I've Moved!

Please visit me at my new site, www.lostasock.com

See you there!!

And for the endorsement, Weight Watchers, you can make the check out to...me.

For the longest time I have been making mental notes to write about my now nine month journey in weight loss. There are so many different parts to this journey I could write about though, that I have had no clue where to begin. So without a decided beginning, I have resolved to just start somewhere, even if it involves jumping around and losing you for three sentences in the middle.

In the eight weeks after Jack's birth I lost sixteen pounds. Four of those pounds were Jack himself, and I would guess that the majority of the other twelve would be water from all of the swelling I had from the pre-eclampsia.

Actually, let's go back a bit further.

My pregnancy with Jack was not easy, and it was certainly anything but healthy. Early on in the first trimester I had big progesterone issues, which had us teetering on the edge of losing him on a couple of occasions. Sometimes a mother needs a progesterone supplement to help keep the uterus lining healthy for that little baby to hang on to. And most times her doctor will have her take one pill daily. I had to take six pills daily. And then I had a blood test every other day for eleven weeks to be sure my levels stayed above dangerous. Besides that, I also had morning sickness all day long, for five months. Five. Months.

After morning sickness wore off around twenty weeks I was sure I was in the clear for at least a little while even though I vividly remembered pre-term labor, pre-eclampsia and bedrest while pregnant with KJ. And unfortunately, KJ's pregnancy would end up being the easier one.

By the time I was 26 weeks pregnant with Jack the contractions began. I could not walk the mall, or the grocery store, or anywhere without feeling like my baby was about to release himself through my pelvic floor. My entire abdomen would tighten up in the middle of anywhere and everywhere, and I would stop to breathe through contractions. Without really needing to think it over much (what was there to consider? My not-ready-to-survive-outside-my-body baby wanted out!) my doctor assigned me to bedrest.

By 28 weeks my blood pressure began to rise very slowly and very steadily. By 30 weeks my usual resting pressure of 120/70 had climbed to a consistent 140/90. At 31 weeks I began vomiting again, swelling like nobody's business, and seeing small lights float past my vision. From week 31 through week 35 I was hospitalized for days at a time on multiple occasions. I received two sets of steroid shots to speed up the development of Jack's lungs. I had several ultrasounds per week to check amniotic fluid and to see how the baby was tolerating life in a hostile body. My doctor wanted to hold me off from delivery until 32 weeks. And then 33. And then 33.5, and then 34. By 34 weeks my blood pressure was 165/110, I was throwing up every night, swollen like crazy, and massive headaches began. I was showing protein in my kidneys and my reflexes were not responding very well.

On the afternoon of New Year's Eve I came down with yet another massive headache, and my doctor thought it best to check in to the hospital again. I took Tylenol and let it wear down to more of a somewhat-lingering headache rather than a holy-crap-would-you-please-not-move-and-not-talk-and-not-breathe-anywhere-near-me headache. And then we visited Kevin's family for sandwiches, and checked in at the hospital just before midnight. My doctor ordered more meds, and more meds, and more meds, and then anti-seizure meds. And then we decided enough was enough.

From two biofetal profiles we knew that Jack's lungs were well on their way to breathing. Beyond all of the other problems for both Jack and myself, he was missing out on so many nutrients because my blood pressure was so high, which meant he was not really gaining any weight anyway. So on the first day of my 35th week, at 8am on New Year's Day 2006, I delivered my 4 lb 6 oz baby via c-section, the first of the new year at our hospital.

No comments on the picture, please. Given birth? Look glamorous afterwards? Somehow I if I had to guess, I would guess...not.

As I mentioned earlier, I lost sixteen pounds in those first eight weeks. Then I wanted to give something up for Lent, and I decided it would be my food addiction. I thought I might lose twenty pounds while I was at it.

Now, I had been on and off of Weight Watchers about 37 times in my life. I know the program like I know my address, so I decided to follow it, but without attending the meetings, and hence without paying $45 per month to have some overly-friendly and thinner-than-I lady tell me how much I weighed. I set some ground rules for myself, and I stuck to my goals. I found foods that satisfied my cravings for chocolate, and mashed potatoes, and all of the other wonderful non-diety foods. Keep in mind that in the beginning I was not very far from just having delivered a baby. My hormones were still quite whacko.

I follow the points system as best as I can, but not to the point of losing my fragile little mind. If I have only two points left at the end of the night, but am starving beyond all reason, I have something to eat. And once a week, I eat whatever I want and count nothing. I found that it helps keep my metabolism from bottoming out. And last but not least, I remind myself at least a handful of times per day that the smaller portion of food is enough to satisfy me.

During Lent I lost about twenty pounds, just as I had predicted. And then I kept going. I lost another 10, and another 10. And then I fell off the wagon for a good week, but got back on and slowly and steadily lost another 15. To date I have lost 55.5 pounds somewhat sticking to the Weight Watchers program. I have lost 71 pounds since I delivered Jack.

Those are crazy numbers, I know. I never thought I could do anything like this in my life. It is a big deal. A huge deal, and in the middle of all the hard work, I am not afraid to say so.

And the emotional aspect, and the motivations to keep moving, and the never-expected personal changes that I have not discussed here will wait for later, when your eyes go back to normal after staring at this computer screen for the three hours required to read this entry.

A day in my existence where Kevin works 30 hours in two days time

It is the first week of the month, which at Kevin’s new company means working lots and lots of hours. Last night he arrived home at 10:20pm, and will do the same tonight. That leaves me in kiddie-land for two days without him. See where this is going?

When Jack woke up at 7:06 this morning I had no complaints, because for the first time in five months, he did not get up twice during the night. I have been working hard on getting him to sleep through the night, as I hear is the trend with many other nine-month-old babies. I decided last night that when he woke I would provide only a half of a bottle, with no diaper changes and no rocking back to sleep. Half of a bottle, while laying in bed. That’s all. I was hoping to remove some of the rewards for multiple wake-ups. And to that Jack must have thought, well then screw this. Because he slept through the night.

And now that I announced it to you, internet, he will never do it again.

So at 7:07am I made good use of time and stripped all of our beds and re-made them, and pulled my bedroom curtains off the wall to be washed (I see your mind straying off into June Cleaver-land, but let me reassure you, I only wash curtains when the dust on them becomes so heavy that the screws in the curtain rod brackets begin to pull from the walls.) By 8am I had blankets in the washer, the house vacuumed, and clean dishes put away. I was productive. You know, to kill time.

While changing sheets I noticed that our three year old pillows were getting quite nasty, so I took every bed pillow in the house, smashed them into a garbage bag, and ran them to the curb, thus forcing myself to replace them to-day, rather than putting it off for later.

How often do you buy new pillows? I believe somebody or other on Oprah advised every six months to prevent dust mites (gah gah gah) but I have not been so good about following that timeline.

So I showered and fed children and dressed children, and then zoomed off to departmentstoreland. And nearly two hours later I returned with pillows! And a baby gate even, for the love of all that is holy in dog food taste-testing.

Again I fed children and changed children since the weather on October third decided to top out at a sweaty sticky muggy mucky son-of-a-bitch-did-you-not-get-the-memo-it’s-fall eighty six degrees (three months from now I will curse myself for cursing that.) And then I cleaned up from lunch and switched over a load of laundry and picked up the house for the 43rd time and tucked my lovelies into their beds. After all, Kevin will not be home to save me until 7pm tomorrow night, so sleep, children, sleep. We have time to kill. It’s eighty six degrees, and there will be no walking today.

Jack rolled around and played and chatted it up for the first hour. KJ got up to poop, and then to pee, and then to blow his nose, and then to get a drink (to refuel for the next bodily elimination) and to reclaim his blanket and toys that had hit the floor, and to turn his night-light at the exact correct angle where he would best be able to sleep (play) for the next two hours. Then Jack slept for three minutes and decided he’d had enough of this crap, and woke and yelled and cursed my name, and pooped. As I changed him, KJ could hear the fun! that was going on two rooms over, and from his bed he leapt, shouting, “Here I come!”

That is when I threw my head back, looking up to the sky and begging God Himself to hear me as I shouted, “SOMEBODY IN THIS HOUSE IS GOING TO NAP TODAY” realizing fully that that somebody could possibly be me alone as my wide-eyed children drank poison and danced circles around my unconscious body in the middle of the living room floor.

KJ scurried back to his room, and Jack snickered at my raised voice, and then grabbed his butt for a little poopie-on-the-fingers sampling, just for good measure. I cleaned Jack up, plopped him in his swing, and shut the door. I reminded KJ to sleeeeeeeeeeep on his new pillow while it is still mite-free, and I collapsed into the computer chair, to complain to you about not knowing quite what to do on an eighty six degree fall day where thunderstorms are promised and husbands are locked away in a tower with only a computer.

I’ve killed nearly an hour.

Where my now four year old child zooms past my intelligence and leaves me coughing in a puffy cloud of smoke

After we picked up KJ from school on his birthday, we headed to Chuck E Cheese for an afternoon of games (and mind-scrambling noise.) My ultra-competitive side always prompts him to play the games that spit out the most tickets, because oh how I looove the ultra-crappy prizes you can "buy" with your tickets at the end. Smarties and tootsie rolls and spider rings, oh my.

I have to give the place credit though, because every game is just one token (versus the mall, where a twelve-second ride can easily run you a buck.) They also have this neat little picture booth, where for just a quarter, Chuck E's little chicken buddy will draw your picture. So the kids and I crammed ourselves into one, and got a little black and white paper memento.

And this morning as he played with letters on the fridge, he asked how to spell love. And this is what I turned around to find.

And in case you are wondering, I will inform you as I was informed. This illustration was brought to you by GQN. I would assume that is Chuck E's chicken friend? GQN Chicken.

Is he sweet or what?

So he continued to play with letters, as his big thing for the last few months has been spelling everything imaginable. He played with the new Word Whammer, which was seriously one of the most fantastic gifts he received for his birthday. The three-letter device sounds out words for you, and tells you what letters you need to create words. It is right up his alley.


We applauded for him as he spelled words like Cat, Pet, Pen, Ten, and Ant. Then he wanted to spell Airplane, which didn't fit but he put up on the fridge anyway.

He continued to ask how to spell everything that popped into his four year old genius brain, so we spelled for quite a while.

And then he asked how to spell Machu Picchu. You know, the Lost City of the Incas. And I had to come here to look it up. So much for worrying how I will help him with Calculus. He already lost me.

Because obviously procrastination will win me no prizes

So after nearly three hours of begging, pleading and beating the living hell out of blogger and my computer to load KJ's life in pictures for his birthday the other night, I moved on to frosting his birthday cupcakes for school.

I admit, I did not even turn the oven on to bake them until 10pm the night before. I wanted them to be incredibly moist and super fresh. Or, I procrastinated way too much. So as they cooled off, I blogged.

Then Jack woke up for the first of twelve nightly feedings. Kevin woke from two hours of dead sleep to find me at the computer beating my head off the desk and weeping, "Pleeeeeeeeeease Blogger I do not know how the child will be able to fully turn four without displaying his life in pictures to the interneeeeeeeeeet Waaaaaaaaaaahhh..." He made a bottle for me to feed Jack and planned to return to his peaceful slumber within no time flat, and while he did that I grabbed the container of chocolate frosting to get a quick head start on the next item on my late-night list.

I pulled off the cap, and wouldn't you guess, the silver seal was torn open. And my frosting was mostly hard. And likely poisoned.

At this point it was about 12:30am and from what I know about non-24-hour stores all located near my house, they do not stay open this late for idiots like myself.

So I rummaged through the bottom of my baking cabinet only to come up with green holiday frosting with candy chips, which Kevin insisted I use. While it is certainly true that my child does love green, I imagined the disapproving looks he would receive from teachers and staff as he offered them the extra green holiday-ness (make that, last holiday-ness,) and the head scratching that would occur as each parent picked up their green-faced child, wondering what the hell kind of mother sends in poisoned cupcakes with somewhere-between-moss-and-highlighter-green frosting (with hardened-over-time candy chips) for a September birthday.

So I did the only thing I could do.

I freaked out.

There was a birthday in KJ's class last week, and that child brought in cupcakes and those cute delicious little ice cream cups with flat wooden spoons to share. As it was, I was already completely missing the mark with exactly how much sugar each child's birthday party required. I could not possibly send in something green, and certainly nothing unfrosted. And, the thought of getting the three of us dressed and fed and to the store and home and cupcakes frosted and back out the door by 8:30 for school was more than impossible, so we had to devise a plan.

Notice I say we, because while I would like to imagine the plan coming from we, the plan was coming from crazy old freaking out me while my supportive husband sat back on the couch rolling his half-open eyes because he could not understand why Christmas-y green was just. not. good. enough.

And then he did the only thing he could do in that moment. He put shoes on his feet and a ball cap on his head and went to the 24-hour Walmart in the next town over. For chocolate frosting. At nearly 1am. Because he knew I was a loon when he married me. And he knew his kid needed chocolate frosted cupcakes.

Happy Birthday Baby

Happy Birthday KJ. I love you more than you will ever know.

Finito.

I was determined to have this room finished by the time our friends and family arrived for Party Time, September Edition #7964. And I did pretty well, if I do say so myself.



The pictures were hung, the furniture reloaded.

I even organized their bookcase, remaining true to perfectionism a la OCD - Dr Seuss and The Berenstein Bears were thrilled beyond words to have their own sections, as were the Golden Books, sound-making books, and small floppy random soft-cover books. And I was thrilled too.

Our only snag was with the dresser (see how calmly I refer to it as a snag? Like, an itty bitty no problem issue? Or possibly, it could have been the near end of marital bliss and civilization as we know it. Decide for yourself.)

Not having a spare $500 laying around, I decided to go the less expensive route (read: cheap) and buy two little particle-board imitation dressers that would carry us through another couple years. As long as they could hold clothes and stay on their tracks, I would be happy as a cold pig in warm mud.

Kevin spent all Saturday morning and a good portion of the afternoon constructing el cheapo #1, and when he finished his masterpiece and put it in place, he called me to have a look. I pulled open the first drawer. No problem. Drawer 2? Great. Drawer three? Whamo! It got stuck in its track. Poor Kevin re-tightened all relevant screws, oiled the track, and chalked it up to being a small issue, but not a deal-breaker. When I opened drawer 4, however, and it fell completely off the track onto drawer 5, I knew for sure we had a problem. The middle of the exterior side board was warped, and would not hold the drawers.

I gently convinced (ahem) my husband to load his day's work, fully-assembled, back into the van along with its boxed counterpart, and return them to their original home for a refund. He was a little less than happy with that, but eventually went along with it. We were left with a refund and a giant heap of kid-clothes on the floor, less than 24 hours before the birthday party.

For the time being we will use the small dresser that my great-gramma kept her linens in, until either we have money coming out our ears, or I cannot handle another second of sharing my drawers with Jack while stuffing KJ's clothing into half the space needed. We shall see.

All in all, I'm glad we now have an actual "boys room."

Never write an entry in the middle of the night while having somewhat of a nervous breakdown

Because this is what you get.

Last week I was so frustrated with myself because I had been staying up so late every night. Going to bed at 1am, and still doing two baby feedings per night plus answering the random wails of a 3.997 year old in need, and then waking with the kids at 7am is just too much. So as birthday season peaked over the weekend, I found myself crashing to the comforting lull of HGTV by 10pm. Which, believe me, is beyond insane for my never-give-up spirit. Ten o'clock slumber has also meant a fair amount of confusion for my body clock, which inevitably keeps me up after the 4am feeding, which is how you find me now. Blogging. At 4:32am.

When KJ was born in late September of 2002 I crashed and burned with post-partum depression. It was not something I shared with anyone beyond the confines of our four walls because I was so intent on showing everyone that I was really happy now that I had the beautiful baby I always wanted. At home, however, I was so very miserable, sobbing constantly and wondering what I had gotten myself into, and at times I felt, and I am positive Kevin felt as well, that I teetered on the edge of my sanity. I smiled for every picture, but on the inside I was a disaster. I was constantly soaked in baby puke, so much so that after a while I stopped changing my shirts and got used to its damp, smelly presence. I showered only occasionally, because the very idea of dragging my exhausted self and my new vomiting baby out of the house to anywhere in public overwhelmed me like nothing else. I no longer fit in any of my pre-pregnancy clothes, and I refused to buy a new size, which compounded the problem times ten, because I would then only go places that would accept me in pajama pants and oversized t-shirts.

I did not know at the time that KJ was a difficult infant (hindsight clears all of that up) with reflux disease times three hundred, sleep apnea complete with shrill-beeping-scare-the-life-out-of-you-because-your-baby-hasn't-taken-a-breath-in-twenty-seconds monitor, and the fact that he only slept in twenty to thirty minute increments around the clock. Beyond that, I had just lost my gramma the month before and Kevin was in law school, away from home from 6am until 11pm five days a week. It was a lot for a new mom to handle. I had a hard time asking for help though, as I always have, because I really hated to put friends and family out, or have them think I couldn't handle my new life. After all, we tried a good while for that baby, and we really wanted that baby. I gave up my career for that baby, and dammit, I was going to take care of that baby. Even if it killed me.

I was so worried that this would happen with Jack's birth as well. I didn't know what I would do with PPD and two kids. During my pregnancy last year I cannot count the times I told Kevin that if he saw me heading down that dark road he would need to call me out and have me medicated. I did not know it was PPD the first time around. But seriously contemplating ending it all at least a handful of times per week for the first five months of your baby's life? Yeah, totally depression. So when Jack was born my plan of action was to get up and get moving as quickly as possible, and not stop. Less than two weeks out of the operating room we were to Chicago for this and that, and I was taking the kids grocery shopping, and to walk the mall and anything that would prove to myself that I could handle two kids and not lose my mind over it. And I smashed my aching self back into my jeans, and made it a point to shower every day, and did anything and everything else that I thought would keep me on track.

It was also January. That really helped. As much as I love fall, and truly, I loooove the fall, I sink into goom-n-doom every year around this time. By January/February-ish, it is much easier to look forward to beautiful spring weather, and the slump is not so much there. Thankfully I pushed through with Jack's birth without issue. I kept moving and have not slowed down yet. The spring and summer were so very enjoyable, and having a diet to keep up with and losing more than fifty pounds has had me feeling better than ever.

Except for the last week or two. The fall blues have arrived, and I have caught myself here and there wondering if PPD can kick in around nine months post-pardum, because that guilty-aching-overwhelmed feeling has been coming through the cracks. I needed my house to be perfectly spotless for KJ's birthday party (if you saw a spot, it is best at this time to not tell me.) When people asked what they could bring, I told them to bring nothing, because I felt guilty that (good gravy, I am talking about my closest friends and family here) I should not be imposing in that way. I worried about inviting people I don't see often enough, not wanting them to feel like they had to bring a gift. Then as I was laying in bed starting at the ceiling just about two hours ago, I was hoping I sent enough food home with our guests, because what if I was stingy? I have this huge guilt-complex that only worsens with my fall blues, where I will walk for miles because I am so afraid of putting people out.

I had no intentions of blogging tonight. I was just going to sit and catch up on the lives of others, but then I read Stacy's latest entry, which sort of opened my eyes a bit about the whole depression/feeling-off thing. If I could accept my funk for what it is, instead of harping on myself for feeling this way, maybe I could do something about it. Like, if I had a doctor, who had a pad of prescription paper. Because I don't know why I am so fearful of admitting it when I'm down, fearful that someone would think of me as weak. Something within my brain tells me to keep pushing pushing pushing and to just get over it, every minute of every day. At this point I cannot imagine a less apprehensive or less socially awkward me. I can't imagine being laid-back, or not worrying about what kind of dope I look like as the next sentence rolls off my tongue. I can't imagine not beating myself up.

The birthday party was fine. I know beyond my nagging concerns that my house was too small and people may have been cramped, that I pulled it together enough to make sure my baby had a wonderful celebration with the people he adores. And for now, at 5:30am, that is enough for me, because I need to catch that last hour of sleep.

Because there's never enough to do during birthday season

It is birthday season in our house. Within a quick ten days we celebrate my birthday, my sister's birthday, and KJ's birthday. That is, we have a little family gathering for Sant and I the Sunday before it all begins, then celebrate each person's actual day, then a party for KJ the following Sunday, and then a final fun blow-out to end the series of fiestas, in KJ's name. Generally speaking I cannot even look at birthday cake without scrunching up my nose and squeezing my eyes shut during the entire month of October. That, and I have to wear the September Jeans.

Twenty-eight was easily one of my best birthdays ever. And since receiving my new camera I have taken a few pictures. Ok, like, just over nine hundred few. I am telling you, it's love. (You can see a sampling of the picturey goodness here.) As I read through a few of the 67 manuals, I stumbled upon a guide for all of the accessories, extra flashes and high-power lenses that can be purchased to make my camera feel complete and whole and warm and fuzzy inside, and it was then that Kevin might have wondered how good of an idea this gift really was. (It was the best idea ever.)

And because there is truly not enough to do between celebrating and eating and celebrating and eating and taking 900+ pictures, last week I began painting the boys' bedroom. I finished the painting, moved everything back into the room, hung curtains, changed bedding, and told myself that I would hang wall decor the next day and be finished.

That night KJ tried a new trick, which can be best described as modern-day Tarzan trial and error. The trial was where he swung from his new curtains. The error was where they fell off the wall.

And then the bottom three drawers of their $80-Ikea-clearance-deal-of-a-lifetime dresser collapsed atop each other for the final time (make that, collapse number 9,987) before I threw a holy living fit and purchased two new ones. What more can I ask from particle board and cam locks, I suppose. Construction will begin on Saturday. What was that about this room being a quick, easy, inexpensive makeover?

Should we ever finish the construction and reconstruction and reconstruction again, I will grace the walls with the pictures that have taken over my buffet.

All this, and um, cook and clean and decorate in time for KJ's John Deere birthday bash on Sunday, which will be followed up by four-year and nine-month well doctor visits and eye appointment, a perfectly-timed portrait sitting, a preschool cupcake feast, and evening family celebration, which from here on out I will lovingly refer to as the closing ceremonies.

Oh what will I do with all the extra time?

They say it's your birthday (neh neh neh neh neh-neh) It's my birthday too - yeah (neh neh neh neh neh-neh)

Twenty eight candles today. Having attended a musical on Saturday night, a little family gathering on Sunday, and an afternoon of window shopping planned for today, I would rank this up there with one of my most celebrated birthdays ever. Please, tell me how exciting you think I am. (Ha!)

And, aside from these guys, I received the best gift ever. Ever. I made out with the box. And then I took this most-cheesy-thankful-to-be-alive-if-only-to-shoot-pictures-with-this-blessed-device picture. But you can see, it's true love. TLF, baby.



My husband? Awarded a rubbermaid full of bonus points. Enough to carry him into at least the next century.

There may not be an I in Team but there is a Pain in Paint

Slightly-lighter-than-planned cream colored ceiling and trim: Complete.

Slightly-darker-than-planned green colored walls: Wrapped up.

Aching shoulders and paint-fume headache: You better believe it.


There are a few reasons I wrote off painting forever a few years back. Similar to childbirth, amnesia sets in and all of the aches and pains and drippies on the floor begin to swirl away in a romantic whirlwind of bliss and pride for the final outcome of what could be. So in slow motion you skip joyously (hair blowing in the imaginary breeze and all) into Lowe's to find the warm colors and handy utensils that will transform your room from its tired state to a refreshing retreat. You prepare for your project by cleaning and moving furniture and dust bunnies, and telling yourself that it is a necessary evil prep step before indulging in creative progress. And then you climb to the top of the ladder, dunk your roller and reach up to begin. And a glop of paint drips in your hair, and you get dizzy from arching your back too long to look up, and you wonder what the hell you were thinking in the first place, completely forgetting that painting at eye-level while standing on the floor only lasts for about 1/74th of the project. Damn.

Here are a couple pictures from early this morning of the paint job completed. I am quite satisfied with it, even if the color dried more towards Gerber green beans rather than peas.

For whatever reason KJ insisted that the nightlight remain lit even though he is temporarily sleeping in the center of the dining room. (You can't argue with reason?)

Let the airplaning begin! Yet another pleasant surprise was how seriously easy the Wallies were to apply. I tossed each one into a bowl of lukewarm water for ten seconds and then slapped them up on the wall. Water splattered everywhere with the first couple I slapped up, so I decided to calm down a bit and simply place them on the wall as the instructions indicated, lightly patting the excess water off with a sponge. You know.

I painted little puffs of smoke behind each plane to make them a tad more interesting when my kids are laying in bed awake, which is what they do most of the time.

I am hoping Kevin will pull through with a curtain rod tonight and then I can re-load the gobs and gobs of kid stuff to where it belongs tomorrow. I swear we are jumping over toys, kid furniture and bedding with each and every move we make. That, and I'm worn out on eating dinner from KJ's bed.

Because a break for coffee, a granola bar and a blog update is every bit worth returning to a dried up paintbrush

Project Big Boy Bedroom is going well. I am surprised how quickly I am tearing through each step, and not surprised with Jack napping in quick 27 minute intervals. Last night I removed the border near the top of the room and patched all nail holes. KJ woke me at 6:40am to be sure there would be something GREEN on those walls before lunch. It worked.

While I painted the ceiling and trim a warm creamy color, Jack faced off with the dog. Jack won, as always.

If I can say nothing else wonderful about that animal, he is at least the most docile thing ever with the kids. That, and he eats mushed up carrots off the floor.

KJ was banished to the bedroom doorway where he entertained himself for most of the morning, building lego airplanes and humming random songs that made me want to dive head first from the top of the eight-foot ladder (thirty seven rounds of the Noddy theme are more than any person can handle.)

After lunch he convinced me that being in the crib in the room was much better than hanging out in the doorway. I was quite surprised how entertained they were with watching paint dry.

The color can be best described as Gerber mashed peas, which is exactly what I was going for. KJ's favorite color forever and ever to infinity is green, so I cannot tell you what excitement he meets this bedroom makeover with, proclaiming, "Thank you Mama for my GREEN ROOM!" at least fifteen times today. I am so glad he is happy.

My one issue is the glue line that is actually coming through the paint. I used wallpaper stripper to get off what I could, but I am unpleasantly surprised that my high-functioning you'll-never-remove-me-not-in-a-trillion-years adhesive is holding strong. I hope the walls are not ruined forever.

Back to painting. I believe I hear Jack, awake in a record-setting 24 minutes this time. Way to go, Stinky Pants.

Whad'ya know? It's Tuesday. And it's raining.

A little more than two years ago we took our house off the market. It had not sold in six months time and we were fed up with showings and cleaning and jumping every time some flaky realtor would call (if you're a realtor, I didn't mean you were flaky. I was referring to the person two cubes over from you. Yeah, her, with the puffy hair and excessive pink lipstick. Total flake.) In deciding to stay, Kevin signed an unwritten contract that locked him in to complete and total agreement without complaint to remodel this house, in its entirety. Almost. We did the living room, dining room, two bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen, toy room, landscaping, siding, trim and gutters, alleluia, amen.

Prior to this overhaul, I had sporadically painted rooms of the house as the mood struck me. I once did the bathroom on a rainy Tuesday night because there was yellow paint in the basement. I painted our bedroom some sort of too-dark Americana color scheme after 9/11. Seven months into my pregnancy with KJ I could stand my blue kitchen not a moment longer and painted it two days before fifty people came to celebrate Independence Day (bedrest what?) In the first four years we lived in this house, I painted nineteen times. There are six rooms on the first floor. You do the math.

I really like to paint.

Having done the entire house within a nine week span, I swore off paint brushes forever. And I have done well with that. But yesterday (you see what's coming, eh?) as I changed the sheets on KJ's bed I noticed how terribly dirty the walls are, and I thought about how when we most recently decorated this room we did not know whether KJ would share with a brother or sister, and so we compromised with a pastel Classic Pooh look. And then I thought about my boys, whose personalities are anything but pastel or Classic Pooh (more, Mack Truck meets Notre Dame defensive line, in mud.)

I called Kevin at work and left him a voicemail indicating that I had been thinking about some things that I wanted to run past him. He returned my call and meekly asked what I was planning. Thankfully, he was on board. (Really, the entire project requires him installing a new curtain rod.)

So! I have been busy! Begin,

MOLLY'S TRIUMPHANT RETURN TO PAINTING

This was their room as of yesterday morning. It is nine feet wide by eleven feet long, and contains everything from a crib and twin bed to a bookcase, dresser, rocking chair, walker, and gobs and gobs of toys. There is a two foot radius in the center of the room, for movement.

.

Unless KJ decides to tile the floor with books, in which case you enter at your own risk.

.

In an act of heroism and naive bravery, I took the boys with me in search of all things blue, green and airplane yesterday afternoon. Allllll afternoon. Behold, my palette!

.

.

I pulled together a collection of blue bedding and curtains, wall decor, and painting supplies. KJ was so excited that he begged me to paint last night, the minute we walked in the door. I made good progress today, cleaning toys and dog-hair-tumbleweed from under beds, behind dressers, and every other nook and cranny. I emptied the room, minus the crib. And of course, everything from the room had to go somewhere, which happened to be my dining room.

I present to you, my dining room, complete with bed and jumping boy, dresser, bookcase, and various toys and crap.

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The bed fits very nicely between the dining table and high chair, no?

I took a few pictures of the room once it was emptied (There is an actual floor in there!) I also took this picture, planning to share in all sincerity that once the time comes to sell this house I will miss my pretty 1904 trim, doors and doorknobs. And then I was reminded of what I would not miss. Pictured out the window. The rear deck at the Knucklehead Smith residence. It includes one crumpled up two foot plastic swimming pool from the first warm day in May, balled up ever since, a gallon jug of weed killer (you know, to complete the theme of chemical decor throughout the property) and three pop cans for good measure.

On to painting!

---

As a side note: I initially removed, but now edited and re-posted yesterday's 9/11 entry (because many of your comments were so touching) as apparently the person who took one of the pictures I linked, claiming to be so fucking patriotic, doesn't really like it when you link his photo to honor nearly 3000 people who died innocently. You know, priorities. And rather than contacting me personally, he puts an insulting message in place of the photo. Asshole.

Excuses atop Excuses

I know, I know, I have done less than well with keeping up lately. My entries have been sparse, at best. The weather has been perfectly perfect and we have found it near impossible to do anything that involves staying indoors.

Well, except for today. We were indoors for five minutes today, and a certain small someone decided to strut his stuff and STAND UP to dig through his toy container. So you know where I'll be this weekend?

Babyproofing.

Cooper

A few weeks ago I talked about our god daughter Carson and the cranial surgery she had to undergo. She has come through it like a little champ. She's still healing, of course, but doing very well.

Today is her twin brother Cooper's day for the surgery. (And as if it is not enough on one's plate to have a healing baby 2 hours away at home and a baby in surgery, it is also big brother and sister Keegan and Riley's first day of preschool today.) At last update Cooper was doing well in surgery, and they were hoping to be done early this afternoon.



Please keep my friend Cindy, and Cooper, and their family in your prayers.

Let's count how many times I use the word Rubbermaid in this entry

At 7am I woke to the completely familiar sound of Jack yelling at me. After the busy holiday weekend I had a to-do list a mile long, which included house cleaning, laundry and blogging. You were fairly sure I had abandoned the web, weren’t you?

I cleaned out dressers this morning. I had kid clothes piled far and wide throughout the house. There were piles for Goodwill, piles for Freecycle, piles for ebay, piles to be passed on to Jack after I store them among the Rubbermaid Mountain Range in the basement for three years, piles for you name it. In fact, if I knew you were about to deliver a bouncing baby boy, there would be piles for you, also.

I moved on to laundry. (I love to surprise you.) And then I moved on to cleaning. Amidst cleaning I began reflecting on the complete and utter hatred I hold in my heart for the high chair at my parent’s house, and how I would replace it to the tune of a bazillion dollars, if that were the only way. So I went with what I thought would be the cheap route, first. I called Once Upon A Child, which happens to be the only store of its kind in this great northwestern part of the state, and they were happy to announce that there were four high chairs in stock, so please scrap your to-do list and come buy one (for a bazillion dollars) right now! And also, we are taking children’s clothing! We will pay you for all those piles! Hurry!

I hurried. I neatly folded the collections of clothing and stuffed them into a gigantic Rubbermaid. I packed the diaper bag, woke the kids from their afternoon naps, and headed out the door. We drove nearly an hour in traffic to get there, and then as I parked three miles across the parking lot I wondered how I would get KJ, Jack, his carseat, the diaper bag and the Rubbermaid into the store. I left the carseat, plopped Jack and the diaper bag into the Rubbermaid, and dragged KJ behind me. We were a sight, I tell you.

I hauled my overflowing Rubbermaid to the counter, and before a price tag could be placed upon his head, I removed my small child from the container. Then the lady informed me that in the hour it took me to drive there and navigate the parking lot, twelve other people had also brought in clothing to be sold (though no other person was quite as cutesie-pie as I, having brought their items in only crinkled-up grocery bags and flopping over garbage bags.) She declared me number thirteen in line, and told me to come back in two and a half hours.

My timeslot two and a half hours away left me scratching my head as I had two easily-bored children with me, nearing dinnertime, in somewhat-uncharted territory. The only thing I know about this city is that their Old Navy is much larger than ours. And off we went.

We took our time, poking through each and every rack, playing with the please-don’t-play-with-these footballs in the aisles, and saving Jack from certain doom umpteen times as I yanked the sticky cart seatbelt from between his soft baby lips. KJ found a Halloween costume, and Jack found socks (babies don’t know enough about bribery and begging to leave the store with more than new socks, sometimes.) We then went out to dinner, which involved fast food, which involved every muscle in my head twitching after recently watching an eye-opening documentary about fast food. I knew for sure Jack shared my newly acquired views when he threw up half-digested Enfamil all over the counter as I paid. (And I apologized to the line behind me, for, you know, their loss of appetite for the next seventeen Burger King visits.)

Tired and bored, we finally trudged back into the kids’ store. While I waited for them to finish pricing the items they planned to buy from me, I checked out the used high chairs, priced approximately $2.67 below brand-new-at-Target retail. I grabbed a couple pairs of winter pajamas for Jack (again, similarly priced) and excitedly waited for my compensation for a wasted day. There were good clothes in that bin! Not a stain! Nothing faded! Everything folded so neatly! Would they give me $40? $50? $80? I couldn’t wait!

Then the lady pointed to a pile on the back counter. I saw seven pairs of pants. Then she pointed to my Rubbermaid, still nearing capacity. The store was now full, from the previous twelve people. They could not accept 90% of my clothing.

“$13.50 is your total. Would you like a store credit towards that cheap-ass high chair for $50?”

“No, thank you.”

Feeling defeated, I added my thirteen dollars worth of blanket sleepers to my Rubbermaid, stuffed the remaining two quarters in my pocket, and headed back to the car, where a man with the dirtiest fingernails I ever saw tried to defeat me permanently by running me over as I folded up our stubborn stroller in the parking space beside ours, which he was apparently entitled to upon returning to claim his $7 in children’s clothing.

On tomorrow’s list, selling all that crap on ebay. And never, never, ever going back to that store that shall now remain nameless, again.

Schooled

At 7am I woke to the completely unfamiliar sound of an alarm clock beeping. This morning I gained my title as a "get up and get the kids out the door for school" mom. Crazy!

Last night I was quite sad as I prepared things for this enormous milestone. I packed his bag with every supply on the list, and his snack for snack time, laid out his clothes, and went in to pull his covers over him before I went to bed. Looking at him I thought about what a baby he still looks like to me. It is possible that I will always see him as my baby. I don't know. I tossed and turned all night, anxious for the morning.

KJ was thrilled when we woke him, bouncing off of the walls in fact, so very excited to start school. Kevin took the morning off of work so that we both could take him on his first day. Our dog, Daniel, could sense that something was going on and went into instant depression. I think he actually took it harder than I did. KJ got some last minute Potato Head building in, we took some pictures, and jumped in the car and sped off into the sunset. Or, four blocks from home.

Walking down the long hallway holding his hand, I really wanted to turn and go home. I wanted to try again next year, and let him be a baby for a little while longer. But really, I owe this to him. He is so intelligent and so ready for this, and he needs to have a little independence. And as we approached the classroom door I knew for sure he was ready. He greeted his teacher, and immediately sat down on the floor to play with a couple of other little boys. Kevin and I stood in the doorway watching him for quite a while, and he did not even look back at us. He was enjoying himself. I pulled him away for a kiss goodbye, and told him I would be there to pick him up.

Leaving was so much easier than I imagined. Had he cried or been nervous or asked me to stay, I think that I would have lost it, and stolen him, and taken him to Chuck E Cheese for pizza and games for the rest of the day. (Probably better that I didn't share that with him.) But he was so impressive that I could not feel anything but proud, and happy for him.

I cried, and threw up, and fainted exactly no times.

We arrived a bit early to pick him up, and watched the class singing and dancing, and my little monkey right in the middle of it having a ball. When he came out of the classroom I could see a bit of worry as he looked for me, but was fine once he knew I was there. He held my hand and told me he could not wait to go back tomorrow. He had painted, and played outside, and sang songs, and had a snack, and played with, God help us all, helicopters, cars and trains. (We chose the school based solely on the fact that they had a plethora of moving things.) (Well, not really.)

So, one day down, thousands more to go. Oh what will I do with all my extra time? (You know, all five hours per week...)

Answering the age-old question of whether or not I should be committed

Tomorrow morning marks KJ's first day of school. I have thought about it eighty-seven times today, and every time it pops into my head I feel an ache in the pit of my stomach. I cannot believe we are here already.

I had this entry planned in my mind, where I would document his life and milestones and general adorableness in pictures, but then blogger went all premenstrual again and refused to upload pictures, and things around here got hectic.

Last night I noticed a little white envelope hiding in the corner of our bill box. It so subtly reminded me that if I do not open it and pay the amount which is being demanded, I will no longer be permitted to drive my car, and Kevin his, and we will receive tickets, and the boot, and our cars will be towed and impounded, and we will be imprisoned, with our licenses and children and pets revoked, and our ears will permanently ring and our noses forever itch - on the inside, so we have to pick them in front of our cell-mates. The envelope reads,

OPEN IMMEDIATELY!
IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS ENCLOSED!

It is the bill for our annual license plate renewal. I did open it, when I received it back in April. Apparently they wanted to give us plenty of time to scrape the money together, or, to make plans for that less-than-generous tax return. In fact, the BMV was so elated to make a profit off me that they even sent a bill for the SUV we traded in nearly a year ago.

OPEN IMMEDIATELY!
EXTRA BILL INCLUDED!
WE HOPE YOU DON'T NOTICE!

Either way, I stuffed it in the bill box, positive that I would remember it later. So last night after Jack fussed and cried and expressed his general hatred of mother, home and country all freaking day, I sat down to review our finances, and found the bill, two days before the plates expire.

OPEN IMMEDIATELY!
THEN STASH IT AWAY!
WHEN IT IS OVERDUE WE WILL CHARGE YOU UNGODLY LATE FEES AND LAUGH ALL THE WAY TO THE BANK!

Normally I renew our plates online in order to avoid the License Branch, which inevitably contains an extended line of the slimiest Walmart clientele on the planet, times ten. But it was too late. Renewing online involves earliness, of which I had none. Beyond that, Kevin's car was required to pass an emissions test first.

HAHA SUCKER!

So after Jack, who is apparently working with the Indiana Bureau of Motor Vehicles to make my life a living hell, was up at midnight, 2am, and 3:30-5am, I woke at 6am to drive Kevin to his train station. I returned home thirty minutes later to find my sister feeding the ever-wakeful Jack his thirteenth bottle of the night. I showered quickly and took Kevin's car to the Emissions Testing Site where I prayed like never before that the ten-year-old-majorly-abused-and-completely-neglected-clunking-piece-of-shit would pass the test. And it did. And the heavens opened up and a choir of angels sang hymns of joy.

I moved on to the BMV, where I joined the line that left the strip mall and winded to Kansas and back. When my turn came I was beyond happy that all went smoothly, my former vehicle was marked SOLD, they seized my money, and sent me on my way. I skipped back to the car, and headed home.

YOU MIGHT HAVE TRIUMPHED THIS TIME, BUT 2007 VOUCHERS WILL BE MAILED OUT EVEN EARLIER!
IN ENVELOPES MARKED 'JUNK MAIL'!
STUFFED IN MAGAZINES!
WITHIN NEWSPAPERS!
THAT ARE SOAKED WITH RAIN!
MWA HA HA HA!

Updates on the first day of school tomorrow. After I conduct a few conversations with Ralph, on the big porcelain telephone.

Excitement! Elation! Sheer Joy! Motivation! Immediately followed by the booming thud, where I dropped the blogging ball

So I bought my own web space. My own little nook of the world wide web. I was so excited that I scaled the winding staircase all the way to the bell tower and shouted my news from the rooftops! And then what did I do with that little space, you ask? Why, nothing! Nothing at all!

Do the I-just-purchased-my-own-domain jitters exist? If not, consider me completely overwhelmed and intimidated by my blank slate, and my host. You will know that I encountered the eight trillion hours required for an amateur to pull it together, when hell freezes over. Or, when I announce otherwise. Until then, peek over there if you like, but it will be a work in progress. A messy, messy work in progress.

Onward!

Yesterday Kevin and I celebrated our ninth anniversary. Really, it isn’t scary to say, but when I typed it, it looked odd. Nine? Nine what? Years? Yes, years. See, scary? Anyway, we have now spent one third of my life together, and we marked the milestone by packing up the kids and spending the day at Notre Dame. It could not have been more appropriate. (Well, it could. Like, if I told you that I convinced him to stop at the Gigantic Gap Outlet on our way there. Which we did. And how appropriate. Happy anniversary to me.)

So are you noticing that the I-just-purchased-my-own-domain jitters have carried over here? I can’t get anything out past sporadic thoughts, sentence fragments and three hundred contractions. This may go down in history as the lamest blog entry ever. I will take my trophy gold plated, thanks.

But in a last-ditch effort to save myself from the shame and disappointment of loserdom, I will attempt to save this entry. Direct from my dying digital camera I invite you to enjoy an overly-dark video of Jack army-crawling across the living room floor.

The entry to which you pair Rocky running to the top of the stairs music, and hop up and down all sweaty and victorious with fists raised

Do you think about things while you’re in the shower? I do all the time. While showering today, I remembered what it was like to be seventeen. It's odd, because I so rarely think about my days as a teenager, except for today. When I was seventeen I graduated from high school, and my family moved from the south side of Chicago to BFE Indiana. At seventeen, living in Chicago, I worked and went to school, and paid for my own fun and my own things. In working my part-time jobs I got along well with everyone. I had a great work ethic, and realized that I was capable of a lot more than I liked to let on. I decided to work hard that last year of high school (as opposed to working just hard enough to keep parents and teachers happy) and I earned perfect grades. I knew that I was capable of it but for whatever reason, was opposed to proving myself or dealing with what I saw as the bullshit of competition. At seventeen I felt different about myself. I felt more free, and more aware, like I was making strides. I had more self-esteem, and I was learning about myself.

My seventeen outlook lasted through college, where I applied myself all over the effing place and impressed even my overly-critical self. After that I worked as a teacher for a couple years, and then I started a family and became career-less by choice. Motherhood shocked the living hell out of my system, and having no idea how to define myself any longer, without a paycheck and fighting the June Cleaver title I hated to infinity (plus one,) I wore pajama pants and oversized tshirts and didn’t give two shits who I impressed because I was always covered in baby puke with my head demonically spinning from exhaustion, trying to figure out what the hell happened to all the people that appreciated my brains and hard work, instead of those who critiqued the cleanliness of my house and the quality of my dinners.

As being twenty-seven comes to a close (and don’t you dare snarl and snicker about how young I am, GAHHH) I am feeling seventeen again. I am feeling seventeen, plus ten (appropriate, right?) I re-encountered the notion that I do well when I apply myself, so I should probably do something with it. I don’t exactly know what that something is, but I know for sure that it means more than scrubbing laundry stains a bit harder. And though I am responsible for caring for three other lives, I am also responsible for doing something with my life. It has taken more than four years, but maybe I am finally learning to define myself, both as a stay-at-home-mom and an individual. (Apparently I am gifted in academic scenarios, but suck at adjusting to life.) I have been reading books – books that have nothing to do with positive discipline strategies or what to expect while expecting. This blog re-opened the door to writing, and to remembering that I have a brain that requires an occasional challenge, and inadvertently to my new interest in taking pictures.

Being ok with myself as a mom and an individual also means bucking the system a bit – the system that may only exist in my mind, or that may actually exist, where I define myself only by my duties as a wife and mother, and where going places and doing things for myself and having interests that do not involve my children, is to be frowned upon. I have no idea where the guilt comes from that American mothers put on themselves, but I am seriously going to work on it. Starting tomorrow. Because today I have to scrub stains out of laundry.

So as to not fall ass-first through the floor

Really, we would like to move away. Some days I would like Away to be farther than others. Today, Away is anywhere that does not involve a quaint house built in 1904 sitting next to anything that rhymes with Bucklehead or Myth.

When it comes right down to it, we did not pay much for our house. We signed the papers knowing that it was a “fixer-upper” and thinking that we would live here for two years. More than six years later, it is still in fixer-upper process, and though it is much nicer than when we began, I sometimes wish we would have cut our losses and jumped when two years rolled around.

The thing about a house that was built in 1904 and purchased as a fixer-upper is that the fixer-uppings just never end, especially when previous owners did not have the same mindset. Furthermore, you spend so much money on that which needs to be fixed that somehow your pockets are empty when the time comes to save for that newly remodeled gem in a nice neighborhood, where neighbors store chemicals in cabinets, in their garages. My ridiculous standards, I know.

We knew for a long time that our toilet, which happens to be the only one in the house, was having problems. If I was gunning to gross you out I would disclose that the catch phrase for our toilet was, “you can’t fart in it without needing the plunger.” (I was gunning.) The other minor issue with our toilet was that it was sinking through the bathroom floor, completely unsupported as the previous homeowners had cut through those unnecessary, in-the-way beams that keep the house from collapsing into the dark, cold dungeon that is the basement. When my dad came by to have a look last week, he advised that we not sit down hard. Hmm.

This weekend my husband and father joined forces to remove said toilet and replace the floor. I, with my children in tow, ran scared to my mom’s house for the weekend. But I called for updates every now and then.

“How’s it going?”

“We went to several different stores, and no one had the toilet you wanted in stock. This is going to cost more money.”

“No kidding.”

---

“How’s it going?”

“We took the old toilet off. It had sunk a full two inches below the rest of the room. It is now resting in the middle our back yard. The neighbors have finally accepted us into their clique.”

“Lovely.”

---

“How’s it going?”

“We removed the flooring. We removed the first sub-floor. And then the second. They were so rotted you could have dug to the basement with your fingernails.”

“Nice.”

---

The kids and I returned home on Sunday evening where the house was buzzing with excitement for a job well done (and in case I didn’t say it, they really did an impressive job.) No one fell through the floor, and yet another twelve square feet of our home was safe from eternal damnation. Except for the three-inch-thick layer of dust covering everything. They sanded down the new sub-floors without covering…anything. I spent the entire morning and much of the afternoon scrubbing every surface, every picture frame, every statue, and every toy in four rooms. And I followed that up with a thorough vacuuming of hardwood flooring, carpeting, and brand new furniture alike.

Away is still a place that is in the dreaming-of stages. Providing that nothing else collapses, shorts out, or explodes in the next year or two, we are soo getting out. The projects are nearing completion (so help me.)

Oh no! Ack! Ugh! No! Bah! Doh!

So we had to run to Walmart this afternoon, the land of inexpensive diapers and hostile employees. We ran from the house to the car in the rain, and then half way across the parking lot in the rain, just as fast as my legs could drag my three year old while carrying my baby and cute but bulky microfiber diaper bag that is forever slipping off my shoulder. We were a sight.

Just recently I started sitting Jack in the cart because he is much too heavy to be carried in his baby carrier. He sits fairly well, though between the occasional topple or trying to suck on the nasty disgusting seatbelts I have to be very vigilant with him (I totally am buying one of these next time we are out.) So while I kept one eye and one hand on Jack, and the other eye on KJ as he ran circles around the cart, we buzzed through the store grabbing what we needed like Supermarket Sweep. We needed things like qtips, Lean Cuisines, oatmeal, dog food, batteries, and diapers, which meant trecking through the entire superstore, and by the time we reached the mile-long line, I was beat. I was powerless to combat the barrage of begging for cheetos and overpriced lemony bottled water, and when our turn finally rolled around to toss our stuff on the belt, I did so quickly, because the time to get the eff out of that store had come.

I worked fast, loading the belt, getting the bags back into the cart, lifting the case of bottled water for the clueless checker who simply does not know how to enter the item without putting it through the reader while trying to hang on to my kids. Every mom's favorite part of shopping, for sure. So as I did all of this my wonderful communicator of a three year old announces that, "Mom, My butt itches."

I ignore it, and hope it goes away.

I pull the nasty belt out of Jack's mouth, swipe my card and sign, and start towards the door. But as I look up to grab KJ, I hear the lady in the next line laughing. And then I look at KJ. His pants and underpants are at his ankles, and he is scratching his little white buns in the middle of the freakin store.

Holy crap!!

I grabbed him as fast as I could and yanked up his drawers, and flew out of the store and back into the rain. After loading the bags and buckling in the children, I began a conversation with KJ as we drove from the parking lot. I told him about private parts and how you shouldn't let the general public see them, and about how all people need privacy and there are certain things that we only do in private. I explained the negatives of scratching your tushie in the middle of any store, and I hoped he caught on.

And then he responded, "Mom, if Walmart ever catches on fire we need to run out right away."

Right.

Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right, Here I am, Stuck in the middle with you

On Saturday morning my dad drove up to pick up my kids for the weekend, as Kevin and I were heading to Milwaukee for Carson’s surgery. It was hectic as always, packing kids, bedding, formula & diapers, baby gear, medicines, and all that jazz. It did not bother me so much to leave KJ because has successfully slept over at my parents’ house before, and also because he is three years old, which means he is reeeeally good at voicing his opinion. It bothered me a bit more (or, a lot more) to part with Jack for the weekend, at all of seven months old. He is a little more particular about things, and a lot more impatient, and he is highly attached to me. But knowing that my parents successfully raised four children and lived to tell about it gives me the confidence that yes, surely they will handle my two for 36 hours.

So we loaded them into the car, along with their 57 tons of crap, and kissed them goodbye. As I walked back into the house the quiet was almost eerie. Being a stay-at-home-mom I am very rarely home without children, so naturally the house seemed very still, and very empty, and very sad.

I showered quick, we threw our stuff in the car, and we headed north. By the time we had gotten on the expressway with the a/c blasting and the radio blaring I was feeling pretty good, and pretty free, and a little responsibility-less. We talked the entire four hour drive which may not seem unusual to the average Joe, but anyone with multiple young children knows that four hours of uninterrupted adult conversation is a hot commodity. We also had adult conversations with our friends while the baby slept, and we went out to dinner and got a table for four, rather than for four adults and six children, and only the wait staff noticed our presence. We stayed in a hotel room with only one bed, and forced ourselves to sleep in to the wasted-day hour of 9am. It was nice, and enjoyable, and fun, and it reminded me of the “we” that we were before having kids, and for some reason allowing those thoughts to run through my head made me feel so damn guilty.

Leaving your children in the care of your parents for the weekend is not the most horrible thing to do, I know. And enjoying yourself? Not a bad thing either. But somehow in my mind, permitting myself to wonder what life would be like had we decided to wait to have kids, brought on the guilt, big. I love them, of course! I love them with every fiber of my being, and I am one hundred percent dedicated to them, around the clock, to a fault. But we also had them while we were pretty young by today’s standards, so in some ways they are growing up with us. And we have quite a few friends who have not taken the kid plunge yet, so as we enjoyed the long drive I did contemplate what we would do with all that time, and all that money. Ha!

What would we be like? Surely we would be financially secure. Can you imagine just TWO people living on TWO incomes? Insanity! We might go to movies, or out to dinner, or drink more wine. We would have more stuff, of that I am sure. Our cars would be more fun and not involve the word “van,” and our out-of-town trips would be more frequent. We would be more selfish, and less flexible. We would not value our alone time like we do now, and we would not have learned to work as a team so well. Christmas would bring more expensive gifts, but nowhere near the happiness it brings to play Santa for our kids. Going on trips and taking outings to new places would somehow not be as exciting. And I remember well what it was like to come home from work everyday to an empty house, and to want so badly to reach my ultimate goal of being a mom. I would more than likely still wish for that, daily, because I know for sure this is who I was cut out to be. And, if our infertility was something that got progressively worse, waiting to start a family might have meant being just the two of us forever.

Simply by being themselves, our kids push us to be better. As they get older and we better understand what parental responsibilities mean (because truly, parenting a six month old and parenting a 3½ year old with a full vocabulary and memory are two entirely different ball games,) we are learning to hold ourselves to higher standards. We keep up with our house not only because we should, but because we are setting an example. We have changed our eating habits, as well as theirs, and we are more purposeful in everything from what we read and watch on tv to how we choose to spend our Saturday afternoons. We have become very goal-oriented, and we are working to create the best possible life for all for of us.

I don’t know how I could be this happy without starting our family when we did.

So on Sunday we headed back to pick up the kids, hauled all of their crap back to the car, drove home quietly as they slept, hauled all that stuff back into the house, and finally put them to bed, only then to start unpacking, I was really happy with the way things are. Even when I dragged my tired ass into bed way too late without making a peep so as not to wake our little seven month old roommate, who woke on his own for a bottle an hour later, and stayed up an additional hour to make up for lost time. Could not be happier.

First night of working late to which I say waah waah waah, and other random thoughts

Kevin called. He will be staying a bit late tonight. And I am a bit spoiled.

For the first three years of our marriage Kevin nearly always worked late. He worked late so often I don't know why we did not refer to 9pm as the norm and 7pm as early. When he changed companies a couple years ago, though, working late came to a screeching halt, and we entered into the glorious era of eating dinner before dark.

But this job requires a bit more from time to time.

Which, really, I am cool with.

Except for when it really happens.

Because it should not fail that when he calls to say he will be late, it is when I have just returned a sweaty mess from a walk across town pushing a double stroller in the name of excessive exercise. I really should save that walk only for when I am dared by someone.

And he would call when the house looks like this, and when Jack looks like this, telling me to kiss his little white buns if I think an evening nap is in his future, swing or no swing, so prop me on your hip and sing a happy tune while you cook, woman.

And also, when my muscles are just too achy and fatigued from pushing sixty pounds of kids across town to even dream of pulling dinner together. And, oddly enough, that sixty extra pounds was actually part of my body eight months ago.

And, too many ands. And.

It's a black fly...in your chardonnay. It's a death row pardon...two minutes two late. And isn't it ironic? Don't ya think? He should be home just as the last child closes his eyes for the night and I lay near-lifeless in the middle of the cluttered living room floor. I will hope he does not trip on me while wondering aloud what is for dinner.

---

Really, it isn't all that bad. I will feed them ice cream and green beans for a balanced dinner, and shovel the toys towards the door. And when the authorities show up I will gladly hand the children over, warning that neither the baby nor the child consistently sleep through the night and I will pick them up perky as all rested get-out in the morning, thanks.

---

On to the other random thoughts, separated creatively by little ---s. Flow, creativity, flow.

---

I have sixty four blog entries swirling in my head, waiting to be written. They include such topics as my shoes, my dog and what his life could come to if he continues to nose through his dish for all of the chewy pieces of food while knocking all of the crunchy leftovers across the kitchen floor, what the drive to Wisconsin was like this weekend and my thoughts on what life might be like had we no children yet, why a peculiar number of weeds resembling those I once ate in a gourmet salad have suddenly taken residence across my entire front lawn, but only on one side, and the story of our friend Matt, who consumed more shrimp linguine than any human or animal should be permitted, and followed it up with ice cream.

---

It bothers me that the Knucklehead Smith children next door play with weed killer. It bothers me more that a can of mineral spirits has been sitting in the direct center of their front porch for six weeks now. It bothers me the most that for the last three days a half full, open container of gasoline lays in what was once their landscaping, now weed patch, near my driveway. Don't believe me? Stop by.

---

Jack slept in his crib for the last two nights (read: in the same room as his brother.)

I slept very little during the last two nights.

Jack has returned to our bedroom.

---

Though I have not found the time to sit and watch faithfully, my love for Big Brother has taken me to an all new low. Or high, if you are a fan and cheering for me in my desperation to know what is going on in the house. I bought the live feed. And it is fun!

When you stop by to view my neighbors' chemical collection, we will drink cold coffee and watch that live feed for as long as my children remain quiet, out of trouble, and entertain themselves. Heh.
---

I do not have as many random thoughts as I originally imagined.

---

Finally, random, but informative... Thanks so much for your thoughts and prayers for Carson. She is home, and very happy to be there. She seems to be doing much better now that she is home, eating again and getting back to her old self. She still has a long way to go, but is making good progress.

Carson

Our god-daughter Carson and her twin brother Cooper were born last November, nine weeks premature. They are the younger of two sets of twins in their house (and they keep their mother verrry busy!) Carson weighed only three pounds and spent just under a month in the neonatal intensive care unit at her hospital. She is a little fighter, coming off of her ventilator and feeding tube quickly, and getting home just as fast as she could. She is the sweetest little girl you can imagine, with a smile that is contagious. Her bubbly, sunny personality is amazing.



Carson is now eight months old and doing great - rolling, playing, holding her own bottle, and doing all of the other adorable things babies do. But she also has a condition called craniosynostosis that has to be treated. And as I mentioned last week, she will be having her surgery tomorrow.


Though we have talked through the whole process, I cannot imagine what it would be like to walk in Cindy's shoes. To be the mother of this sweet baby that has to go through a surgery of this magnitude. The road getting here, being diagnosed, driving two hours to see specialists again and again, cat scans, xrays, preparing for this surgery for months, mentally and otherwise, has been so very stressful for their whole family. The surgery tomorrow should take about six hours, and then the road to recovery will begin. And unfortunately for them, Cooper's surgery for the same problem, though more complicated, will take place a little more than three weeks from now.


Please keep Carson in your thoughts and prayers tomorrow, and through the weekend as she goes through all of this. You can look at Carson's page here for updates throughout the weekend, and I will update here when we return home.

For a moment like this...

...Some people wait a lifetime,

For a loveseat like this

Some people search forever,

For that one special couch,

Oh, I can't believe it's happening to meee

Some people wait a lifetime,

For a lamp-set like thiiiissssss

.

Oh. Yes. I. Did. I just went all Kelly Clarkson on your ass. Remember this entry? The one with the pictures of my horribly beat up furniture, full of holes and tears and torn out batting and stains and stains on top of stains? Well, look what showed up at my house today! Ding ding ding! I was the lucky winner!

.

I realize that the pictures are not as bright as they should be for you to get the full effect, but I just could not wait to share this wondrous news with my friends in my computer. This furniture is neeewwww. The cushions are fluffy and bounce back after you sit on them. They even have velcro on the underside so that they do not slide off as you stand up (or as your child plays slip-n-slide, whatever.) The pillows are puffy and fluffy and it all smells so nice and new. It is also huge. So huge, in fact, that they damn near could not get it into my house. The delivery guys decided to use the back door since my 1904 house was not built with such wonderful luxuries in mind, 102 years down the road. They managed to get the couch up the back stairs, and then had to get it through the kitchen. Now, if you have ever stepped foot in my 12x5 kitchen (I soo wish I was exaggerating) you know that this feat should be impossible. Luckily, as I was grinding my teeth and offering to help (Mr Wish-I-Was-Macho Delivery Guy says, "Lady, I've been doing this for 11 years") they moved the stove far enough over to not cram the couch through the ceiling or cabinets.

.

So there it sits.

And tonight we popped for new lamps, real lamps, that did not involve Ikea or $9.99. Originally I really wanted the matching end tables, but we decided that another several hundred dollars for tables we really did not need might teeter on the edge of frivolous. So I worked in the lamps.

You can see a few more pictures here on flickr. I am sure that I will somehow update you tomorrow with all new look how killer it looks in the daylight pictures. But for now, I must go look things over, for as I wrote this very entry my husband enjoyed himself some beer and pizza on it.

Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon

The early part of the weekend was eventful. It involved things like collecting worldy possessions (desk junk) from jobville-no-longer while hoping to not be towed from beneath a teensy little sign that alluded to NO PARKING, NOT NOW NOT EVER, the foot of a large man (that I happen to be lawfully associated with) crashing through a floor vent in the Sears Tower, baby puke splattered in various areas of said high-rise, and crumpling my front bumper on the aluminum siding of a mobile home. Talk amongst yourselves.

After all that we decided to have a laid back Sunday. We dreamed of watching movies and being named the lucky recipients of foot rubs from our dedicated children...of taking walks, and sipping drinks and eating massive quantities of chocolate by the end of the night. (Ok the chocolate part was my dream.) But when it came right down to it, there was yardwork, and housework, and laundry, oh my!

Some of us wondered why we were not going anywhere, because chores are for the birds.

Eventually we moved on to actual fun, like playing with our new kitchen set. On Saturday we went to the town-wide garage sales south of here, and I grabbed this baby with all the food and dishes two little boys could want for just $2.00!

We thoroughly tested out the food, to make sure that it was really pretend.

Ack! Blech! What is this rubberized immitation of wholesome goodness? Are you telling me there is such a thing as fake food?

By the end of the evening we managed to grill some steaks and play some backyard football. Half of us (the older, male two, who happen to have higher metabolism than a certain dieting, deprived, starving young mother) even took a walk to the local DQ for a treat.



Turned out well except for the chocolate. But I made up for the lack of chocolate. By buying these. And eating this. Whee!

Two weeks notice, completed.

Tomorrow is Kevin’s last day at work. Well, not forever, because of course he will go to work again on Monday. But Monday will bring new work.

Tomorrow I will pick him up across the street from the Sears Tower for the last time, and he will quickly hurl his boxes into our car and dive into the front seat, and we will speed away. Cars will beep and people will wave. A parade, in his honor for his most recent accomplishment? No. Just picking him up at 5pm on a Friday in the normal cut-throat Loop traffic. Those beeps and waves will be gentle reminders for us and our boxes to get the hell out of the way before they run our motherfreakin asses over.

I know that in the past I have griped about not having enough money for things, and about being in debt, and this job is really going to help us along. I feel like we are steadily creeping towards our goals, learning huge lessons along the way. Since we got married, and especially since having kids I have found myself frustrated with sacrifices such as switching from the expensive and trendy haircut girl to the thank-you-for-the-six-minute-$12-trim-and-if-I-return-next-month-might-you-remember-my-name? lady. I have learned over the years, though, that clearance clothes are every bit as new as full price, the haircut will inevitably grow out in less than 30 days anyway, and will spend at least 23 of those 30 hiding in a pony-tail, and to appreciate the fact that we can afford it at all, because many people can’t.

Crawling before learning to walk makes you appreciative. And when you finally are on your feet, you know beyond the shadow of a doubt that you need to bless others with what you have been given.

We are experiencing good times right now. We are in a place that I just did not think possible for us. We did not win the lottery, and we were not gifted some inheritance. We have worked and prayed. And when your prayers begin to be answered you know that you must be damn lucky, because there are lots and lots of people with the same prayers and the same work ethic. And you have to keep yourself in check, and go above and beyond your norm to pay it forward, because experiencing good times comes with the responsibility of sharing.

We have family and friends that are going through very difficult times right now. My aunt, who is someone I really looked up to as a little girl, will undergo her second breast cancer surgery tomorrow. She is young, and vibrant, and the matriarch of her family, and no one could have seen this coming for her. We know that she has the strength and determination to fight through this battle, but the fact that this battle is hers at all makes me shake my head and use my full vocabulary of profanities to describe how this shit is totally not fair. In addition, our eight month old god-daughter Carson will undergo surgery next week for craniosynostosis, which was caused by the premature fusion of the sutures in her skull. In a four to eight hour operation, surgeons will go in and remove a large portion of her skull, ear to ear over the top of her head, and then close it up with plates and screws. She is the most adorable little girl with the sweetest personality, and again, I cannot come up with words to describe how badly this sucks.

So thank God that tomorrow closes a chapter in our life, but more importantly, we are praying for our family and friends.

Oh the places you'll go! There is fun to be done! There are points to be scored! There are games to be won!

Landing a new job is exciting. It gives you a change of scenery and a bump in salary. It gives you a new outlook for the future and a new foundation on which to plot and plan your upcoming trips, automobile purchases, home furnishings, further schooling, and new home. Being the one guy that worked hard enough and spoke persuasively enough to beat out all the others for the position makes you feel like a million bucks. Being that guy’s wife makes you feel at least like 897,635 bucks, which is much more than that dollar you had in your pocket the day before.

But if you’re a nit-wit, landing a new job also involves buying new furniture, new clothing, new clothing, and more new clothing, and going out to dinner twelve times more than you can currently afford. Because, dummy, they do not pay you at that new place until, um, you actually work there.

So after getting caught up in all the excitement and living like the Queen I am not (married to the man who’s been living like the King he is not, mothering the children who have been accumulating toys and clothing like the Princes they are not) I had to pay bills yesterday. And whaddya know, when I opened the credit card bill a pair of big red lips leapt from the envelope and gave me the biggest, wettest kiss ever, and said thank you, stupid woman, for giving our company your money, now pay us a very small percentage of what you owe, and then continue to do so and we will charge you interest on that pair of Gap jeans that really was the ultimate bargain, for the rest of your natural life.

I knew I never should have thrown all that money out the windows.

Of course, the first thing we will do is pay it all off (using the first seventeen and a half paychecks.) We’ve paid for the sofas, we’ll pay for the Gap jeans, we’ll pay for the spending extravaganza in Tommy Hilfiger. We’ll pay for every meal eaten at every restaurant in the three neighboring towns. And then we will say it was fun while it lasted, and hunker down and save for a new house.

I have always been a planner, and I am terribly over-analytical. I like to know what is next on the agenda and how quickly I can get there. I don’t know why that is, but if you observe the timeline of my adult life, it is painfully evident: graduate from college, get job, buy house, get married, quit job, have baby, have another baby, sell baby stuff, plan for new house. If I thought you could read it, I would have removed the punctuation in between those milestones and squished the words together to create a blur, because sometimes when I look back that is how fast it has all happened. I have only been out of school for six years, but have been moving at breakneck speed ever since. Sometimes it is a blessing, in the instance of the kids, and other times it is a curse, like with duh-ebt. I had visions for myself, once Jack was born and we were finished adding to our family, that I would calm down and be normal. Heh. That lasted for about as long as the c-section stitches.

I can only hope that all of this analyzing, planning and hard work pays off in the end – that we come out of all this with great memories and no regrets, and no debt. And if not, there is always Plan B.

Yard sale success, mostly

So we had a yard sale. It was 101 degrees with what felt like 89% humidity, and we hauled everything from couches to clothing out to the front lawn, and then sat on the porch for six hours while people gave us money for our crap. It wasn't a bad gig.

We eventually set some ground rules for KJ (stay on the porch and keep quiet!) little Mr. Sociable mingling with the would-be customers. He gave a sales pitch for whatever our shoppers looked at, "That's Jack's swing," and "That's our old couch. We are bought a nice new one." Without knowing it, he also harassed the people that moved on without buying (using his announcement-type voice,) "What Daddy, that man doesn't have any money??"

I tried to make things as simple as possible. I priced all of the clothing one price, and then smacked little sticky price tags on the rest. Our baby clothes went pretty well, with one of our first shoppers buying $31 worth at fifty cents apiece. I was ok with selling the baby swing. The changing table sold for the same price that we originally paid for it (how's that for four years of free?) I was still uneasy with selling our bassinet, as well as somewhat relieved that by noon it was still ours. Still our pretty white little baby bed, still as new-looking as the day my sister bought it for us, still only slept in by my sweet little babies, still holding the memories of the newness and excitement and dreams for my precious, tiny babies. And as I had these blissful thoughts I was blindsided by a woman in a beat-up van asking, "Hey will you take $25 for this?"

What, are you crazy?

The sticker says $30. We can bargain til the day is done on the nasty ass couch or the blow-up baby pool, but that beautiful white bassinet is $30. Hopes and dreams, lady. Myyyyy memories and dreams. For my conceived-in-spite-of-infertility and born-prematurely-under-the-awfulness-of-preeclampsia babies.

She was good with the $30.

She brought the money up to the porch, and instead of throwing up right there in the middle of my own created mini-market, I turned on my heels and went in the house. I let Kevin take the money, and load it in her car, and I hid in the basement until she was gone. I want to think that she, visibly not pregnant, knows someone with similar dreams and excitement for a sweet little baby (though not possibly as sweet as mine.) I hope that mama spends as many hours gazing over the side of that bed at her most precious baby, and I hope that baby keeps her up all. friggin. night.

We also put our living room furniture out in the sale, since the new stuff will arrive next week. We figured that we could manage for a week on just the loveseat in order to make a buck on the couch and chair. After all, we would just kick it to the curb free of charge a week later. We got a few lookers, and then our buyer came through ---- Mr. Knucklehead Smith himself. We learned that he moves furniture for a living, for a rent-to-own store, and by the way he bear-hugged our couch and carried it home (holy freaking shit!) Kevin learned to never physically tango with that man. Goodbye couch and chair! You will no doubt be covered in kool-aid by morning.

As the afternoon heat peaked we closed up our sale, feeling quite satisfied. There was lots less clutter in our house, and a little more money in our pockets. And late last night as we got the kids to bed and settled down for a little tv time, I realized that we would have to share. the. loveseat. Kevin scooted over from his sprawled out state (as much as a 6'4 man can sprawl on a mini-couch) and said, "Come on, it'll be like the old days in college when we were happy to sit together on the loveseat in my dorm room."

Then I picked up the remote, which was smeared with jelly from my husband's late night snack, and mumbled something about the college loveseat days and not knowing about his sticky habits back then. (Hurry, multiple pieces of new furniture, hurry!)

Where I go all Lion King on ya'll and sing about the Circle of Life. And brag a lot, too.

Not that I haven't been working on it with him for over a year now, but I was shocked when I suggested KJ write his name, and he did. Just like that. Unassisted, people!

For some reason every time my children hit another milestone lately (which seems to be happening like crazy,) I feel so very proud, and also a twinge sad. My little preemie baby who is barely seven months out of my womb, born at a mere four pounds and taking 1/4 ounce at feedings in his first days of life, can speak, and sit, and roll, and peruse an entire room at his own discretion, just by maneuvering his body in what we shall call pre-crawling. My big boy, also born a preemie and seemingly just yesterday was hitting his brother's milestones, recognizes all of his letters and even a handful of words in print, is now writing on his own, can give you all the information you ever wanted to know about the jet engine of a B2 Stealth Bomber or 747, is turning four soon and for heaven's sake is going to school in a few weeks.

The bottom line is, they're wonderful, intelligent kids. And they're going to grow up and leave me someday. And every day they get a little closer to doing that.

**Edited to add: Could this sadness also be linked with my putting little sticky yard sale price tags on things like our baby swing, bassinet, and changing table over the last few days, and having the are you sure talks with my husband as I did so more because maybe I am not so sure (because infertility treatments and pre-eclampsia are da bomb, baby) and also, maybe I'm a bit young for being done having kids, no?

BlogWho?

This weekend there is a big hoopla taking place in the blogging world: it's the BlogHer conference. I? In attendance? No. It's being held in California. And I really don't know that I am dedicated enough to my blog at present to travel across the country to A) learn how to better craft it, or B) meet my favorite, most worshipped blogging icons in the world. In fact, more than likely, I would leave my young family for the weekend, spend more money than we possess (as if that takes much) to cover plane tickets, hotel costs, conference fees, and, my God, shopping in California, only to arrive and bump into the totally cool and somewhat famous, and then revert to the shy awkward twelve-year-old that lurks within my person; then stupidly grin, then grunt, then drool, then die. See? Not going. I can't wait to read what they all have to say, though. And maybe someday, after I practice like holy living hell with writing and defining my style, and writing, and um, writing, and get my own URL (like fremanitis.com) I will attend BlogHer (in 2056, approximately.)

So what shall I do this weekend, other than stalk blogs far and wide to read the great happenings on the west coast? Well, I will finish up my root canal! (Slap my ass and call me Suzy...Fun! No?) Ok, well, I am also listing ebay. And having a yard sale. And then we are taking all that fresh dough and heading out to a little slice of heaven for some let's-pretend-he-landed-a-new-managerial-position-at-a-bajillion-dollar-company-and-should-dress-like-it shopping. What's that? He did? Oh yes! He did!

So yes, there's our weekend. (I tell you this as if I will not be back tomorrow.) The work has begun as I tore through our closets today, filling rubbermaid after rubbermaid to the brim, hoping to make big bucks on that which no longer fits. I have been organizing, and sorting, and soon will come the pricing. I have been doing laundry, and cleaning the basement, and (do not) look forward to attacking the attic. (Now why would anyone want to leave all this for a conference full of blogging wonders and booze? Pshaw.)

But alas! I have help! And cute help, at that.

Hi ho Hi ho, it's off to work I go...