon at Target and then scrubbing my oven, I was finally getting around to baking my cake when Nicholas walks into the kitchen hugging a blankie and says, “Momma, I'm sorry. I accidentally let Stella in.”

I didn't look at him. Rather, I absentmindedly asked, “Let her in where, Nicky?”

“Let her in your bedroom,” he responded. He had been drawing a picture for me and had gone upstairs to put it on my nightstand.

Immediately, I sprang into action. I screamed at the children to stay downstairs as I ran up the stairs. Upstairs was the domain of our evil kitty. In no circumstances should the dog be allowed up there. I sprinted up the stairs two at a time, surprising myself more than anyone else. I entered my bedroom to find Stella and Molly already in the throws of a full-on battle. I tried repeatedly to throw a blanket over the cat so I could separate them, to no avail. The cat was intent on attacking. Every time I tossed the blanket on her, she would quickly, and with amazing agility, find her way out of the blanket and start attacking the dog again. The dog, of course, was not a docile spectator. Though incredibly sweet, she is not above protecting herself. At one point, Stella had Molly completely in her mouth flinging her around. I was pretty much certain at that point that the dog was going to inadvertently kill the cat and I was going to have not go downstairs and explain that to my children. At one point, I threw the blanket over Molly and tried to pick her up. She wriggled free of the blanket and dug her claws deeply into my left arm and my right hand. Several more time, I found myself punctured before I was finally able to subdue Molly with the blanket and pull Stella by the collar into the bathroom. I slammed the door separating my bedroom and bathroom and pulled Stella through the office.

As I dragged Stella down the stairs, I realized that my hand was bleeding profusely. I stood in the living room with blood pouring out of my hand and dripping onto the floor while I asked Lucas to pull Stella's crate out of the corner. I managed to get her into the crate in the kitchen and she immediately calmed down and laid quietly in her crate, obviously shaken.

When I walked back into the living room, I found my kids in motion. The encounter had left me rattled. I was shaking like a leaf and breathing heavily. My children had entered into some sort of zone. They were taking charge of the situation. Nicholas was down on the floor with wipes, cleaning up the blood I had dripped everywhere. Lucas had grabbed a towel for me and was wrapping it around my bleeding hand. He had also already brought out all of the boxes of assorted Strawberry Shortcake and Shrek band-aids. Sophie quickly announced that she was standing guard over the animals. After I managed to clean myself up with shaky hands, I went upstairs to assess the damage to Molly. I was certain she was breathing her last breath at that very moment.

I found the cat cowering in fear under my bed. She was covered in blood and smelled of urine. To coax her out of bed, I had the kids bring me her cat food. I filled her bowl and managed to ease her out from under the bed to assess her. As I looked her over and petted her and felt for injuries, I was amazed to find that Molly did not have a scratch on her. She was shaken, but not harmed at all. The blood smeared in her fur apparently belonged to Stella and me. After assessing Molly, I walked to the other side of my bedroom to a gruesome scene. Blood was splattered on my closet. Smeared all over the bathroom door. Droplet of blood coated practically every square inch of my bathroom floor. Clumps of cat hair covered my bedroom floor, as well. I grabbed some wet washcloths and began cleaning the blood spatter.

When I finished cleaning upstairs I walked downstairs to check on Stella. I found bloody hand prints on the wall in my stairwell. Definitely added to the crime scene ambiance we had going. After checking Stella over, I quickly came to the conclusion that I received the bulk of the injuries in this cat/dog fight. Stella had a small cat scratch under her eye and one on her nose that had bled quite a bit, but had since stopped. I petted her and calmed her as I cleaned her up.

The kids then helped me search the house for additional bloody prints and splatter. They dutifully helped clean them all up, as well. The kids were like hounds, sniffing out any and every piece of evidence they could find of our bloody brawl. By the time my children were finished with their sweep, there was not a single drop of evidence left that would make anyone think blood had been shed in my house. As my kids were cleaning, I was taking mental notes of their newly discovered skills.

Let me issue a warning to all of my enemies. You would be wise to heed my words. If you continue to bug the shit out of me, my kids can quickly and effortlessly dispose of all forensic evidence.

Pretty cool, huh?

Take Me Home, Country Road

2011-08-01T09:29:00.001-05:00

I spent quite a bit of time in my car this weekend driving to and fro. I drove from my home to work in North Minneapolis on Saturday morning. Then on to the East Bank of the UofM to get my hair cut. Then from there to Richfield to do some grocery shopping. Then home again to South Minneapolis. I spent a lot of time on narrow city streets. I was on highways and interstates and off-ramps and on-ramps. It was hot. Muggy. There was road construction to contend with, as well as the everyday congestion of city travel. The smell of asphalt and car exhaust somehow managed to seep its way into my car, despite my windows being close tightly and my air conditioner blaring.

There used to be a time when driving around in my car was peace-inducing. It was relaxing. It was the way in which I decompressed after a stressful day. These days, car trips are more of a source of stress than a stress reliever. I curse more in the car than I do anywhere else on this planet. Road rage has become my standard operating procedure. My default setting when sitting in my car. I haven't always been the red-faced, clenched-fist, rabid, cursing-like-a-drunken-sailor, hot mess of a rager I am now.

I spent most of my childhood wanting to move to the city. A city. Any city. I loved the tall buildings. I fell in love with the noise and the busyness. The diversity of people and and sights and smells and sounds. I loved the sunshine glinting off glass windows thirty stories up. I fell in love with driving 70 miles an hour down an interstate. I was enamored of the city.

I still love the city. I truly enjoy living in Minneapolis. However, I realized this weekend how much I miss simple country roads. Out of blue, I suddenly felt a deep and unyielding yearning for back roads. Two-lane roads that wind around the countryside rather than plow over it. Roads with numerous curves and sloping hills. Roads that pass tiny country churches. Roads that pass tumble-down barns and grazing livestock and murky ponds. Roads flanked on both sides by corn fields. Miles and miles of fences. Hired hands working in the tobacco. The kind of roads where I will inevitably get caught behind a tractor. Being waved around by the haggard man in overalls who always tips his hat at me. Windows rolled down. The sweet smell of freedom mingled with dirt and tobacco fields and grass and fresh air. Country music blaring on the radio.

I miss roads that take me deep into the county. Off the beaten path. Off any and every path. I miss getting lost behind the wheel. I need to find me a country road and take off on a trip to nowhere. Perhaps the kids and I will take a drive today.

They will be so very excited.

Clueless Mom....Yet Again

2011-07-29T07:23:00.007-05:00

It's baaaaaaaa-aaaack! Lucas's anxiety, that is. We were doing great. We were having lots of success in therapy. Until the day that his therapist and I decided that he was doing so well that we would discontinue his therapy for the time being and reconnect once school started and the pressures of school came into play. The very night of his last appointment with his therapist, after sleeping in his own bed problem-free for a week, Lucas's nighttime anxiety reared its ugly head again. And it came back with a vengeance.

Prior to this spell, he was incredibly anxious at bedtime and seemed to fixate on his brother and sister going to sleep. Despite my assurance that they have never in their short lives pulled an all-nighter, until they were happily snoring, Lucas was convinced that they would never go to sleep. He constantly got out of his be to check on his sister, thereby keeping her awake, of course. When they did go to sleep, however, he was able to calm himself enough to read or listen to music in bed and eventually drift off himself.

This time, however, anxiety has upped the ante. He still continuously gets out of bed to check on his sister, but his fixation—his intense focus—has shifted to his brother Nicky with whom he shares a bedroom. Suddenly, he expects Nicky to get into bed, lay perfectly still and fall asleep immediately. If Nicholas does not do this—if he rolls around in his bed or hugs his pillow weird or doesn’t get under his covers or lays his head at the foot of his bed—Lucas begins to freak out. He continuously comes out of his room crying to “tattle” on Nicky. I try to explain that Nicholas is only five years old, and a wiggly, constantly moving kid. He cannot climb right into bed, lay perfectly still, and fall asleep. If I dismiss Lucas's complaints and do not “punish” Nicholas for rubbing his leg across his blanket repeatedly (last night's complaint), Lucas will begin to verbally berate Nicholas. He will fuss at him. Threaten him. Repeatedly yell at him to get in bed. Quiet down. Stop moving. Last night, he took away Nicky's beloved blankies and told him he wasn't getting them back until he was laying still and silent in bed. I intervened and Nicky had his blankets back. Lucas was not happy.

This is an every night occurrence. The kids go to bed at 8:00. By the time I head up to bed at 10:30 or so, I have had all I can take. Lucas is still wide awake and in tears, so I take him upstairs with me. He has not slept a night in his own bed since our last therapy appointment three weeks ago.

I am at a loss as to how I should handle Lucas. He refuses to practice any of the coping mechanisms his therapist taught him. He is unfairly berating his brother. I even find myself skeptical of his motivations at times. He was able to sleep in his own bed perfectly fine when he was rewarded with Pokemon cards. Once the rewards became less frequent, did he decide it wasn't worth the effort anymore? Is he getting what he wants by wearing me down and sleeping in my room every night? He always wants to know what I am watching on TV when he comes out of his room, and he always asks if he can stay up and watch TV with me. Is the whole thing a ploy to stay up late? I don't believe in my heart of hearts that is the case. His tears are real. His fears appear real. Ruanita suffers from anxiety, though the extent of Lucas's seems a bit more severe than hers even.

Lucas is a happy, sweet, perfectly perfect boy during the day. He is kind and affectionate and smart and funny and protective of his brother and sister. He's an awesome kid. Bedtime however, is a different story. He turns into a completely different kid. He's like a caged animal. Panicky. Tearful. Agressive toward his brother. Practically feral. All emotion and adrenaline. Obviously, his fears are very real to him. When I try to talk to him about using his coping skills, or leaving his brother alone (he's his own worst enemy in that regard because he only manages to keep Nicky awake longer), or staying in his bed, all he does is cry and say that he is sorry. "Sorry" is not the response I am looking for. He has absolutely nothing to be sorry about. Obviously, if he feels our conversation warrants an apology, I am not doing a good job of handling the situation.

I find myself getting incredibly frustrated every single night. Not so much with Lucas. Well, actually, yes, I am ready to throttle Lucas if I am being honest here. Especially when he refuses to leave his little brother alone. But my frustration lies more with myself than anyone. I feel, as his mother, that I should know what to do. I should know how to calm my own son. If anyone can calm a worried or scared child, it should be his mother. Right? But I don't seem to possess the ability to calm Lucas. Why don't I have the ability to calm him? And what is he going to do when school starts in four short weeks? How is he going to function if he is not getting to bed until 11:00 at night?

Yet again, I am clueless. The name of this blog sure is a fitting title these days.

Hunger Games and Hungry Dog

2011-07-27T19:02:00.008-05:00

A friend of mine recently let me borrow The Hunger Games trilogy. I had heard they were really good books and had been wanting to read them for a while. So this afternoon, I turned on cartoons for the kids and made myself a nice, comfy spot on the couch. I settled myself in, cozily laying on no less than four pillows, covered up with a tie-dyed fleece Snuggie, with a forty-pound boxer nestled into my crotch. I picked up the first book and began to read.

Four hours later—yes, you read that correctly—my children were still watching cartoons and I found myself halfway finished with the first book. For four solid hours, I completely neglected my children. I let them build all sorts of blanket and pillow contraptions on my living room floor. I let them eat whatever my oldest son could climb high enough to reach in the cupboards. I let their innocent little eyes glaze over as they watched episode after episode of Hello Kitty and X-Men. I didn't care. My mind was miles away. Years into the future, contemplating the predicament of Katniss and her cohorts in the Hunger Games.

Finally, at 6:00pm, I was dragged from my revelry by Nicholas's alarmed voice coming from the hallway.

“Stella is chewing something up!” he exclaimed.

“Well, take it away from her,” I responded.

“But I don't know what it is,” Nicholas said.

Slightly annoyed at the interruption, I said, “So? Take it away from her anyway.”

Nicholas was adamant that he did not want to touch whatever Stella was chewing. I had two options. Let Stella consume the unknown object, risking the possibility it was something that could lodge in her intestines and consequently cost me hundreds of dollars in vet bills, OR remove myself from my comfortable space on the couch and take the object away from the dog. I debated for longer than a decent human being should. Eventually, however, I rolled myself (literally and unattractively) off of the couch and away from my pillowy perch.

As I caught sight of Stella in the hallway, Nicholas was squatted next to her frowning. “What is that momma?”

Initially, it looked like Stella had found a Kleenex and was busy shredding it all over my carpet. Exasperated, I turned on Nicholas. “It's a Kleenex Nicholas. Why couldn't you take it away from her?”

“I don't think it's a Kleenex, mom,” he responded.

I squatted down for a closer look. Nicholas was correct. It was not a Kleenex Stella was eating. Rather, she had found her way to the bathroom trash can and had pulled out a used maxipad. That's right, my dear dog was covering my hall carpet with the remnants of Ruanita's discarded pad. I cleaned up the mess. Vacuumed up the soiled cotton while Nicholas watched and repeatedly asked me, “What was that, mom?” Not feeling up to explaining the mechanics of the female menstrual cycle to my five-year-old son at that moment, I muttered, “A bandage, Nicky. It was a bandage.” He gave me one of his infamous “what the hell?” looks, but decided it was better just to walk away. Good boy.

Note to self: Purchase your dog some new chew toys immediately, lest she continue to blind all Sophie's stuffed animals by eating their eyes. And eating all of the frogs in the back yard. And now, apparently, feasting on sanitary napkins.

Piss-Off, You Morally Corrupt Psycho!

2011-07-25T10:36:00.015-05:00

I got my first "piss-off" letter yesterday. Actually, it wasn't even a letter. It was an email. I had applied online for a job writing legal blogs. It sounded interesting and I am sure I could have done the job. And I think I would have really enjoyed it. However, I believe they were looking for someone with a degree in journalism or, at minimum, a journalism background, which I do not have. They were quick to thank me for applying and to merrily send me on my way.

It's a somewhat unpleasant feeling, this piss-off. It may sound weird, but this is the first time in my life I have ever applied for a job that was not offered to me. Perhaps it is just stupid, blind luck. Or maybe I interview well. Or perhaps I simply have applied to companies with decidedly low standards in the past. I am not sure. But I have always been offered every job I've applied for, so it was a bit of a kick in the gut to get that rejection email yesterday. No, I was not really qualified for it. But come on, don't they know who they rejected?! I am a blogging, Facebook-perusing, time-wasting, over-thinking, under-performing, head-in-the-clouds phenom! Who wouldn't want to hire me?

Wait a second...wait a second. I am totally lying. I did apply for a job once that I was not offered. My subconscious had obviously buried the memory. Perhaps to protect my fragile ego, Sybil-style. But in the wake of yesterday's rejection, it is all coming back to me. Previously suppressed memories are flooding my consciousness as I type this.

It was the summer of 1987 and I was sixteen years old. In search of my very first summer job ever, I applied at the local TCBY in my hometown. Frozen yogurt was new and all the rage at the time. Hinting at the chic style maven I would one day become, I decided to apply for a job at the trendiest spot in town—the new yogurt shop. Keep in mind, this was well before Starbucks inhabited every corner of every city. TCBY was as "cool" as it got in my hometown.

I remember sitting at a tiny table interviewing at the TCBY on Frederica Street while a teenage girl scooped yogurt behind the counter. The man-child who interviewed me maybe had a year or two on me, but was definitely not much older than I was. I did fine in the interview. I aced the math portion of the application "test." I was a change-making savant. I thought I was a shoe-in for the job. The only remaining portion of the interview was the morality test—an odd multiple choice test consisting of questions that made no sense to me. Questions about how I would handle a coworker who repeatedly showed up late for work. How I would manage a coworker who was caught stealing from the cash register. I remember thinking, Aren't these issues the responsibility of the manager? Not the lowly yogurt-scooper? I answered the questions to the best of my ability, picking the answers that I thought were true and moral and right. I went on my way, excited about the prospect of donning that pink apron. I drove home fantasizing about eating my weight (which was considerably less than it is now) in delectible frozen yogurt. I was going to be one of the cool kids!

Later that same afternoon, I received a call from the pimply manager at TCBY. He informed me that TCBY would not be hiring me as their next yogurt scooper extraordinaire. I believe that I went into a state of shock at that point. My mouth hung open. A chill went through my body. Why? WHY? Was I not a change-making virtuoso? But I look good in pink, dammit! The TCBY manager went to to explain, rather awkwardly, that I had failed the morality test. He then, obviously concerned that he was talking to a pariah—or perhaps a future sociopathic serial killer—quickly said his goodbyes and hung up. What the hell?

How in the world could I have possibly failed the TCBY morality test? I was a good girl. I went to Catholic school. I played the organ at church, for God's sake! When I was sixteen, I did not drink or smoke or do drugs or even drink coffee. I wasn't a liar. I rarely made fun of other people. I didn't have a snarky bone in my body. I had friends. I wasn't antisocial. At that young age, I had yet to experience any of the vices that make life downright pleasant today. Yes, it was the eighties, but I wasn't completely morally corrupt. I cried when E.T.'s heart light went out. I cheered for the Jedi. Though I thought he was pretty damn cool with his sinister asthmatic wheezing, I did not applaud Darth Vader's quest for universal domination. All in all, I was a good kid. I was on the side of the good guys. What the hell went wrong? How had my tutti-fruiti-infused dreams withered in just a few short hours?

I never got answers to my questions. The why of my moral shortcomings was never explained to me. Life went on. I eventually became the hostess with the mostest at The Sizzler. I went on to get into a good college. Despite a few speeding tickets and traffic violations, I have had no run-ins with the law. Perhaps TCBY knows something I do not, and the day will come when I do snap. In the meantime, I will continue my job search. Disheartened, but not defeated.

On a somewhat related note, I recently learned that Ruanita failed the morality test to work at Sam's Club in her early twenties. We are obviously an unscrupulous match made in heaven.

Or hell maybe?

They have no business getting a dog!

2011-07-22T06:58:00.002-05:00

I has been brought to my attention that some of my friends have been voicing concerns about my sanity in recent weeks. “What the hell are Shannon and Ruanita thinking with this dog stuff?” “Are they crazy?” “They have no business getting a dog.” “Have they lost what tiny shred of sanity they once possessed?” Or, in the words of my sister, Jennifer, “I can smell your dog.”

Well, my dear friends, I must admit that I have had these exact same thoughts. Having dealt with Old Stella's constant anxiety and New Stella's one night of unbridled destruction, I admit to thinking we were crazy for assuming we could handle a dog. Today, however, I am admitting that I am smitten with my puppy. Let me tell you why.

Stella has become accustomed to following me from room to room. This means that I am constantly tripping over her. I must lock the bathroom door when I pee or I will get an uninvited guest kissing my knees as I sit on the toilet. Mildly disturbing, but I have learned to adjust. Her following me around is a nuisance at times, but there are other times that it is completely endearing. Like when she helps me tuck the kids in at night.

Every night, after I convince the children to finally climb into their beds, I make my rounds kissing each one and tucking them in for the night. Stella has become my lovable assistant. I typically start with Sophie because she is usually the first in bed. As I sit on the edge of her bed and we whisper our “Goodnights” and“I loves yous” and “Sweet Dreams,” Stella will jump up on her bed. She will lay down next to Sophie. Kiss her goodnight. Give her some snuggling while we quietly discuss the day. It is incredibly sweet. When I leave Sophie's room to head to Nicholas' bed, Stella will follow me and hop on his bed to give him the same love and snuggles. Then on to Lucas. She sweetly tucks each kid into bed before moving into the living room with me and assuming her spot on the couch for a little napping and TV time. This has become our nightly routine.

Now come on, who couldn't love a dog who tucks the children in every night?

Fearful of Frog Asphyxiation

2011-07-21T11:43:00.008-05:00

As if I do not have enough to worry about, I now have frogs on the brain. We live a block and a half from a pond. I think it was installed with the purpose of doing something with water run-off in our neighbor. I am not sure. The kids and I just call it "the pond." Because we live so close to the pond, our yard is overrun with tiny frogs every summer. This summer, they seem to be especially numerous.

For the last few days, Sophie and Nichols have been obsessed with catching these tiny frogs--most about half as big as my thumb. They have been collecting as many as twenty at a time and setting up a "habitat" for the frogs in their sand table. I make them set the tiny frogs free before they come in the house for the day, lest they be baked in the sun trapped in a sand table. The frogs entertain my kids. They draw the kids away from the television and into the great outdoors. They give them a glimpse of nature and maybe even teach them a little respect for the natural world. All in all, a good thing. Right?

Lately, however, my dog has been noticing the frogs in the yard, as well. They are hopping around everywhere so, despite their tiny size, they are hard to miss. She will chase them. Pounce on them. And to Sophie's great disgust, eat them. Sophie has proven her strength in recent days physically removing our 40-pound muscle-bound boxer from the sand table all by herself. She will scream in revulsion, grab Stella around the neck, and hoist her away from the frog habitat in one fell swoop. That girl is strong when fueled by rage.

This morning, I was laughing and telling a coworker about Stella eating the frogs and Sophie harnessing her inner She-Ra, Princess of Power to deter her. The coworker told me that her dog does the same thing, but warned that I needed to be careful. She said that frogs will sometimes "inflate" themselves when attacked. They will puff up to prevent themselves from being swallowed, thereby catching in the throat of the unsuspecting dog who tries to swallow them whole. What? Is this true?? Is my poor Stella going to meet an untimely death at the hand of our tiny pond frogs? As if I do not have enough to worry about, now I must watch my dog and somehow keep her from swallowing frogs? How do I keep my bouncy boxer from catching frogs when they cover every inch of our back yard? I always thought toads puffed up. Do frogs, as well?

Dammit. Now I am going to have to log some serious Google time trying to figure out if my poor puppy is doomed to meet her demise asphyxiated by a frog.

As if I have time.

Really, I don't care much for your kids....

2011-07-20T10:29:00.005-05:00

I was hanging out with some friends yesterday afternoon and we somehow got on the topic of working in a daycare. The consensus between the three of us was pretty much that there would be no way in hell we could work in a daycare. I have great respect for the people who can lovingly, and with utter devotion, care for other people's children all day every day. As for me, I just don't have it within me. There are numerous reasons I could never be a daycare worker. I won't get into the details, but they all boil down to one overriding theme: As a general rule, I do not like other people's children.

Now don't get me wrong. I am not a child hater. I like my own children. And as far as other people's children go, my friends' children are probably some of the best I've ever met. They're cute and funny and sweet and downright adorable. And they are quite well-behaved, which I appreciate in children. But would I want to spend all day every day with them? Eh...not so much. Of course, I love for my friends' children to come over and play because I get to hang out with their mommies and have actual adult conversations. And their children entertain my own children, which makes me happy. When my children are happy, I am happy. Because everything revolves around my kids, you know?

Other people's children never seem to be as fascinating as my own. I think all parents probably experience this. At least, I hope all parents experience this and I am not just some monstrous aberration. I mean, there are times when my brain is screaming, Will you please just shut the hell up! as my oldest son tells his fourteenth in a long series of nonsensical and non-humorous jokes. But for the most part, even when he is making no sense whatsoever, I am drawn to him. As a general rule, I could sit and listen to him weaving preposterous tales all day long. And I do.

And though I have declared in no uncertain terms that Polly Pockets are a work of the devil, I really don't mind sitting and playing with them when my daughter looks up at me with big blue eyes and begs me to play. She has this crazy sparkle in her eye—part mischievous, part joyous, part sadistic—and this gorgeous sideways grin when she tells me, “Momma, quit being silly. Polly isn't Russian! (To my daughter's chagrin, I've discovered that accents liven up the game a bit and keep Polly from being the mind-numbing, clothes-hoarding floozy I imagine her to be.) I could watch my little girl grin like that all day.

Or when my youngest son comes to me proudly holding a piece of paper that he has painstakingly filled with the names of all of the Mario characters he has copied off his Wii game case. If it were anyone else's child, I would think, Big deal. He's five-years-old. He should be able to write letters. And besides...that N is backwards. However, he is MY son and I am overcome with pride. I think he is preposterously brilliant. I could sit and watch him copy letters until the sun sets, imagining his future as a Pulitzer prize-winning writer.

My own children fascinate me. Every facial expression. Every inch of pasty white skin. Every newly acquired skill. I find them completely captivating. I am totally enchanted by them. I adore my children.

Your children are just okay.

Does that make me a bad person?

Still Hot

2011-07-20T06:35:00.002-05:00

It's still hot. I still don't like it. I can't form a coherent thought this morning because my shins are sweating and distracting me from intelligible writing. Maybe tomorrow.

It sure is warm out there, eh?

2011-07-19T07:21:00.014-05:00

Minnesotans like to talk about the weather. They like to lament the six-foot snow drifts. They like to tell people about the Halloween blizzard of 1991. They want outsiders to know that it can snow in May here. They joke that Minnesota has two season: winter and road construction.

I used to wonder why Minnesotans insisted on talking about the weather all the time. All. The. Time. Having lived here fourteen years now, I am finally beginning to understand. Minnesota has the best--or worst--of all worlds. Not only do we get hammered in the winter, but we get sub-tropical weather in the summer. No, it is not hot all summer long like it is in the south. But we do get spells of extreme heat and humidity. Add to that the winters from hell, and it takes a pretty hearty person to live in Minnesota.

Right now, we are in the midst of a heat spell. It is hot. It is hellishly hot. It was 100 degrees yesterday with a heat index of 117. And that is not even going to be the hottest day this week. This morning, it was 82 degrees and stifling at 6AM when I left my house to head to work. The humidity is so thick that it takes your breath away. Having grown up in Kentucky, I am used to heat and humidity. At least, I used to be. Unfortunately, over the years, my body has acclimated itself to subzero temps. I can handle a blizzard like a pro. Temperatures of -10 no longer even faze me. 100 degrees, however, is a different story. Heat like that is no longer my norm. And frankly, I can't take it.

I don't like to sweat. I don't like perspiring the minute I walk out a door. I don't like the feeling of beads of sweat trickling down my shins. I don't like feeling like I need a shower after simply walking to my car. I don't like it.

As of today, I am officially turning in my Kentucky card. I am a Minnesotan now. I am a snow-loving, ice-fighting, hotdish-making, jello casserole kind of girl. I can discuss the weather ad nauseum with the best of them.

It's hotter than two squirrels making love in a wool sock out there, eh? You betcha!

A Dog is a Dog is a Dog

2011-07-17T20:51:00.006-05:00

Ruanita was teetering on the edge. I could see smoke coming from her ears. Steam from her nostrils. Her face was red and she was barely containing her rage. Earlier in the day, I had assured Ruanita that the dog would do perfectly fine left free in the house while we went out for a movie and dinner with the kids. Ruanita was skeptical, but I was convincing. Wearing the cone of shame, she barely fit in her kennel and most certainly did not have the room to stand up and turn around. I felt sorry for her. I couldn't stand the thought of her being stuck in one uncomfortable position for hours on end. Besides, I had left her free in the house while the kids and I ran to Target the day before. And she did perfectly fine. No issues whatsoever. As a matter of fact, Stella has not had a single issue since we brought her home two weeks ago. No accidents in the house. No chewing up the kids' toys. No problems at all.

That is, until last night.

We got home at ten o'clock last night with the intention of putting the kids right to bed. Ruanita wasn't feel well and wanted to take some NyQuil, head straight to bed, and sleep the sleep of the highly medicated. None of that happened.

Instead, we walked into our house to utter chaos. Stella had shredded all four wooden blinds in our living room. She had also shredded one of our cheaper mini-blinds in the kitchen. She knocked over the trash can. Watermelon rinds all over the kitchen floor. She pulled all of the papers off our kitchen cabinet, including the paperwork for our mortgage refinance. She knocked over our living room lamp. She knocked over a basket of laundry we had sitting in the living room. Shorts, t-shirts, and unmentionables of various sizes all over the room. She scraped huge amounts of paint off of our front door in an obvious attempt to scratch her way out.

All of that destruction was horrible. But it got worse. As we were cleaning up the mess, Ruanita noticed that the runner on our kitchen table was wet. As was a stack of Lucas' beloved Pokemon cards. Why was the table wet? It only took one sniff to answer that question. Stella had somehow climbed up on top of the table and peed. Perhaps by doing it on the table—off of the floor—she rationalized that she wasn't actually peeing in the house. She was peeing in the air. Can dogs rationalize like that? That's the only explanation I can come up with for why in the world she would put forth the effort (while wearing a cone, which makes everything more difficult) to climb up on top of our kitchen table to pee.

Needless to say, Stella did not sleep in our bed last night. As a matter of fact, I got up four times during the night to move her to the floor for her own safety. Ruanita was feeling no affection for Stella during the night. As a matter of fact, she said on numerous occasions during the clean-up that Stella was, in no uncertain terms, no longer welcome in our house.

This morning, after sleeping on it, there was a little less canine-directed hostility in our house. We both came to the conclusion that dogs are dogs. Stella is only a year old. Though she's already been a momma, she is still a puppy. We can't leave her alone for hours on end and expect her to be anything other than a puppy. It was later that a friend reminded us that yesterday was both the Highland Fest and the Minneapolis Aquatennial. The evening culminated in fireworks at both events. We were far up north and did not hear any fireworks, but Stella very well could have heard either set of fireworks in our south Minneapolis home. Had we remembered there would be fireworks, we never would have left her alone, free to roam around our house.

This morning, I spent $166 at Home Depot to replace some of our blinds and repair some of the damage Stella inflicted on our poor house. Yes, it was my fault. Yes, Ruanita was right. Let the record reflect that I am taking full responsibility. I was wrong.

I suck.

$166 worth of prime suckage.