Monday, August 31, 2009

The week in review

Last week was a tough week for our family.
Not only did Bug start school with an unpleasant bang, we had our pre-trial meeting with the attorney and are now waiting for an acceptance or rejection of a settlement offer.
I spent most of last week tied in knots, afraid I would hear from the school, afraid I wouldn't.
Tuesday was Bug's first day and a not so pleasant memory.
Wednesday was his second and I got my first call from the principal, who, although very nice, wasn't someone I wanted to meet under these circumstances.
We decided to take Bug down to 1/2 days for a few weeks to allow him to acclimate
And so we entered Thursday with a new game plan.
The man and I spent two evenings doing little else but building up bug and his school so he'd know what was expected of him. And trying to wear down that mile wide stubborn streak so he could function in a classroom.
Thursday was better, but still rough.
Friday was a break through.
Mostly because bug was running a fever, I think, but four days in, I was taking what I could get.
I spent my week waking up at 4am to worry about Bug's approaching day. While I dressed for work, I talked about his day and activities. While talking to customers, I worried that he was going Rambo on his teachers.
I have shunted my other two children off to the side because they didn't need me as much in that moment.
And I have held my three year old as he melted because he needed me, too, and I just didn't have it to give.
I have excelled as a parent and sucked as a parent. I have tried and failed and tried again.
And this week, I will try again.
And pray my oldest doesn't attack his teachers for some offense, imagined or real.

Friday, August 28, 2009

Fleeting Youth

Boo learned how to do somersaults at school.
So I watched as he rolled all over our yard.
Then, in a fit of parental stupidity, I decided to show off.
And I did a cartwheel.
Something I haven't done since I was about twenty years younger and thirty pounds less Rubinesque.
I pulled something that used to be essential in baby making.
As I limped away, The Man decided to join me in the land of Stupid Things Parents Do Trying to Prove to their children They Aren't Old Farts.
He did a cartwheel.
And messed up his elbow, and made his hand scream in outrage.
And sending him straight for the pain killers.
Our heathens laughed and begged for an encore.
At which time, I grabbed bags of groceries and declared their was work to do as I hobble, bowlegged as a cowboy right out of the saddle, into my house.
And I remembered the times when I would throw myself into a running round off, or a cartwheel, or a flip, when my body responded not with groans and pain, but with lithe movements and grace.
I remember being able to run without my knees causing me pain, and without my boobs slapping me in the face.
I remember how it felt to be young.
And it made me feel impossibly old.
At thirty three.
I'm old.
And since The Man is seven years older than I, he's practically decrepit.
Now that makes me feel a little better.
As I hold ice packs to the baby maker.
And vow I will NEVER do that again.
Unless drunk and dared.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Happy days!

In my little world, it's always a happy day when a favorite author comes out with a new book.
Right now, I'm having happy multiple days (aren't i a lucky girl?) because not one, but TWO favorite authors have new books coming out in the next two months.
One book, by Diana Gabaldon, I have waited two long years for.

The second, Charlaine Harris, was recently discovered and a much shorter wait.

But I am so excited!
I've told my family to leave me alone. They know to expect snarls and growls at any interruption. They know to tread lightly and not to disturb me.
Because I'll be in the zone, racing through pages that are still fresh and crisp, immersed in characters I know and love. The real world will fall away and I will find myself riding the wilds of America or facing down a hungry vampire.
And I will be in literary heaven.
Someone stake me. I'm done!

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

That Kid

Well, Bug's first day of school resulted in many tears and much consternation.
I cried. He was confused.
My oldest child is THAT kid.
You know the one.
The child who won't mind. Who yells at his teachers. Who acts out and disrupts the entire class.
To add insult to injury, he scratched and pinched bother the teacher and the assistant.
And we don't know why.
We have theories.
Which all amount to a big steaming pile of shat.
That I stepped in.
Because, being the stellar mother I am, I was so upset when I found out, I couldn't even pull myself together enough to ask the questions I needed to ask or to handle my child appropriately.
He needed a hug, and I was so shocked and upset, I didn't give it.
I was THAT mom.
I should have hugged my son, listened to him, and then dealt with the problem.
But hindsight is always 20/20.
I had to go back to the school for face time with the teacher.
Which resulted in what The Man and I are hoping will be a workable solution.
First, Bug will apologize. He knows it was wrong. He knows he has to say sorry.
Then we go forward from there.
So I'm sitting at work, my tears glands barely contained and my ulcer on a rampage, hoping for a better day today.
I'm bribing withe the promise of cup cakes.
And praying to any God I can think of for assistance.

The Land of Attitude

My children have attitudes.
I'm okay with it for the most part. I am a firm believer that you have to have a bit of a 'tude in order to survive.
But when my not quite five year old calls me Mother in that tone, we have problems.
When my three year old tells me he's not going to do something in that tone, we have problems.
And when my twenty month old tells me no and sticks a hand on her hip, we have BIG problems.
The Man finds it funny in a sick, twisted way.
Me? not so much. Because I know in a few more years we'll have three teenagers, all with attitudes, and if I don't get my bluff in now, I'm never going to survive.
At least I don't have three daughters.
There's my silver lining.
But I find myself faced with a bit of a quandary.
How do I control the attitude without crushing their spirits?
How do I maintain some semblance of control when I know they have their own minds, spirits, and desires, however childlike?
And most importantly, how do I survive?
The books I've read? Useless. The coping skills The Man employs at work? A joke.
Our kids see through the BS and march right on.
Military schools are starting to look very appealing.
Except them they would be taught hand to hand combat and weapon skills.
Nope. Not a good idea at all.
So I'm back at square one. Two. And three.
And faced with three teenagers in the making.
I'm taking up heavy drinking now.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Bug's first day of school

Like his younger brother, today is Bug's first day of school.
I look at him, and I see excitement and fear and determination.
I'm sure he sees the same when he looks to me and his father.
I got he and his brother up, helped Bug dress and gave him a hearty breakfast, all the while smiling and trying not to grab him and cry.
I fought to tame allthree of his cowlicks so he'd look nice for the first few minutes of his school day, running my hands over his hair more times than necessary to reassure myself.
Th Man and I pack our boys into the van. For Boo, it's just another day. It's old hat to him now.
For Bug, it's a car ride that seems to last forever. I see him craining for that first view of his school and of potential new friends.
We take our middle son to his class, leaving him to his newly comfortable surrounding, friends, and schedule, and begin the walk down the hall to Bug's classroom.
I feel his little hand in mine, slightly sweaty and holding a tad tighter than usual. I brush my hands through his hair, trying to smooth his cowlick for the 800th time that morning. I listen to The Man babble about what we're seeing around us. (When stressed, he babbles)
But all I can see is my baby, almost five years old, as he looked when they handed him to me right after he was born.
And today, I will let go a little, just enough for him to find his feet.
And hope that he remembers that, while my hand may let go, my heart will cling to his as tightly as it can.
And while I worry about him, I know he'll be having many new experiences--some he has longed for, some he never dared dream.
And I'll wait to hear about his first day.
Because, as always with Bug, his firsts are my firsts.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Going Commando

I don't often get to pick Boo up from school, but I was lucky enough to be able to leave work to do just that one day.
I got greeted with a smile and a hug. Then told he's had an accident in his underwear.
No biggee. Shit happens. And we'd sent back up clothes.
Chatted with the teachers aide, gathered up my minions, and headed home.
Only to discover . . .
My son was going commando.
Flying free and easy.
In other words, he didn't have any underwear on.
Because it's just how I am, I immediately went to the bag, discovered that he only had the clean back up pair, and went from zero to livid.
After the Man stupidly tried to diffuse me (he's still recovering), I called the school.
And was told by the teacher what happened.
Boo and another boy went to the classrooms restrooms at the same time (not the same stall!) and when she walked by the sink later, there was a pair of underwear sitting by the sink.
The other boy was close, so she asked him.
And he said they were his.
And he'd pooped.
And he had changed himself because he didn't want to wear poopy underwear.
Boo was conspicuously absent.
They apologized. They also sent then home with the other parent, who I'm sure is as amazed as I am over this whole ordeal.
And she's stuck handling my kids shit.
Literally.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Mama!

"Mama!"
I sort of rouse myself from a really good dream about me and Hugh Jackman, a deserted beach, and . . . well, I' didn't get to finish my dream because my youngest was yelling.
"Mama!"
I wipe the drool from my chin and sit up, hoping it's just a really bad dream and I can lay down and resume my explorations of a day with Wolverine.
"Mama!"
No dream. so then, because I have just enough experience to know the minute i get up and got o check on her, she'll either be back asleep or ready to play, I wait through two more "mama" cries.
Then I get up.
My not so beloved at 1am, 3am, and 4:30 am daughter is standing in her crib waiting on me.
And she hands me a sippie cup.
Incredulous, I look at it, then her.
"I don't get paid enough for nighttime waitress duty," I mutter as I fill her sippie. The first time with kitchen water and ice cubes. By the third time, its warm water from the bathroom tap.
Happy, she lays back down, grabs her Bear Bear blankie, puts her butt in the air and sleeps.
While I go back to my bed, try to rearrange my pillows and blankets more times that a dog would (and, yes, I did spin in circles a few time before laying down!), as i searched for cold spots for the body parts that wanted cold and warm spots for those that wanted warmth.
Just to find as soon as I dozed off (after watching one episode of The Nanny and two of Robot Chicken) that I was to be summoned once more.
"Mama!"

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Downhill slide

Bug will be starting school in under a week.
He's ready.
I'm not.
But what's new?
My kids have always been more eager to see what's over the next hill than I am.
I'm the one dawdling as we walk up the hills.
(The Hills are alive . . . with the sound of Mommy bitching!)
It is very hard to watch my babies grow up, to realize that they are making strides towards becoming self sufficient big people who will one day put me in a nursing home, feed me prunes, and lock the bathroom door. (It's tradition, huh, Mom?)
I'm afraid to close my eyes for fear I'll be in the car while they careen around, newly blessed with a learning permit.
Or that I'll be standing at their college graduations.
Or they'll be showing me the person they plan to marry.
Or handing me my grandbaby.
Or moving away.
All rites of passage, I know. But considering it hasn't been that long since we had a time share arrangement on my uterus, poor slow poke Mommy is having a tough time changing gears that fast.
Things are getting stripped and not in the way The Man enjoys.
Sending Boo off was painful. But he's thriving.
Sending Bug off will be visceral.
He's my first.
He's my miracle.
He's Bug. Temperamental, amazingly intelligent, a fantastic snuggler, and the first person I ever loved wholly and selflessly.
And now he'll be stepping into the halls of academia and leaving me, tissue in hand, staring through the window and hoping he's having fun, while wondering if he misses me.
Because I know I'll miss him.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

MINE!

"MINE!"
This is the war cry of my youngest child as she dives toward some object she has deemed her own.
"MINE!"
She yells this as she's running full tilt toward one of her brothers, her raccoon eyes fixed upon a shiny bauble in their possession.
"MINE!"
She whimpers this as I take away my cell phone/keys/Prozac from her greedy little hands.
"MINE!"
This is said with a trembling lip as she forces big, fat crocodile tears from her soft brown eyes, staring up at me with a slight pouting lip.
Punk has entered the Mine stage, just in case you'd missed all my subtle clues.
I've lived through it before with the boys. Hell, I'm still in the middle of it myself.
But facing down my tiny terrorist is taking all of my nerve and control.
When dinners is over and I ask her to place her fork/spoon/machete down on the table, she starts to comply, thinks about it, Yells, "MINE!" and the fight is on.
When I have a snack or a meal, I find myself faced with a little girl entreating, "MINE?" and i end up giving her my daily food rations.
My bed? Hers. my shoes? Hers. my Books. Hers. the Man? Not that I really wanted him, but he is most assuredly . . .Hers.
She is firmly entrenched in the land of Mine and I don't think treaties, pleading, or smart bombs will be moving her little diapered butt any time soon.
So I've started retaliating, because you know I love to let my true self out and operate on the level of a twenty month old.
Punk: MINE!
Me: MINE!
Punk: MINE!
Me: MINE!
Punk: MINE! Mommy!
Me: I paid for it. It's mine!
Punk: MINE!
Me: Do you pay the bills? Do you work every day, or do you sit around watching Yo Grabba Grabba all damned day?
Punk: Mine?
Me: Nope, girly. My house. My food. My rules. MINE!
Punk, after a moments thought: Share?
Sometimes you have to dig down and get dirty to get even a few steps closer to a truce.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Thou doth protest too much!

I've notice over the years that people tend to protest.
No, really!
And I'm not talking about the sign holding protest.
I'm talking about the people who issue the following statements:
"My job is great! I just love it so much! My boss is fantastic and I'm so lucky to be here!"
"Everyone tells me how beautiful my babies are!" or the accompanying e-mail headed "My beautiful babies!"
"This is exactly where I want to be in my marriage/career/life--I wouldn't change anything!"
And I've got one word for these protesters.
Liar.
Plain and simple.
People who feel the need to expound on how wonderful something is or how they wouldn't change anything, in my oh so humble opinion, are probably unhappy with something and compensating.
I like my life. My kids are pretty good looking, and I've got a good job.
Would I change things?
Hell yes!
Who wouldn't?
Do I think my kids are damned good looking? Yes, but I don't preface every e-mail, conversation, or sentence addressed to them with a gushing comment on their looks.
I tend to remind them that they will be doctors and presidents when they grow up.
Do I think I have a good job. Yep. But there are better ones out there.
And I would certainly change things. I would have more money, a bigger house, a pool house for Pedro to live in . . .oops! Forgot The Man reads this!
I would be thinner, a bit taller, with manageable hair. I would have published books and an entourage and speaking engagements.
But does that mean I'm unhappy?
Nope. Just that I understand that life is good, but never perfect. I am married to a man I love, but I don't expect him to fulfill my dreams. That I have three pretty good kids who don't scare other children. And that I am secure enough in who and what i am not to feel the need to gush and gloat and try to make everyone else see how great my life is.
Because the people who do that? They are missing something inside of themselves. They are unhappy with something and they divert attention in the only way they know how.
They have some base insecurity that they are not good enough, their kids are not good enough/pretty enough/whatever enough, that their job is not good enough.
And, thankfully, I'm not that insecure.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Waiting

Yes, we are still waiting.
It's like the eternal pregnancy.
You are uncomfortable, irritable, and it feels like you've been taken over by something outside of your control.
You hand control of your life over to someone else, hoping for the best, fearing the worst.
And you have to wait until nature, or in this case the legal system, runs its course.
So we wait. Not happily. Not nicely. Not patiently.
But we wait.
And hope we're happy with the end result.

Bevy of Bears

As if living with Boo's Bear Bear wasn't enough, we now have to deal with Punk's obsessive compulsive love.
Of half a dozen blankets, lovies, and one Pooh Bear dressed as Eeyore.
All of which she calls Bear Bear.
Every morning, she gathers her friends like a miser gathers money, clutching them as tightly as she can in arms that don't quite surround the items. She holds them through diaper change, through hair brushing, teeth brushing, dressing, and turning her loose.
En route to the living room, they begin to fall one by one.
Which results in pitiful cries of "Bear! Bear!" and pointing.
And if you aren't quite fast enough, a meltdown.
Her entourage includes a pink and brown blanket, a Little Giraffe lovie, two taggies, a Noukie that she stole from her brothers, and Eeyore.
And if she can get away with it, the Original Bear Bear.
It is OCD at its finest.
I'm almost afraid to ask what's next.
I don't know how much more she can carry.
And i don't know how I'll keep all the Bear Bear's organized when they are breeding like bunnies behind my back.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

True friends

The only thing Boo is upset with at school?
That Bear Bear can't go.
Yes, his ratty, patched up Pooh bear has to stay home, and he just can't understand it.
The first day of school, as we raced to pick him up, my hands itching to get at my middle baby, all he saw was the Pooh Bear we brought.
That he missed.
That he kissed and hugged.
Me? Not so much.
Every morning, we have to frisk him to make sure no Bear Bear sneaks out the door and into school.
Every afternoon, he greets Bear bear like its been years.
He says Bear Bear needs to go to school.
He says Bear Bear would like to learn.
He says Bear Bear takes good naps.
I'm jealous of a bear.
Because my baby doesn't care if I'm at his school, just that his Bear Bear is.
Should have let the damned thing cook in the toaster oven.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Smarty Pants

The Man is dancing the jig because Boo's teacher tested him and he is "a very smart little boy."
Evidently he had doubts.
Not me.
I knew my baby was smart.
He takes after his mama, after all.
I understand why The Man is so happy.
All parents want their kids to be the best, the smartest, the fastest, etc.
Not me.
I want my kids to be happy.
The rest? Just icing on the cake.
Don't get me wrong. I love the fact that my kids are smart. I'm human. Sort of. or at least I pretend to be until the mother ship returns.
But more than anything, I want my kids to feel the joy of learning something new, trying something new, doing something new.
I want them to smile at the mentally challenged child in the store instead of turning away.
I want them to hold a door for an older person rather than shoving past them.
I want them to see a hungry bird and share their crust of bread.
I want them to look at a sunset and wait for that first star to appear, knowing that there is something greater than they are. And that something loves them.
Almost as much as I do.

One week down, two weeks to go!

Boo has settled into school in an admirable fashion.
His teacher's just keep telling us how easily he's taken to it.
And he's so excited to go!
In fact, every morning, when The Man drops him off, he forgets to say goodbye and gets right into his daily activities!
The Man's feelings are a bit hurt, but he'll live.
I'm proud of him and sad to watch my baby grow up so quickly.
And I'm caught into the middle of oldest child purgatory, since Bug's school doesn't start for another two weeks!
He doesn't understand why Boo is going and he's not, especially since they attend the same school.
He's the oldest. He should get to go first.
So The Man and I are trying to make Bug's few remaining weeks fun, but it's a toughee!
We've taken him to finish enrollment.
I've made a big deal out of school clothes.
We're making a special day, just Mommy and munchkin, to go get school supplies.
We have a meet and greet with his teacher.
And I'm off his entire first day of school.
But waiting is hard for an almost five year old with dreams of crayons and schoolbooks dancing through his head.
He's ready to learn.
But they aren't ready for him yet.
I doubt they ever will be.

Friday, August 7, 2009

Bad Bear Bear



I guess Boo's Bear Bear was bad and had to do his punishment!

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Out of the mouths of heathens

Boo: I'm gonna play at school. I'm gonna eat lunch at school. I'm gonna make friends at school. I'm gonna go poopy at school. Daddy?

When I'm at school, will you walk with me down the halls?

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Happy birthday Bubba!

The Man's brother is Bubba.
Today he turns some indeterminate age. Really. I'm not sure how old he is this year. Older than The Man, but that doesn't say much.
Bubba is a photographer extraordinaire. He's the one I call when I want pics of the heathens--mostly because I know he'll have the patience to get good pics even while they are running around like loons.
And because his photos catch my kids as I'd like them to be--clean, well behaved, and not certifiable.
He's an important part of my husband's small family--and he understands the choices we have made regarding that family. While important to me, that support is invaluable to my husband, which would be enough to endear Bubba to me if I didn't adore him anyway.
He also had the good sense to marry my fantastic sister in law. Major points in his favor.
The brothers have excellent taste in wives, if I do say so myself.
Happy birthday, Bubba. I hope you have a wonderful day!

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

The face

Today is the day we meet Bug's preschool teacher.
Today is the day I stand face to face with the woman who will begin my son down his journey of academia.
Today is the day that I look into the eye of the woman responsible for my child's safety and decide if she is worthy of that trust.
It's also the day that I pray that she looks beyond the excited little boy long enough to realize that he has a willing and agile brain to care for him.
I will look her in the eye and decide if she is going to be my partner in this year long venture or if we might as well get the gloves on and have it out.
I have fond memories of my childhood teachers. I want my kids to have the same sort of affectionate and firm classroom setting that I did.
I want them to love books and knowledge and school.
And this woman, one of two, will make that a reality or a dream for my oldest boy.
I only hope that, hen I look into the face of Bug's teacher, I find someone with the same goals looking back at me.
And I remember all of my teachers growing up. I thank them, knowing they put me in good stead for my future.
I hope this woman does the same for my child.

Monday, August 3, 2009

Boo's first day of school

This morning, I woke my middle child, dressed him and got him ready for his first day of school.
While I plastered a smile on my face and chattered happily about how much fun he was going to have, I felt a lump in my stomach and tears in my eyes.
My beautiful blue eyed baby is taking his first step away from me today.
I will hold his hand until they pry my fingers loose.
I will hold back tears until I kiss him goodbye.
And I will look at him and see my chubby, newborn baby. The child who clung to me with fierce determination. I see the child with my grandpa's smile grinning up at me as he cries,"School, Mommy. School!"
I will peer through doors and windows until The Man pulls me away. Or vice versus, depending on which of us takes it harder.
Then I will worry all day until I see him again.
I will worry if he's safe.
If he's eating.
If he's having fun.
If he misses me.
If he knows I'll be back.
If he's making friends.
If he's happy.
If he's afraid.
If he knows I'm thinking of him.
If he knows I love him.
And, despite my ulcers and my breaking heart, I'll plaster on that damn smile on my face and greet him enthusiastically.