Things I'm learning this week

It's not all about long division, geometry, and past participles around here, folks. Nope, I'm doing lots of learning, myself.

For example, I've learned that a toddler and a bottle of red salad dressing can make a very, very large mess on our already ugly beige carpet. Likewise, a seemingly small amount of toothpaste goes a long, long way when Ian's involved.

I've also learned that buying a violin for my own kid when I'm a violin teacher turns me into one of those indecisive pain-in-the-rear end Suzuki moms that used to drive me crazy during the10 years I worked at the music store. The good news? We are now the proud owners of a very nice 3/4 violin, which at the rate Abby is growing will last us around 8 months. Then we get to start the whole process over again.

I've learned that even my littlest of boys belongs outside as much as possible. Hallelujah for the return of sunshine, blue skies, afternoons outside with dozens of neighborhood kids, and Max wearing "fip fops" every time he heads outside to play. And while Ian still has to learn that running, walking, or riding his cute little toddler bike in the street is not ok, I am so grateful for these wonderful afternoons where I've been able to send my kids outside to wear themselves out.

I've learned that chalk art on the driveway is another sure sign of spring. And it makes me smile every time I look outside.

I've re-learned that having piano festival and violin federation on the same Saturday is more than a little nutty. Add my husband flying to Turkey the morning of both and I have a recipe for Crazy Town.

I've learned that when I committed in September to homeschooling for an entire year and said "No matter what, I won't make any permanent decisions about my childrens' education in February in March," it was very nearly prophetic. Because in the midst of fever-y babies, spelling tests, and fighting children, a public school right down the street, Sesame Street for the boys and a nap for me seem pretty darn appealing.

I've learned that a 20 minute nap on the way home from violin lessons will power my baby for three hours past his bedtime.

I've figured out that applying for health insurance plans has taken years off my life. (How I love me some irony....) And there's nothing like detailing all medical procedures, surgeries and hospitalizations for the past two years to make me feel like a train wreck. Also, for us, there's not a worse time of year to have our group insurance terminated (stupid job) than February.

And, I've learned that even two years post-op, writing the words "Cranial Vault Reconstruction with a Frontal Orbital Advancement" still has the power to make me shudder a bit.

And today I've learned that even though the crazy at my house sometimes makes me feel like I'm about to go over the edge, after witnessing what many other people are facing, I've decided I'll keep my crazy. At least it's comfortable, thank you very much.

February Funk

It happens every year.

I should just count on it.

Even though we've had much less snow that usual this year, it still feels like it's been a long, long winter. I'm tired of the wet and the cold, sick to death of boots, coats and mittens, and at the end of my rope with illnesses of every variety.

The baby caught a brutal stomach bug two days ago, and I've been barfed on more times in the past 48 hours than I would care to count. I am slowly digging myself out of the mountain of laundry that the stomach flu inevitably produces, and crossing my fingers and hoping against hope that this isn't one of those contagious stomach bugs that will spread through every member of the family. (Yeah, right!)

I'm ready for spring. I'm ready for walks outside, afternoons at the park basking in the sun while my kids run wild. My poor little boys are so incredibly sick of being trapped inside, and I'm not sure how much more of Max jumping off the couch while yelling "To Infinity and Beyond!" I can handle.

So here's to tulips, seventy degrees, and sunshine. And to chocolate, caffeine, clean sheets, episodes of "Sesame Street" in the afternoon, and only one week left in February.

Balance, or the lack thereof

This mom thing, it's kicking my butt.

You know, there are some moments where I feel like I have everything under control. Like my girls might actually be learning things and my toddlers might survive another week without major bloodshed.

But they are mere moments. Blips on the screen.

Lately it seems like those moments, the good ones where I actually feel like a competent human being, are ever so quickly usurped by crying children. Or bleeding children. Or children with fevers, babies who shriek loudly for no apparent reason, children who stomp their feet and throw giant tantrums because they don't want to pratice their musical instrument, or children who don't belong to me but who need me to teach them a violin lesson.

I feel most days as if I'm walking a tightrope, balancing all the different parts and pieces of me, all the people who depend on me or expect things from me, and all my duties and responsibilities.

I wonder, most days, if it is really possible to balance everything. To give every part of my life, every person who is important to me, and every responsibility that is mine equal and appropriate amounts of love and TLC.  I don't think it is. Or I at least hope it isn't, because if it is, I'm failing miserably.

It just seems that if we're having a wonderful school day with my girls, that my house will inevitably look like a bomb exploded. If I'm paying bills and answering emails and trying to do all those adult things that keep my household functioning and running, babies will cry, or siblings will argue or the phone will ring or the dinner will burn, or someone (or multiple someones) will be crying. And some days, if I attempt to do anything at all, the baby will shriek his ear piercing shriek at the top of his lungs for no reason, and I will have no choice but to hold him, and nurse him, and chase him around the house chanting "Run, run, run, I'm going to get you!" just to get him to laugh and stop screaming for one blessed minute.

I am well aware that I chose this. All of it. The violin teaching, the homeschooling, the parenting. I am working towards loving my choice.

But damn if it isn't hard. When the baby cuts his finger, is bleeding everywhere and we can't decide if he need stitches or not, when the kids are all yelling at each other and I've been teaching all day and am exhausted because of the boys waking up at an unholy hour due to the *&%$ time change, when the two year old throws a toy and breaks a plate, and Dad is leaving on church business while 3 out of 4 kids are crying, it's hard not to throw in the towel and run away screaming.

So I'm going to bed, friends. And I'm going to try again tomorrow. For balance, for serenity, for less yelling, more laughing, less chaos and more sleep.

Please tell me I'm not the only one

~Who feels more wound up than an over-tuned violin string.

~Who doesn't know if she can do bedtime by herself one more night.

~Who is crazy, insanely jealous of the husband who is on (yet another) business trip because he gets to eat three meals a day without someone complaining, crying or wanting to nurse in the middle of it.  And he gets to sleep.  In a bed.  By himself.

~Who contemplated leaving the sick seven year old in charge of the two year old and the sleeping baby to run to the store to get a Diet Coke.  Because really, who runs out of Diet Coke on a day like this?

~Who thinks that one more illness- any illness, in any of us, even the snotty nose variety- might prompt me to run, screaming, to any place warm and sanitized.  Either that or I might move in next door to the pediatrician's office.

~Who has a Visiting Teacher who called, and upon hearing that my husband was out of town and that my kids were sick, responded, "I'm sorry.  I hope things get better.  I'll count this for our visit and we'll talk next month."

~Who has an unidentifiable stink coming from somewhere in the kitchen area and is too afraid to go find out what it is.

~Who looks somewhat put together (I have to teach this afternoon, or I'd still be wearing my trashy pajamas) but feels like they're falling apart.

~Who sometimes looks at their four kids and wonders who they are and when their mom is going to come pick them up because you're pretty sure you're just 19 years old and your biggest problem is the stupid Rode Caprice that you're supposed to have prepared for your violin lesson the next morning.

~Who, upon seeing all four of your kids crying at once this morning, (one because he's a baby and that's what he does, one because he's a two year old and he woke up too early and wanted Dad to get him out of the crib when Daddy was on a plane to Vegas, one because it was her second day with strep throat and she feels miserable, and one because she's nine and that's what she does lately, and because she was faking sick so she could stay home with everyone else) wanted to hide in corner with a trashy novel and play iPhone games all day long.

~Who is worried that she'll put on five pounds from all the chocolate she's contemplating eating to feel better.

~Who is worried that the leaning mountain of clean and dirty laundry in this house might fall over and suffocate someone if they breathe on it wrong.

~Who is contemplating taking explosives to the house and rebuilding, because really, it might be faster than cleaning everything up.

~Who is really doubting her ability to be the "strong one."

~Who apologizes for whining, and promises to pull herself together sometime soon.

Dear Universe, Maternity Edition

Dear Universe:

Yes, I am pregnant.  No, I did not eat a watermelon, a basketball, and I'm not one of those people who is just carrying a little extra weight around her middle.

No, you may not touch my belly.  No really, you can't.  Hands off, you crazy woman!

Yes, I am going to have my hands full.  Is that you volunteering to help? Why, thank you. I have plenty of laundry that needs to be folded, and am always accepting home-cooked meals.

Yes, we do know what causes this.  Apparently, we're pretty good at it too.  Jealous?

No, I haven't had the baby yet.  And for the record, really?  Why would you even ask that?

Yes, I do feel like I'm ready to pop.  I also feel like I want to pop you for asking such an inane question.

No, we are not having twins.  Yes, I'm sure.  No, I really don't want to hear about your sister-in-law's cousin's friend who had surprise twins after having multpile ultrasounds.

No, I don't know when the baby is going to come.  Wishing I had that fortune-telling gift, though, because then we could probably make enough money to pay for this birth.

Nope, I don't want to hear your horror stories.  Or your sister's, your daughter's, or the one you just saw on TLC.   No, really.  I have some of my own.  Like how I once had a baby in my minivan on the side of the road, or how I walked around dilated to a 6 for a week before I had my son.

And no, I'm not going to go into labor while I'm standing here talking to you.  Even if I did, it's highly unlikely that I would give birth with you here watching thankyouverymuch.

So as of today, I'm putting the world on notice.  From here on out, comments on my pregnancy will be limited to "Wow, you look amazing," or "Can I bring you some chocolate?" 

(Or maybe I just need to stop going to the grocery store.  What is it about picking out produce that inspires stupid pregnancy comments?)

Summertime

And I've got a bad case of the blahs.

It's been in the high 90s for the past week or so, I'm 20 weeks pregnant, and our house has no air conditioning.  By 2:00 in the afternoon, I feel like a great big puddle of pregnant goo.  All I want to do is lay on the couch with three fans pointed at me and alternate reading a good book with taking naps all afternoon.  Unfortunately, this doesn't play out well when you have three children.

My girls are also full of the blahs.  Their cases present with a pathological desire to watch "Phinneas and Ferb," play Wii all day long, bicker with each other constantly, and argue with everything I say.

Needless to say, we're all getting on each other's nerves.

I wonder if my kids will ever pick up their clothes and wet towels without nagging, begging, threatening or reminding, and I just as often worry that I can't possibly be saving money for their shrink bills fast enough.

This parenting gig is hard work.  Its been especially hard lately as I struggle to be a good mom despite pregnancy exhaustion, juggling three kids, and my own massive faults. 

This past week or two has served as a magnifying glass for me- making my shortcomings as apparent as a zit under flourescent lighting. 

I know I've been here before- there are lows just as there are highs, and I have to ride through the one in order to enjoy the other.   I know that my kids aren't going to die from being yelled at, and I won't die from wet towels left on the floor.

And I also know that if things in our home are going to change, it's up to me to make the changes.

It sucks to be the grown-up sometimes. 

Just the facts, ma'am...

There's a fine line between whining and telling exactly what happened on this "vacation" of ours. 

And though I really, really want to whine and stomp my feet and cry about how terrible it all was, I'll spare you all that and just tell you exactly what happened.

Yesterday morning, Max woke up crying with a screaming fever.  Abby was crying because everything hurt.  Ashylnn was crying because everyong else was crying.  I wanted to cry.

The vacation was over. 

By 10am, we had everything packed in the car, ("I don't care where you pack everything, Mom.  Just throw it in the van.  We'll sort it all out later.") and were on the road. 

We made it home in record time.  I figured as long as we were all going lay around feeling sorry for ourselves, we may as well do it at home, on our own couches.

And I learned a very important lesson.  Next time I get the wild idea to take all three children on "vacation" by myself,. a much wiser course would be to wrap all my children in bubble wrap and lock us all in our rooms for the duration.  It would be cheaper, and probably a lot more enjoyable.

Am I the only one?

Who never celebrated St. Patrick's Day other than the wearing of green clothes and gleefully pinching those who didn't? 

I'm wondering if I've missed a memo somewhere.

Admittedly, I'm a bad holiday mom.  I hate Valentine's Day, I usually throw Easter Baskets together at the last minute, (which reminds me that I need to prepare Easter baskets before we leave for the hospital in two weeks, or I'll be in big trouble...) and I don't have matching decorations for every holiday.

But I confess, I don't understand all the craziness that has been surrounding my girls for the last two or three days about St. Patrick's Day.

St. Patrick's Day?  That one holiday where you pull out a green shirt?

Somehow, Ashlynn is convinced that there is a St Patrick's Day leprechaun that comes to visit in your sleep, and leaves you candy if you leave him a pot full of Lucky Charms and cut out circles colored to look like pieces of gold.  True story. 

I wanted to tell her it was all a terrible lie.  Trouble is, the mommy guilt kicked in.  Poor Ashlynn has been getting the shaft lately as we have some severe "middle child syndrome" going on.  Between the part time job that is managing Abby and her violin practicing and lessons, and the chaos that is preparing your toddler for another surgery and hospital stay in less than two weeks, Ashlynn might be getting a little lost in the shuffle.  So yeah, I didn't have the heart to be the mean mommy.

Trouble is, it would have been nice if she would have told us this most fervent of beliefs before eight o'clock at night the night before St. Patrick's Day.  Thankfully, I have a husband not afraid to venture to the local convenience store at 11pm to get some candy to leave from the St. Patrick's Day leprechaun. 

Although if, by chance, there is a St. Patrick's Day Leprechaun, perhaps he wouldn't mind leaving me one of his little baskets of gold...

Just so you know, I'm drawing the line at the Arbor Day Tree Fairy.

In the Dog House

I am NOT a dog person.  Not at all.  And I am becoming less of a dog person every. single. day.  I  don't really understand dog people.   My husband's brother used to call us up all the time before he had children, and tell us how busy his dogs were keeping them.  I kept thinking that he had no idea what busy was.  I just don't get what makes people call their dogs their babies, buy them presents at Christmas time, or even let them in the house!  Admittedly, I have a low tolerance for chaos.  And being as I have three kids and a husband to clean up after, any mess the dog makes threatens to send me over the edge.

This is Cooper.  We got Cooper as a teeny-tiny puppy in the middle of my pregnancy with Abby.   Just for the record, getting a brand new puppy while you're in the throes of pregnancy-induced insanity is an incredibly bad idea.  My husband came home from work one evening to find me sitting on the floor sobbing because the puppy had peed all over the floor again, and how in the world was I going to handle having a baby if I couldn't even get the dog to stop peeing on the floor, and why don't they just make diapers for dogs, etc. 

Despite that initial ugliness, Cooper has been with us ever since.  Even though I threaten to kill her at least once a day for the last nine years, she has managed to survive fairly unscathed.  We put up with the barking, (although I think about shooting her every time she barks and wakes up the baby,) the shedding, (we fill at least two large-size garbage bags every summer with dog hair.  It's only about half of the hair that she's shedding, and it's completely disgusting.  And just for the record, don't believe someone when they tell you that long-haired German Shepherds shed less than short haired...) and the smell.  (I decided once at approximately 9:30 at night a few weeks ago that I couldn't take the way she smelled anymore and decided to give her a bath.  Not a great idea.  Because then instead of just smelling like disgusting dog, she smelled like disgusting wet dog, and two out of three floors of my house were soaked, which is infinitely worse.)  She is most definitely my husband's dog, and something I tolerate in the name of familial harmony. 

Enter my husband, and his big heart and desire to help people, and last week we ended up with two more dogs while friends of ours are in South Africa trying to figure out their lives. This is Sadie.  I couldn't get a picture of her brother Koda because he is constantly spinning in circles like a tornado on crack.

I have three kids, fourteen violin students, and a  life I barely have a grip on.  (On good days.)  These dogs have enough energy to power a small country, with enough left over to destroy my house in the time it takes me to eat a brownie.  The dogs and I are not friends.

My kids are in heaven.  Abby spent the first few days they were here waking up at 4:30 in the morning to check on the dogs and make sure they were still here.  Max, who is obsessed with dogs, is thrilled that these dogs are just the right height to give him slobbery dog kisses and then knock him flat on his diaper-clad bum.  Gross.

So yeah, I'm counting down the days until the dogs are gone, the muddy dog-prints are reduced by a third, and our normal amount of chaos returns.  And this week has helped me come up with a very important set of rules.  You didn't ask, but I'm telling you anyway. 

So here they are.  Rules to be followed before we ever get another dog:

1- We have to be done having children.

2- All children we have must be potty trained.

3- The dog will be our only pet.

4- I will be the Alpha.  The dog WILL listen to me.

5- The dog will be smaller than a German Shepherd, bigger than one of those annoying ankle-biter yapper dog, AND

6- The dog will not be allowed to shed, and I will not be picking up any poop.

I'm thinking this set of rules might keep me dog-free for at least another 3 or 4 years.  One can only hope. 

I mush prefer my cat, who spends approximately 23.5 hours a day sleeping.  (How do I get in on that gig?) 

So tell me, are you a dog person?  Do you like pets?  How do you keep a house, kids, and pets without going crazy?

In Which I Whine More About Winter

Tonight as I was nursing the baby for the 27th time, I noticed something.

There was a fly on my ceiling.  I hate flies with the passion I normally reserve for black olives, cottage cheese and waking up at 6 am on a Monday.

It's March 1st.  There's still a foot of mushy, dirty, slushy snow on my front lawn, and we haven't seen a temperature over forty degrees in months.

We don't yet have long summer nights, barbeques with friends, sun-bleached hair, watermelon, bare feet or any of the other wonderful things about summer.  Yet we have to deal with the flies, the biggest curse of summer months?  Something is wrong with this picture.

On the other hand, the arrival of flies, along with February being finished for 2010 (and for that I say, Hallelujah!) means we might just be that much closer to tulips.  It might be a fair tradeoff.

Ode to Winter

Winter I hate you, I hate you, you stink.
Your snowflakes are driving me right to the brink.

I'm sick of the boots, the mittens, the cold,
And shoveling the driveway has gotten quite old.

I hate that there's so very much snow when I drive,
It's a wonder that we make it to lessons alive.

It's truly been ages since we've seen the sun,
The sledding and tubing and skiing all have been done.

We've lost all the scarves and the mittens have tears,
The hats, coats and snowpants are too much to bear.

The grass in my yard hasn't been seen since November,
What leaves on the trees are, I just can't remember.

No one would cry if the snow quickly vanished,
We wouldn't be sad if the cold was now banished.

Being cooped up with kids has me feeling quite crazy,
I've spent too much time on facebook being lazy.

We've had ear infections, and bad cabin fever,
When a girl's done with winter, you'd better believe her.

I know that Spring comes to my town, I've seen it.
So get out of here, Winter, I've had it!  I mean it!

Dear Universe, Part 2

This post has a soundtrack.  In order to fully appreciate the dramatic intensity and literary genius of this post, you need to be listening  to "Uprising" by Muse. Go.  Now.  I'll wait. 



OK, all set?

Dear Ear Infection:  You think you won the battle, don't you?  Just because you survived despite a week of antibiotics, you think you get to stick around forever.  For once, I was the good mom and gave all the doses of antibiotics on time and yet you still come back to make my baby scream inconsolably and spike a fever.  Well, get ready.  We're heading back to the doctor, we're taking cultures, and we're coming back with bigger and better antibiotics.  Be afraid, very afraid.

Dear Children:  When you decide you need to barf all over the carpet, please at least have the courtesy to inform me about it.  That way, when I come stumbling down the stairs at an insanely early hour and step in something wet, I'll at least know who to blame  did it.  Yes, Max, that includes you.  I know you're not even fifteen months old yet, but somehow, we're going to have to come up with a sign that means "Mom, I just barfed all over the carpet and instead of getting a rag and cleaning it up, I decided to just toddle off on my merry way."

Dear Nurse at the Pediatrician's Office: Trust me, it's another ear infection.  I'm not paranoid, and I'm not trying to make your life hard. I am not a crazy mom and the last thing I want is another round of antibiotics.  Okay, maybe not the very last thing.  The last thing I want is to spend another day and night with a baby screaming in pain, refusing to sleep.  In other words, no, I don't want to wait until tomorrow morning to come in.  I just need someone to look in his ears and give me a prescription.  Is it really that hard?  Here, I'll trade ya.  You hold the screaming baby for a few minutes while I take a shower, and then tell me there's no available appointments today.  I dare ya.

Dear Sleep: I promise that someday, we will get reaquainted again.  Please don't abandon me for good.

Dear Hairstylist: I am so sorry I had to call and cancel my appointment this morning at the very last minute.  I know how annoying that is.  But it was that or bring my screaming, feverish toddler with me, and no one wants that.  Yes, I know I should have had a haircut six weeks ago.  Yes, I know that it's gotten so bad that if anyone from those TLC Makeover shows saw me, they would pass me over as a lost cause.  And yes, I know that my eyebrows have stopped looking like eyebrows and instead look more like two giant furry creatures that are taking over my face.  (Yes, I wax my eyebrows.  No judging allowed.)  A girl can only do so much.  Besides, a sick baby means that the only people that are going to see me are my pediatrician and my family.  I'm sure the pediatrician has seen worse.  At least I hope so....  Hey, I showered.  What more do you want?

Dear House: Please clean yourself.   Seriously.  We've been here a year and a half, and you have yet to use that "self clean" feature.  Today would be a good day.

Dear Laundry: See above.

Big Fat Ugly Surgery Vent

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Last week, I got a call from the neurosurgeon's office telling me that the neurosurgeon scheduled for Max's surgery in March was being called away on a conference, so they told us we had two choices- we could either push the surgery back until May and use the original neurosurgeon, or we could use a different pediatric neurosurgeon in the same practice. We really couldn't handle the idea of moving the surgery back two more months, and decided that since the neurosurgeon's part is relatively minor, that we would keep the March surgery date, and switch the neurosurgeon.

OK, fine. That was all set. Until they called again the next day and told us we were going to have to switch neurosurgeons again. Fine. The last time we met with the neuro, we waited 2 1/2 hours to talk with the neurosurgeon for five minutes. We've been through this before, I don't think I have any questions, and it's not nearly as important to me who the neurosurgeon is.  The neurosurgeon's part of the surgery is relatively small, and he's only there for about an hour of the five hour surgery.  I don't mean to sound callous, but any trip to Primary's requires at least four hours, and I don't see the point of blowing an entire day just so we can shake the neurosurgeon's hand and talk to him for two minutes. 

So then this morning, my craniofacial surgeon's office calls and tells me they have to move the surgery date. I very nearly lost it. This is our third surgery date, and it got moved from Thursday, March 25th to the following Tuesday, the 30th. It's not that big of a change, but it's so frustrating. I had to call the ENT's and arrange for another surgeon to place the ear tubes, and we're now stuck using yet another doctor we've never met to perform a surgery on my little boy. My husband now has to take an entire week off of work instead of two days. I also have to re-do my entire ENTIRE(!) spring violin lesson schedule. This also impacts my child care because my parents were going to take the older girls on the Thursday and Friday after surgery, so they were only going to miss two days. Well, they can't miss four days of school, so now my parents are stuck either coming up here to stay for the week, or my poor husband is going to be doing some major juggling and driving the hour back and forth.

And on top of that, (and here comes the vent- you've been warned!) we shouldn't even be going through this in the first place! If the damn surgeon had just done his job in the first place, this whole process would be far behind us. Instead, we're ramping up for another surgery, this time with a walking, talking toddler who's going to be much more angry about the whole process. I just can't believe we're here again! It's not fair that my baby boy has to go through all this again, especially when we had so many complications the first time around. Not fair that we're having all this drama leading up to it. I'm hesitant to even re-do my spring schedule, because I'm afraid that they're just going to call and move the surgery again. Seriously, one surgery is bad enough. One surgery with complications is bad enough. But two surgeries with all this drama is making me crazy. I spent hours cussing out the surgeons this morning, feeling like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum.

Yes, I know it's all going to be ok. Sooner or later, he will actually have surgery, and this will all be over. In a few years, I'll look back at this and wonder why it was even a big deal in the first place. But right now, I'm still pretty irritated at the load of *$^@(* this whole situation is.  I promise to return to myself tomorrow.  But tonight, I reserve the right to kick and scream for a little longer.

So Very Tired

I have nothing profound to say today.  I have quite a few things rattling around in my head, and I'm sure they would make it here in post form if I wasn't so. darn. tired.

The baby is getting a nasty cold again.  He might have made it a whole four or five days without a snotty nose this time around, but we're all paying for it now. His breathing is rattling, he's as cranky as all get out, and he's sneezing championship-length snot streamers on a regular basis.  (I refuse to apologize for the grossness of the previous visual. Welcome to my life.)  So he hasn't been sleeping, and neither have I.  Although, fortunately for him, he's the baby and he gets to nap wherever he wants.

Plus, I'm just being a mom.  You know, the whole cook-the-meals, do-the-shopping, referee-the-fights, sign-the-permission-slips, negotiate-the-practicing, orchestrate-the-bedtime, pick-the-living-room-up-fifty-times-in-one-day, watch-out-or-that-mountain-of-laundry-might-topple-over-and-kill-you thing.  And I'm tired.  Not just the no sleep kind of tired, but the worn from the inside out kind of tired. 

This morning began just as last night ended: in tears.  Tears from feeling overworked, overwhelmed, and definitely overtired and overextended.  Tears from not knowing if I really had it in me to do it for one more day.

The thing is, I wouldn't change much about my life if I had the chance.  Sure, given the opportunity, I'd put in for a giant raise, a house with more than two bedrooms and less than three floors, and legs that would actually fit into a pair of skinny jeans, but I wouldn't change the path I've chosen.  I love being a mom.  I love staying home with them.   But I don't think I'm alone when I say that it's so crazy hard sometimes.

I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that it's the end of January, and I haven't seen grass since November, and probably won't until sometime March-ish.  I always get a major case of the blahs around this time of year, and there's nothing to do but slug my way through it.  I'm sure some vitamin D supplements wouldn't hurt.  Neither would some chocolate. 

I am grateful today though, that I'm a blogger.  Because posts like this and this and especially this (which once again left me in tears- what is it about today?) remind me that I'm not the only one that feels like this.

Yesterday, after expressing my frustrations to my husband, and complaining to him that I felt like I'd worked all day and gotten nothing accomplished, he looked at me and said "You know, your problem is that you're too focused on tasks instead of relationships.  You spent all day mothering out children, and that's the most important thing you could be doing with your time."

I'm going to try and hang onto that thought as I teach a few violin lessons, drive down the mountain tonight for a Suzuki Violin concert, and stay up all night with my adorable snotty baby. 

I'm still hoping for that nap though...

Note to Self

Dear Self-

Next time, when you check the weather forecast, and the National Weather Service warns you that not only is there a major snowstorm coming, but heaviest snow is going to be from approximately 6-7am and center right on the highway you drive on at 7am on your way to violin lessons, do youself a favor:

BELIEVE THEM!

Stay home, tucked safely in your bed, away from all things violin, music, and anything with the words "Parley's Canyon" and snow in them.  You will save yourself a five hour round trip with cranky kids, sore hands from squeezing the steering wheel to within an inch of its life, and several years' worth of twitching from PTSD any time the weather forecast has snow in it. 

(Is it spring yet?)

Signed,
Yourself

Ten Annoyances of Christmas

I love Christmas, I really do.  But there always seems to be just enough holiday craziness to make me rethink the wisdom of venturing out from under my covers.  Especially, here, two days before Christmas where everything feels frantic and rushed instead of peaceful and holy. Maybe it's just me, and maybe everyone else lives in a state of kids in perfectly coordinated outfits, Christmas cards early, and presents wrapped, packages mailed, and houses perfectly decorated without breaking a sweat or uttering a single curse.  For the rest of us, I've compiled this (completely toungue in cheek) list of things that make me want to rip my hair out right about now: 

1- Guilt.  Ahhhh, there's a healthy helping of guilt to be found around every corner.  There's always this nagging little thought in my head about how our traditions aren't as cool as my neighbors, or that one child has more presents than the other and even though we spent equal amounts of money, they won't see it that way because as we all know, its about the sheer number of presents.  Or there's the guilt that we haven't made gingerbread houses, sugar cookies, or 59 plates of goodies to take to the neighbors.  Or that I didn't make the perfect handmade gift for the girls' teachers, violin teacher, gymnastics teacher, church teachers etc.  Ahhh, guilt. 

2- Christmas shopping, especially in stores that may or may not end in "Mart."   Against my better judgement, my husband and I took our three children to a store ending in "Mart" last Saturday.  Yes, it was the Saturday before Christmas.  Yes, there was elbow throwing involved.  And yes, I succumbed to the "-Mart" stereotype that had me yelling "You get over here right now before I decide to take all your Christmas presents back to the store" at my kids just to fit in with all the other moms.  But the crowning moment of the visit came when we left and a greeter wearing a surgical mask tried to shake our hands as we left.  "Thanks for shopping at '-Mart,' here's your influenza, now have a nice day." 

3- Children on Sugar Highs.  Our ward party was on Saturday night, and my two girls consumed roughly their weight in cupcakes, fudge, marshmellow brownies, and the mysterious ubiquitous orange Mormon punch that manages to show up at every gathering involving more than two families.  After the party, the girls were filled with enough manic energy to power several third world countries.  I made the mistake of taking them both to the grocery store afterwards, where I had to threaten them once again with the return of all Christmas presents remind them  politely that crawling around the floor of the produce department and barking like dogs was not appropriate behavior.  I proved myself to be equally intolerant when I told them they couldn't like the van windows clean from the inside.  I spent the rest of the night vowing that my children will eat nothing but carrot sticks and kefir for the remainder of December.

4- Christmas Packaging.  Seriously.  Have you ever tried to open your average Barbie?  (Yes, I let my girls play with Barbies.  Not only that, but they were Disney Princess Barbies, otherwise known as the root of all evil.  Yet one more reason why my membership in the crunchy club is in danger....)  You need a screwdriver, a machete, a blow torch, and a very large first aid kit just to free Barbie from her packaging.   What do the toy manufacturers think is going to happen if they don't strap Barbie down in 372 places?  Does she have a habit of escaping her box when no one is looking and having a hot, steamy love affair with GI Joe?

5- Christmas Cards  I've loved getting mail since I was a little kid.  And I love getting Christmas cards, even the cheesy "here's everything we've done every minute of the past year" kind of Christmas letters.  But somehow, I've never managed to get them sent out myself. Every year, I have the best of intentions. I have even gone so far as to buy packages of cards. But then I worry that store bought cards aren't personal enough, and we would need to include a photo, so then I have to browse through photography websites, worry about coordinating outfits for family pictures, and stress about finding the perfect location for pictures. Then I have to start making lists of people to send Christmas cards to, and start collecting addresses. And forget about the annual Christmas letter detailing how wonderful and charming and perfectly behaved their children is and how if it weren't for that one glass they broke on May 13th, they would be crowned officially perfect. Nope. If I were to write a Christmas letter, it would probably list all the reasons we spent 2009 in the hospital, and the 2000 ways my kids conspired to check into the proverbial padded room. Its always right about then that I start feeling tired and overwhelmed, and want nothing more than to crawl back in my bed with a healthy helping of fudge because once again I'm the bad mom/sister/friend/long lost roommate from college/cousin/person you met fifteen years ago that has nothing better to do than send out Christmas letters detailing how wonderful their family is to everyone that they have ever met. No, I don't send out Christmas cards. Yes, I feel guilty about it. Yes, I am saving up for my children's future therapy bills.

6- Class Parties With No Notice  Picture this: you've just done a weeks' worth of grocery shopping in a grocery store so crowded that merely walking down an aisle started to feel like a viscious game of bumper cars.  You way overspend your grocery budget, and as your unpacking you notice at least 3 random things in the bags that you never buy (adult incontinence products, blue cheese salad dressing, and a king-sized package of mentos) that the baby must have thrown in your cart while you were trying to convince the old lady whose toe you ran over with your shopping cart that it was an accident.  Just then, your 8 year old comes running up the stairs to announce frantically that her class is decorating sugar cookies at the class party tomorrow and she has to bring sprinkles for the cookies or else she'll die.   You briefly consider your options for a moment, before rummaging though your spice cabinet, trying to convince the eight year old that minced garlic and paprika do too look like red and white sprinkles.

7- The Christmas Cold  It happens every year.  Just when you're the busiest, running from place to place like a woman obsessed, one of your children will spike an insanely high fever, prompting a night with no sleep, a trip to the doctor's office and several rounds of various pink liquid antibiotics.  You get bonus points for double ear infections, anything that is rare, provokes cases of hives, causes your baby to go through five outfits in one day due to a vicious case of diarrhea, or any illness that involves the word "swine."

8- The Big Buckets of Christmas Popcorn  Does anyone really eat this stuff?  Yet rarely do I run across a house that hasn't been blessed with at least one container full of 3 year old, stale, caramel, cheese, and plain popcorn.  I think these popcorn bits rival Nerds candy in their ability to cover your house, car, and many small children in approximately 4.2 seconds.

9- The Present Wrapping: It happens every time.  You have a few minutes to yourself and think that you will sit down and innocently wrap a present or two.  Problem is, wrapping two presents = 4 tubes of mismatched wrapping paper, two empty rolls of tape, a pair of scissors so dull they wouldn't cut wrapping paper if you paid them $20, 593 feet of multi-colored curling ribbon that never surls the way you want it to, and various shapes, sizes and colors of bows, all spread around your living room.  No idea how wrapping stuff manages to take up the living room so quickly, but I would gladly pay the presents to wrap themselves.  And hey, while they're at it, maybe the presents can convince the laundry to fold itself too.

10- The Christmas Cleanout  Am I the only one that does this?  Approximately two days before Christmas, (yes that's today...) I get a little crazy thinking about how messy the house is, and how crowded my kids' drawers are, and how there's a millions stuffed animals that heven't been touched in years, and how in two days we're going to be opening toys and presents and where are we going to put everything!  So then, because I'm deranged and the kids are out of school, I decide it would be a good day to clean out the girls' dressers.  And closets.  And toyboxes.  And under the bed.   And two hours and several bags of trash later, I'm ready to give all their presents to those mysterious children that keep their rooms clean without asking because they will obviously appreciate those presents.

Sigh.  Alright, I'm off.  Must try to find some Christmas spirit somewhere.  Possibly in a can of Diet Coke and a pan of fudge.

Snow

There is snow at my house.  Lots and lots of snow.  Theoretically, this shouldn't surprise me seeing as I live in the mountains in the state where they once held the Winter Olympics.  In fact, one of the event sites from the Olympic Games is a ten minute drive from my house.   Still, there is an obscene amount of the cold, white stuff.

Ok fine.  I didn't take that picture.  But you're not gonna get a picture of the snow at my house, because it's too stinking cold for me to go out and take a picture of it!

But I'm not going to blog about snow and complain about it like all those other wimps.  Nope.  Not going to blog about how I woke up at an ungodly hour yesterday morning to find snow everywhere and my husband having just come in from shoveling.  Now normally, the husband out shoveling would be a good thing.  Until you add that to your eight year old standing in front of the fridge announcing "Mom.  Mom!  MOM!!!  We have no milk.  And no bread.  And no eggs.  And no waffles."   And then my husband started laughing and said, "Well, you can finish shoveling or you can go to the store."  I tried to convince them that ramen noodles were an acceptable and healthy breakfast.  No go.  Similar result when I suggested scooping peanut butter out of the jar.  (Hey, it has protein, right?)

So I'm not going to blog about how I had to drive through the Antarctic to the store in my pajamas before 7am so that my family could have breakfast.  And I'm definitely not going to talk about how I almost threw my back out and got frostbite on four fingers in the two minutes it took me to load two ginormous bags of ice melt in the van.  And its a total secret that the snow that got in my van yesterday when I was loading said bags of ice melt is still in my van, unmelted.

And I would never dream of venting about how much I hate all the clothes that go with winter and kids.  In the summer, all you have to do is find two flip flops.  They don't even have to match. But in the winter you have socks, snow boots, snow pants, gloves, coats, scarves, and hats.  Do you realize how many possible combinations and possibilities there are for "MOM!  I can't find my _______!"  in the winter?  And how long it takes to get the heathens children dressed to go outside? But I'm not going to tell you how many times in the past 36 hours I've had to say "No snowboots on the carpet!" or "Wherever you put them is where they are.  If you would take care of your things you would know where to find them!"  (Sigh.  There's nothing like repeating things your mom said verbatim to make you feel old.)

Nope.  Not blogging about any of that.  As far as you all are concerned, there's nothing I like better than driving my van down the luge run known as Parley's Canyon at 7am for a violin lesson. 

Let it snow.  Or not.  (Preferably not...)

Decisions, Decisions

Well, at least the decision is made. That's the best thing I can say about it...


We consulted via phone with Dr Fearon, the craniofacial specialist on Monday. He was very kind and very thorough. He said that in his opinion Max was definitely in the range of moderate trigonocephaly, (the triangular shape to his head when viewed from the top down) and in his opinion, there was no question whether or not another surgery was warranted. He said that although there's been no formal study that links abnormal skull shape to problems in the child's development, his opinion is that if there is pressure on one part of the brain, the brain will noe be able to develop properly. He also said that the "purely cosmetic" argument is completely false and made by surgeons who don't do enough craniofacial work, because an abnormal skull shape can affect a child's physical, intellectual and emotional growth.

So Wednesday, we went back to the hospital to meet with one of the surgeons here. When we met with him about four months ago, he told us that a second surgery was an option, but that it would be our choice whether or not to pursue it. When he saw Max Wednesday, he said almost the exact same thing that Dr. Fearon  had said- that he was now in the moderate category and could benefit from significant correction. So after talking with this Dr, and peppering him with a million questions, we've decided to stay here in Salt Lake City and schedule the surgery with him sometime after the first of the year. He's done hundreds of these surgeries, and lots and lots of them have been secondary reconstructions, and Tom and I both feel like we can get really good care here without having to travel. Plus, we won't end up having to fight insurance companies, and can use our support system here. We'll have a surgery date soon, and we're expecting it to be early 2010.

Tom is totally on board now too. I think there's something about hearing it from the doctors that made him believe that I wasn't being completely crazy. It feels a lot better to have us on the same page.

Unfortunately, after we left the doctor's office, all I wanted to do was cry. I can't believe we have to go down this road again with my sweet boy. In some ways, its going to be so much more difficult this time around, because we already know what to expect. And I can't imagine what it will be like having a walking, talking toddler who is swollen and feeling miserable! Seriously. I have to stop myself, because if I think about it too much, I want to firebomb my original surgeon's office, and that's probably not a good idea. I look at photos of Max and realize we're making the right choice, but that sure doesn't make the prospect of an entire extra surgery any easier!

M.A.D.

Do you:

~Find yourself crying every morning when the alarm goes off?

~Grouch at your kids, your husband, the $&)*;#*@ dog, the government, the sun, the lack of sun, the price of rice in China, and anyone/anything unfortunate enough to cross your path before 9am?

~Believe that the numbers 5,6,7, and 8 only exist on the clock when they are followed by the letters pm?

~Refuse to believe in the mythical creatures known as "morning people?"

If so, you may have Morning Affective Disorder.

Symptoms of M.A.D. include excessive staring into space while your children consume way too much sugary cereal, bleary eyes and morning breath that could kill a large elephant, the blatant refusal to vacate your bedroom before 9am, uncontrollable weeping when the alarm goes off, and the threatening of bodily harm to anyone who dares speak to you before you have consumed the requisite amount of sugar and/or caffeine.

M.A.D. is potentially quite serious.  There have been reports of children going to school without homemade lunches, matching clothes, homework folders, or crazy hair on crazy hair day.  There have also been unconfimed reports of moms threatening to throw violins under the van or into the fireplace when said moms have been involved in music practicing before 10am. 

Someone you know and love might be affected by M.A.D.  If he or she spends the first few hours of the day rolling their eyes, growling, and mumbling incoherently, it is usually best to avoid this person all together to avoid potentially harmful side effects including grave personal harm.  You or your friend or family member is more likely to be affected by M.A.D. if they happen to be the parent of an infant or small child who believes that the only way they are capable of sleeping is if they are attached to said parent every possible second of the night.

As of this moment, the only treatment for M.A.D. is eliminating all triggers for the affected person.  People afflicted with M.A.D. should under no circumstances be forced to wake up or leave their beds, except of their own volition.  Care should be taken to only speak to those with M.A.D. in soft voices. You could offer food or drink, caffeine, sugar, a full body massage or an early morning nap.  Breakfast in bed is also a good option, but only if it occurs after 9am.  Under no circumstances should a person with M.A.D. be expected to be coherent, functional, pleasant, compassionate or understanding before the sun comes up.

Remember, M.A.D. is a serious disorder.  Until you know how M.A.D. affects you or those you live with, its best to just stay in bed.  Its safer that way.

Jealous

Sometimes, I think the moms should be the one to take the business trips.

No really, hear me out.

We'd come home and announce that we were leaving in two days. We'd take the nice company-owned truck and drive for five peaceful hours. We would listen to the satellite radio, catch up with family and friends, and not once would we have to pull over because of out of control screaming, an emergency potty break, or to rescue a thrown sippy cup.

We'd stop for a leisurely lunch, then arrive at our nice hotel rested and refreshed. We'd call home and let our husbands know that we'd arrived safely, and secretly gloat when we talked with our flustered husbands while the kids hollered in the background.

Then, we'd kick back on the king-sized bed, and order room service while flipping through cable channels. After watching a movie completely uninterrupted, we'd fall asleep and sleep all night. No one would wake us up by climbing on us, kicking us in the ribs, nursing all night long, puking, pooping, or drooling on us.

When we woke up the next morning, we'd have all the time in the world to get ready. We wouldn't have to pack lunches, change the epic poop explosion, help the seven year old practice the violin, veto non-matching/inappropriate/immodest outfits, or find four missing shoes. Instead, we'd enjoy a hot breakfast made by someone else, and read the current day's paper cover to cover.

On this fantasy business trip, we'd then spend a whole day cavorting with other moms. We would enjoy seminars entitled "How to look like you just stepped out of a fashion magazine with just the clothes in your closet," and "How to lose weight on a diet of Diet Coke with Lime and chocolate chips," and "Hiring the perfect housecleaner/chauffeur/personal chef." Gossiping over the catered lunch would be considered networking, and the fun would continue over dinner at a fancy restaurant that our family budget could never afford.

I might be just a little jealous.