ThompsonClan6

Date Night and Guns...

2003-12-16T10:24:00.000-05:00

“Okay; the dangly ones or the studs?” My sister-in-law responds favorably to the silver with pink stoned earrings. “The dangly ones it is!” I rush off to my bathroom and finish tweezing my eyebrows – the curse of my Eastern European heritage. Furiously plucking away I reflect, “Is it any wonder I feel as if I need to howl at the full moon?” With a clear path now running from my nose and forehead, I continue priming with the rest of my cosmetic arsenal. I step back to better scrutinize my countenance, “Well, this is the best it’s gonna get.”

Turning out the light and towards the cheval, I check the long view. Black slacks, dark gray turtleneck and black boots – a line from one of my estrogen baring children’s favorite Disney movies, Cinderella pops into my head, “It’s kinda old, but it’ll have to do.” My sister-in-law tries to boost my plagued by too many stretch marks ego, “You can’t go wrong with a classic look. You look great!” “Isn’t this stupid? I feel like I’m going out on a first date? It’s been so long, I really have forgotten how to act,” I tell her as I cinch my belt a little tighter.

The last time my husband and I went out, without our four children, was our anniversary back in August. We did the usual dinner and a movie. As it turned out, we had dinner that didn’t quite agree with me - two grocery stores and a Dunkin’ Donuts bathroom stop later, we were on our way home. We bagged the movie. My sister-in-law reassures me that, “It’s understandable, but you guys really do need to get out more often.”

No joke! Maybe since she’s staying the night and maybe since the kids are all healthy and adore their aunt and just maybe since we haven’t had “private time” in such a long time, maybe we’ll sneak away someplace romantic and private this time.

My husband and I collect our oldest from a birthday party and drop her off at home before heading off to our grand adventure. I find myself feeling warm and cozy and suspect that the half glass of red wine I sipped “just to get the edge off” during dress rehearsal had something to do with it. I drop enough hints that would set my mother-in-laws cheeks a blaze....I don’t want to be a mommy tonight. I want to be wined, I want to be dined and I want to be, well, wanton – damn it!

Dinner was great and the company was even greater. My husband works with a group of women who apparently are in the same place ecumenically speaking because it got pretty darn raunchy. We were, shall we say, loud and drawing some amused and some not so amused stares. Husbands were teasing wives; wives were teasing husbands; husbands teasing husbands, etc… Good, I think. If he doesn’t get it tonight, he’ll never get it – get it!?!

After wishing everyone well and a very Merry Christmas indeed, my husband and I begin the trek back to our car some many blocks away because it is Saturday night and it is freezing. I’m, however, feeling quite toasty and wrap my arm around my husband’s waist. “Wasn’t tonight just fantastic? We needed this, didn’t we? I’m feeling so good right now! I’m feeling really, really good right now!” My husband turns toward me and gives me a sweet kiss, “That’s great hon. I’m glad you had a good time.” He starts the car and I must have been rambling and totally unawares because the next thing I knew, we were pulling into our driveway. “Hmmm, the house is dark. You think maybe they’re asleep?” I don’t answer him. I can’t. I’m totally dumb-founded and totally not sure how I should take the snub to my libido. We did have a wonderful time. I just didn’t think it would be over so soon, so early and so not disheveled.

The next day, yesterday, I took my four children for their annual Christmas shopping for each other. My seven year old daughter wants to buy my four year old son a gun. After much debating and further lecturing on the evils of hunting for sport, he convinces me that, “C’mon Mom, can I get the gun? It’s only for pretend.”

We’re waiting on line and my son is literally beaming from ear to ear. I feel a pang of guilt. I know it’s a toy and I know that even if we didn’t buy the darn gun, he’d just build one with legos or something. I still feel the need to press my opinion and say, “Now, you know that once you shoot something, it hurts very badly and most times it will die and never come back again.” With a very straight face, he nods and says, “Oh yeah, don’t worry Mom, I won’t hurt any animals. Oh boy, I can’t wait to go home and shoot my sisters!”

It was obvious that the previous night’s snub was still on my mind when I quickly counter with, “After you’re done, can I borrow it to shoot your Father?”

Now I Remember Why I Don't Eat Brown Rice!

2003-12-12T14:46:00.000-05:00

Now I Remember Why I Don’t Eat Brown Rice!

Now I remember why I don’t eat brown rice. It’s got this funky kind of chewy, fibrous texture – what I imagine a great big bowl full of soggy cardboard sprinkled with a little softened gravel would taste like. I’m choking it down while I sit here and take advantage of a very rare occasion – my 2 and 4 year olds have fallen asleep.

My 4 year old son is napping in the living room; his blond curly head is sticking out from the red checkered fleece throw and he seems lost among the throw pillows of our oversized sofa. My 2 year old daughter was more than happy to oblige my not so subtle hints of, “Hope my love – you need a little nap,” countering with her own, “No, Hopey take a big one nap!” I laid my little mini me down in her girly hued crib and gently pulled her favorite pink and purple quilt over her shoulders. “Mommmmmeeee kiss Lovvvveeeey!” Oh, after kissing her lovey, of course.

Cough-Gag-Cough…man this stuff stinks! I should have gotten a drink while I was in the kitchen; sorry about that.

It was after one o’clock and I became a little hungry. I scanned my refrigerator for some healthy sustenance and wasn’t rewarded with much of a choice. “Let’s see…Cool Whip, Ready Whip….I sense a trend here. Maybe I could whip up something using half of an onion, ¼ bag of grated cheese and a flour toritilla?” I pondered the boring possibilities and come to the conclusion that I would have to bite the bullet and make a run to the grocery store sometime soon.

I checked our freezer and pantry only to find that we were stocked to the gills with what my four children, and I suspect most children, consider to be the major food groups: Chicken nuggets, hot dogs, mac and cheese, peanut butter, jam (grape not strawberry!) and any sugared cereal associated with a really cool commercial on TV. I guess I should further include basically anything off the kids’ menu at Friendly’s. Oh, and pizza. Not just any pizza and God forbid it is frozen pizza – it has to be Enzo’s pizza.

I push aside the close to empty gallon of milk and find a covered pot from last night’s supper. The Girl Scout Moms where gathering for a “meeting” at The Court Jester last night, which was then to have turned into a “dinner meeting”. I whipped up something from the adult menu for my husband – pork tenderloins, carrots and brown rice. I had to use the brown rice. It’s been sitting there and there are so many starving people in this world. Besides, he bought the darn bag in the first place. I wasn’t surprised to the find most of the brown rice still visible. Obviously, the word was out and my husband got the message loud and clear.

“Oh well, I had that huge burger last night and those sweet potato fries were really sweet,” I think to myself as I quietly warm the rice over a low flame and look for a clean fork. “MMMmmm – doesn’t smell so bad.” My mood begins to lift. This may actually be pretty good. So healthy – so non-guilt! I take the pot over to my computer table and place it to the left of my keyboard. I find the heat of the pot pleasant and think to myself, “This is not bad at all.”

I fork up a bite and – Yuck! - Now I remember why I don’t eat brown rice. The phone rings and it’s my sister-in-law confirming our weekend plans. She suspects that my little ones are sleeping made evident by my low-keyed and muffled demeanor. I don’t bother to tell her that I have a wad of brown rice squirreled away between my cheek and gums.

I wish her a safe trip, gently place the receiver back and look for a respectable place to rid myself of my organic burden – all the while wondering if there was any Miracle Whip left in the house.

Top Ten Signs That I Probably Need To Slow Down...

2003-12-11T11:25:00.000-05:00

I’ve been betrayed by my body! Rather than be greeted by the joyous sounds of my children waking or the beautiful sounds of the birds singing the praises of a glorious winter morning full of sunshine and promise - I found myself waking to the bitter pangs of a nasty migraine.

I haven’t had this type of corpuscle exploding, mind shattering and bring you to your knees kind of headaches in a very long time. I suspect that my terrible eating habits, lack of sleep and ingesting huge amounts of caffeine related products was an act of betrayal on my part – alright, I’ll say it…down right neglect. I refuse to say it was stupidity, because I was very much aware of the how's and why's, I just chose not to do much anything about rectifying my habitual physical self-abuse. “I don’t have the time. I don’t have the patience. I don’t have the extra money. I know I have four kids to take care of for gosh darn sake,” would be my answers of choice whenever my husband would attempt to steer me onto the path of self-awareness and good health.

So, wham, bam, thank you ma’am, did I pay for it yesterday. I remember shaking my husband awake and that it was still dark out. I remember being reduced to weeping and telling him, “Bad migraine, 3 Advil please!” I don’t much remember anything else - no lie! I remember downing the Advil with some sort of cold beverage. I remember my husband asking me something about my Father and things pretty much faded to black after that. The next thing I knew, it was 4:00 p.m and my husband was checking in on me.

I saw an empty container of yogurt on the nightstand beside my bed, but don’t remember eating it. So, I suspected that my body did a total systems shut down and I then I became very disgusted with myself. I should have known better. I did know better. I just chose to ignore all the warning signs of an oncoming physical breakdown.

Thank God for my husband who had to resort to taking a portion of his work day off; he took my two oldest and the neighbor’s kid to school with my two youngest in tow; he took my two youngest to the bank and treated them to Burger King while he got some work done; he took our 4 year old on his field trip with our 2 year old in tow; he performed drop-off and pick-up duties at both the preschool and elementary school and even found time to make dinner. The poor guy was snoring by the time The Lettermen Show aired, deservedly so. I sat in my oversized chair, feeling angry at myself for wasting an entire day. I guess maybe I would have felt less miserably guilty if I were throwing up and feverish as well. Maybe. I don’t know. But I do know that it is a sad state of affairs when I, a Mom, feel guilty for being sick.

So, there I sat and muddled through watching the funny and the sometimes not so funny musings of David Lettermen, when I was inspired to create a Top Ten List of my own.

Top Ten Signs That I Probably Need To Slow Down

#10 – I can’t commit to anything before consulting four different calendars.
#9 – I am taking a shower, brushing my teeth and shaving my legs all at the same time – if I remember to, that is.
#8 – While driving, my children remind me to, “Slow down – you’re gonna crash us!”
#7 – During a conversation, I can’t finish a single thought without going onto the next .
#6 – I break another vacuum cleaner because, “It just can’t keep up with me.”
#5 – I demand that everyone, “For God sake, stop and let me do it!”
#4 – I leave the house wearing my slippers – again.
#3 – Everything out of my mouth ends with the words, “Damn it.”
#2 – I kiss my husband "hello" and "goodbye" at the front door, running off to another meeting or support group of some sort.

And finally, the #1 sign that I need to slow down is… I see stars and it’s not even night time, damn it!

Cheese Doodle and Chicken Heads, Unite!

2003-12-09T10:57:00.000-05:00

I love living on the East Coast. I love the change of the seasons. I love the crispness of a winter’s day, prime for banana bread baking and hot chocolate sipping. Thanksgiving and Christmas are my favorite holidays. Yep, I love winter.

I’ve rediscovered an exception – “Come on, people! Shovel your gosh darn sidewalks!

I found myself feeling quite irritated by the time I got home from dropping off my two elementary school children this morning. Let’s just say that by the time I hit the garage door opener, I was censoring myself – big time - since my son said the “S” word the other day after he didn’t like the picture he drew of Santa Clause and said, “This looks like “S”. Back to my censored tirade, “I can’t believe how flipping lazy people can be! What, anything over 4 inches is just too much for ya'? I almost hit that chicken head walking on the gosh darn road, because of cheese doodle heads who won’t shovel their blessed walks.”

Still mumbling something about not having the time to be lazy, I set my little ones up with crayons, pencils and paper asking them to, “Please make Mommy a Christmas picture while Mommy does a quick chore and then I’ll make you guys your toast, okay?” (Note: They had their first breakfast 30 minutes ago) Lucky for me that they are all too used to hearing my “quick chore” request and settle in comfortably at their workbench.

I enter my laundry room/play room/Daddy’s football viewing room, and quickly smell, sniff-sniff, something not very pleasant coming from my bedroom area. “Well, I gotta go there to get the laundry basket….” I hesitantly shuffle my way past the space heater (Who knew slate floors would get so gosh darn cold?) and into the household weigh station disguised as my bedroom. Shopping bags full of perspective Christmas gifts, perspective Christmas crafts for the kids, the vacuum cleaner that doesn’t work, and the early described loads of laundry. Sniff. Sniff. I immediately remember what I reminded my husband to do this morning, which he forgot to do last night. Clean the cats’ litter box. It reeks of feline maleness.

I pull the box out of its corner and now face the, well, once too many times used scooper. Further use of some potty words later, I bend down to grab the bleach and cannot ignore the overflowing trash can. I take the bathroom trash can out into the kitchen and empty it into the now overflowing kitchen trash can. I stop and change the kitchen trash can and take it to the outside trash can. I come back into the house and realize that I’ve added a big ole’ wet spot in the hallway floor now primed for little feet to slip on. I grab a couple of paper towels and sop up said wet spot. I go to throw the kitchen towel away, but first have to replace the trash bag. No trash bags. More potty words later (censored ‘cause little ears are within range again) I throw in a paper bag for the moment and allow myself to become so beyond irritated, I forget what the heck I was doing in the first place, but remember why I make a point of doing them right away, because my mind has turned to mush after years of Barney the Dinosaur abuse.

Oh yeah. Cat litter. Clean, deodorize and refresh cat litter and scooper. Now I have to get the vacuum that does work…back out in the garage. I vacuum. Ah, done. Nope, now I cannot help but notice a clear path of rug leading to the cat litter trail. I finish with the rug, hoping that vacuuming only the “exposed” areas of the rug saves me from being a total lunatic.

Back to laundry. I do a bait and switch and notice that it is now 10:00 a.m. and I still haven’t had my second cup of coffee or breakfast. My little ones are done with their pictures and I see that my littlest one managed to find the safety scissors and proceeded to cut “snow”. All over the living room rug. I rub my left temple and calmly ask for the safety scissors. Then, I stand there. In the middle of the orange snow covered living room rug, considering my next move.

My 2 year old construction paper guru stomps back into my line of sight – naked. Rubbing my right temple, I ask her, “Now, why are you naked?” She begins to dance, “Hopey has to go potty. Mommy help me, please!” I grab her and double time it back to the bathroom where she promptly does her business, in the potty! She purposefully got my attention. She told me she had to go potty. I am shocked. I am amazed. I am much relieved.

We do the potty dance and I can’t help but laugh myself out of irritation when I hear her begin to sing, “Go Hopey. Go Hopey. Did poopy. It’s your birthday. It’s your birthday.”

Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m going to make some celebratory toast, slathered with butter and jam, and have my second cup of coffee in the pleasant company of my four and two year old children, while I mentally begin to compose a letter to my town, asking them to crack down on some shovel phobic chicken heads!

The Big - Not So - Easy

2003-12-08T14:36:00.000-05:00

My Father and I have shared a tradition since my second pregnancy, almost 8 years ago to the day. Initially to try and walk another little tax deduction out before the end of the year, but later more so for the private time I get to share with my Father. It is what I’ve come to call, “The Big – Not So - Easy”. The search for “just the right present” for my Mom. I systematically marked the date of December 1st with “Apu Xmas Road Trip”. He is mankind’s answer to Old Faithful. I, however, have learned to adjust to my four children’s schedule(s), especially during cold and flu season.

December 1st came and went. My parents stopped by last night to “get some fresh air” and braved the lousy traffic and even lousier road conditions just to drop off some of my Mother’s home made chicken soup. “The kids would miss the soup. Besides, the roads are fine. We’ll be fine.”

This is the usual response I get when exhibiting my concern for their health and/or well being. I can’t help it if I leave them feeling helpless, useless and all around less than the people I remember them to be. I guess my concern has morphed into down right distress – adding to my already full plate of neuroses with anxiety on the side, please. Experiencing the death of my Grandmother last October, a few months after the death of my Uncle, and my sense of loss is down right palatable!

We rescheduled for today and my Dad was knocking on my front door at 8:25 a.m. He’s already been witness to the confusion, stress and all around juggernaut of a typical school morning. So, today was no different and I felt comfortable placing a mug of coffee in front of him and continued my role as Monday Morning Maniacal Mom…

I return to the kitchen to check on Dad. I didn’t want the children making him nervous, especially my precocious and epitome of a two year old daughter. After all, my poor father retired over a year ago and has gone through a total knee replacement (on the exact date of his retirement), a gall bladder attack on the eve before heart surgery, heart surgery twice, gall bladder surgery once recovered from said heart surgeries, eye surgery and another eye surgery scheduled for next week. If anyone deserves a little break, he’s the man.

Nothing unusual is happening – he’s surrounded by all four of my children. Oh man, Heather is in his lap and crying on his shoulder. I drift back a bit and observe….

He’s speaking softly in his wonderful Hungarian accent (when reading, just think Bela Lagosi), “Don’t worry honey. I miss her, too. You shouldn’t be mad at God for taking Mamama. But, you are very lucky. All of you are very lucky. Do you know why? Because, you have all four Grandparents here on earth. And we love you very, very much. We have to live for who is around us. I never knew two of my Grandparents and lost my Grandfather, who I did know and loved very much, when I was a little boy. I miss him, but he’s really not gone. I’m 66 years old and I’ve kept him locked away in my heart for 60 years. No one can take that away from me. I still get sad. (My Father is choking up now and I am tempted to intervene, but I don’t dare…) When Mamama was very sick, and I know you remember when she was in the hospital, I asked God to take Mamama. She wasn’t happy. She was hurting. And God answered my prayer and took Mamama to heaven to become what she was here in life. An Angel. So, the next time you feel angry at God, angry and your brother or sisters or angry at your Mom or Dad; remember that our job is to love each other now, while we are all here together.”

My Father takes a deep breath and asks, “Who wants to go to school?” They all laugh and I enter into the fun…after kissing my Father’s balding head, of course.

Home from a very successful shopping trip at the mall, I sit with my Father once more and share another cup of coffee and some more conversation. I kiss him good-bye and remind him to drive safely. I close my front door and lean my head against the glass, “Oh, and thank you Apu. Thank you for making The Big – Not So - Easy part of life, that much easier – and fun.”

Shows, Trains and Automobiles

2003-12-07T23:53:00.000-05:00

Along side the “24 Days Until Christmas” and the “27 Days Until Heather’s Birthday” you’ll find the “4 Days Until NYC” countdown – December 5th being the day we take our three oldest children to see the sights and attend a Christmas show.

The closer we got to the NYC date, the more wound up our three oldest children became. Glen let the cat out of the bag during supper the night before, “I can’t wait to go on our train ride tomorrow! Can you believe we’re going to New York City to see a show and the Christmas tree!?! Hopey, remember when we watched them light the tree on television the other night? Oh, yeah. Hope, you can’t go. We’re going to New York and you can’t go, ‘cause you’re too wittle!” Hope may only be two, but she got every word of “You Can’t Go”. It wasn’t pretty. Hope crying at the kitchen table, Glen crying in the time out chair and me in hopes that I will get through this holiday season alive, for crying out loud!

The day arrived. Friday morning, Glen was so excited that he woke up, came downstairs and into our bed and asked, “Is it time to go to New York City?” I peeked from under my eyelids and saw that it was still kind of dark, “No buddy, put your head down. You could stay here and sleep with Momma before the alarm goes off.” We snuggle in and I breathe a sigh of relief because I didn’t get to bed until midnight or so, and I needed at least another hour of down time. Just as I nestled deeper into my pillow, “Beep, Beep, Beep, bloody Beep!”

I was ever so proud of us – 8:00 a.m. and we’re actually minivan ready. We always seem to run late… Grandma and Grandpa arrive at the precise agreed upon time and we head off to the train station. I can’t seem to get Hope’s pleading out of my head, “Hopey go with you, Momma! No, Hope no stay home, Hopey go too!” It broke my heart, but I know that, in the long run, taking a 2 year old into the city during the Christmas holidays would have been equal to asking for a heart attack, please.

The train ride went without a hitch and we got into Penn Station right on schedule, with an hour to kill. A quick visit to Dunkin’ Donuts and I was ready to rock. Then the snow hit. It came out of nowhere and accumulated just as quickly. I said a silent prayer and hoped for the best. The show was great. The crowd was not. We came out into the gray day and bundled up our crew for the long walk from 33rd street to 50th street. Around 49th, I lost the feeling in my toes, my eyebrows and lashes were caked with snow and I pretty much knew I looked like a total sissy…stuck in the suburbs for too long. That’s when my husband goes, “Oh, oh. I made a mistake. You know how I said the restaurant was on 50th?” I attempt to shield my face from the horizontal falling snow and say, “MMmmm” ‘cause my lips and lower jaw are frozen solid. “Well, it’s actually on 57th!”

Five minutes later, I attempt to get the blood to run back into my lower extremities while listening to the wonderful musings of a New York City taxi driver.

We arrive at our culinary destination and the food was actually really good – expensive, but really good. The kids had a great time and are begging for another taxi ride home. We settle for the nearest subway station and I soon remember why I hate going into the city during the week, during the Christmas season and especially during rush hour. The crowds, quite frankly, sucked. I had to thrust my body between Glen and Heather to save them from being pulverized by one umbrella toting, briefcase reeling, cell phone dialing and totally oblivious to what’s around him/her commuter after another. I soon found myself feeling very claustrophobic and blurted out, “What is wrong with you people? What are ya’, a bucha animals? We got kids walkin’ here! The last line being said in total New York fashion and ignored just as fashionably.

“Oh my God! I can’t believe how much snow fell!” Looking out of the windows in our express train home, my husband and I were stunned. “It didn’t look this deep in the city. Better call Dad and check in.” We come to learn there’s about 6 inches or so waiting for us at home. Dad braves the snow and arrives at the station the same time our train does. The place looked like a winter wonderland, but my festive trance is quickly broken with a motorist yelling at one of the freshly disembarked commuters, “Ya’ better move it or I’ll slide right into ya’!” Happy holidays to you…

Once in the minivan, I ask my father-in-law, “So, how it go with Hope?” He gave me a weary sideways glance and answered, “Hope was Hope.” I think to myself, not good. He fills me in, “It was a typical day – she jammed a tape in the VCR, locked up the computer a couple of times and spilled somebody’s cranberry juice on the quilt on your bed.” I nod in sympathy but still can’t help in thinking, “Well, that’s not too bad. It could’ve been worse. We could have gotten stuck in NYC.”

You Should Write A Letter!

2003-12-04T23:06:00.000-05:00

This past Tuesday morning was like any other Tuesday morning at my house. The children are either gathered around one of two televisions or at the kitchen table enjoying a bowl of cereal and listening to our favorite morning radio station WPLJ 95.5 or both.

The morning show with Scott and Todd runs a series every Tuesday called, Beat The Brucer. Brucer is one of their producers whose name happens to be, you guessed it, Bruce(er). Brucer, I mean, Bruce has the reputation of having his head filled with all sorts of trivia type things. On Tuesdays, one can attempt to outwit Bruce and win a trip to some island somewhere. Apparently, he's good. Real good. His current record is 69 wins and only one loss which happened just a few weeks ago. The guy is a Savant.

Back to this past Tuesday, Bruce was whipping yet another would be Savant's butt. The poor guy asked for a question worth 1 point (they are worth 3, 2 or 1 with 3 being the most difficult). The questions was, "What is the largest desert in the world?" Without hesitation, the guy answers, "The Sahara!" Scott and Todd announce, "You're right!", to which Holly whips her head around and yells at the radio, "NO! No, you are wrong! The correct answer is Antarctica. A desert is any landform that gets less than 10 inches of water! They made an error!" Spoken like a true Thompson! I stink at trivia, unless it's anything related to the movies or television, but seem to remember helping Holly study for a test that had the same question. "By gosh, you're right Holly. You should write a letter!"

My new kick has been, "Feeling like you're getting screwed? You should write a letter! Wrong in some way? You should write a letter! Unhappy with the world in general? You should write a letter!" Holly's English class has been studying the correct way to compose a letter and one of her assignments was to pick a company that they would like to write a letter to. Holly didn't hesitate with her choice...Burger King. She's been annoyed with BK since the summer. She orders the same "plain" double cheeseburger and has gotten a "fully loaded" double cheeseburger the last three times we've gone since then. "I'm writing Burger King!" The benefits of living in a capitalist/Democratic society....I'll get the pen.

Imagine her surprise, and mine for that matter, when Burger King actually responded with a letter of apology, $5 worth of Burger King Bucks and a complimentary ticket to something I just can't remember now, but it excited the heck out of Holly. Her sister Heather was annoyed, "Oh man! That's not fair. Holly got all that stuff!?! I'm writing a letter to McDonalds!" I try not to laugh and quickly explain how that is just not how it works, etc....

"Better yet, send an email. I have their email address!" Holly is hesitant at first, wondering whether Scott or Todd or Bruce would be angry. She decides to set the record straight. She composes a very sweet letter introducing herself, her school, her teacher's name and the error.

We really didn't think about it much after that until Wednesday afternoon when a friend of mine at school during pick up excitedly says, "We heard Holly's name on the radio this morning!" I grabbed the sides of my face in disbelief! I missed it!?! How could this be? Then the realization that Holly must have missed it as well. Oh man, the disappointment is going to be great. How should I handle this? I was pissed, so Holly's going to be livid. I'll watch for her and see what happens.

The next moment, Holly bursts through the school doors and in the most animated I've seen her, ever, says without taking a breath, "A teacher in the teacher's lounge had Scott and Todd on at 7:30 a.m. and they heard Mr. B's name mentioned and they got my letter and they said my name and they said that I was right and the teacher ran up and told Mr. B. and I said that I did send it and yes I did tell them that they were wrong and everybody in my class couldn't believe it and asked that when I get rich if they could borrow a million dollars and then the other people in the hallway hear it and can you believe it? I'm famous!"

I am so proud of my little girl who now I fear we've turned into a poison penned monster. I also fear for any and all business or service related establishment either in the past or immediate future that Heather comes in contact with!

It's Just The Little Things - Really!

2003-12-03T14:48:00.000-05:00

It’s just the little things that can drive me to the brink of insanity. To that bad place somewhere in between an anxiety attack and going absolute ape sh*t over what are just the little things, really. I’m thinking of changing my name to Sybil. Ooops, I am dating myself as Baby Boomers will understand quicker, unless you’ve seen the movie during a late, late, late version of the late show. In summary and for the benefit Generation Xers, I find myself suffering from a multiple personality type disorder when all is said and done.

I often say to my husband, “You just can’t imagine how many little fires I put out during the course of a day.” I can’t say that he hasn’t got a clue, because it’s not unusual for him to walk through the front door at the end of the day and find his four children in various states of emotional, mental or physical anguish and me hanging to the ceiling by my fingernails, ready to pounce with the slightest facial or verbal gesture of an unsympathetic nature.

Last night we were at the precipice of Hell itself. I was scheduled to work my four year old son’s preschool, which normally is quite a pleasant experience. My 2 year old daughter was in a good mood, much to my relief and, I trust, to my babysitting in-laws as well. My four year old insisted on wearing his new Spider Man snow boots because we had maybe 10 snowflakes stick. His snow boots on, I then do my own insisting that he wear a hat. Now, this may seem very mundane to anyone who has children living, staying or visiting in their house during the winter months. This, however, is Glen. He can be very difficult in most anything that requires a decision. This somewhat selective (okay, picky) trait, as well as his good looks, he gets from his father. Enter in my mistake, numbering now in the thousands, of suggesting he wear his hat from last winter. “Nooooooo. I hate that hat!” Enter in a total and unreasonable melt-down which has now made us late for our helper status arrival time.

We made it to school and he’s not wearing the hat, but we’ve made a compromise with a hooded sweatshirt underneath his winter coat. I am both relieved and yet hindered by the fact that half his class is feeling just as anxious when given the choice of using crayon or chalk on the craft project I am supervising. Poor little K. just about went ape sh*t (Sorry, I seem to have an affinity for that phrase today) when I helped her write her name. She told me that she couldn’t write it and asked that I help. It was very apparent to me and the whole class that I had committed mistake number thousand-something with her screaming, “I wanted my name on the top of the paper, not the bottom, you moron!” Mrs. G., with a calm and reasonable manner that can only come from years of working with children who have gone ape sh*t, explained she could certainly come back in 5 minutes and use another piece of paper if she’d like. I, on the other hand, felt as if I wanted to slap the sh*t out of little K.

Many 4 year old moods later, I was happy to be home and dealing with my, what briefly feels like much fewer in numbers, four children. It’s a Girl Scout night. HM will have to rush through homework, wolf down dinner and if the Gods of Motherhood are with me, her Dad will get home in time to run her to the meeting – saving me the trouble of bundling up three other very unwilling children. At the girls scout meeting place, I walk my four shivering and dazed by yet another rush out the door (no, Dad didn’t make it and, quite frankly, won’t ever get a chance to make it if he keeps this up). I am certain I look every bit as frazzled as I felt at the moment and I leave chanting, “He better be ….got to go food shopping….thinks I’m taking the baby tomorrow…..another thing coming!” A friend of mine and I make the universal “I am on my last nerve” eye contact and I rush back out into the cold while making a mental note to remind my husband to let the cat, which ate one of the Christmas ornaments and was leaving little packages of his own all over the house, out of our bathroom.

Back home again and an hour before pick up, my husband walks through the door and finds me, well, remember four paragraphs back? I give him the baby, grab my keys and quickly say, “You’re late. HM at girl scouts. Going food shopping. Got list. Will get HM on way back. They ate.” Rushing through Shoprite somewhere in between the diaper and cleaning product aisle, I realize that I’ve forgotten to mention about the cat. I finish loading the last bag at precisely the time I should be picking up HM. I race over to the meeting place and was happy to learn I wasn’t the last of the parent pickup crew. A friend of mine’s husband made a very characteristically witty and empathetic attempt at casual banter by saying, “I can’t believe YOU are so late!?!” I turn my head faster and probably uglier than that of any Exsorcist I scene and respond, “Oh, Shut Up!” Sybil kicks in and I quickly follow by saying to his daughter, one of HM’s very good friends by the way, “Now, of course you know I was teasing Daddy and that you should never say that word, because it’s very rude!” I doubt very much that I or my child will be invited over very soon and I don’t really blame them, either.

Getting home with HM and groceries intact, I make a third trip during unloading and see one of the bags on the ground surrounded by a pool of something. It was the apple juice I painstakingly sought out, that I normally don’t buy because it is so expensive, and was on sale at half price. The kicker to the breakage is that the bottle of juice was plastic! Enter my husband into our driveway where I am going, you guessed it, ape sh*t…”Blankety blank, blank cheap ass bottle! I hate today! Today sucks! Where’s the Tylenol!” I leave my poor husband to deal with the rest of the bags, the pool of apple juice and wondering who’ll he be going to bed with tonight.

Baby It's Cold Outside - No Presents For You!

2003-12-02T10:55:00.000-05:00

It's gotten cold. Real cold. I heard on the radio this morning that the George Washington Bridge is frozen. Literally, frozen by the band of snow squalls that have run into some really humid air way up there on the GWB. There were numerous accidents reported in the counties surrounding our little neck of the Bayshore region of Jersey. I shook my head in dismay...

I love the winter, but hate driving in it even more. Not that I hate driving - it's driving with other people on the road, at the same time that I'm driving, that I hate.

Dropping off my two oldest girls this morning, I heard gasps of horror from the benches behind me. We were appalled to see that one of the school buses collided with a car right in front of what I always thought is a very dangerous entrance to our school. I reassure the children that it'll be okay. A police car has just passed the, what is becoming a very long line of anxious minivans, suvs and various other forms of families with children, traffic jam. The unfortunate, and probably now tardy for wherever he or she was headed, owner of the vehicle with the mashed front end is fine and calmly chatting with, who I swear is probably an ex-Navy Seal, crossing guard and school bus driver.

Again, for what probably won't be the last time today, I shook my head in dismay and said, "Tis the season... everyone has to be in such a God-awful rush. Leave your houses earlier! It's 25 mph, not 52 mph you dope! Gotta get ahead of the next person, don't ya'!?! Nobody has any manners anymore!" I don't consider whose fault it is because the drivers now represent the people I constantly run into (no pun intended) in my travels of never-ending errands....my rant goes on and on and on.

I'm sure that the children are not listening to what probably seems like my constant droning. They are too busy watching the commotion out their respective car windows because I hear, "I wonder if anyone I know was on that bus? Look, they all have to get off and walk the rest of the way to school! Cewl!"

We manage to bypass the commotion before the intersection is totally closed off...thank goodness for small favors. I let my precious bundles of bundled up joy out of the minivan and send them off with a kiss. I can still hear their excitement, "Wow! Cewl! I wish we could ride the bus to school! Those kids are famous..."

Back home again, I do a quick cleanup. My in-laws are coming over for noontime to baby-sit my two year old, while I am the parent helper at my 4 year old son's preschool for the afternoon. I sit down at the computer and begin to take advantage of some free shipping offers and early (early for me, anyway) Christmas shopping, when I glance out the living room window and yell for my son, "Hey, look! It's snowing!" My son and daughter race to the window and can't keep back their excitement, "Hurrraayyyy! It's Christmas!"

I call them over to the computer and say, "Well, it'll be Christmas soon enough. Want to help me shop for some Christmas gifts?" My son says, "Yeah, 'cause you're not getting any presents." I'm confused, which isn't a revelation by any means, "Huh?!?"

Half looking at me and half looking out the mini-snow storm happening outside he says, "Well, you've been Naughty. No presents for you!" I must have been visibly shaken because he follows with, "Well, you yell. All the time." "I do not yell all the time. Why would you say I'm on Santa's Naughty list?" Now he's obviously becoming frustrated with my ignorance to Christmas protocol, "Mom, you yell at me. You yell at the baby. You yell at the girls and you yelled at the poor guy who got into the car accident today. No presents for you!"

Okay, I may speak with emotion and use my hands a lot, but that's due to my European heritage and not because I'm a raving shrew. I can be a raving shrew, especially during a full moon and God help the recipient of my shrew-ness during that time of the month, but still, Motherhood has certainly taught me, if anything, self-control and patience. I try to salvage some of my eroding self-esteem and say, "Well, I'll promise to try and stop yelling so much, if you promise to help me - since you're on the Nice List and all. Okay?" He shakes his head in agreement and gives me a hug and says, "Okay. But Santa might not believe you! I'll write a letter and explain it to him."

Better yet, send an email!

The World According To Mom's Temper...

2003-12-01T13:33:00.000-05:00

My four children and I have a little ritual every first day of the new month. We all stand in front of our wall calendar, either pleasantly reminiscing over the activities and events of the passing month or, if it was a particularly rough month as this past October was, we kiss it good-bye and say hello to a month full of promising new days. As far as my children are concerned, December is probably the creme-de-la-creme as far as the year goes, along with their respective birthday months of course. Yesterday, we began decorating for Christmas and I swear our kids are as wired as the house is at this time of year (I could probably extend the extension cords used two towns over). I guess I’m quite the instigator to their much illuminated moods, loving the holidays as much as I do.

My hacking, bleary-eyed, pasty-faced, stuffed up 10 year old and 7 year old daughters are home from school today. They’ve succumbed to the sinus infection and cough that has plagued their school for weeks. I am probably one of a handful of people who are happy to learn that the cold weather is supposed to return this week. Warm in combination with a wet winter is not a good thing to a house with four children, three of which attend a stuffy classroom full of little less than symbiotic carriers. Having a virus in the house could easily mean weeks of share and share alike. What, no fever and I still kept them home!?! With tickets already purchased for one of the Christmas shows in New York City for this Friday; you betcha!

So, the two older girls are cranky, quick tempered and craving attention – pretty much like a Pre-PMS thing, really. The baby is cranky, quick tempered and craving attention – pretty much like every day, really. The boy is oblivious to their moods and has been non-stop instigating a fight with his sisters – pretty much like a man, really. And I sit here wondering when, if ever, will I be afforded the opportunity to be sick, cranky, quick tempered and craving attention while oblivious to everything around me?

Having vacuumed the carpets and washing the floors in an attempt to keep down the amount of bronchial irritants, I began to prepare lunch (my breakfast) but I am soon run a foul once more as I realize that there is no bread, eggs or milk in the house. So, is it a wonder that my Christmas mood had dropped, threatening to hit an all time, “Bah! Hum bug!” low? I gather my sick and probably soon to be sick hoard into the car and head over to our blessed drive thru market which is much appreciated by this spent, frazzled and feeling a bit unsocial at the moment Mom. The fresh air does me good and I begin to think about my earlier fast declining mood…

Once home I think, “Oh, well, there is no use in feeling sorry for myself – nothing good could come of it. So, snap out of it!” I get to the business at hand - being a Mom. I begin doling out the doses of cough medicine; continue escorting trips to the bathroom, and giving hugs of sympathy and kisses of reassurance. After a few chants of, "You'll miss this one day...ohm...they'll fly the nest before ya' know it...ohm..." and I am at peace once more. I begin to get our dining room table ready for some Christmas crafting time when I come across a drawing made by my 10 year old - probably during the trip to the drive thru market as I seem to remember her furiously looking for a pad and pencil while I yelled, "C'mon Holly! The quicker we leave, the quicker we get home!" Her picture is titled Mom’s Temper and it’s a pretty good current dipiction of me wearing jeans, a t-shirt and chunky belt. I notice some a type of graph running along the left of my full-bodied portrait - starting at the top of my head and running down to my feet are the following levels of my temper, according to Holly:

→ Punishing
→ Starting To Scream
→ Yelling
→ Starting To Heat Up
→ Okay
→ Nice
→ Sort Of
→ All Right
→ Low

Once more, I sit here wondering when, if ever…

I Know Something You Don't Know...

2003-11-25T14:25:00.000-05:00

I try not to pick up the newspaper until well after the children are tucked into their beds. The headlines scream of bloody murders, revolting marches and most every disdaining human trait that I could possibly think of. I don’t want that on my conscience. Not to what, more often than not, is going to be a problematic filled day ahead for me as a stay-at-home-Mom to four very beautiful and vastly complicated children of various age related stages.

Then again, I don’t need to because I have “The Informer” living right under my very roof. She is shrewd, she is sly and she is as unobtrusive as a stealth bomber. She’s had seven years to hone her craft of being able to report every intimate detail of our lives to anyone who is within ear shot. My husband would probably counter with, “Yeah, she learned it from her blogging mother!” The difference here is that I blog to rid the frustrations that lie within; while HM enjoys the “I know something you don’t know” side of life.

“Guess what?”, “You know what?” and “Oooops, I shouldn’t have said that!” are HM’s mantras which are phrases she can manipulate in various different ways. Like, at the dinner table when her father says, “So, tell me about something interesting that happened to you today.” I cringe as HM says, “Guess what? Mommy bought another pair of sunglasses today and you know what she did with the other pair? She doesn’t remember but she’s guessing she lost it like the other 10 she’s lost this year. Oooops, I shouldn’t have said that!”

Last year around this time, I took the kids Christmas shopping for their Dad’s gifts (cold and flu season is a great motivator). I see something that would be just the perfect present for Pete; a boxer with a Santa Clause that sings “Jingle Bells” when you push his red nose. I purchase said boxer and ask the kids, “Please don’t tell Daddy. This is a surprise and if you tell him, then his Christmas surprise will be ruined.” Harsh, but effective as they nod their heads in yuletide solidarity. I pick up another pair for my Father-in-law just because and his face is probably turning all shades of red and purple if he’s reading this right now.

Fast forward to Christmas Eve and Grandpa opens his gift, turns all shades red and purple and says, “Oh my, how festive!” HM opens that darling little heart shaped mouth of hers and says, “Yeah, we picked it out ourselves and we got Daddy one just like it!” I would have let it slide if HM wouldn’t have slapped her hand over her mouth and said, “Oooops. Sorry Daddy. I guess you weren’t supposed to know that you got those too, since we didn’t open our gifts yet and all. Don’t worry though, you don’t know about the pajamas, hat, gloves and scarf yet, anyway.” Hand slapped over mouth once more…

A whole year wiser and in preparation for one of my favorite Thanksgiving traditions, I dropped the two oldest off at school (HM being one of them) and ran to Target with my two youngest to pick-up the DVD version of our favorite Thanksgiving night movie, Christmas Vacation because our VHS version is on it’s last rewind. I plan to wrap it up and leave it on my husband’s night stand before going to sleep tomorrow night and present it as an early Christmas gift from the kids. So, here’s crossing my fingers that I get to do the, “I know something you don’t know” dance for a change.

Hand slapped over mouth… Oh, well, depending upon the mere chance that Pete will be reading today’s blog before Thanksgiving Day that is.

What's One More Or Less...

2003-11-24T12:17:00.000-05:00

Her toothbrush is still damp so I wrap it in a paper towel and remember to pack her favorite “sparkely” toothpaste. I unzip the smallest compartment on the front of our spare backpack and place her toiletries within, hoping she’ll remember that they are there. I open the largest compartment for a quick inventory: Nightgown…check. Slippers…check. A complete change of clothes…check. Her night time pals; Shakey Bear…check and Chris Moose…check. Hairbrush, hair-thingy…check and double check. I zip’er up and feel proud with a slight pang of regret; she’s packed her bag all on her own this time. I hear her all too familiar way of skipping through the house and down our bedroom hall, “I’m all ready, Momma! When are Grandma and Grandpa going to be here?” I reassure my 7 year old daughter that they will be over soon enough.

Our children are growing up so fast, especially our two eldest daughters and it’s not only physically apparent but even their respective Christmas lists reflect their fast maturing tastes with requests of “real” jewelry, perfume, nail polish and various other forms of pre-pubescent primping kind of things. So different from when I was 7 and wished for a Chrissy Doll (remember the doll with a pony tail that would grow longer with every pull), a slinky (not the neon type but the old fashioned metal one) and Ker Plunk game (not the electronic one but the low tech version complete with sticks and marbles).

With our house becoming more and more cramped by the year, we decided to give each of the children a chance to get away from it all, a chance to spend a part of the weekend with the Grandparents, a chance for a little private time, if you will. It’s a new tradition that we’ve started with the child that needed the getaway thing the most…Heather. We sprung it on her at the very last minute on Saturday and it was obvious to both of us that Heather does not have a problem with spontaneity…she was packed within a matter of 2 minutes. I thought that if this is any indication of what it will be like packing the child up for college, rest assured that I will be a basket case.

My husband huffed at my concern, “She’s only going two towns over for goodness sake and with my parents.” My sister-in-law told me to pretty much get over it and that I had 3 others at home and I totally agreed with both of them. I should have gotten over it - but, I didn’t.

I didn’t get over it a couple of hours later at the mall, either. I turned and did my usual head count and felt that same pang of panic coming up one short, each and every time. My 10 year old daughter kept at my side and I was sure she thought me to be a silly old cow. She felt sorry for me as did my husband who I am sure only agreed to go to the mall to pretty much "shut me up", actually.

Later that night, I found it very difficult to fall asleep and spent the first few hours of the morning flipping through our 200+ satellite stations and pitied my poor husband once the children come of dating age. Sometime around 2:00 a.m., my husband suggests we give it up and go to bed. I reluctantly agree because we did have a full Sunday planned ahead.

At 7:00 a.m. or so Sunday morning, Heather gives her wake up call and I am secretly pleased to hear that she couldn’t get to sleep until around midnight and was up early on Sunday. I am further thrilled to learn that her 4 year old brother and 10 year old sister slept together in her bed and I heard about how, “We couldn’t sleep without Heather. I’m too used to sleeping in the same room with her. I missed Heather...” all through breakfast.

Soon after lunch, we all drove over to retrieve 1/4 of our crew and it was so touching to see the children excited to see one another again. They shared kisses, I missed you’s and tales of the sleeplessness of the night.

We were about halfway to my parent’s house for our usual Sunday dinner and the sun was shining, the air was warming and my children had begun to argue, “Momma, I can’t hear the music because Heather’s singing too loud! Heather, I was talking first. She’s got my hair-thingy on without asking me! Heather no talk, Hopey talk!”

And all was right with the world, once more – or, more accurately, with one more.

Dream On...

2003-11-21T20:19:00.000-05:00

I am a vintage movie loving, book reading, museum going, and historical re-creation loving computer geek. I am happier pushing a lawn mower or paint brush and it’s a good bet I won’t ever need a new pair of skis or mountain bike. With that said, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree; or in my case, the apples….

The ground has been saturated with a couple of day’s worth of rain and we’ve had quite a bit of wind and lots more rain with wind. My four children have been begging me every day after school for the past week, “Can we pleeeeze play on the playground!!!!???” I felt like the Grinch Mommy who stole basically every pleasure out of being a kid, really, answering, “No, not today, ‘cause it’s a little to squishy.” There were pools of water that have merged, turning their beloved school’s playground into a boggy mess.

So how excited was I to be able to offer up a beautiful bright fall day, albeit a little to warm in November for my taste. This being a half school day, due to parent-teacher conferences, was the perfect excuse for me to escape into the wild blue somewhere other than here. I strap in the 2 and 4 year olds, throw in the 7 and 10 year olds’ backpacks and rev the engine of our minivan. “We’re going to the beach!”

Silence….more silence….then, finally, a child speaks up, “But, we can’t. I’m not wearing the right shoes!” I look into my rear view mirror and see Heather’s “pretty shoed” foot in the air. “That’s okay, a little sand isn’t gonna’ hurt you or your shoes.” She huffs, she puffs and she blows Mommy’s idea clear out of the water by saying, “How about we go to the book store!” My 7 year old was using her siblings’ love of the book store to her advantage. She’ll make a very good Mother some day. The kiddy menu consensus was to bag the beach and head straight for B&N.

Baby on right hip, boy holding left hand and two older girls skipping ahead, we walk up to the huge very heavy type of wooden doors and enter one of our most favorite places in the whole wide world. I begin to fantasize….maybe one day I’ll be able to walk into the book store not as a devoted patron, but as a published author. I will dedicate my first book to my children and my devoted husband. I will finally be able to help my poor said devoted overworked and underpaid husband support this full house of 2 adults, 4 children, 2 fish, 2 cats and soon to be adopted dog. I am mother, I am woman, I am writer, and so will it be.

The smell of paperbacks and freshly brewed coffee is intoxicating and I immediately feel at peace, until….”Whoa, smells like someone pooped!” My 4 year old’s voice seems an octave just under shrill and the animated way he’s holding his nose and waving his hand around his entire personal space draws attention. My 2 year old promptly corrects her big brother, “Noooooo. Hopey no did poop! Hopey did big stinky boom-boom!”

Dream on Mcfly, dream on.

Emeril Rules!

2003-11-20T18:56:00.000-05:00

My four year old son made me breakfast this morning. He didn’t ask his two older sisters for help and set up his little 2 year old sister with a coloring book and crayons and her own bowl of dry Cheerios. He dragged one of the kitchen chairs over to the refrigerator, retrieved the 1% milk carton distinguishable by the blue colored cap, filled my favorite cereal bowl with Rice Crispies, pried loose one of the red bananas and broke it into pieces. He then poured the milk into the bowl, stood back and smiled, “Ah, finished!” Still looking back toward the breakfast table he smacks his hand to his forehead and says, “Dang it – I forgot the spoon!” Dragging the same kitchen chair back to the counter, he retrieves the spoon of choice and takes it back to the table and gently immerses it into the now overflowing bowl.

I quickly sneak away from my vantage point (the playroom hallway) and I feel slightly ashamed for spying on my son. Just for a moment though, because if I hadn’t peeked, I wouldn’t have caught him humming Jingle Bells while pouring the cereal, or how comfortably he moved about in the kitchen, or noticed his keen eye for detail, or how careful he was to clean up the slight spill with the kitchen hand towel.

“Momma! Come here, quick!” I poke my head out of my bathroom, “What’s the matter?” I’m having a hard time suppressing a smile, because I see that my son has wrapped the milk soak kitchen hand towel through one of the belt loops of his jeans, just like his favorite cook on television, Emeril Lagasse. “Come see, in the kitchen, hurry!” I follow my little man back into the kitchen and he quickly turns around, throws his hands out from his sides and yells, “Ta-da! I made you bweakfast. Because, since Daddy usuawy does our bweakfast in the morning, I thought maybe you forgot how to do bweakfast. So, I did it for you!”

I give my son a big hug, an even bigger kiss and say, “Thanks big guy! Hey, how about I forget how to make supper, too?” Without missing a beat, his big blue eyes sparkling with mischief, he says, “Okay, Daddy can order pizza and we can sit and eat it and watch Emeril on t.v. because Emeril teachdid me how to cook because he’s a good cookerman!”

My new nickname for Glen is Cookerman. BAM!

Minor Distractions - Part II

2003-11-19T21:53:00.000-05:00

(Continued from Minor Distractions – Part I - dated 11/18/03)

I try the driver and passenger side doors, just in case. Nope, locked. Let me check the back of the car, maybe the hatch isn’t locked. Nope, locked. My mind begins to race…Okay, Pete was supposed to be home early on Monday night. I’ll have to call him and take the eminent verbal abuse. “Okay guys – no problem. Daddy is home early tonight so we’ll call him on Mommy’s cell phone and he’ll come and unlock the door for us. Look, there’s a bunch of benches in front of Linens and Things. We’ll sit there and wait for him. We could watch for him from there.”

I flip open my cell and am greeted with the annoying Ting-a-ling-a-ling as if to say, “You forgot to recharge me again, babe.” I quickly hit the speed dial for home and now hear a strange sort of sound I’m yet familiar with. I squint at the sickly green tinged screen and see, “User Busy – Redialing Mode”. Oh man, he’s on the Internet! My mind begins another race….I’ll call my in-laws. I’ll ask them to email him. Speed dial and am instantly relieved to hear my Father-in-law’s voice. I attempt to quickly yet coherently explain our predicament. He’s on the job. I sit and wait. The cell rings. It’s my Mother-in-law advising me that they can’t get through and that Dad is on his way over to our house to rouse Pete. I apologize and thank her and begin to think of ways to make it up to them all the while cringing at the thought of the verbal abuse my husband’s going to lay on me for this trip.

I remember that my neighbor’s home number is in my cell’s phone book and speed dial successfully with another Ting-a-ling-a-ling which I believe to be my cell’s final warning. I quickly and hopefully coherently say, “Hi J. I’m at Michaels craft store. My cell battery is low. Locked keys in car. Pete on Internet. Please go knock on door and tell him to hang up. Thanks!” To my surprise and embarrassment, J. is not surprised. I quickly redial Mom – Dad has left already. Boy, am I gonna pay! The children wonder if they will ever make it home alive, to which I reassure them, “Don’t worry guys. I’ve got most of New Jersey looking for Daddy!”

Their reactions to our “locked out again” predicament are as varied as their personalities…

Holly – A few days into her 10th year….”Okay, Mom. Good thing I bought those chocolate coins at Michael’s or else we would have starved!” (Note from author: We live approximately 13 minutes away from Michael’s and there is a pizza place within view.)

Heather – 7 years old going on 40 – “Not again! Why do you always lock the keys in the car when it’s freezing outside. We’re going to freeze! I can’t feel my fingers!” (Note from author: It was 50 degrees out and the two oldest girls were snug in their winter coats complete with hoods while the baby and Glen had layered sweat shirts on while I, on the other hand, had the warmth of my overalls.)

Glen – 4 years old and all boy – “Wook at me, I’m fwying….vroooommm!” (Note from author: (He is now running in circles and bumping into one concrete wall after another.)

Hope – 2 years old and every terrible bit of it – “Hopey do! Hopey walk! Hopey get out of cawage!” (Note from author: People are beginning to stare – I had to let the child out who is now fwying, I mean, flying in circles with her brother.)

So, this goes on for a few minutes and I kind of chuckle to myself and think of what I would say if I saw what the people who were now staring at me saw….

Exhibit A – A push cart laden with overflowing plastic bags.

Exhibit B – 4 children, some wearing coats, some not, running around and begging, “Please, just one more piece of chocolate. We promise to save some for you. It’s dinnertime, don’t you know.”

Exhibit C – The mother of said children hunkered down on a bench with arms folded across her coatless breasts and her legs bouncing up and down yelling, “Stay together, move around and you’ll feel much warmer and no more chocolates for dinner!”

The onlookers must have been looking for the tin cup….we were a sight. So, after all of the chocolate coins are consumed and the last piece of gum chewed, I see a pair of headlights that look soothingly familiar. It’s him. Daddy. The man. Our rescuer at hand. I gather the children and say, “Look, see, I told you that he’d be here soon. There’s Daddy. Everyone yell hi to daddy!” The children jump up on the bench and begin to wave their hands furiously and chant, “Dad-dee, Dad-dee, Dad-dee..,” as we watch Dad-dee drive right past our sorry asses.

After I, uncertainly, reassure my children that, “No, Daddy did not leave us here to die!” We start back towards Michaels, towards our entry betraying minivan, toward a Daddy who is less than pleased with Mom-mee!

Cest’la vie!

Minor Distractions - Part I

2003-11-18T13:48:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, readying ourselves at our usual time in the late afternoon, I found myself less than enthusiastic about Cars Wars, now showing at a school parking lot near you. Even less so about coming home to a topsy-turvy house filled with baskets toppled over by the sheer weight of the dirty laundry that once dwelled within. And walls that I’ve been bumping into all afternoon as a result of my latest bouts with insomnia have begun to close in on me. I load up my two youngest, pick up my two oldest and announce to this full minivan, “We’re going to Michael’s!”

“We’re going to Michael’s house!?!” My four year old son has a friend in his preschool class. His name is Michael. I’ve got to be diplomatic in the way I answer him. Maybe I should think about working for the U.N. when I grow up – I’ll have the correct credentials….Excellent negotiator; experienced in diplomacy and good with children. I decide to take the Monty Python way out and look on the brighter side of life, “I mean Michael’s the really cool craft store with all the craft stuff we need for fun projects and hey, I bet they have their Christmas trees up and decorated!”

A few years ago, I would have felt ashamed at the idea of using a child’s adoration of Christmas to my advantage. Today, it works for me as Glen is absolutely thrilled, “Hurray! We’re going to the cwaft store. I am going to make a Thanta (when he’s excited, his lisp is noticeably cuter) Clauth and a wanedeer and all sorts of Chwismas things!” We are all in agreement. We are ready, willing and able to start the many crafts and projects, traditionally made for family and friends, in preparation for our favorite of holiday seasons, Thanksgiving and Christmas.

After a particularly glum day, I am rejuvenated by my four children and their obvious excitement for all of Michael’s patrons to see and hear. I join in their elfin-like ecstasy, “Oh, this would be perfect for (future gift recipient)! And wouldn’t (future gift recipient) love something like this. Look, you guys could paint this and glue this and……” Proud of our individual contributions to the myriad of yuletide selections made, we chattered our way to the front of the store with pleasure much to the surprise of the cashier. “My, are they all yours and aren't we all so festive!?!”

Now, judging by her tone and demeanor, I suspected that she was on the humbug side of the street, and I don't really blame her, having to deal with the consumer at what was probably a fast, furious and a mostly not to friendly and all to rude pace – I wasn’t going to let it damper my spirits anyway. I whipped out my 40% coupon off any regular priced item and replied, "The more, the merrier I always say.”

What a picture perfect shopping trip – the children were all well behaved, the baby didn't scream, "HOPEY WALK!" since missing her nap earlier that afternoon to which she found it perfectly acceptable to be riding her way through the store in Michael's bright red, albiet too small shopping cart. I was thrilled with the early bird type sales and promotional mark downs, having taken advantage of many of them myself. Also, not having to be near the craft store after Thanksgiving suits me just fine. I beamed with satisfaction while attempting to open the minivan door - and without my keys.

“Oh crap! Don’t even tell me.” I hook my right foot into the wheels of our shopping cart, lean into the passenger side window and cup my hands, squinting at the keys dangling from under the steering wheel.

My hands drop to my sides and I lower my head feeling deflated by the absolute irony of it all....

To Be Continued…

I Can't Sleep...

2003-11-17T14:05:00.000-05:00

I remember my Father would tease me constantly about the hours I spent sleeping in my teenage years. I could fall asleep sitting, standing, leaning or pretty much wherever and whenever I closed my eyes – no matter what time of day or night.

In my twenties I needed very little sleep, if any. I would work a 10 or 12 hour day, run home to freshen up, go out and party with my friends until last call, go to Denny’s for breakfast, run home and sleep for an hour or two, freshen up and go right back to work without a blink of an eye, albeit as bloodshot as it may have been.

In my thirties I was inducted into the Motherhood hall of fame and found myself introduced to sleep deprivation. I wanted sleep and needed sleep in the worst way. I quickly learned to nap when my four babies napped, grabbing snippets of shut eye whenever and wherever the opportunity arose - no matter what time of day or night.

Today, I can’t sleep! After years of abuse, my sleep pattern has pretty much frayed to not being able to sleep for days at a time. And then after 4 or 5 days, my system would go into full blown shut down mode and I would crash for an entire Saturday or Sunday........Rinse and repeat.

With the prospect of facing another sleepless night and another witching hour at 4 o’clock this afternoon, not to mention it being Monday and all, I took two Tylenol PM last night at 8 o’clock. I waited. I waited some more. At 9:45, with my husband fast asleep on the couch, I pretty much gave up on sleep induction and toyed with the idea of surfing the Internet. I remember turning the page of the magazine I was reading and the rest is pretty fuzzy after that. I kind of rolled off of my oversized club chair; doggy styled it to my husband’s side and nudged him with the top of my head muttering something like, “Sleep, now, night.” That’s all I remember.

Looking at my face, bloated and sagging all at the same time, I heard my husband say, “I had such a bad dream last night. My back hurts this morning from it. Did you hear me get up at 5 o’clock this morning? I was literally whimpering from it.” I turned to face him and he visibly shuttered, “Oh, I see, sleeping aid induced fog this morning, aye?”

So, here I sit completely exhausted and thanking God that my two youngest are content with watching The Great Mouse Detective while I try to get some less physically demanding work done. But, I can say that the Tylenol PM did work….at least my witching hour came two hours early today. Excuse me while I go and make some coffee.

I Had A Dream...

2003-11-15T09:12:00.000-05:00

I had a dream….I’m lying on a beach, lazily sweeping my toes in slow circular motions creating funky little figure eights in the whitest sand I’ve ever seen. The sun is hot but the cool breezes off of the crystalline blue and green waters sweep toward me making the air very comfortable, very salty and very inviting. I lay deeper into my cushioned lounger and lift the brim of my floppy hat, the signal to my personal cabana boy that I am ready for my mai-tai.

In less than a minute, the bronzed, severely toned, handsome and more importantly, totally devoted cabana boy offers a tall frosted pink glass with luscious looking pineapple, kiwi and strawberries skewered to a brightly colored little umbrella. As he leans closer, I become aware of his scent – a hint of cinnamon and spice. He offers my drink on a silver platter and I notice that he’s also put together a plate of the aforementioned fruits and chocolates (okay, remember, this is a dream and chocolate doesn’t melt anywhere but in your mouth). The essence of the chocolates mixed with that of the various berries strewn all about the plate is enough to emit the tiniest giggle and I partake in pleasing all of my senses.

I thank my cabana boy as he reaches for my perfectly manicured hand and grazes it with his plump, moist lips. He lifts his long dark lashes revealing his beautiful eyes the color of somewhere in between the milk and dark chocolate I’ve just begun to nibble on. He looks deeply and very seductively into my eyes and asks in a slightly Mediterranean accented voice, “Is there anything else I could possibly do to please madam?”

I take a long drag from the very long straw of my mai-tai and savor the simultaneous coldness and slight burn of it rolling down my throat before I answer. He patiently waits and the menacing little grin never leaves his beautiful face. I take my hand and lace my fingers into his dark and wavy hair, the length of which would reach slightly beyond the color of his shirt, if he were wearing one. My hand finds its way down to his shoulder and I trace across his slightly hairy chest to the opposite shoulder and imagine the show of strength they could produce. He gently and “effortlessly” lifts me up off my lounger and the next breeze takes with it the hat I was wearing, leaving my expertly cut and beautifully colored hair free and full. He unties my brightly colored sarong and it gently sweeps away from my body, revealing the strapless French bikini that I am wearing. I wrap my bronzed arms around his neck as he takes me to the reaches of the cresting waves, crashing all around us and……

Swooosh! Glen throws the bucket of bathwater into my face, bringing me back to reality, “It was an accident!” he screams. From somewhere in the freshly pre-Thanksgiving cleaned house I hear, “Eeeewww, the baby’s puking again! And she’s doing it on the couch. She already got the rug. I think the cat puked in the dining room too!” I stand up in my now totally drenched bathroom, step over the pile of throw-up covered clothes and remember to take off my throw-up covered t-shirt to add to the pile. I walk into the hallway, step over the cat puke and bypass the throw-up covered car seat and grab my throw-up covered baby off of the couch that is now covered with…..throw-up. I’m heading back to the bathroom….uh … I lazily sweep my feet through the sand…..

Windy Days and Retched Nights...

2003-11-13T11:59:00.000-05:00

My four year old son is on the swing set in our backyard. The next rush of wind knocks him into a fit of squeals of laughter….”Weeee, wook at me! I’m fwying in the air wike a weaf in the wind!” He lies back just a little too far for my comfort, “Hey bud, not so high. You’re making Mommy dizzy!” A huge wind gust, the biggest one yet, sweeps past my 2 year old daughter, “Whoa! Windy!” She holds onto her hair and begins to sing in a very high pitched tone, “Whoa…whoa…wind….wind….bwow hair.”

She demands that I push the basket swing harder so that she could fly as high as her big brother who, in my opinion, has been an accident waiting to happen. “Easy, Little Man. You’ll fly right off that swing!” I instantly regret saying that and see my son’s face change from pure ecstasy to that of menace and mayhem. He lets go off the swing and flies through the air and lands, on his feet, down in a pile of wet leaves. “Ta-dah!”

His arms remain stretched out from his sides and he runs into a mock take-off, “Vaarrroooom! Wook, now I’m an airpwane!” Leaves dance around my tow-headed boy and he whirls along with his eyes closed; “Now I’m a tornado!” Faster, faster he spins and his baby sister starts to sing even louder, “Brudder dance, Hopey fwy, Brudder dance, Hopey fwy away!”

I watch my two youngest children have the time of their little flighty lives and look up to the crisp blue colored sky. The clouds look more like clumps of half-melted marshmallows, sweeping past very quickly. I adjust my glasses (wearing contacts on such a windy day is not a good idea) and thank God for my four happy and healthy children.

Well, three out of four are healthy today as poor Holly came home with one of those mysterious 24 hour kind of buggy sort of virus, flu, whatever it’s called kind things. Her father and I felt so bad for her. It was her 10th birthday and she requested her favorite Chinese food as her birthday dinner. We ordered take-out since the baby was just getting over a very nasty cold and Holly was pretty beat from the school day. I assumed that’s why she was picking at her food, but soon suspected it to be more because she picked at her plate and didn’t want to bother with cake.

Changing her into a long t-shirt and sweat pants, I told Holly that she could lie down in our bed until her cramps eased. They didn’t. We set her up with the heating pad and I settled in next to her to read a chapter from the latest Harry Potter book she’d started. We were well into the chapter where Neville Longbottom, a clumsy and very unlucky student and friend of Harry’s, was about to mess up on a potion when it hit, “Oh, I think I’m going to throw up!” Holly grabs her mouth and we literally move as one to our bathroom. She did. She looks up after and says to her father and me, “Sorry, I just got rid of all the Chinese food you were nice enough to get me for my birthday.” Mature and selfless even in the throws of, well, you know – I love this child.

She’s feeling better this morning, albeit drawn out, and is happily coloring one of those fuzzy little posters her father picked up for her yesterday. It’s a forest scene complete with tall pine trees and furry little animals, perfect for her gentle little soul.

We dropped off our seven year old daughter at school this morning. She wished her sister well and blew a kiss into the minivan and said, “Don’t worry Holly; I’ll be home soon to help you feel better. I’ll bring your homework, too!” She snickers and continues with, “Not like you’ll want it later, right!?!” She jumps out of the minivan, pulls on her back pack and starts to the walker’s door. She hesitates and looks back over her shoulder. I blow her a kiss and say, “Love you!” She waves and begins her usual skip along the way. Back in the van, we pull away from the school’s sidewalk and Heather stops in front of the walker’s door for one more wave. Feeling a bit of menace myself I say, “Let’s all yell have a good day when I count to three…ready…one…two…three…HAVE A GOOD DAY!” Heather slaps her hand over her eyes and runs into the school.

Another gust of wind blows through bringing me back to the present and I smile to hear Glen and Hope both running in circles and pretending to be airplanes. “Where are you flying off to this morning?” Glen says without missing a beat, “We are fwying up to the sky to see if we can see Mamama up in heaven.” “Yeah, Hopey go too!”

There’s that lump in my throat again….I put my arms out and join in the aero-fun, “Hey, wait for me….”

Happy Birthday To Us!

2003-11-12T13:55:00.000-05:00

November 12th is a very special date for my oldest daughter and me – it was 10 years ago today that I held my first born, for the first time, and I entered into the world of Motherhood. I find it so ironic that I can’t seem to ever remember where the heck I put my keys or glasses, but I can remember almost every blessed detail of one specific day that happened a decade ago.

What a difference 10 years makes?

Ten years ago…..I was going through a serious bout of nesting and cleaning every visible surface of my house. Even the cats wouldn’t get near me for fear of having their coats brushed to every inch of their 9 lives. I had the last of the 3 dozen cookies baking in the oven when my water broke. My husband called a dear friend of ours and asked that she sit with me while he took the long hour plus drive back home from his office in Northern Jersey. 45 minutes later (nah, no speed records are broken if you don’t get caught!) my husband comes bursting through the front door with his tie literally wrapped around his neck due to the blunt force used and he couldn’t believe what he saw - C. and her children sitting in the living room enjoying Toll House cookies and milk. C and I were calmly chatting away and weren’t going to be interrupted until the last of the particular rant of the moment was through.

Today…..I am going through a serious bout of indifference and find myself avoiding every visible sign of dust, lint, dirty dishes and the never-ending story that is my laundry. Even the cats have given up on getting fed and won’t come calling until my husband gets home from work. I’ve resorted to purchasing ready-made refrigerated cookie dough and we haven’t seen our dear friend C. and her family in such a long time because we can’t seem to get our booked 3 months in advance calendars to mesh. I’d love to be able to calmly chat about anything without being interrupted about a thousand times....

Ten years ago……I napped when the baby napped. My day was solely dictated by her feeding, sleeping, bathing and check-up schedule. Oh, and on the weather conditions, too. If it was nice, I would take her for a walk in her stroller and enjoy the break away from the solitude of four walls. If it was nasty, we would sit together for hours and play, read, bake or watch her favorite Barney tapes.

Today…..My day is still dictated by various schedules, chores, errands and what little time I carve out for myself in an attempt to focus on a writing career. And there are days where I can’t get to sleep not for the lack of being tired, but for the lack of being able to shut down my brain contemplating said schedules, chores, etc...

Reflecting even deeper, there are many things that I’ve learned from Motherhood. A few of the most important things it has taught me are; that the best made plans are the ones that aren’t planned at all – you can’t sweat the small stuff and possibly expect to face the really big stuff and come out of it alive, sane or both – finally, that there is a flip side to everything….

Eleven years ago…..I didn’t wake to find an eager pair (or pairs) of eyes waiting to greet me with a kiss or a, “I made dis for you. It’s a picture of Mommmmeee dressed like a pwincess because you are so boo-e-ful!” I didn’t get any Mother’s Days gifts made by little hands, a lot of blue crayon and a whole lot of cutely misspelled words like, “Hapee Movers Day. I wuv u Mommy.” There were days when I was actually bored, lonely, never worried about what time it was or never appreciated the therapeutic benefits of a little quiet time and a good book.

So, my first born has managed to grow up right in front of my eyes and entered into double digits as of 4:30 a.m. this morning. Happy Birthday to my dear Holly Beth and Happy Motherhood to me!

The Ying To My Yang...

2003-11-11T21:59:00.000-05:00

My back aches, my head aches and there’s this kind of buzzing sort of feeling running up and down my legs. These symptoms can only mean one thing – I’m suffering from Marathon Mom fatigue. Ya’ know that feeling of elation coupled with exhaustion after actually getting through 4 commitments clumped together in one day.

And, it ain’t over until the timer on the oven sings. There are still 14 more cupcakes baking, making it a grand total of 26 cupcakes requiring frosting for my oldest daughter’s class. She’s turning 10 tomorrow and I feel many things on even more different levels about that. I will have to save my reflections on HB hitting double digits for tomorrow, when I suspect I’ll be in full reminisce….

The ironic thing about today was the children were off from school. They have been for the last 5 days. Today was their first day back but my husband was home because of a bank holiday – Veterans Day. Go figure. He was driving Miss Hopey with all the errands falling on his big, broad shoulders alone.

My husband is something else – I couldn’t conceive of having four children, let alone conceive, without him! He is the Mr. Mom, filling in the cracks left by my endless trail and habit of over-committing myself. Not only did he make dinner for a visit with my brother and his fiancée tonight, but he took care of our - just getting over a cold and cranked up about it - 2 year old as well as doing the grocery shopping, vacuuming and general picking up around this very full house.

Very often, people are dumbfounded not only by the fact that I have four children, but that I actually would “want” to have four children – with the option of a fifth open for discussion if we happen to hit the lottery in the next two years. The simple fact of the matter is that my man and I have a tag-team kind of thing going and it works for us. Often times we’d meet by the door at the end of the work day, kiss, I’d hand him the baby, we'd high five each other, switch car keys and I'd head out to the next school or after school activity. Then there’d be those times when our long-awaited moment for privacy ultimately becomes a snorefest on the couch by 9:30 p.m.

That’s not to say that we haven’t had our bad days and, especially this past year, they sometimes outnumber the good. We argue, we disagree, we have totally reverse views politically, he’s left handed when I’m a rightey making it impossible for us to be in the same kitchen at the same time, he prefers Pepsi to my Coke, and he’s a morning person when I am, quite clearly to anyone who knows me, not.

But there’s this great line from the movie Misery that we joke to be our matrimonial motto, “It’s just those annoying sort of things that puts the spice in our marriage.”

So, load me up and light a match!

P.S. – Thank you for asking me to marry you – exactly 14 years ago to the day – Love FB

One Quarter Down

2003-11-10T20:23:00.000-05:00

She sits in my lap in all her stuffiness – pink and fuzzy in all her Paddington Bear jammerness - with one pacifier in her mouth and the other wrapped in long tired fingers. Finding it difficult to hold her head up now, she lets it down gently into the crook of my arm. A heavy sigh blows a flutter through her tapered caramel colored bangs. “I tiyerd Mommmmmeeee!” Her voice cracks and lingers on the word Mommy 2 extra beats.

My 2 year old woke up with a devil of a cold – along with Mommy and my four year old. My almost 10 year old feels a tickle in her throat and on the edges of sniffles and a cough. The only one feeling in tip-top shape is my 7 year old. I wish I could remember what the heck it was that I either ate, did or didn’t do during that pregnancy that boost that child’s immune system. She rarely gets sick, needs very little sleep and has energy to spare. I could market her secret gene, the good fatty acid or yet to be discovered chromosone somehow and not have to worry about funding 4 years x 4 future college students.

We all know how miserable a cold can be, but I especially feel sorry for the little ones - the under 3 ticket holder like Hope. She’s got no clue why she feels like she does, except that it pretty much puts a stink in her day. I imagine all sorts of weird things going through her mind….

7:00 a.m. – woke up feeling, well, I dunno what the
hell this is but my head hurts, my nose is not working and
don’t get me started on what my mouth tastes like.

9:00 a.m. – can you believe that she actually tried to make me
eat something! What, is she out of her mind? If I can’t smell
it, I ain’t eating it!

10:30 a.m. – okay, I’m laying on this couch and nobody, I mean
nobody better even think about changing the Tellatubbies!!!!!!!!
I mean, if I can’t watch my favorite show then wha...th….worl….
coming to.........snore.

1:00 p.m. – Whhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaat’s this in my diaper!?!?

1:30 p.m. – 5:00 p.m. – Hold me, hold me, hold me, and hold me!

5:15 p.m. – But I don’t want a cracker…I WANT TO EAT PLAYDOH!

7:00 p.m. – Tired, so tired. Feel like crap – get out of my face!

As my three oldest children huddle in front of the playroom television and watch their favorite before bedtime show, I thought I’d grab a few minutes to jot down a few quick thoughts – it’s this or face the huge pile of freshly washed laundry that I've been effectively avoiding.

Or maybe, I’ll surf a little, while ¼ of my pride and joy is lulled to sleep by the tap-tap-tap of my keyboard – feeling safe, feeling warm and feeling me.

Insult Upon Injury

2003-11-08T17:22:00.000-05:00

I am able to type this because my fingers are only just beginning to warm from the hot chocolate I’ve just finished sharing with my four children.

I was beginning to get really annoyed at the warmer than usual weather we’ve had for the last week. It’s November for cripes’ sake! I want crisp! I want chilly nights made for warm chocolate with marshmallows! I want my autumn back! I must have p.o.’d Mother Nature because she threw one heck of an autumn party today – shhhh, borderline winter if you ask me – I’m not complaining, mind you. It’s just that motherhood throws pretty fast curve balls on its own, getting that fast ball from Mother Nature really knocks me for a loop.

So, when my husband came home from work and we readied ourselves for Heather’s soccer game today, I just about bit his head off at his mere suggesting of, “Shouldn’t we get the kids’ winter coats out for the game?” Winter coats! What, is he nuts? Doesn’t he think I know, after 10 years of motherhood, how to dress my children? “Why is it when the temperature falls under 50, you’ve got them dressing like Nanook of the North?” I huffed and I puffed and I managed to make a complete and utter fool out of myself once more! He was absolutely right. We just about froze our nanooks off! Except my husband who was toasty warm in his hooded sweat shirt and field jacket. He was able to watch the game from the side lines.

As I sat behind the wheel of our cheering section in the minivan, my 4 year old son catches a glimpse of one of his buddies from preschool. “Wook Holly and Hope, there’s Michael! Quick Mom, can I run over and say hi to Michael!?!?” Well, maybe I can salvage what little is left of my good mommy reputation, “Of course, Bub!” I am assaulted by the brisk wind that has picked up since we stepped onto the soccer field, effectively dropping the temperature by a good 20 degrees, and let Glen out of our minivan. He’s half running, half skipping when I protectively yell, “Watch we’re you’re going Little Man!”, to where he turns and – BAM! – cracks his head on the metal post of the wooden gate. He grabs his freshly trimmed blond head and stumbles back my way.

I’m in rare batting form today it seems. I calm him down enough to catch a glimpse of the damage and my stomach lurches when I see a lot of red mixed in with his almost white blond hair. I feel the escarole soup I had at lunch threatening to make a second appearance and tell Holly, “Go, run to Daddy and tell him exactly this – Glen hit his head on the fence and there’s blood!” I thought that should get the message across. I am what Pete classifies as a “fainter” - I don’t do well with the whole blood flowing freely kind of thing.

I can see Holly through the windshield. She’s jumping up and down, waving her arms wildly at her father. My husband gets up, calmly folds one of the two lawn chairs and begins walking toward our car – too slowly in my opinion. “What is wrong with him? Hurry, he’s bleeding!” My husband gets to the car and immediately begins to calm Glen down. He turns to me and says, very forcefully by the way, “Get out. Go to the field and don’t come back until I call you. Go!” He shuts the door. I’m standing there in the middle of the parking lot and can’t believe I’ve been dismissed so harshly. Fine – quite frankly, I felt if I didn’t start moving I would probably faint.

Sitting in the our other lawn chair with my teeth chattering and hugging myself under my flimsy feeling denim jacket, I keep one eye on the minivan and the other on Heather. One of the other soccer Moms asked where the kids were and I frantically burst out, “Glen cut his head on the fence and my husband chased me away from the car. He thinks I’m overacting again but I’m scared to death Glen’s going to need medical attention!” All the soccer Moms agree that I need to get back to the car and what the hell was I waiting for!?!

To make a long story short, Glen was fine, Pete finished watching the soccer game from the side lines and I was once again sitting behind the wheel of our minivan, feeling quite defeated and ready to turn in my badge of courage.

After the game, the other soccer moms check on Glen and I say “Apparently, it seems, I’ve overacted once again.” They pretty much knew that because Pete told them back on the side lines, “Liz is great with everything, except a crisis. I’m great with crises, and stink with everything else.”

I.M. Busted N. Queasy

Every Tooth Is Sacred...

2003-11-07T10:34:00.000-05:00

I hear a voice, not so clear, maybe even laced with a little static. I lift one eyelid and realize that I am in my bed and that same all too enthusiastic for 6:39 a.m. voice is that of my favorite morning radio show. I turn and pull the coverlet up even higher to about chin level. My husband throws his arm over my side and I am cozy. I am content.

“Stacy’s mom has got it going on….” the lyrics to one of those songs that just won’t get out of my head wakes me for the second time. The baby monitor is still and I am glad for it. It’s such a lovely Friday. After days of clouds and rain, the sun is shining. The kids have a day off from school thanks to a teacher’s convention.

I sit bolt right up in bed, “Oh crap, the kids!” My husband follows my lead, “What, what’s the matter?” I’m trying to untangle from the blankets and the cat that has compromised the use of my legs at the moment, “I almost forgot. They have a dentist appointment at 8:30 which is……oh double crap, 30 minutes from now!”

You could imagine how the rest of the unexpected and much unappreciated by my children morning rush went. I made this dentist appointment the usual 6 months in advance back in April. Who knew then that I would make it for the exact day that we don’t have school!?! Go figure.

3 sleepy children and 1 very nervous child walk through the door of our pediatric dentist’s office. Holly is too much like her Mommy and needs at least 24 hours notice prior to any medical or dental procedure, visit, etc... And, by the way, I think the dental professionals must hear a huge cha-ching when they see my crew coming.

My 2 year old and 4 year old actually like to visit the dentist because these tooth gurus probably have got the greatest waiting room going – complete with video games, books and toys. Mommy usually draws a lot of sympathy and we leave with treats straight out of the treasure box for the little ones as well.

Here’s what I found to be the funny part…… the little ones like to watch the big ones get their teeth counted, cleaned and all. The examination room is even cooler than the waiting room – with marionettes hanging from the ceiling and oversized crayons, or should I say perspective weapons, lay all about. My 7 year old and 9 year old get done at the same time, making me love this office even more – a quick entrance and a quick exit is what I am all about.

So, Heather is lying in her chair and doing what she does best, chatting her little soon to be fluoride treated teeth off. I’m doing what I am usually doing in these situations out, taking one or both of my littlest ones to the potty for like the third time. I get back to the examining room to find Heather’s dental hygienist laughing along with Holly’s dental hygienist, except Holly is not laughing. I’d say it’s more like a Thompson scowl that I see on Holly’s face.

I hesitantly ask, “What happened?” Heather’s dental hygienist composes her iron welding type masked self and says, “Heather here was just filling me in on Holly’s brushing and flossing habits and what she thinks is wrong with Holly’s mouth.” Oh, okay. I guess that is funny if you don’t know Heather.

I’m wrong, again…. The hygienist continues, “And she feels that you should have gotten braces as a child because your teeth are way to close together. She didn’t think you’d be offended because you know that, and I quote, Heather is the comedian in the family and comedians are allowed to tell the truth!”

Ha ha, it is to laugh - anybody got a spare tomato hanging around?

Imagine All The People...

2003-11-06T20:29:00.000-05:00

It’s a cold and dreary night. They are all here – attracted to the light as moths to a flame – huddled together in a mass of arms and legs. No one is willing to leave, no one can bear to look away.

Slowly, they begin to move as one through the cavernous reaches of computer animation. There are ghosts about and mysterious goings on at every turn. The plot thickens and tensions increase to the breaking point as does the chair. Creeeeeaaaak!

“What was that? Was it a clue? Was it a ghost? Look! There’s a shadow cast across the doorway ahead! Oh my gosh! Could that have been the culprit? Quick, follow that shadow! Go through the door! Quickly! We’re losing it. It must know something! Has it been watching us all this time? What should we do? Where should we go? Who should we call? Go, Go, Go!”

There is a sound somewhere far off in the distance intruding into my thinking out loud again. Its familiar tones bring me back to reality, the sound of children laughing.

I quickly blink and shake the bangs out of my eyes. First comes clarity, then pain. My back is aching. The straight and rigid back seating vessel that is our computer chair feels like it is about to snap. My 4 year old son’s butt is digging into my right thigh muscle, my 2 year old daughter has managed to cramp my left leg and my 7 and 10 year old daughters have left the room entirely mumbling, “God Mom! It’s just a game! You are so weird sometimes!”

“Would you please turn off that game and the computer already?” My husband has given up any thoughts of watching the news or reading his New York Post and leaves the room disappointed and probably a little annoyed. He stalks back to the bathroom and finishes running the baby's tub.

My 2 year old (said baby) has lost interest as well and asks my 7 year old to, “Pweese turn on Elmo for me.”

Huh! Obviously I’m dealing with amateurs. What? Has everyone lost their sense of adventure? Have we become so desensitized by spelling tests, social studies reports and D.A.R.E. assemblies? Has everyone’s imagination taken a hiatus?

“C’mon Momma, let’s go back to Nancy Drew’s room and weed her notes. I bet it has some cwews!” My son's grinning face and sparkling blue eyes are a comfort to me and manage to warm my heart. Ahhhh! I have found a compatriot at last. And the hunt is on!

My son takes command of the mouse and we begin our quest for the next cwew, I mean clue!

It's 9:07 a.m. and God Is Calling!

2003-11-05T10:13:00.000-05:00

The roads are slick with leaves. I find myself carefully maneuvering our minivan around streets surrounded by stately oaks, maples and a slew of other trees unfamiliar to me. My three oldest children and our neighbor’s boy are arguing. The baby is yelling, “Hush, Momma dwiving – be calful, Momma!” And she’s absolutely right. I do have to be careful.

We spent the weekends shopping around for our first home 10 years ago – who knew that the street in front of our house would resemble a stock car race between the hours of 6:00 am – 10:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. – 8:00 p.m. Monday thru Friday? Never mind the mad dash to our elementary school, dealing with only one way in or out of a parking lot sick with school buses, minivans and suv’s

So, I have one big car rule that bears repeating every morning, “No shouting, no arguing, no distractions beyond a body part threatening to fall off!”

We make it in and out, alive. I practice my yoga breathing and manage to bring my hyper-self down a notch or two. Now I am looking forward to my Cheerios and banana and that second cup of coffee. My 2 year old agrees, “Hopey have sum toooooo!”

My son asks, “Mom is Mamama watching us from heaven?” I am actually relieved by his question, because I’ve been hit with some doosies in the past at the most inconvenient and inopportune times. “Yes, buddy. She’s up there and probably smiling because you’re thinking about her.” Phew! How about those Yankees!?!

Then, at precisely 9:07 a.m., the big one hits, “Oh and who was that man who called her up to heaven? What’s his name – the man who called her up to heaven, I mean?”

A little nervous now, I answer, “Oh, that would be God.” I love how Glen always chooses the family car as the venue to discuss the meaning of life kind of stuff. He says, “Oh yeah, that’s right! God. He’s in charge of heaven, right?” “Uh-huh, he’s kinda like the boss of angels,” I answer, hopefully to where he is able to understand and, more importantly, accept as my final answer.

Glen’s picking at his seat buckle, bopping to the Winnie the Pooh Christmas cassette (so color me crazy, but I like this tape myself) and looking out his window when he lays the next shockwave on me, “Who made heaven? Did God make heaven? Why did he make heaven so far away?”

I have to be honest; I really don’t want to get into this right now. Not here. Not at 9:10 in the morning. Not without my coffee cup. But, we should never give up an opportunity to talk “with” our children, right? So, I cop out, “Why do you think God made heaven?”

“Well, I think he made heaven for a place for the angels to live. Their job is done on earth ‘cause their reawy old and stuff. I guess he calls them up to heaven to make room for all the babies.”

I’m gobsmacked! My son just pretty much put me in my place and I am rendered speechless by a 4 year old. I pull into our garage and manage to knock into the recyclable can for what won’t be the last time today. I turn the ignition off and turn to face my son. “You know what? I think that you’re absolutely right. And you know what else? I think that you’re pretty smart.” He blushes and says, “Yeah, and I didn’t pee in my bed today either!”

Thank God for small favors…

Give Until It Hurts...

2003-11-04T13:42:00.000-05:00

It’s the 4th day of November and every blessed squared off spot on my wall calendar is filled, some days with more than one notation. I want to take a moment, inhale a deep breath…….okay, now I’m exhaling and sorry about the garlic lover’s hummus I had for lunch……..huh? These cleansing breathes work so well in yoga class; what’s the deal?

The baby is upstairs napping and Glen is off probably enjoying his afternoon preschool class and I’m taking this opportunity to get rid of a rant that I’ve been stewing on, well, since the beginning of school really.

Is it just me – or does anyone else feel as if there is a hand out with every time they turn around? I’ll attempt to be a little more clear….I think if I hear the words, “We’re taking up a collection for…” I may be in danger of snapping that last nerve my four children have been bending dangerously thin. Don’t get me wrong, I am all about volunteering and my calendar will attest to that – I’m signed up to my bloodshot eyeballs as Mommy helper at Glen’s preschool, art appreciation Mommy for both Holly’s and Heather’s classes and assisting a friend of mine on a PTO committee function that will take us into spring, not to mention driving Miss Thompsons to girl scouts, soccer and guitar lessons.

I’m talking about a few bucks toward a class gift for the teacher - times 3 of my children who are currently attending school, times 2 holidays and end of the year parties – more than a few bucks for school pictures, times 3 children – more than a few bucks for soccer pictures – a few bucks toward that last minute guitar lesson book we failed to mention to you earlier Mrs. Thompson – a few bucks toward coaches, leaders, class trips and I know I’m forgetting something, but you get the picture, right? Again, don’t get me wrong, my husband and I have donated our fair share of time and money toward the educational and recreational pursuits of our children, happily and willingly – So, what am I stammering on about?

Just this – last week at Glen’s preschool I was approached by one of the mothers I don’t know, with a request for a donation toward a gift for one of the other mothers I know even less, who had a baby. Quite honestly, my initial reaction was, “Oh, how nice of you!” Babies are a precious gift and bear celebration after all! Something clicked in my brain, like common sense, where I began to wonder if this may have been asking maybe a little too much after all? But, I think to myself, “Oh you tired, frustrated old wench – suck it up - it’s that time of year remember? Be thankful and all that.”

So, I flip my 2 year old to my other hip, freeing my right hand in order to once again delve deep into my pockets when I ask, “So, how much are we talking?” This probably much younger and way hipper Mom (because she always seems to be put together so well as opposed to my gel it, smell it for cleanliness and cover it up as best you can self) smiles her pearly petite whites and says without hesitation, “Oh, I think $10 would be enough, don’t you?”

Yeah, $10 is just about what it took…..SNAP!

Strictly By The Numbers...

2003-11-03T14:23:00.000-05:00

My 2 year old loves to tell me the truth. Not for the better of mankind, but just for the pure shock value, like, “Look what I did!” She has learned to be aggressive as a purely instinctive survival trait due to her position in the birth order of our household. She is rough, she is tough and she will kick your butt.

My four year old boy, however, is probably fibbing if he can’t look me in the eyes or ends his sentence with, “But, it was an accident!” Glen is the only boy in the house except for the two cats and his Daddy (I don't know how to tell the difference between fish) and the internal infusion of testosterone combined with the external infusion of estrogen has the poor boy feeling like he's riding a roller coaster to hormonal hell!

My oldest girl is turning 10 in a week – hitting double digits! I can see her physically changing right before my eyes. She’s no longer the cherub faced, curly topped little rag-a-muffin running around the yard or hiding among the flower beds. Nowadays, I often find her nose buried deep in a book or trying out new ways to tame her mass of curls - apparently straight is in, again. I’ve been putting off discussing the birds and the bees, quite frankly, because I’m chicken. I never had “the talk” because my mother never had it either. I sense a mommy/daughter road trip to Barnes and Noble is in order!

My second born is turning 8 in December and has no problem holding a conversation with an adult. She has an old soul because nothing gets past this babe. She can see right through me and my flights of fancy. She knows exactly what she wants and God help anyone who gets in her way. I, on the other hand, still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. I have to be extra sharp with this one – better to give it to her straight.

So, I'm constantly reeling from one hormonally, personality, gender and age induced trauma after another.

So, here's my dilemma from last week that bears repeating this week. I’m changing a pull-up because number four has decided to go number two and number three is annoyed with number two because she and number one have ignored number three all day. Number one is annoyed with Mommy (I have no number) because number two had two more play dates this week than number one. Number four is now running around naked because she hasn’t gone number two, but there are hints of number two wafting through the air as number four runs back into bathroom number one in a second attempt at number two. Number one has retreated to the upstairs slamming the door very loudly to number one and two’s room, knocking down one of the pictures in number three and four’s room, leaving number three a basket case because number one won’t let number three into her and number two’s room. Number two is in bathroom number one with number four banging on the door who wants number two to read a number of Dr. Suess books for inspiration. No one wants to use bathroom number two because cat number one did a wicked number two and it rates about a number ten on the stink scale.

So, I wait for number two to finish in bathroom number one, dress number four, call number one and three downstairs and sit everyone down at the kitchen table with a donut, a drink and instructions not to get up until I’ve cleaned bathroom number two and gone myself, not naming a number because there is such a thing as too much information. I’m in bathroom number two for about three minutes when I hear two raps on the door and number one telling me, “The baby did a number two, again!”

Stop the ride, I want to get off!

What A Difference An Hour Makes - The Final Chapter

2003-10-31T10:53:00.000-05:00

(Continued from What A Difference An Hour Makes – Part IV)

It’s beginning to drizzle and the skies have grown quite gray, even a little threatening looking since pulling out of the parking lot of our last stop before heading on to the much anticipated final stop of our autumn family getaway. Our four children are punch drunk on fresh air, clean water and dreams of possibly relocating to this part of Eastern Pennsylvania.

Our 2 year old begins to doze off, lulled by the sound of the wipers and the droning of the radio of our well used minivan. Our 4 year old is obviously making a valiant attempt at fending off the Sandman himself. Our 7 and 9 year olds are a little more than concerned that we’ve waned all the good pumpkin picking hours away, “Great, now it’s raining! Are we still going to stop and pick pumpkins?”

We have plenty of pumpkin picking patches right in our own backyard of central New Jersey complete with hayrides, corn mazes and various other forms of autumn equinox fun, at a buck-fifty a pop of course. Cramming four children – two adults – one juice and snack filled picnic container – one pull-ups, baby wipes and emergency medical and medicinal supplies filled back pack – and driving 2+ hours one way may seem a little extreme for pumpkin picking, but it’s more of a nostalgic thing for my husband and me.

My twin brother and I took these excursions as well – my parents would stuff our sleepy selves into the station wagon with the only difference being they wouldn’t have any compunction leaving at the crack of dawn, whereas I have to plan on a daylight savings time when we fall back to make this kind of a trip with my children. We stopped at the same Dunkin’ Donuts as the halfway, coffee, donut and potty stop point. We took the same hiking trails at Bushkill Falls. We stopped at Hot Dog Johnnies for the best darn hot dogs and the best birch beer on the entire east coast in my opinion. The final destination was always Millers where we would walk through their Halloween town complete with hand constructed and painted scary murals, coffins and cord husk huts. The brass ring to the day was walking the rows upon rows of pumpkins of all colors shapes and sizes where we would dizzily wander for close to half an hour before picking the grand daddy of all Halloween pumpkins.

Bushkill Falls holds a special place for my husband and me as well – this was the venue of our first “day” date on July 29, 1989. We hiked the same trails, ate fudge from the same shop and fell in love with the whole thing – and each other. This was the same place my husband dragged my begrudging butt to on November 11, 1989. I thought he’d lost his mind! “You want to do what? You’re crazy! It’s cold out there. Hiking? Have you lost your mind?” Being young and not wanting to chase a good thing away, I agreed. So, we took the hike to where my sun rock laid. A rock that I climbed up on and stuffed a bubble gum machine ring into the cliffs’ crevice and made my childhood wish of finding my Prince Charming one day. With the falls roaring in the background, Pete asked me to get up on the rock to see if that ring was still there. I climbed up the slippery and wet rock, poked a very numb finger around a bit and turned back to say, “Nah, can’t see it.” That’s when I saw him offering a new one in its place and where he asked me to be his wife.

So, it’s 3:30 in the afternoon and it’s beginning to get dark out. It’s raining. It’s getting a little chilly. The traffic has picked up considerably and we’re running low on gas and money. I turn around to see my tow-headed boy and doe-eyed baby girl awakened by their older sisters’ question, “Are we Momma? Are we still going pumpkin picking?”

I look at my husband give him a wink and say, “You betcha’!”

Happy Autumn Everyone!

What A Difference An Hour Makes - Part IV

2003-10-31T09:45:00.000-05:00

(Continued from post dated October 29, 2003)

I lower my window and take full advantage of the brisk autumn air and the fact that today I am sitting on the passenger side of our minivan. Our four children are all happily trying to out-talk each other behind me and I lean my head out a little to the right, inhale deeply and smile as I am instantly rewarded with the scent of pine needles, wet grass and a fireplace burning somewhere close by. I turn to my husband and announce my yearly lament, “I definitely want to move up here!”

About the same time every year in late October or early November, I find myself feeling this way; antsy and ready for change - tired of the hustle and bustle, tired of the never-ending traffic, and tired of our taxes going higher while the level of political commitment seems to plummet more and more every year. The only difference is that on this daylight savings time induced family getaway to Eastern Pennsylvania, my husband responds in the same vein with, “Get us up here!”

I am usually very good at multi-tasking and it’s probably a good bet that I have more than three writing projects going on, two craft projects going on, three books I am currently reading and made one commitment too many on the same day. Entering my 40th year not to far in the distant future is turning out to be a good thing as I’ve learned to be accepting as well as forgiving of myself. With that said, my husband has been married to me long enough to know that all he has to do is agree with me just once, give me the parameters and stand back and watch the smoke fly. So, knowing that our autumn family getaway was just around the corner, I hit the Internet and researched my little heart out.

We had a list of builders in the area that we wanted to check out, but didn’t mention it to the kids until the very last minute…like, pulling into the parking lot of the first one on our list. “Why are we here? What’s this? I don’t see any pumpkins? Aren’t we going pumpkin picking?” The barrage coming from the behind me and directed right to the back of my head was not unlike that of a full blown air assault, I would imagine. I was ready though and made my counter attack, “Yes, we are going pumpkin picking. But, who wants to see some really neat houses. I mean, we are allowed to go in and walk around to see what we would like and have in our own house!?” After reassuring the kids that we weren’t moving, yet anyway, they thought it would be cool to walk around someone else’s house. So we did.

The funniest thing about this whole portion of our trip is that all four of my children kept repeating the same thing, “I don’t want to move. I am not moving! I like my house,” etc… As soon as we get into the first model and they see the big empty rooms with all the new stuff, they began making their individual decorating plans. I can still picture them, running back and forth, literally bumping into the walls and each other in excitement.

Then we go into the builder’s second model home…and man, none of us wanted to leave. It was perfect for our large family. Plenty of space inside and out. The best part of this house, and here’s the clincher, was the five bedrooms. Well heck, all bets were off as far as my kids were concerned, “We each could have a bedroom; when do we move in!?!”

We left the builder’s models all pumped up and ready to pack up Stripes, Pumpkin, John and Yoko (cats & fish) and hightail it to Eastern Pennsylvania. The girls were checking out the cars in the parking lot and I hoped that we weren’t sending out the wrong message, like, yeah, we should buy a new car, too! “We’re lookin’ at the colors on the Pennsylvania license plates to see if they were pretty!” Good thinking! How exciting! How girlie!

The only downside of this portion of our trip was that Glen actually thought that he could pick out a house, ask them to wrap it up and he’d bring it back and erect it in place of the current Thompson homestead. If only it was that easy!

(To be continued…)

What A Difference An Hour Makes - Part III

2003-10-29T14:06:00.000-05:00

(Continued from post dated October 28, 2003)

The Setting: A serene late October Sunday afternoon somewhere in the eastern portion of Pennsylvania. Fading slowly into view through the mist and haze of an overcast day is the shimmery warmth of a nostalgic diner surrounded by the parked cars of various colors, shapes and sizes. Its patrons of the same description can be seen through the windows of the diner leisurely enjoying their respective meals and day trips afforded by falling back to daylight savings time.

Act I, Scene I: Enter an overloaded, overcrowded, obviously overdue at the car wash and what color is that, beige or mauve minivan. The vehicle comes to rest at a parking space nearest to the diner’s entrance. Its side door is flung open and two adolescent girls jump out screaming, “P.U.! What stinks?” An even younger child of the male persuasion tumbles out yelling, “Eeewwwww, smells like road kill!” A tired and sneezing much older female exits same vehicle and immediately begins to pull in the herd, “Allright, okay, everybody stand here to the side while I get the baby– no more road kill today, okay!?!” The herd and herder begin to laugh, drawing attention and a few uncomfortable and unsympathetic stares their way. The even larger and obviously more dominant male appears at the side of the much older female and gently takes the youngest cub into his strong arms and begins to forage his way through the parking lot, toward the entrance to their newly found feeding hole.

Act I, Scene II: “Five please, plus a high chair,” says the dominant male. The hostess seems a bit overwhelmed and asks, “Would that be five or six total?” It’s Sunday, so I leave my city slicker comments to myself and politely answer, “That would be a grand total of six, please, for non-smoking.” We’re ushered in and break into two smaller packs, half to potty stops and the other half to mark their territory for what is promised to be a feeding frenzy. The much older female returns with her pack, takes her place at the feeding hole and immediately is summoned for another visit to the potty and is overheard to say in a voice a little louder than a whisper, “Please finish this time because I don’t want to spend all of lunch in the potty!”

Act II, Scene I: “One kids’ grill cheese platter, one kids’ chicken finger platter, one kids’ spaghetti and meatballs and can we get a pancake with two strips of bacon for the baby, please?” The adult’s orders are also put in and all are received with grunts except, “Can’t just order one pancake.” “Whatever. Two please.” Licking their chops and eagerly rubbing their paws together in anticipation, the pack of 6 await their feed, and wait, and wait. Finally, the food arrives. The chicken and meatball are cut up to cub-friendly and manageable pieces and they begin to feed. “Oh, look, my favorite, white cheese!” The 9 year old does not sound, let alone look convincing. “Do you want me to see if they have yellow?” The much older female attempts to soothe her cub. The wide-eyed 9 year old swears that, “No, I usually eat yellow, but love white! Can I have your potato chips?” The 4 year old says in mid-chew, “This pusghetti tastes like chicken!” “I’m sure it doesn’t taste like chicken,” says the much older female. “Uh, yeah, actually, it does,” says the empathetic dominant male, knawing on his adult size chicken tasting meatball. “My chicken fingers are so, so, crunchy!” says the disappointed 7 year old. The dominant male and much older female glances at each others weary faces and give each other a sympathetic smile. “And where the heck are the baby’s pancakes?”

Act II, Scene II: Once again, the pack splits in two and the dominant male pays for the unsatisfying meal, making sure that the missing pancakes and bacon are taken off the bill. The much older female commends her cubs for their well behaved demeanors and quickly exits the smokiness of the non-smoking section. Hand-in-hand, the full pack skips to their vehicle singing, “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! I’ll get you my little pretty – and your little dog, too!” Many more stares ensue and our happy little, albeit still a little hungry crew continue their journey into their Autumn Family Outing.

(To be continued….)

What A Difference An Hour Makes - Part II

2003-10-28T13:25:00.000-05:00

(Continued from post dated October 27, 2003)

Have you ever tried convincing a 4 year old that, "We will just buy the fudge and you really can't have any until after lunch time" when you don't have lunch at any tourist attraction as a rule? He wasn't happy and the fact that the fudge looked and smelled so darn good, threatening to break my resolve (I should just rub the stuff directly on my hips!) didn't help one bit.

I secretly scanned the lunch board just to see if a few Thompson rules required some bending - nope! Hot dog and fries were $5.50, tack on another buck-fifty for a drink, times that by six children for all those excess carbs and we are down considerably on our Autumn Fun Day allocation. Sticking to our original plan, we'd tour the Indian Museum, buy the sainted fudge and then leave Bushkill Falls to find a good ole' fashioned diner for lunch.

The word "Indian" was enough to get Glen's mind off the fudge and onto the possibility of actually seeing someone shoot something with a weapon of some sort. He quickly realized his error upon entering the very nicely kept display saying, "Where are the Indians and the stinkin' horses? Oh, I get it, deez are fake Indians, 'cause all the real Indians are dead! Who killed dem all, Momma?" Glen felt much better after we told him that there are many modern day Indian descendants alive and well. Our four children really do enjoy these types of attractions and get totally involved in the history.

Example: Heather and Holly are admiring the animal pelts on display when Holly says, "Oh, those poor animals gave up their lives. How sad!" Then Heather chimes in, "No Holly; the animals didn't give their lives, the Indians took 'em. You snooze, you lose!" I can easily distinguish the would-be hunter from the would-be gatherer of the two. Our 2 year old finds the displays confusing and just stares at the manikins dressed in Indian garb, "Who dem? What dey doonin'? Whazdat? Ewwww! Yucky, stinky, amimals!"

After our long car ride and the long hike earlier in the morning, the kids were starving and so were we. So, another round of potty stops later, we packed up our crew and bid farewell to Bushkill Falls until, next year...

Driving closer toward civilization and any clean and busy looking diner, we asked the kids what their favorite part of the trip was thus far.

Our 9 year old daughter said that taking pictures of all of the various types of wildlife was very fulfilling - except we heard it as, "I thought shooting the birds and junk was totally awesome."

Our 7 year old daughter thought that one should afford an opportunity to appreciate what Mother Nature had to offer as a priceless opportunity - except we heard it as, "Man, they sure charged an arm and a leg for everything, didn't they? But, I guess it was worth it 'cause the falls were wicked!"

Our 4 year old son agreed and thought that his hands on experience with wildlife left an indelable impression - except we heard it as, "I hope I didn't step on any poop!"

Our 2 year old sat quietly in her car seat, taking in all the colorful road trip banter. My husband asks her, "So, Hopey, when Grandma or Grandpa ask you what you did today, what are you going to say?" She removes her pacifier and quickly responds, "I went potty!" After a quick chuckle I say,"And what else did you do today?" Without skipping a beat, she responds about at about two octaves higher, "I did peepee!"

(to be continued...)

What A Difference An Hour Makes - Part I

2003-10-27T14:16:00.000-05:00

Our house has something like a dozen or so appliances with some sort of time keeping abilities. Antique clocks, several alarm clocks, vcr & dvd players, stove, coffee maker, microwave which may vary in time anywhere from 1 to 10 minutes. So, how come we're always running late!?!

Okay, so daylight savings time is here again and we were reminded by various forms of the media not to forget to set our clocks back an hour before going to bed this past Saturday night. Allrightey then, so we did and took full advantage of getting up and out of the house yesterday - earlier than usual. My husband and I were so proud of ourselves; we just had to call my "normally early riser" parents to say, "Hey, guess what?" It's 7:50 a.m. and we're on the way to Pennsylvania!" My Father is audibly surprised and asks, "Oh yeah, where are you?" I stammer on, "Oh, we're like, on Route 287 already!" Truth be told, we had just pulled out of the driveway but I lied like a rug and made it seem we'd been on the road for a while. In my defense, my parents took their own road trip yesterday and were up in Pennsylvania by 8:00 a.m. for breakfast - very difficult to impress in the early bird category, ya' know!?!

With the trees in their full autumn glory, we decided to pack up our four children and take our yearly, "Oooooohhh, Ahhhhhh and I want to live here!" trip to Bushkill Falls, PA. We all woke with clean bills of health, the kids had a quick bite for breakfast and we marched out to the garage and into a very gray looking day. The clouds threatened to unleash their havoc on our long awaited and many times postponed outing all day. I wasn't about to cave, we continued into the 2 plus hour long trip with visions of leaf collecting and pumpkin picking in our heads.

After saying, "Asking me isn't going to get us there any faster; we'll get there when we get there!" for what seemed like a hundred times, we parked our minivan, made our respective potty stops, said NO to fudge and/or funnel cake and headed out into the wilderness. Oh, wait, we've got to buy tickets first....must pay for the privilege of gazing at what Mother Nature created eons ago....and please remember not to disturb the rocks, flowers or fauna. I half expected to see a sign not far beyond the entrance to say, Curb Your Children!

We had a plan, we would take the yellow trail as the blue trail was a bit too flat and void of any good views of the falls and the red trail was the steepest and, more importantly, the longest between said potty stops. The admissions person agrees and shows us the trick of taking the yellow trail backwards, avoiding its steepness until the end as it's, "Easier to walk the kids down as it is up, ya' know!" Side note: No, I didn't know that! With a 4 year old boy not knowing what the word walk means, a 7 year old way too far ahead, a 9 year old swearing that she hates heights, water, etc... and a 2 year old hanging out on a hip pretty much leaves me and my husband breathless - up the stairs or down the stairs...

We still managed to divert our attentions onto the red trail, but once realizing our mistake, took it to the halfway point and doubled back, resulting in a very enjoyable one hour hike for the 6 of us. Holly and Heather enjoyed taking pictures of the flowers and fauna and Glen enjoyed throwing the rocks into the water. Yeah, yeah, don't touch the rocks - so call the rock police, okay!

My husband thought it would be fun to remind the kids that they'd, "Better keep your eyes open for any brothers and sisters of those stuffed coyotes we saw in the museum!" It took the baby about 5 seconds to hear, comprehend and react to her Daddy's warning. She stopped dead in her muddy tracks, turned and jumped onto my now muddy running pants (not that I run, mind you) saying, "I scawed of da amimals, Momma!" What annoyed me was that my husband must have caught my eyes nervously darting back and forth and said, "Oh, looks like Momma scared, too!" Glancing behind me I say, "Nah, I'm just looking for a good place to bury the evidence after I kill you!"

We're able to complete our hike without anyone falling into the water, falling into the mud or injurying themselves in anyway. I declare it an enjoyable day thus far and enthusiastically herd the children toward the exit from the falls and into the joys of being greeted by one gift shop after another. Having said no another dozen times and still be able to keep my enthusiasm intact, we head to the minivan for a quick snack and continue our Autumn adventure - the park's Indian Museum...To be continue....

If Momma Ain't Happy - Ain't Nobody Happy

2003-10-24T13:47:00.000-04:00

A funny quote comes to my mind at the moment, "If Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy!" Ain't it the truth?

Not too long ago, I've learned to accept the fact that we live in very busy, very complicated and trying times and there's Jack-manure I can do about that. What I can do is to accept that I am not perfect (whoa, no problem there, never said I was), and be at peace with my SAHM status.

Stay-at-home-Mom isn't considered a dirty set of words anymore and I've even heard or read somewhere that it's actually considered, trendy?!!? I don't know about that, but what I do know is....it ain't easy.

Today, our families face stress levels that are taking more and more 40ish people to their graves - way too early in my book, especially since I'll be facing the Big 40 my ownself come May. I'm sure that my husband and I have gone through enough of our own fluctuations in the past year and I don't hesitate to consider we've probably increased our respective blood pressures to heights unknown.

Here's the trick....how to recognize that we are reaching dangerous territory - that place somewhere between the boiling point and Mt. Vesuvius? I've come up with a few observations, in no particular order really:

- I jump to what must be close to 10 feet off the bed when I hear
the morning alarm go off. Not a problem, except that the alarm
hasn't rung yet. A sure sign that Mom is a bit hopped up on
something at the moment.

- Spent the whole day doing laundry, cleaning the bathrooms, putting
away clothes, throwing away more junk, bagging more trash and
the house still is a mess. Proof positive that it's time to grab the
car keys, the kids and head out into the wild blue yonder.

- The eyes are puffy, the nose and/or head is clogged, the body is
retaining way too much water and the jeans worn comfortably just
yesterday are making me feel like a Vienna sausage today. Sure fire
clues that it's time to put on the sunglasses, pop the Sudafed, throw
on a pair of sweats and faghettabowtit!

- I glance outside to see our mail lady making her daily delivery at our
mailbox and I run out and meet her because, "I just love getting
mail and how are you today? Think it's going to rain? Gonna be
cold one tonight, huh!?! Are those shorts actually comfortable?"
This is your mind, this is your mind post-natal; any questions?

So, these past three weeks of sadness, loss and mortgage payments have all of us feeling a little shall we say, edgy. Last night, it all came to a head. I totally missed all of the usual bells and whistles and hit rock bottom - Mt. Vesuvius, big time. I left for the PTO meeting last night feeling totally miserable and regretting everything I've said or done, more often than not. Mad at my kids, apologizing to my husband and most of all, mad at myself.

I woke up this morning and not in my usual TGIF mood, either, but I go through the motions because tomorrow is the beginning of the weekend and I think that we can make it, or I can make it 'til then.

I watch my four children eat their breakfasts of Cheerios, oatmeal and Cocoa Puffs and listen to the chitter and the chatter. "Dress down day, right Momma? I can wear my jeans - hurray, comfy-cozy, that's how I like it!" "Look at the sun shining so bright - I love Fall. It looks like crystal out there!" "Momma, can we make homemade pizza tonight? You know I love your home made pizza on Fridays!" "Pizza, I wuv pizza! Pwetty Mommy!"

I've declared another "No Chore Day" and didn't even bother getting my two youngest out of their pajamas until just a few minutes ago. The baby is taking a quick recharge and Glen and I are going on his, "Dot.com" to see, "Can elephants fly?" before picking the two older girls and stopping for some pizza fixings.

(2:30 p.m.) The carrot cake is cooling on the counter - just for kicks and giggles.

Monsters Among Us

2003-10-23T12:56:00.000-04:00

The excitement is building in this modest three bedroom house smack dab in the middle of the burbs. Our four children are in a frenzy of pre-Halloween glee. My husband and I could hear them from our bedroom at the other end of the house. I think to myself, "There are monsters among us!"

"Hey out there! Please tone it down a notch or two and finish getting ready for school!" I shouted like something straight out of a Dr. Seuss book.

Quite frankly, I always did have trouble reading his stuff to the kids because I found half of his words sounding pharmaceutically inhanced, almost impossible to pronounce like:

"Oh the thinks you can think, you can think about Day, a day in Da-Dake. There are so many thinks that a Thinker can think! Would you dare yank a tooth of the Rink-Rinker-Fink?"

A total nightmare - especially reading something like, "There's A Wocket In Your Pocket" right before the children's bedtime, after an exceptionally long and difficult day.

The rowdy has turned into a ruckus and I storm down the hallway, half thinking and half mumbling, "Set these......straight....can't do loud....in the morning!

I lean against the doorway leading to the living room, allowing my caffeine starved brain time to understand exactly what I am witnessing. As a mother of four children, I've learned the guilt survival skill of first assessing the situation before blowing my badly dyed top. Many times have I lost it only to hear a little pained voice say, "But Mommy, I was making this for you as a supwise 'cause I wuv you so much!" Don't I hear the bloom flying background music for the Wicked Witch of the West!?!

First, I notice my 2 year old daughter twirling and whirling in her one inch too long nightgown, her flushed little cherub face joyously screeching, "Hewp, hewp, hewp, deer eating me, deer eating me!"

There's my Scooby Doo slipper clad 4 year old son jumping and wildly slapping at the air screaming, "Heeya! Heeya! Heeya!"

My two oldest, 7 and 9 year old, daughters are stomping their feet and laughing their mass of matted hair heads off.

I can't help but stomp myself over to the fun and join in on the pretending, "I'm Mommy Monster! I must feed! I must feed on these children! Grrrrrr!"

All four stop dead in their tracks and stare at me as if I grew another breast. I stare back, "What?" Judging by the look in the boy's eyes, he's ready to cry. Frowning like only he can, he says, "You scared us, Mommy! That's not nice."

I can't believe this! Is there anything I can do, right? Now, I'm truly insulted, "What, can't Mommy pretend to be a monster, too, like you guys?"

Giving me that look that screams, "You are so not knowing what's going on, so not with it, so uncool!" and probably wondering what planet this three breasted alien is from, they set me straight.

"No, we're not pretending to be monsters! We're stomping our feet and making the dust fly up in the air and Glen is trying to kill the dust and Hope is trying to hide from the dust that wants to eat her."

Okay, well, duh, yah, like, so do I, whatever....

Reality Bytes

2003-10-22T13:38:00.000-04:00

Fall is back in full swing and I intend on stepping up to the plate and banging out a homer of a weekend - I hope. The last two weeks have been so stressful for the ThompsonClan6, I say we disconnect with hi-tech and have some real low-tech fun.

I admit it, I am so addicted to hi-tech - keeping my daily journal on the internet and blogging to my heart's content until 1:00 a.m. - yeah, I'm hooked. You know what else I find intriguing? Reality shows - not all of them, just a select few that I just can't help tuning into week after week. The list goes like:

Tuesday Night: The Restaurant - basically it's a show about a guy and the Mom he loves to cook with. Decides he wants to try his hand at owning his own restaurant - a very non-competitive line of work, right!?! Then, he's going to open his first ever restaurant in a very understanding, pleasantly polite and open minded place like, say, New York City. OMG, I have got to see this. It's a shame, really. I guess I get so involved in the show because I've worked as a bartender (I always hated the word bar"maid") at night while holding down a full time day job. I sympathize with anyone who has to deal with the public, for a living. Not easy, trust me on this one! Anyhow, just watching the attitudes, egos and not to mention the primping and clawing and cat fighting of his staff is like watching a train wreck happen right before your eyes. A morbid sense of entertainment, really.

Tuesday Night: Queer Eye for the Straight Guy - now, if you haven't caught this show or find yourself hesitant due to its provocative title, ya' don't know what ya' missin'! It's hysterical! My husband and I love watching these supposed 5 homosexual guys do a total image makeover hebejeebee on some slob of a heterosexual. Actually, it's pretty fascinating because they are truly able to transform the straight guy into someone who becomes take home to Mom-worthy. They also do wonders to the apartments/homes and I've gotten some pretty good tips from the decorating guy. As a side note, the hair and grooming guy alone is worth the watch - he's hot! As I used to say in my single vamp days, "Isn't always the way?"

Thursday Night: Survivor - The creme de la creme of reality shows. I always think of the first and second season of Survivor as the best, but last year's Survivor "the guys against the girls" theme to be great. Sad to say that I've missed more episodes than I've watched this season, but this show's attempt at throwing obviously pampered and socially inept total strangers together in a survival situation always manages to get me running for the popcorn.

I've decided that I'm becoming way too dependant on objects that require me to enter a URL or a sattelite address. So, I'm brewing up some hot chocolate, packing up the kids and leaving the cell phone behind this weekend and my four children couldn't be any happier. Unless we were going camping, that is.

Whoa, hang on there guys - remember, baby steps, little baby steps.

A Space To Call My Own

2003-10-21T23:29:00.000-04:00

My four children are already thinking two holidays and a full season ahead of schedule – thanks to seeing our first Christmas commercial on television today; the earliest ever that I can remember. I mean, being a Mom for a full decade, I’ve had to recondition myself to buy items a full season early.

Better purchase those snow boots in September or you risk doing without like we did last year – who knew that New Jersey would be hit with record snow storms in the winter of 2003? In 2002, I think we got about a tablespoon of snow! We were boot-ready and sled- worthy then.

I’ve heard, and admit to have contributed to, the chorus of moans and groans upon entering our local craft store in July and hear my children shout in unison, "Look, Halloween stuff! Can we get our costumes now?!? Then, don’t you know when you need that last minute Halloween costume or that extra big bag of candy, and it's like October 15, your basically S.O.L.

So, my children have been jotting down their notes and tearing out magazine ads for their respective Christmas lists. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em - I’m going to take advantage of the pre-season bru-ha-ha and write a letter of my own to Santa :

Dear Santa,

I have been a very good Mommy this year. I have expressed, in many different ways, how much I love my family and friends; tried to listen more than speak; tried to forgive and forget; went another year without knowing my exact weight; changed what I could and made peace with the rest. The only thing I want for Christmas is...

A space to call my own.

It's been one of those hectic days, Santa. I spent more time behind the wheel of the minivan than I did in the house. All I wanted to do tonight is get home from my PTO committee meeting, kick off my sneakers and jot down a few thoughts and important upcoming dates.

Today’s mail is hiding under today’s drawings of pumpkins of various shapes and colors; my desk top publishing cd is missing and has been replaced with Glen’s Mr. Potato Head cd; Halloween recipes are mixed in with job search responses and test papers to be filed; remodeling brochures are thrown into a pile of coloring books and the various class room and Girl Scout reminders that were left on the computer keyboard with the intentions of updating calendars (gave up using just one calendar) are now among the M.I.A. Not to mention the printer is out of paper and the ink cartridge is printing sort of like an e.k.g., and what the heck is the sticky spot just right of my “I Love Nantucket” mouse pad?

So, come on Santa baby, make me into the well organized and well informed person that I seemed to have lost somewhere in between Motherhood.

Yours faithfully,

I.M. Amess

Manic Monday

2003-10-20T11:02:00.000-04:00

It’s not even 10:00 in the morning and I am writing today’s journal entry; not because I don’t have anything to do – the dust kitties, breakfast dishes, dirty laundry threatening to break through bifold doors and baskets full of clean laundry waiting to fill barren closets and drawers have become more than a mere distraction – but it’s turned into a typical Manic Monday!

Like Garfield, I am not a big fan of Mondays. I absolutely adore Fridays, love Saturdays (especially if it’s one that my husband has off) and could do with a 48 hour Sunday, but have absolutely no use for Mondays. My four children and I are sluggish come 7:00 a.m. Monday morning. We’re still coming off our weekend high and basically have the motivations of a tree sloth. Most of the school families I know have a problem with the late schedule we’ve drawn this year, and I have to admit that school letting out a 3:35 p.m. doesn’t leave much room for after school activities and play dates. In the same token, starting school at 9:20 a.m. has been my only saving grace on Monday!

This morning was a pip! We eat breakfast, the girls and Mommy get dressed and my two youngest are completing their morning drawings of rainbows, flowers and three headed-blood sucking monsters. The neighbor’s kid knocks at our front door right on schedule, 8:50 a.m. The Manic portion of Monday starts with having to repeat myself about half a dozen times before the children’s sloth-like selves get the idea that we’re leaving.

Glen’s still in his pajamas and the baby has managed to get one slipper on and one boot on, not being able to find either partner. “Good job Hope.” That’ll have to do, besides, they’ll be in their car seats anyway – who’s gonna see? I load ‘em up in the minivan, put on my sunglasses not for the morning glare, but to camoflauge the dark baggage I'm carrying under each blood shot eye.

I sit behind the wheel and let out a huge sigh of relief, “9:00 o’clock, good job guys!” Just in time to beat those darn school busses from blocking a clear passage to a quick drop off. I reach down and trip over my tongue, “Uh, oh, wh, where are the keys?” In beautiful Vienna Boys’ Choir style I hear, “I don’t know?!”

My four children and neighbor’s child are astonished at my rapid speed and use of colorful language, “Where are the flippin’ keys? No keys, keys, where are the bloody keys? We’re gonna be late, dagnabit!” The poor children do not dare utter a single word as the rant for the keys continues. Out of the garage, back into the garage, out of the garage and then back into the garage I go again, “Okay, everybody out – we’re walking – move it, move it, move it!” In hindsight, I am amazed that the children grabbed their respective back packs, got out of the car, put their respective jackets on and moved as far away from me as possible, without question. I unlock Glen from his car seat restraints, lift the baby out of hers and begin tearing at the double stroller. “Glen, you’re going to have to sit with Hope, ‘cause Mommy’s moving fast today!” I do a time check, “9:07 a.m., we’re going to have to walk really fast, guys!”

Normally, a leisurely stress-free stroller paced walk to school would take about 15 minutes and we’re going to have to do a power walk to make it for the 9:15 a.m. warning bell.

And……..they’re off. There’s C. and Holly neck and neck at the front of the pack with Heather and Mommy pulling up the rear. C. has pulled ahead (probably because he doesn’t want to be seen walking with such a werido Mom!) and Holly’s fast on his tail. Heather pulls ahead of Stroller Mommy and almost loses a leg, falling out of her left clog. Stroller Mommy yells out, “Stop at the corner – do not cross that street – wait for me!” as I help Heather retrieve lost clog. Then it’s Stroller Mommy and Heather, neck and neck with Holly and C. still in the lead. We meet at the corner, cross the street safely and it’s anybody’s race! Holly and C. pull ahead and cross the halfway point with Stroller Mommy and Heather still pulling up the rear.

As you can imagine, we were quite a sight - back packs flying, the baby holding on to the sides of the stroller for dear life and Glen’s Scooby slippers flying up over the various bumps and sudden turns to avoid mud and broken glass.

We make it to the school parking lot in time to hear the 9:15 a.m. warning bell ring….and break out into a full blown trot to the side doors (the closest entrance to the cafeteria – meeting place for Holly and C.’s class). God help anyone who is in our way, I fling open the doors, “In you go, move it, you’re gonna make it!” Quick kiss and I, literally, toss Holly into the cafeteria in time to see her teacher ushering Holly’s class out. I compose myself in time to wish Mr. B. a “Happy Monday morning!” but he’s not buying it because he glances down at Glen’s Scooby slippers and sympathetically shakes his head. I can almost read his mind, “You poor woman, what in God’s name are you doing to your poor children?”

I grab Heather and help her aching clogged feet move to the auditorium, the meeting place for her class, keeping my head down actually hoping that no one will recognize me. I get around the corner to the main hall and one of the teachers sees me and says, “Stop children and let the Mommy through.” I kindly thank her and cringe when a student in her line says, “Hi, Mrs. Thompson!”

Pushing my double stroller the size of a Cadillac in such a confined space like a school hallway first thing in the morning, I weave through a mass of children led by teachers, most of who look at me in a sort of annoyed way and I think, “What’s their problem?” A quick kiss and I toss my second born into the auditorium and I breathe a sigh of relief, hoping to bring my blood pressure back down from stroke level. I take a quick peek at Heather and have to smile because I see her sitting in one of the seats, grabbing at her chest and dramatically breathing for her friends. I also don’t feel so bad because her teacher is still not there and probably experiencing her own Manic Monday.

Bereavement Management

2003-10-19T21:27:00.000-04:00

Things always seem to come in threes – there’s been another death in our circle of family and friends. We will be sending out our condolences and P. will be attending her 3rd funeral in 2 weeks.

Learning of this latest bit of sad news has me, yet again, dealing with the loss of my Grandmother just 9 days ago and my mind turns toward thoughts of bereavement – how we each have dealt with the feelings associated with loss in very different ways.

I admit that I have been having a really tough time of it as this has been my first experience of losing someone very close to me. I guess you could say that I’ve been lucky, but it’s been difficult for me to allow time for mourning when I have four children dealing with the loss as well. I thought that the week of reflection, discussion and dealing with the very ordinary days of being married with children would help heal us all. It was soon obvious to me that the wounds are still fresh and threatening to become ever deeper.

Today, we drove up to my parents’ place for our weekly visit for Sunday dinner. My Mom has set aside a few things of my Grandmother’s to give to me. A simple ring of gold Mama wore every day until her pain caused her fingers to swell terribly, gold earrings from the old country I’ve always admired and a beautiful diamond heart necklace simple in size and shaped in a heart - she knows that most of my favorite things are associated with the heart.
I was overcome with emotion; appreciation for my Mother’s thoughtfulness in her own time of grief, memories of my Mama wearing the trinkets and just plain missing the woman, terribly.

My parents and I spoke of the profound sense of loss we all felt, even though we’ve been preparing ourselves for the inevitable with Mama’s rapidly declining health over the summer. We couldn’t help ourselves, acknowledging the fact that the pain was still there, ironically helped relieve it, bit by bit.

My husband has been the glue that’s held my emotionally charged family from falling apart, completely. He has always been my rock and now has been lending a sympathetic ear to our dealing with loss, having been through it many times himself – a sort of non-spoken therapy if you will.

Holly, my 9 year old, has come to accept Mama’s death more readily than her siblings, her maturity and natural sense of compassion giving her the strength to quickly console anyone with a hug.

Heather, my 7 year old, is having the hardest time dealing with the death of her beloved Great-Grandmother. She’s been lashing out at her siblings and displaying anger truly uncharacteristic, but totally understandable, all day. She was very close to Mamama and they shared everything from their laughter, food and even Mama’s bed at nap times.

Glen, my 4 year old, has tipped both sides of the emotional scale – running into Heather’s Godmother yesterday he said, “Hey Aunt C. You know what? Mamama died!” Aunt C. responded with, “I know, Glen and I’m sorry.” Little man wrinkled his nose, stomped his foot and said, “Oh man! Everybody knows!” Today, he watched my Father, not for the first time, take his medicines and expressed his concerns that his Papa was dying. After our futile attempts at reassurance, he buried his head in my bosom and began to sob, “I don’t want anyone else to die, because I miss Mamama!”

Hope is still too young to understand all of this, but insists on knowing why everyone is crying.

I was desperately trying to find a way to console my children for the night. We got home and I began to unpack the food my Mom sent home with us and it happened; a simple gesture that registered about a 9.9 on the Richter scale of bereavement management. My Mother placed two very pretty camisoles into the bag – they were my Grandmother’s. I choked back the huge lump that was forming in my throat and called for the girls. “Look what Mama sent home with us. Do you remember these?” The girls stared at the camisoles at first, and then both recognized them to be the ones that they would wear on their sleep over visits with Mamama. They each reached for their respective camisoles, smelled them and held them close. I gently spoke, “Now, tonight and always you will have a piece of your Mamama with you.”

I left the room as I couldn’t hold back the fresh flow of tears any longer and returned to find each of the girls wearing their camisole while happily watching The Cartoon Channel. I too will be wearing a piece of Mamama to bed – a diamond heart around my neck and the memory of her, warm in my heart.

Goodnight, Mamama.

Mommy Needs A Nap Time Out!

2003-10-18T19:05:00.000-04:00

I took an afternoon nap today – well, truth be told, it was more like I passed out!

This week has been even more stressful for the family with the passing of my Grandmother 7 days ago. There were arrangements to be made, memorials to attend and friends and family to receive. So, by the end of yesterday, I was whipped! I got home from an excursion to the mall with my children (see my post dated 10/7 Measuring Up) and was surprised to see my husband’s car in the driveway at such an early hour. Fridays are his late night and he was home by 4:20 p.m. Not a good sign! My neurotic self kicks in and says, “Self, either he’s lost his job, quit his job, is sick or all of the above!" After parking and unloading, he’s still not at the front door. Oh, oh, this is not good at all. Loaded down with jackets, packages and children, I get to the front door and I see hubby hobbling his way to the front door. He gets it open and I take one look at his face and we both say at the same time, “I’m/you’re sick!”

I immediately block my children’s entrance to their humble abode and put my body in between them and their beloved father and say, “Wait a minute, what do you have?” I honestly was forming some sort of mental plan to quarantine him from the children, in case it was something highly contagious. I love my husband terribly, but germs are germs. He says his tummy is upset and we finally decide that it must have been something he ate. Okay, I make a risky judgment call, “Run past Daddy, go into the kitchen and stay there until I call for you!”

Ushering Daddy back to the playroom couch, I do a quick triage, “No fever, just spit in the bucket, eyes red and glassy – looks like your hypoglycemia, Bub.” Been there and done that, know that it’s not fatal at the moment. So, back to the kids who have been a handful at the mall all day and, from the looks of it, are not going to ease up anytime soon. I was right. Dinner was a kin to keeping a three ring circus confined to one room as Daddy was still in quarantine…can’t be too safe.

Once the kids were in bed, like something between 9:00 and 10:00 p.m., I sat down next to hubby and was able to get him to nibble on crackers and finally keep down a bowl of oatmeal. I considered the man cured, and promptly opened up the paper and say, “What’s happening in the world?” He looked at me, a bit stunned, and asked, “Aren’t you coming to bed?” I look at the clock to see that it was only 11:30 p.m. and say, “I’ve had exactly 45 minutes of private time today. You’re going back to work tomorrow, Holly has guitar tomorrow, and it’s raining which means the playground is going to be wet and muddy tomorrow, which means I will have to walk the hallowed hallways of our children’s school with three non-guitar playing children. Then, Heather has a soccer game right after, which means I will attempt to continue to keep three out of four children amused and give them some sort of nourishment right there on said soccer field, all the while trying to cheer my 7 year old little soccer player on! So, um, am I coming to bed? No and goodnight; feel better.” The look of defeat on his face was heart breaking, but I have to be a realist – if I don’t get some peace and quiet, there will be hell to pay!

Today was just as I had feared it to be…a lot of loading and unloading our minivan, chasing the 2 year old up and down the school hallways, pretending I don’t see the stares of other parents, dozens of potty stops, keeping the 2 and 4 year olds out of the puddles and consoling a 7 year old who had two goals made on her tour of duty as goal keeper. The last thing I remember was loading the dishwasher after a really late lunch (dunch or linner?), kissing my husband hello and collapsing on my big comfy chair and nothing else for another 2 hours after that.

It never ceases to amaze me how my husband is able to keep four children so calm, happy and unbelievably quiet and I can’t help feeling like I’m prone to exaggeration – a total incompetent when it comes to controlling my brood. Is it because when they are with me, we are in perpetual motion? Is it because, when Daddy is home, all is at peace with the world? Is it because, once again, they’ve succeeded in making a liar out of me? Or more likely, he slips us some sort of Mickey when we’re not looking. Then again, can I blame him?

Measuring Up

2003-10-17T17:21:00.000-04:00

I got measured today. The seamstress broke out her measuring tape and I promptly broke out in a sweat. She's a tiny little thing with trendy dark short hair cut into a very sophisticated style and wearing even more trendy dark rimmed glasses. I felt like the plain Jane step-sister to her Cinderella size shoe self. Of course, I didn't help the cause of Motherhood by wearing my standard issue clothing of running pants, Old Navy t-shirt and running shoes - I did remember to wear unholey under garments, however. Craning her elegant little neck, she looks up at me and asks, "How tall are you?" I fidget a little and clear my swelling throat before answering, "Ah, um, 5' 9 1/2" or so." She nods in agreement and says, "Yes, you're a tall one!"

I've had my share of jokes thrown at me during those awkward high school years, "How's the weather up there. Hey Amazon! Lizard the Amazon Woman, etc..." So, this regular at the petite department shouldn't phase me a bit, right!? Well, let me tell you, I felt so intimidated when she had to reach around my waste with those Swan Lake arms of hers. Checking for length, she says, "Well, I'll have to take 4 inches into consideration allowing for heels." Now I'm pissed. I say to the top of her head, "Are you kidding! I don't believe that will be necessary. I don't wear heels unless I'm looking for a broken limb. Thank you, just adjust for a nice inch or so."

We met my future sister-in-law at the mall in order to pick out a dress for her and my brother's wedding. They've asked all, and I mean every blessed one, of my children to be in the wedding and I will join the bride's maids as, I guess, a brides madame. My 4 year old son will be ring bearer, my 7 and 9 year old daughters will be Jr. Bride's maids and my little 2 year old daughter will be the flower girl. My brother has asked my husband to be his best man, so we're talking a real family affair. I am so excited and will even bare the horrible humiliation known as "dress fittings".

I've been stressing over this and apologize in advance as I'm sure my dear P. will be reading this. I am more than thrilled to be standing by her side on the day, but not so thrilled at standing next her teenage nieces and a very cute and very petite maid of honor. Lord knows what style they'll pick, but I made a promise to myself to go with the flow and not make a big deal for poor P.

Actually, the dress we'll be wearing is absolutely gorgeous, classic navy, 2 piece and sprayed with a bit of rhinestone in the bodice. So, there I stood with my future-sister-in-law and her maid of honor using me as their model. I was ready to die, but they were so much fun and the dress is really very comfortable and looks pretty good on.
The girls had their measurements taken and I was saddened to see their obvious embarrassment and understood their pain - it starts early.

The baby will have her flower girl dress made by a friend of the bride's and maid of honor which left the boy a little perplexed. After completing the first phase of bride's maidum, I looked for my son. I found him looking at the various head pieces, gowns and fru-fru type adornments. He was not happy. I watched him drag his feet from one rack to the other and saying, "Oh gross! Yuck! No way!" I gently put my hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear, "What's wrong, little man? Don't you think these dresses are pretty?" He looked up at me and his blue eyes began to tear, "Mommy, please don't make me wear any of these dresses. There's nothing here I like!" He was very relieved to learn that he wouldn't be wearing a dress and that he would go with the guys and be fitted for a special suit. His testosterone levels fully restored, he pranced out of Macy's bridal salon and crowed, "I get a wedding suit, I get a wedding suit, 'cause I'm a guy, 'cause I'm a guy!"

Poor little man, surrounded by all these women. Even the maid of honor felt bad for him, "Look at him, he's got four mommies!" So, the fitting wasn't as bad as I thought and I made it through, dignity intact. This called for a celebration! We took the kiddies and had lunch at one of our favorite places in the whole wide world, The Rainforest Cafe! Skipping dessert, of course!

Thank God for A-Line.

Shop Rite Flirtations

2003-10-16T21:19:00.000-04:00

Have I actually turned into one of those mothers that I swore I would never become?!? You know, the screaming shrew of a middle aged, haggard looking woman pushing a shopping cart loaded to the brim with way too many carbs and threatening to topple any minute, child and all. What sane woman would even think to drag four children food shopping? You know what? Some of us just can't help it and need to remind others what torture and punishment is like.

There I was in all my PMS bloated, dark root showing, "You are on my last nerve!" screaming glory. Picture me trying to maneuver an impossibly full shopping car with one hand, attempting to keep my 2 year old from unloading everything out of the shopping cart with my other hand, yelling at my 4 year old to stop tackling his 7 year old sister in the middle of every aisle and sending my 9 year old daughter on a wild goose chase for the obviously non-stocked coupon items. Not exactly peace keeping prize material, okay!

I never used to be like this. I used to be able to stack my purchases in perishable and non-perishable, uncrushed piles. I used to have a shopping grid I would follow, every week first produce, then beverages, middle aisles, dairy, meat, frozen foods and ending with breads. I would find every single blessed item on sale and not have any coupons left over or shoved into every empty crevice in my purse, pants, and jacket, whatever.

I've been reduced to spending more time putting items back, the ones that would magically appear and, no doubt, hold way too many grams of sugar, going up 3 flights of stairs to use the potty (4 times) and throwing things into the carriage all willy-nilly so that, "Can we, please, get this stupid grocery shopping done and get the hell out of this store sometime tonight!?!"

So, why do I even dare to look surprised and maybe even a little insulted when I notice the other shoppers glaring at me? I could just imagine what they're thinking what I would have been thinking 13 or so years ago, Doesn't that poor woman believe in birth control?

We manage to complete our shopping trip because the cart just wouldn't hold anymore and I managed to annoy my 9 year old because I didn't have the guts to send her out of my sight to get another carriage. As we scan it, bag it, pay for it, and move 'em out, she asks in a hardly disguised and very annoyed tone, "Mom, why were you flirting with all of the people shopping?" A little taken aback by her question, I counter with my own,
"What makes you think I was flirting?" She huffs and answers, "C'mon Mom, you were winking at everybody!" I'm shocked! "No, I wasn't winking at anybody! My contacts were merely drying up and sticking to everything except my eyes!" She rolls her Hershey chocolate colored eyes and says, "Yeah, right, Mom! Think Dad'll believe that one?"

Yep, I was truly basking in the glory of Motherhood this day!

We Women On The Run

2003-10-14T20:05:00.000-04:00

I read something that made me angry. Well, in this case, the word mad (normally used to describe a rabid dog) comes to mind. I guess, if I really thought about it in a big picture way of thinking, it may seem quite insignificant; but you know what, I found myself left feeling insulted, nevertheless.

Our local paper has a section that prints once a week called, “On the Run”. It is published to run articles, advertisements and local stories about and for women who find themselves constantly, “on the run”. I can safely say that would be most of us, huh? I breezed through it in, like, 90 seconds and found myself feeling cheated.

To me, I consider the concept of including such a piece in the newspaper a kind of bright spot - refreshing after the endless reports of bombings, hijackings, manslaughter, money laundering, political preening, crossing party lines and constant reminders of how rapidly our society is declining. Don’t even get me started on the environment I fear we’ll leave as a legacy to our children. So, a simple little ditty like “On the Run” is, to me, refreshing.

What are women like me – a tired, out of muscle tone entirely, nearing 40, mother of multiple children, with no distinguishable party lines having both conservative and liberal views – are doing these days. That’s what I like to read about; something I can relate to and either take into good use or take with a grain of salt.

I was in the bathroom – my private library at the moment – reading my latest print of On the Run. I read the first column and enjoyed the writer’s great sense of humor about the every day type of things that annoy her. There is a good piece on Jill Conner Browne, the author of “Sweet Potato Queens”, and then there are maybe two or three more informative columns on women’s health. That’s it? The rest is nothin’ but fashion! How to buy a bra that actually fits! A whole 7 pages – no lie – dedicated to pictures of the new boots, hats, and purses of the season propped up with pumpkins and scarecrows. Oh yeah, and a whole lot of ads for restaurants, day care facilities and face/body augmenting facilities. I find myself on the last page and sort of feeling deflated, really.

That was it. 17 pages of something like 90 seconds of good reading? I look at the last page again to see if I’d missed anything and boom, there it is! I shook my head in confusion and read the heading, “Lifestyles of Today’s Woman”. It’s a block of ads on how to lose weight easily, how to improve your credit easily; you can join a health club or hair club, take dancing lessons, and take 60% off anything in the shop! Oh, and a completely hysterical ad for wigs. In itty, bitty small print I read that special attention is given to chemo, alopecia and thinning hair clients. What I find hysterical is that in very large bold print I read, No More Bad Hair Days.

To end my pain, I close the piece and find a full page advertisement for The Plastic Surgery Center, screaming out its insult upon injury.

Is that truly what these people envision the “lifestyle of today’s woman” to be? Who are these women? I can’t relate to this stuff! Okay, so it says right on top, FOR WOMEN. In an attempt to remain open minded, I think, maybe the publishers can only include so much in an insert of this size, just a few quick little ditties and quips of information all types of women would find interesting or even useful.

In my opinion, you can’t possibly consider 17 pages, more than half of which are dedicated strictly to shopping, as what we so-called “women on the run” are all about. Okay, it has to be limited in information maybe even because it’s called “On the Run” and we women can’t devote much time to reading because, obviously, most of our running is spent to the stores, nail salons and hair stylists. Maybe it just me being overly sensitive or reading a little too much into a byline. Yeah, that’s it…change the byline and then you’ll shut me up. How about...um…”Fluff and Stuff”?

Personally, I would love to pick up a future issue to find the following articles, columns and advertisements:

- Wallet-saving hints for Internet users.
- “I’m really a Sell Out” by Madonna.
- “The Truth Hurts, But Pays Well” by Dr. Phil.
- “You Too Can Have Financial Freedom" by Oprah
- Easy and affordable illusions with makeup.
- A list of best selling female authors & book siignings.
- No -- It really does mean I’m tired!
- Creative use of leftovers.
- Affordable, reliable, certified babysitting.
- A physician who takes and keeps your insurance plan.
- Affordable remodeling.
- Stress free vacationing.

Now, that would be my fantasy “On the Run” issue – a chock full of useful sort of stuff I could read over and over again, in between running to the grocery store, pediatrician’s office, preschool, elementary school, guitar lessons and soccer field of course!

Goodbye, My Dearest Nagy Mama

2003-10-12T23:39:00.000-04:00

My beloved Grandmother has passed away.

No matter how prepared I felt myselfto be, it was absolutely dreadful getting “the call” yesterday.

Mama’s health had been declining for a long time and she'd been hospitalized for the past 3 months. I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to take the children to visit with their Mamama two weeks ago. My story of this final visit was blogged on October 2nd entitled, “Death Viewed from a Minivan”.

Then came the moment my husband and I have been dreading for a long time, telling the children that their Great-Grandmother had been called up to heaven. They were very fortunate to have Mamama apart of their lives and enjoyed visiting with her every Sunday afteroon at my parents' house. After composing myself and keeping my grief in check, my husband and I debated, in the middle of the bathroom hallway, about just exactly how and when to tell them.

Me: “I want to tell them now.” Hubby: “Wait, wait, should we?” Me: “Yes, I want them to be able to take it in and have the weekend to grieve. They’re bound to figure it out!” Hubby: “Okay, but we need to figure out the best way to tell them?” Me: “We’ll play it by ear.”

True, there were things to be done, plans to be made. My husband was asked to drive down to So. Jersey (an hour or so away from our house – more from my parents’ place) with my Dad (Dad is scheduled to have surgery on his eyes next month) to pick up my mother’s sister. I had to get up to my mother’s house and be with her, console her, grieve with her and prepare for a funeral. Our four children were going to be in the mix somewhere among all the chaos and bound to become emotional casualties.

So, with Hope napping quietly upstairs, we decide to tell our 9, 7 and 4 year olds and prayed that we were going to be able to deal with their pain and with their questions. This is the first death they’ve had to deal with. It’s going to be rough going, no matter what. They each take in the bad news, characteristically so.

Heather, our 7 year old, is the first to react in a full-blown emotional melt down. Heather is comfortable with expressing her emotions, crying along with her mother at soft hearted commercials. She was very close to Mamama and I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that they are indeed soul mates. My heart broke further to hear her ask, “Why did she have to die?” She collapsed into her father’s arms and had the hardest cry of her life.

Holly, our 9 year old, is speechless at first and just stares as if not wanting to comprehend what we were telling her. Holly has a very caring soul and is quick to offer help in caring for her 2 year old sister or console her 4 year old brother from a time out. She just sat there, shocked out of being able to display any signs of emotion. When her sister’s cries become inconsolable, Holly angrily throws herself onto the living room couch and refuses to let me see her cry – she won’t even allow me to touch her, let alone hug her. I gently tell her that it was okay to be sad. She just shook her head and angrily yelled out, “We couldn’t help her get better!” She hides her face behind a sea of pillows.

Glen, our 4 year old, grimaces and then repeats what he’s just heard. “She’s not in the hospital anymore. She’s gone up to heaven.” Then he asks the question that brings fresh tears of pain into my eyes, “Will she be able to come back?” I slowly shake my head, "No." He reaches for me and we both begin to cry.

We spend some time holding them, answering some of their questions like, “When did she die? Did her body go up to heaven?” Avoiding some of their questions like, “When will I die? Can I go to heaven and see her?” by gently telling them not to worry about that right now and that Mamama was very old and very sick. I ask them to remember how sick she was when we last saw her and reassure them she won’t be sick or sad, ever again. I look to my husband for encouragement and see that he is cradling Heather and Glen and that he is also crying.

After a long while, I gathered the three children in the middle of the living room rug in order to offer up some sort of an explanation of what we will be doing in the next few days. It was okay to feel sad and it was okay to even cry if they felt the need to. Mama is very sad too, because Mamama was her Mommy. We had a very important job as her children and grandchildren. Sniffling and coughing they ask, “What kind of job?” I tell them that we have to go up to Mama’s and Papa’s house to give them a lot our hugs and kisses. Our job as a family was to help them not be so sad and remind them that we love them very much.

We were also going to get together with family and friends to remember all the good things about Mamama and talk about the happy memories we’ll have of Mamama. That we would be having people over our house for lunch on Tuesday and talk some more about happy memories.

The girls said that they would have enough hugs and kisses for everyone, but couldn’t promise to be brave. My son said that he could be brave, but couldn’t promise to give hugs and kisses because it might make him cry again. My husband and I reassure them that we will all get through this, together. Big group hug - big group cry.

Parenthood is amazing, really. I think, wow, even in an agonizing moment, such as dealing with a death of a loved one, we’re given a chance to observe tragedy in the most positive of ways – by the same children we’re ultimately attempting to shield. Consoling them, we find ourselves feeling consoled. How profound and how beautiful of a thing this is.

My intentions for this entry was to deal with the grief I feel not only for my loss, but for the first real sense of loss my children feel, and now I feel comforted. My children will one day appreciate the fact that they spent wonderful days with their great-grandmother and will eventually find comfort in their memories of her - that was Mamama's gift to them.

Thank you and may you find peace and know that I love you very much, my dearest Nagy Mama.

Hunter's Moon

2003-10-10T11:26:00.000-04:00

I'm feeling a bit puzzled - Bill Evans said that we would have an unusually warm and sunny day ahead of us - and as of yet, there is no sign of the sun, in fact, it's down right chilly!

I tore open the house this morning, every window, because Glen is still dealing with his sinus infection and I wanted to rid the house of the uninvited germs that have seem to comfortably settled in. I sat down at my computer with the intentions of sending an email reminder to my husband at work and catching up with a close friend of mine by reading her TGIF email. The furnace just kicked on! There is heat blowing onto my feet and drifting up from under my computer table. I don't get it!

Dress in layers has been the mantra of any parent around this time of year, but I don't remember such a drastic turn from one extreme weather condition to the next. Makes me wonder about all the hype the meteorologists and scientists have been spinning about global warming, cooling, etc... Is it really hype?

The children and I have always experienced mood swings attributed to the cycles of the moon. Whenever one, sometimes all, of my kids becomes crankier or weepier than usual, it would be because one of two things - they are getting sick or it's a full moon. I mentioned this in another post a few days ago and looked up the next phase of the full moon - guess what? It is the Hunter's Moon tonight! I found some very interesting stories about the phases of the moon and how early civilizations, Indians and even farmers today track their growing and hunting seasons by the phases of the moon.

I found another way of predicting the full moon; watching and listening to my children. Today is a good example - I dropped our two older girls off at their elementary school. I mean literally dropped. The sheer speed and confusion of the dropoffs and pickups is cause enough for me to look forward to a school closure! If you don't move it fast enough, you risk losing points on your license due to either a) being hit by another car or school bus b) hitting another car or school bus or c) having the principal, walkie talkie in hand, remind you that the front of the school is for dropping off and dropping off only, no standing allowed! I dropped properly and headed over to the grocery store for the "essentials" in my house - tp, juice, diet soda, bread, oatmeal, cereal and coffee.

Poor Glen was freezing in the store because I didn't think to grab his jacket - it was supposed to be unusually warm! I held him (all 40 pounds) and thankfully found that Hope was happy driving the pretend car that was attached to the front of our shopping carriage.

We finished shopping, I got the kids strapped in and gave each their respective and well earned good behavior donut when I looked back at the store and said, "Oh darn it! I forgot the toilet paper!" I was so mad at myself, because this was the really the most essential of our essentials and I forgot it! "Ahhh, heck with it. We'll get some later. There's a roll in the kids' bathroom - we'll make due."

I get back into the car and find that Glen, our four year old, is cracking up and spitting donut out all over the car. I ask him, "What's so funny?" Now Hope, our two year old, is joining in on the spitting, enjoying any opportunity for spitting that may arise. Glen composes himself enough to tell me, "You said a potty word!" "What, you mean toilet paper?" I counter. "Noooooo! You said make do-do!" Hope starts singing along, "Potty mouth, potty mouth, potty mouth!"

I can't help but laugh along with the my two little knuckle heads and manage to get out of the Stop and Shop parking lot in one piece. Glen then says, "Mom, look at me. I made a half moon..." I look into the rear view mirror and find that Glen has eaten his donut into truly a half moon.

"Cool half moon, little man! How would you make a full moon?"

My blonde, blue-eyed little cutie answers, "I would make Hope act real crazy! That's how I would make a full moon!"

No lie.

Happy Hunter's Moon!

Indian Summer Germ Warfare...

2003-10-09T11:51:00.000-04:00

It's warm today, too warm! The kids feel it, the cats feel it and I feel it -- that lethargic kind of dragging feeling I get during August meant for lounging around, sipping something extremely caloric and the only item on my agenda would be, "What to grill for dinner?" But, it's not August; it's the second week in October - the beginnings of Indian Summer.

My moods run in cycles similar to that of the moon -- dark, full and somewhere half way in between -- a creature of my environment solely dependent upon the weather conditions, indoors as well as out. Having to run the furnace one day, throwing the windows open the next and even possibly eyeing the large air conditioning unit later today is just a little to extreme for me. So, here I sit in my capris cut offs and t-shirt, eating a fishy cracker that my 2 year old daughter was kind enough to share; obviously from her own mouth, because it was already wet, but I ate it anyway (PMS this week), and I wonder if I should take my 4 year old son to the doctor, because his wicked sinus infection sounds really awful.

I decided to keep Glen home from preschool today because, contrary to a lot of other parents, I don't like to share - germs! I am relating this from experience....As Mommy helper on Tuesday, I witnessed two things that made my blood boil:

1) During circle time, a little girl in Glen's fours' class began
coughing so badly, I seriously thought she was going
to hack up a lung. She took the crook of her arm and
sneezed a large goober into it (in her defense, she did
sneeze properly according to the pediatrician suggestion
in Scholastic Magazine's article on keeping the germs
at bay in a preschool/day care situation). What she said
next just about broke my heart, "Cues me, but I'm a
widdle sick today."

2) During craft time, a little boy in Glen's fours' class added
to my fears by saying, "I was a widdle sick last night, too.
I had a really high fever; Mommy said so. But I'm better
today." Apparently, my wincing prompted the teacher to
ask, "And how many hours, exactly was that P.? Let's
count."

As God is my witness, I could have bet a million dollars that Glen was going to wake up with a cold the next morning. We just finished with our first round of colds, mine the hardest to shake, and are facing round two, with a vengeance. With four children in the house, three of which attend a classroom full of germ breeding/sharing units, I dread any talk of an unusually warm winter! I loved last year. Give me a nice freezing, snow ladened winter anytime! The kids weren't sick one day. Of course, I had to deal with my usual half a dozen bouts of tonsillitis, but that's another story. What's the deal with parents sending their kids to school, sick???? It drives me absolutely batty - perfect for this time of year, I admit.

I know that Glen is upset about missing Orange Day yesterday on top of "Wood Working Day" today. I totally feel for the poor boy as I grab a tissue to collect the next nasal explosion of green, but, come on folks, the kid'll get over it as sure as he'll get over the sinus infection. Also, I'd rather not have him come home sicker or irritable from fatigue.

So, we drop off the girls at their elementary school and I see in the rear view mirror that poor Glen looks as miserable as he feels. Pulling into our garage, I announce, "I'm glad you're home because guess what day it is in your house?" He sneezes, into the crook of his arm, as says, "I don't doe?" I pretend to roll the drums on the steering wheel and use my corniest game show host voice in saying, "IIIIIITTTT's Wood Working Day! We're going to make a Halloween sign for our front yard and you're going to be in charge of nailing it together!"

Of course, I didn't have a clue how I was going to pull this rabbit out of the hat, but I figure the mile wide smile just under his Rudolph Red nose was going to be worth the effort! Who knew that our garage would be a scavenger hunter's dream!?!

Amazing what a little black poster paint, left over wood shingles and an old broom stick can do!

Happy Indian Summer!

Lawn Mower Mom...

2003-10-08T21:10:00.000-04:00

I have a confession to make....I love mowing the lawn. No, it's not some weird Tantric sexual position! I mean it literally -- I love cutting the grass!

We have a rather large piece of property with a nice size front yard and a backyard that is 300+ feet deep, as well as a god forsaken hill separating our property from that of neighbor. She also mows the lawn at 95 years of age! In fact, our other next door neighbor also mows her lawn! The estrogen levels are at an all time high behind our 4.5 horsepower engines...

Turning into our driveway after school today, I noticed that our front yard was getting to the unruly stage and decided I'd better tame it before the rain comes. My husband has this weekend off and the kids and I need him to spend at least one day in some Autumn fun. He's going to winterize the pool on Saturday (won't be any fun with the water temperature somewhere around major shrinkage!) while I play driving Miss Thompsons to weekly guitar lesson and soccer game...So, Sunday, we're outta here!

So, I thought I'd help the man and revved up the old turfinator. I don't consider mowing the lawn a chore as say, laundry (gag me with a clothes pin!); how mundane can you get....Lift, separate, wash, dry, fold, put away and repeat 24/7! Nope, I can't wait to get out there with the smell of burning fossil fuel breezing through the air.

I am not insane; I have several good reasons to enjoy this time away from the doldrums of housekeeping and into the great outdoors! In my defense, they are as follows:

1) I get the children out of the house with me, theoretically, avoiding any further addition to the trashing that has, no doubt, occurred.

2) I get a major workout! I didn't have to pay for it, didn't buy clothes for it, didn't sign a membership contract for it, don't have to drive to get to it, don't feel guilty if I skip doing it for two weeks and most of all, don't have to be in a room full of gym bunnies!

3) It's a great way to work out my frustrations! Better to beat the
hell out of some Kentucky Blue rather than my kids!

4) I also find myself feeling lulled by the white noise into a sense of
peace and harmony. A combination of yoga and active meditation;
without the ex-hippie guru.

5) Most of all, my children see that Mommy - a woman - can easily take on a physically demanding chore like cutting the grass, and enjoy it! I am woman and I am strong! Unless there is that occasional field mouse that happens to run in front of the lawn mower...."Eeeekkkk! I hate mice! Eeewww, I hope I didn't run it over! Oh gross! I did! No, you can't touch it! Leave it there and Daddy'll clean it up when he gets home."

6) Oh, I forgot, this should probably fall under item #3, but deserves
a whole item number of its own. I can curse the heck out
of whatever adult has just about gotten on my last nerve without
confrontation. I love that!

Truth be told, I think that my four children like the fact that they can run along side and taunt me to their little hearts content. "She can't hear us! Watch this.... Hey Mom, your face is all yucky red! Hahahahaha. Hey Mom, I hate your meatloaf! Hahahahaha. Hey Mom, your boobies are shaking! Hahahahaha." Until, I turn my beloved Murray toward them and become, "Lawn Mower Mom", chasing them into a cute little zigzaggy type pattern...Not my husband's most favorite look for our yard I must say.

Today's lawn mowing session was very productive, indeed. I managed to sort out a lot of issues: 1) Screw the laundry! 2) Burned off those three Oreo cookies from this afternoon. 3) Saved the baby's butt yet again. 4) Oooommm. Oooommm. 5) Me Woman! Me No Need Man! 6) She/He can just go take a blankety blank blank long walk off a blankety blank blank short pier!

And your honeydo list just got longer, sorry!

Full Moon

2003-10-07T22:19:00.000-04:00

I looked up to the sky tonight, nodded my head in affirmation at what I'd been suspecting all along today, "Yep, there's a full moon out tonight. That explains it!"

I was driving back from a friend's house around the corner and had my 7 year old, Heather, along for the ride since it was to one of her best friends' house I was running an errand. She turned to me and smiled while she said, "Oh, I know why you're saying that!" I innocently ask her, "Oh, really - why?" She snorts her pleasure when answering, "Because, Hope is turning into a werewolf - right!?!"

When my 5 year old son, Glen, was something like 18 months, he morphed into the most cantankerous toddler this house had ever seen. He was unbelievably tense and had the typical boy behavior of knocking the stuffing out of anything that he could squeeze his tiny fists around. My 9 year old daughter, Holly, was in 1st grade then and began keeping a calendar. I was cleaning out the room she shares with Heather when I noticed a big red circle around a particular day. I bent down closer to see what day she had so obviously wanted to be sure and remember when I almost fell on the floor, dying with laughter! My sweet, innocent, shy and bookish daughter took the thickest red marker that she could find and circled the day listed as being a "full moon", and scrawled the notation, "Glen turns into a werewolf!"

It's been a running family joke for years, until Hope was born...All bets were off for Glen when Hope earned herself the coveted role of "Shewolf" her 2nd birthday this past June. The child is motion times infinity and even Glen is afraid of ticking Hope off. I wonder where she ever got that temper from? My husband claims that it is the Hungarian blood running through her veins and he very well might be right -- Hungarian, i.e. Bela Lagosi, i.e. Transylvania, i.e. anything creepy in black and white horror films had at least one person with a terribly heavy accent who knew someone who was bitten by something evil -- because I swear she was looking for ways to get herself into hot water today!

It all began with having to wake the child this morning -- I managed to tire out my crew of 4 yesterday with a trip to a nature center and hiking trails not to far from home. I suspect Prince Charming himself would be decked after kissing awake my little princess. Then it was the oatmeal wasn't hot enough, then it was too hot, then it didn't have enough milk, then, you guessed it, too much milk.

She was able to crash the computer, deprogram the living room remote, pull two video tapes free of their tape, terrorize the cats and pull all of her clothes out of her drawers -- all before lunch. I prayed to the powers that be that she become sleepy (no nap for the past two days) for Grandma and Grandpa as they were due to babysit this afternoon because I was the helping Mom in Glen's preschool class. Grandma helped me feed her lunch, I kissed her goodnight, put her down in her crib, gave her Luvey and wished her Grandparents good luck.

"She did sleep an hour," so says Grandma, "and has been playing with me outside all afternoon." I feel so many things on so many levels when I hear this...Of course the Wench is a sweetheart for Grandma!

I thank the powers that be for hearing my prayer and wonder if Moms develop some kind of natural Talisman once they become Grandmas?

One of Holly's friends came over to hang with us for an hour or so and Heather was out on a Girl Scout outing to Pizza Hut (did I mention that Heather thinks that this is "the" pizza of the Gods!?!) so it was little man, me and Hope. Little man wanted to bake brownies...this was so fun with Hope insisting that, "Hopey do!" everything. Once the brownies were in the oven, she saw that Glen and I had nothing left and went to spread the wealth of her terror toward Holly and A. I count to about 15 Mississippi when I hear, "Mommmmaaaaa! We left the room for 2 minutes to get more Cheese Doodles and Hope dumped the entire Scrabble board!" After insisting that, "No, I can't lock Hope in the garage!" I make an attempt to entice Hope away from the girls with a promise of Play Doh. This works for about 5 minutes, so I announce that we are "all" going outside, because I figure, the backyard has more room to spread out. This was actually a good idea, because we harvested the carrots from our garden and had some pretty good outdoorsy kind of fun. But, I do have to start dinner... Once back indoors, let the beatings begin, she went wild. A's Dad collected her and dinner was a quick spaghetti, meatballs brownies for dessert with Hope skipping the spaghetti and meatballs part.

So, to get me out of the house for just a few minutes, my husband asks me to deliver this thing around the corner. So, I deliver the thing and found myself gazing at the moon from my driveway and dragging my feet just a little bit. Heather takes one look and picks up the scent of "chicken" when she says, "C'mon Mom, it'll be okay. The full moon will be gone soon and everything will be back to Norman."

One can only hope - no pun intended!

There's No Sleep For The Weary...

2003-10-06T00:49:00.000-04:00

"There's no sleep for the weary," I've often heard said so. Here it is, almost 1:00 a.m. on a Monday morning and I find myself unable to sleep, yet again. I think to myself that it's really no big deal and that Lord knows I am not the only insomniac in the world. I've been changing diapers for the last 10 years for goodness sake -- my system has been tweaked to deal with late night feedings and the ever spontaneous nightmare or stomach virus. Then I think to myself, "Is it really no big deal?"

My husband seems to think that it is a big deal. In fact, he thinks that my migraines are a really big deal and has even suggested that their increased frequency warrant a cat scan. Poor guy. I don't say this to belittle or abuse my husband in anyway, but I do say it out of respect and acceptance that men and women are basically just different.

For instance, he can walk into the house and immediately the baby turns on the cutesy button and the children are running to the door and are like, "Hurray, Daddy's home!" I must be nuts or maybe I should be checking for pods in the basement, because I swear these were not the complaining, unhappy and down right unruly children I've been dealing with all day.

For instance, I can find what I'm looking for, hear three different conversations, make the grocery list and change a diaper in the car, all at the same time.

So, I reason that I'm dealing with a lot of "stuff".

Mommy stuff like... The girls' grades, the boy's recent fixation with death, the baby's potty training, etc...

Wifely stuff like... The man's health, the man's job, the man's car (or the lack thereof), my relationship with the man, etc...

Housewifely stuff like... Keeping up with the house, keeping up with the yard, keeping up with the laundry, keeping up with the Joneses, etc...

Woman stuff like... My health, my body, my mind and my inability to control all three, etc...

So, rather than lay there in bed, stare into the dark and obsess about it all, I decide to sit here and put it all in print and basically decide that it really is no big deal. Because, after all, when it comes down to it, we each have "stuff"to deal with and mine are going to be as big a deal as I make 'em.

Right now, my biggest deal will be to get up (I have been sitting in a very precarious and uncomfortable position for the last hour) and tear my aching butt away from this computer, wake my husband, let in the cat for the night and try not to be too lazy to take off my make-up before hitting the proverbial sack.

Tomorrow, it will be dealing with the huge and very dark bags under my eyes, having the two oldest home from school (Jewish holiday), coming up with an inexpensive ($0) plan of entertainment and the eventual system crash my body will go through at around 4:00 p.m. But hey, that's what they make eye concealor and Maxwell House Coffee for, right!?!

Death Viewed From A Minivan...

2003-10-04T13:46:00.000-04:00

In the age of yoga, active meditation and self-help books, I've truly come to believe that there should be an additional class offered, by the birthing/health facility of your choice, beyond Lamaze and Baby Makes Three. How about "Tricky Questions and Answers 101".

I picked up my son, Glen, from preschool last Thursday afternoon. He was in a great mood, happily chatting away the 10 minute ride to the elementary school that his two older sisters attend. I got the condensed version of his 2- 1/2 hour afternoon. "I played with Gerard today, he's my friend. I also played with Michael today, he's also my friend. I didn't do water table today, but I made you a picture today that won't be ready until tomorrow, 'cause it's drying. Oh, I don't have school tomorrow, never mind. The fire truck is coming to my school on Tuesday! Mom, when's Tuesday?" And so it goes...

It was nearing the end of the day, tomorrow was Friday (TFIG!) with a three day weekend ahead of us! I began to mistakenly fall into my comfort zone and was totally taken off guard with Glen's next question of, "Is Mamama dying?"

Mamama is the nickname my four children use for their Great-Grandmother (my Mother's Mom). Mama is a shortened version of Grandmother in Hungarian. So, add another "ma" on the end and you get Mama to the second power. I thought it very ingenious of my 9 and 7 year old daughters to come up with a way to differentiate between their beloved Grandmother and Great-Grandmother.

Mamama lived in my home town for all my life and moved in with my parents when I was pregnant with Glen - about 5 years ago. She is 92 years old and will claim not to speak a lick of English. However, in more healthier days, she had no trouble following her favorite soap opera "All My Children". She knew which character was sleeping, jilting, marrying, divorcing, cheating on/with and had her own very modern opinions on each, respectively. My children are blessed to have both sets of Grandparents and my Grandmother very much apart if their lives. Mamama has been ill for the last two years, but she has been in three different hospitals for the last 3 months. Needless to say, this has been a very difficult summer for the family. My brother and his fiancee meet us at my parents' house every week for Sunday dinner - not having Mamama home and seeing her now empty room off of the kitchen has been unsettling for even the two year old who, every week, kisses my parents hello and then announces, "I miss Mamama!" And so it goes...

I made the decision to take the children into the hospital to visit Mamama last weekend. Her condition steadily declining, I didn't want to have the children wonder about Mamama's whereabouts any longer. Unfortunately, Mamama was having a bad day. She did recognize each of the children, but was having trouble speaking. She'd been fighting off yet another infection and was already weakened by various other complications. The doctors explained to my parents that her heart wasn't supplying enough blood or oxygen to her brain, resulting in her unresponsive demeanor that afternoon. And so it goes...

Each of the children slowly walked to her bedside and gave her a kiss hello. Holly, my 9 year old, understood that Mamama was sick, that my Mother and I were sad to see her so and immediately took the role of care giver to her 2 year old sister and 4 year old brother. Holly's strength and caring nature never cease to amaze me and I am constantly touched by her natural concern for others.

Heather, my 7 year old, sat down in the chair next to Mamama's bed, not leaving her side for the entire visit. She has always had a special bond with Mamama. I suspect that those two are soul mates as Mamama has often found Heather's comic nature and adeptness for drama very amusing, even secretly relative to Mamama's own youthful escapades. Heather sat in that cold and sterile hospital room, stroked Mamama's temple and smoothed back her silver hair while telling her, "I'm here Mamama. I love you so much. You'll be okay." My heart was breaking and soaring at the same time. Whatever concern I may have had for the way my children would view Mamama's condition, not to mention the somber atmosphere of a hospital, disappeared in that one moment of empathy shown by my 7 year old daughter.

Glen understood that his Mamama was sick. He did not like her being in the hospital. He warily scuffed his way to the vacant side of her bed, lifted his downcast eyes, lied his head on her arm and said, "Hey, Mamama. I miss you." He quickly moved back to his sister Holly's lap and was more interested in what the woman in the bed next to Mamama was doing.

Hope, my 2 year old daughter, has visited my Father in the hospital this past year during his heart procedures, as well as Mamama during other hospital stays. This time, however, I swear the child had a sense her Mamama was indeed very sick. Hope did not want to go near the bed. She motioned that I pick her up as soon as we entered the hospital room. "Would you like to blow Mamama a kiss?" She looked at me, and nodded yes. I gently leaned her over Mamama, she took her pacifier out of her mouth and blew a huge lip smacking kiss. Mamama opened her eyes and said, in English, "Thank you honey. I love you too." These were the only words Mamama would speak during our visit - in fact, the only words she said that day according to her roomate. I didn't stay long after Hope's kiss. I told my Mother to take her time, but I would be taking the children back downstairs. Heather insisted on staying and I didn't deny her. Holly, however, was not comfortable in the room without me, so we left my Mother and Heather to continue their visit while we listened to some tapes in the car. And so it goes...

So, Glen wants to know if Mamama is dying. In hindsight, I was glad that I took the kids in to see Mamama for what may well have been their last time. They were content with knowing where she was and they were able to offer some comfort to her in their own little ways. My intentions of preparing all of them, and me, for one of life's more difficult and sad moments may have back fired. I was not only totally unprepared in answering Glen's question, but also having to answer it in the rear view mirror, driving the minivan down Main Street at 3:15 in the afternoon. I began to question myself, "Oh man, what am I supposed to say? Should I be honest - brutal at 4 years old, don't ya' think? I don't want to lie, either, I mean it's eventual, right?!?" And so it goes for what probably seemed like an awfully long time to Glen, because the next question really blew whatever was left of my reason, "Will she go to Heaven and can I visit?"

I go for broke...."Mamama is very sick and I know that you're worried about her. Her doctors and nurses are taking very good care of her and she is not hurting, but it's okay to miss her, Glen. I think when God is ready and needs her in heaven, he'll send his angels for her." I hold my breath and leave it at that. Hope asks Glen, "How school, Brober?" Glen answers her that it was good and directs his next question to me, "When Mamama goes to heaven, will you be sad Momma?" I can't help but choke up and don't bother to wipe away at the tears which have begun to spill over. I swallow back the huge lump in my throat and answer him, "Yes, I will miss her real bad. But, you know what?" "What" he says. I continue, "I will be kind of happy because she'll be in Heaven where she won't hurt anymore and she will be with her other brothers and my Grandfather who have been waiting in heaven for her for a very long time."

We arrive at the girls' elementary school, I park the minivan, turn off the ignition and see in the rear view mirror that Hope has fallen asleep and Glen is quietly looking out his window. I grab a tissue and begin mopping things up a bit, still keeping quiet. Glen finally turns and asks, "What's for supper?"

And so it goes....

Got Milk?

2003-10-02T12:51:00.000-04:00

Okay, is there any other parent out there that hates the seasonal "changing of the drawers" as much as I do? Two days worth of cool autumn days led me to believe it was time to break out the warmer clothes and say "hasta la bye-bye" to our summer clothes. In fact, my friends at the Weather Channel promise this week to be truly autumnal and down right near freezing in the evening. My husband and I broke into action. This process can take anywhere from 2 days to a week before completion. I'm on day two of sorting ...I've got clothes thrown about in every room, I'm not kidding, except the dining room and kitchen!

The east wing (right side of the house) is for the summer stuff and the west wing (I don't' dare insult your intelligence) is for the winter stuff. Then, breaking it down even further...east wing pile (a) for "boy" stuff that doesn't fit and will be donated to next week's clothing drive at school - east wing pile (b) "baby girl" stuff that doesn't fit and will be handed to down to a cousin's baby in Hungary - east wing pile (c) for girl stuff that will fit baby someday and needs to be stored in attic - east wing pile (d) for baby, girl and boy stuff that may or may not fit and needs to be stored in attic.

The west wing goes through the same rigorous sorting method as mentioned above with one exception....The clothes that will fit this winter are washed, dried, folded and stored in respective drawer or closet.

And that's just the kids' stuff!!!

So, I was pretty much brain dead by yesterday afternoon not only from the mundane activity, but I was also dealing with a nasty cold. I picked up the girls at school and headed to Target to buy all four of my lovely children slippers, since our furnace was in need of maintenance prior to ignition, and a pair of boot type shoes for the baby. Once again, as described in posts past, I promise them a trip down the seasonal aisle (currently decked out for Halloween) if everyone sticks to Mommy's shopping program. Did I mention that they were ragging on me about the funny way I talked and how red my nose was (a prominent feature that did not need the aide of technicolor!) because of my darn cold?!? Nice kids!

Anyone shopping with children knows that this is an experience that leaves one, shall we say, ready to start thermonuclear war with whoever dares cross one's path! We leave Target and I say to my oldest, "Holly, your job is to rebeber to tell Bomby to stop and get bilk. We don't have ady bilk homb." She snickers, then affirmatively nods her head.

I am driving on fumes - I have gas in the car but mine is slowly running out and I wonder how the heck I am going to make it through the rest of the afternoon with homework, stepping over piles of clothes, keeping the baby and Glen out of said piles of clothes, and dinner? I hear the kids talking - no, more like droning - behind me and I don't really pay attention to what their saying because I want to focus all of my reserves on getting everyone home in one piece. Our car is at the last stop light before turning onto our street when the baby yells out, "Nooooooo, get milk, need milk, go to milk store!!" Holly cracks up behind me and says, "Oh, that's what you meant! I couldn't understand a word your saying with that stupid cold of yours! I just didn't wanna make you go ballistic!"

I pull over and don't know if I wanna laugh or cry!

Check out: The Philisophical Mother - A real Mom-worthy webzine.

Prelude To A Cold...

2003-10-01T09:46:00.000-04:00

Autumn has hit our fair state of New Jersey this morning, with a vengeance! We were all wearing shorts and tee-shirts last week because the days reeked of humidity. This morning, the tips of my fingers are freezing and I went to bed early last night feeling on the edges of what promised to be a nasty cold. It doesn't surprise me; what does surprise me is that I have been able to stave off the cold that my four children have been sharing for a week. I am so anti-germ that my husband says my favorite cologne must be "Aud to Clorox" since that's what he smells each time he kisses me hello at the end of his work day.

Oh no - we have a cold in the house!!! I had a devil of a time fighting off 4 bouts of tonsillitis just in the summertime!!! I cleaned every visible surface with bleach, washed what was not bleach friendly and vacuumed everything including the furniture; even under the cushions which I managed to unintentionally turn into a treasure hunt for my kids ...."Look, there's my Indian figure I lost!" or "You found my sparkle head band!" and "Oh man, that's what happened to my change purse!" Of course, I usually get blank stares and can hear the crickets chirping from miles away when I ask, "Now, for the love of God, who left a half an eaten sandwich in the chair?"

Since we're not able to paint the house for another year or two, I began painting the porch and front door in an attempt to give home sweet home a little more curb appeal, at best. The weather began to turn on Monday because I remember wearing a sleeveless tee-shirt when I began to paint in the morning and throwing on a sweatshirt while I finished up the posts by dinner time. Yesterday, I hit the front door with a lovely coat of paint - inside and out. I was shivering the whole time, since the door was open most of the day to accommodate for drying time. By the way, it is not Pepto Bismol Pink! It's called Cape Cod Cranberry....I suspect my husband is beginning to go color blind or just has a thing against anything in the mauve family.

Last night, my two oldest finished their homework and the two youngest were occupied with watching Clifford The Big Red Dog before bedtime and hubby was settled in with his news paper - all was at peace in our little corner of Monmouth County. I hit the sack. I mean I collapsed, fully clothed and in full makeup. I felt awful and didn't know how my head was going to be able to hold back the dam of what was building in my sinuses.

I woke this morning to find my 2 year old staring at me. She was obviously trying to figure out if, behind all the Creature From The Black Lagoon special effects, I was indeed her Mother. I managed to croak out, "Hello, Bub!". At that, my sweet loving and oh so petite daughter opened her mouth, spit her pacifier, and let out an ear drum shattering scream! She tore out of my bedroom so fast that I swear I saw dust kitties flying in her wake.

On any given October 1st, my favorite month of the whole year, you'd have a good chance of finding me cooking a one pot type hearty meal (i.e., beef stew, chicken casserole, etc...) and baking something sticky sweet for dessert with an after school trip to a local farm for the first of many pumpkin picking trips of the season. Tonight, it's hot dogs with mac & cheese, cookies and milk with an after school trip to Target for slippers (my feet are freezing times 4!) and winter jackets for my older two. Oh, and not to mention extra cough syrup, Sudafed and Advil for Mommy. I attempt to find something good in all this and finally came up with one - thank goodness there's 31 days in October!

Happy October 1st!!!

Annette, Meg and Me

2003-09-29T21:00:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite movies was on last night; "You've Got Mail" with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. God, I love that movie. Okay, it's border line cutesy, but C'mon, boy meets girl, girl loses bookstore, boy loses girl, boy gets girl through AOL and they live happily ever after. Normally, I could take Meg Ryan in small doses since she's off the charts on the cutesy meter, but I happen to love Tom Hanks and their chemistry makes the movie work. Then, just when I thought I had enough of big rainbow happy endings, another one of my favs started to play at 11:00 p.m., "American President" with Annette Benning. Another female tipping the cutesy scale, but I equally love the story line on this one.

So, there I was, curled up in my big comfy chair, sipping on my cranberry zinger tea and I was in awe of the flawless, makeupless, tinted contactless green-eyed face of Annette Benning and said to my husband, "Here's a woman who was born beautiful." My husband has a thing for Meg and Annette and likes to point out how they are like me...Excuse me while I cough up a hairball! He's so sweet...He says to me, "Look, they are bubbly and full of life, down to earth, had children...." I manage to keep a straight face throughout his dissertation on the two megawatt star Mommies, until he gets to the part where he says, "Annette has four kids and she looks great, like you!" I calmly put my down my tea, unfold my unshaven legs from under my cramped behind and look straight into his darling face to say, "Are you out of your bloody mind!?!"

My husband must have seen where the conversation was headed and was not going to bite. He announced that it was late, and after a casual debate, I promised to watch the movie up until the part where Michael Douglass' presidential character escorts Annette Benning's Lobbyist character to her first state dinner. I then demand, "Oh, stop treating me like one of the children. I know the movie ends at 1:00 a.m.! Yes, I'll not stay up past midnight." With that "you lie like a rug" smirk, he bids me good night....

I was so drawn into the story that before I knew it, the movie was over and I had lied again....Just call me Mat. I closed up the house, cleansed/exfoliate/toned/moisturized my face and got to bed and couldn't sleep because of stupid Annette and Meg.

I wondered if being a megawatt star truly made a difference when it came down to Motherhood. Did they go to PTO meetings and were they catered? Did they drive 7 passenger vehicles almost on empty or did they have their children chauffeured to soccer games? Was Annette's calendar as discombobulated as mine? Did they cut coupons and shop at B.J.'s, Costco, Target or Wallmart? Did they ever make breakfast for supper or have Friday pizza and movie nights? Do they slap their knee in glee after finding that forgotten $10 bill in their jeans pocket and then take the kids out to Mickey Dees or BK in celebration? Did they have Au Pairs, Nannies, Personal Trainers or all of the above at their beck and call. Did they ever find themselves smelling like bleach and Lysol or with dust kitties stuck in their hair? And so on, and so on, and so forth....

I finally decided that wondering what it was like being Annette or Meg was futile. I am content with my life, have made peace with my size 10 body and was happy that I didn't have to worry about looking out for papparazzi waiting to snap a shot of me in my latest PMS breakout.

R.I.P.

2003-09-26T20:46:00.000-04:00

This is the first time I've logged on my computer all day - for me, that's saying something. No, I am not a computer techie freak, but find myself craving mental and intellectual stimulation at some point in the day. In short, my gray cells are severely deprived of what's really out there beyond the borders of humble abode.

I love Fridays...My four children and I celebrate the completion of a week's worth of school/house work, the prelude to a weekend together, with movie and pizza night. Today's selection was supposed to be "Holes", but Blockbuster (who promises to have new releases in stock) was out of it by the time we hit them after school. So, thank goodness I was able to temper the discension among the ranks with "Daddy Day Care".

The three oldest are enjoying their popcorn and movie, playing a little louder than usual set at 32 on the volume control. Why? Because my husband is in mourning over the passing of Robert Palmer. He's blasting one of his CD's in the kitchen, while the baby twirls, skips and claps her hands to "Some Like Hot..." I must confess that I like his stuff, especially anything from Power Station, and I can't help but feel a longing for the "Good Ole' Days". You know, the good ole' 20 something days. Big hair, lots of makeup, leggings and big shirts cinched with even bigger belts. When one would run home from work, revamp and head out to the hangout of one's choice and party until closing, catch some breakfast at Denny's or a local diner, home again for maybe an hour or two of sleep, shower and back to work again. Rinse and Repeat.

Listening to Robert Palmer's stuff just bought it all back; every buzz induced dance step, every Tuesday night is ladies' night and every smoked hazed flirtation. Working 10 to 12 hour days in a cubicle somewhere during the day and letting go to the rhythms and beats of the likes of Robert Palmer after hourse. Yep, that was me, in the day. Today, Robert Palmer is dead at the age of 54. Not old enough in my mind and, more to the point, not all that much older than me. The good old days are truly drifting further and further away and slowly losing all meaning and connection to me at all.

I sat back in my computer chair to stretch the muscles that I've obviously abused by painting the trim in the dining room and kitchen. I reek of latex and probably had specks of Autumn Gold running through my Cinnaberry artificially highlighted hair while picking up the girls at school. Ah but these days, those specks might just be on purpose and probably paid way too much for. I hear more than see my life going on around me, humming along like some energy field with me at its center. The baby is still spinning, albeit unsteadily. The girls are eating their popcorn and managing to even get some in their mouths. Glen has sneezed for like the 5th time and his eyes a just a little too red because he's probably on the verge of catching the cold that has been hanging over all our heads. My husband is playing his air guitar again and swaying his hips in his white bread way and I smile in contentment.

After all I am living what will some day be, "The Good Ole' Days".

Just When You Thought It Was Over...

2003-09-25T12:04:00.000-04:00

Our first born, Holly now 9, slept very well as an infant. She tolerated formula loaded with iron; in fact, she very rarely rejected her meals beyond some spit up, but nothing a cloth diaper draped over ones shoulder couldn't handle. As an infant and toddler, she slept wherever and whenever possible...moving car, non-moving car, crib, floor, couch, grass, Daddy's shoulders, Papa's stomach and in every conceivable position - once while half sitting-half standing and watching her favorite television personality, Barney (go ahead, get it out of your system...ahhhh, not Barney!). I have pictures to prove what I say that will probably leave her mortified in her teenage years - good blackmail material!

Then my husband and I walked around in sort of a shell shocked state when our second daughter, Heather, was born. The child never slept. I am not joking, she screamed day and night and we had no idea what the heck was going on or what to do to make the child sleep. As per the Pediatrician's recommendation, we switched formulas, twice, as we were dealing with another new twist to this non-sleeping thing....her system was so worked up all the time that she, well, you know, without getting too detailed let's just say she pulled a Linda Blair - often. My husband's commute to work at the time was a good hour and a half one way and so that Holly could get some sleep as well, I found myself driving Heather around town in her little car seat at 1:00 a.m. because movement soothed the child. Let me tell you, nothin's going on at 1:00 o'clock in the morning here in the 'burbs - just us sleep deprived mothers driving their colicky babies around.

Glen, now 4, and Hope, now 2, are third and fourth in line, respectively and the feedings and non-sleeping got worse. Hope beat her siblings in the projectile vomiting department,....ooops, sorry I had to use the p.v. word and I still don't even begin to effectively describe the mess we went through with Hope. Whenever I look in the mirror, and trust me I try to avoid this as much as possible these days, I see the puffy pillows under my eyes, gray hairs, (the ones I missed with the darn applicator bottle) and a permanent frown line in the middle of my forehead. So, I look very tired, very angry or very bewildered - sometimes, all three! Today, I accept these to be my battle scars and I'll wear them proudly - since they don't give out medals for motherhood.

So, here I am with my self-appointed mental break time, typing at my computer while my 4th and probably last baby gently naps away the afternoon. My 95 year old neighbor is mowing her lawn (no lie, the woman is an enigma!) and I'm finding the white noise soothing.....until, I happen to glance to my left and find myself jumping out of my computer chair and spitting out the coffee I've been enjoying because my son, who is home from preschool with a wicked cold, appears by my side out of nowhere. I guess my spitting up days are not as over as I thought!!!

Check Out: The Philosophical Mother - A real Mom-worthy read.

Decorating Cents...

2003-09-24T12:53:00.000-04:00

My kids are so jazzed that yesterday was the first day of autumn! They take their cues from Mom; I adore autumn. Apple picking, sweaters (Break out the effective camouflage for us untoned, stretch marked to the limit Mommies!), hay rides (Break out the Sudafed!), pumpkin picking (Break out the wagon for easy transport of 4-6 pumpkins to cash register that always seem 1 mile away from said patch. I usually forget this part) and of course, our favorite autumnal celebration next to Thanksgiving, Halloween!

Glen and I had a good day at preschool as I was the "Mommy Helper" for the day. The girls were in very good moods. The baby held her sunny disposition from her time with Grandma and Grandpa and the weather was perfectly dry and warm.... So, I announce to my crew, "We are going to put out our fall pretties!!!" My enthusiasm is satisfactorily met with three, "Hurray!" and a latent hurray from the baby because, hey, everybody is saying hurray.

I brave a trip to our garage that houses not only our car, freezer, racks and racks of stuff I just don't know what to do with but God forbid I throw away and won't have it when I do need it if ever, and every blessed seasonal item we own. I manage to locate at least - and I am not exaggerating - a dozen boxes of Christmas decorations, but can't seem to find my autumn stuff. I eventually do, 1/2 a box. I am perplexed. "I thought I had more autumn stuff!?" Glen sees the scarecrow and excitedly says, "This is gweat! This'll scare the neighbors away!" After explaining to little man that it would be very un-neighborly to do so, we put out "Mr. Scare the Crows". We all step back and I immediately feel ashamed at my feeble attempts of celebration. This is our favorite time for goodness sake. I grumble , "How lame!" when standing next to me with chest all puffed and hands on his hips Glen says, "How bewful!" I committed the biggest faux paux in his almost 5 year old boy rule book - I gave him the biggest hug, right there in front of those dreaded neighbors!

I gather the rest of my gang together and say, "I got a great idea guys! How about a road trip?" My children look at me, warily I might add, probably wondering which place I'd be dragging them to now - the signs of disdain made obvious by their crinkled noses. I quickly add "To the Dollar Store....We need more Halloweenie stuff!" This was a very favorable choice and they each run inside (baby hears store and that's enough of an incentive to my budding little shopper) and raid their respective piggy banks...Feeling kinda like the guy on the BK commercial asking, "What can I get for $3.00?" and then he's told burgers, fries, drink to which he yells out, "Yes, I'm rich!"

So am I buddy, so am I!

Check out: The Philosophical Mother; A real Mom-worthy read!

I Hate Good-Byes

2003-09-22T14:32:00.000-04:00

My Dad showed up at my house this morning and brought along his two sisters and brother-in-law visiting the states from Eastern Europe. I love that my retired Father feels comfortable enough to stop by, but this visit posed one big problem for me. My husband and I took our 4 kids over to Papa's and Mama's house for farewell visit yesterday, because the relatives are flying back home this Friday after a terrific 2 month visit. I hate good-byes. Having your family situated on another continent just plain stinks.

I barely got through the good-byes, sat in our minivan trying not to bawl my eyes out on the way home, all the while hearing the little whispers coming from the two car seats immediately behind me and from the bench directly behind them. "Look, Mommy's crying. Shhh, why is she sad? Did Daddy make her mad?" I really, really hate good-byes.

So, Dad shows up with the crew in tow..."Hello, again! Long time, no see!" They were really cute, but my first thought, and I couldn't help but think it, was, "Oh man, again with the good-byes !"

Their visit turned out to be a very special time. We "all" took a ride to the bank my husband works at to pick up some paperwork for Dad. Glen, 4 and Hope, 2 love to visit Daddy at the bank. They know all the tellers by name, the people in the office by name, and, more importantly, where all the green lollipops are kept! We decide to take our crew out to lunch, with the exception of my husband, poor guy, he's got a strict curfew to keep. He says his good-byes, again, and we head out, lollipops all around.

Parking in the restaurant's lot, my little ones become very excited! This is a total mystery to me. How is it that my 2 and 4 year old children, who do not read, both scream out, "Yeah! Applebee's! I wuv Applebee's! I'll have the chicken fingers, please!" I ask them, "How did you know that this is Applebee's?" I ask because we have only been to one once, in another town, 6 months ago. "Silly Mom, don't you know that's a picture of an apple up there on the roof?" Okay, point taken.

We manage to grab a booth that will comfortably sit our crew and I get a call on the cell from hubby; he will be joining us after all. We have a terrific lunch; truth be told I could have done without the half a dozen potty stops (potty training - an emotionally complicated experience in itself). I start to stress about the fact that my two oldest, Holly 9 and Heather 7, will not be pleased about missing out on not only eating out, (with 4 kids, this is not a frequent occurrence) but missing out on Applebee's and the Liberty's Kids cups! Thankfully, the management is nice enough to supply two more cups.

Back in the parking lot, I load the kids into their respective car seats and tie the Applebee's balloons to the arm rests because any parent knows that a lost or broken balloon is enough to rock the world of any child. I then place the three doggie bags on the floorboard with the four Liberty's Kids cups, two of which are still 1/4 full of Sprite go into cup holders, and turn to see my two Aunts and Uncle lined up behind me, patiently waiting. I quickly pull on my sunglasses, give each of them one quick peck on the cheek (the European way would have been three kisses, one on each cheek and back again) and give a flippant wave, "We said our good-byes yesterday. Today we do the American version - a quickie!" They respect my, crys at Maxwell House commercials, demeanor and quickly part with a, "See ya'".

On the lonely drive home, I see in my mirror that the my little ones are already dozing with their balloons safely bopping in the breeze. I put in a Yanni tape (okay, give me a break, I'm premenstrual!) and pray to heaven that my family be allowed to enjoy each other's idiosyncrasies once more and very soon.

Check out: The Philosophical Mother - a real Mom-worthy read!

I'm A Soccer Mom and I'm Okay

2003-09-21T19:54:00.000-04:00

I never thought I'd see the day I would ever say these words - "I'm a soccer Mom!" Don't get me wrong, I had absolutely nothing against soccer Moms. If anything, I admire(d) their commitment to involving their child(ren) to a sport and the demands of weekly practices and giving up every blessed Saturday during a season that is all about picking apples and exploring the great outdoors. In my mind, a time to be outdoors without the BUGS of summer. Also, having four children under the age of 10 made the traveling and practice enduring less desirable to me.

Holly, my not interested in competitive or organized sport of any kind first born, was happy taking her Baby Ballet and Baby Ballet Advanced lessons through the wonderful park system our county has. Today at 9, you'd have a heck of a better chance finding the child's nose in a book than a foot on a field or court. Glen, my only testosterone hormone endowed son, is convinced he will do it all - an athlete for all seasons at 4 years old. Hope, my youngest at 2 years old, is happy tagging along - anywhere and at anytime as long as it is barefoot.

Then, there's my 7 year old lovely, Heather. She is and always has been an enigma. She doesn't need a whole lot of sleep and can function very well with as little as 6 hours. As an infant, she preferred sleeping in a moving car at 2:00 A.M. than, heaven forbid, any stationary vessel. She is and always has been a social butterfly, full of energy and very little inhibitions. In short, I want to be Heather when I grow up. The Pediatrician suggested we enroll Heather in some kind of organized physical activity....Man, I had to face facts, I was doomed to sit under (more likely chasing my 2 and 4 year olds) the midday late summer/early autumn sun on a field somewhere probably on the other side of town, just as I am doomed to drive a minivan .

So, we sign up for soccer and let the practices begin....Truth be told, it's been a very enjoyable experience thus far, except for the chasing my 2 and 4 year old scenario. I've resorted to paying my 9 year old baby-sitting wages since she's been taking pity on her almost 40 year old mother's closer to decrepit body and keeping her siblings occupied at a visible play ground next to the soccer field during Friday afternoon practices.

My denial came to a screeching halt with yesterday afternoon's soccer game. Our girls have practiced hard and long on their "share the ball" skills as well as their defensive plays. They were shining this game. They shared the ball. They played excellent offense and their stamina was amazing to us unbelievingly hot, and trying not to complain about it, parents. To better appreciate what happened next, I have to describe how funny Heather is playing offense - she'll have control of the ball and when an opposing team member gets in her way and wants said ball, she'll stop and politely, give it up. Her father and I have worked with her on this, "Yes Heather, you are allowed to be impolite in soccer. Take the ball, protect the ball, be the ball!"

The moment came when Heather was playing defense and the soccer ball came dangerously close to our goal. There she was, butterfly skips to the right, ballet worthy pirouette to the left and I prayed, "Oh God in heaven, please don't let them score on Heather!" The ball came right in front of Heather and there were three opposing team players running toward her, full speed ahead. Heather stops dead in her tracks. I see her eyes go as wide as saucers and it happened - she pulled her right foot back and gave the ball such a whack, it flew right over the heads of the oncoming players. This is when I morphed into, dah, dah, dum....SOCCER MOM and screamed, "Way to go Heather....That's my baby out there!. Can she kick or can she kick!"

I looked around at the other said soccer Moms, who were obviously dumb-founded by the fact that I could even yell, sat down in my beach chair, took a sip of my bottled spring water and accepted my new found soccer Mom inner self. Go Stars!

Check Out: The Philosophical Mother - A real Mom-worthy read!

The Best and Worst of Both Worlds

2003-09-20T08:37:00.000-04:00

I love our language! Being able to speak, read and write (okay - attempt writing) two languages, I find myself appreciating English and our ability to use so many words in such colorful ways. I grew up speaking Hungarian with my parents and thank goodness my grandmother insisted that one of her 18 grandchildren learn the "mother tongue" in her life time. She's still alive and kicking at 92 and I continue to learn from her in many ways.

What's really weird is that both languages contradict each other constantly. English is much easier on the tongue to speak than Hungarian...We have 26 letters in our alphabet and Hungarian has 36...I rest my case. However, writing Hungarian is a walk in the park as it is done phonetically, compared to the horror of silent letters, homonyms and I before e, except after c type rules of English. Now, I am laying a foundation with this analogy in order to appreciate what has been happening in my house with regard to my innocent little 2 and 4 year olds.

I feel that my children are very lucky to have such wonderful grandparents. That they have both sets involved in their every day lives and they're able to appreciate, first hand, their heritage with my parents being born and raised in another country. Their culture is vastly different from ours, except in one aspect. They can curse like nobody's business! So vial and corrosive are the words, I couldn't even begin to translate their verbs and adjectives without breaking out into a sweat. Often, our English translation just doesn't give the same, omphf!

So, I sat at breakfast with my little honies, enjoying my usual bowl of Cheerios and banana, when my 2 year old blurts out something that I couldn't get. I know it must be funny, because her 4 year old brother is cracking up, hysterically. I think to myself, "Isn't that sweet. The little guy is laughing at his sister's attempt of a joke." So, I ask big brother, "What did she say, little man? I missed it?" He stops laughing long enough, but cannot restrain the giggles, "Hopey just said, A budus corva anyad! Papa taught us!" I apologize to any Hungarian speaking folks, but very loosely translated but heavily censored, this means, "Calling someone's mother something very stinky and very unmonogamus." (Note: I used poetic license with unmonogamus.)

I found out that I could probably take a blue ribbon as the mother who could spit Cheerios, laced with banana, the furthest....

Mountain Out Of A Mole Hill...

2003-09-18T12:47:00.000-04:00

Last night was a very big night....I took another shower once kiddies settled from dinner, pulled on a pair of Dockers, topped off by a suede blouse and applied a fresh coat of make up. My husband came home at the promised 6:45 p.m. latest time slot. Soon after, we bid farewell to Grandma and Grandpa - our babysitters extraordinaire - and headed for our night out.

No, not to a swanky restaurant, not to a play or opera (I'd have to heavily sedate my husband and then promise to be nice for a very long time to get him to an opera), but to our two oldest girls' Back To School Night! Oh, boy! Hey, these days, that's excuse enough for me to break out the heavy artillery (see preparation notes above...).

We actually enjoyed meeting the 2nd and 4th grade teachers assigned to our girls this year. They were both pretty prepared and, more importantly, obviously enjoyed what they do for a living. Our girls have expressed their approval, each in their own unique way. Holly, our computer geek: "Mr. B. is awesome! He has his own website" Heather our drama queen: "Ms. D. is hysterical! She calls me cutey!" Not quite the words I would have necessarily chosen at 7and 9 years old. So, we are very happy that our girls enjoy going to school - once I light a fire under their butts to get ready, of course.

One of the hot topics of the night was the impending, "Hurricane Isabel" and all her fury. Our school system has begun the arduous task of replacing the, much needed to be replaced, roof of all 4 grammar schools (as well as the middle and high schools) and there is roofing type stuff all over the place. Besides the 40-60 mile per hour wind gusts, we are expected to get anywhere from 6" to 10" of rain...yikes! So, our superintendent was pretty sure that they would not be taking any chances with our little ones and that school would most probably be closed. I find this to be okey-dokey, 'cause, truth be told, I wasn't planning on, a) being out on the roads in those conditions, b) sending the girls out in those conditions and c) I'm all about long weekends and vacations...

Then my neurotic side kicked in and I found myself staring at the ceiling (after an attempt to watch the 200+ channels with nothing on - my apologies to Bruce for the rip off) until about 3:00 a.m this morning. I'll click my neurosis off, one by one, just for argument's sake... (N1) The new pool my husband and I took 3 weeks to put up this summer - FYI, the last pool we'll ever put up. (N2) The gazebo my Father and I had a blast building together, one of many retirement projects that has provided me an opportunity to bond even closer to my Dad. (N3) Should I start planning for the kids in their sleeping bags, in our room tonight. (N4) Should I send Glen to school tomorrow (meaning today)? (N5) The cat, got to remember to let the cat in tomorrow (meaning today) night! (N6) Should I cancel my dentist appointment, because I don't want my Father out on the road tomorrow? N7, N8, N9..............The presidency, world hunger, world peace....

I don't know about other Moms, but that's how it usually goes for me and usually at night. I take a tiny seed of worry and it could very easily grow into "The Day of The Triffids" type scenario.

This morning, I get the girls to school on time. I remember that today is "Applesauce Day" (bring an apple in, make your own sauce kind of thing) and that Glen would have missed out on that. Also, I kept my dentist appointment and Papa had a grand time with Glen and Hope, while I find out that my mole hill of a tooth problem was actually closer to a mountain if not taken care of immediately. I wrote notes to the teachers, letting them know of my truancy intentions and the kids are actually looking forward to what's become labeled as the "family camp out" tonight. So, all tolled, I should've just taken the Tylenol PM like my husband suggested....Here it is in writing, dear, "You were right, again!"

"If you spend your whole life waiting for the storm, you'll never enjoy the sunshine."

- Morris West

Trapped Between A Scream And A Hug...

2003-09-17T13:07:00.000-04:00

I've long since accepted the fact that my children do not comprehend sentence one out of my mouth unless I repeat said sentence at least, oh, three or four times. As in the evolution of beast to nature, I've learned to adapt in my own evolving as a Mother of four children. I still shake my head in total disbelief of "how it used to be" or "how I used to be" pre-Motherhood and often find myself able to pick out the negative changes (usually physical) and click them off one by one. That's easy. Then I think being a Mother is such an awesome accomplishment, that an addition should be made to all surveys, applications, etc... And that is to include the titles of Family and Motherhood under the sections of Type of Industry and Title, respectively.

Here's the dynamics of me on the evolutionary ladder that has been my life:

Pre-birth: Worked full-time (8-10 hours per day) for an insurance firm as a legal assistant, commuting daily to NYC.

Post-birth: Work full-time (24-7) for a very large family in a mother, wife, kisser of boo-boo's, bleacher of stains, social planner, cheerleader, chauffer, sexy siren (thank goodness for my husband's rose colored glasses), friend, confessor, interior decorator, good with duct tape and super glue type capacity. In other words, I've never worked so hard in my life for no money, but when I hear that, "Thanks Mom!" or "I love you more than the stars and the moon!" from my children or, "You look great, Hon!" and "How about we order in a dinner and a movie?!?" I feel the richest woman in the world.

Pre-birth: Wore business dress with high heel shoes and would not be caught dead without my make-up.

Post-birth: Usual can be found wearing jeans (ripped, stained, tight, loose or otherwise) t-shirts, with or without hoodsie depending on the weather, and foot attire that keeps me as close to the ground as possible. Make-up usually entails covering the dark circles under my eyes and tweezing hair where there really shouldn't be any hair, but since I'm evolving, it must lead to something physically resembling our evolutionary ancestors. Then I remember how uncomfortable those high heels really were and the layers of clothes I would have to wear under those suits. With a hoodsie, underclothes are optional to one's own personal preference. I don't have to shave my legs as often and can dash to pickup a sick child from school or to a last minute soccer practice without even a blink of a masacara starved eye.

So, I drop Glen off at preschool this afternoon and his teacher comes running over to me from the other side of the room. Pre-birth would dictate that there is a problem and shoulders would have stiffened; Post-birth dictates, "I hope I don't drop the 2 year old I've strategically balanced on my left hip," (another cha-ching on the mother's evolutionary ladder) and patiently wait with a lip gloss starved smile. "Mrs. Thompson, I wanted to mention this to you last week, but I'm so sorry that I haven't." Wait for it...don't say anything...just, wait for it... she continues, "It seems that I posted Glen's name on our class list and bulletin board with two n's by mistake. I'm so sorry, I didn't want you to think I didn't know how to spell his name." Okay, my post-birth self says, "Thank you Mrs. G., but that should be the absolute worst that happens to me today. I like things as least complicated as possible, hence the one n." She gratefully smiles and goes off to become the Mommy to thirteen four year olds for the next two and a half hours. Now this woman deserves a medal!

"The story of a mother's life: Trapped between a scream and a hug." --

- Cathy Guisewite, "Like Mother, Like Daughter"

How Tolerant Are You?

2003-09-16T21:01:00.000-04:00

A class mate invited Heather to her karate classes' buddy night. I thought, "Why how nice. Of course Heather could go. What a lovely gesture!" Until I heard where the school was....3 over populated towns over. I guess the Mr. Spock-like lift of my right eye brow and ever slight bearing of my teeth gave me away. "Oh, Heather can come with us, I don't mind," the very nice, though very observant, mother suggests. "No, that's okay. I would love to see the place, too." A feeble attempt at recovery on my part, I'm busted for the wimp that I am.

I hate driving on anything that has a Route in front of it. I hate driving anywhere in the state of New Jersey (no, wait, Connecticut ranks much higher); therefore, I know every possible back, side and dirt road there is to get to my destination. I am that crazy kind of afraid of having to share a road with other people, at very high speeds, with my children in the car. One car cuts me off and I see psychotic episode .

Got to the appropriate strip mall at the given time, did the class, stopped at the grocery store (for the 3rd time this week, I've got to remember to keep a list) and was almost home. You know, I've read that the majority of accidents happen very close to the home. They're right - I was almost another statistic....who comes up with stuff anyway? Oh wait, my husband used to.... strike that.

Tried to do a maneuvar that is quite probably one of the most difficult, if not impossible, to complete in this state. A left turn. The commuter bus was stopped in front of my girls' elementary school, saw me put my left blinker on (blinker use is apparently also very rare in NJ), I mean he looked right at me. I started to edge out and no lie, the bus driver hits the gas and cuts in front of me, forcing me to hit the breaks, and back up before either the 20+ insensitively driven line of cars behind the bus cream me or the traffic from the other side swipes me. I can see the headline now, Mother of 4 killed on the way to Welsh Farms. Her last known words were, "All I wanted was a bloody gallon of milk! A left turn, is it so much to ask?"

Let the cursing now begin....and I let her rip. "Blankety, blank bus driver! I know you saw me! Jes.. Chri.., why can't anyone make a blankety, blank left turn in this blankety, blank state!?! Where are you blankety blank rushing to, another red light for blankety, blank sake!?!" I come back from said psychotic episode, look into my rare view mirror to see the horrified, open mouthed, look on Heather's face. Busted again. Well, let's try and turn this into a learning experience, shall we....and I say, "Heather, I'm so sorry you had to hear that. That knuckle head almost caused us to get hurt and all because he forgot his driving manners. Mommy should not have used such foul language and I know that it was foul, but I lost control of myself. I apologize and please promise me that you won't use those words as I promise to try and control myself."

In all her cherub appearance, my daughter looks me straight in the face (don't worry, I've since pulled over 'cause I was shaking like a leaf) and says, "That's okay Mommy. In karate class, the teacher talked about tolerance and what that means is that we use our heads and words before we use our bodies. You just used your words and I used my body, 'cause I stuck my middle finger out at the bus driver!"

How Tolerant Are You?

Who's On First...

2003-09-15T20:17:00.000-04:00

It started as a typical Monday....No one wanted to get up. Well, truth be told, the kids were up, but didn't want to get dressed; I didn't want to get up. We hauled 'em up, moved 'em out to school and made our trip to the grocery store ("Hurricane Isabel, ugh, don't even get me started!") for our weekly supplies. The morning reeked of normalcy; I was waiting for the other shoe to fall.

The baby went down for her nap - on time and not in the car - and Glen and I settled in for a very enjoyable afternoon playing one of Holly's Nancy Drew computer games. I was hooked on the Nancy Drew books growing up and now find myself hooked on the computer games....damn the wheels of progress, anyway!

We picked the girls up, on time, and the promised rain actually held off until we were nestled safely in our home. We arranged for a last minute play date. Now, this was my downfall, I'm sure of it. I broke one of my own cardinal rules, and I quote myself, "No last minute play dates, ever!" Basically, I felt cocky...The day was going so smoothly, what could happen. I couldn't help hearing the same words in my head over and over again, "Be afraid, be very afraid!"

I spent the next hour and fifteen minutes playing interference between the two 9 year olds trying to play the Nancy Drew game, even though I was envious, and my other three cubs. I ended up getting my nails, not to mention my rug, gunked up with Play-Doh. As it turned out, the 9 year olds joined us...Seems like I was having more fun that I thought.

Play date was over....Time for homework. Oye....Now I'm on the floor playing Legos while my two oldest attempt to complete their homework and I hear every bone in my knee(s) crack and every unappreciated and obviously ignored muscle in my body moan, running to the kitchen table ("I need help on my partner pretest!" "I broke my pencil!" "Look how neatly I've written my glossary words!")and back to the living room floor. Oh the nimble webs I weave for myself.

My 7 year old becomes weepy while the 9 year old is in the shower and I'm trying to wolf down my dinner (cubs must feed first, right?!?) of quickly sauteed veggies rolled up in a soft tortilla....Hey, it was hot. I also now know that I can play 500 Rummy and eat a roll up at the same time. Not a pretty sight, but it can be done.

Then, the 9 year old is finished in the shower and is like, "You're playing Rummy, without me!?!" We are almost into the 20th hour of the day, soon to be bedtime and what do I say? "Go get dressed, real quick. I'll play a hand with you while Heather is in the shower!" Heather's off to the showers, the baby is now pulling at my leg, screaming and looking for attention from me by trashing, literally, trashing the kitchen. I chase her back to Daddy (he's brilliantly hiding in the play room since nobody plays in there in anyway) and I yell for Holly to, "Move it or lose it!" In comes baby, "What doonin' Mommy, here I is!" I say to the baby, "No, No, Holly." The baby answers, "No, No, Hopey. Me Hopey, not Ya-Ya!!" (her nickname for Holly). I now say, with clenched teeth, "I know you're Hopey." I now yell, "Daddy!" To which she yells back, "No not Hopey Daddy, Just Hopey!"

"Who's on first, What's on second and I Don't Know is on third!"

- Lou Costello

Come Pway Wif Me

2003-09-14T21:11:00.000-04:00

"Come pway wif me....," my cute little doe-eyed 2 year old daughter demanded. She is the smallest of my crew, bursting into this world at the lightest of four birth weights. This surprised the heck out of me, given that every birth related magazine, doctor or friend that has been there and done that, simply related the following facts:

a) Every baby is larger than the last. (Holly weighed in
at 7.10 lbs., Heather at 7.11 lbs. And Glen at a hefty
8.05 lbs. I was nervous!)

b) Each labor/birth is quicker than the last. (Holly 13
hours, Heather 10 hours and Glen a speedy 5 hours.
I was elated!)

As usual, fact is stranger than fiction.....Hope took her sweet ole' time ("This one has to be a girl - making us wait like this!" My husband observed during our 14th hour of labor) and weighed in at 7.09 lbs. I was both elated and tired!

I look around at the half done chores, but I've got a few minutes to kill. The pot roasts are in the oven, my family isn't due for another 2 hours and I don't want to take a shower and dress until all the vacuuming and dusting is done. It's all in the timing, right?!? Besides, I'm going to prove my husband wrong (okay, more like prove myself that he's wrong, again). I am not a clean freak...I can stop in the middle of it all, sit and enjoy just playing.

So, I sit and we begin to play doll house, until..... da-dee-da-dum.... "But, what is this. Eeewww, can this doll house be any dirtier?" Hope knows what's coming, and this is a real sad state of affairs when a two year old knows the warning signs of one of her Mom's rants. She says, "Hopey help!" (Hopey a nickname given to her by her four year old brother, Glen) She jumps up, runs, and I mean, runs into the bedroom yelling, "I get wipes....We clean, hurray!!!" We clean the doll house, singing the ole' Barney favorite, "Clean up, clean up, every body everywhere. Clean up, clean up, everybody do your share..."

"Hah! He thinks I'm some kind of lunatic, wrapped so tight that I can't live without my Lysol or Swiffer. We're having fun, aren't we baby!?!" My child, 1/4 of my pride and joy, looks up and says to me, "Eeeewww, dis is dirty. Cwean up, cwean up,...." etcetara, etcetara, etcetara.

Hey, a neurotic episode to some, a beautiful bonding moment to others...

"The really happy man is one who can enjoy the scenery on a detour."

- Anonymous

TGIF

2003-09-12T12:16:00.000-04:00

It was a breezy morning. The curtains on the window billowed, blowing in the cool morning air that gently ruffled the bangs of my hair across my face. The birds were singing the glories of the nearly autumn sunshine and the crickets joined their cheery chorus. I promptly pulled the comforter over my head.

I don't quite hear, but more like sense (A sixth sense mother's develop, "I see little people!") someone standing on my side of the bed, very close to my right ear. Mustering up as much courage as possible in my caffeine deprived state, I pull down the covers and find myself staring at a pacifier. I hear more than see the pacifier's owner, "Ud Mownin' Mommy!" "Mmmmm, ufff, ohhh." Loosely translated, this means, "Good morning my little one. I trust that you had a restful night. Give us a kiss, would you?" Pop, smack, the pacifier is quickly replaced and its owner pirouettes her way by the cat; the culprit of my now badly cramped legs.

The the scent of coffee deliciously stimulates my senses. I hesitantly open my eyes and take a moment to focus on my husband's smiling yet weary face, my coffee mug in his hand. I gingerly lift one of my arms and point toward the bedside table and shift my sleep filled gaze toward the bloody alarm clock. "Umphf!" Further translation required, this means, "I've got to get in the shower!"

My husband makes a hasty retreat; after 13 years of marriage, he knows better than to linger. I manage to cajole my aching body into somewhat of an upright position. Crack, I bend my head to the left, snap I bend my head to the right and put a hand through my hair. I feel its pain as it is obviously suffering from major bed head. A thought comes to my mind- okay, more like a snicker, really....."If I had a hairdresser, wardrobe manager, make-up artist, lighting director and a filtered lens, I'd look like the women who wake on television or the movies." In my current state, faded t-shirt and bleached stained sweat pants, I just look like one tired Mom.

I scuff my way to the bathroom, careful to avoid the mirror and turn on the shower....A pleasant sound taken in with my first cup of coffee. Not two sips later, there's a gentle rapping at the door. I count to 10, push my shoulders back and open the door. Three out of four of my children are now standing in front of me, each in various stages of dress. I gently say my good mornings and patiently listen to their dreams, good and/or bad, and tell them to, "Give Momma 5 minutes."

I turn, utter a disgraceful sentence (I looked in the mirror by accident) and enter the haven that is my shower. There is some more rapping at the door, not so gentle this time. I answer, not so patiently this time, "If it's an emergency, please advise your Father, otherwise, I still have about 3 minutes left." I immediately feel guilty and finish in less than 2 (it's chilly today, i.e., I skip shaving my legs).

Toweled, coiffed and after a somewhat desperate attempt with make up, I emerge ready to tackle the day. Then I remember the chores, errands and the soccer practice (that may or may not be canceled due to the promise of rain later this afternoon) and the prospect of having to pick the girls up in the pouring rain with two youngest in protesting tow. "Ugh!" I grumble and sit on the bed, causing the cat to lift his head in annoyance. "Sorry bub - need to put my sneakers on." Yep, I'm apologizing to the cat. Why? Because I've totally lost it, that's why.

Some moments later, we pile into the car, and head out into minivan/suv infested world. My two oldest literally fall out of the car and grab their respective back packs. They pile back into the minivan, sans back packs, because the two youngest are demanding kisses good-bye. The sun shines on their caramel and honey colored hair as I watch them walk away. I yell, "Hey, where's my kiss?" Ooops, and many giggles later, they each plant one on my cheek and say, "TGIF, Momma!" For what won't be the last time today, they managed to make me smile.

TGIF - Big Time!

Politically Imperfect

2003-09-11T09:26:00.000-04:00

My girls caught me crying this morning. I'm not embarrassed that they saw Mommy crying - I believe that our society has become so politically correct and has drifted away from accepting any show of emotion beyond displeasure, annoyance, i.e., anything listed under the word negative in the thesaurus. And, I don't embarrass easily; having four children sort of desensitizes one to that emotion. - I was listening to a beautiful song on the radio; of course, I didn't know the name of the song, who sang it, etc... I was holding my favorite coffee mug (one that my 9 year old presented me on my first Mothers' Day) sipping my favorite coffee (frankly, whatever is in the cupboard that morning, as long as it was chock full of caffeine) when I found myself unable to do anything else but take in the words to this song.

It began something like.... "He had to catch a plane that day, because he had a meeting in L.A. So, she kissed him twice and didn't know she was kissing a hero."

Of course I remembered the date, September 11, and I've spoken to my two older girls last night about the meaning of a memorial and the possibility that they will hear other people talk about what happened in NYC. My 4 year old son knows that something bad happened and that there were many heroes who lived and died, especially his heroes since he was 2, firefighters. "I'm going to be a firefighter when I grow up, because they're cool and they help people and I wuv dem!" I still enjoy the babyness of his talk!

The song literally stopped me in my tracks and I was in total awe of its simplicity. The words made such a huge impact on me. My girls must have known that, because they both came up to me, hugged me and said - Holly: "Mom, you look like you're going to cry. It's okay to be sad, but I'm happy that your my Mom." Heather: "Me too. I'm sad, too. A lot of people died, but that means a lot of new angels are up in heaven."

I was overwhelmed by my girls' consideration for their Mom, who was caught in a very vulnerable state. The moment was beautiful. Then it struck me that with all my faults - trust me on this one, there are many - these kids had no problem accepting the fact that I am there Mom and that even in the badness of it all, if you take the time to look deep enough, there is some good to be found.

Our car pooling buddy showed up, a boy, and my girls begin their usual routine of teasing each other, mercilessly. The baby has managed to pull apart the back packs that were so neatly packed but 5 minutes ago and my four year old son is insisting on attending the morning session of preschool, even though I explained to him that he's in the afternoon session. I yell, "Let's go, let's go, we've got to rock or we'll be caught behind the busses again!" My world begins to revolve in its normal imbalance, yet, the American flag is flying on our porch and we will be lighting candles on our driveway tonight. I can remember this day, embrace it, and swear that I will continue on hugging my children, let them know how proud I am to be their Mom and show tolerance for imperfection.

"I'd rather be a failure at something I enjoy than a success at something I hate."

- George Burns

Check out: The Philosophical Mother

Yet Another Fumble

2003-09-10T13:50:00.000-04:00

"It's quiet; too quiet!"

I'm reminded of that phrase often heard in movies, you know, right before the hero/herione gets blasted by the protagonist(s). My head hurts, my eyes are burning and I find myself feeling like a drippy, used tissue....I dropped off my little man 50 minutes ago - his first day, ever, in his 4 year old preschool class.

Is it any wonder my husband thinks I'm totally wacked out of my head (psst...by the way, he thinks most moms are!) as I agonize/overreact (depending on who's telling the story - me or him) over one, two, three or all four of our children. Let me defend my insanity with what transpired all in a matter 12 hours time....

I went to the preschool orientation last night. Very nice, very comforting, very reassuring as orientations go. Got home and began to tell my son the wonderful news, "You are going to have so much fun at your new school! There are 9 class trips, one of which you're going to go on a train ride! You've always wanted to go on a train, remember!" Now, a normal person would have left it at that. At least, my husband thought so judging by all of the hand/eye signals he was throwing my way, which I managed to fumble! No, not me.....yadda, yadda, yadda! My son's eyes glazed over and he just about went, wait, let me think of the appropriate word....tick....tick....tick, BOOM! "I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL, EVER!" was the last I heard before my eyes glazed over. I've managed to take a calm child who was happily minding his own business, and turn him into a basket case. Put a another notch on my "should have known better mother of four" belt.

A lot of hugs later, I reassured my son that, "No, Mommy swears that I won't forget to pick you up. Yes, the bathroom is right in your classroom. Yes, the kids will like you, a lot. No, you will not puke!" I tucked little man in on my husband's side of our bed and left the closet light on, "just in case".

Needless to say, I couldn't sleep a wink and found myself agonizing/overreacting in the shower, "Man, I hope I don't have to drag little man into school. I hope he doesn't upset the other kids, therefore, upsetting the other moms, therefore, having them hate me right at the get go." I was on the 5th "therefore" when I hear a knock at the bathroom door. It's my son, dressed in his new t-shirt, the one the preschool gave out complete with emblem and name tag. He happily announces, "Hey Mom, Dad's got your coffee. Drink it so you could drive me to school!" Relieved to the point of distraction, I say to my brave little man, "Thanks buddy! By the way, you don't have to go until this afternoon!"

"And she fumbles again, ladies and gentlemen......"

Check out: The Philisophical Mother

The Joys of Urination

2003-09-09T12:49:00.000-04:00

My 4 year old son starts his first session of preschool, ever, tomorrow afternoon and I don't know how I feel about that. I mean, of course, I'm excited for him. He's making that next big step - attending an organized group environment in preparation for, dare I say it, Kindergarten next year.

I was amazed that we made it through potty training together. My 7 and 9 year old girls were so easy to potty train - you plopped them on the little toilet, gave them a book and they were content sitting there, waiting for something to happen. My 2 year old daughter has started this summer, on her own! Not my son. He was just as content urinating in his pants, pajamas, naked on the floor, carpet - you name it, he probably peeped on it. He's managed to shock several of his sisters' friends by dropping his drawers and letting it rip in our backyard this summer. Oh boy, I can here those "child rearing experts" now, "How un-healthy, how un-natural, how un-American!" My theory, it's better than urinating in his pants, pajamas, etc...

I can't believe that my little man is really just that, a little man venturing out into the big wide world, blue tote and snack in hand. I love my girls and am thrilled to be blessed with their little hands in mine, but my son has been the comedian of the group, able to make us laugh (sometimes for the pure shock value) and the only male, blonde, blue-eyed kid out of three dark haired, dark eyed beauties. We can only suspect a distant recessive gene the cause for their physical differences, but there is a behavioral difference as distinct as that of summer and winter. Raising a boy is a whole different animal from raising girls. I can't remember the girls ever once wanting to play target practice with a bunch of ants climbing on our tree. I guess my son does, because he can.

Parent orientation is tonight and I look forward to meeting other moms and dads of perspective preschool friends. Thank God there are three other little boys in my sons class (9 girls - the odds begin early), because he is in desperate need of some male bonding, i.e. someone else that he can share the joys of being able to write his name in the snow!

Check out: The Philisophical Mother

Living Like Brady

2003-09-08T13:43:00.000-04:00

My brother is getting married - an announcement that may be no biggie in the cosmic scheme of things, except that he is my only sibling and we also happen to be twins. My parents were 1956 immigrants from Hungary, so we grew up in a very tight family, rich in ethnic culture. We ate big meals together on Sundays and today, still meet in the house where we grew up, every Sunday.

I often envied childhood friends who had very large families complete with very large houses and very large holiday gatherings. I guess that is why I have four children, two cats and a dog as soon as the baby is out of diapers.

I don't want to leave any room for misinterpretation, my father and mother are wonderful parents who "made" time for my brother and me. We grew up in my Grandmother's house and my parents each held down two jobs so that they could afford to buy their own house one day. They did and made sacrifices so that my brother and I never knew how "tight" it was for our family. But, in my adolescent mind, I wanted what I saw on television, to be a part of "The Brady Bunch" or "The Waltons".

Mr. and Mrs. Brady seemed to be always happy, never lost their tempers. Their house was gorgeous, the kids got along and if they didn't, Mr. and Mrs. Brady fixed it so that everyone lived happily ever after - until the next episode. The Waltons were from a long time ago, living in a cool farm house, eating all their meals together at one gigantic table.

Today, we can all easily break The Brady Bunch apart, leaving nothing but a scrap or two of clothing that have found their way back into fashion. But, my family is still together, tight and mostly functional due to the strong values and the importance of "family first" that my parents instilled in both me and my brother.

So, my only sibling, my best friend and constant playmate through elementary school and high school is getting married. After many years of looking for just the right lady, I'm proud to say he's found me a wonderful future sister-in-law in Pam.

This happy occassion has caused me to become very relfective on how the family structure has changed over the years. Wanting to spend time with each other, our parents or Grandparents, has become almost foreign or as outdated as The Brady Bunch and I do find myself wondering if my children feel our rather large family a burden. With school, friends, Girl Scouts and soccer, their plates are pretty full during the week. Then, Sunday rolls around and the kids want to know, "What time are we leaving to Mama's and Papa's house for some of Mama's chicken soup?"

I think living like Brady or Walton, in small doses, can sometimes be a good thing.

2003-09-07T10:18:00.000-04:00

I opened my 9 year old daughter's lunch box in order to clean it. Okay, before you begin to think that I am a real physco Mom, this was Friday. I have been privey to the not so plesant odors of drippy yogurt or stale milk. This was purely a survival technique. I reached in and pulled out a Twinkie. I stood there, I guess with confusion written all over my face. My husband asked, hesitantly (purely a survival technique), "What's wrong?" I disengaged the mental breaks and responded, "What's this?" "Uh, a Twinkie!?" My poor husband was treading on dangerous ground, and he knew it. I knew it was a Twinkie; what I didn't know is how it got into my child's bag. I didn't pack it. "Maybe she traded for it." He called out to our daughter, "Holly, where'd you get the Twinkie?" Her response shocked me, but was of no surprise to my husband: "What's A Twinkie?"

I felt guilty. For the millionth time I felt guilty - a sad excuse for a mother, sure that this would rate another hour of therapy on some head shrinker's couch. I can hear them now, "She never let us have any fun! She was constantly telling us what to wear, what not to eat! I was the only 9 year old child who didn't know what a Twinkie was!"

What's a Twinkie? OMG! Have I actually denied my 9 year old the childhood pleasures of eating a Twinkie? My husband thought it was just par for the course and that I was taking this to seriously. So, I looked up guilt in the dictionary. Maybe guilt was too strong of a word. Here's what I found. Guilt - 1. the fact of having committed a breach of conduct. 2. a: the state of one who has committed an offense. b: feelings of culpability esp. for imagined offenses or from a sense of inadequacy.

Nope, that about says it all. I bet Webster never had a Twinkie, either.

2003-09-05T23:55:00.000-04:00

Right On, Target

I admit it - I am a compulsive person, a wee bit obsessive and maybe a tad on the neurotic side at times to boot. Past posts are testament to this sad, but true fact. I am not a bad person. I should say I don't start out to be a bad ass, but there are days that no matter what I say, do or pull out of my magic Mommy bag of tricks, someone is either going to be annoyed, disappointed or just down right p.o.'d and that someone is probably under the age of 10.

A simple trip to my favorite store (Target) for some much needed pairs of socks and my 4 and 2 year old were in the coveted p.o.'d category. Oh, by the way, who knew that I would spend so much money for socks! You wouldn't think that my bag was full of socks and nothing but socks judging by the total on the bill. I don't think I've ever paid that amount on shoes for goodness sake.

One of my most favorite words in the English language is CLEARANCE. Right up there with WRIST BAND DAY and ALL YOU CAN EAT. Unfortunately, hunting through the racks are not my 4 and 2 year olds' idea of a good time; you know what I mean? Again, if you are under the age of 10, yep, you know exactly what I mean.

I promise a quick trip down the toy and seasonal aisle (damn, they've got their Halloween costumes out already!) if I could only get a few minutes glance at that 75% off rack of jogging pants, t-shirts a.k.a. Mommywear. Eureka, I find a cute pair of dark grey pants, trendy white stripe and flared bottom that actually hits the bottom of my ankles. And I get it for more than half of the original cost. YES! Did I also mention that in order to save money, one must spend money?!? My husband doesn't buy this one.... but if you find something you need and you're going to buy it anyway and you get to buy this thing you need without paying full price, you win! Pants go into the cart.....one up on the manufacturer....think I'd pay the full price....please!

Now we're in seasonal. I try to convince my 2 year old daughter that she'd be so much cuter as Clifford The Big Red Dog, more so than the Sailor Moon outfit she's clinging to for dear life. Let girls be girls say the experts. I happen to adore Clifford and despise the whole Sailor Moon thing and since I still rule for such a short time, let girls be girls while wearing Clifford The Big Red Dog. So, we leave without a costume or the very noisy laser gun my 4 year old boy is now reminding me how p.o.'d he is about, while we're at it. So, I leave without my pants.

So I learn a valuable lesson..... a) sometimes, it's better to let girls be girls and save the soap box for the big stuff..... b) 4 and 2 year olds are not too worried about wearing quitters.

2003-09-04T22:07:00.000-04:00

I found myself repeatedly checking the calendar. I swore to God that this was a Monday and all that it entails. Everything that could go wrong, did.

It started out okay. The children all woke, in good moods. Should have known something was up. My 9 and 7 year olds were ready for school, a whole hour and half earlier than necessary. The baby and my 4 year old son were happily sharing the "big comfy t.v. chair".....damn, got to remember to get film for the camera. It wasn't raining.

Then, it happened, a spiral shift in the cosmos as if some unforseen higher being couldn't stand the fact that a spec of a humanoid was having a good start to a promisingly good day. Humidity hit me, or my head, like a ton of bricks. I looked limper than my end of the season (as short as it was) tomatoes. I can hear them now, "Boy, she must have had a rough summer; she looks awful! That'll teach her for having 4 kids!"

Then, we take "the long walk". Picture "Dead Man Walking" minus the prison, death penalty scenario, but with the doomed walk kind of look. Anytime I have at least two minutes of idle time, this is a dangerous thing. I wonder if they give out awards like a mental version of the Pulitzer? Because I have the gift of being able to stress about at least half a dozen things at one time.

"Hey, did I ever get back the immunization records for my 4 year old's preschool interview, scheduled for 3 1/2 hours from now?!?!?" Cha-ching, #1.

"Double hey, I never got the references required to work in the co-op type school that it is!!!!!" Cha-ching, #2.

"Oh crap! The 4 year old has a hair appointment scheduled in 45 minutes!!!!!" Cha-ching, #3.

"Speaking of which, I don't have any cash on me. Got to stop home and pick up ATM card since they don't take nothin' but paper money, damn them!"
Cha-ching, #4

"Got to work in a nap, in the horizontal position, for the baby. Maybe I can squeeze in half an hour and a quick trip to Dunkin' Donuts for coffee?!?!?"
Cha-ching, #5.

"Double crap, was that the idiot light (Okay, I hate that! Couldn't they call it like, "Excuse me dear lady, but you've been so busy that I thought you'd like to know, at your earliest convenience, you are in need of fuel" light?) Cha-ching, #6.

AND THE AWARD GOES TO......

Needless to say, after running back and forth from one end of Monmouth County to the other, we made it to the end of the school day. Then a whole new plethera of agonizingly annoying Cha-chings begin. Burned supper because of one too many, almost made it to the potty, stops and grape juice incidents. Ordered out. Extra credit Cha-ching for Mommmy, "Damn, got to run to the ATM again for pizza money and Daddy's not home yet. Kids, forget your shoes and get into the car!"

This is the reason why Maxwell House Coffee has a faithful and very appreciative customer in me.

Books were covered - been saving those Delicious Orchards paper bags for weeks because, I am the environmental concious Mom, nez paz?!? Mounds of paperwork filled out and checks written for the first of many, many fund raisers to come.

We all survived the first day of school, except for Daddy who wonders, " What the hell is wrong with these people? They were fine when I left this morning. And, while we're at it, why are there empty coffee cups and grape juice stains all over the place?"

2003-09-03T20:59:00.000-04:00

The children are fed, bathed and in bed, excitedly awaiting their first day of school - tomorrow! My eyes are burning not only because I am tired, but in anticipation for another restless night of very little sleep. Not theirs', mine! I don't hate the first day of school, I dread it. I thought I'd just about jump out of my skin with worry, excitement, anticipation and I left the hallowed halls of Carteret's public school system many, many moons ago. How must my 9 year old and 7 year old daughters feel? I know exactly how they feel because that is all they could talk about from the time the first bowl of Cheerios hit the table to the last tooth brushed tonight. We've discussed every possible embarrassing, scary or dreaded scenario their little imaginations could come up with - believe me, there are many - and gone over every plausible and rational outcome. Having three girls and one boy with only the two oldest girls attending elementary school, I tend to wonder if we're going through something that is totally a "girl thing", or do the mother's and father's of boys have their sons worry, "What if I don't remember where to sit tomorrow?" I can remember back to early in my childhood worrying about similar ghosts, especially at the age of my oldest daughter. Times were different and, unfortunately, we've all learned that there are indeed monsters out there in all shapes and sizes, but to my 9 year old's mind, she is incapable of going beyond agonizing over whether or not she "remembers where the bathrooms are." Nor, do I want her or my 7 year old to - I'll do it for them. So, here I sit, bleary eyed, shaking from too much coffee and diet soda, while my husband is happily asleep in his chair. I guess I just answered my own question about the girl-thing, huh?!?

2003-09-02T15:38:00.000-04:00

Every pillow in my house has been relocated to the center of my living room. Why? The oldest of my four children, who is 9, has a playdate and it's raining outside. Enough said?!? My daughter's little friend is a well mannered, intellegent little girl who happens to share in my daughter's facination for pretend. One would think that at 9, thanks to Brittany Spears, Bratz Dolls and belly shirts, MTV would hold their interest rather than the giant maze totally constructed of pillows growing ever taller behind me. I mean every pillow, down to my youngest, who is 2, crib pillow. She was not very happy at first, but with a lot of reassurances made by her older sister, she gave up her pink frilly pillow for a promised entrance into the once completed maze. Everyone is in the act. My second oldest girl, who is 7, is busily adding her inventory of pillows. My son, who is 4 and the only boy in this house besides the two cats at the moment, has been accepted into the fold as well, light saber in hand. Play dates are very difficult to control in my house. With good intentions, I invite the 9 year olds, the 7 year olds and even a 4 year old friend (my son is in desperate need of male bonding) for some summer or after school fun. I have a 9 room house, 2 of which are bathrooms, 2 of which all 4 of my children share as bedrooms, 1 of which is my room dedicated to stock piles of clean and dirty laundry. This basically leaves the main part of the house (where, by the way my desk is smack dab in the middle of) open to attempted organize play. We bought this house because of its, "kid-friendly" potential. Today, I find myself retreating to my computer and reflecting on the mountain of pillows, soon to be dissassembled if anyone even thinks about getting any supper placed in front of them. My four year old son, who is half naked with a feather sticking out of his head, is screaming somewhere toward the back end of the house ("He's an indian for goodness sake!" I only asked.) My 2 year old is happily slamming the bedroom door upstairs ("She's thunder! We need thunder 'cause it's raining outside!" Again, I only asked). My 7 year old is bent out of shape ("They never want to play what I want to play!" No, we cannot have Kaitlyn over this afternoon.) The 9 year olds are running back and forth between the upstairs and the downstairs bedrooms screaming, "Can you hear me now?" ("The commercial is totally hysterical, Mom!" I didn't ask this time.) I look at the clock and see that the play date has an hour and a half to go and so do I, because thunder just pooped!