What I have and haven't done the first week of school

While the kids have now been in school for almost 3 weeks, Jessie didn’t start full-time Kindergarten until last Friday, so I’ve only had about five days of daytime hours by myself. 

It hasn’t gone exactly how I’d imagined.

Things I’ve done:

1.) Watched a lot of bad daytime television. After years of Nick Jr. as the intermittent soundtrack from 9-3, I realize that it is a pretty high-brow network in comparison to TLC or Lifetime. On the upside, I can now work on an Alaskan crab boat and find the perfect wedding dress.

2.) I still go to Publix almost daily, but my average grocery bill has dropped 20% without “help” from the kids.

3.) Re-introduced myself to the treadmill. (And it’s still an asshole just as I remembered.)

4.) Reading a lot more, but now I also have time to argue with myself all day before I see another human thus sparing others from my political rants. You’re welcome, Interwebs.

5.) While I’ve always cooked a lot, now I’m trying new things like pickling. Botulism over boredom is my new motto.

What I haven’t done that I thought I would have by now:

1.) Finish organizing the basement storage. There are boxes still there from two moves ago, what’s the rush?

2.) Napped.

3.) The myriad of redecorating projects I had planned. While I realistically didn’t think I would have re-tiled the bathroom or painted a mural on the playroom ceiling by September 1st, I did think I would have at least thought about new paint colors and fabric swatches..

4.) Picked up my novel in progress again. The good news is that it’s about an HOA gone horribly awry, and watching the daytime antics in this neighborhood is excellent research.

5.) Sought professional help for my pickling addiction. (Or at the very least, contacted TLC for a reality show about it.)

Surprising things I’ve learned in all of this solitude:

1.) My cookie recipe makes an extra dozen per batch without the kids stealing the dough.

2.) Jingle really does sleep all day--but now I know it’s under Amy’s bed.

3.) When you can honestly tell your kids that there are things living under your bed, it’s time to clean under there.

4.) I really need some friends. And a hobby. Or a cat. Or ten cats. (But they’ll have to sleep under Jessie’s or Matty’s beds.)

5.) I miss my kids.

Teaching an old, fake-furred rat new tricks

One of the problems with having children spread so far apart in age is that I can sometimes forget the lessons I've taught myself over time.

Through a mixture of pseudo-science, fear, and fair dose of all-out lies, I had convinced three of my four children that Chuck E. Cheese was the source of pink-eye. Those three had experienced the eye-prying torture of burning drops after a days of gunk-induced blindness, so it wasn't all that difficult to dissuade them from ever entering that den of disease again.

But just like a child who has never been exposed to chicken pox, Jessie had no immunity whatsoever and had begged for months to go. I had run out of excuses, and pink-eye just sounded like coloring her face with a marker which she does every day anyway.
So we went.

Luckily, there weren't many people there. Just a few bamboozled grandparents who looked as though a trip to the liquor store for cheap vodka was imminent-- to either drink or to disinfect with--who am I to judge? So Jessie and I spent two hours and ten bucks playing games, riding rides, collecting tickets and eating frozen chicken nuggets over the soundtrack of clicking fur-covered robots, video game trailers and children's screams.

And you know what? It was pretty fun.

While I still think its health department score hovers around the temperature of Nome in January, Jessie was thrilled the entire time. She laughed, she played, we did everything she wanted to at least twice, and there was no having to share her tokens--or her time-- with anyone. Everything was exactly how she'd imagined it and there was not a hint of disappointment. And when all was over, she took her tickets and bought prizes for every one of her siblings with no prodding from me.

So I still stand by my original assertion that this place does and will cause pink-eye, but perhaps I'll amend the lesson to inlcude an occasional misty-eye phenomenon as well.

And then there were two...

...weeks, that is. Until the blessed end of this school year.

A lot is packed into these last two weeks, but it's what's not there that is significant. No move. No new classrooms or classmates. No doctor's visits (God-willing), no surgeries, no injuries. No new uniforms, books or roads to learn. No new paths to figure out.

When I look back to the beginning of this school year it seems like years ago that we were entering a new high school; new teachers and experiences in first and fifth grades. We've packed a lot of life into these last six months, and I'm proud of my kids for giving it their all even on days that it was the hardest thing in the world to do. They are truly wonders of resilience.

I look forward to every summer, but this is one I relish most. They have earned this break and I'm looking forward to being in closer awe of them.

Nothing for Mother's Day

I actually wrote this a couple of years ago before Jesso, but it still holds true today.

Nothing for Mother's Day.

If you need me today, I'll be poolside with steak and cake, Sangria and my little ones all day.

Perfect.

My Mommy turned 40 and all I got was this lousy potholder

My mother used to have a red and white picnic-checked potholder hanging in the kitchen over the monolith of a microwave that read, “I’d rather be 40 than pregnant!”

I didn’t get it.

At 14 years old, both of those things seemed to be equally as horrifying in my adolescent mind.

Fast forward a couple of decades and four pregnancies later, and I think I’m being let in on the joke.

When I first read that potholder, I figured on the morning I turned 40, I’d wake up in a spiraling pit of depression. Or wrinkle beyond recognition. Or at the very least, something would fall off. I’d get a craving to eat dinner at 3:00 in the afternoon and listen to the oldies station on the radio.

What I failed to take into account -- and a big difference between 14 and 40 -- is that by this great big birthday, I would be in the throes of motherhood, and perspectives certainly change here.

Those pregnancies that preceded this birthday produced four beautiful, healthy children that I love beyond words, and being in this moment with them is my greatest joy. And while I’m sure the potholder-author’s original intent was to make a bad joke rather than suggest an introspective philosophy on aging, for me there is a deeper meaning of this gag gift. Now that I’m here, I realize that after our skin gets stretched out from childbearing and wrinkles a little on the edges, it’s now when we at last become the most comfortable in it.

I may be a little grayer and not carded nearly as often, but that only delays the purchase of champagne to toast a very full life of many blessings anyway.

So throw me what you’ve got, Forty -- I’m ready.

I’ve got an oven mitt with your name on it.

(Cross-posted on Whoa Momma.)

Day 1 of unorthodox, yet perfectly Floridian challenge

You may think that just because we live in Florida--an hour's drive from the country's premiere theme parks--means that we are in Orlando every weekend.

Not really... just every other.

This week to kick off our Out There challenge, we went to Disney World for the day. Granted, I'm not sure this is what my friends at the NWF headquarters had in mind, but we did spend a great deal of time outside together yesterday. Here are my Twitter updates to prove it:





That 4-7 minute number I told you about earlier? We crushed that number just setting up the stroller alone.

We saw native wildlife.



We traveled to different climes.



We talked to the animals.



We went horseback riding.



We went to the mountains. (Splash, Space and Thunder.) And the sea. (Small World and the Pirates of the Caribbean.)

And while this outside may have also had a few plastic trees and animals of the animatronic variety, I did spend twelve hours with my favorite people in the beautiful spring sunshine.



We live in Florida, and that's how we roll.

Well hello, blog.

It's been a little tough to be funny this week.

Not that there has been any earth-shattering disasters, it's just the everyday stuff that normally makes me laugh, hasn't.

Perhaps it's that the sense of humor is located in the sinus cavity, and everyone around here has theirs infected. Doctor visits, Nyquil and hand washing doesn't exactly tickle anyone's funny bone. Or at least not mine.

Usually when I have trouble finding humor at home, I can always find some at work. Or in the assignments I get. This week, I wrote about swine flu. Instead of surfing the Net for preschool pasties, I spent hours on the CDC website. Not exactly a knee-slapper.

The words left over at the end of these tough days ended up fixing a broken heart or writing emails for one of the many crazy events October brings. Or being sunk into the dangerously close end of the first draft of the novel.

Oh yeah, the novel.

I'm serious when I say the end is near. Very near. And the gift I'm giving myself this month (and my family which has to live with me as I pen this) is a completed first draft. It's time.

So this Sunday's dinner menu will be a little less-ambitious, and I'm going to get a haircut this morning hoping to take a few inches of weight from shoulders to make room for something else.

Or at least I can write hair jokes about myself.

My love/hate/hate relationship with routines

We have just completed our second week of school, and my jury is still out on whether this whole education thing is really working for me.

Kidding. The kids absolutely love it, which is already worth the early days. We're still working out those new routines though, and that's where the transition still has some kinks. There are some new things that are great, but there are some that might drive me to gouge out someone's eyes with a number 2 pencil.

New Routine I Like: Going to the gym in the mornings with Jessie. For one hour, she loves to play with some other precocious 2 year olds and I get to scowl at their thinner, younger mothers on the treadmill.

New Routine I Hate: Jessie waking up at three a.m. asking for popcorn and Yo Gabba Gabba. I dream that Luno is chasing me on Jack Black's talking motorcycle.

NRIL: Having the kids sit down and do their homework at the kitchen table while I cook dinner.

NRIH: The homework part of the above equation.

NRIL: Watching Amy stand and walk a little taller everyday.

NRIH: The fact that Stevie is taller, growing 2 inches last year.

NRIL: Forward momentum on the novel. I see light.

NRIH: Putting some other reading and writing on the back burner for a while until I finish.

NRIL: Picking them up in the afternoon.

NRIH: Dropping them off in the morning.

Once I find the balance between all of those activities, I should be all set.

I figure that should be around April.

Let the messy truth be told

After three full days of having no older siblings around to take the rap, I realize now that it is, in fact, all Jessie's fault.

Tears of awe

I present to you the mother cliche of motherhood cliches: I am having a tough time getting through Amy's first day of Kindergarten.

I know, I know. You're thinking as you roll your eyes across the mommy blogoverse, Of course you are--you and everyone else with a URL and an offspring are lamenting over babies growing up so fast...yada, yada, dabba dabba do. What makes you so different?

Nothing, really, but while I of course share that nostalgic element that this historic moment dictates, I don't think that's exactly what has me so melancholy today.

After we dropped A-Dog off wearing her new uniform and a smile, Jess and I headed out to try out some things to add to our own new routine. We went to the gym where I read worked out unenthusistically and J played in the playroom with a couple of other younger siblings. Afterward, we headed over to Fresh Market for some caper berries and fresh fruit for the kids' snacks tomorrow because that seemed like a good thing to do. But as we loaded up the bags of over-priced guilt organics the tears began to come in earnest, and I realized maybe it wasn't sadness or nostalgia or anything like that. It was something different, something familar like when the boys were having their first Kindergarten days, but I couldn't quite name it back then.

I can now.

It's awe.

Pure, quiet awe.

Perhaps it's because of her special childhood and all of the unique obstacles she's overcome so beautifully. Maybe it's because we arrived at this place by such a different path that it feels so strange. Maybe it's because she's my little girl. Or it could be that motherhood feels differently as we age. (I really hope not.)

Maybe all or none of those, but that's kind of the cool thing about awe as opposed to just wonder or amazement.

Awe isn't everyday (or then it would be clueless bewilderment) so when you do feel it, no explanation is needed. You simply drop to your knees by the sheer beauty of it, and accept it as is--no conditions.

I'm not going to overanalyze this moment, feel silly or mislabel it. I am in constant awe of these gifts that I'm lucky to unwrap a little more everyday, and if some moments are more transparent than others to appreciate them, so be it.

Those were not sad tears nor joyful ones.

They were awe-inspired.

We should be, but we're not

On the eve of this last weekend before school starts, we should be doing a lot of things.

We should be cleaning something.

We should be washing uniforms.

We should be labeling school supplies and new backpacks.

We should be stocking the pantry with healthy snacks in lunchbox sizes.

We should be going to bed early to get used to the new schedule.

We should be doing a lot of things.

But this is also the last weekend that we don't have any have-to's. And I have a feeling that it will be a quite while before we can declare that again.

So we're bagging all of the shoulds and spending the poolside relaxing together just because we can.

The beginning of the end

Well that was fun. Celebrated a friend's birthday last night by mopping up the dance floor with some little 20-somethings' bad hair extensions. Apparently, this particular group of shebeasts were as immature as their livers and credit scores and thought they could take over our parquet. Ha! Don't mess with us on a milestone birthday celebration in which babysitters are being paid and there is cake involved. We will eat you alive, beyotches.

*I needed to get that lame attempt at being a hipster out of the way, because this is the week I fall back into full-throttle Mommy mode as the last full week before school starts. There are supplies and uniforms to procure. There are lunchboxes to get. There are doctors and dentists and shoes. Lots and lots of shoes. We haven't worn shoes or socks since May.

And it is also the week that I turn into the raving Nighttime witch as I try and fail to get them all regulated on some sort of bedtime/wake up ritual which is just so hard to do in the middle of August when it's 96 degrees outside and all summer long I've allowed them to go to sleep when it's dark and wake up when it's light.

How are we doing so far? It's 11:40 and we're having a sleepover and everyone is still awake. I'd better go cackle them a lullaby.

Blog school 101

On the first day of blog school they teach you a lesson in blog physics: if you write about avoiding the ER one day, you have exactly 3.2 hours before you will return to it in some form or kid or another. It's punishment for not observing some sort of knocking on wood or passing on a chain email ritual.

And so yesterday, it was Stevie who made a visit to our familiar ER docs with a foot injury that occurred on the beach.

Yes, that is quite a familiar refrain around my house. Stevie limped in with Sean and the insurance card limping behind him, and then had three rocks extracted from his big toe and his considerable wound cleaned, treated and bandaged. It was pretty bad. They gave him some heavy antibiotics too since he cut it on a paddleboat in some gross resort water. Ew.

He's resting it and we're watching it while we continue trip preparations.

And as soon as I finish the laundry I'm sending you all an ancient Irish angel prayer and re-enrolling in blog school.

You can, in fact, pick your daughter's nose

You were no doubt thinking that things were a little too quiet around here, medically speaking.

Well, you probably weren't, but now that I brought it up it has occurred to you that no one has made a trip to the ER in a while.

We almost set the "25 days accident-free" calendar back yesterday when Jesso decided to spice things up a bit.

Taking a cue from her older sister who stuck a red hot up her nose a couple of years ago and sneezed cinnamon for a few days afterward, Jess stuck a plastic bead up there.

Running over a little teary, she said, "Ma, Ma...nose." I couldn't see anything at first, but with a shine of the flashlight saw the little white bead perched high up into her nasal cavity. (And if that didn't clue me in, the evidence was in a craft bag opened up on my desk where she was sitting.)

I tried to work it out, yes, that way, but her nostrils are too small and my fingers too big. I thought maybe I could grab it with a pair of tweezers, but she was thrashing around too much and I thought I might pluck her cerebellum. So I let out a huge heaving sigh, and packed everyone up to go to the ER.

Actually, I had to pick up a couple from down the road so that they could watch the other 2 while I went holding just one crying baby instead of four. I made the exchange and carried on the way.

At the traffic light, I was considering ER, pediatrician's office or StatMed--each of which have their own appeal--when I looked in the rearview mirror and saw a little band of white perched close to the end of her nostril. I calmly pulled over to a parking lot (proud that I didn't just turn backwards while holding my foot on the brake like I normally do, aren't you?) and worked my mommy magic on that bead, so it came out in a rather disgustingly-coated nugget in my trembling hand.

And you know what that little cherub said?

"Tanks Ma for helping my nose."

No, thank you Jess, for saving me a $50 co-pay and another entry in the bad mommy file.

Uh, oh, she's getting all mushy again

Ah, summer eve. The school year ends tomorrow morning.

I say that with the joy of a mother who is looking forward to spending some time--prefarably after 8 a.m.--with her kids for a while, but also with gratitude for what we all have in our school.

I truly believe that teachers are our partners in educating our children. It isn't a single-starring role, because teaching is a 24-7 job.

We are all blessed with people that come into our lives and inspire us in unexpected ways throughout our lifetime. It can come from teachers, friends, classmates, neighbors, family...there is simply no limit to the amount and variety of sources, just whether or not we recognize and welcome them in.

This year, I've watched each of my children grow and thrive in very different ways. It hasn't always been a smooth ride, but even those bumps have taught very valuable lessons. And as I look at them today I realize just how beautiful they all look wrapped in quilts with these different patches of inspiration.

I am proud of them.

I am grateful for them.

And I am grateful for all of those other teachers who wrapped them up.

Finding Amy

It wasn't that I thought that this day day would never come, it was that I didn't think it would come so joyously.

When Amy started preschool this year, to say I was leery would be an understatement. People kept saying, "She'll be fine," and I agreed but I didn't know if "fine" was what we necessarily should be going for. After all, countless doctors told me she'd be "fine" and then ignored her. I've also heard that not only wasn't she fine, but that I wasn't either because this speech therapist "knew that I want this to be a hearing issue, but it's not." Yes, every parent wants their child not to hear. That f-word has been tossed out for her whole life as it should be the ultimate goal rather than just a place card to something better.



So she started on a 3-day a week schedule as opposed to her classmates five. We continued with her speech therapy on those off days, continued monitoring her hearing every other month and rather quickly she became accustomed to her days.

She never complained about getting up early (much), and she would proudly display all of the wonderful creations she'd make.

Then she began to talk about her day. Unprompted, she'd tell a little story about a classmate, or what they made in art. Nothing out of the ordinary for most, but so extraordinary for the girl who couldn't talk for so long. But even more than her reports was that it was evidence that she was enjoying it. She liked playing with kids her own age, and they understood her and didn't notice anything different. If there was a word that she'd stumble on or couldn't recall, it was her friends that translated and even that was decreasing everyday. Her progress reports were just that--showing her progress in so many unexpected ways.



By April, we all agreed that she was more than ready to go 5 half days like everyone else. Again, she responded so well. She was singing her ABC's, counting--all of the things you would expect in a preschool class--but happily. Without frustration.

And I guess that was the difference--no frustration. It's so hard to make your way through a day navigating between what you can hear, say and understand when everyone expects you to. And it's hard to be happy when you're just trying to make it to fine.

So yesterday's preschool graduation was so much more for all of us. She got a little diploma that said she was ready for Kindergarten, but that's not what makes her ready.

Her teacher commented afterward that she had never seen such a "joy-filled" child.

Finding Amy has been the most heart-wrenching journey that I have ever experienced--filled with self-doubt, non-stop fight and maternal gut-checks every minute of her five years on this earth. There have been some monsters along our path, but there have also been some heroes--those who recognized that to get beyond fine may not be by a path that any of us could name, but that it was worth exploring.

Because there was a beautiful, healthy and happy little girl waiting at the end.



Thank you, Amy for waiting until we got there.

The Weekend o' Stevie

If we could have squeezed one more thing in this weekend, Friday would have exploded into Saturday, and those pieces would have been littered all over Sunday. There simply was not an empty moment.

And most of those moments were filled with Stevie.

I don't often gush on about my oldest son--not because he doesn't give me ample opportunity--but because that's just not the way we usually roll. But he had a pretty awesome week, one of those rare occasions when he will later say, "It was pretty great to be 13."

He was elected Student Council President on the same day as the graduation dance in which all things 13 look 30 and their mothers weep like infants in the corner.



On Saturday, the whole family spent an afternoon on the beach swimming, lounging, eating and looking at boats. It's been a while since all six of us were together for a leisurely afternoon.

Sunday was the sports banquet at school, and while I knew he was going to win one individual award, we were both surprised with the two he won. The basketball award was presented with some very touching words from the coach, and I swear it took all I had not to weep again like an infant in the corner.



I wrote on Facebook that it was a pretty great weekend. Stevie wrote back, "It will be hard to top."

I'll make sure he knows that I am just as proud of him every single ordinary day, and always will be.

I don't normally do this, but...

...but today is different.

I posted my thoughts on Mother's Day here on Whoa Momma. If you know me at all, you know I'm not a fan of this day. (And if you don't know me, read the article for better insight.)

Sometimes I admit to still being somewhat reticent of posting this type of content because the more you put out there, well, the more that's out there, and the more vulnerable you are.

But you know what? Sometimes there's safety in numbers. And when you unwittingly touch people who share a similar experience, it actually ends up to be quite a powerful thing.

So even if you don't get through my long-winded post, read the reader's comments. It's so refreshingly beautiful to read an entire thread dedicated to just strangers being vulnerable with one another for a change, paying spontaneous tribute to their own wonderful mothers. I promise you, it will take your breath away.

Stick another case in my Bad Mommy file...

...because I actually bribed Amy to play her soccer game with this:

If you play in your game, you can have candy for dinner.

She must really hate soccer or particularly craved broccoli tonight.

Happy Birthday Jessie!

Our little messo Jesso turned two today.



Two. I'll admit to having trouble grasping this one. It doesn't seem possible that this baby isn't much of a baby anymore. She's a little girl with likes (Yo Gabba Gabba) and dislikes (mornings). She wants to do everything by herself now--she has to climb up in her car seat by herself which literally adds 25 minutes to every outing. She needs to be with her brothers and sister if they aren't at school, and she's starting to shun her highchair.

Sigh. At least I can still hang on to her betwixt request she still makes several times a day. When she wants to be held because sometimes being big isn't all it's cracked up to be, she'll toddle up to me with arms outstretched and say, "Ma, I carry you."

You absolutely do, little one. You absolutely do.