Velociraptors On Vacation

My brain is broken. 

 I both want summer to be here now, (as in right now!), and am filled with anticipatory dread about keeping these velociraptors,  (that I have given birth to), busy.   This is the first summer when everyone is going into the summer testy and irritable.  And it has gone on long enough that I don't even know if liberal applications of increased sleep, watermelon, Popsicles and water will help.

I am filled with feels.

This was yesterday afternoon.  I left work and flew to the local dollar store to buy a kiddie pool.  Rather than schlepp the entire pool into the store, I looked for a tag to take in to the cashier.  I was greeted at the register with eye rolling for not bringing in the whole pool.  Mind you, I was buying the "BIG" pool, not the one that you can serve salsa in on graduation weekend.  So, yes, why don't I bring in this monstrosity.  Wrestle it over your display of festive charcoal and lighter fluid and mardi gras beads and try to somehow get it facing you so that you scan the tag I brought in to you in the first place.  And then balance it, half on my head, while I attempt to pay you for it.

I wrestle the pool into the back of my sizeable vehicle, folded somewhat loosely into a taco shape as that was the only available option.  Drive home and fling it into the yard and fill it.  Race to pick the v-raptors up with "Coolest afternoon ever...Thanks Mom!" in my brain.

For the entire ride home there was complaint about whom would get in first.  Whom was big enough.  Whom might be too big.  Whom might accidentally wee in the pool.  Why we couldn't just go somewhere with a "Real Pool"....And here is a lesson for any child reading this over a parent's shoulder.  Choose your timing wisely.  You may not want to drop that last line in the car with your parent when the outside temp and air quality is equal to the internal temp of your parent.  You may not want to drop that line when your parent is confined in a car with you while  a construction crew rolls pavement flat.  You may want to remember that your five minute ride home just became a twenty minute ride home by virtue of road construction and just stifle the urge to be nasty.

At home we skip to the children sheathed in bathing attire and sunscreen.  Two of the three are in the pool.  There is room for at least two more.  I only need one to be able to get in.  While I am not a math devotee by nature, I can say honestly, this equation was seemingly simple.  Just get into the blessed pool and swim in the space designed for you and your imaginary sibling.   The one that you are never, ever in a million years going to have.  Because this.  Right here.  This moment.

But no.  Cue the "She's touching me!" chorus.  Cue the Mama losing her hot and sweaty patience and aborting the kickoff to summer weekend and sending all three children into the house dripping and shocked that pool time is over.  Cue the sniveling whimpering best exemplified in an old Bill Cosby sketch.
 

 Cue the Mama cradling a glass of precious wine and her last stitch of precious sanity.  Now sniveling a bit herself.  Counting the days this weekend when she will be called on to keep separate these v-raptors.  Counting how many precious days of school there are left and how many summer camps one can afford this year.  Contemplating when, exactly, she lost the reins and her mind.

Cue the Mama hoping that while bedtime is predictably going to be a fright, these raptors will wake up as the fluffy and evolved chicks they typically are.  And that some magic will occur in the a.m. leaving them kind and compliant.

And so I tip my hat to you homeschooling parents for whom Monday is just the day after Sunday.  I tip my hat to my paternal grandmother and her eight children.  I tip my hat to those who manage to grocery shop with multiple children without looking like a small explosion is about to happen.   Or has happened.  Or is destined to happen again.  To those who can actually pull this off without appearing to have lost your ever loving mind.

 

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.