A new kind of heart break

Today I experienced an emotion that I had never felt before, it was kind of mix of helplessness, rage and compassion.  It was the first time I was able to see Parker play baseball. I have seen him play T-ball, but now he is in the farm league and the difference is that they can strike out and they have a pitching machine..  The game was already an hour and a half, can you imagine what it would be like if an 8 year old pitched? I would have grandchildren by that time.
Parker certainly looks the part. He is a handsome little guy, sandy blond hair a medium build, a little taller than average but still right in the middle.  As he went up to bat I felt extremely nervous, almost like I was having to tell my boss I was pregnant (again.)  Once he was at bat, he stood there in a Shaggy stance. This is what I call someone who pushes their hips forward slouches and looks like Scooby- doo's companion.  The guy loading the machine actually calls what it is going to be. Here is a ball, here is a strike, to me that takes away an important learning opportunity to judge whether a ball is good enough to hit, but that may just be me. I regress.
There is Parker, looking more like a spectator than a player and we are on strike number 2. As the ball is propelling to Parker I say a little prayer. "Please God, let him hit the ball..please, please, please"  Of course, God has time for these prayers, what with earthquakes, genocide and war going on. STRIKE 3. Ugh. This is where a pain shoots through my gut.  Although Parker's shaggy stance would give the impression he was not ready, inside he really wanted to hit the ball. Watching him walk back to the dug out shameful and disappointed is truly heartbreaking. Especially for a mom. I go around to the dug out and tell him he made a good effort and was so close, but he isn't buying it, he looks at me through his eyes filling with tears and speaking through teeth and says.. " this is why I don't like baseball".  He is trying just as hard as I am to not cry. It may sound dramatic, but watching your child hurt and not being able to fix it, is torture.
I was a freakishly good athlete as a kid. Anything I tried I did well.  It came very easy to me, Tennis, softball, soccer, swimming, golf, basketball, you name it.  What I lacked in book smarts, I made up with field smarts.   That is why it does not make any sense to me why it hasn't presented itself in my boys....yet.   I guess I could blame Don, that seems like the easy thing to do, but even  he was a gifted athlete (not as good as me, but that is an argument Don and I will never resolve)
Once I had the chance, I called Don. In a low serious voice I asked him WTF is going on. He has been to all Parker's games and failed to mention his inability to hit the ball.  I wish I would have had some warning.  I told him he is neglecting his son and needs to take him to the batting cage stat. * and to think, Don thinks I over react?   He said he was planning on it, but that Parker had improved the last game.  Improvement from what? Was he facing the wrong way and now he is facing forward and there for, its an improvement?  He could sense my inner turmoil and his excuse was that my very presence was causing Parker to Babydown. That is his term ( made up by Don) which means that the boys revert to mama's boys when I am around.  Much to the same way I dumb it down for my boss. It works for me, and clearly it was working for Parker. When he didn't get a hit I run to his aid with encouragement and he gives me his big brown puppy dog eyes and I want to take him to my breast and nurse him. Just kidding, but I do want to hug him and let him know that I love him. But maybe Don is on to something. I decide no more Mama bear. Rather than standing right behind him sounding like Jack Handy while he bat, I will sit with all the other parents.  But before I do, I call him out of the dug out and show him the proper stance while he is at bat. Well, if he wasn't embarrassed before, he certainly was now.
I returned to my place on the bleachers and watched. He is great on the field, I actually enjoyed myself and wondered if anyone noticed I was only cheering for him. But I had to, his coached are deadbeat coaches.  Well, maybe not dead beat, but you would think between the 4 of them they could give better instruction other than, " come on now son, hit the ball!"  His head coach has a cigarette behind his ear, no joke.  Maybe that is what they need rather than a hovermom. That was until I heard one of them criticizing his own son in the outfield, and loud enough so everyone could hear. That is when it hit me.   I'm really just as bad as they are, but more on an emotional level.  What it comes down to is that you just want your kid to do well.  My self esteem was elevated as a child because I was the best at something.  But who is to say that it needs to be sports. Is it because he is a boy and I want him to fit in and be liked, and I liked athletic boys in school, so that must mean that only athletic boys are well liked?  Sounds dumb.  Most of the jocks I found attractive in high school can be found on the corner bar reliving the good old days, and that isn't attractive at all.
After the game Parker came running to me to give me a hug. I told him that I was proud of him and by the time we reached the snack stand, any disappointment in not getting a hit was comforted by a big box of popcorn.  Emotional eating, that is one thing I know he inherited from me, and let me tell you, he is damn good at it.

Country Clubs are great!

Last summer we joined a country club for the summer. It’s a great deal (or so you think). For a great flat rate you can use the pool and cafe all summer. Oh and by the way you have to spend at least $50 in food per month... Oh and another thing, we will tac on gratuity to a $2 bag of chips. Last summer we over did it a bit, but this year we plan on being diligent on our food expenditures.  At least I thought we had that conversation.  Because it was a holiday they had an all you can eat buffet, which charged per person $$$. Thankfully Don has a huge capacity for food consumption, because I could not justify paying $8 per kid who each ate a rib and half a corn of cob. Not to mention the $5 beers Don kept ordering.   I drew the line when Jack came to our chairs with 3 bags of chips and an economy size box of peanut m&m's . I asked him how he got that and he said, it was easy, he went up and took it, and they asked him his name. I said did you tell them your last name? "no, just Jack". Hopefully they didn't figure out he was our son, but who am I kidding we all look alike. But seriously, if a 3 year old goes up to a bar and asks for a drink do you give it to him? No! geezus.  Its going to be hard to break the habit of overabundance this summer, but someone has got to do it.  I get a bit of bathing suit anxiety a few weeks before I know I have to be in one.  I must say I have been really good about working out and last summer I had just had a baby, so at least I know I look better than that. Despite being very pale, I felt ok about being half naked in public. 

That was until I got there. For whatever reason, there appeared to be a spokescouple for P90X enjoying the pool too.  I always can justify their ripped appearance by thinking that she hasn't had babies yet. Just wait. Well, she did and not one but two!  Ok, well I don't want to live in a gym.  I think women and men are very different when it comes to the pool scenario. Don can look at a guy his age who is un-naturally fit and think , huh that guy is ripped.  I don't even look at the hairless guy, I'm mesmerized by this women's abs. ABS? or A bunch of Bull Shit if you ask me. How is it possible?

Thankfully the pool area fills up with normal looking people so the Mr. and Mrs. Muscle and Fitness are not so obvious.  

I love watching the boys swim.  Parker is continually trying to jump off the diving board into a inner tube.  Unfortunately for him,  we don't have prescription goggles, and because he is blind as a bat his aim is a little..off.  Finegan is exploring with his snorkel, the helicopters and other things that have flown in the pool. All I can see is his butt and snorkel swimming around. Jack is wearing a life jacket and I can tell where he is by the life guards yelling " Jack, Walk!"  I have Oscar outfitted in a baby life jacket suit which is interfering with his balance.  He is toddling all over the place and not yet aware that if he falls into the pool he will sink, or almost sink. I spent most of the day following him.  Don is just a bigger version of Parker and I don't see him for hours at a time..

I had finally gotten over my body issues when the Kardashian sisters walked in (the older ones, not the younger one).  Just in case I haven't explained, I have what has been described as an "athletic" body type. I look more like a soccer player, than a softball player, but curves are not something that I would use to describe my silhouette.  The sisters looked to be about 20 and dangerously curvy.  They decided to set up camp at the only two chairs available, next to ours.   Don emerges from out of nowhere to ask if I needed anything. What?  As they put lotion on each other I feel myself adjusting my control top tankini.  I have a strong urge to hate them and go up shaking my finger to say " you better enjoy that body because before you know it, it will be gone GONE!"  After another hour or so Oscar is popping like corn, That is what I call whining in repeated little outcries pop pop, he was hot and hadn't slept or pooped.  I decided it was time to go.  The Kardashians had decided they were hot and needed to put their sexy feet in the water.  Like bees to honey all my boys were at their side. Finegan was pinching their toes. Parker and Jack were squirting them with squirt guns and Don was "making sure everything was ok".  When I  told them (again)  it was time to go and Jack was devastated, crying and screaming "no!" Thankfully Kardashian sister #1 piped up and said " Jack, would it make you feel better if you squirted me one more time" NO JOKE.  First of all, when were names exchanged? And why is she consoling my son with her boobs? That is my job.  So Jack puppy dog eyed her and said yes... And squirted her a final time.
Before we left, he asked if she would be back on Saturday, " yes" she said and with that, Jack made his first date.

On the ride home Oscar passed out, and the car was quiet, a very rare occurance. Don mentioned what a great day it was.  I said, " I bet it was, with all the eye candy"  He didn't respond. So I repeated it " I bet it was with all the eye candy". He said, he heard me the first time. But why wasn't he saying something like "  your candy is enough for me, or what candy?"  I guess he was exercising his right to remain silent.  I have no idea why I was mad at HIM for girls being there. I guess it goes with the territory.  He was smart to not say anything because it could have been used against him in the court of me... and it would have. But the insecurity storm blew over.

And with that the start of summer has begun.  I will continue to work my butt off to look average and there will always be someone who doesn't work out and makes looking good easy, but what they don't have is an all boy entourage following them around all day, every day.

Quick Fix

If anxiety was a fruit I would squeeze it dry. I have had anxiety for as long as I can recall. I can't exactly remember when it began but it wasn't something that would plague me all day every day. Usually there was an instigation. For example, my brother building a ramp and telling me to ride my bike as fast as I could over it. Or, that same brother telling me to swing from a vine which ultimately ended in me breaking my arm.  Of course those were anxiety producing events.  In college I would freak out over exams, or laundry or whatever.  As an adult most of my anxiety is caused by worrying about things that haven't happened, but could. My anxiety was getting so vivid that I wasn't sleeping well.  I took it upon myself to contact a psychiatrist.  I chose him by his 5 star rating on line. Also, he had his M.D. not Ph.D. Which = drugs.  I sat in the office. The same brother that caused my childhood anxiety had sent me a text telling me to read a David Sedaris book. I had brought that along to read while waiting. I didn't know anything about David Sedaris other than my friend Greg liked him too.  I had no idea he was so freaking funny.  I'm sitting with other patients, laughing hysterically and trying not to, then getting church giggles all while waiting to see a psychiatrist.  I'm sure the others thought I had a screw loose, so I was in good company. I was still laughing as he escorted me back to his office.  Bla bla bla, worry, bla bla bla. He said I  tend to make everything into catastrophes. bla bla bla. Here is an rx.  He came to this conclusion after 10 min. What if I was full of crap? What if I was an addict?  I asked him if this was temporary and he told me it was something I would have to deal with for the rest of my life. So I left. Prescription in hand with a life sentence as a recovering anxiety ridden catastrophizing freak. Poor me.  I took the meds for about a week and decided the side effects were causing me more anxiety than anything.  Against the advice from family, friends, the average joe and the dog,  I stopped taking it.   It seems to me that if anyone in todays society is feeling a twinge of discomfort, there is a pill for that.  Maybe the nucleus of the Earth is feeling sad too and is pulling all the serotonin out of us to make us feel blue.  Or maybe we are just used to getting a quick fix. Headache?  Tylonal. Can't sleep? Ambian.  Can't get it up? Viagra. Sad? Prozac.  Can't concentrate? Adderal. Too Hot? Air conditioning.   Don't like your body? You can get a quick fix for that too.
* I will never understand the justification that a women uses to get implants. " I did it for me" Really?  Having foreign objects in your body in a particular area makes you smarter, sexier, able to have the confidence to get that job promotion? Doubtful. Well, I guess it depends on the job. Trust me. I know. I had perfectly awesome boobs from the early age of 14 - 25. After each child they shrunk, and I'm completely ok with that. Plus, most of the best things in my life occured after 25. 
I too have fallen into that mindset. I got to thinking, if I had taken one of my sons into a doctor and they suggested putting them on a drug with in 10 minutes of meeting them,  I would want to know every little detail about it and if it was possible how to prevent it.  But when it comes to myself, I opt for a quick fix.  I find it interesting that we are continually taking meds to cope. Cope with life. Is our life really that bad? Think of when the settlers came to this country. It took them months if not years to travel from one side of the country to the other.  People died. They had to find and make their own food. It was hot. It was cold. They were in a covered wagon. I'm sure it smelled.  I have a sneaking suspicion that some of them may have even felt.....depressed!  And with good reason. They didn't know where they were going, what they would find or if they would even get there. We don't have nearly the amount of stress as they did, yet we need drugs just to get through a day. Can you imagine if one of those women told her husband, "I don't think my boobs are big enough and if they were, I would be much happier, I'm going to sell the wagon and get an augmentation."  She would have been left behind at the next wagonstop.  Trust me. I know about chemical imbalance and I truly believe that if you need these drugs, by all means,  take them. But for the people that diagnose themselves on line, I challenge them to try to figure out what is at the root of their problem before they turn to medications. Chances are that same root will still be there just masked by a dose of the pharmaceutical de jour.  Maybe you just need them for a little while. Agreed.  I have been there and I credit medication in getting me through a really rough time. But just like I took off training wheels when my son turned 5, I learned to deal, slowly but just like my son I feel a sense of control when I am left to balance myself.
When I was in LA I took an acting class with a fantastic method actor named Eric Morris. He did an exercise called Vesuvius. You stood on stage, in front of 20 or 25 people and just started spewing your thoughts to get an authentic feeling. Sometimes it needed a little prompting to get an authentic reaction. Like when he said, "how does it make you feel that the guy you are dating (who was sitting in the audience) is married? WHAT?  That really happened. I had no idea, but it certainly got an authentic reaction. His point was, to allow those feelings to come and remember what they felt like in order to recreate them through a script.  Allowing those feelings to surface and explode ( hence the name) was not only freeing, it was therapeutic.
I have found ways to deal with my anxiety. I work out, I try not to drink (a lot) and I talk, mostly to Don.  Most of the time, once I have said my worry out loud like, " what if Oscar silently gets out of his crib while we are sleeping and makes his way out of the house and we wake up and he isn't there"
it isn't as much of a worry.  I also laugh. I surround myself with people who make me laugh and I watch funny stuff. I hide people on facebook who complain all the time. I emotionally eat.
Maybe I'm in denial. Is there a drug for that?  Maybe in a week or so I will write from a psychiatric ward that my husband, coworkers and doctor have committed me to.  Who knows, but for the time being I'm going to be a renegade and try to get over myself.  Perhaps it is a personality trait that makes up what is known as me. If I take something every time I feel sad, then how can I possibly appreciate when I feel happy?  What will become of us if we because a society that doesn't experience raw uninhibited feelings?

Little league vs. piano league

We had a weekend of firsts. First weekend of little league and our first piano recital. It was also Don's birthday and I will get to that.  I couldn't help but notice the sharp contrast of the company I was in. Friday night Don and I went to a new Mexican restaurant. I always feel at home or at casa in these places. I suspect that in a former life I was a fat catholic mexican woman with at least 15 kids who stayed at home cooking tortillas all day.  I seem to have the culture (and margaritas) in my blood. Even though my Mexican self would probably be deeply offended by that comment.  Once I saw a photo of a women who looked like me in a day of the dead celebration..just saying.  After, we went to a dive bar which is the most authentic place in town. Nobody is there putting on airs. Nobody is grinding in the corner. Its just a bar, with a juke box, darts and  shuffle board.  Don dominates the music to ensure we don't have to listen to country. His selections range from Tom Petty to Queen and I even threw in a little James, Laid for good measure. There were a total of 9 people including the bartender.  A couple who seemed to have rolled out of  Wal-Mart, muffin tops and all. A rough thin old guy sitting at the end smoking a cigarette, another rough chubby old man sitting at the other end, who happened to trip walking in , which caused me to obnoxiously laugh and pretend that Don had just said something funny. And lastly, two couples playing darts.  I couldn't help but notice one of the guys glancing over at me every 3 minutes.  He didn't see me as the mom of 4, he saw me as a hot young-ish thing enjoying a night with my boyfriend, (not my husband of almost 10 years.) And who did NOT arrive in a honda Odyssey.
The two hours flew by like ten minutes.
The next day I went to Finegan's first T-ball game.  People that don't know me would probably think I was a bit stand offish. The truth is, I'm shy and until I really get to know you, I'm pretty quiet. That is the case most of the time. In this case, I just didn't want to talk to them. I'm there to watch a suspenseful fast paced t-ball game, not socialize. And people watch, or as I call it observe.   To my left is a mom and her sister, aunt, friend, and whoever else lives in their house, with a two year old little girl. This girl whined the entire game and they kept her quiet by giving her packaged crackers and processed cheese and hi-C, (excellent selection ma'am). To my right was a mom crying whenever her son hit the ball off the T. I can't knock her too much, but at least don't announce to anyone who is listening that you are crying.  At one point I had to get out of my seat and walk to the right field fence to tell Fin to stop doing everything in slow motion.  He does this 40 min. into any game because of 3 reasons
1. He is too hot.
2. His _______ hurts.
3. He is tired.
He literally moves like he is in the Matrix.
When I returned I glanced to my right were a family had camped out with chairs and a cooler. The games are 60 min. maximum. It wasn't lunch time. They had a smorgasbord of hot dogs, popcorn and nachos.  As a former mexican I take offense to calling round tortilla chips covered in cheese whiz nachos.  They also had huge cokes.
Is it any wonder why we are the most obese nation?   By the time it ended it was starting to rain and Parker had a game at that exact time. Don dropped the 2 younger ones off with me.  There I was standing in now a down pour with a baby, a flight risk 3 year old and a 6 year old who was in slow motion while Don stood under a tent with Parker.  In retrospect Don said  "it wasn't the smartest decision" and my Dad reminded him that if I'm anything like my mother, I will bring it up 25 years later when he least expects it...he is right...and I will.
Its not easy dodging cars backing up in a parking lot that was designed by a blind person.
With that behind me I looked forward to Sunday.  We missed the recital rehearsal because of little league, but arrived early to get a little rehearsal in before the " performance". It took place in an Episcopal church and the piano is to the right in a choir "hutch". The entire audience had to look to the right while facing forward. The boys played 2 songs each. They were back to back. Altogether, with getting to the piano, bowing and taking their seat the total time was 2  1/2 minutes.  The entire concert was one hour and 40 min. Or the equivalent to 3 days when you are sitting with a 3 and 1 year old. Don't let strange rain-man like piano instructors fool you, they are making the big bucks. There were at least 25 performers at $25/ 30 min. each, once a week...one savvy business lady.  My parents dutifully attend all music events for their grandchildren, for my mom its time to revel in their virtuosity and for my dad its a great time to nap. My mom pointed out that when my boys are older they are going to be the hit of any party, what, with their piano playing and tap dancing.  Sure if they take a time machine back to 1951, maybe Dick Van dyke will be there doing some crazy chalk drawings too.  If there was the polar opposite of the baseball crowd it was this crowd. The ability to sit for an hour and 40 min. without food, water, and in silence is amazing, except mine who were snacking on dumb dumbs ( excellent selection dumbass) . We were the rebels in this crowd.  Fin insisted he had to pee even though he went before and had consumed about a thimble ounce of juice prior.  He was gone for an extended time and when he returned he went in the wrong door which placed him wondering right in front of the performer looking shocked and lost.  This caused me to get the church giggles which sent us further into rebel status.  After listening to a family of five with the same bowl haircuts and pleaded pants, the recital was over.
My parents suggested we go to celebrate Don's birthday and the recitals.
You would think that I would know that taking kids to a restaurant to sit and wait after they have been sitting 24 hours ( in kid time) and then 2 hours (in kid car time) would be a recipe  for disaster, but I didn't. I was hungry. Something about church makes me hungry, maybe its my soul emotional guilt eating.
It was just as I had suspected, but rather than reflect the entire disaster dinner, I will give you the highlights.
Don takes Jack away from the table. Jack screams. Don threatens. Jack laughs. Dad says What? I glare at Jack. Oscar head bangs the table. Parker orders ribs. Finegan announces he likes the taste of beer. Jack falls back in his chair and the entire restaurant comes to a silent stand still. After seeing that Don and I didn't rush to his rescue a man next to our table jumps out of his seat. Only to discover that the "unconscious" Jack is only playing opossum because he knows that if he gets up he is in really big trouble.
Check please.

Bloody Mother's Day

I still feel weird being called a mom, let alone a mother.  Mother's day is for my mom, not me. Almost anyone can become of mom, but being a mother is a title that is earned. And although I am a mommy 4 times over ( 5 if you include our lab),it is only a part of me as a whole, not until you have raised your children do I believe you can consider yourself a true Mother.   But I do enjoy the nod of appreciation I get from my boys, even though I know they (Don) put together a gift at 9 pm the previous night or it was made by their teachers.
Being the mom of 4 boys has been quite eventful.
God must be a divine comedian when he gave me this "blessing".  I don't think he took into consideration that I have issues with blood, or maybe he did. Ha! Good one Yahweh!   I don't like lacerations or anything associated with plasma.  When I had my first son, it is protocol to place the baby on their mother's chest immediately after birth. I politely asked them to clean him off first. I was ok with the cheese, just not the blood.  The choice was, have me pass out, or clean him and have me coherent.
As I was making dinner last night I sent Jack out in the backyard to blow some bubbles. Within 2 min. I hear a scream outside. A few years ago I would have rushed out of the house, but in this case I just kept on cooking.  I then remembered that he was outside alone... well, if its bad enough he will come in. As I heard his cries getting louder I knew he was on his way in.  I figured he had spilled his bubbles.   When he came in the door he showed me his finger with blood running down his hand.  I Scream! * Someday I will realize this only escalates thier emotions, but it freaks me out too.  Don isn't home. Ok. stay calm I tell myself as I rush him to the bathroom to wash off his bloody stump.  As its running under the water he tells me that he was bit. Bit? By what? Is there a dog on the lose?  Is there a brave squirrel? No, he was bit by the brick wall.  I didn't ask him to elaborate, because I didn't want anything he said to be evidence that all the bumps to his head really have caused a slight retardation.
 Thankfully the blood washed away long enough for me to put a band-aid on his 1/4 inch cut and send him back outside.  I really wish my grandfather would have invented band-aids. We would be rich.
The other boys arrived home and with in moments of entering the door I notice that they are a mess, I'm starting to wonder if they acutally go to school or just roll around in a sand pit all day.  Earlier that day Jack had shown me that he had eaten a mouthful of sand that a boy had thrown at him. He had dirt in his teeth.
I instruct them to wash thier hands for dinner, but does it really matter when they look like the came out of a Chilean coal mine? Don walks in with his 5 o'clock shadow-beard and a coffee stain on his shirt as well as an unidentified ketchup stain, which is funny because there wasn't ketchup in the lunch I packed him......( Evidence A. he is cheating on my lunch with McDonalds value meals)
Dinner at our house consists on massive food consumption They have inherited their fathers hollow leg, designed specifically for food storge.  The boys go in fazes that I have broken down to a science.
Ages 1-2 they eat pretty much anything.
Ages 2-3  Complex Carb superabundance , anything not a carb is offensive.
Ages 3-4 Protien Party, anything meat, is fair game, cheese, nuts, anything not a protien is offensive.
Ages 5+ Anything is fair game... unless it is a mushroom or a "chinese" noodle...word on the street is that its cool to NOT like something, even if you unknowling eat it in pizza and whenever I make speghetti.
Sugar is the only consistant thing in their diet.
After dinner the boys are instructed to take showers.  They each have their own loofa and are instructed to start from top to bottom and scrub until in kind of hurts.
Finegan was the last to shower and he called out for me.  I could tell he was worried by the inflection of his "mooommmeeey?"  He came down completely naked and asked me to look at his weiny. ( his words, not mine) He said it hurt, I said, I'm sure its fine, he then pulled a portion of skin back and I screamed when I saw blood.  This caused him to start crying and he asked " what's wrong with it?" " I don't know!?, I don't have a penis! Go ask your daddy!" He frantically ran to Don for the inspection.  Besides blood, penis's are a mystery to me. It was just a week ago that one of the boys showed me that he could push it back in, which horrified and scarred me.  Turns out he wasn't cleaning it properly and there was some skin adherance going on. How would I know that? Especially since I had nothing to do with the care of their circumsitions. It just creeped me out.
I don't think grown men remember what they put their mom's through..or maybe mine are just very open with their bodies?
Regardless, if you are a man,  chances are your mom has seen you inside and out, brought you down a notch and built you back up.
When my mom is gone ( hopefully not for another 35 years) I will be given the true Mother's day title. And when I am,  I want my 40 something son's give me one thing for mother's day..  to come home clean, un-bloody gentleman and tell me that they are happy. Authentically happy.  Thats it, and all the blood dirt and tears will have been worth it.

Quarter life crisis

People are living longer these days. If I live to be 100 then I have already finished the first quarter of my life.  I would say it was a pretty productive quarter:
Birth (thanks mom)... (and dad)
Youth (dedicated to soccer and dogs)
Teens: (crazy I might add)
College graduation: (nobody saw THAT coming)
20: (very wild year, last year as a single lady)
21- 29: (I have dedicated these to my husband because I met him at 21) Babies 1 and 2
30-33: (babies 3 and 4)
33-34: snooze
35+ Now what?
I had this realization last week. I was at my niece’s confirmation.  I was looking at her thinking that she has so much to look forward too. High school, college, friends, boyfriends, life. She is beautiful, athletic, and smart and the world is her oyster. Youth is wasted on the young! Wow, I really am getting old.
Plus the royal wedding was last week and whenever I watch any wedding I regret my wedding dress choice.  I never wear strapless anything, but for whatever reason I thought it would be a good idea to wear a strapless wedding dress. I spent the entire night pulling it up and as the videographer as my witness, my nipple made a cameo as I was dancing with my father.
Then you have your first baby and that is always exciting.  Maybe what I am getting at is there won't be another reason to dress up and have a party to celebrate anything really big. Oh sure I could re-new our vows, but last time I checked I didn't think they expired, there for, no reason for renewal.  I suppose we could celebrate my birthday, but that would be counterproductive for my quarter life crisis.
I realize that I will celebrate my son's achievements, heck just the other day Jack learned to put his pants on, albeit they were backwards, oh and we bought a new mattress, not your typical one but a memory foam! Time for an ice cream cake.
But what about me?
Immediately I started making plans for our 5th baby and remembered that this is why I had my tubes tied.
My bucket list is mostly completed and I just started my 34th year!
Marriage, check, kids, check, house, check, job, check. Meeting Oprah, check.
I did work hard to get where I am today but its like I have climbed this mountain, gotten to the top only to find flat land for the next 76 years until I get to the end and fall off.
Did I not set my standards high enough? After all, I am living the American dream, but now I seemed to have hit the snooze button.
I think my Dad went through this at this age and that is how I came along 7 years after my brother and how they ended up having a 1977 corvette.
My point is, I work at a place I will work for the rest of my life. I live in the home I will live in for the rest of my life and I'm married to the person I will be married to for the rest of my life. Maybe that is why swinging was invented. Totally kidding (DON).
Is this it? Clearly I don't have the answer.  But right now I feel like I'm on a road trip of my life and if I was crossing the country from West to East my midlife is looking like Kansas, Missouri and Illinois and if you have ever been on that road trip the most exciting part of that is the next McDonalds to get a twist cone... and for the record they don't even have swirl anymore, only vanilla.

Buzz

When I was in third grade I got the grand idea to have my mom perm my hair. I didn't have long hair, I had a mullet. And to make matters worse, I wanted her to perm the back only. I could never understand why she agreed.  As soon as I looked in the mirror I regretted it.  My mind started racing on how I could avoid school the next day.  How I could get away with wearing a hat. Could I claim I had an illness (besides Lice)  so I could cut all my hair off? I looked like Jermaine Jackson.  Tonight history repeated itself. But not with a perm. With a simple haircut gone terribly wrong.  Parker's hair was driving me crazy. It was cute in the front but very shaggy in the back. A terrible miscommunication on my part with my husband ended with my poor eight year old with as Don put it, "a hair cut that Freddy Kruger gave him” We have clippers in our house. I have only used them a couple of times but never really understood the gadgets.  So I asked Don, "the shorter the gage the longer the hair right?"  He replied, yes, just read it.  In other words, he wasn't listening to me. So I looked at the short black comb thing. 1/8 inch. I was thinking it meant that was the amount of hair it cut off... Ok, looks right. I ran it vertical up the back of Parkers 4-inch long hair.  HOlY ShIT! He has a bold spot.  Now what? I felt a lump develop in my throat. His brothers are knocking at the door. Parker has no idea what I have done. I think to myself, I can fix this, I was wrong. He looked like Victoria Beckham.

I tried to do just the back with the same gage, which left Parker with a skater cut from 1987. Parker is cool, but not cool enough to go retro.  Damn it!

OK, I ask him, do you want to have a buzz cut? I asked with a sugary excitement, "Sure" he says. Great. But as I start to buzz away its not even, it was like a time machine has taken me back to all his injuries he had suffered to his head since he was 1. He has never not had hair, as a baby he looked like a little Elvis.  Never have I even seen his scalp this closely before.  I got tired of doing the back and went to the front. Its all or nothing and went right from front to back.  The bad part about this  maneuver was that he could see my face when I realized that he looked like the burglar from Home Alone 1 when McCauley Culken burns his head with a blowtorch.

What? He asked. Let me see, he asked. "No, I'm not done.."  He looked in the mirror and exclaimed "I'm Bald!, I don't want a buzz cut!" Famous last words.  I tried to explain that he had pretty eyes and now I could finally see them.  "I look weird!" he looked at me with the big brown puppy eyes I could clearly see now, "I want to show my brothers." In my mind that could go two ways, and I had in inclining it was not going to go in my favor.  He opened the door and Finegan immediately said, " fuzzy wuzzy was a bear, fuzzy wazzy had no hair"  OH Fu%k.

But Parker surprised me. He said, only convincing to his younger fan club, "I like it, I really do, don't you want mommy to do this to you too?"  And even more to my shock, Finegan said yes! But before I could do this I called to Don.  You know how when Lucy had to tell Ricky that she did something, like ruined the oven with a big loaf of bread? , I felt like that.  As soon as I said, " I need you, I think I messed up" He was running upstairs like there was a fire. As soon as he saw him, his face turned a nice shade of pink and  his anger was obvious but he couldn't verbalize it because Parker was watching his every twinge.  He spoke through his teeth and explained that under no circumstances, will I ever cut their hair again. ever.. ok, Mr. we-need-to-try-and-save-money, and boy’s haircuts are $15 a pop. Plus, my boy’s hair grows at the rate of a chia pet on steroids. In this situation, I guess their hairy-ness is a blessing. 

Don agrees to cut Fin and Jack's hair, who have now been brain washed by their older brother into thinking that its cool.  He gets the chair ready and Parker exclaims, "NO! Mommy has to do it." Clearly he gets that I suck and misery always wants company. Don cuts the other two brothers hair. It’s not great, but it’s much better than Parker's.  

When you make a mistake, most of the time you can get over it, but this huge mistake is walking around my house, a constant reminder of why I am not a beautician. What breaks my heart is that I know that when he goes to school he is going to get teased, hell I clearly remember making fun of kids in school "Adam got a hair cut, it looks like a coconut" Karma sucks.

Now I'm trying to figure out ways to get him out of school.

By the time Don emerges after 1 solid hour of cutting hair, (funny, Parker's only took 5 min.?) He is pissed.  I try to lie and say that it doesn't look that bad and he tells me that I have PTSD and that I have convinced myself of this as a coping mechanism.  

I know its just hair, but I just feel so bad that there is nothing I can do to fix it except compliment my kid so that when kids call him a cue ball tomorrow he will remember that I said he looked like David Beckham( not Victoria) and Google imaged Beckham with a buzz to justify my claim. "See, besides the tattoos all over his body, he is cool!"

Now I know where my mom was coming from. She just tried to make me happy and it ended up a disaster.  Once again Karma making an appearance. This past Saturday we took the boys to a bounce house and while we were there a boy with a Mohawk ran by. I looked at Don and proclaimed that doing that to your child screams trailer park, even if they don't live in one. Who is trailer parking it now? Karma had made me her bitch.
And what hurts is that Parker is the one that will suffer, not me, I’m not the one with the ridiculously bad haircut. I hope the extra cookies I have packed in his lunch will ease a little bit of his pain.

So, what have I learned? Well, you would think, nothing but as I now live in a house with 3 little right said Fred’s, I can only hear, I'm Too Sexy for My hair, so sexy it hurts. And hurts it does. 

Being the Easter bunny, Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy is slowly killing me.

Do you ever have one of those days where you just feel fat. Well, I'm having one of those months.  The problem is, that I can't express that to anyone but myself because Don asked me to give up saying "I'm fat" for lent. Its harder than you think.
What is really interesting is that when I would look in the hallway mirror I didn't even realize I was saying it out loud. Now he stares at me (taking his job as the lent police way too seriously), while I'm checking myself out which makes me even more self conscious so I always say "what?" get frustrated and change my outfit.
I verbally communicate most everything, Don on the other had does not. I will go out of my way to look nice and he will tell me three weeks later that he thought I looked good that night (three f'ing weeks ago).
Even when his parents were here his dad said "if you get any thinner I won't be able to see you" I think that was the nicest thing he has ever said, granted he has severe eye problems and probably couldn't see a 400 lb. woman. Still, my heart sang just a little bit.
I gain weight in my face first. That means that any profile picture I post I look like a chipmunk with nuts in my mouth...I realized it as soon as I wrote it, (get your mind out of the gutter.)
I'm an avalanche. This means that as soon as I have an inkling that I feel fluffy everything collapses around me and I eat chocolate. I figure, its no use, I'm already destined for purchasing a lazy boy and having the fire department cut me out of it.
This also is true when I work out. If I get up early, I will do well the rest of the day. Lately however, it takes all I have to get up at 6, especially when I have a Vegas baby who wakes up at 3 and 4. That means I am only able to get to the gym after work and that is not happening. I do exercise on Saturday and Sunday. I'm not a mathematician but 2 workouts cannot possibly balance out the massive consumption of dove chocolate I have been eating lately.
The reason I have been so stressed is because Easter is coming up.  I have made several trips to Target, the dollar store etc., trying to keep up the ruse that a big ass bunny hops into our house and leaves the boys baskets filled with candy and one thing they have been wanting. The Easter bunny is an equal opportunity giver too, every basket has to be equal. Plus to keep up with this ridiculous charade the dog and mommy and daddy get a basket too. Which is usually filled with toiletries.  Christmas is even worse.  All I want to do on Christmas Eve is go to bed, instead, I'm usually guarding the hallway while Don puts the presents under the tree. Presents that I purchase, he has yet to purchase any gifts for the boys in 8 years for any holiday. Seriously. In his words, "you enjoy it so much, I don't want to take that away from you."
Space is an issue too. Living in a older home, where people didn't need large closets because they must have only had 2 outfits and 1 pair of shoes, its hard to hide presents for 4 curious boys. I was a kid once too, and I fondly remember believing in Santa, the tooth fairy and the Easter bunny, but I also remember finding out they were fictional and my little world came crashing down. Just like with any tragedy, I remember exactly where I was when my mom told me and I literally sobbed. I felt lied to, which if you think about it, I was!  Don said he didn't think it was a big deal when he found out.  I was 9, that means I have about one year before the boys get wise to the idea.
Just yesterday in the car I almost just blurted it out because they were telling each other that the Easter bunny was going to bring them DSi games...which he isnt.
Plus, what is it teaching them? That what we can't afford, Santa and his elves just pull it out of their butts?
So in a very round about way, I have been stressing about it and sneaking into my closet and eating all the Easter candy. This is just on the heels of the Birthday extravaganza which is April. Five ice cream cakes in one weekend. My mom keeps Dairy Queen in business with these cakes. And I can only guess that this Easter she will have a Happy re-birthday Jesus cake.
Now I'm faced with the dilemma to either tell the boys the truth or let them discover it themselves. Either way, it will be a sign of growing up and will no doubt trickle down the family gossip mill and spoil it for all of them (except) Oscar.  All I know is if it does continue, I can only imagine what I will say to myself in the mirror when summer rolls around.

Blue Skies- for Kate.

My friend recently had a baby and bravely shared with me that it wasn't exactly what she had expected, not the birth itself, the time at home when the visitors taper off, your husband goes back to work and you are alone.. In a time when I communicate virtually with friends I was a little shocked to receive a phone call. I just listened, because that is why she called, she needed a human ear. I told her I was here for her and hoped that helped.  I didn't have time to explain the following:
In 2003 I had my first son. It was great, everybody was happy, but when I got home I had a fear that I was going to drop him.  Kind of typical really, but my mind didn't just stop there. I would wake up and play the scenario over and over again but in graphic detail. I shared this with a (former) friend who also had a new baby and she told me that I was weird.  I never mentioned it to my doctor because I figured I was alone and that it was a fleeting thought..It wasn't.
In 2004 I had my second son. He was a c-section because he was big and breech. I was not prepared in the least bit for the pain of recovery. Clueless really. Until I sneezed.
The following 6 months were by far the darkest days of my existence. It was a slow progressive plunge into a place that I didn't think my subconscious could take me.   I don't share this with many people because of the fear that I will be labeled insane or registered as the neighborhood nut, but if this helps my friend, I will risk that. I started to have visions of horrific things happening to my baby, mostly at my expense. For example, a stranger coming into the house and repeatedly slamming him into the wall.  Putting him in the microwave. Dropping him on his head.  I would think these thoughts in great detail and immediately feel tremendous guilt. I had my hair cut 10 inches and died it dark brown, trying to look the part of what I thought a stay at home mom looked like, the  job I had decided to take on. My husband got a glimpse of my inner turmoil one night when we had an argument. He had gone out with some friends and I had thought he would be home sooner. The baby was crying most of the time he was gone and I was slowly loosing my mind. By the time he arrived home I was beyond angry and verbally attacked him. Naturally he was defensive and the verbal sparring began. That was until I picked up the baby and was poised to throw him up against the wall, and I wasn't just threatening, I was just about to do it.  What happened next will haunt me for ages. I saw fear in Don's eyes. He slowly approached me and took the baby. I was horrified that I had let out what was going on in my head, and that I allowed myself to get that close to the edge.  I left. It was 11:00 at night and I ran. Literally ran, I don't remember how far, but I know it surely wasn't recommended by my doctor.  I feared going back home. What did he think of me? I begged him to never tell our son what I had said or felt for fear he may feel unwanted. The reason I'm referring to him as a baby and not by name is because I hadn't gotten to know him yet and at this time, he was just a baby.  Don didn't go to work the next day. I started to realize that I was never alone with the boys. When he left, my mom appeared and vice versa.  Later a found out it was a covert operation, I wasn't trusted with myself, or more specifically with the baby, and that hurt.  I called the doctor and Don and I went together. Basically, my doctor put me on medication pronto, and reassured my husband that I was not going to drown the boys in a bathtub or drive them into a river. He candidly told Don , "your wife has postpartum anxiety..not postpartum psychosis."  Not only did I take a heavy anti-anxiety medication, I also had to see a therapist every week, until I stopped going when she instructed me to wear crystals and ask my angels to protect me...yes, maybe she was the one who needed meds. Once I was on this medication my head cleared and I was now left with the heavy guilt for thinking those thoughts. What I didn't realize is that hormones are a powerful thing and not easily, if at all, controlled. I believe that the c-section didn't allow my body to recognize that I was having a baby. I never went into labor and abruptly the baby was surgically removed. Kind of traumatic for all parties involved.  How could I not go a little crazy? The scary thing is, that nobody would have known had we not had that argument. I took pictures, posed with the baby and sent out birth announcements. Don knew I wasn't acting like myself, but decided it was due to exhaustion. I realized that the combination of having 2 kids 17 months apart, having him in October when the sun no longer shines and signing away my life as a career woman basically felt like a death wish and was too overwhelming. I also felt that I had failed... miserably. Thankfully, even after 6 months, my office took me back and things returned to normal.

I had my third son in 2007. It was in July and to my surprise, even after a c-section, all went well. I can tell you that my family was on high alert. My mom making surprise Starbucks deliveries. My dad would just be in the neighborhood.  My brother called me daily asking how I was. My sister tip toeing around. (She has 5 kids and never experienced this.)  My mom did however,  and never spoke of it until now. Her doctor treated the problem with Valium as they did for several other things back then, like alcoholism, restless leg syndrome, you could deal with the addiction later.
All was well, and this postpartum was medication free.  I experienced two miscarriages one in 2008 and a second in 2009 and as traumatic as those were, I mourned,  tried to not blame myself or think that karma was paying me back and I looked forward.
In 2010 I had my last son.  I was doing fine until the actual c-section. I had a panic attack during surgery that lasted into recovery and by the time I could verbalize what was going on, I thought I was going to jump out of my skin. I say panic attack, but it was far worse. I suddenly decided on the operating table to choose flight instead of fight. I wanted to leave and leave now, but when  I went to move my legs or arms and I couldn't. I was verbally and physically paralyzed. All I could communicate was "I'm not ok"  and the surgery went on. That day there was a resident and I was able to hear a play by play of what was going on. I tried to sing in my head to muffle their voices. Don stayed in the hospital as my parents took care of the boys. The following night my mind gave me a glimpse of what I had feared....again. I didn't want to admit it, I had done so well last time. I didn't tell Don, but I didn't want him to go.  He explained that he didn't like sleeping on a sofa with a bar up his butt and needed to sleep in a bed.  Despite me asking (pleading) with him to stay he left at 11 and said he would be back at 7 am with a latte and a bagel (a birth tradition).  Around 11 they brought the baby in so I could feed him. When I was finished feeding him I called the nurse and asked her to come and get him to take him back the nursery. I just was scared, and didn't want to let my mind go to that place... but it did.  I panicked. I called Don told him I couldn't do this. I looked at the baby in the little clear bassinet and horrific thoughts came rushing to my head.  Where was the nurse? What was taking so long? I literally locked myself in the bathroom until I heard them come in.  Tears are running down my face,  I explained that I needed to see a doctor.. she asked if I was in pain, I said yes, but not physically. They told me that the soonest one would be in would be in the morning. I paced back and forth. She took the baby and Don walked in. Again, with fear on his face, he has never shared why. I was thankful that the nurse took him to the nursery for the night.  I asked Don to never ask me what was going on in my head, and to forgive me. I also thanked him for being there. That night was a long one. In the morning a doctor arrived. Don was in the room when he asked me to tell him what thoughts I was having. I figured if Don had been with me despite my flawed maternal issues, he wasn't going to leave now. My recollection to this conversation was that tears were streaming down my face as I told him that I thought of doing some horrible things to our newborn.  Don said that my account was chilling because I spoke plainly and calmly about how I wanted to hurt our baby. I think he saw a side of me and it freaked him out.  I felt exposed.  Not again I thought. As my doctor was writing out an Rx faster than the speed of light, he said something to me that got me through the first 3 months. He said, allow those thoughts to come into your mind, acknowledge them, and dismiss them, find comfort in knowing that you have a pure conscious and that you would never harm your baby. 
He also took Don in the hall and said something, maybe gave him an emergency strait jacket or an emergency barbiturate for all I know. Perhaps it was the combination of the drugs and the fact that my doctor didn't look at me like I was crazy, but I can confidently say I came out ahead. I found comfort in neighbors, family and friends bringing dinner over and socializing, even if it was brief and they didn’t have a clue what I was going through. I write this for my friend. Although you may be feeling overwhelmed, scared, disappointed, guilty, know that you are a good mom, you will overcome this and I have confidence in your pure conscious that you will climb out of this dark place. Don't define yourself by a stereotypical mom that only exist on the Cosby Show or assume that other young moms have it all together...  up until now, you thought I did.  For whatever reason, the song that ran repeatedly through my head was Blue Skies by none other than Willie Nelson. The lyrics were the polar opposite of what I was feeling during that time, but somehow although I had felt my subconscious had betrayed me, it also dug this out of the same subconscious and this song got me through.

Pour some sugar on me.

The sound of Fox News on a continual loop blaring bias propaganda throughout my house can only mean one thing....my in-laws are in town! They made the bi- annual trip up from Florida to visit. This occasion was Oscar's first birthday. My birthday was completely forgotten by my mother in law and I knew it had slipped her mind by the horrified expression on her face when Don wished me a happy birthday in the morning..
When they are in town my husband seems to revert back to a 12-year-old boy.  One particular incident was when I was changing a code brown diaper as Oscar was trying to twist his way off the table, when I realized that we (he) had used the last diaper and not replenished them.  As I called to him in desperation holding a baby down with my torso, he did not answer. I can hear him in the other room. Then I realized that when his father is talking, mostly about his dislike of the current state of the government, my husband is at complete attention and nothing can penetrate his ear. As I struggled to keep from getting peed on, I managed to get a diaper.  In Don's defense, his dad has an authoritative presence, probably because he was a career military colonel. So in my stupidity, I thought I could break Don's trance..  His dad doesn't intimidate me, his hair on the other hand...
My mother in law is a sweet little woman who keeps tissues up her sleeve and was raised in Massachusetts.. Because she is from Boston, she has a very thick accent that makes in impossible for her to say two of our son's names correctly. Parker is Pakah and Oscar is Oscah.  I guess those accents stay with you forever. 
The last visit she came down with a stomach "bug", this was 4 weeks after I had a baby, had a sick 6 yr old and the weather was horrible. I have tried to block that out of my mind. We bought some
Pepto-Bismol and ever since Jack associates that with Grammie.  This time Pop pop came down with a similar stomach "bug".  Apparently onions wreck havoc on his stomach. That is why I didn't mention that I may or may not have added onion powder to hamburgers I made the previous night..  Regardless, I lawfully love them and they adore the boys. So much so that they are able to find traits of themselves or their parents in each and every one of them.  Finegan has her father's music ability, Jack has Pop pops determination (at 3).  Do I dare mention that they may be individuals with their very own traits?
Rubbish!
Previous to them scheduling their visit, a friend of mine had purchased tickets to a Bret Michaels concert.  I have a little bit of a fetish with Bret Michaels. Granted, it was their last night in town, but hey, I didn't schedule the Bret Michaels Band tour schedule. I did find it reasurring that, they ordered pizza, (naturally, I was gone.)
I met my friend at a restaurant and she had brought along other Bret die hards, the only difference is, is that they loved him in Poison and my fascination began with the Rock of Love (a vh1 original reality show, which by the way was their top rated show of all time). I was pregnant and watched it from beginning to end. Maybe it was the moose tracks ice cream that I ate when watching it, or the raging hormones of pregnancy, but Bret poured his sugar on me. Apparently this feeling is also shared by several other Midwestern women. In fact, an entire smorgasbord of them. I thought that arriving in a minivan to a "rock concert" was cramping my style, but that couldn't touch the faux pas I witnessed . The person who runs the airbrush t-shirt shop must have been very busy that week. We were packed in a nightclub, which temperature must have reached 95 degrees. I was ok with this because of the massive amount of chips and salsa I had consumed. In fact, in the 4 hours I was there, I didn't need to use the bathroom once, (thanks to my sodium intake) which may be a record for me.  The minority of fan's there were in their 20's and the majority were in the 45+ range. That didn't stop them from dressing like they did when they were in their 20's.  We had vintage Bret shirts, Tiny tops,  Bret tattoos (the real kind), cowboy hats with mom jeans, and of course, bandannas.  Apparently I didn't get the memo but Bret must be a boob man.  I came to this conclusion after the copious amount of breasts I saw there. I haven't seen that many naked boobs since I was in a high school locker room, and at least then there was some modestly. Quite the opposite here. Women flashing him, as if he was going to throw beads at them.  Hopefully after the show they can retrieve the bras and underwear they threw at him.  I considered joining the bandwagon but didn't think a  smart nude Bali support bra would be as titillating as a red one, plus I paid a lot of money and its just right fit.
By the time he arrived on stage (2 hours after his scheduled time, thanks to a surprise opening "band") he was very professional, well as professional as a rock musician can be. He said it was his 12th show in 12 days, and he put on quite a performance and left us hungry for more. Except for the fact that I left early...I have lunches to pack, uniforms to iron (ok, lay out) and for the love of God..SLEEP!
 Gone are my old Lollapalooza and Indigo Girl (yes Indigo girls) days, I have matured, but so have concerts.  Back in my day, video recording was discouraged (probably because of the weight of the camera) Today its encourages with cell phones, and as a result, I think it forces performers to bring their A game. There is no better promotion that viral YouTube video.
Part of my job requires me to attend several recitals and concerts but if its possible, it appeared that Bret Michaels was less of a Liberace then most of the performers I encounter. I did not see him wearing a scarf to protect his instrument or downing herbal tea. As he was singing Talk dirty to me, I couldn't help but think of the band members wives, or kids and how they must miss them, and how trust must be a major issue. He is just a guy, but these girls would have done just about anything to ride his tour bus.  I feel compelled to write a thank you note, but even I know how lame that is.
I returned home to find my in-laws waiting and anxious to hear how my "rock concert" went.  I'm glad I was able to add a little bit of outlaw flavor to my mommy white bread persona. I needed a few out-laws to counter balance the in-laws.

Romance redefined

This week is spring break for local schools. This means that I leave my husband and boys home while I go to work.  I fear that I could get used to this and could propose to Don that this become his permanent occupation, knowing very well that he would decline.  It is nice to wake up and only worry about myself, no packing lunches, no forcing children into uniforms, no poop under my fingernails and no listening to the Backyardigan's in the car.  I can actually look like I put makeup on. I went home for lunch and as I opened the already unlocked door to our house I was greeted by no one, not even the dog.  I heard the babies crib aquarium playing music. In the distance I could hear Jack upstairs singing, and in the basement I heard an uproar of laughter.  If this was a crime scene it would have been a slam dunk case for the detective. Breakfast? Cereal and juice. Lunch? Hotdogs with ketchup and mustard.  They must be dressed because there are pajamas scattered across the room.  The baby has had two bottles and half a jar of bananas.   Don emerged from the basement and I could tell by the redness of his eyes and what appeared to be a dip in his IQ that he too was playing Play Station 3. He seemed surprised to see me.  Usually when he is at home and I'm at work he prefers to receive a call to let him know I'm on my way. That gives him about 15 min. to clean the house before I walk in. This time he didn't have that warning.  I reminded him that I could have been a kidnapper or a dingo and just walked into the house and stolen our baby.  *I have been known to be a bit OCD about locking the doors, I can't count the number of times I have locked  Don out of the house when he took the trash out.  It is a must keep the kids on lock down at all times.
But to give him credit, everyone was content and happy.
As we approach our 10th year of marriage I have realized that romance has been redefined.  I have never been one for candle light dinners or carpet picnics by a fire.  But when I was younger I felt that romance involved reservations, a new outfit and roses.
This past weekend we celebrated my birthday.  My birthday is this week, but it is the day before our sons first birthday. I know now that my birthday will forever be an Oscar-eve. And I'm ok with that. In fact,  I was just commenting on how 33 was going to be a good year, only to have Don remind me that it WAS a good year and that I will actually be 34. Wow an entire year gone without my knowledge.  His parents are coming for their bi-annual visit at the extended stay, also known as our house. So he took this weekend as our last chance to celebrate. He arranged a babysitter ( romantic gesture number 1) and cleaned the house. I don't know why we feel the need to clean up for a babysitter, I guess we want to appear to live an immaculate lifestyle, but I don't think we are fooling anyone.
He had worked out all the logistics in order for us to have date ( romantic gesture number 2) He wouldn't tell me where, which later I realized that the only plan he had was to throw out suggestions and look at my expression to see if I thought they were good ones.   Like, "I thought we would go to _________ " (wait for my sour expression) " but then I realized you wouldn't want that and that maybe you would rather go to _______" 
(wait for my neutral expression) " but decided that  I know you would rather we go to _________" (giving me the side eye to see if I approved) once he got the notion of success, he confidently announced that we were going to a local Irish Pub to have beer and listen to a band.  But first, I let him know that I was obligated to go to my bosses house where all my colleagues would be present. He agreed. He even socialized appropriately.
(Romantic gesture number 3) He also was able to politely excuse us early (romantic gesture number 4) something I have a hard time doing and almost always wimp out or just try and leave out the back door.   As we cruised along in the minivan. I looked at my husband, the father of my children. I encourage everyone to just do this, not my husband, but your own significant other.  It sounds simple, but I was surprised that I hadn't actually taken a good long look at him in some time.  Other than his side burns being completely gray, he pretty much looks the same to me. I may be bias, but he really is a good looking guy. I wonder if this is how old people look at each other when they have been married for 70 years?  If you can look past the wrinkles, age spots, and goiters, and just see who you fell in love with in their 20's.
I remembered just earlier that day as I passed the nursery as he was changing one of Oscar's explosive diapers with ease and even whistled while he did it.  I also thought about how he passed a football with Parker and Fin and attacked Jack with a tickle spider. Just the flow our our house that day was romantic in its own right.  When we arrived at the pub he ordered a pale ale for me and although we couldn't hear each other, we were able to communicate with expression.  When I did go to the bathroom, I noticed him checking out my butt (Romantic gesture number 5) and realized that even after witnessing it expanding and contracting with each baby, I can still turn his head.  But even more importantly  was a simple comment that I made about his extremely effeminate glass holding his beer that made him laugh gutturally, humor is one thing that will never fade, the ability to laugh at ourselves or our situation. I hope that as I get older, I will only get funnier,  and I hope that he will still laugh, even if its at his own expense. Getting each other. THAT is romance redefined.

Back to School

Teachers need to be paid more. I'm not just saying that because my husband is a teacher. I'm saying that because I visited my son's school today and I was exhausted after 40 minutes.  Its a sharp contrast between the educators I work with, professors, and elementary teachers,  actually its a alternate universe.  Apparently the extra letters after their name equals $$$. I had a professor tell me that he believes the pay scale is backwards, that elementary teachers deserve the big bucks and professors have it easy. Not that he wants to change that.   Even if you calculated the weekly hours between what my husband puts in to a professor (tenured) does, there is a sharp contrast between 60 and 6...I know, I know during that paid yearoff they are spending hours upon hours "researching"in Vienna . I can also say that because I have family members with Ph.D's and friends for that matter.  If elementary teachers made more however, it may attract a different group all together who would be in it for the wrong reasons.  My husband certainly didn't choose this career because he hoped to make his future grandchildren heirs to a fortune , he chose it because he hoped to help his future grandchildren and other children make a positive future (and possibly a fortune) for themselves.
Even in the short time I was there I longed for the solitude of my office. And a hand sanitizer.
Guilt, and love got me there in the first place. Mostly guilt. Part of my job includes overseeing evening concerts, tonight is one of those times, and it also happens to be my son's 8th birthday.  I already dropped the ball on the cake I promised to make him. Just looking at the ingredients last night sent me strait to the grocery store to buy one. At least they put his name on it, it also gave me a chance to get balloons, always a great distraction, and a pacifier for jealous siblings.
Because I won't be able to have a celebratory dinner, I thought I would surprise him and bring him a McDonald's lunch and sit and have it with him.  Its hard for me to keep surprises to myself, I have been known to divulge Christmas presents before Thanksgiving, but this was a good one. I packed his lunchbox (empty) and told him I would see him tonight.
By 9am this morning his teacher had emailed me and said he was in a panic because he didn't have a lunch or money to get one.  She knew I was coming so she kept the secret and told him he would just need to make do, that I'm sure freaked him out even more, but why was he digging into his lunch box before lunch anyway? When I arrived I hid near the teachers lounge and watched them line up. There I saw my little 8 year old standing in line holding a waffle and looking malnourished. Its hard to believe that just 8 years ago, I was his only food source, not a packaged waffle that a janitor "donated" to him. I peeked my head around and he saw me.  His brother was just walking by with his class and I had to hide because I didn't bring lunch for him. His lunch is at 10:20 in the morning, and McDonalds doesn't serve lunch until 10:30, so a clear dilemma. Plus he doesn't have a good history of having visitors. The last time I chaperoned on a field trip he clung to me like a monkey and wouldn't let go when it was time to depart, forcing me to threaten him under my breath so that other "perfect moms with perfect kids" couldn't hear me.
Once the coast was clear I escorted my visably happy son to the cafeteria.  We sat down on the little round chairs that are connected and began our lunch date.  Its amazing that in just 3 hours he could go from groomed to homeless looking.  The hair I brushed this morning was now parted in the middle, and the side, if thats possible . His glasses looked as if he had let everyone in class put their prints on the lenses. His shirt was untucked, his belt was wrong side out (must have missed that one) and I realized his socks didn't match (another oversight on my part).  As I licked my hand and tried to smooth his hair I was able to get a glimpse of second grade lunch ettiquitte.  For those who pack your kids lunch, they don't eat it.   The freakle faced awkward kid sitting across from us sat with a fruit cup in front of him for 35 min. until he spilled it. The girl next to me opted for the school lunch and was picking all the cheese off of her pizza, the green beans were left untouched.
My son devoured his quarter-pounder and fries, understandable, since all morning he had thought he was going to starve to death.  We sat there not talking most of the time, he did have his hand on mine though. Kids are ok with awkward silences, its not awkward to them.  I asked him who different kids were, he gladly told me and what each of their" issues" were. So- and-so is a whiner, so and so's grandma always has lunch with him etc.  I mentioned where I worked and that sparked a chain reaction that everyone at the table enthusiastically participated in. Oh, my daddy works there, my mommy went there, oh my uncle has a t-shirt from there. Wow, what a coincidence being that it is the largest employer in our town, but I kept my sarcasm to myself.  I noticed a fat little dad having lunch with his daughter, he raised the bar when he went through the lunch line with a tray and had a 2nd grade school lunch.  I couldn't help but think, Dork. Then I realized I was morphing into my second grade self and reminded myself to be nice. I glanced at the wall, they were lined with motivational posters. Like
"respect each other" and "your future is bright".  It must be time to go by now. I was wondering why we were still sitting there and realized that we were waiting until the entire table was quiet.  Did those noisy hulligans not understand that my tush fell asleep 15 min. ago  and I need to wake it up? As much as I love my son, I was ready to return to adultville.
Finally our table got the ok and we were free to go.  I kissed my monkey goodbye and decided to visit my husband (who also was going to get a suprise McDonald's lunch)  I found him hidden in the dark windowless teachers lounge along with an unusual amount of microwaves and a few other teachers seeking adult solitude. As a kid I remember how a teachers lounge seemed like a beautiful childless territory that no child had ever ventured  and your passport to get in was being a teacher.  I felt a combination of giddyness and butterflies crossing the line, (not being a teacher and all). Wow.. I say that with the most sacrasm one could imply, I must have really had an active imagination as a kid.  I looked around and discovered there were also posters on their wall, but these were "a child is a sponge and you are the water" Ok, it didn't say that, but I can't remember the exact saying. It was however motivating them to stick with it, just like the kids posters were. I could think of few good ones that could line my office wall, but I don't think that make motivational posters with swear words.
I also realized that my husband is surrounded by women, just like I'm surrounded by men all day. And gave me insight to not attack him with requests as soon as he walks in the door.
He experiences that all day. One woman is asking him computer advice, another asking him to fix her phone, another asking him to open something.  In my office nobody asks me for help with anything, one because they are men and two they assume I not competent enough to figure it out anyway.
But as with any new experience it gave me a chance to reflect on my day and I have come to 3 very distinct realizations.
1) I could never be a teacher.
2) I'm proud to have one for a husband, and even prouder that he is the father of my children.
3) I should really design curse word motivational posters, it could be very lucrative.

The day I became a mother

My oldest is having his eighth birthday soon, and as excited as I am to have another cake in our house that I can sneak eat after everyone goes to bed, I have also been reflecting on how my life has changed since that day.  He proudly boasts to anyone who will listen that he is the only one of his brothers to come out of my vagina. The problem is, is that he doesn't even know what a vagina is, in fact, he thinks its just the feminine name for a woman's butt. He established this thought in the numerous times he had accompanied me in a handicapped stall as I hovered over the toilet. Even with strict instructions not touch anything he had no choice to visually explore, despite my efforts to tell him to focus on a ceiling light. I remember distinctly on a road trip when his awarness to this difference was loudly announced to the entire truck stop bathroom "ARE YOU PEEING OUT OF YOUR BUTT?! What is that? Is that your hianus? I don't know where the term hianus came from, but up until recently he thought that was the proper term.  Essentially, he thinks he came out of my butt, and I'm not ready to divulge any additional info.
I was 25.  We had been married for 1 year when I found out I was pregnant. I had always envisioned the moment I told my husband we were having a baby would be similar to the "I love Lucy" episode where she surprises Ricky at Club Babalu  and he sings "we're having a baby, my baby and me!!"  It was quite the opposite. I took a pregnancy test. It came out positive. I took the second one immediately following and shockingly it had the same result, 2 bright pink lines.  There wasn't the warm feeling I would have in future pregnancies. It was a little bit more of a sheer panic. I went to visit Don at work, in retrospect not the best place to share the news, but I was not going to freak out by myself.  He was alone at his desk when I told him. He pretty much had the same reaction as I did, except he said. "Um..." and that was about it.
Not like this should have been a surprise, or not welcomed, we had been married for over a year now. It still was not easy to comprehend.  I remember calling my gynocologist immediatly, when asked if it was an emergency I said yes, they asked what it was, and when I explained that I was pregnant, they didn't classify it as an emergency and said to call back in 6 weeks, six weeks? Maybe it wasn't an urgent situation to them, but to me, I thought the entire world should stop. Hello? Does anyone care that there is a growing human inside of me?  Eventually we warmed up to the idea and I was shocked to discover that 9 months is a myth, its actually 10 months, 40 weeks. Little did I know that my bun would cook longer and it would be 41 and a half weeks.  People said I was a cute pregnant woman but after looking at pictures I know they were lying.

My due date came and went and with a little doctor membrane stripping my labor began. We went back home to take a walk. * spoiler alert for first time mothers*
Contractions hurt like a bitch. The most excruciating pain I had ever felt. It felt like some one was giving my fallopian tubes an Indian burn.  I broke out the dumb exercise ball, tried every position and nothing worked.  We timed my contractions and went to the hospital. Once there, as I was lying in my hospital bed. I whispered to Don to come to my bedside and get close by , this is when I gave him my last words...Raise this baby, I'm not going to make it. I'm going to die.
Once the epidural was administered I was a much happier camper and much less dramatic. I'll skip all the inconsequential birth details and fast forward 22 hours later to the first moments I was a mom. It was the best and most unbelievable energetic feeling I have ever experienced. Surreal really. There he was, and in that moment I knew what it meant to give up your life for someone, I would, and just moments before, I thought I was.
We quickly discovered that we knew nothing about parenting. The first night all three of us were crying, sitting on the kitchen floor. " I just (gasp) don't (gasp) know what is (gasp) wrong (gasp) with him"! Don was at a loss too.  I would love to have known that babies have gas, but we had to figure that out on our own, and after a couple of sleepless weeks we did.
Even though its only been 8 years, I find that I have forgotten some of the little milestones. It would only be 17 months of just the 3 of us, before we added another brother, then another, then another. But what I do know, is that every morning when Parker wakes up, I'm excited to see him.  We have grown up together. I didn't realize how selfish I actually was until he came into my world.  He has my sense of humor and Don's empathy. He is refreshingly flawed. He has just the right amount of patience and forgiveness as we were broken into parenting.  He still enthusiatically hugs us in front of his friends. He told me I was the best mommy in the universe..( this was after he told me I was the worst, and that he was running away, but I will focus on the positive.)
So on Friday, we will celebrate the beginning of his life, and in a way, the beginning of mine too.

The epidemic of Birthday Parties

I was a little overzealous with birthday parties for my first two sons. First birthday parties 2nd, 3rd were huge productions. We rented out a place, invited a million other kids and their parents and at least $300 later we are at home with a crabby boy and a million toys that came from the clearance section of Walmart. This year, instead of parties, I decided to focus on the experience of their birthday rather than the party.  For Fin's 6th birthday we took the fam to LegoLand in Chicago, not exactly cheaper, but it was fun. I modified it even more for Parker's 8th birthday celebration and said he could invite 3 friends, (one of which had to be his brother) and we would go to the place of his choice.  After coercing him that he really didn't want to go to Chuck E. Cheeses we ended up at a bowling ally.  Why I believed that 4 pm on a Saturday would be an ideal birthday spot will baffle me until I die.  Parker is at the age where parents just drop kids off, which is good, because I don't have the pressure to entertain adults as well as children.  We had a babysitter for the 2 younger ones because the thought of a baby crawling on an ally floor brings out the germ-a phobe in anyone.  2 adults, 4 kids, do-able.
We purchased wrist bands that would allow them to have access to glow in the dark putt putt, go-carts and bowling.  I put our name in for a lane and I was given the wait time of 2 hours.  A long time, yes,  but we were there to have fun and gosh darn it we were going to. At least that is the lecture I gave Don before we left.  There was quite an interesting crowd at the bowling ally. As Don stood in line with the boys to ride the co-carts I parked myself at a picnic table with our mountain of coats.  I could feel Don glaring at me from the line and mouthed to him to watch our coats while I got a snack for the kids and a diet coke for me.  After the very "enthusiastic" teenager gave me my popcorn I headed back to the table. Only to be bumped by a dad walking around holding a beer.  There is a bar attached to this place.  Isn't there an open container law or some law about drunk men in a kids establishment?  When I decided to stop staring at my popcorn and look around,  I discovered that there were a lot of people carrying beers around as if it were tailgating during football season, except 99% of all the attendees were under the age of 12. By the time I got back to the post Don looked like they had moved about a foot and I motioned to him to come and get some popcorn, knowing very well, he was stuck in the fenced in holding area.
I sat people watching.  I noticed that most everyone there had a cell phone or smart phone and were half paying attention to there kids, that may explain why some little kid ate my popcorn.  I was kind of relieved when he did because I had consumed almost all of it by myself with in 5 minutes and would have finished it off if he hadn't stuck his grimy paw in it.  Just what I needed, sodium overload to make me appear that I'm 4 months pregnant again.
Now that I was feeling fat,  I was the one being cranky, not Don. Especially when he emerged from the line asking where all the popcorn was.
After losing a coin toss Don got to take them black light putt putting. Thankfully, because the last time I was in that area my hair looked like I had just stepped out of the playboy mansion and my teeth are equally vibrant, it is not kind environment for bottle blonds.
I happily held down the coat fort. I couldn't help but notice a very large bald man with manicured eye brows staring at me and when I would look over in his direction, he didn't glance elsewhere, he continued his glare, enough so to freak me out. He also was wearing an outfit that looked like he was on a day pass from prison.  Another observation was in comparison with other moms, I would be eligible for AARP. These woman must have had their kids at age 14.
Finally, our name was called and I lugged the coats over to our second location at lane 6 which was an oasis of normalcy.  I asked what size each boys shoes were and not a single one of them knew, including my own. I got them all size 2 , nobody complained or had blood, so I'm assuming that was a good choice.  I asked Don to go and get the boys sustenance that had some nutritional value, and he returned with nachos. But not the kind with meat and lettuce, the kind with just cheese, from a machine. Bowling and eating with your hands, what could be more sanitary?  After my son's took 1st and 2nd place (WTG, sons) it was time to go home. (Finally) We arrived and our 3 year old was so excited that we were adding two additional boys to our testosterone filled house.   They sprinted upstairs, they sprinted downstairs, this time without their shirts.  They sprinted back upstairs to put their shirts on. I considered opening a bottle of wine, but decided that it would be better until after the parents picked up, just for appearance sake.
I put a frozen pizza in the oven and took the cake out of the fridge.  By the time I called them down for dinner there was sweat dripping from their brows and their faces were pink. I don't think they stopped laughing from the moment they walked in.
After the last boy left I asked Parker what his favorite part of the party was, he said coming home.
So $100 later, all he wanted was to have some friends over to play.
Some of my fondest memories from my birthdays weren't the roller skating parties as much as  the times when my birthday fell on Spring Break and we were on vacation somewhere. In fact, the best that I remember was my 12th birthday and I was alone with my parents in Hilton Head, on the drive down I kept seeing billboards with the picture of Shoney's brownie ice cream bomb and after the 15th one, that is all I wanted. We stopped, they put a candle in it, and sitting with my parents at a dive, on the side of the bipass in a Shoeney's is still one to remember.  Not for another 20 years would I enjoy being alone with my parents again. My adolescence was ending and the  beginning of my teenage years was approaching. My only regret in blowing out the candle on my Shoneys cake is that I would have wished for some mercy for the next 8 years of my awkward teenage phase filled with acne and frizz.
I don't know when the epidemic of elaborate birthday's started, but what it has caused is a generation of spoiled teens, just watch MTV's my Sweet 16 and you will agree.  Perhaps it was an attempt to show your kid how much you loved them by the magnitude of the celebration, a nice gesture that gets lost in the gifts, cake and games. Proof of this is sitting on my kitchen island, which still has two gifts, that have been opened but not played with.
It was the 30 minutes spent with friends that my son enjoyed most, and next year I will know what to give him and it won't risk our sanity, or cost a thing...

If a woman calls out in forest of boys, will anyone hear her?

No, because the definition of sound is "something that you hear." No one is listening when the mom calls , so the mom doesn't make a sound. This answer is valid as long as no details are observed technically. And this seems to be the story of my life. 
It really amazes me that my voice can go undetected in my own home. This is the same voice that has gotten me in trouble so many times when it was heard during church or class. Or in my case sign language 101. I took this class my freshman year of college as a language credit. It was taught by a deaf instructor so as long as she wasn't looking, I thought I could talk to my friend across the room. Wow, I was wrong.
So even a deaf woman can hear me. Why can't my own sons, husband, brother, co-workers hear me?  I sometimes wonder if I have accidentally hit my mute button, a mute button I have yet to discover. When I find out, I will let you know.
I hear them. Something someone never tells you when you are pregnant is that when your child is born your hearing will be supersonic.  I believe that you acquire the hearing function from your husband and deplete him of late night hearing function.. I can hear a baby two rooms away when I'm dead asleep if they happened to mis-breathe, and I know I may have made that word up, but if you are a mom, you know exactly what I mean.
When I was in the hospital the day I had a c-section, I had a panic attack during surgery. It continued past recovery and into my hospital room. They gave me 2 ambian to calm me. I was asleep for 20 min. and my "sleep" was disturbed by my newborn, who I had known for 2 hours, crying in the nursery down the hall.
THAT is supersonic.
Unfortunately, our house has been hit with this stomach bug thing.  Because Jack has had a high fever he has been having nightmares. His cries could probably wake up our neighbors, but not my husband.  Lately, he has been hallucinating also. He was asking for a check mark last night, and seemed really upset when I couldn't produce one immediately at 3 a.m.  By the time I came to him with a juice box straw that somewhat resembled a check mark (the resourceful person I am)  he had already fallen asleep and never to ask for it again.
I also find a way to blame myself that he has gotten so sick. If only I would have breast fed him longer. If our house was cleaner, if I made him wash his hands more, or maybe I should wash my hands longer, etc.  What I do realize (and admit to feeding on) is the attention that I get.  He doesn't want anyone else. If I convince Don to go to his bedside during one of these dreams, he immediately demands mommy and won't settle for anything else.  So as much as I want to sleep, I am flattered that I am the toddler whisperer. 
Even if it is a delirious 3 year old.
As I'm writing this I'm listening to my oldest son with his piano lesson, I can also here the baby whining in the swing because he is over tired and I suspect that the two middle ones, have taken the mattresses of their beds (again) and its only a matter of time before someone screams. 
I have discovered however, that there is one way I can get there attention and that is to not say anything.  I suppose that the sound of my voice has a white noise quality that is their status quo.  But when is stops, the silence is defining.