My Blog Is Back

Who am I kidding? I have to blog.

Break over.

Delusional

Call CDC. I'm ill.

I have Post Relaxing Vacation Disorder. I contracted it when we returned home from our trip to St. Louis. After a week of shopping, sleeping, sightseeing and leaving wet towels on the floor only to have them magically disappear, I am having trouble preparing my own meals and making my own bed.

My symptoms include lethargy, irritability, and some mild depression. All I want to do is lay on the couch, watch movies and eat ridiculously large quantities of chocolate.

If you know of anyone who has successfully recovered from PRVD, please let me know the cure.

Have To Post This

Oprah says we should reach out to our neighbors. And because Oprah is always one to practice what she preaches, she sets the example by throwing lavish dinner parties for her neighbors complete with celebrity chef and Michael Buble and hires a celebrity gardener to landscape their balconies.

I want to like Oprah. But something about her 400 carat diamond earrings makes me leery.

And she doesn't know my neighbors.

On one side I have the senile widow who likes to call the cops on us for pretend grievances. On the other side of her is the manic depressive housewife who flashes widow lady from her front yard whenever she feels threatened. Across the street from her is the middle-aged, hot tempered wannabe rock star who sings bad karaoke from his garage till the wee hours of the morning.

I have a theory that Oprah had her neighbors balconies beautified so she wouldn't have to see the less-than-glamorous exteriors on her way into work every morning. She only did this for the neighbors facing her studio. Of course, she did give the rest of the people in the building gift cards from Lowe's so they could do it themselves, but they could just as easily go get a new grill or a shower curtain or plastic pink flamingos, and really, why would she care?

I have a new friend who also homeschools her children. Yesterday we met at the park and let the children run amok in that crazy, carefree way kids do when it's 78 glorious degrees and the sun is shining. As it is with most new friends, she has been somewhat guarded, not feeling free to be herself completely until she's felt me out more. But yesterday, she let her guard down a bit and I found she has a pretty good sense of humor, as well as that other thing a lot of us women have...criticism.

Can someone tell me why we love to talk about other women? I'm not saying I'm above it. It's true. I have critiqued people, especially other mothers, behind their backs. And these are people I like.

But I'm tired of it.

While we sat in the shade and watched the kids, a little girl - two-ish - bumped her mouth on a toy. It didn't look like a hard bump, but the girl screamed that scream little ones do when something really hurts. Her mother, who looked to be a child herself, wasn't overly panicked, but scooped her up and patted her curly little head. But suddenly she turns, quickly grabs her backpack and runs for the nearest bench. And as she turns, I see the blood.

I have three kids. I'm no rookie. But this was a good amount.

This poor woman is searching her backpack frantically for something to wipe away the blood while all the other moms stand there and watch, some of them even making snide comments about overreacting. I grab my water bottle and run to her. The toddler is screaming and slapping away her mother's hands as she tries to see what has happened. I offer her the bottle, asking, "Can I help?" and she takes it without answering. She has blood all over her shirt and she is shaking. She begins gathering her things, hurriedly trying to get to the car and carry her hysterical child. Again, I offer to help, maybe carry something, but she is terrified and she rushes off, ignoring me, perhaps even wondering if I think she is a bad mom. I don't take it personally.

Oprah may be on to something, but I think her approach is misguided. Good deeds are admirable, even if it's only a practically empty bottle of water when your child is bleeding as opposed to hiring Michael Buble. But how would her neighbors have felt about an intimate lunch without TV cameras? Or a phone call? Or even having her remember their names?

I'm no saint. I just want to connect. I just want to be me and know when I screw up, the person next to me understands. I'm not interested in finding other's faults so I don't have to think about my own, though I am sure there will be times I fall into that trap.

I'm trying to be friendly to the senile widow and not think about the nights I have lain awake, worried she might call the authorities and tell them I'm abusing my kids.

And yesterday, I even waved to the wife of karaoke man. I heard he lost his job.

Maybe that's a start.

My Theme Song

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNOewzn6x2M

It's Never Too Late

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070401/ap_on_en_ot/first_book_at96

Blogger Burnout

I think it's time for a break.

As much fun as I've had with this blogging thing, I think it's time I got serious about my intentions. I want to be a writer. I am a writer. I'm going to pursue that and I feel like this blog is limiting me.

So, for now, I am taking a blogging hiatus and channeling my literary energies into something meatier. Oh, I'll probably pop in from time to time when I have a funny story to share, but my focus is going to be working on some projects I started earlier this year.

I am so excited.

Thanks for reading. Thanks for sharing.

Here's to Supermoms everywhere.

The Gift

I had made mention of it about a year ago, but found so many reasons why I didn't need it. Too expensive. Not practical. Didn't need it. Computer labs at school.

But I really wanted a laptop.

Not to look cool carrying it around campus, but because while I had been thrust from never being alone to having hours, even entire days alone with my thoughts, I became inspired. I found myself creating stories and giving narrative to my surroundings in my head and wanted to write them down. However, this inspiration didn't occur within the cold, sterile computer lab. It occured next to the window of the restaurant, watching patrons brace against the chilly, autumn wind. The same wind that gathered the crispy leaves in a maternal embrace and sent them spinning in dizzy, carefree circles through the air. Pen and paper couldn't keep up with words.

A few months ago, my husband gave me a gift. Although I picked it out. I carried it from the store. He gave me the money for a laptop, because he knew I would never do it for myself. In our fourteen years of marriage, this is the single most romantic gift he has ever given me. It surpasses the custom opal necklace, the perfume, the beautiful angora sweater I coveted for months. This gift says more than "I love you". It says "I believe in you. Go and pursue your dream." Every time I use it, I think of that. His confidence in me is astounding.

Now if I could only convince myself...

So, I haven't dropped out of school...or moved to Australia, even though it sounded pretty good Thursday. I woke up at 2 a.m. Saturday morning and could not go back to sleep, all in a panic about my Brit Lit midterm. The more I thought about it, the more I KNEW I had failed. I didn't want to go to class this morning. I didn't want to face my professor. What if she said something to me about it? What if she didn't? I didn't want to know my grade. I wanted to pretend it didn't happen and move on.

I had to ask myself, what would it mean if I didn't get an "A" in this class? Would it mean I was a failure? Would it mean I couldn't be a good writer? I have friends with their baby in ICU. Another friend whose husband is in Afghanistan and may be deployed again next year. People around me - people I know and love - are hurting and I'm losing sleep over one silly exam. An "A" in British Literature suddenly lost its significance and I found myself humbled.

It's hard to shift the focus sometimes, from what makes me happy, to what makes those around me happy. And even harder to dig down so deep I lose sight of myself completely and can give from a place that is real and unaffected.

Pray for this beautiful boy.

Pray for my friend, the military wife, who has been raising two kids on her own for a year and faces the possiblility of doing it again.

God help us.

Tiny Dresses

It was cotton, crisp and soft, with cheerful white daisies and red, shiny cherries floating in a sea of pink. It was small. So small I couldn't believe it used to fit my Baby, when she really was a baby, also soft and pink with that delicious little crease in her forearm that separated her arm into three sections instead of two. When I took the sundress from the box to prepare it for consigning, I lingered with it, and hesitated to part with it.

But it's only a dress. A dress too small she will never wear again and will only take up space. Besides, you bought one for Sister, too, and Baby can wear that one when she is older and you can enjoy it again.

Right. I'll let it go.

Then it was the blue dress Baby wore to my Sister's wedding last summer. Powder blue taffeta with shiny silver threads woven throughout and a skirt made of layers of tulle and organza and satin and tiny little blue ribbon rosebuds housed throughout its many folds. It was practically a confection. And the color was perfect on her. She looked otherworldly, as if she were an airbrushed photograph in a magazine.

Be practical. You can't keep it all. And that's really what you want, isn't it? Come on.

Yes, of course I want to keep it all. It all means something to me. It all has precious memories associated with it. But it's ridiculous to keep it. I don't have room to keep it.

I hung the dress on a hanger, tagged it, and laid it in the pile along with it's pink sister, trying not to think of how much I wanted Baby to wear those dresses again. A majority of the clothes Baby wears were once worn by Sister. Packing them away when Sister outgrew them was easier. I knew I would probably see them again. But this time I was not putting them in a box to treasure for the next little girl. I was sending them away forever.

I tried to think about the happiness the dresses had brought me and the happiness they would give to another mother, possibly a first time mom, who doted on her new baby and was looking for the perfect dress for her first Easter. She would find shiny white shoes and ruffley socks to match, and hopefully, a bow, and she would think her baby the most beautiful that ever was, and she would, of course, be right. This brought me comfort and I continued emptying the box I had brought in from the garage.

But then I found this. It was the white cotton nightgown I bought at a yard sale for Sister. I remembered the mother who had sold it to me. How she cried as she handed it to me. How she lovingly folded it and asked me to take special care of it. How her tears seemed a little strange at the time, but now I found them on my cheeks as well.

I did not put it on a hanger. I did not tag it. There was no price, no sentimental thought of an unknown mother's joy that could pry it from my hands. I folded it and put it aside. It would not be sent away.

After emptying the box, I loaded up the car and took the many items to the sale. During the inspection process, about four or five employees, young mothers themselves, flocked to my lovely bounty and oohed and aahed over the tiny clothes, some of them intercepting pieces they wanted for their own. At first, I felt protective, as if I needed to swat away the vultures who were delighting in my sorrow. I felt hot tears behind my eyes.

Get away! Those aren't yours! Those are mine! My babies clothes!

But I saw their faces, and the delight in their eyes, and I knew I had made the right choice. They would love them. They would care for them. And it would all be okay. For right then, I knew there was a box of size 2T dresses waiting at home for me to unpack and hang in Baby's closet, and I wasn't going to think of bringing them here next year, but look forward to the spring and the new season life was giving me.

Supermom and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

I've had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I think I'll move to Australia.

It was terrible because my husband was irritated with me and even though he didn't say so I could tell because he wouldn't smile and kind of huffed and puffed through his nose like he does when he's irritated and I left the house crying.

It was terrible because I cried all the way to school and was mad because I would meet with my study group with puffy red eyes and splotchy skin and my makeup would be all washed off and I knew it was silly to be crying but I couldn't stop because it's that time of the month and I always get ultra sensitive and emotional at that time of the month and I would have to tell my study group it was allergies or some other lie like that.

Do they have allergies in Australia?

It was terrible because I realized while I was studying that I had taken terrible notes and was not as prepared as I should be and the midterm was less than an hour away and there would be an essay question and I had no clue what I was going to do.

It was terrible because after we studied the rest of the group started leaving and I wasn't sure why because the class was supposed to start at 11:20 and it was only 10:50 but I figured they had plans or something before class so I just kind of hung out and got a bottle of water but then I finally figured out that my class started at 11:00 and that was where everyone went and I was five minutes late for my midterm.

I've been going to class for how many weeks and I forgot what time it started?

I'll bet they don't have midterms in Australia.

I completely bombed the essay part of my midterm and could not put two sentences together in essay form let alone formulate one single cohesive thought about morality and spirituality among Romantic and Victorian writers and compare and contrast two writers to support my analysis.

I cried some more.

I was not nice to a visitor on my blog.

I did not do my math homework and even skipped class tonight.

I cried some more.

I caved to my pre-menstrual monster and ate a chocolate chip cookie. And a Hershey bar. And a Little Debbie.

I'll bet chocolate is a health food in Australia.

But my friend says it will be okay and that everybody has those days.

Even in Australia.

If you have never read Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, this post probably seems weird to you. Go and get it today and read it to your children. It is funny and poignant and a great story, even for adults.

Freudian Slip?

I was preparing to make muffins for my children this morning while my coffee was brewing.

Not a smart idea to try and use the oven and potentially dangerous kitchen tools before I've had my caffeine fix.

I got out the large 8-cup batter bowl and the muffin tin and sat my coffee cup next to it, ready and waiting to be filled.

When the coffee pot was finished, it called out to me, entreating me to come and partake. I grabbed the Splenda and ritualistically tore open two packets to prepare my cup to fulfull it's destiny and dumped it in.

But alas, I had emptied the packets into the wrong cup. I was preparing my batter bowl for coffee.

Is 8 cups too much?

Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are -
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
-Ulysses Lord Alfred Tennyson

A Mom By Any Other Name

I used to have this neighbor, we'll call her Julie, who, despite my best attempts, never became a close friend. Actually, she never really became a friend at all. We just never "hit it off".

Sister was about two months old and Julie had just had her first child, a daughter also. I had invited her over to get her out of the house a little and chat. She was wrestling with the decision to go back to work or stay home with her newborn.

Now, I'm no dummy. I know this issue is a very hot topic among women. And though I sincerely believed no good mother would ever leave her child to pursue a career, I certainly didn't say that to her.

I mean, she might be condemned to hell and her children would grow up to mindless, broken heathens if she went back to work, but who was I to say?

Anyway, Julie was voicing her concerns and kind of working it out there with me and finally said, "I don't think I can stay home. I mean, I'm just a busy person and I think I would be bored."

I wanted to kick her condescending butt right then and there, and perhaps that was the deathknell for mine and Julie's relationship. Seriously, what made her think I wasn't busy? The messy house? The zombie-like expression I was wearing? My inability to shower or wear makeup? Who wouldn't want that kind of lifestyle?

Julie did return to work, and they were able to build a brand new house in a much nicer neighborhood.

You see, I became a mom and I was consumed. I was going to be the best mom EVER, and for a little while, until reality took me down a notch or two, I believed I was. I was told that staying home with your children was absolutely best, even preferred by God, so there was never a question for me. My son was 9 months old before I ever left his side, and it was another year before I left him again. This was much the same with my girls. I was a good mom and good moms don't leave their children.

But something strange happened. I started feeling frustrated, inadequte, and unhappy. And dare I say, unfulfilled? But how could that be? I was a good mom. I loved my children more than life itself. And I loved taking care of them. What was wrong with me?

I had drowned.

All of a sudden I had to face the fact that I was one of those moms I had condemned. I wasn't completely happy just being a mom. I wanted more.

Some women have but one desire, and that is to be home all day long being domestic and nurturing. I applaud them. And there are certainly days I revel in my own mom-ness. But it's okay if I want to have some time to explore who am besides that, because I wasn't always a mom, and one day my little ones will fly free. It's perfectly fine if I take two days out of seven to nurture myself and learn new things because I want my own children to do the same. They should know education doesn't have to stop when you're 22.

Furthermore, when did God say, "Thou must stayest at home with thy child every minute of every day"? And I often wonder, did the Proverbs 31 woman - the original Supermom - stay home all the time? Sounds to me like she had other interests, and ten to one she left the house now and then to attend to them.

Stay at home. Go to work. Do whatever it is you've got to do. The truth is, no matter what we do we will raise broken heathen children, because we are broken heathens, too. It is what we do with the time we are given, be it after school, on the weekends or in the dead of night, that allows for the grace to function within that brokeness.

Here's to every mom out there who is busting her butt to be the best she can be and botching it right and left. Here's to pizza delivery and unshaven legs.

Screw perfection. Let's just shoot for clean underwear.

Don't Go Breakin' My Heart

Is five-years-old too young to be pre-menstrual? After having two girls, I'm beginning to think the female species is born with a special mutant drama gene and PMS begins at birth...maybe conception.

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning I leave for the day and wander off to college to (theoretically) gain some wisdom and knowledge, and perhaps one day, a degree. Poor Sister still hasn't quite warmed up to this idea and begins telling me the moment she wakes up that she doesn't want me to go. Our conversation usually goes something like this:

"Mommy, I don't want you to go." (said with very sad eyes and voice)

"I know, Honey."

"But, Mommy, I really don't want you to go."

"I know. I heard you. But you're going to have lots of fun with Daddy today."

"No I won't have fun." (pouting)

"Okay, if you say so."

"Mommy, I really need to tell you something."

"What is it, Sweetie?"

"I don't like it when moms go."

"I'm sorry."

"But, Mommy..."

"Honey, I know you don't want me to go, but I have to. It's good to learn new things, even when you're a mom."

"Mommy! (exasperated) I'm trying to tell you something!!"

"What?"

"I really don't want you to go."

"Why?"

"Because I...I just like you."

"I like you, too, and I like being with you. I will be with you all day tomorrow."

"But I want you to be here today."

"I know."

"Mommy?"

"Yes?"

"I really don't want you to go."

You get the idea? This continues the entire morning until I leave, and there are sometimes tears involved. But today she turned the drama up a notch and made a most heart-wrenching scene. Hubby had sent her to her room as a way to pry her from my leg and let me finish getting ready to go. This did not go over well with her. She began sobbing on her bed and performed a very emotional monologue that would rival the most seasoned of thespians:

"This is all Daddy's fault! Mommy? (I do not answer, but try to ignore it so as not to get involved in this daddy/daughter matter) Mommy?! Mommy's already gone. Daddy made me miss her! (more weeping) I don't like daddies! I only like mommies!"

And the Oscar goes to...

After a while, she finally calms down and is allowed to come out just as I am leaving. I hug her and try to talk to her about other things to take her mind off my departure, but to no avail. She is trying to be brave and not cry, but she just can't turn it off. "I want to open the door for you," she says, sniffling. She opens it and I give her another big hug and tell her I love her. I remind her to color some pictures for me so I can see them tonight when I get home as I'm walking out. She nods her head and closes the door, fighting the tears, but very unsuccessfully.

My instinct is to throw down my books, scoop her up and weep with her, but I figure that will only escalate the drama, so I pretend I don't notice and get in the car. Just as I am pulling out of the driveway she runs out the front door in bare feet in the chilly morning wind and I hit the brakes. I open my door wide and let her jump into my arms, plastering her cheeks with kisses. "I love you. I'll be home soon," I say. "Okay," is her tiny response and she heads back up the steps to the front door. I see her bottom lip trembling and her face contorting into that squished up grimace one gets when they're holding back the floodgates.

It was all I could do to back the car out of the driveway.

Nutty

Spelling has always been a challenge for Brother. However, we've started a new curriculum and he has gone from about 30% accuracy to getting 92% correct on his spelling test today. Thrilling.

But vocabulary may be our next area of focus.

While working in his spelling book today, he was to choose a spelling word from his list to correctly correspond with this definition: It has a shell on the outside.

The spelling words were:
top
can
bell
nut
tip
man
but
yet
doll
cat
bill
his

The choice is obvious to you and I, but Brother struggled with it and insisted no word from that list fit. I told him to skip that one and go the next question.

Further down the line, the definition was: It means the opposite of bottom.

And Brother wrote "nut".

This is where I sat down to try and figure out his line of reasoning, and I asked him, "Nut is the opposite of bottom?"

"Yeah, Mom," he said, looking kind of sheepish. "You know...like around a penis."

HEL-LO!! My boy is equating "nut" with "testicle". No wonder he didn't understand the whole "shell on the outside" term.

I am SO not ready for this.

Adventures in Homeschool

I have formally started Sister in Kindergarten. I thought this was a good idea. She is super smart and has been showing an interest in being at the table with Brother and I during school. When I presented the idea to her, she was completely gung-ho.

But the truth of the matter is that she is probably more enamored with the idea of it all. Kindergarten is a very romantic notion when you're five. Perhaps she only wants to be a Kindergartener in name only, because she doesn't really like the conformity. Literally, every instruction I gave her yesterday was met with a protest, saying she wanted to do it "her" way.

I have a great little art program that helps you teach your kids to draw. We start by practicing straight lines. On the page, you draw a straight line from one dot to the next. First horizontal, then vertical. She said she didn't want to do it that way. She wanted to do it her way. "But, Sister," I explained, "there is only one way to draw a straight line." Not so. Determined to prove me wrong, she made her straight lines wavy.

For President's Day, the kids and I read some stories about George Washington and Honest Abe, found a great website with funny film clips about Barney, President Bush's dog (www.whitehousekids.gov), and did some cutesy President's Day activities, like the one you see pictured below.

This is Brother's version of Abraham Lincoln's log cabin, complete with evergreen tree and Abe himself peering out the window.



















This is Sister's. She said it was hit by a tornado.



















Her creativity will either make her very successful one day, or she will refuse to conform and live out of a cardboard box in the alley just to spite me.

Melting Cheese

Terrible Twos. I hate that expression. I LOVE two!! It just might be my favorite age.

But today...ah, today has tested my position on two.

It began this morning, and I don't even remember how. Baby began crying uncontrollably about something that disrupted the universe that IS her. She could not be distracted. She could not be consoled. So I put her on the bed, alone, to try and work it out for herself. Brother finds this to be cruel and unusual and begs me to get her. I try to explain to him that she is getting a time out, just like he and Sister would get if they were throwing this sort of tantrum. Soon, Baby calms down and comes to me, eyes puffy, nose running and arms open wide, ready to make up. I'm feeling pretty satisfied and confident that I AM Supermom, able to tame tantrums in a single bound.

Later, as I am preparing lunch, Baby comes to me, whining. I have four slices of bread to make two grilled cheese sandwiches. Three kids + two sandwiches = disaster. However, Baby has already been snacking on carrots and hummus, so I figure I can offer her a slice of cheese and a couple of Dora cookies and she will be happy. She takes the cheese and immediately becomes distressed. "Ow!" she says, turning on the waterworks for the second time in two hours.

I sit beside her, trying to decipher her cryptic message of despair. "Out?" I say. "Down? Do you want down from your chair?"

"NO-AH!" this is the way she says "no"...adamantly.

"What's wrong?"

"OW!" she wails, becoming more despondent. "OOOOWWWWWWW!!!!"

I search her for boo-boos, but find nothing. She just keeps looking at her cheese slice, crying. I finally deduct that her cheese slice has a tiny little tear in it, and this has cut her to the quick...shaken her to the very core of her being. The cheese, defiled and unclean, is mocking her, and she cannot therefore partake of such a vile and disgusting offering.

After our earlier outburst, I'm growing weary of the drama, and I state plainly, "Either eat the cheese or throw it away."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-AH!!!" More tears. More snot. More drama.

So, I simply try to remove the cheese for her and dispose of the threatening dairy product. But, alas, she has it firm within her grasp, and my reaching for it only serves to tear the slice completely in two.

Oh. My. Goodness.

If there is such a thing as a Drama Queen, I believe what ensued after that would qualify her as the Most High Supreme Goddess of Drama, able to call down the powers of darkness to reign unholy terror upon me, one of her lowly peon subjects.

I, again, try to remove the cheese, but she squeezes the cheese into her tight, little fists and runs, screaming and crying all the way. I go after her, only to find her seeking shelter in the arms of her sympathizer...Brother. By her behavior, Brother is sure I am killing her, slowly and painfully, and is ready to fight me tooth and nail to protect her, bless his little aiding and abetting heart.

After prying her away from him, I carry Baby, kicking and screaming (to put it lightly), to the kitchen to try and pry the smashed balls of cheese from her grasp. And she is less than cooperative. I literally have to force her fingers open while she is flailing about like a wounded bird...a very VOCAL wounded bird. I have never, NEVER witnessed anything like it, except maybe on SuperNanny.

And as if one fiasco isn't enough, Sister comes into the room (with her hands over her ears) and shouts above the pandemonium, "COME LOOK WHAT BROTHER DID TO YOUR ROOM!"

I know he is angry with me for torturing his baby sister with a piece of torn cheese, and I imagine he has gone to my room and ransacked it. I walk down the hall just in time to see him stomping from my room, throwing a dirty look my way. I walk in to find...nothing. Everything looks the same. Either my room is so messy I can't tell or he really didn't do anything. Brother, who cannot keep from 'fessing up, comes quickly back to my room and hands me three picture frames containing pictures of each of my angelic babes. He had stolen them from my room to get back at me for being so mean to Baby.

Guess they really showed me. Next time I'll think twice before giving torn cheese to my children.

For some reason I knew, the minute the phone rang, that this was the call. I knew because it was our home phone that rang, and it rarely rings anymore. I knew because my husband left the room to take it. I knew because I couldn't hear him laughing or talking. I knew because the cloud had been looming for weeks, months...maybe years. And when my husband came back to the kitchen, I knew.

His father had died.

Saturday, February 10, 2007, at approximately 3:30 p.m., my father-in-law, the man who smiles from black and white photos with a beautiful, chubby, baby boy, passed away.

I've been trying to decide how to write about this for days. It is difficult to expound on such a subject when there are many complex and confliciting emotions. And there have been many moments this past week worthy of being put down for posterity. But it would require a long and detailed description of family history, which I just don't have the heart to post for the world to see.

This is a bittersweet time. Maybe someday I can actually put it to words.

Movin' and Groovin'

Things are moving. And by "things", I mean the aforementioned slime that has wreaked havoc on my household this week. I will not go into further details.

You're welcome.

So, I'm taking that as a good sign. Of course, I'm also awake at 4 a.m. this morning.

I will stop whining about being sick now.

You're welcome.

Some days you feel like squashed bread.

I peeled myself from the mattress this morning with all the enthusiasm of a sloth on tranquilizers. Due to a snoot full of slime, my night was spent in and out of consciousness, though I'd hardly call it sleep. My throat is scratchy and feels thick and sticky, like someone force fed me Play-Doh during one of my less conscious moments. And in this house, one never knows.

Moving in slo-mo, I plod down the hall with but one goal, clinging to this one glimmering ray of hope to save me from collapse - the coffee pot. A nice, hot cup of joe will melt away the slime. Or at least give me the energy to make it to the Kleenex box.

But the baby birds immediately notice the mama bird is up and about the nest and their requests for breakfast do not wait for coffee to brew. They land on me without taking heed of my sad state and waste no time placing their orders. But it is all mud inside my ears. I mutter something to the tune of "wait" and find the nearest spot to land. Brother asks, "What are we going to do today, Mom?"

Well, let's see, Son. Today we're going to search online for a very simple illustrated how-to guide that will explain, in very clear, easy-to-understand-second-grader language, how you can cut open Mommy's head, allowing it to drain and thus releasing this vice-like pressure on her oh-so-tired brain. And then, perhaps we will go to the park.

I spot a bottle of saline drops I used on Baby the night before for "Little Noses". Though my nose most definitely does not fall into this category, I don't have a water pik to shove up my beak and clean things out and this seems like the next best thing. After a few bungled attempts, I finally figure out the trick to leaning my head back just enough to get the saline where it's supposed to go without having it trickle down the back of my throat. This is what I've been subjecting my poor, ailling children to?! The saline gets things moving, but brings little relief, and all I want to do is whisper sweet nothings to my coffee cup and go back to bed.

But, no. I choose instead to take all three of my children on a shopping trip to the Wal-Mart Super-scary-Center. Makes perfect sense, doesn't it? I mean, when you're feeling as though a train has run you over, backed up and run you over again, why wouldn't you want to take three over-active children to the world's largest mass marketer of goods and beat back large, angry mobs to forage for food and stuff?

My underlying motive was to buy all the good legal drugs I could get my hands on. We just happened to need milk and bread, too.

But SuperCenters are not nice to sick people. And after an hour of filling one cart to the brim with groceries and the latest and greatest cold remedies, I felt as though I needed to be hospitalized with a good morphine drip. I get home, unload the trunk, only to find my bread mangled under a bag of canned goods.

Squashed bread.