Uncle.

I give.  Enough already.

So let me be clear. This post is going to contain too much.  Of everything.

I am at wit's end with the parade of viruses that have taken up residence in my home recently.  And as I write this at 2 a.m., one child has not yet recovered going on day four, one child began a mass exodus of her system at midnight, and a skunk has sprayed an area outside my home that makes it quite possible to feel the skunk is actually in my home with me; sharing in my misery while contributing to it at the same time.

I have done laundry at single digit a.m. hours several times this week.  I can tell you when my neighbors get up in the morning and how many times there are trips to the loo in their homes based on light patterns.  I can tell you that three hours of sleep between nine and midnight will never feel like you have slept at all.  I can tell you that there is not an amount of caffeine that will change the way that feels.

I work outside my home.  Normally.  This week not so much.  The guilt that I had on day one has turned into an exhausted sense of failure and shame by the end of the week.  There is no way to give everything to both home and work, and this week no one is getting what they need.  I feel the need to apologize to everyone, but then I'm angry about apologizing for taking care of my kids.  And yet, no one has outright asked me to.  I just feel I must.

The adults in this household have had more conversation this week than usual by virtue of the increased middle of the night wakefulness, but the topics have been on ratings scales of barf and poo.  And whose turn it is to handle the barf or poo.  And when will either one of those two stop happening at such an alarming rate.  I could make a charming pictograph on how this virus is likely to play out in your home should you be unfortunate enough to get it, but I don't have the Pantone color quite right for some of what I have seen and cannot unsee.

I'm so tired.  Tired of apologizing for not being there.  For not knowing what else to do.  For not knowing how to stop the cycle of sickness.  For being crabby and indecisive.  For asking for too much.  For questioning myself and my capabilities.   For the fact that I look like a raccoon with or without end-of-day make-up these days.  It's a good thing purple is my favorite color.

My parting advice is this:  Don't touch anything.  Don't eat anything.  For heaven's sake do not LICK ANYTHING!   Wash your hands.  Again.  Right now.   If anyone near you says, "You know?  I feel a little off..."  Get out of there now.  As in yesterday.   And if your child starts any late night conversation with "Mooooommmmy..." you may as well bust out the hazmat suit and proceed with a bucket.

You'll thank me later.

It's Not What You Think

"I want credit for trying something new tonight."  These are the words that I was met with upon getting in the car last night.

Let's be clear here.  This was not my child.  Well, not a child I have given birth to.  This is the child I married.  The one who has to be convinced to wear pants and can pitch a stubborn fit if you try to explain that not everything is a "shorts" venue.  That a hoodie is not a jacket.

This would be the individual who, when asked to choose a dinner setting, as I had procured the tickets for the entertainment portion of the evening, could not decide which diner, with early bird special  posted roadside, was best.  (And based on the number of large four-door cars parked catawampus in the parking lot, and the line of walkers at the door, I'm going with venue one being the choice of a certain vintage.)  "There is more to dining out than onion rings." I offered.  And somewhat grumpily we moved on to the next highway exit.

I had suggested a venue that neither of us had been to, but had rave reviews from friends.  We pulled into a completely empty parking lot and darkened building, but yes, we are the people who need a sign and so, exited the vehicle and walked to the door to read that dinner is not served every night.  And more to the point of this story, not this night in particular.

Again to the car.  Time was no longer on our side and Mr. Unscripted offered "There's a place the guys at work talk about.  Let's go there.  They all say it's amazing."
"Yes, but these are some of the same guys who think Spam on a stick is a delicacy. "

"I think you'll be pleasantly surprised..." 

Well, I was one of those things.    Ninety-five side streets, four parking lots, and a parking maneuver that is probably illegal in some states we once again exit the car.  Okay, the backside of virtually everything, (except possibly J Lo or a Kardashian), is not it's finest...ahem....asset.  I decided not to pass judgment on the restaurant based on it's rather sketchy and somewhat run-down posterior.  And, albeit redolent of fries, the scent of dinner being prepped was in the air and, what the hell, we were here right?

Rounding the corner onto the street, we pass by a plywood-boarded entrance and fluttering caution or crime scene tape.  Honestly, it could have been either.  And no, we are still the people who need a sign.  So we progress further down the sidewalk past the second boarded, and third barricaded entrances.  And then, because I had had a horrible day at work, and hadn't slept in days, and hadn't eaten lunch that day, when I heard "I guess they're under construction..."  I briefly contemplated shoving my date into the street.  But I'm pretty sure the life insurance policy is negated by actually killing him in a low-blood sugar moment.  And so he lives yet.

I got a certain tone in my voice and a certain look that brooks no interference and pointed him bodily toward the only establishment that was open, not bedecked with fluttering tape, and appeared to be actually serving food.  And we were now running on an hour to eat, drive, park, walk, and offer tickets to the show.    We were seated immediately, (again the look may have factored in here), and I ordered my beverage, because let's be honest, there was going to be a DRINK.  Which came quickly and dropped at an alarmingly fast rate, which may have explained my intolerance of the trying-too-hard woman at the bar and Mr. glued-to-his-cell-phone who was ignoring her "Nanny Fran" siren song, (except for the hand that was nearly constantly up her shirt).

Often, Mr. bypasses the beverage if he's doing the driving.  I appreciate this.   However, I do have a running commentary in my head of what I think the waitstaff are thinking about our very one sided ordering.  My drink this evening arrives in a glass that could house a reasonable number of goldfish. It is a rich brown ale and divine.  So divine that I had to see if it could be repeated.  (It could.)  Mr. Unscripted orders his glass of water.  And then calls the waitstaff back and orders a glass of something that sounds robust, but arrives in a delicate little glass.  Even more diminutive sidled up to my tank of spirits.    I now feel like lumbering Bertha dining with Tiny Tim. 

Enter our dinner.  Mr. Unscripted could not make a decision faced with new food choices, and so simply uttered the almost always regrettable, "I'll just have what she's having."  And I let him.  And so we get to the end of our tale, and where the story began.  Mr. Unscripted did not enjoy his fermented golden beets.  He did not enjoy the idea of cold beets period.  And he did manage to put one in his mouth and actually swallow it before sliding his portion over to Bertha.  And for this he wanted credit.  And it may have been the ale talking, but I think I can be quoted as "Oh hooray, and for the love of Norman Rockwell, you win an award!  You totally ate one whole slice of a vegetable you love...COLD!  Oh good boy!"

I may not be asked back.  By him.  The waitstaff think I'm great.

And for those of you who are feeling sorry for the Mister right now, be apprised that he ASKED me to write this entry.  He's a good sport, even if he is a wussy and finicky diner.

And for those of you who want to eat beets and drink out of mighty glasses with me next time, this is what I'm having:

Can You Have Road Rage in Your Kitchen?

On at least two mornings this past week I had three clothed children at the door, wearing backpacks and all outdoor accoutrements, and circled back through the house to turn off lights, double check faucets that lure in a toddler with their siren song, and bed-check the dogs to make sure that there were two, no more no less, secured inside the building.  Thirty seconds tops.  Really.

 I return to two children in near naked state, and one child now holding boots and socks in their hands, and to find backpacks completely unpacked in search of a favorite rock or stuffie or "banopa" bar.  Mind you, there were very few minutes to get all and sundry into the car and actually fling them from a nearly stopped car and make it to work in a timely fashion.  When you are a parent of three, I find, your ability to curse like a sailor under breath waxes and wanes. 

Going anywhere, and I mean anywhere, is a full orchestral event.  It requires surgical precision and exquisite timing and the ability to mind read.  One has to be attuned with bat-like radar to subtle shifts in mood, perceptible only to the super-attentive, or perennially embarrassed and anxious.  If you have carried a child out of a chain store, screaming and sobbing hysterically while chanting "You're not my Mommy" to the shocked and concerned faces of the entire Eastern seaboard, you know of what I speak.  You will never, ever,  EVER, push your luck and try to squeeze in one more errand again.  Sober.

The family of four dynamic is set up with the exactly right number of hands for single parent or dual parent outings.  The family of five relies on one child to be passive and tethered into a seat, or one child to be absolutely stellar in the compliance and comportment department.  I did not a) plan my child's age spans to meet this need, b) parent with enough threat and fear to obtain absolute compliance at all times, c) receive children with unquestioning and "follower" personalities, d) all of the  above.

What I have learned is that I either have to lower my standards or raise my ability to deflect the stares of onlookers.  Sometimes both.  The compliments paid on the rare well-behaved outing (and I include myself in the behavior equation) are treasured.  Thank you to those of you who saw the rare planetary alignment and commented on it.  Thank you also to those who waited to scoff and roll your eyes and text your friend the video of the spectacular event until I was out of sight.  I appreciate both camps.

I have learned to take reinforcements.  People that can handle our particular vintage of crazy, and people who will help me see the humor in the horror.  People who are quick to step in, but in a way that does not imply I should have done it sooner myself.   People I enjoy and who can pretend they did not hear the profanity flowing like a vernal mountain stream.  People who can provide perspective that this is not forever, that there is joy and humor, and that these kids are actually pretty good kids much of the time.

People who can provide the insight that my bored and schlumpy toddler, sprawling nearly backward out of her child containment unit, (high chair to those of you not yet indoctrinated), is doing a spot-on John-Candy-in-Uncle-Buck impersonation.  Thank you.  That is the reframe I needed.

If you go anywhere with me, I will feel the need to apologize for the state of my car.  I will feel embarrassed for the number of times you have to hear the full name of at least one of my children.  I will have a running anxious soundtrack of "I bet they wish they had stayed home/ just met us here/ started drinking when they got up..."

 I will appreciate your ability to carry on a conversation with a sibling war of epic proportions being waged a mere sneaker throw from the back of your head.

 I will be grateful that you did this more than once. 

No Bunny Knows...

I'm pretty sure we had a milestone moment this morning, although none of us is actually owning up to it. And it is delicate as nobody wants to actually say the words out loud.  I think Sister Big may have outed the Easter Bunny, and while only to herself, I think I saw another tiny apron string stitch fall away.

There is nothing in my house that the kids will not scale, open, climb, sift through, etc.  And yes, this is really annoying and violating, but no, I have not successfully made it stop.  In good early preparedness intention, I had socked away some books from the bunny.  I put them where I figured no child would have any interest; the plastics cabinet, behind the pitchers only used in summer.

This morning, there was not the usual rush to the table on the part of Sister Big.  There was a dampened enthusiasm.  And when she took the books from her basket, there was a very tiny paling of the face, followed by a meek "Oh. I....really wanted to...read these......I've seen them...before and...I wanted to ...read them."  For a child who just received a book she has begged for since Christmas, this was  a bit of a tip-off.

She also received from the bunny items that were identical to those that she had received yesterday from her extended family, and I could see the question in her brain even though she didn't ask it.  We sat together and she kept sneaking peeks at me, and I, at her.  And neither of us knew what to say.

And now, she is happily playing with her sisters in the drive-way with sidewalk chalk and riding her bike, and blowing bubbles in the thirty-nine degree morning air and I'm wondering, as I often do with her "ready to fall out" dangling tooth... Do I just do a quick, clean removal, or let her come to me with her tooth, and in this case, the truth, just dangling?

If we were a single child family, this would be an easy decision.  However Sister Middle and Sister Little are still full on believers.  There is no quick and clean excision of the bunny from our routine at this point.   I don't remember when I lost my bunny belief, but I wish I had some recollection of how it happened and what made it better.  For today we are just dancing around the subject and hoping that the candy coma sets in early to buy a little more time.

And next year, I'm going to simply order my basket from Amazon and have the postal service drop it off on Sunday morning as they just did with the remainder of the basket items.  

 I guess I'll have them for next year, as along as I can hide them well enough. 

"It's okay Mama, it's just puberty"

My Apron.  It has shorter and shorter strings.  And damn it, I miss them.  For every time I have silently screamed "Give me one minute of peace and quiet!" (or sometimes maybe not so silently), I find myself struggling with the tiny steps away that Sister Big is asking for. 

Not long ago I was in a workshop when I heard something that frightened me.  The average onset of hormonal shift initiating puberty is around nine in girls.  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Excuse me?!?  I don't remember much of the next hour of presentation as I internally counted days until the next birthday, and took a few trips down "denial" river, trying to convince myself that our child would be a late entry into this race.  Surely we did not have to start talking and thinking about this yet.  Right?

And yet...

Recently we took our first tentative forays into pre-puberty conversation and I was both anxious and sad as we had the conversation.  First of all, it feels dreadfully important to get it right.  This is the foundation and framework by which she will determine what is normal (all of it), and what is okay to ask (any of it), and whether she is "okay" on her journey, (and you are my sweet girl.)  And this is the first of many times when she has to be able to ask me anything and I have to be ready.  All in all it went smoothly, but I was also amazed by her grace.  At one point, as I got temporarily stuck in determining how much information was enough for now, she interrupted me and said "It's okay mom.  It's just puberty.  It's normal.  Nothing to get upset or worried about."  When did she learn this gentle assurance?  And please, can I take credit for it?  Let her have gotten it from me.

We had our moments of hilarity as I tried to provide information on how babies arrive in a non-cesarean birth,(and for those of you who have yet to go down this conversational path, perhaps forgo comparing uterine contractions moving the baby along  to squeezing toothpaste from a tube.)  And for the love of all that is good and clinical, just skip trying to wade slowly into the water and start with the word vagina.  Or as Adele prefers, Minnie-Moo.  If not, your child may be left as mine, with the idea that non-cesarean births occur from "another area of the mother's body" and question with no small amount of panic, "You mean one day you open your mouth and a baby flies out?"

And leaving this territory, there is also the pulling away of hands in parking lots, and walking half an aisle away in the grocery store, and the sheer horror that crossed her face when I mentioned that I was invited to stay at the birthday party she was attending.  "Mom!  NO!  I want to do this like a big kid.  I don't want you to help."  What?  When did we get here?  I mean, I wasn't even going to be wearing a bathing suit and there was horror.  Can you imagine if I had shown up in my matronly, skirted, supportive one-piece?  Quarters in the therapy jar my people.

And finally, I cannot get a moment's privacy in this house, or anywhere else I might go.  Dressed, nude, bathing, sleeping...it doesn't matter.  Bring it on.  Mom's door is always open.  Even when it was shut.  But all of a sudden, this child cannot change her clothes on the same floor as any other member of the household.  All I hear throughout our waking hours is "I want privacy."  And the stunning double standard is that while she needs privacy, I am allowed none.  "Why are you wearing that?"  "Why do you do that?"  "Why was the door locked?"  "Why?"

So, much like childbirth itself, the first contractions are merely the opening act.    And like my first contractions, I remember thinking that this was so much easier than what I had been preparing for.   And if raising Sister Big is anything like her labor and delivery, I'm in for quite a ride.  To quote a new Mama friend who summed up childbirth as succinctly as I have heard it to date; "Labor.  Whoa!  No joke."  And that, my friends, is just the opening act.
 

XX XY

Just an observation.  There are no empirical, evidence based samples or charts with snazzy graphics  to back this up.  There is simply my in-the-trenches experience and anecdotes provided by others with whom I have shared my story.

Apparently, having two X chromosomes makes you impervious to barf.

Case in point, I was in a room of over one hundred children when one of them began to vomit.  The XY members of adulthood that occupied my space, stepped back, (one with hands literally in the air in the universal "Not Me" pose).  Another adult pushed the industrial, custodial-sized bin in front of the ill child and stated, "Um, she's throwing up."

Now I don't know this child, but I do know that a child barely topping 60 pounds and four-ish feet, cannot effectively make use of a receptacle that stands at nose height and outweighs her by ten or more pounds.  Nor is it fair to ask a child, already queasy, to stare into the maw of a trash bin filled with a building's worth of lunch leftovers.  This would not do.

I grabbed paper towels for the little one's face and began to move her to a better spot.  Other adults in the building, as we encountered them cleared the path for us, opened doors, etc.  And in my largely female dominant workplace, it makes sense that many of the assists were from women.  But it made me wonder, how would this have gone down if my double X was not in the room?

I have heard numerous stories from new parents about nascent fathers who say "But you're a girl!  You know how to do these things...(diapers, spit-up, etc.)"  And our own Mr. Unscripted who has gone into burning buildings and served as an EMT; who has seen traumatic injuries that I beg him not to retell anywhere near the dinner hour or table, can be quoted as saying prior to the birth of Sister Big, "Alright, I'll change the diaper, but if she spits up on me, I'm gonna lose it."  (And to give him his due, when the inevitable "spit happens" moment arrived, he did pull his parenting breeches all the way up and handle it with minimal gagging.  And I'll be honest, when the dogs have had an accident in the house, I'm always grateful when he is here to handle it as I am a hot mess of heaving, retching, gore if left to my own devices. 

So perhaps, XY can handle things outside the body that shouldn't be when there is a genetic link?   I just don't know. 

In thinking about the two adults in the opening of this post, if we were under threat of violence, I know that they would likely be the first to take on a traditionally male protective role.    So it isn't that they are weak or passive.  While I don't pretend to understand how a man who can face down a potentially armed intruder can be undone by vomit, I will go on record as saying that given the two, you take the bullets and I'll get the barf every time.

While this may seem a sketchy topic for Valentine's Day, I promise there is a connection.  Be grateful for the people with whom you have surrounded yourself, romantically or otherwise.   For each time you shake your head over the fact that you are, (possibly again), handling the bilious things life has thrown at you, remember that on any given day, these people might be the ones who would take a bullet for you, or in some cases, provide your bail money.  Be grateful for your own superpower and know that the person nearest you just may not have had the opportunity to show theirs yet. 

Annual Reminder That I Am Not Reasonable

Of all my favorite holidays, Valentines isn't.  It is a holiday that cannot live up to the hype and expectation. And every year, (really, EVERY year), I fall for it and end up filled with angst, and frustrated anger.

When I was an elementary school student, the biggest excitement was in eating scads of chalky hearts and giggling over the silly messages which we knew meant something, and even more importantly, something about boys and girls and dating and K-I-S-S-I-N-G, but there wasn't a layer of "Show me you love me in a big and meaningful way."  There were no Kisses beginning with Kay, or queries about whether or not he had been to Jared.  You made the big gesture if you gave the flashiest, most heavily be-stickered fold-in-half card to someone other than your BFF.

And then suddenly the boy-girl thing happened.  Suddenly those conversation hearts were a little more meaningful.  And just a little later, in junior high, there were carnation sales and rose sales as fundraisers.  Those days were killers.

Every class period that morning was disrupted by enterprising upperclassmen entering with an armful of flowers.   There was expectation and anticipation and disappointment in rejection all wrapped up in those single stems.  Would you be the girl who got the yellow carnation of friendship, or the red rose of love, or the pink of I don't-even-remember-what?  Would you be the boy that every girl bought a flower for in a shade of daring "date-me"?  Would you be the shy kid in the back whose anxiety made you both wish for just one flower and fear that someone would actually send one. (Every time, times six years.) I'm pretty sure one year the teachers took up a collection to send me  flowers just to keep me from crying.

In college, Valentine's Day was both another opportunity to party, and the night that you didn't want to be the leper washing your hair in the communal bathroom or schlepping to the rec room in bunny slippers while everyone else in the free world with a pulse and a pair of heels was making a mass exodus for amazing dinner and jewelry and wine.  (Not me this time.  My slippers were bears.)

Then the Valentine's that was certain to end in engagement, only it really ended with "I think we should see other people before we get serious."  (Suddenly the card with one chocolate heart in it  made more sense, it was not the decoy gift, it was the kiss-of-death.)

Then married Valentine's, part One.  If you marry a man who is not into big gestures, who buys his gifts at the grocery store on the way home from work, or buys you a gift that's really a boomerang gift for himself, Valentine's is going to eat your soul.  When your friend calls to say that she just opened an amazing piece of jewelry smuggled into her dinner entree and sprinkled with pixie dust and unicorn sparkles, you might want to stick a fork in your eye.  Or hers.

 It might make your hand-drawn on a post-it note in Sharpie Valentine a little less...well, just less.  You might wonder how you have failed, again, at celebrating Valentine's in a way that will leave you with a memory for your golden years.  You might try to plan elective surgery to avoid the lunch table conversation around "What did you guys do for Valentine's?"  You might briefly contemplate homicide, but you live in a cold New England region where burial will have to wait at least six to eight more weeks, and nobody has that much quick lime.

And then Married Valentine's, part Two.  Years pass and you find yourself divorced, single, and remarried over the span of several of those damn V-holidays.  And you think that this time, yes this time, you will be the girl of a thousand flowers, with golden debris in her entree, and an amazing story at lunch on Monday.  However, silly you.  You have married a pragmatist.  Handy for when your burning desire is to have the brakes replaced on your car, not so applicable in holidays of the gift-giving nature.  Handy when you need someone to build a device to lift a mattress into a third story window of a two hundred year old house because the stairwell is too narrow, but not when just once before your dotage, you want to be the star of your own Romcom scene.

And so, my Valentine's loving friends, I wish you all the best with your holiday plans, but this is one celebration that I no longer take part in.  I've heard the refrain "I don't want something on one day, I want to be shown that I'm loved every day"  and I get it, but honestly, my brain and heart have a disconnect on this holiday.  I want to be loved every day, and a little extra on Valentine's Day.

I tell myself that not all good things begin with Kay, but honestly, very few good Valentine's begin with kettlecorn.  And if your holiday fare goes well with ketchup, we probably have vastly different expectations.