Just Another Day at my Father's House

I was a child of divorce.  Boo-hoo for me?  Nope.  It was kinda cool.  There was always something interesting happening.  My mom raised me, but we would visit with my father on many weekends and sometimes spend a week or more in the summer.  It was a completely different environment than the one at home.  The only similarity was that there was always a certain level of chaos at all times.

Being a kid at my dad's house was fun.  There was always minimal supervision and my younger brother was nothing short of a raging maniac.  He was the kid with tell-tale laugh that let you know you were probably in immediate danger.  His idea of fun was defying death at every moment possible.  The kid was scary.  Had it not been for the Candy Land box top that I used as a shield, I might have been dead from the time he tried stabbing me to death with a grill fork.  We were almost killed every weekend actually.  

Sometimes it would be the very joys of life that almost killed us.  Anyone who was ever a kid in a two story house has gotten on their belly and slid all the way down the stairs for fun.  We were no exception and the severe rug burn was well worth it.  This was especially fun when you lived in a Trenton row house where the stairs were so steep that it was more of a deluxe ladder than a flight of stairs.  My brother loved sliding down the stairs just as much as the next kid.  Probably more than the next kid actually.  He always added a little flair to his slides.  For instance, he would routinely slide while one of us was still trying to walk down.  You can't imagine the mix of shock and pain that comes from quietly descending the stairs one second and the very next second being swept air born by a 5 year old doing 90 mph under your feet.  That part is a joy compared to how it feels when you land - on your tailbone - and then proceed to tumble down another 9 steps.  The pain is secondary to getting the wind knocked out of you.  If you've never experienced this phenomenon - lucky you; it's not pleasant.

I'll never forget the fun we did have when we weren't staring death in the face.  This one time we pretty much defined the phrase "all hell breaking loose".  My Dad, Step mom and neighbors were sitting on the porch.  (That's what people in Trenton used to do every night before they had to fear being shot).  While they were on the porch, we took full advantage of the fact that we were not at all being supervised.  

My brother immediately hit the fridge.  He took out a piece of pizza and climbed onto the counter to put it in the microwave.  He was only about 5 years old, so he had to be crafty to reach things.  Lucky for him he was like a spider monkey and could scale anything.  When I saw him putting the pizza in the microwave, I repeated what I had been told before.  "Don't microwave pizza - it will make it like rubber."  Intrigued, he looked at me and said "rubber?" and I (shouldn't have) said "yea, like bouncy - you could bounce it off the wall!".  And so in the microwave it went - as he laughed his insane laugh the whole while.  I did nothing to stop him because it actually seemed like a fun time to me too.  I knew he would be the one getting in trouble for it, not me so what the hell, let's give it a go.  We had to find out if it was really true!  

We excitedly awaited the beep that signaled the pizza was done and our experiment could begin.  He grabbed the pizza out of the microwave and ran to the dining room so quickly I almost missed the whole thing.  As I ran in to witness, I saw the pizza hit the wall up near the ceiling - sauce side to the wall.  My brother almost couldn't take it.  He was laughing so hard I thought I was going to have to call for help.  We had hoped it would slide down the wall so we could get it before the parents caught us but it wasn't budging.  I had a great idea!  I got a water gun, filled it up and started shooting the wall above the slice.  My thinking was that this would rinse it down the wall.  I proved my theory as it slid down and landed sauce side down on the carpet.  That was a complication that I did not think of.  Nor did I think of the sauce streak that would remain down the wall.  All the water shooting I did trying to clean up the sauce just made it worse.  As I realized I was not going to fix this, my brother threw the pizza back onto the wall again.  I had no time to be concerned with any of this because I had another great idea!  

While my brother moved on to driving his Big Foot R/C truck around the house, I moved on to the kitchen for my next great plan.  I thought, in my infinite wisdom, that if I shoot out the ceiling fan in the kitchen enough with the water gun, the fan blades would be wet enough to simulate rain.  Great idea right??  It sure was NOT a great idea.  Within minutes I would learn why.  Meanwhile, my brother's R/C truck had moved on from driving around the house to "peeling out" on my sister's bare back.  As she screamed a horrific scream, I learned why squirting the ceiling fan was a bad idea.  If everyone did not know this, I will tell you that I've learned that cold water on hot light bulbs is a terrible combination.  The light bulbs exploded and I was sprayed with the broken glass.  I was bleeding from literally thousands of tiny cuts from head to toe.  

I'm not sure if it was my sister's blood curdling scream, the sound of the light bulbs exploding or if he just had to take a leak, but my father finally decided to come into the house.  When he walked in I don't think he could ever have been prepared for what he found.  It took him a few seconds for it to all register.  Finally he bellowed "What the F**K is going ON in here!!!!????"  As my father scanned the room, he found things that I guarantee no other house witnessed before.  In the living room my sister was still being attacked by a baby monster truck driven by my brother who was laughing while she screamed.  A big red stain on the carpet was below a dripping wall with a sauce streak and pizza slowly creeping down.  Then emerging from a dark kitchen there is me...squirt gun still in my hand, arms out and covered head to toe with specks of blood.  I guess I should refer back to these moments when I think my house is out of control.

The Brutal Fight to Look Like a Classy Broad

This past Sunday we had the honor of attending the wedding of our good friends.  In spite of the pouring, pounding rain that carried on relentlessly for the duration of the day, it was a beautiful wedding.  The bride looked stunning, the groom looked as handsome as ever and perhaps most incredible of all, we were on time!  

This may very well be the first wedding that we have ever been to (ours included) that we didn't come busting in frazzled and stressed just as the crowd quiets and the ceremony starts.  The ceremony was set to start at 3pm and we made it there by 3pm on the dot.  Being at least five minutes early would have been ideal, but I'll take what I can get. 

Weddings involve a great deal of thought, planning and preparation.  Weeks and even months in advance you start to think about your dress and you go on a crash diet.  Days before, you wish you had done more teeth whitening and realize it's too late to get your hair done like you wanted and there's no time for tanning.  You rethink every detail of your ensemble and inevitably forget something important the day of.  I'm not talking about the bride either...I'm talking about any female who has ever gone to any wedding ever.  You might think every wedding was our own.

I have a dress I bought recently but I'm disgusted to admit that I've grown "fluffier" since a couple months ago.  I decided it best to buy a new one rather than set myself up for the kind of heartbreak that comes with your 3 month old dress being too tight.  With the wedding on Sunday, I chose Friday afternoon at lunchtime to get my entire look put together.  Always last minute with me.  I was thrilled when I found an absolutely adorable pair of shoes.  I then did what every logical woman would do...built the whole look around a cute pair of shoes.  I got everything at one store, it was amazing.  I brought it home proud of my accomplishment.  First thing I did when I got home was put the shoes on.  Well, I put the left shoe on.  The right shoe turned out to be a no-go.  The entire outfit was now ruined.  How could the shoe not fight my right foot!!??  It has always been the more cooperative of two.  Usually if the left fit, the right surely would.  Not this time.  

Friday night now and I'm on a quest to get a new pair of shoes.  It was my only chance to get everything I needed because Saturday was completely out of the question.  We had a soccer game and not one, but two birthday parties to attend so Friday was do or die.  To my surprise, I found another absolutely adorable pair of shoes that fit both feet and were on sale!  I couldn't believe it!!  Only thing was, they didn't match my dress so I bought a new one to go with the new shoes.  I like this newer dress better anyway and the accessories I bought still match so I'm all set!  

The day of the wedding my husband and I are both trying to get ready in the same space.  My bedroom and bathroom seemed go from normal size to dollhouse size.  We were bumping into each other, trying to squeeze past to reach for things and just generally in each other's ways.  Then it was time to put on my Spanx.  Ladies, you know what I'm talking about when I say I was dreading this moment.  With Spanx in hand, I looked at my husband with a fear and desperation in my eyes and asked him to kindly leave the room so I could get dressed.  His puzzled look told me he didn't know what Spanx were or what I was about to attempt.  When he asked why he had to leave the room, I simply said "I don't want you to see what is about to go down".  He rolled his eyes and walked out to watch ESPN in the living room in just his dress shirt and underwear.

For the next ten to fifteen minutes, I endured one of the most disturbing struggles of my life.  Getting that sucker on was as physically taxing as it was emotionally damaging.  I think wrestling a live gorilla would have taken second place in my list of all time roughest physical altercations.  I'm pretty sure I'm heavily bruised, and I know I can't breath at all.  The fact that the mere act of putting it on makes you sweat is nothing but a slap in the face since the thing is essentially a baby-sized rubber wresting singlet.  I'm surprised my husband didn't check to make sure an intruder hadn't broken in from all the noise I was making.  At one point the struggle gave way to crying.  I almost fell down more than once and I cant' be certain because my ears had started ringing by then, but I might have broken a vase.

Against all odds, I managed to get the thing on and then moved immediately on to the pantie hose.  Yes, I wore pantie hose too because since I haven't been tanning and my legs haven't seen the sun since last summer, they were Rembrandt white.  Let me give all you ladies (and cross-dressing men) a word of advice; don't attempt to put on pantie hose until your adrenaline level has gone back down.  I was still so pumped up from the fight I had with the Spanx that I didn't know my own strength.  I put one foot in the hose and then proceeded to literally rip the hose like a beast.  I'm not talking about a simple runner, what I'm saying here is that I ripped them like Hulk Hogan does his shirts.  My spirit broken and fighting tears (or perhaps now my eyes were sweating too) I searched for another pair.  Ahh, found them!!  But they are black....and my cute new shoes are gold.  I tried them on anyway and it looked just plain stupid.  I found another pair of shoes new in the box from the last dress I bought and they looked stupid too.  Three new pair of shoes and I come walking out with my black heels I've had for years.

When I came downstairs my husband looked at me and said "Ah, you look nice!".  This is why I didn't want him to see how I got that way.  No matter how long you are together, you still want to keep some things to yourself.  Your husband should never see you in the fight of your life just to look nice.  He should think it comes totally naturally.  Now I was feeling the fight was all worth while.  The sweat had subsided, the adrenaline went down and my face wasn't as red.  I felt like a lady instead of the swarthy, savage beast I was just moments ago.    Now I just have to pray that I don't have to pee for the next six hours.

How Much for a Crate of Miracle Ears?

"Huh?"  I despise that word any more.  I must hear it in my house 500 times on any given day.  It doesn't matter what I say, no one ever hears me the first time.  Ever.

Everyone in my house must just be deaf because I'm not even that soft-spoken of a person.  In work, I'm pretty sure I'm the loudest one.  Everyone must know every intimate detail of my life from my personal calls that I try to take discretely.  I don't even know I'm loud until after I've hung up.  It's only once the stark silence resumes that I realize that my inappropriate chatter of who is an asshole and why this one isn't talking to that one was dominating the airspace.

I blame my tendencies toward loudness on my father's side of the family.  I think being Italian, it's just in your blood to be loud but additionally, the last few generations have been raised in the shadow of an Iron Works factory.  It's the same story for my husband's family - Italian with the Iron Works across the street.  They all probably had to be loud just to be heard.  I can relate.  My husband's normal speaking volume is much like that of someone trying to speak near a jack hammer.  Most people on both sides of the family shout their every day conversation without realizing they are even being loud.  I don't even mind that part.  Not at all.  In fact, I sort of embrace it as a way of life and our "culture" if you will.

In contrast to my loud side, I also I have another quiet and shy side.  My very sweet and often soft-spoken Mom is the one that raised me after all.  She was raised in a much more mild-mannered environment than say, my children are.  When I was a child, I was always in conflict with myself.  At times I was extremely shy and others I was a raging lunatic. I can't begin to recall how many times my mom tried to get me to calm down and be quiet.  When she lost her patience she would throw in the "you are acting just like your father!"  (who she despised by the way). That quiet side tends to peek through at such times as speaking in meetings in work, or perhaps in company I don't know while totally sober and apparently any time I say anything to anyone in my house.

My kids, having it running on both sides, have inherited the "loud gene" so they themselves are pretty far from soft-spoken.  They really have no choice but to be loud in my house though.  It's like a survival mechanism.  If they weren't already genetically predisposed to being loud, they would have to adapt to ever be heard.  Because of every one's loud speaking voices, everything else has to be loud to compete.  The living room TV is always blasting while 2 or 3 other TVs are going in other rooms.  The radio is always on, the dishwasher is loud, the dog barks at everything and the phone seems like it's always ringing.

All this makes it difficult to be heard.  Obviously.  However, even in the times that things are not so loud, no one can ever hear me specifically.  I think the tone of my voice is just inaudible to them or something.  I can hear the kids in the den talking to each other as they play.  I can hear my husband grumbling about the game downstairs.  If I hear everyone, why can't they hear me?  They are the same distance from me as I am from them!  I can shout as loud as I can and I get nothing.  It drives me insane.

In the few instances that they do happen to hear me, they still never catch what I've said.  10 times out of 10, if I even get a response it is always "huh?".  No matter how clear or loud I say it, it's always met with the same dopey "huh?".  By that time I've already taken a sip of my drink, put in a piece of gum or taken a bite of my dinner so I can't even repeat if I want to.  Though I've recently learned to just not even answer.  My lack of response seems to trigger some sort of memory recall mechanism where they actually stop and think for a second and sometimes they can figure out what I've said.  But most of the time after the "huh" they just stare blankly at me waiting for a response that they probably still won't hear.  In my husband's case, he just gets irritated with me that I've rolled my eyes.  He can't dispute it though, no one EVER hears what I say.  It's just a fact.

My answer for this problem?  Hearing aides.  For as frequently as I say it, it never gets any less irritating to my husband.  It's my "I give up" line - "This year for Christmas, you're all getting hearing aides!"  THAT they always seem to hear loud and clear though!

Jerk Parents, Jerk Kids

The other day was my four year old son's first soccer practice.  We have all been so excited!  My son has been "playing soccer" for years.  Sure, it hasn't been in the conventional way, but he's shown his interest by running around the house kicking things and celebrating his "goals".  He also does his own commentary in his version of Italian (or Spanish) depending on what channel the soccer game was on in the background.  It's really quite entertaining.

I wanted to get him started last fall because this boy needs an outlet of some sort for his excessive energy level, but he was too young.  He was so disappointed when I told him he had to wait.  Once or twice a week since this time we have discussed his soccer debut with great excitement.  Last weekend we went to pick up all of  his gear.  He was thrilled to pick out his shoes, shin guards and ball.  He was even running around the store pretending to play.  To add to the excitement, we even were able to get his cousin to be on the same team!

This Wednesday was the big day.  Daddy got him all dressed in his gear and headed to the field.  I left work and hoped to get there on time to at least wish him good luck before it started.  I couldn't walk to the car fast enough!  I struggled to find my keys in that abyss I call a purse.  The excitement had me fumbling around like a fool!  Since walking out of work my husband has already called me three times to find out how far off I am and what's taking me so long.  This is starting to make me feel a little anxious now.  I pull out of work expecting to rush straight to the field, but instead I'm met with an unusual amount of traffic.  Just my luck.

As I creep along two towns away from practice, my excitement to anxiety ratio is shifting.  My husband calls again.  "Where are you now?  How much longer until you get here?  Well hurry up!"  As if up until being told I should hurry, I was taking my sweet old time.  Now that I've been told to hurry, I can just drive right over top of all this traffic and get there.  Good thing he told me, thanks babe.  My husband tells me that in the short ride to the field, both kids have fallen asleep in his car.  He's sitting in the parking lot at the school waiting for me to get there so he can get my son over with the other kids.

I finally reach practice a few minutes past start time.  As I pull up, I see my husband is taking the kids out of the car.   I jump from my car and before I say a word, I start trying to take a few pictures of the boys in their uniforms.  I go for the perfect picture and my damn phone was set to camcorder.  Instead of the beautiful shot it should have been, it's one second of perfection plus 3 more seconds of confusion, my husband yelling at me that we have to go and me saying "what is wrong with this phone!!"  In the next few attempts, the boys take turns looking away for every single shot.  It's just going to have to do at this point.

We hurry to the field where the other kids have already gathered.  I pick up on the fact that my son seems to be pretty cranky already and I grow worried.  I know how this kid gets when he's cranky and it ain't pretty. I try to remain optimistic as I see the dynamic between my son and my husband.  My husband is already stressed out that I got there late and that the kids are cranky.  He "knows" already that it's going to be a disaster and is aggravated in preparation for this.  I keep thinking that cool heads should prevail because it's the only option.  I stand on the sideline and watch my son's resistance and my husbands stress level continue to grow.

Three...two...one....and there's the wailing.  My son has resorted to full-blown melt down mode already.  After two minutes my husband comes back and has already given up trying.  Now it's my turn to make the attempt.  Crying has given way to screaming as I walk across the field, dragging him with me.  I stop every two or three steps to try to console him, but he can't hear me speaking because of the volume of his own screams.  This is becoming really embarrassing.  I try to remind myself that all parents go through this so I should just not acknowledge the fact that I'm in the middle of a field with lots of people watching me fail miserably at parenting.

Twenty minutes in and I'm losing my cool as he refuses to stop screaming those shrill screams that cut right through you.  His screams are so loud that he is completely drowning out the coach's voice.  It's now disrupting practice as the kids are growing more interested in the struggle on the field than the coach's instructions.  He's since added in "but I'm tired!!!  I'm tired mommy I'm tired!!!!"  I'm forced to chose between allowing him to just give up or being sympathetic to the fact that he might really be tired.  I ask myself "What would a good parent do?"

My decision was made for me when it just kept getting worse.  Aside from his embarrassing display, I realized we were further embarrassing ourselves by not being able to contain our own frustration.  When you are at your breaking point, you sure don't mean say "why are MY kids always the assholes!?" loud enough for the other parents to hear, but somehow they always do hear it.  (Probably because we say it in a sarcastic whipser-yell).  I couldn't disrupt practice any further.  We tried our best and so I finally said "Let's just go!"

I'm humiliated and stressed out as can be at this point and so is my husband.  As soon as he got the go ahead, he went.  I was left standing there with the double stroller, the screaming kid, a water bottle too big to fit in the cup holder and my purse.  I struggled to push the big stroller through the grass with all the holes and bumps.  It didn't help that I was in my work clothes and heels.  I was turning my ankle with every other step and the boy was pulling away trying to take off.  The water bottle was dropping and the stroller was out of control.  As I approached a big mound of dirt, before I had time to change my route, my purse flipped off the seat and landed upside down into the dirt.  All of my personal belongings were now laid out on display.  My son continued his melt down and my husband continued walking ahead oblivious to all that was going on behind him.  Fighting tears I brushed the dirt off my wallet, cell phone, tampons, you name it so I could put it back in my bag.

A cluster of grandparents watched sympathetically along with the rest of the parents.  It was quite the display, and I have to admit I would have been watching too.  Only difference is I would probably have been laughing uncontrollably at this poor soul.  Since I was the poor soul in this situation, I found no humor in it whatsoever.  Kindly, an older woman said "Oh well, maybe next week".  Thinking back, I now appreciate her support.  I wish I could have controlled my temper when she said it though.  Instead, I responded with "yea well it better be because signing him up wasn't cheap!".  My God I'm an asshole.  Surely at this point they realize my kid's behavior is a direct result of his parents being jerks.  I feel so horrible.  Lady, if you are reading this I am so sorry!

Fed up and humiliated, I load the kids into the car.  I yelled at my son from the time we got in until the moment we got home.  Then he was sent to his room with "No TV, no nothing!!".  If he's "so tired" like he claimed, then he should just go to bed.  We called him down for dinner and sent him right back up when he was done.  The crying never stopped from when it first started at the field.  After his crying and my temper finally had a chance to cool down, I went to check on him and have a calm discussion about what he did wrong.  That's when I discovered he had a fever.  I'm such a jerk.  The kid really was tired.  Oh well, I guess we do have to wait for next week.  Wish us luck!

The Blur is My Daughter, the Smear is My Son..

FACT:  Some of the most beautiful and magical moments in life happen mere seconds before a photo is taken.

In trying to back up my phone the other day (that's another issue in itself) I realized that I now have nearly five thousand pictures uploaded.  Literally.  I've taken way more pictures in the last year than I have in the entire span of time from the early 80s right up to the big Y2K.  With technological advances such as the unification of the cell phone and the digital camera, most of us have our camera readily available if not already in our hands when those rare moments bloom from the normal monotony.  Today it's easier than ever to capture those "Kodak moments".  Well, let me rephrase, it's easier than ever to attempt to capture those Kodak moments.

I would say of nearly five thousand photos, only about 150-200 of them are worthy of framing.  And that is a very optimistic estimate.  Anyone who has taken pictures of children or animals surely can relate to this situation.  Unless you have a professional camera that can snap the picture a split-second before your mind registers that it's gonna be a good one, then you too have suffered this same fate.  As much as I love the convenience of having my camera built right in to my phone, the delay from when I press that red dot to when the photo is actually snapped is maddening.  I could have stopped for a sandwich and got my eyebrows waxed in the time it takes for the darn thing to actually snap the picture.

To further complicate the matter, my kids are very uncooperative the moment they realize I'm trying to take a picture.  I will admit that at times I can be addicted to my phone, so I don't even know how they know that my game of "Draw Something" has stopped to capture a precious moment.  But time after time they sabotage any attempt of mine to capture a beautiful image of their childhood.  No matter how engulfed they are in whatever it is they are doing, the moment I decide I would like to take a picture, the entire scene changes.  My son will immediately start making faces and flailing around like a fool.  (even more so than normal).  My daughter will intentionally stop doing whatever she was doing and refuse to even look at me.  She also throws in the head-whip.  Of the nearly 5,000 pictures, I would estimate that close to a thousand of those are of the blurred back of her head.  As stealthy as I try to be, she always whips herself around at that crucial moment.

Now on the contrary, any time anyone snaps a photo of me, it's always exactly the perfect moment.  It's exactly when I've just gone in for a bite of cake.  It's always just when I was laughing with my head pushed back and a vein popping out of my head.  It's always in the absolute most UN-flattering position.  If I had as much luck capturing photos of my kids the way the camera captures my every embarrassing move, I could easily retire on my earnings as the World's most talented photographer.

The fact remains though, that I do not have good luck capturing photos.  Instead, I have numerous pictures of cats dashing through the pose.  I have tons of pictures of babies in a semi-tipped over positions.  I have countless pictures of hair being pulled, someone crying, eyes being poked, puke being spewed, dogs showing teeth, punches being thrown, sneezes and the snot to go with it, someone half-fallen off a chair, millions of turned heads and someone picking their ass in the background.  Most people would have deleted these right away, but take my word for it and keep them.  When you look back at them later, you will find that they are pretty funny. Bonus: if you take enough shots in a close enough succession, often times they will make a pictorial story when you review them in order.

I guess it's my fault for trying to create this false image of how sweet and tranquil everything was in their childhood.  Sure, they have their precious moments that stop me in my tracks, but just as much - if not more often - they have these crazy scenes and situations and that is just real life.  I'm thankful to have caught those.  Looking back at them, I completely forget the frustration of trying to get a great moment and instead just laugh.  It swells my heart with pride to know I've passed on the "ridiculous gene" to my children.  It can be a curse at times, but for the most part it's a blessing to have a life that provides for it's own hilarious entertainment without even trying.

Just an Average Day

In the last 24 hours all this happened:

• Discovered cat urine all over my comforter in the laundry room.
• Sent my son to his room screaming at least 8 times.
• Had a glass pot lid literally explode on impact when my daughter dropped it.  
• Discovered (while driving) that when I wear my contacts, it now gives the feeling that my eyes are crossed.
• Almost got bit by a dog
• Re-injured my knee by doing something goofy to make the kids laugh...and continued doing it because the laughter was too much to resist, but now I can't do stairs again.
• Clogged and unclogged the kitchen sink
• Chipped a coffee mug
• Tripped over my husbands shoes literally 4 times in an hour.  I thought I kicked them "out of the way" after each incident, yet I still managed to keep tripping over them.
• Found my daughter imitating a fountain with the cup of water I gave her
• Remembered the inspector is coming today so I had to move sheet rock, a ladder, tools, etc to make the water heater accessible.
• Carbon Monoxide detector went off.
• Mom shows up to watch the kids and thinks she has a stomach virus. 
• Remembered that my son has a Dr. appointment at noon and I can't find the referral.
• Found my past due car registration form while trying to find the referral.
• Didn't get out the door for work until 9:17am and I have to leave before noon for the appointment.
• Mom tells me at 9:16 that I'm out of milk (none left for the baby today)
• Got on the highway at 9:18, hit crawling traffic at 9:19.
• Almost got sandwiched by a tanker that just noticed the traffic jam.
• Forgot my jacket and walked into work as an ice pop.
• Got into work and discovered the fishie's pump broke in his tank over the weekend = I have to clean and change a fish tank in my new blouse.

Yup, just an average day.