I don't think I've done New Year's resolutions since I had Hello Kitty underwear, but I'm feeling really off kilter lately and thought some goals might help. So, in 2008 I resolve to...
- Not get pregnant. Now, Curt's last check came back with no swimmers, but this my body we're talking about people. I probably have a MacGyver egg in there trying to figure out how to fix Curt's vas deferens with a rubber band and a ball point pen.
- Loose a few pounds. Just a few. Just enough, so that when we do the thing that causes the babies I don't feel like the fat kid on the moon bounce.
- Not yell so much. Lord knows it's hard when I wander into the bathroom to find toothpaste smeared on the floor, Evan's toys floating in the toilet, and then come back to find his wet fingerprints on my breakfast, but I'm going to try. Or, scream into my pillow more often.
- Nurse Elle all year. Mostly I love it, but there are days when I feel like walking around with a bell attached to my neck moo'ing, and I want to throw in the towel. So, I just need to focus on how wonderfully good for her it is. And, at $17 a can for formula, how destitute we'd be if I stopped.
- Take better advantage of my time with Mike. He's not around as much with wrestling, football, baseball, and obnoxious teen lessons. Lately, it feels like the only time I see him is when I'm driving him to and fro, and I find myself wanting to break the silence by blurting out things like "Drugs are bad. Mmmmmmkay!".
- Find new ways to become greener. This year we started slowly by recycling, buying organic veggies, using cloth diapers, and making homemade green cleaner. I need to find a green butcher. Or, buy a damn cow and teach the kids how to care for it.
- Say thank you to Curt more often. He seriously works his (very cute) ass off 7 days a week, and I really do appreciate it. But, it seems that we get into these terrible cycles where I forget to express it, and then he takes for granted the cooking, cleaning, loving, child-rearing, and dehydrating I do, and then we both start feeling used and pissy. So, must be appreciative more often. Even horizontally.
We got this for Evan and like good parents tried it out. Being true horn-balls, we immediately turned this children's toy INTO SOMETHING DIRTY. You'd think it would get old, but no, every time one of the kids punches this thing in the gut we giggle like school girls.
George Hamilton, eat your heart out.
I do think I was ripped off though, because I checked that box 3 times and couldn't find his tiny package of Gaulosies or tumbler full of Glenfiddich.
Think I can have a silk smoking jacket handmade for him on etsy?
So, I know it's been a while. And I forgot last week's Brettism Hump Day. And to load the dishwasher. I suck. But I've been thinking about you, I promise.
Christmas was excellent. In Mike's words "This kicked last year's butt!". They're all a bunch of spoiled rotten little beasties, who received obscene amounts of loot. I must admit though, they were awfully, vocally, thankful for it.
And, my little "Eban" turned two today. It's so surreal to me that when they're born you love them so completely, even though they are almost totally devoid of personality. And just how little time it takes for them to become a person. I find myself looking at the kids lately, and not necessarily wanting to rush through their childhoods, but just wanting so badly to see them fully formed so we can hang out together. I just know they're going to be some really cool, unique, and kick-ass adults.
So, here we were this week....hope you enjoy.
And no, I'm not the gorgeous thin one holding Elle. That's Aunt Mary Kate, and she's good stuff. Sitting next to her is Elle's great-grandmother, she's really, really good stuff. My kids are hugely blessed.
Yesterday was the last day of school of the year. Each day this past week the kids would get more and more excited, the promise of 11 school-free days looming ahead. Each day I'd wonder aloud just how much alcohol I could have without getting Elle wasted.
The kids get off of the bus and are sprinting to the house. Lucas is weighed down with a large brown grocery bag, and it is brimming with cookies, candies, and a few small gifts. Brett has a tiny little paper lunch bag, a few candies, and some cookies.
After they stop jumping up and down from the excitement of being paroled, Brett looks down and notices that Lucas has enough crap to feed a third world country.
"You got all that from your party?" He's staring in disbelief.
Luke's cheeks are filled to capacity chipmunk-style rendering him silent, but he nods like a speed addict.
"Man! The only I ever got from first grade was a migraine."
Emma gets off the bus every day at 11:30, abandons her coat and shoes by kicking them across the laundry room diva-style, and then heads straight to the table for lunch. The whole time her mouth is running. If you need to dirt on the Bumfark Elementary Kindergarten, I'm all kinds of in the loop.
"And then Nathan got in trouble and almost got a yellow ticket, and Tristan got a red ticket" she says sitting down to eat.
"And what color ticket did you get today Em?" I ask.
"Green. But I almost got yellow." She doesn't even look apologetic.
"Why did you almost get a yellow?"
"I forget" she shrugs and then continues to try to stab her juice box with the straw. I'm finding it slightly ironic that she remembers the transgressions of every other member of the goof troop, but not her own.
"Oh yeaaah. I forgot to listen when she told me to do the paper that I forgot."
"Oye, Emma, oye."
The whole idea for this blog originated from the emails that I'd send my brother Mathew to update him on the wacky and funny things that my kids say and do. We coined these "Brettisms" as they were mostly about Brett, who is, essentially Mini-Mathew.
Here's Mathew:
Here's Brett:
They're both thinking about video games right now.
And burritos.
Anyway, since this blog has evolved into a hodge podge of both my daily life and the insanity of raising my six children, I thought I'd post a Brettism every Wednesday. Thus, Mathew can count on his fix regularly, laugh heartily, and congratulate himself on staying childless.
This one I rescued and am re-posting, it was too good to not share again. I hope you enjoy.
The Original Brettism...
Several years ago my aunt Tricia and uncle Robert came to visit us in Delaware with their two kids. It was a great vist, the wee ones had a blast, and the not-so-wee ones had an even bigger blast sharing stories and a few bottles of wine.
A little background on Robert the uncle. He's older and old fashioned. He puts a lot of value on respect, especially from children. I think I was in my early twenties with a couple of kids before he finally conceded that I wasn't going to refer to him as "HRH Uncle Robert".
I head out to the store to restock and while I'm gone Brett decides to ask Robert for a juice box. Brett was probably figuring that Robert would be an easy mark and let him have copious amounts of all things monitored or off limits.
He figured wrong.
Robert tells him no, that he has to wait until I get back. I imagine Robert being very matter of fact about this, entirely expecting this to be the end of the issue.
Brett, not being able to let anything go (did someone say OCD?) asks again. And again. And again. Probably in a time span shorter than it takes most people to make a quick bathroom break. Each time getting an increasingly irritated but similar answer from Robert.
Finally in frustration Brett looks up at him and says "Robert, it's a juice box! It's not like I asked you to walk six miles and have sex with a goat!"
I'm not entirely sure that Robert ever fully recovered.
I gave Brett the juice box.
Dear Evan,
It occurred to me today as I was picking up the calendar that you had flung across the room, that in 10 short days you will be two years old. And, it really does seem like yesterday that your father and I gazed in wonder at this wee little man that we had made. You were so tiny and feisty, with your head full of blond hair, you seemed to be saying "Dude! Let's party!" from the start.
I have really enjoyed these past two years. You have been one little ball of delicious fun. Just last night you brought the baby tub to your father and I when you saw that it was Ellie's bath time. Then you insisted that you sit on the counter so you could keep an eye on the proceedings, just to make sure we were doing it correctly. 
And then there are days like today. You have decided that the brilliant little mind that you were blessed with should be used for nefarious purposes whenever possible, and I WANT TO PUT YOU ON CRAIGSLIST.
You sprinted around the corner and presented me with the plunger from the bathroom while I was eating my breakfast this morning. Grinning, you seemed to be saying "Ha, I've started already. You're going to eat mushy cereal today SUCKA!".
You rescued a used up, crusty tube of toothpaste from the trashcan and taunted me while I was changing your sister by sucking on it.
You drowned your monster trucks in the humidifier water and when I told you in my best dismayed Mommy voice that you had made a mess, you replied. "Yeah! I make a mess!" So much glee in your voice, you'd think I had just told you that we were going to have ice cream for lunch.
I tried to have you "help" me in sweeping the floors by having you hold the dustpan. You smiled at me and flung the dustpan in the air, covering us both in used Cheerios and cracker crumbs. Then had the audacity to tell me "Maaa-eee dirty" and look disgusted.
You played a lovely game of throw-the-sandwich with Emma today at lunch time. She started out chastising you, but you soon had her convinced to join in, because flinging grilled cheese again and again is just so much fun.
You bounced on the couch when I told you not to bounce. You let your juice dribble out of your mouth and run down your clean shirt to see how it felt. You put your hand in your nasty diaper and proudly told me "I POOP!"
So with this birthday milestone approaching, I really can only think of one thing to say to you, my dear boy.
When you grow up, I hope you have children who act just like you did.
Lots of them.
Love,
Mommy
A few pics of our Christmas tree experience this year. I bowed out of the selection/cutting process since Elle was finally, blessedly taking an actual nap.
I was a little scared, as last year we ended up with TREE-ZILLA. Based on the fact that we had very high ceilings in the old house, my dear husband picked a tree that was a good 90 feet tall and just about as wide. It literally took up whole family room , we had to move the furniture out. It was also so farking heavy that it fell over on us 4 times. We'd scurry through the room like mice, terrified of becoming flattened cartoon-style.
So, I said a silent prayer and Curt went with his parents and the middle four. (Mike was busy spraining his ankle at a wrestling meet).
This is why our Christmas cards had no photographs. Can you imagine trying to wrangle two more into this mess?
We have a winner. And a Brett-sicle.
Curt hates the angel. I told him it was on clearance and we're not getting another until she breaks. Note the tender loving care he's taking with her...
The finished project. The kids put on the majority of the ornaments until my control freak brain started to twitch and I wooed them away with the promise of goodies...
All in all, a pretty groovy tree. Amazingly, it's remaining largely un-loved by Evan. Of course, I just put the candy canes on this morning and as soon as one of those older kids clues him in on what those are, it'll all be downhill from there.
Merry Christmas. I hope you all feel as blessed as I do.
Wow, with all of the excitement yesterday I completely forgot to share...
Yesterday, the kids come home from school and the usual gripes about homework, endless requests for snacks, and general rowdiness commenced. I'm in the kitchen tearing the cabinets apart, looking for some form of caffeine and sucking on a tea bag when I hear him.
Lucas is at the table doing his math assignment, bouncing in his seat, singing under his breath.
"Y, M, C, H....s'fun to play at the Y, M, C, Haaaaccccchhhh!"
I look over and he's got one hand clutching the pencil, the other making the motions that go with the song.
I. just. about. died.
Some mommy-vestigation work reveals that every morning at school they have "Morning Exercise" in an attempt to get the kids to exercise more, and generally be healthier. They blast a song over the loudspeaker after the announcements, the teachers showing the kids the correct movements. Some days they just do jumping jacks. But, yesterday's little ditty was a fab homage to the Village People.
A little while later I followed the joyful sounds of song into Emma's room, where I found them practicing. No amount of bribery however, could convince them to wear the vests again.
P.S. The Morning Exercise program is the brainchild of our pediatrician extraordinaire, in response to the number of kids in our area who are overweight. He rocks.
I got this in my email today, and while I have no proof that it happened at the Bumfark, Pa. Wal Mart, I certainly have no proof that it didn't.
One can only guess how the conversation went.
"Hello. Bakery department."
"Yes, I'd like to order a half of a sheet cake for a going away party. I want it to say 'Best wishes Suzanne' and underneath that "We will miss you."
Mother-in-law called this morning just after 6 to tell me that school was on a two hour delay. In addition to being the worlds coolest preschool teacher, she also drives a bus (Michael's actually) for the school district, so when my phone rings at an ungodly hour I know it's the MIL bat phone. Well, either that or Curt calling to ask me what I'm wearing.
Anyway, here's how my children took the news...
Michael: "Sccchwwweeet! So, I could like, go back to bed, and sleep for like, another two hours?" And he did. The way that only 14 year-olds can.
Me: "You don't have school for another two hours."
Lucas: Without missing a beat and vibrating like a junkie looking for a fix: "Can I play the Wii?"
Emma: Well, I have no idea, because she is still in bed. That's right, the girl is smart, and if no one is going to come and pry her out from underneath that blanket, she's not going to volunteer.
And Brett, of course Brett. He stumbled upstairs like he does every morning, half dressed, school shirt paired with pajama bottoms, still groggy as hell.
Me: "School's on a two hour delay because of the ice. Get your pill, don't make any noise, and for the love of all that is holy, don't wake up Emma."
Brett: "Yeaaaah. I can't promise anything."
This morning I looked at my ever-growing list of errands to run and realized that it was inevitable. I'd have to leave the house.
Now, I am terrifically lucky. I have a wonderful support system who help out immensely when it comes to watching the kids. My mother in law has babysat more times than I can count, just so that I can go to the grocery store and actually fit food into my carts. Seriously, without her, it'd be all babies and diaper bags, I'd maybe be able to squeeze in a gallon of milk. So calling for help is usually always an option.
The thing is, I hate asking and I'd really hate feeling dependent. So, after a brief pep talk with myself, I decided to brave it solo. At 11:30 Emma climbs off of the bus, I pop Elle off of the boob, and the adventure begins.
I am no sooner making the turn out of our driveway before it starts.
Never, in my life have I come across a baby who hates car travel as much as Elle does. Well, let me qualify that. She hates traveling in a car at speeds less than 60 mph. Anything under that, and she immediately begins to wail. You know the one, where it sounds like her toenails are being pulled out with rusty tweezers? Good.
I set my shoulders and roll on. First stop, the drive up pharmacy. This goes relatively smoothly, despite the fact that Emma keeps mentioning in a very loud voice that they have lollipops, she can see them right there through the window, and couldn't she and Evan PLEASE HAVE A POP? I pretend to have selective hearing and pull away.
Our next stop is a town over and about a 10 minute drive. Elle's reaching a crescendo when Evan starts in.
"Emma. I knee dat!" he says, pointing to her Dora figurine. "I knee dat. I knee DAT. I KNEEEEE DAAAAT!"
The whole car seat is bucking wildly as he attempts to free himself to steal Dora. Finally, apparently fearing hearing loss, she hands it over.
"Tank you" he says calmly. I echo the sentiment.
This calm lasts less than 60 seconds before he and Dora have a parting of the ways and he flings her across the vehicle. The cacophony starts back up again. By this point, I'm grinding my teeth.
We arrive at the bank (another drive up window!) and again Emma mentions that SHE CAN SEE THE LOLLIPOPS! AND THEY HAVE THE PURPLE ONES AND THE PURPLE ONES ARE THE BEST ONES AND CAN THEY JUST PLEASE GET A POP?! I grudgingly accept two lollipops from the highly amused bank teller, telling Emma that she can have one only after we get home and E V A N is taking a N A P.
"Okay" she says brightly, "I can't wait to have my yummy purple lollipop when Evan is napping". Evan, hearing the N word immediately begins squealing again, alternating bellowing "Doooooraaah" in a manner that puts Stanley Kowalski to shame with his mantra of "No nap, no nap, no nap!"
Now, by this point, I'm realizing that I have forgotten to place breast pads in my bra before we left the house, and that all of Elle's crying has caused me to leak, leaving two breast milk stains on my shirt roughly the size of fried eggs. I begin to wonder how long I've been sitting there like this and speculate this might be why snobby bank teller looked so amused.
Our last stop is Starbucks where I have to pick up Christmas gift cards for the teachers that tolerate my children all year. By this point, all of us are crying. Emma because waiting for her pop is just a burden she can no longer bear. Evan for Dora and an afternoon spent sleepless. Elle because Mommy is not a NASCAR driver, and now that you mentioned it, the boob would be really nice right about now. And I'm sobbing because Starbucks refused to spike my latte. I asked.
It occurred to me that in a few of my blog posts, that I've kind picked on my dear husband a bit. I didn't want you to get the wrong impression of the man behind the woman- being trampled by the kids, so here are a few reasons why my husband is the bomb. Fo shizzle.
- Any man that looks at a woman with FOUR children, wants to marry her, and make more babies should immediately be moved to the top of the "People we want to clone" list.
- In case you missed it, best ass in the history of asses. If I'm very good, he lets me touch it too.
- He takes care of us. And I don't mean in a brings-home-the-bacon-so-you-can-fry-it (or brings-home-the-fruit-so-you-can-dehydrate-it) kind of way, either. He worries about us. He calls to check on us. HE HEARS THE BABIES WHEN THEY CRY AT NIGHT AND GETS UP WITH ME TO SOOTHE THEM. No, you can't have him. He's mine.
- He takes care of all of the crap around here that I hate. He makes sure the fire is going and the house toasty warm. In the summer, he cleans the pool. He changes the oil in the vehicles before they need it. He cuts the grass. He does all of this and more, without being asked.
- Every morning before he goes to work, without fail, he gets back in bed with me for a minute, kisses me goodbye, and tells me he loves me. Best minute and a half of my day.
- He makes me a better mother. When I'm tired and complaining that I just can't drive to another baseball practice, couldn't they just miss this once?, he reminds me that they need to see that we're dedicated to them and we should go to every one. Even at $3.09 a gallon.
- Best bum EVAR.
- When I fall asleep, exhausted in the bed on a Saturday afternoon, he lets me sleep. And then takes and leaves these pictures of Elle on the compy for me to see. Just in case I forgot how we're going to spend Sunday.
Today we were all presented with these lovely cards, handmade by Brett. He took some heavy paper, cut it in half, drew a Christmas-y picture on the front and wrote a sweet, albeit, slightly off-center message on the back.
Curt's had an igloo on the front and a message on the back that read "This is why you keep the fire going. From Brett" Clearly the fact that my husband feels compelled to either stock or check on our wood burner every minute he is home has left a bit of an impression. (Love you honey!)
Mine had a snowman on the front and the message on the back warned me not to get frost bite. I'm guessing the inspiration for this one was either the fact that I'm always cold, or because I'm giving Frosty a run for his money in the girth department. Actually, the resemblance was a bit uncanny.
Then he presents Michael with his. Let me just say that Mike and Brett have a complicated, but loving relationship. One that improved greatly when we bought the new house and they no longer had to share a bedroom. Or so I thought. 
In case you can't read his serial-killer handwriting, it reads: This little guy's saying he wants to be a therapist, because you've got problems!
Well, one of them will be getting therapy. But I'm not naming names.
It's Monday, do you know what that means? Mandatory nap day.
I successfully get Elle to sleep, plop Evan down in his crib, and tell Emma it's quiet time in her bed. To Emma, the only thing worse than having to take a nap is having to wear the same shoes two days in a row. Sure enough she's soon at my elbow.
"Mom. Mooooom!"
I pushed in the keyboard and turned to her. "What Em?"
"Um. I really don't feel like I need to rest today. Can I come out here and have a snack instead?"
"No, you really need to. Go lay down and just pretend to rest."
I turn my attention back to the compy in an attempt to find a quasi-cheap food dehydrator for Curt for Christmas. And to figure out why the man that doesn't hunt or cook has become obsessed with them. I'm a little irritated as it occurs to me that this little "gift" is probably going to mean more kitchen time for me, preparing dried morsels for my husband when she reappears.
"Mommy? Um, could I pick out my clothes for tomorrow and then lay down?"
"Emma, just get in the bed. Pick out a book to read and just lay in bed and read it. Trust me when I tell you that you'll spend a good portion of your adult life waiting in vain for someone to give you permission to do this."
She looks cranky. The eyes roll. She stalks off back down the hall, only to turn right back around.
"Mom. Seriously, I don't even know how to read, so I really think the nap should wait until next year when I learn how."
"Emma, I'll tell you what. You sit down here and find Daddy something to dry his fruit with. Mommy's going to be down the hall reading Madeline and resting."
I read a great book. I picked it up thinking it would be a nice little take-it-to-the-doctors-office-with-you-and- read-it-while-you-wait kind of book. I was wrong.
It demanded concentration, the way that really good reads do. Every night I'd pick it up (usually staying up way past bedtime) to read a few more pages. It would knock me down with it's cadence, it's brutality. I'd have to spend the whole next day thinking about it and gathering myself before picking it back up. The Gathering by Anne Enright
And I'm possibly the last person in the free world to have discovered this, but www.etsy.com is officially the coolest place on earth. I've mentally spent untolds amount of dough on this website. I've re-decorated my bedroom, I've hung pictures in my sorely lacking dining room, I've found adorable little baby doll diapers, and sweet baby leg warmers. All handmade. All farking brilliant.
Another chaotic-filled dinner is wrapping up at our house and we're clearing the table. I ask Brett to hand me the butter.
"Here mom, this will make it all butter. Ha, ha HA. I crack myself up!" he says.
"Great Brett, at least one of us is amused"
He grins and tries to sneak out of the room. "Not so fast there skippy. You have a table to wipe and then I need you to, are you listening Brett?"
"Yeah, wipe the table and then...?"
"Go into the garage to the freezer. In the freezer get out a bag of chicken. That's a packet of chicken from the freezer in the garage. Do you copy?"
He laughs "Yeah, I got it. 10-4!"
Curt smirks "Want to put twenty bucks on it?"
"Not a chance, that's a suckers bet!"
A few minutes later, Curt and I are finishing up the dishes as Brett comes striding back into the room.
"Here, I got it. Chicken from the freezer. In the garage." He's smiling triumphantly.
Curt raises one surprised eyebrow and leaves to start the baths. Brett leans into me and asks "Did you really take a bet for twenty bucks on that?"
"No, Brett, I didn't."
"Well next time take it! I'll pay attention again and we can split it!"
Evan is a talker. I mean, at the tender age of 23 months, he carries on conversations. You can practically see the little wheels in his head turning, the mouth always follows.
~Today as I was sitting on the couch nursing Elle he comes scampering in from the kitchen clutching the chip clip off of the bag of Sun Chips Mike left out.
"Maaa-ee! I pinch ewe!" He grins gleefully. Apparently, the perfect time to torment Mommy is when the baby's stomach is on E.
"Evan, put that back. You're not allowed to pinch people"
"Why not?", he asks. I almost said it in unison with him, it's his favorite phrase lately. And he really wants to know, it's not just a rote response.
"Because it would hurt Mommy, that's why.", I explain. I'm all ready to chase him, again, Elle dangling from me like a giant Christmas ornament.
He stops to consider my response. He looks at the clip. He looks at his hands. "Oh. Okay." He nods and puts the clip on the table, squeals Emma's name and trucks down the hall to find her.
I'd love to think that this reasonable phase will last, but having raised a few before him, I'm not holding my breath.
~Yesterday, Curt's mom and dad stop by. This always whips the kids up into a frenzy, especially Evan, who has correctly surmised that there is no request too outrageous when Granny's here. He especially loves it when they're both here, playing one off of the other to see which will garner him the most affection. He's clever that way, my boy.
Soon, the visit is over and they're saying their goodbyes. It used to be that they would sneak out the door, but he's so upset when he realizes that they've just left him that now we let him say goodbye, watch them go, and then comfort him during his brief heartbreak.
This time he was really devastated, he looked at them if to say "But we were having such fun. And I was being utterly adorable!"
Instead, he tries to take Jeanne's shoes from her. "No shoes on Gaan-ee. Put them down!" When this doesn't work, he gets desperate.
"No both go! No both go!" Wait, he knows the word both? Surely, he can't understand what he's saying.
"Evan" I ask him "Who should stay?"
He doesn't miss a beat. "Gaan-ee stay here. Pa-Pa go."
I'm pretty sure he needs to be president. He already makes more sense than that guy we already have.
Brett came home all excited. "Mom, I got this cool book at the library!" He then whips it out of his backpack.
"Usborne's First Thousand Words in German?"
"Yeah, I'd like to embrace my German heritage" he says.
I'm mentally scratching my head when he continues.
"And hey! I figured something out. No wonder I'm always bored!"
Brett and Lucas are in the kitchen getting a drink. Overheard:
Lucas: I want a big one! (referring to his glass size)
Brett: We all do, my friend, we all do.
*facepalm*
Note to self. Print and re-read previous post on mornings like today to remember that I do, in fact love my children and do not wish to see their smiling mugs on the side of a milk carton.
Lucas refuses to get out of bed because of the newly set mouse trap behind his dresser. (Holy crap! Any second, it's going to start snapping like a maniacal beast and come scurrying across the floor aiming for toes, better stay in bed today!)
Brett kicks Lucas under the table because he's eating too loudly, prompting a scuffle, and several mumbled insults.
Emma is slumped grumpily over her bowl of cereal, getting milk and random Rice Krispies in her hair.
Mike forgets to unload the dishwasher, but does remember to leave every light on, and to put the telltale dent in the couch where he sat for a half hour, narrowly making the bus on time.
Evan wakes up soaked and screaming, then throws his breakfast on the floor because it wasn't what his two-year-old-schizophrenic brain had in mind.
And Elle wakes up to eat, reminding me again, that vodka is off limits.
In the grand tradition of blended families (ours, at least anyway) the older four are with bio-dad for Thanksgiving. Every year, they depart the day before Turkey day and come home the day before school starts. Just in time to dump copious amounts of dirty laundry and bring home whatever the virus du jour is in Virginia.
This year I started out thinking that I will really enjoy life whittled down to just two kids. TWO! How easy, simple, and lovely!
And it does start out that way. I rise, feed Evan, tend to Elle, actually get to hear myself think while I enjoy my bowl of Special K. I get chores done without hearing endless rounds of "He touched me", "I can't find my shoes", and "Mom, is liquid soap flammable?".
I have time to do things I enjoy too. I finished my book, researched cloth diapers, and even had the time to call and tell Curt that Evan's newest, cutest phrase is "Why not?". (One hand on hip, the other waving airily...it's delicious). Curt and I can watch a rated R movie, nary a underage child in sight.
But the thing is, I miss them.
I miss my Emma. I miss the that despite the fact that her birthday is in May, her brain is constantly reorganizing the guest list for this fete now in November. (Clearly, we cannot invite Nathan, as he is a boy, and we'd need to purchase an extra life vest if he wanted to swim, since we only have four.) She really worries about this. And where her pink socks are. You know, the ones with the tiny pom poms?
I miss Lucas, who talks so fast and whose speech is so garbled that he rather ends up sounding like Mickey from Snatch. His sweet little goofy innocence. And, how no matter how hard his brothers try to ditch him, he loves them endlessly and follows them like a forlorn puppy. He's just so affectionate and happy, ask him to help you make dinner and you have made his day. He just wants to be with you.
I miss my Brett, whose little ADD world is constantly changing and interesting. The other day he wanted to know why they didn't teach knitting in school. Knitting is cool, he said. If you get bored, you can knit. Plus, it keeps you warm. I love that he listens to the beat of that very different drummer in his head. Plus, it keeps me warm inside.
And Mike. Who is now cutting it very close to six feet tall. Mike, who turned 14 the day their dad picked them up for the holiday. He's so trying lately. So full of mood swings, sweet and helpful one minute, surly and sarcastic the next. Worried about the girl on the bus who teases him, but not at all about his science grade. But, how I love him. And despite the fact that we're starting to have some hard times in our relationship right now, I am blessed to be his Mommy.
Two is wonderful sometimes. For a day, maybe. But then I realize that despite the horrific amount of chaos that having six children causes, I wouldn't have it any other way.
So, I'm ready to have them back. The washing machine is empty, ready, and waiting. And I'm poised by the door, with a bucket for the puke in one hand, and the other arm ready to hug them all.
Brett, never one to shy from a challenge has decided that Evan needs a super hero costume. A Super Bubb (his nickname) costume, to be exact. After conning me out of an old crib sheet, found fabric, and a needle and thread, he brings his creation upstairs to show me.
I'm pretty sure he just wants to meet Heidi Klum.
Emma climbs in bed with me early Saturday morning. Since she has to be quiet in her room to not wake up Ellie, she feels free to chatter in my room. And chatter she does......
"Mom. MOM! Open your eyes! Why did you buy a new phone?"
"The old one died Em"
"It did? Where did you put it?"
"Phone purgatory Em, now hush, you're waking Elle up"
She is undeterred. "Yeah I hear her. I think she's hungry again. Hey mom, why do you feed her (makes circular motions around her chest) on your, you know things?"
"Because they're free and it's good for her"
"There's three?" she says and lifts her shirt looking, presumably for the third nipple that has eluded her for 5 years.
Hi, I'm me. I have six kids. Six freaking kids. I'm not entirely sure at what point my ovaries converted to Catholicism, but the bastards are devout.
I also have a husband. He loves me so much that he recently allowed a Urologist to do "bad things" to him, so that he never again has to run to the store at 11pm to fetch gummy bears. He also has the most impressive ass EVAR.
I live in Bumfark, Pa. If you've never been to my happy hamlet, the slogan here is: Bumfark. Most of us have all our teeth.
That about sums me up.
