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. 

Not-So-Great Expectations

I have decided to use my lunch hour and get out of the office. I did this for 2 reasons.  The first being that if I don't get out, I will sit in my office all day long and that is not good for the my butt or sanity.  The second being that if I go home for lunch, I eat whatever is left over from breakfast and lunch and dessert and a bag of goldfish for the road.  So I pack my lunch and ipod and head on over to the campus gym where I walk around a track.
If my college-self would have seen myself in work attire and tennis shoes I would have called myself a tool, but I'm now old enough to not care what anyone else thinks of my "smart"  outfit, and chances are, nobody is.
It gives me a chance to take my mind off of things, listen to music and think. I find my mind trying to figure out "what should I do about ______". This could be in reference to many things, its easy to fill in the blank. Just to name a few of my blanks:

What should I do about a coworker that is evil?
What should I do about Don leaving sock piles next to the bed?
What should I do about money?
What should I do about dinner?
What should I do about so and so's problem they dumped on me?
What should I do about missing the deadline for Jack's pre-school?
What should I do about my life?
What should I do about the boys?

It seems like for a brief moment I have brilliant solutions. But what I realized today is that all of these What should I do's were cultivated in a pot of deep expectations, some of them mine, most of them others.
Why should I expect that every person I work with will be pleasant. Shame on me for assuming that Don would change his sock habit after we got married etc. etc.

I tried to figure out who planted the expectation seed in my head and went back to my childhood.  I tried to find a situation when my parents said " you need to be wealthy, have a perfect husband and child, and life and children." but I couldn't quite recall that conversation.

The truth is, they didn't. Being the youngest, my parents had spent all their expectaion energy on my older siblings and by the time they got to me, I was just expected to NOT do things...like get in trouble, which I must have let them down considerably. So where did they (expectations) come from? Society I suspect.
When it was time to go to college, I set my own expectations and to be honest, I don't think they were very high. Mainly, it was just to have fun and graduate...which I did.

Recently I was having a What should I do about moment with Parker, my 7 year old.  He really enjoys tap dancing.  He is a rule follower and is detail oriented, at least when it comes to dance. A few weeks ago as I was allowed to observe his progress I found a sharp contrast between him and my other son, who is also taking the class.  They were at opposite sides of the line and I could see their faces in the mirror.  Finegan is lets say, for lack of a better description, screwing off, getting some steps, but ad libbing the rest. Parker is right on cue, even with the jazz hands. It was his the expression on his face that had me perplexed. He looked like Popeye. One eye squinting shut, a corner of his mouth open. The other kids had the beauty pagent smile beaming, but not Parker.  I didn't realize why he had this expression until I looked at his instructor's face.  Clearly she had had a stroke or had Bell's palsy and one side of her face was expressionless due to paralysis. Parker was immitating her and I hoped she didn't notice.
Do I fault him for being detail oriented?
Fin is not interested in sports at all, well unless its attached to a wii. Recently, he drew a picture of himself at the age of 100 and he had a long beard and was playing basketball.  My excitment overtook me and I asked if he thought he would be a professional ball player, he said "YES on the Wii!" I would be lying if I said I wasnt' a little worried. But worried because he will not play sports, or worried that my expectations of him playing sports may never come to fruition. Sports were a huge part of MY childhood, not his. 
The reason my parents are so proud of me now, isn't because of what I have, who I married or what I do for a living, its just because I'm happy. I was a happy funny kid and I'm a happy funny adult. I'm true to myself and that was their only expectation for me, which I have proudly met.
 So as of right now, I'm setting my preconceived notions on what boys should or shouldn't be on hold and allowing them to cultivate their own expectations for themselves.  Because who better to hold you accountable to your expectations, that yourself.

When the sprinkles hit the fan.

Friday was dress down day at school, which is a big deal for my uniform wearing boys.  The night before, I laid their clothes out next to their beds (as usual) in the order it will be donned.  I had noticed that Fin had also laid out an outfit. Blue socks, blue running pants, blue shirt, and blue underwear, all a slightly different shade. I disregarded this, but left the shirt for him to wear. The next morning he came downstairs wearing his smurf inspired outfit. I quickly told him to go back up to his room and change. His reaction was slightly more calm than the "leave Brittney Alone" guy on youtube. He was crushed.  This went on for about 30 minutes and as I could still hear his cries as I stood in the shower. I got to thinking, why does his inept fashion sense bother me so much?  Did I feel the control slipping away? Was I that worried the statement of his monochromatic outfit was going to  be a reflection on my style?  When I got out of the shower I told him he could wear the outfit, but I packed a sweatshirt (grey) in his backpack in case he got chilled.
Although this was one small crisis of the morning, something about it had me thinking of it on my walk to work.  I didn't see him planning and executing his perfect outfit the night before. I didn't see him lay it out or his face when he discovered the outfit that I had laid over his outfit, and disregarded.  I thought about what he must have felt when he proudly walked down the stairs and I immediately voiced my disdain for his effort.  No wonder he was crushed.  Just one more thing to add to the guilt rainy day fund.  The one I can dip into whenever I haven't felt guilty for a day or so.
That afternoon I attended a "lunchtime talk" at Jack's school about sibling conflict.  What I found interesting, besides the odd fact that the woman next to me had an only child, is every parent feels that they are doing something wrong. And there is always some kind of book to back that fact up.  What I took away from that talk was that we interfere entirely too much in their sibling crisis' and that we should let the negotiation talks begin before we get all Presidential on them and deliver a verdict or solution. The only problem with this, is that usually it escalates until someone gets bit, punched or kicked in the "tenders".   The psychologist leading the talk was bright, and had sons herself, but her demeanor and mine couldn't be more different. She is calm and collected, I'm... well, caffeinated and crazy, so I'm sure her boys listen to her. I think my voice must hit a certain pitch that gets undetected by all males when it hits a certain pitch of anger.
To make up for my mistake on Friday I decided to do something fun with them this weekend. Saturday, we had company and I was too busy to think of anything, so this morning I decided to take them out for donuts after church.
There is nothing sugar can't suppress in my opinion.
All was good in the world until someone said their donut was bigger than someone elses long john and as Don tried to calm the argument with a definition of circumference vs. length,  anarchy had already set in and although Jack was not part of the discussion he took this opportunity to riot by throwing a sugar packet off the balcony to the people dining below and somehow a donut ended up on my dress. I was clearly practising the technique I had learned and was letting them "talk" it out.
A family with 3 children, who btw, were all wearing stripes, even the parents, were a few tables a way. I glanced at the mother as she glanced at the father, and I could feel the judgement.  I collected my now, sprinkled covered self and wrangled in the boys.  Don  had taken someone down to do our mandatory public restroom poop, and I was alone with 3.  I grabbed everyone, almost forgot the baby, ( I was blinded by the glare of this woman) and went downstairs confidently knowing that my parenting choice to let them fight, was going to be less detrimental than the long time therapy her kids are going to need from the matching stripes.
Those who judge  and are without sins should be the first to cast the first stone..or in this case the first donut.

Scribbles in my notebook

I was recently at the doctors office for what feels like the 15th time this month, so much so that I have read all the magazines, twice.  Today however one cover caught my eye. It was the People magazine with Sandra Bullock on the cover and it read "Woman of the Year".
Really?  Sure, she went through some serious crap, with her tattooed spouse cheating on her, but I don't think that she should be crowned "Woman of the Year" because of it.
Hell, I should be the woman of the year for my husband NOT cheating on me.
I would like to know what the criteria is for this "title".  I'm assuming the thousands of Islamic women who are suffering because they have their genitalia mutilated or millions of other women around the world who are starving, abused, prostituted or worse, just ignored, were not eligible.  According to this, Sandra, a successful wealthy actress who adopted a baby and had a husband, who was a loser anyway, that left her should be admired by all.
Not that I am any different than any other working mom around this great country, but I believe that I could represent that title, respectively. 
First of all, I'm thankful that I am allowed to work.  There are several places around the globe where I couldn't.
Yesterday, I was sitting in an meeting, having a battle with my eyelids to stay open. We had an agenda, and everyone was sitting in a circle.  The meeting was important, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I think these meetings that last 90 min. could be condensed into 20 min. if everyone would just stay on the subject, even me who had collectively 3 hours of sleep prior, due to a dog, a baby and watching " I shouldn't be alive" before I went to bed.  As I started to take notes, I happened to open a page in my notebook that my 3 year old must have also visited some point. It had purple marker scribbles all over it, just this single page, no others.  I sat there looking at the page and my mind began to wonder.  His small art said so much more than even the smartest person in the room.
I tried to continue in the meeting but my mind drifted and my heart hurt.
Its the moments like this that come out of no where. If I were at home and saw this, it wouldn't have grabbed my attention for longer than a couple seconds. But at this moment it was all I could think of.
I wondered what he was doing, if he wondered why I wasn't with him.  If  he was napping, or eating or crying.
In spite of my inner battle between what I believe should be my life and what is, I maintained a professional composure.  Not really different than any other day.
I have heard that being a stay at home mom is one of the most difficult jobs in the world. And I must humbly disagree.
As I work, I am continually torn between the well being of my boys and the well being of my job.  When someone is sick and I can't be at work, I wonder if co-workers think that its pleasurable for me to take a day off to "relax" at home.
In my head, there are battles on either end that I just won't win.
When I returned to work, I went back into the office to have my boss follow me like I never left, I hadn't even shed my coat to return to my working character.
As I put my coat on the hook a little sparkly pink heart fell out and attached to it was a little bite size chocolate. The heart said  To: Mommy from: Parker
He had snuck this into my pocket. It was just what I needed, to know that even though I may question my ability as a mom on a regular basis, that my 7 year old knows enough to make such a thoughtful gesture and restore my confidence one chocolate at a time.

My baby has a mustache

When my first son was born he was perfect. I know most new mothers would think this, but they are delusional,  Parker really was. He had a full head of hair that I had to part for his hospital picture.  I quickly noticed that he didn't really look like a baby, but a small old man in his 60's he even has a dimple in the middle of his chin. He looked less like the Gerber baby and more like the Gerber baby's uncle.  Next came Fin, and although he too was cute, he had a uni-brow.  Parker had big Colin Farrel eyebrows too, but not like Fin's.  By the time I had my third son I was worried that his eyebrow would have taken over his entire forehead and he would look more like a Neanderthal...thankfully he didn't. When our final son was born he could have been a cyclopes for all I cared.
I started doing eyebrow maintenance on Finegan recently.  I know this could get viewed as "controversial" but its not like I'm whitening his teeth or making him spray tan or anything. I just want to keep his eyebrow threat at a blue level and not let it get quite to an orange level..then we would need to hire professionals.   Once a month I ask him to go with me into the bedroom and I close the door, there I have the wax strip and a lolly pop. I put a very small waxing strip on the center and say something funny and rip it off. I also do a little trimming. He doesn't LOVE it, but its done in 2 seconds.  I have the hope that someday the hair will be fine and he won't need to worry about it. See, I'm doing him a favor!  I do not "sculpt" his eyebrows.  I don't think there is anything wrong with a heavy brow. I should know, I have them, my brother has them, and Don if you look at him at a certain angle looks as though 2 caterpillars have set up camp above his eyes.
I mistakenly made the assumption that certain races are hairier than others. I think most would agree that some middle eastern men have thick hair both on their head and body. But would you ever think that a Scottish/ Irish ancestry would produce such little Sasquatches? I know I didn't.
One thing that comes with hairy babies is beautiful eyelashes. They all have thick black spider lashes that stick together when they are wet. 
It wasn't until this winter, when the sun disappears and our skin returns to the pale/olive natural state that I noticed that my first son ( now 7) was sporting a full on stache. Sure its peach fuzzy, but if he continues at this rate he could be Magnum PI by the time he is 12.  His brother not be far behind him as his Gene Shalit sidekick. Its too soon to tell if the younger ones will follow suit but for all I know they could be the next Wyatt Earp  and ZZ Top and last time I checked....those guys were pretty bad ass.
But, as their mommy, I worry that because of their wooly state, they may be get picked on because some kids in kindergarten still have baby teeth and baby hair for God's sake.
Until the other evening something hadn't occurred to me. We were in line at the grocery store. I had taken Parker with me and apparently he had been drinking chocolate milk prior to this and it had to stuck to his upper lip and made the peach fuzz look more like coconut fuzz.  I looked at the teenage bagger, and my son who is only half way to puberty had more facial hair.  He proudly looked at me and said, can you see my mustache even more with the milk I left on it? I love it!
That is when it hit me, he has turned what I thought of as a negative into a mack daddy second grade positive that he is proud of. Enough said.
I can thank Don for this trait, he can think about growing a goatee and by the next day it has appeared on his face.  In our wedding video you can see that his beard progressively started making its appearance from the start of our vows to the time we were cutting our cake, that would be normal except we had an evening wedding. Hey, I take credit too, if I didn't pay a visit to the salon once in a while I too would get mistaken for Frida Kahlo in 6 weeks.
On the bright side, it is something the boys can change if they want to. Its not a goiter, or another type of defect that is permanent, its purely cosmetic, an annoying one but still completely changeable.
It even taught me to hold my tongue. What I see as a flaw is Parker's claim to fame, which will, more than likeley, increase when he is the only 12 year old who can get into bars.

The Elliott boys just may be what this world needs, to revive the (sometimes lost) art of manliness.

What I know about Love.

Every February my brain is attacked with images of Valentines ads and songs and the pressure to wear red and eat copious amounts of chocolate.
As always, I can only base my opinions on the subject of love from my own personal experience so here it goes and in no particular order..
Noah. Adam. Scott. Greg. Conor. Jason. Matt. Mike. Tom. Jon. Chad. David. Gordon. Bruce. Billy. Oliver. Jeremy. Mark. Zach.... just to name a few.
At some point all the above had my complete admiration. My undying love. I had one problem growing up and that was that I completely fell head over heels in "love" with people. Even if it was only for a few days. The down side of that is my heart would completely break shortly after
 a) they rejected me
 b) they said something, something I didn't like
 c) we never actual met because they were on tv.
Marketing companies want to make it appear that if you are in love its all rosy, but my experience is just the contrary. What it doesn't show you is a teenage girl crying in the bathroom stall because her boyfriend let his new girlfriend wear the rugby that I had given him the night prior to school and that was his way of breaking up with her (me).
Or the girl who had to break up with her boyfriend because she suddenly realized one tiny characteristic about him that she could not live with....his mom.
Or the endless fighting over stupid stuff. Or sitting by the phone waiting for him to call, only to fall asleep and wake up with carpet face because he never did.
They show a couple in a remote cabin somewhere watching the rain and when lightning strikes, the guy gives her a heart shaped necklace. I can count on one hand how many times that has happened to me, ok it never has and never will because I would not be able to take the cheesiness of it all.
Cheese, the quintessential  deal breaker. As soon as someone crosses over the cheddar threshold, it can never be taken back. I once had a guy buy me pajamas from Victoria's Secret and they were a sailor theme, with pleated shorts and all.  Now that I think of it, those were kind of cute, but now I am a mom, clearly who they were made for.  Contrary to love songs, I don't think love should be full of agonizing pain. If someone makes you feel bad, then it isn't love.
Cheating happens. My brother once told me something that I have never forgotten. If you love someone it doesn't...period.
That resinated with me. You don't intentionally hurt someone you love. Cheating=hurt, no matter what the excuse.
And that is why you don't see my husbands name in the above list. I didn't know what love was.
I clearly do now.
My gage, albeit pretty simplistic was that I never grew tired of Don, and that is how I knew he was the one. Even at 23 years old. Does he piss me off?  Undoubtably and Repeatidly, but it's not for long. Thankfully our wedding vows mentioned patience, because without that I would have been gone a long time ago. But in all seriousness, when I make a promise I keep it, that is my contribution.
That is romantic love.  Words can't even describe the all consuming love I feel for my boys.  I tell them that they each have complete residency in one chamber of my heart.  Because I only have 4 chambers, I am at full occupancy. I need each one of them.
I wish there were enough guys out there to know that some women just want their undivided presence. That's it. And I wish there were enough women out there to recognize that.   I have been asked a few times if I wish I would have been selected for Oprah's favorite things episode rather than Australia. I can tell you that the Australian experience will be with me for a lifetime. The gifts would have been forgotten in a five years.
 I do not need a single thing on February 14 to celebrate love, certainly not a necklace. What I wouldn't mind however is the house to be clean, laundry put away, so I could curl up on the couch, with a bottle of wine and my men and watch Modern Family.
THAT to me is love.

food for thought

I recently watched an Oprah episode about Vegan's. I watched with caution because when it comes to vegetarianism, I am only one turkey leg away from going all the way. It made sense to me. I have never been a meat lover. I don't eat anything with four legs. That kind of narrows it down to turkey, chicken and fish.  I don't do this because of the animal's rights necessarily, but more because of health reasons.  The woman was very convincing,  but here is my question that nobody asked. How the hell do you expect me to pay for that?  The next time I went to grocery shop I kept this in mind.  Ok. Soy crumbles instead of turkey, I will check it out. It wasn't easy to find. In the mid-west people don't like to see funny food like that and they have it hidden, almost to not offend anyone.  Once I did find it, tucked away in a little dark corner, I was alarmed that it would cost more that double for the same amount of meat. So without hesitation I moved on.
I have a very difficult time keeping my boys full as it is.   I often reflect that I should have known this sooner. The writing has been on the wall. My husband is 6 ft. and 175-180 lbs. This is with no effort on his part. He can consume massive amounts of food and not gain an ounce. My mother often accuses me of starving him.  He credits his effortless figure on my healthy menu in our house, but when I met him he had a bucket of chicken in his fridge just for snacking and he was still pretty svelte. He sneak eats junk, and have found the remnants in the car. Recently he had a ziplock baggie in our fridge with pheasant jerky..which I about threw up looking at it, not because it was unhealthy, but because that is just gross.. I too have an athletic build but if I ate like he did I would be pushing 200 in a month and most of it would be in my face, the one place you can't hide it.
So it should come as no surprise that our off-spring would be little garbage disposal eaters.  We don't have a problem with them cleaning their plate because we can't keep food on it long enough to say that.  30 min. after dinner they are hungry.  I try and fill them with filler foods, pasta, rice, potatoes, cheese, eggs, but nothing seems to curb their monster appitites.  Parker is 7 and as of today he weighs 65 lbs. and us 4 ft, 3 in.  He is not a husky or lanky kid, he is just solid.
I can tell you if I do have meatless mondays, before they even see the plate, they want to know is where is the meat? I have witnessed Parker snacking on ham.  They are carnivores.  Albeit, low fat carnivores.
According to this woman,  a family can be 100% satisfied by being Vegans and I challenge her to come to my house.  Where there is always someone pooping or eating.
Someday I see myself getting a second job or third job (if you include being a mom even though it is not taxed), at Sam's club just to feed my family. I picture a freezer with a cow in it.  A walk in pantry full of potatoes and a chicken laying eggs in the garage.  And a poor tiny little mother sacrificing her free time to feed her babies bellies full.

VEGAS BABY!

Wouldn't you know that our 4th son would be the one that would give us a run for our money.  The one to make sure that he is the opposite bookend of our brood. He is doing everything in his mighty body to make sure that we don't have another baby. I tried to explain to him that it is physically impossible for me to have another baby and he can quit his baby charade....but he insists on being heard. hurd? I can't even decipher which way to spell herd I'm so deliriously weary.
The first quarter of Oscar's  first year was going quite well. He started sleeping through the night around 4 months and we once again coyly patted our selves on the back for a job well done.  Then around the beginning of the second quarter, came  a tooth invasion. This clearly shocked him so he decided to protest this in the middle of the night. And it just hasn't stopped since.  Perhaps he overheard us gloating and wanted to give us a reality check.  He is now almost 10 months old and has slept through the night once since the past 6 months, or half a year ( but who is counting?)  In his defense (because I am his mommy after all)  he has had numerous ear infections and copious amounts of snot flowing out of his head, and explosive diarrhea  but my body and brain don't care what his excuse is.
When I have been to meetings, and we have been asked to go around the room and introduce ourselves and something we like, I 100% of the time say, My name is Noelle and I love to sleep. I respect sleep. Its in my blood. Even in high school I would be sure to get a solid 7-8 hours. I take naps on the weekend. I also have the ability, if given the proper surface, to sleep anywhere. But Oscar doesn't care about my need for sleep. Just to give an example of my evenings, I thought I would give you a timeline of what should be my sleep.

7:30 p.m. We tell the boys its time to go to bed.
7:45 p.m. We tell the boys its time to go to bed.
8:00 p.m. We tell the boys its time to go to bed and turn out the light in the basement so they are forced to come upstairs.
8:15 p.m. They all simultaneously realize that they didn't have a snack and are starving and parched.
8:25 p.m. They have all gone potty, are tucked in with their stuffed animal of choice and by all appearances look like they are going to go to sleep.
8:30-8:50 p.m. in 5 min. increments somebody gets hurt, needs an ice pack, poops, get poked in the eye, falls out of their bed, sees a monster.
9:00 p.m. all is quiet.
9:01 p.m. a cork is being pulled out of a bottle of wine a large glass is being filled.
9:05 p.m. we are trying to wear Oscar out by chasing and tickling him.
9:15 p.m. I feed Oscar rice cereal and say a little prayer that maybe tonight will be the night.
9:25 p.m. I rock him to "sleep"
9:30 p.m. If Don hasn't already started watching a dumb movie, I watch my shows I have dvr'ed.
9:35 p.m. Don is sucked into some dumb show and I decide to go to bed.
10:00p.m. Oscar wakes up. Don rocks him back to sleep.
11:00 p.m. I wake up because Don isn't in bed. I go to check if everything is ok and he is now watching the sequel to the first dumb movie.
11:05 p.m. Oscar wakes up.  Since Don is technically already up,  and he realizes that the movie he has been watching is in fact, lame, he decides to give him a bottle.
12:00 a.m. Oscar is up yet again and I discover that Don is asleep on the couch and the bottle was never really given to him.
12:30 a.m. Diaper change and back to sleep.
2:00 a.m. I get up to go to the bathroom, I check on Oscar to be sure he is breathing and trip over a                stupid toy that starts singing five little monkeys jumping on the bed. Oscar stirs. I stand like a statue and hope that he will go back to sleep. He doesn't.
2:40 a.m. After rocking myself to sea sickness I'm back in bed and discover that Don has taken it over.
I find a square foot to sleep in and fall back to sleep.
4:00 a.m. Oscar is awake and pissed off.  I hit Don shoulder and he pretends he doesn't feel it. I then take all the covers off of him and explain that I was not the one to fall asleep watching a stupid movie and that by now he should know how much sleep I haven't had and it is his turn to get Oscar. He mumbles something about the mortgage and goes into the nursery.
5:00 a.m My alarm goes off  for my morning work out and I hit snooze.
5:01- 5:10 a.m. I berate myself about not working out and realize that I will gain 5 lbs. because of this.
5:10- 5:30 a.m. I have some weird ass dream about a Mexican midget.
5:35 a.m. I hear Oscar squeal. I get up quickly and discover that in an attempt to help him sleep and be less congested, Don has elevated the head of his crib and as a result of this he has rolled to the bottom and is stuck. I re-position him.
5:40 a.m. I'm really irritated with Don and go back to bed and tell him it is 6:00. Its not, but I don't care. With him out of the bed I may get an entire 30 min. uninterrupted.  He believes me and gets in the shower.
6:30 a.m. Jack is telling me that he wants a cereal that we ran out of yesterday.
6:30 -7:30 a.m. I get ready, get everyone else ready, listen to the boys argument that school should be cancelled. Don and I are arguing about who used the last spelenda and Oscar is still asleep and will continue to sleep until its time for us to leave.

At some point this dam of a mother is going to crack from the pressure of fatigue. Until then I will accept that my baby is destined a career in a casino in the city that never sleeps.