Oh Now THAT'S Not Good

I'm a big animal lover.  I've always had at least one dog.  At one time I had 3 dogs, two cats, a rabbit and a hamster but in my defense, some of those were not mine.  My open-door policy for those in need tends to allow not only family members, but all their pets too.  The good news is that that situation was only temporary.  But I grew up with a dog and I feel incomplete without one.  That is why when I got my own place, even though it admittedly was a bad idea, I hurried up and got a puppy.

I guess it just wasn't enough for me that I was a single mother working hard to put food on the table.  It wasn't enough that I already had a cat that I wasn't all that fond of and it just wasn't enough that I had to pay extra in rent for pets.  I just had to have a dog.  You might think in a small house with a small child and a young cat, I might get a small little dog.  Nope!  Not me!  I just had to have a German Shepherd puppy.  

You see, I have always loved German Shepherds, ever since I was a little kid.  They were always my favorite dog and I could never wait to have one of my own.  When I went to pick him out I fell in love instantly.  He was beautiful and so full of spunk.  All the other puppies seemed so sleepy and uninterested, I just knew I needed to get the little bastard that was harassing everyone.  I brought him home and dreamed about how wonderful life would be with him!  I pictured us running in slow motion through fields at sunset.  I imagined him standing tall to protect my son and licking his face and sleeping in his bed.  A boy needs a dog like this I thought.  It was going to be great.

[insert sound of record scratching here]

I could not have been more wrong about this dog.  Yes he was protective and yes he was beautiful and yes he was LARGE, but most of all he was a raging jerk. Just the same I loved him and vowed to stick it out until he outgrew his puppy phase and then he would be great. (which never happened by the way)

Of course I had to pick the puppy with the problems.  His first issues were of the digestive nature.  I will leave that to the imagination but let me just tell you this much, you never want to have to deal with that.  Additionally, he would not gain weight.  He always looked like he was starving so after the Vet cleared him medically, he suggested a different food - but of course this food is more expensive.  The new food only worsened the first problem, so after a few tweaks to the diet we finally got him to keep it down, but it still didn't make him look any less bony.  I thought maybe after he finishes growing so quickly, he can carry more weight.  Then I would have to pay tons more money because he had an ....eh hem...undesc- well, let's just say only one of the twins wanted to hang out.  Through all of the expensive medical problems, I also came to discover that this dog was not playing with a full deck.

I read up as much as I could about raising and training a Shepherd.  They are not your average dog, and if you don't know what you are doing it can be a real disaster.  Good thing for me, I knew what I was doing.  Crate training was a necessity.  They say they won't "mess" where they sleep.  Well let me tell you folks right here and right now that THAT is a big fat lie.  He had no issue whatsoever leaving a nice steamer and then trampling through and later napping in it.  I had to keep removing the tray in the bottom to clean it and since he couldn't be trusted roaming free in the house while I was doing this, I had to leave him in his crate with no tray on the bottom.  Not a good idea.  I came back to find that he has dug through the linoleum floor clear down to the sub-floor - and this place is a rental.

I decided enough was enough so I signed him up for this Puppy Kindergarten Class ...which he flunked out of.  Well, I guess WE flunked out.  First off, he would get car sick every time we went and cleaning up puke out of the car once a week was not fun.  Secondly, he was already huge but I was still my same small self.  It was downright embarrassing the way he acted.  He flipped around on his leash the way a balloon flips around in a windstorm - complete with smashing me in the face and head repeatedly.  He was a distraction to the other dogs and wasn't attentive enough to even know I was talking, let alone hear the commands!  The trainers' scathing looks told me to never bring this beast back to their store and so I didn't.  On the drive home I cried as he puked, and then I cried some more.  

After the digging through the floor incident, and him partially eating the tray to his crate I was forced to leave him out of the crate while I was at work - just this once until I bought a new crate.  I blocked him into the kitchen and figured he couldn't do THAT much damage in just one room.  Since he was big, strong and smart, a baby gate would not do the trick.  I pushed the sofa up against the doorway and above it I put the baby gate so the entire doorway from floor to top was blocked.  That ought to hold him until lunchtime at least, and then I'll stop home to check on him.

As I pull into the driveway on my lunch break, I get my first glance at my house and you could just about hear the sound of a gong.  "Oh now THAT"S not good" I thought as I noticed the curtain rod is now running diagonally across the front window.  As I approach, I see that the curtains are not only down on one side, but they are also ripped.  Obviously, my door blockage didn't work.  Hopefully that's the worst of it.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw when I opened that front door.  Nothing.  I turned the key and slowly pushed the door open.  There was a bit of a resistance to the door and I realized it was because I was spreading a nice big pile of poop across the entry way.  In fact, there was poop everywhere...and puke too.  And partially digested bits of the things that used to adorn my home.  

There is no real way to fully understand what happened, but my investigation suggests the following:

He got bored and panicked before I even got out of the driveway.  He then jumped up and took down the coffee pot from the coffee maker and proceeded to eat much of the glass that he broke on the floor.  All that was left of the coffee pot was the handle and the metal ring around the top.  After this time, he relieved himself of 80 gallons of urine.  At some point during his time spent in the kitchen, he disemboweled his favorite toy and left stuffing marinating in the urine on the kitchen floor.  When he exhausted his resources in the kitchen, he took a running leap and crashed right through the wooden baby gate suspended over the couch.  All that was left of it was some plastic netting and some mangled, splintered wood.  At some point he used it's remnants as a snack as made evident by the poop.  

After he broke free, he went to the living room and decided he would really enjoy munching on some candles so he jumped up to get them out of the window sill and ripped down the curtain rod and tore the curtains in the process.  He ate almost all of the candle sticks and most of a pillar candle.  Now this next part is the part that I can't quite explain.  He also ate the mop and left it in the living room.  I can't decide if he brought it with him on his initial escape or if he went back for it later, perhaps in an effort to quickly clean up before I got home?  Whatever the case, the mop was irresistible - soaked with Mr. Clean and all - because he ate that too.  As you might imagine, this would give someone quite a tummy ache so everything came back out on both ends.  Not sure if it was simultaneous, but I would like to think it was, just to have taught him a lesson.  

When I finally got back to work, I must have looked a mess.  I was stressed, had been crying and after that clean up job, I probably stunk something fierce.  When my boss looked at me, acknowledging my lateness I now know I should have just lied and said I was robbed at gunpoint.  It was probably way more believable than the real truth.  

Girlfriends

A close friend of mine sent me an email recently that really stuck in my mind.  I read it several times and I think I'll save it.  In a nutshell it said something about a college professor telling his class that "one of the best things a man could do for his health is to be married to a woman" and "one of the best things she could do for her health was to nurture her relationships with her girlfriends".

I can't emphasize how much I agree with this.  No matter how stressful life can get (and you know I have some rough days) I always feel totally invigorated after a "girls night".  I feel like my whole outlook on life is brighter, almost as if my soul has been cleansed and my pent up stress has been purged from my body.  Of course this could always be blamed on a lingering influence of alcohol, but whatever the case I like my "girls nights".  If it's true that this is good for your health, we will live to be 200.  I won't get anyone in trouble by divulging detailed information but let me just say we know our way around a good time.  We could have a blast at a place that has pony rides - oh wait, that's because we DID have a blast at a place that has pony rides!  We left as six classy broads (plus our token boy) and a few hours later returned so shockingly transformed that my husband's only reaction was "What the hell is going on here!??"  We didn't come back ugly but we came back as a scene for sure and the hubby just shakes his head and loves me anyway.

Since I did my part in keeping my husband healthy by marrying him, he does his part by allowing me to partake in my girl's nights.  He's very generous in this way.  I sheepishly ask if he minds (thinking I'm going to owe him big-time) and he says yes like the saint he is.  Truth be told he probably loves it when I go out.  I mean think about it: he doesn't have to hear me bitching about anything, he does't have to watch The Real Housewives of anywhere, he can burp and fart as much as he likes with no objections and for whatever reason, the kids tend to fall asleep unusually early.  I suspect that the reason they fall asleep early is probably because HE falls asleep regardless of whether they are sleeping or not so they doze off out of sheer boredom, but don't tell him I said this.  Although there was this one time when I rolled up at 2am and my son was in the Living Room window waving to me.  My husband didn't even notice him climbing on him to see out the window.

If our past girls nights have been any indication, tonight should be a great time.  We always bring some form of mayhem and hysteria but what else would you expect from me in my life?  Anything short of totally ridiculous is just plain boring to me!

Sweet Justice

I got up earlier this morning, since that has been recommended to me as a way to make it to work earlier.  You might imagine this advise was not well received considering the actual happenings that make me late.  Just the same, I gave it a shot.  First, I woke up at 3am.  I felt this was a bit early to start getting ready even though the thought did cross my mind to jump in the shower.  Instead, I struggled to get comfortable in a king size bed completely overtaken by a skinny 4 year old.  My husband was curled up like a cat at the foot of the bed.  I was on my side teetering on the edge and the boy was in the middle sprawled out like Bambi on the ice pond.  This is why I don't let them sleep in our bed.  I woke my husband to carry him to his bed.  I picked up my phone to check the time just as my husband walked in and accused me of being on Facebook at 3am.  I didn't even respond.

After deciding 3am was just entirely too early, I fought to fall back asleep.  I finally did at almost 4.  The alarm went off at 5:30 and my husband hit snooze for an hour.  I got up at 6:30 and started getting ready.  The plan seemed to work.  I was showered, dressed, made up, hair done and teeth brushed before the kids woke up.  Then I went downstairs and found the mess I forgot about last night while trying to get the kids to settle.  You see, yesterday  they were both sleeping when I got home from work at nearly 6:30pm.  I let them sleep long enough for me to eat dinner in peace and step outside for a glass of wine on the porch.  Then by 7:15 (15 minutes before bedtime and 2 sips into my wine) they were both up and full of energy.  My daughter didn't fall back asleep until after 10pm and my son, who knows what time he fell asleep.  I passed out before him while he was watching Hawaii 5-0 in my bed.

Downstairs, the dishes were still on the table, the garbage was full and so was the sink and dishwasher.  I had to unload and reload the dishwasher, clear and wipe down the table, put the dishes away and do my best to tidy up some of the toys that were laying around so the painter wouldn't break his neck when he comes and attempts to patch up what the kids have destroyed.  By the time I straightened up a little and got the kids up and dressed, it was 8:30.  There goes my head start.

I bring them out to the car with all the typical nonsense that goes with it.  This morning the issue was that my van door wouldn't open on one side.  Naturally, I wouldn't discover this fact until after I already hooked my daughter into her car seat on the other side.  With her buckled in, I can't get past that side.  I could have taken her out to get my son in with ease but I thought that would take too long and it would be "easier" to just have my son crawl on the floor under her feet to get to his seat.  That worked.  What didn't work was asking him to hand me the seat belt so I could buckle him in.  I asked him what seemed like 85 times before he even acknowledged me speaking to him.  With my kids, if they are out of my reach they feel they are out of my jurisdiction or something.  They completely ignore me if they know they can get away.

As I'm now laying across my daughter's lap yelling at my son to pull the seat belt and hand it to me, my cell phone is ringing and ringing and ringing. If I don't answer and the person calls back, I automatically assume this means something is horribly wrong so I'm now more stressed out.  I finally get him buckled, I get in the car and a drive away miserable as always.

Some jerk picks today to ride my bumper for nearly two miles.  It was really getting to me.  As it was I was 5 miles over the speed limit so it's not like I was an old grandma holding up a line of traffic.  Besides, I had my kids in the car and we were near a school.  You never know when one of those suckers is is going to dart out in front of you near a school so it's really not smart to be speeding.  Finally I get to a red light and the jerk pulls next to me into the left turn lane.  Thank God he's going to be off my a** at least.  Instead, the light turns green and he guns it and cuts me off right in front of the school.  Just like every other time something like this happens, my first though is "where the hell is there a cop when sh!t like THIS happens!?" but before I completed that thought, a cop came flying past me and pulled the guy over.

And that is what you call sweet justice.  It totally erased all my frustration from the morning.  I had to use every bit of strength not to roll down the window to point and say "ha ha!" (a la Nelson from the Simpsons) so instead I just smiled politely and kept on with my life.  :)

Herc Made a Dookie

Before I had my daughter, I already had 2 sons.  I had been a mother for 13 years, had a few nieces and nephews, worked in child care for a few years and even was a babysitter as a teen.  Suffice to say, I've changed my share of diapers and I've smelled a million stinks.  I've wrestled little squirmers and I've been peed on more times than I'd like to remember.  None of this prepared me for changing my daughter.

I've mentioned before that my daughter has inherited my super-human strength.  My sister started calling it that back when we were children and I was able to move furniture without even wincing.  She's right, I have always been pretty strong and it's very handy talent so I am proud that my daughter won't suffer a life of being too fragile to take matters into her own hands.  I will admit though, that I will appreciate this talent much more when she is potty trained.  For as strong as I am, she can take me.  That teeny tiny little peanut who only weighs 23 pounds sure knows how to throw her weight around.

At the first whiff it is best to scan the room for the biggest, strongest man available and recruit his help because if she decides she doesn't want to be changed, you're going to need to call in back up right from the get go.  Before you even get her to the changing table, she starts the battle.  It's like trying to hold a wild badger only much more dangerous.

On top of the changing table, she has the home field advantage.  She has a few moves that she uses regularly, but throws in a few surprises from time to time.  I have seen variations of these moves before but never with such strength, agility, speed and sharply honed technique.  Her standard moves are as follows.  She starts off with the "Diagonal Plank" move.  She gets herself positioned in such a way that while I'm holding both of her ankles, she pushes up and turns her head under so that the very top of her head is the only thing touching the changing table.  Then she employs the "Cross-over Flip" where she reaches over with her right arm and grabs the left side of the changing table and flips herself so quickly that you almost cant even see it with the naked eye.  Now her legs are twisted up with your arms so you have no choice but to let go.  Her third move is the "Paddle Boat" where she just kicks repeatedly in a bicycle-like fashion.  This one is especially impressive because she is able to do this the entire time she's doing the other moves.

We've been struggling for probably over two minutes at this point and I don't even have the diaper off yet.  I have to lean across her body to pin her down while I try to pull open the diaper.  The screams she emits rival any horror film I have ever seen.  I better go shut the window before the police get a call.  When I finally get the diaper open, any of a few scenarios play out - none of which involve me simply cleaning her and re-diapering as you might have guessed.  Generally, she will either have rabbit dropping poopies which then roll everywhere during the continued struggle or she will have a nice mashed potatoes thing going on.  The rabbit droppings are the preferred mess but the mashed potatoes seem reign king in our house.  Rarely will we see the elusive standard poop and the other scenario (the 'rhea) is too horrific to even discuss outside of a licensed professional's office.

Now that her diaper is off and dookie is exposed, she ratchets up the fight even more.  Additionally, this is when the phone rings, someone is at the door or my son has his hand stuck in a jar.  I can't deal with those extra problems so for now they will be ignored.  She is now using all of her moves in unison.  She decides to throw in a bonus move I like to call the "Shaky Bridge".  She usually waits for a mound of poops to be under her to throw this one in.  She plants her feet down and then raises and drops her whole body in a fit of rage, essentially flattening and in some unfortunate cases, splattering the dookie.  What begins as relatively small mound of doo is quickly transformed into what would appear to be a pudding factory explosion.  As I try to hold her still, I reach for a wipe and of course there are none left.  I struggle to get the refill bag open and as I pull one, they all come along.  Because of this delay, my daughter has poop on her back, feet and probably on my face from all the kicking that's been going on.  I whip the long strip of baby wipes in an effort to disconnect them with just one hand, but now I am left with only one as the rest fly across the room.  Had there been wipes in the box ready to go, I could have pulled a few and had the clean up done.  But now with the added delay, this is looking more like a 30-wipe job.

The struggle has resulted in her having poop on her belly and her shirt so I have to change her clothes too.  I've been kicked in the face, neck, chin, jaw and ear.  My lip is split and I think I taste something a bit nutty on my lip.  I reach for a new diaper and drop it on the floor.  As I reach to retrieve it, I keep one hand on her so she doesn't fall off the table - as if the gentle touch of my hand on her leg could save her from falling when laying across her body didn't even subdue her. Thank God no diaper rash cream this time.  That's a mess that I don't even want to discuss.

As I shake the diaper furiously to open it and fight to get the diaper under her, she manages to jump up somehow and is now standing.  For a brief moment, her screams are halted by a manical shriek of joy until  I pick her up and pin her back down.  I get one sticky tab open and quickly press it on.  One side down, one to go!  I pull open the other tab and struggle to secure it to the diaper.  I swear it's like playing pin the tail on the donkey ...but with a real donkey and a real pin ...while in an out of control cement mixer on a gravel road.  Just as I'm about to put it in place, the tab rips off and I have to start over with a new diaper.

By the time she has a clean diaper on, she has grabbed the powder, wipes and light switch, and has gotten the poop that was on her hands on all of these things too.  She's banged her head, kicked me many, many times and has started hacking on her own snot and tears from crying so hard.  I have to wipe everything down, struggle to get her dressed again and re-open the window in hopes the odor will subside.  Let's hope she doesn't have to go again for at least a few days!  Think I'll start feeding her more String Cheese and steak.

Some Office Etiquette

• Don't hold teleconferences from your cube and expect the rest of the world to be quiet.  Likewise, don't expect the rest of the world to be impressed that you hold teleconferences. 

• Keep it down when you are on the phone.  No one gives a damn.

• Don't tell me to keep it down when I'm on the phone.  

• Don't slam your office door.  You're not so important that you are allowed to slam things, even if you think you are.

• Don't shuffle your feet when you walk.  I don't care what your ethnic background, in America we pick up our feet when we walk, got it?

• Don't wear sandals if your feet haven't seen a nail clipper since 92.  Also, sandals should not be worn if any or all of your toes cannot be corralled at least somewhat.  This goes for the rouge pinkie toe sticking out the side and above all this goes for the claw foot that wraps over the front of a shoe like a fist clutching a ball.  In fact, this goes for everyone, everywhere - not just work.

• Don't pull me from a personal conversation with my co-workers to talk to you in your office when you could have just told me then and there.  I don't need anyone jumping to conclusions thinking we are having an affair or that I respect you or some nonsense like that.

• Don't spend 20 minutes going on and on or back and forth about something needing to be done that you could have just done yourself in 5 seconds.  

• Don't email people very early or very late to prove you are more dedicated.  I give, you win.  Now go back to "working from home" and tell the beach I said hi.

• Don't point out that I'm late.  I know that already.  Please refer to my previous blog for any number of excuses.  Chose your favorite and have a great day.

Restrooms - this needs a section all it's own...

• A one stall buffer zone is expected.  If there are other open stalls, don't chose the one right next to someone else.  You wouldn't sit next to someone in an auditorium without a one seat buffer would you??  Of course not.

• If you feel the need to go all Spider Man and scale the walls to straddle-but-not-touch the seat, for the love of God, clean up after yourself!! You're gross and everyone knows it was you.

• If you walk in and hear someone in a stall cough, clear their throat or blow their nose, that means "I'm in here waiting for you to leave".  Get the hell out of there before it's too late.

• If you see a set of feet in the stall just waiting there, this too means you should move it along.  Doing your hair, checking out your skin in the awful lighting and even brushing your teeth is not appropriate at this time.  They aren't sitting in there because it's comfy.

• Never brush your teeth in the lavatory.  That is just plain nasty.  While you think you are getting plaque off your teeth, you are actually welcoming a whole host of germs, bacteria and airborne fecal matter into your nasty mouth.*

• Never floss in the bathroom either!  Same reasons as above, plus the added danger of flicking your nasty teeth bits on innocent bystanders.  

• No eye contact.  I just heard you let one slide while you were peeing, so can we just agree to chat about your weekend later and act like this never happened?  When I'm looking at you like "oh your weekend sounds so interesting!" I'm actually not even listening to you because I'm too preoccupied with my thoughts of "oh you nasty bitch, I can't believe you just cracked one off 30 seconds ago and have the nerve to come out here and gab"

• Never poop in work unless your bowels are about to rupture.

• If your bowels are about to rupture and you just have to, then wait until everyone that was there when you came in has left before you walk out.  I'm pretty sure they don't want to know just as much as you don't want them to know.  

• If you get back to your desk and everyone notices you've been gone, quick and start talking about how "this" bathroom stunk so you went all the way to the downstairs one.  (kill two birds with one stone on that one)

* this is based purely on my assumption and disgust but it sounds right so I submit it as fact.

Time To Eat!

You can't even eat in my house.  It can't be like this for everyone, it just can't!  There is mass confusion at every meal.  You might think every meal was our first time trying to get together to eat.  I, of course, tend to think it's amusing while my husband spews a string of expletives the entire time.  He does have the decency to say most of it in Italian though - to protect the children of course.

Last night was no exception.  While I am trying to make dinner, I have my son running laps around the house, and I do mean that literally.  Through the kitchen, around the living room, back through the kitchen and so on.  Every so often he slips on a fridge magnet and goes sliding across the floor, bowling over his sister, the cat and sometimes me.  Generally, I am able to stay on my feet through it.  On the other end of the spectrum you have my daughter who spends 95% of her life trying to climb up my leg to be held.  Since she is so adorable and is the last baby, I usually oblige.  (and yes, I am well aware of the monster I am creating, thanks for pointing that out.)  These things are normal, but when I'm trying to cook it's not the best time.

I have 2 different things on the stove, 3 different things in the oven and the sink is on.  I have everyone asking if it's ready yet, as if they can't see what's going on. I'm trying to push dishes onto a kitchen table that is overrun with coloring books, paint brushes, newspapers, the laptop, 5 sippie cups with missing lids and random choking hazards that were put up there to be out of the baby's reach.  I would have cleared all this before I tried putting the plates on the table but I didn't think of it again today for the 4,000th day in a row.  In my defense I am pretty distracted with everything else so I should get a free pass every day for everything.

Me opening the oven and having my hands full seems to be every one's favorite opportunity to charge me.  My head in the hot oven reaching for the tray of food is my husband's favorite time to come up behind me and slap me on the ass.  Now as much as I appreciate this notion, I could be killed so it tends to set me off a little.  The kids come running at the very sound of the oven door.  Me yelling "get back! hot! dangerous!" means nothing to them apparently because they are completely unaffected by it.  Half the time I'm standing with the hot tray of food in one hand, trying to close the oven door with the other while balancing on one foot and using the other to hold the baby back.  I can't tell you how many times the dog or cat almost got flung into the air when I try to slam the door shut and don't notice they've stuck their little noses in the way.

Before everyone else sits, I strap the baby into her booster seat so I can serve dinner without her on me.  I ask my husband to cut up the baby's meat and then snatch the plate out of his hands just before it gets to the table because I feel the pieces are too big.  He cuts her meat into pieces that she could probably handle if I weren't so paranoid about choking.  When I cut up the meat, I bring down to just shy of a puree.  As I serve everyone their plates, I scan the table to see what I might have missed.  It appears everyone has everything, but that's only because I didn't notice no one has napkins or knives and the baby already dropped her fork.  Before I sit down, my son wants more and my daughter has fed most of hers to the dog.  I finally get my own food on the plate and sit. As the fork approaches my mouth it's like a red alarm that some better hurry up and need something or I might actually eat the first bite while it's still warm!

As predicted my son needs juice so I just get everyone juice because I know that's next.  While I'm up, I'll get every one's napkins and missing silverware.  I almost sit before I realize I don't have a drink for myself so back up and now they want seconds.  I diffuse the argument between my husband and my teenager about whether or not the teenager made a face when he was told to just "try" the eggplant.  I get a dirty look from both of them because you know I can never win.  As I attempt another bite my daughter pours her water down her shirt, my son says he's full and my husband slams his fist down on the table, bouncing all the silverware on the plates.  "Just eat your goddamn food!" he yells while the teenager starts to laugh.  This doesn't go over well with the husband and his angry stare only makes the teenager laugh harder.  I look over at my daughter who is gagging so I flip into a panic smacking her back and asking "are you OK? are you choking?? are you choking!!!???". Then in the sweetest voice ever, you almost hear her say "I'm OK Mommy" but that is drowned out with my husband saying "she's FINE April!".  I mean, I know I do that every 2 minutes, but still.  She shoves fistfuls of food in and doesn't like to chew in spite of me saying "chew chew chew!  little bites!" constantly for the duration of the meal.

The baby is painting her face and hair with sauce now so I know she's done eating.  Clean her up real quick and take her out of the seat so maybe I can start eating without further distractions.  My son sees she's done and immediately comes up with an excuse why he has to get up too whether it be he has to pee, he needs his blanket, he forgot his TV was on or whatever other excuse he has loaded.  This further angers my husband who now has his teeth clenched tight and is yelling through his lips.  That's never good.  I pour him more wine and tell my son he ate enough, and send them on their way.

By the time I actually get to start to eat my dinner it is ice cold and everyone has already left the table.  Once in a while I get "why does it take you so long to eat?"  I just smile and drink my wine before I hear a crash or crying come from somewhere in the house.

How Styrofoam Peanuts Almost Claimed Our Lives

I am notorious for having bad luck and mayhem follow me.  My life, since day one, has been a series of mishaps, accidents, incidents, blunders and disasters and my mother can certainly attest to this fact.  I am fortunate that these are usually minor incidents and no one is harmed.  Most often, these incidents are either immediately hysterical to me or take me telling the story to someone else before I find the humor, but I do always find the humor in just about every disaster.  I've always been this way.  As much as I would love to blame the kids, the truth is it didn't start when I had children, it started when I was born.  Of all the incidents over the years, there are a few that stay fresh in my mind no matter how much time has passed.  One such incident started on a hot summer's day...

We were casually cruising along a highway in New Jersey in the 80's on our way home from our annual beach vacation.   I was about 8 years old and in the back seat of the Cadillac having the time of my life as always.  No seat belts meant the back seat was essentially a playground as long as you didn't bump the driver's seat, spill the beer, get burned by a cigarette or get within smacking distance of an adult.  Using the leather seats to slide back and forth from one side of the car to the other only got me through the first 40 minutes of the drive.  I then turned to entertaining myself with a toy that I won on the boardwalk.  It was the coolest thing ever.  It was a stuffed animal inside of a balloon on a bed of Styrofoam peanuts.  Well, at least that's what it was when I won it.  By the time it was in the backseat of the Caddy, it was a stuffed animal shrink-wrapped by a balloon and packed with Styrofoam peanuts.  I still don't quite understand how it came to be that the deflated balloon created a suction around the stuffed animal.  Very strange.  So while I am playing in the car cruising down the highway, I have this great idea that I will "free" the stuffed animal from the balloon.  Since the air already was out of it, all I would have to do is rip the balloon open and get the toy out of it.  That's what I thought anyway.  

When it happened, my uncle was driving peacefully with his arm on the door, oldies playing softly on the radio and his baseball cap perched high atop his bald head.  When it happened, my sister was curled up on the front seat overly irritated about nothing and everything with the hot summer air gently blowing her hair around like a dance.  When it happened, it scared the ever-loving sh!t out of all of us.  What happened was when I pulled apart that balloon to let the stuffed animal out, it popped. ..and LOUD.  So loud that I swear my uncle almost swerved off the road. It was like a gunshot, and that wasn't even the most shocking part.  

You see, he had no idea I even had this thing back there.  All he knew was that he was enjoying a drive on a hot summers day one second, and a split-second later, the whole inside of his car was covered in Styrofoam peanuts.  They were on the dashboard.  They were on the seats.  They were even sitting on the brim of his hat. They were absolutely everywhere.  It's a mystery for the ages how such a small balloon could hold enough Styrofoam peanuts to essentially coat the entire interior of an 1982 Cadillac.  After regaining control of the car, his shaken reaction was "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!!!?"  His eyes had a look of both terror and anger as they darted from my sister to me and back again.  My initial reaction was shock, followed by a rush of fear and then immediately followed by a fit of laughter that almost got me left on the side of the road.  I was laughing so hard, I couldn't even tell him what happened.  

I laughed myself delirious for the rest of the hour and a half drive home.  To this day, I still don't know if he knows what really happened!  But all I know is that I still have that stuffed animal nearly 30 years later and I still can't help but laugh every time I look at it!

The "Work Sneeze"

I work in a very quiet, very corporate office.  I do my best to conform even though my base primal instincts are to be loud and borderline obnoxious.  I think I do a pretty good job of acting the part (most of the time).  I'm a pretty versatile person (I think).  But this is a conscious effort for me.  We all adjust our behavior to suit the environment.  Or at least, we all should.

This topic comes up because of some disruptive things that happen in my office, especially this time of year.  I've discussed this in length with my best friend already and we are on the same page.  If we agree, then the rest of the world should because we are pretty level-headed (we think).  What we discussed is the fact that among other behavior adjustments, when it comes to the workplace we have a designated "work sneeze".  It is a far cry from it's sister the "home sneeze" which has been responsible for ruining card games, startling neighbors and clearing fields of geese.  The "work sneeze" is a polite stifled version of an actual sneeze.  It's just a hint of what lies beneath.  Outwardly, this seems very controlled and almost endearing.  A cute little "eh-tehew" followed by a long exhale to decompress the back pressure.  We do it so as not to disrupt our co-workers.  Although it sounds demure, it often causes quite a bit of discomfort.  My ears tend to pop and my eyes sometimes feel like they've almost dislodged from their sockets.  But what choice do I have right?

Well, that may be changing.  It seems some people in my office do not follow this same code of conduct.  They may be setting a precedence for the rest of us to sneeze as we see fit, regardless of it's social implications.  I feel compelled to stop here and say that these are otherwise lovely people and I am not judging nor intending to insult in any way.  In fact, their sneezes provide a great break from the monotony and serve as the source of entertainment for a few of us, so I say Bravo to you!

However, as lovely as the sneezers are - WOWZA.  I can't believe they don't have to be taken away on stretchers.  I was getting a cup of coffee this morning and heard a series of sneezes that were so loud and violent that I was expecting to see widespread destruction when I walked back into common area.  To my surprise, all the cubes were standing and I believe everyone survived.  I, on the other hand, was nearly blown against the wall and I did lose a splash of coffee through the ordeal.  I don't know who was responsible for this sneeze and quite frankly, I would be afraid to approach the person anyway.  I do wonder though if they just don't think it's necessary to stifle or if they truly have no control over this.

I know when I'm at home and I have to sneeze I make an event of it.  Stifling all day at work creates an unexplained desire to want to really have at it when I feel one coming on.  At home, when I sneeze I really let loose.  I often times finish it off with sort-of a sing-song "...chooooooooooooooo" at the end.  I do laugh at myself, I'll admit it.  Other times I will actually yell as loud as I can a very throaty "AAAACHOOO!!".  It's all for my personal entertainment.  Luckily for me, the kids enjoy it when they aren't scared half to death.  My husband on the other hand usually will say "what the hell is wrong with you?" or otherwise just give me a peculiar glance and carry on about his life.

I get that a good powerful sneeze can really make you feel better.  God knows I do my share at home.  I can even admit to times when I accidentally let loose a "home sneeze" in the office but at least I'm mortified when I do so.  So folks can we all just agree that in the workplace, we try our best to keep it below a 2.5 on the Richter Scale?   Thanks!

Laps In The Driveway

If you have read my last entries, you will have learned that getting out of the house is a Herculean task for me.  By the time I even make it to the porch, so much has gone down that I look a mess and I'm exhausted.  I stopped checking the time in the mornings because it just stresses me more.  I go as fast as I can under the circumstances and no matter how late it is, that's not going to make me be able to move this along any faster.

I hope someday to see the video of me attempting to get out of the driveway.  Someone must have footage of this by now because it's a spectacle every morning.  The whole thing can probably be heard for a 3 block radius at least.  I emerge from my house a mere shell of the woman I once was and the woman I can still be when I'm able to shower and get ready without interruption.

Even if we are expecting perfect weather, the instant I walk out my front door it changes to rain, snow and heavy winds.  (I'll admit this is probably not a fact, but it does seem this way).  Atop brick steps with a baby who has slid down to my knee, my arms impossibly full, wearing heels and blinded by a lock of hair that always blows over and stays across my eyes I attempt my descent to the driveway.  Halfway there, I look down at my daughter who has now slid down to the point that her arms are sticking straight up in the air and her face is barely peeking out of the top of the jacket.  If you are a parent, you know what I'm talking about.  She just looks up at me expressionless as she dangles from my grip - feet nearly scraping the ground.  This leads me to a question: why are baby coats so slippery?  Maybe they should consider making them out of Velcro or something for the safety of the child.

Reading this, you might think from my doorstep to my driveway is a half-a-mile.  It sure feels that way, but it's only actually 30 feet at the most.  Just the same, I'm sweating and about to drop everything so thank God I only have a few more steps to the van.  Let me just get this door open with my pinkie finger ....and it's locked.  The keys are probably in my purse which I can't reach from all the crap I'm holding.  I put it all down, except for the baby because her shoes are off again.  Search my purse and no keys.  Back into the house with baby in tow.  The boy is just running around out there.  No point in trying to stop him.

Back out the door and to the van. I open the door and I try to hook her in while she kicks me in the face and screams for her movie.   The car seat straps are always too tight even though it's the same child in the same coat every single day.  I load up the bags, start the car, put the movie on and try to get the boy to get in.  After some yelling, screaming, crying and bribery he climbs in and tramples everything with his muddy feet.  He doesn't miss a thing.  All the toys, bags, spare clothes, extra socks, shoes and flip flops (only one of each kind) have been crushed and muddied.  I don't even care.

I get in the drivers seat for the first time in a series of many attempts to get out of the driveway.  I put it in reverse and my back tires make it all the way to the street when I realize I forgot my phone.  I pull back in the driveway, hop out and run into the house to find my phone.  Back out to the van, buckle up again and back out of the driveway.  I get almost out and pull back in because I see I've left the dog outside.  Run in, let the dog in and accidentally let the cat out.  Fetch the cat, put it in the house and back to the van.  Buckle up and put it in reverse and pull back in.  Finally noticed my lunch bag was empty.  Run in, throw together some randomness for lunch and back out the door.  Buckle up, throw it in reverse and back into drive because I forgot my laptop.  At this point I don't even care that I only have on one earring, it's just going to have to do.  The poor kids must be carsick by the time we actually get onto the street!!

Just Getting Out The Damn Door; part deux.

When the boy wakes up, my frustration is temporarily halted by humor.  Every morning without fail and no matter how heavily he is sleeping, the moment I close and lock my bedroom door to get dressed is always the very same moment he decides to try to come in.  First I hear the doorknob slowly turn half-way.  That immediately turns to the doorknob rattling and the door shaking violently.  It would seem the door being locked is a real trigger point for his rage.  Now this is the part that I always make time for.  I mess with him.  After shaking the door nearly off the hinges he switches to knocking.  I cheerfully ask "who is it?".  He knows damn-well that I know who it is and this just frustrates him more.  Irritated, he responds "me!".  I come back sweetly with "me who?" which he quickly shouts his name back to me.  "Oh hi honey, good mor-" "WOULD YOU JUST LET ME IN!!??"  You would think he was used to it by now but it gets him every day and I love it.

Now that he's awake, we go downstairs and the marathon begins.  "I'm hungry, I want to brush my teeth, I have to pee, I'm thirsty, I spilled my cereal, I have to poop, Ewww! The baby pooped!!, the dog ate my roll, I spilled my drink, can you please change the baby!?, the cat is standing on my waffle...".  No one is properly dressed yet except me and I already look a mess.  I try to feed them "dry" things in the morning because they both have a need to wipe their faces on my work clothes.  I swear they do it on purpose because I have pajamas that I've had for like, ten years and they are untouched.  After I put out all the fires, and get them set up with food, drink and Toy Story 3, I attempt to sneak out of the room to get their clothes.  No matter what, my daughter always notices and loses her mind.  She is going through this separation anxiety phase I guess.  I call it a phase because even though it's been a lifelong problem so far, I can't bear the thought of it continuing much longer.  I can't even walk behind someone because for that one second that I am eclipsed by someone else, she's already melting down.  

I can never find their clothes because my son is obsessed with "doing the laundry".  This is why I've had to resort to hiding everyone's clothes in my room.  Otherwise he goes drawer by drawer taking everything out and combining it with everything from the hamper and then tosses it around on the floor to simulate the washing machine.  Now everything that was clean and folded is mixed together and dirty.  You might be thinking that the clothes can't be that dirty, right?  That would be incorrect.  My daughter makes herself throw up every day so 80% of her laundry is covered in puke so everything has to be rewashed.  

I dress the boy quickly and he fights me the whole time.  I tell him to look for his shoes while I bring my daughter upstairs to change her diaper and get her dressed.  As I've mentioned, this is no easy task.  10 minutes later (on a good day) I emerge sweaty, frazzled and totally exhausted.  If I'm not bleeding or in some sort of pain it's a refreshing change.  I check to see if my son found his shoes and instead find him undressed with his socks totally missing.  I get him dressed again and yell at him to find his socks and shoes right now!  By this time my daughter has taken her barrette out of her hair and lost it.  I find a new barrette and fix her hair again and find that not only is my son undressed again, but he's soaking wet from "doing his hair" in the bathroom sink.  I dry him off, find his clothes, get new socks (the first pair never does get found) and search the house for his shoes.  They are always in some crazy place that shoes don't belong because he intentionally hides them from me.  This same routine goes on with their coats.  Get one on, the other has theirs off.  Get that one back on and now this one's hat is missing.  

Almost time to leave but we can't forget to bring their Woody and Jessie dolls, matchbox cars, baby dolls and an annoying toy that makes noise.  I pick up the baby, my purse, my empty lunch bag, the diaper bag, the bag with the toys and head for the door.  I have to somehow figure out how to close the door with my hands beyond full.  As I struggle with this in high heels and a baby who has now slid down to my thigh, my son bolts out of the house.  As the screen door slams into the back of my ankle I am yelling "don't you DARE step in that mud/wet grass/dog crap/dead squirrel .." but before the words are out of my mouth, he's already in it and filthy.  Tough crap for him because I'm not going back in!  

Just Getting Out The Damn Door; a two-part mini-series

I'm lucky I make it to work by noon.  My morning ritual of getting ready for work with three kids is... well there's no delicate way to put this - it sucks.  My husband is out the door by 6:45 so I am on my own in the mornings.  He does make me a cup of coffee to wake me up every day, Bless his soul, but it's usually stone cold by the time I take a sip.

Since the boy has me up late every night suffering through his life-long sleep strike, come morning I'm miserable before I even open my eyes.  My baby girl is a good sleeper thank God, but early to bed early to rise is something she lives by.  She's up before seven every morning.  Now I know she might not be the first little lady awake on the block, but for me it feels like 4am.

As I attempt to send my teenager off to school, I hear my daughter starting to stir.  I think it's important I mention that "sending my teenager off to school" consists of me lying semi-conscious on my bed slurring my whisper-shouts of "did you take your vitamin?" "do you have lunch money?" "did you brush your teeth?" "DON'T WAKE UP YOUR SISTER!".  He knows better than to shout back because if he wakes up the baby before I get in the shower, my semi-conscience state rapidly morphs into a semi-murderous state.  He tries his best to be as quiet as possible then reliably slams the front door on his way out.  This usually sends the baby into a full-blown panic, as if she believes on a daily basis we have all abandoned her in the house.  This is my cue to jump up and get into the shower before she starts making herself throw up from crying so hard.

From the shower I'm yelling "OK baby, I'll be right there! Hold on!" like this will comfort her today even though it's never once worked before.  Meanwhile, I'm fumbling around getting shampoo in my eyes and trying not to slice my foot off on the razor I dropped but can't see because I don't wear glasses in the shower.  I get out and try to put on a baby ducky towel because it always seems to be the only one left.  I've had necklaces that cover more than that towel.  By now my daughter is on the verge of a total breakdown, screaming so hysterically that the neighbors must be looking up the phone number for Child Protective Services.  Her cry is ridiculous.  You have to hear it to understand.  Most people are as impressed as they are horrified.

If you haven't had the pleasure of trying to change a baby's diaper while wearing only a ducky towel that is no larger than a dessert napkin, you just don't know what you're missing.  And I envy you.  I attempt to do it every morning and it is just impossible.  It never gets easier.  My daughter has super-human strength by the way.  I will get into that another time.  The diaper changing is a story all it's own.

I put her on my bed and try to get dressed, do my makeup, do my hair, put in contacts and find earrings.  This is something that would probably take the average person maybe 15-20 minutes, depending of course on where you work and how much makeup you are caking on.  For me, on work days I wear just enough to not make people run screaming so I would say 15 minutes would get the job done from out of the shower to finished product.  But not once in the history of me getting ready has that ever happened.

Having children, I have the added joy of trying to take care of these basics in 10 second increments, interrupted by hundreds of mini-disasters and near-catastrophies.  I go from one anxiety-inducing incident to another: diving to catch her from falling, rolling or jumping off the bed; just barely making it to grab her from the top of the stairs; pulling the coffee mug away from her just before she wears it or drowns herself in it; letting the cat out of the room a split-second before he claws her face off; getting the nail clippers away from her right before she cuts herself and prying the remote out of her hands.  This is immediately followed by spending at least 5 minutes trying to fix the TV from her pressing the only button combination that renders it crippled in a land of settings menus.  This is just a small glimpse into what goes on.  I simply don't have enough time on my hands to get into more accurate detail of these accounts.  All this goes on before the boy even wakes up, and then there's a whole new world of obstacles!