I finally had two minutes today to sit down and catch up on some blog reading (and while I'm coming clean here, I'm copping to reading Celebrity Baby Blog) when I got to this Toby Show post. And while I think my living room floor could still give her elevendymillion pieces of wooden train track a run for it's money, I decided to take a picture of my computer desk instead.
The desk is about 20 feet from the front door, which means that it's usually the first place I see to set down anything when I come home. Which would probably be fine, except that it's also the place that everyone else sees when they walk in the door. I not-so-affectionately call it the dumping ground. And about once a week, it ends up looking like this.
Two ipods, countless cords, two different lotions, a pair of Ellie's socks, a mostly used tube of Balmex, my planner, my new cell phone box, and about a thousand other little pieces of junk.
And if you look in the keyboard space underneath the desk you'll see a copy of The Joy of Sex. Curt inexplicably decided to read it on the couch the other night after the kids were in bed, and I had to hide it in a fast hurry when someone stopped by. And then, being me, I totally forgot it was there until I took the pic. (I put it back in it's proper child-free place, I promise)
And because Evan can't bear to see the flash of the camera without wanting to be photographed, here he is on the sofa, pant-less, next to a basket of unfolded laundry that I'll probably ignore until my OCD husband folds it (just being honest here). On the table is Ellie's nebulizer, with the tubing and mask laying on Lucas' homework, which I now see, he forgot to turn in today.
I'd show you my bedroom closet, but think maybe I'll save that for Halloween.
Curt walks into the kitchen in the wake of a conversation I'd had with the 15-year-old, and I am literally beating my head off of the cabinet. It started when Michael had asked why he was grounded and in turn I listed in great detail why he wasn't going to be getting his iPod or DS back anytime soon. And I really should have just saved my breath, because all this garnered me was a blank stare and an "Okay. But why I am grounded?"
I collapse into Curt. "They're all so exhausting, they just drain you."
"I know, and what worries me is that one day they'll be a drain on the economy. And they're not living here forever.", he says.
"That actually doesn't worry me so much, they all know how to do dishes." I offer feebly.
Just then Brett saunters into the room, wearing full body fleece pajamas, complete with dinosaur print and footies. Only he's got them unzipped and hanging down by his waist, chest naked and pale, bouncing to whatever noise is playing in his head.
"And that one?" Curt looks skeptical.
"Christ, he'll be fine. If anyone of them is going to make millions, it's that one.", I say.
Curt rolls his eyes. "Only if he can find a job making excuses."
This past week Curt's grandfather died. And although it wasn't altogether unexpected, it was still hard on everyone, and especially hard to watch his family go through it. Thankfully, everyone seems to be coping well and getting back to a somewhat even keel.
And the insanity that is our life came crashing back in the day after the funeral. Michael had wrestling practice, and after he'd gotten home we were standing in the kitchen, talking, as I cooked dinner.
"And today at practice the power went out for about 30 minutes."
"Oh yeah", I said absentmindedly, "Were you able to still practice?"
"Um mom, the lights were out.", Mike gives me the parents-are-so-dense eye roll.
Brett continues the thought. "Yeah. I don't know about you, but rolling around on the floor, in the dark with sweaty teenage boys wearing singlets doesn't sound like how I'd like to spend my time mom."
Thanks to the double digits of snow we got and the temperature wallowing in the single digits, we've all been largely trapped indoors. And I have a whole new definition for the cute little term 'cabin fever', insidious and nasty little virus that it is.
And despite that the older four had school the last two days, there is no recovery in sight. Worse yet, is that Evan and Ellie are so bad off, I've taken to peeking at them at night, just to remember why they're worth the facial tic and the jaw sore from clenching my teeth.
This all culminated in what was one of the worst evenings we've had in a long time. If you've ever wondered what a six way match would look like in the WWE, I can assure you it wasn't pretty. Ellie was by far the most beastly, demanding to be held for two hours straight while she squirmed and cried. And I only wish I were exaggerating.
Finally, inspiration struck and I decided to play some music, hoping that if the kids would dance, she'd at the very least be amused enough to stop whining. Evan popped over and requested "Lightning McQueen" which means that I'll spend the next two days trying to get Sheryl Crow out of my head.
But it worked, she did start to calm down and soon all of the kids were joining in. And when I realized what Evan was doing, I couldn't get to the camera fast enough. Mommy blackmail is never to be underestimated.
And because I'm a giver, I present to you Evan's air guitar solo...
(Please pardon the wiggly camera, sometime during filming Ellie decided she'd like to experience gravity and get down after all)
This week I had surgery scheduled, hopefully to fix the female plumbing issues I've been having since Elle was born. The procedure itself was actually pretty painless, even after I regained consciousness. I was home the same day and by the day after was back to herding kidlets. Honestly, the hardest thing about the whole ordeal was the adjustment to the fact that it essentially rendered me sterile. Not by any stretch of the imagination do I ever want to wear pants with an elastic middle, have to step on a scale in full judgement of a nurse assistant the size of Gweneth Paltrow, or have to send Curt out for Preparation H while I hold a screaming newborn. But it's still strange to have that ability taken away, rather like man-o-pause in my early (ish) 30s.
And maybe I'm a big puss, but I did kind of feel like my head was a giant snow globe that had fallen into the clutches of Ellie. It's taking a little while for all of my thoughts and feelings about it to settle. I'm getting there, and since both Evan and Ellie will be in preschool this September, I'm starting to look forward to phase 2 of my life - the selfish years. I've started pulling up college catalogs and filling out FAFSA forms, and I'm getting pretty geeked up about having a conversation that doesn't revolve around Yo Gabba Gabba.
I didn't tell the kids what was going on, only just that I had to go in to the hospital, but I'd be home before they got back from school. As it turned out Brett beat us home that day and was a little concerned. He asked specifically what I'd been there for and when I told him I had minor surgery, he naturally wanted more details.
"It was on my girly bits, Brett."
"Oh man! I do not need to hear about this."
"Well, luckily I wasn't planning on giving you any more details."
"Good." He reached over to hug me, gingerly patting me as if I'd break. "And I'm sorry you had to have surgery on your, um whatever, I'm sure it didn't feel good."
"Thanks Brett, but I can't imagine a surgery that does feel good."
"Sure, I can. One on Emma's head."
And Evan, who seemed largely oblivious to all of it, crawled up into my lap this morning, hugged me, and then lifted his head up to look at me.
"Mom, is you feel better now?"
"Yes sweetie, mommy feels better now."
"Good. Can I have a cookie?"
I'm still a little bit, okay, a lot fried from all that's happened in the past several weeks. And 2009 already seems to be shaping up to be the year Mommy started mumbling to herself and living in her bathrobe.
I know that this is just one of those times in life when all the shit seems to hit the fan at once. And I also know that in six months life will likely be it's nice, usual, manic self. But right now, it does seem to feel as if I'm standing in the ocean, trying to reach the shore, only to be knocked on my ass by wave after wave. So, Life if you are listening? Uncle, already.
Anyway, until the tide recedes, and I feel certain that I'll be able to post about daily life without sounding like a 17 year-old-black-clad-EMO-pussy, I'm going to stick with some pictures.
And won't mention that I'm sitting here listening to The Smiths and wearing entirely too much eyeliner.
Just before Christmas, my mother-in-law had the kids down to her house to bake and decorate cookies. Evan was showing off his floury hands and his 'Guess what? Chicken Butt' shirt. If it's wrong that I chuckle every time my three-year-old tells this joke, than I don't want to be right.
Lucas gave the experience two thumbs up. Also please note Geisha Emma in the background. Mother-in-law has a small bag of throw down cosmetics for Emma to play with at her house, complete with powder compact and gray hairs for Mommy.
Yeah, he's trying to play it cool, but I think Michael had more fun than any of them. As I was posting this he came home from his wrestling match and requested that I let the internet-at-large know that he got another pin and the phone number of a really cute girl named Ashley. I'd like the internet-at-large to know that I got some wrinkle cream and the phone number of a therapist named Monica.
Turning three means never having to say you're sorry, or having to wait for your icing fix. Also, please note that the poor child had three matches on his cake to blow out. The entire family gathered around the table, antsy, and ready to sing while Curt and I rummage through drawers in vain for candles. Klassy.
The older four spent the next week with bio-dad. The same week Curt had off. And apparently those two occurances created the perfect storm for Curt to decide that we should go through every closet in the house to purge anything not deemed vital. Me thinks he was a gypsy in a previous life. Thankfully, we did take a small break to meet up with Linda from Travels With Children and her (adorable!) crew at the Children's Museum in Pittsburgh. I'd be remiss if I didn't point out Evan going nuclear because he was told to stand still and smile. The nerve of some parents, honestly.
In the garage room Ellie was endlessly fascinated by the rubber balls rolling along a maze of wires suspended from the ceiling. She may look like her mother, but her brain is all Daddy. Which means, I get to blame him when she rigs up a pulley system to get to the M&Ms in the cabinet.
Evan insisted that Curt accompany him down the slide the first time. Thankfully, no photographic evidence exists of Mommy and Ellie's voyage down the spiral of embarrassment.
This morning as Michael was working himself into a foamy sweat playing the air-drums, Ellie pulled herself up and snuggled in. I look at this picture of my oldest and youngest children and think that despite everything else going on, I'm going to make it ashore after all.
December, by the numbers....
- 8, trips to the doctor for various kids to be tested for strep, the fever-headache bug going around, or the pink eye Brett decided to sport. The nurse laughed nervously when I mentioned wanting my own personal parking space.
- 6, the number of stitches Curt needed the night he put a hatchet into his thigh cutting up firewood kindling.
- 4, the number of times I said "That is so cool." watching the doctor and student PA put in the sutures.
- 3, (approximate) weeks since I woke up snuggled up to Curt, head bent back, and realized that I'd pinched a nerve in my neck. I have been walking around, neck contorted, arm hanging limply at my side, trying to relieve the pain to no avail since.
- 6, types of narcotics, muscle relaxers, and steroids prescribed to me for said nerve pain; which manages to run from my neck, through my shoulder, down my arm, and into my hand.
- 3, number of times my doctor shrugged when I asked how long this will take to heal. Not coincidentally, the number of times I banged my head off of the exam table.
- 25903, the number of cracks my bones made when the Chiropractor tried to rip my head off in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure on the nerve.
- 0, number of times I've been back to the Chiropractor.
- 32, the number of people, (kids and hubs included), that I had to buy for this year. Say it, "Thirty-two".
- 33, years aged on December 20
- 1, large gift basket from Godiva, sent by very sweet and very anxious-to-have-his-wife-in-a-better-mood husband.
- 6432, number of calories consumed from basket.
- 891685, number of cute or funny things that the kids have said or done recently, that I've neglected to document because of pity party. Will try to do better after the new year, promise.
Sorry I've been MIA. I kind of hit a wall recently and had to shut down for a while. Aside from the holidays (and the family...oye, the family) and the daily stress of being responsible for 6 little lives, I've had some other personal issues at play. And like any wife and mother, I became the pack-mule for all of it until I woke up one day with such anxiety, that I was having chest pains. Anyway, I'm taking a break from all of the non-necessary things in life and re-evaluating what I can reasonably handle without having to live on sedatives to cope. Kidding, kidding. Mostly.
I hope to be back to posting regularly as soon as I can hack it again. Thanks for all of the emails and shout outs, it helps to know that you are thinking of me.
Because Mike and Brett are boneheads, I confiscated both of their iPods promtly after they got them, lowered the volume level, and then set a four-digit-passcode on it to prevent them from blowing out their eardrums. They both occasionally ask if I'll raise the limit on them, and despite my adamant refusals, they don't seem detered. Tonight at dinner Michael asked me what the code was, because he'd tried my anniversary, my birthday, and his birthday and none of them worked.
"I tell you what Mike, if you guess it you can blast your questionable taste in music as loudly as you'd like."
Naturally, Brett perks up and joins in. "Score!" he says. "Can you give us a hint?"
"I'll tell you this much. It's not a birthday or an anniversary, and it's not a random number."
All throughout dinner, they continued to pepper me with questions, looking for clues.
"Is it your age and Curt's age?"
"Nope"
"Is it the day you and Curt met?"
"Brett, I'm not even sure what the date was when I met Curt."
"Jeez, we'll you'd better hope he doesn't either or that could get ugly."
"Is it the first four digits of our phone number?"
"No"
"Is it the numbers in our address?"
"Not even warm."
He looks stymied as we clear the table. "I've got it!" He says. "It's the number of times you predicted Michael and I would ask you what the code is!"
This morning after Michael left for school I dug through some old pictures until I found this one of him at his first birthday.
He rarely claps with gleeful abandon these days, but it's amazing to me how much like that little dude he still is.
Happy Birthday my first baby, I love you.
