Here he comes to save the day!

It's a bird!
It's a plane!
No, it's The Man on a mission!
The Man has taken a very personal and deep interest in our youngest son, Boo's, education.
He's only three years old, but the child wants to grow up to be a dragon doctor. So we have to be prepared.
We attempted to enroll him in a three year old program at his brothers soon-to-be school, only to be declined because . . .
WE MAKE TOO MUCH MONEY!
(Okay, stop laughing and pick yourself up. It's rude to roll on the floor and cackle like a hyena.)
So The man got to thinking. It's tough and there was smoke rolling from his ears, but I have to hand it to him, he did good. Maybe. if it works.
He thought about the fact that last year, before injury, he was making almost twice as much as he is now, and the financial information we provided had that income on it. So he called them. And asked. And we missed the cut off by a mere $4000. (Money I would have loved to have had this last year, but still . . .)
So he's been doing math. My wages, plus his new wages, and viola! We may just be there.
So he's gathering up heathens, donning his cape and tights (hot pink with little rainbows) and flying to Headstart's office to do battle for our boy.
He'll whine and cajole and plead. He'll announce that all Boo wants is knowledge and education and children he's not related to to torture--wait, scratch that. To make friends with. Yeah, that's right. And we won't mention his love of flammable things and toaster ovens.
So we're hoping that, despite earlier disappointments, come August, both of my boys will be on the playground with new friends. And we're hoping Boo will be running like Charlie Chaplin on crack right alongside his brother.
And that we don't get too many calls about what those B Boys are doing at school.

Furlough

Rather than endure lay-offs, my work has instituted furlough days. You know, unpaid days I don't have to go in and that I will enjoy until I get my paycheck and then I will scream, "OH MY GOD!"
Because, rather than spread the pain out for an entire year, my work has opted to slice up quick, hard, and dirty--meaning furlough days are on whatever paycheck they occur. Period.
December is going to hurt. Two furlough days. "Sorry, kids, Santa is broke because Mommy's job instituted furlough days. Can you say welfare office, here we come?"
I'm a public servant. I don't make a lot for the amount of crap I have to endure from pissed off water customers. I have heathens who, by law, have to be fed, clothed, and cared for. And they demand the extras like heat and light and shoes.
So furlough days are going to hurt.
Bad.
But I keep trying to find that damned silver lining by repeating, "At least I have a job. It doesn't pay worth shit, but at least I have a job."

A glimpse into the future

Bug (to me): Hey Babe! Why don't you get up and get me a cup of juice. Thanks Babe!

When I picked myself up off the floor, he figured out he should go get his own damned juice.

Toast

"Boo, why did you put your friend Bear Bear in the oven?"
"Because I wanted his to be toast!"
Yep, Bear Bear, the stuffed Winnie the Pooh i have spent countless hours looking for and washing, was placed in the toaster oven and fricasseed today.
I arrived home to the desperate please of Th Man and Boo to fix him, cause, ya know, six years of veterinary medicine experience and a uterus means I can do stuff like this.
Wee--ooooo! Wee--oooo! Those are the ambulance sounds I make as I pull out my minute sewing kit and some found fabric and start to work, cutting off the damaged fur and melted internal beads to try and save Bear Bear's life.
"Damn it! I'm losing him. Someone get me the paddles! Breathe, damn you! Breathe! No bears will die on my watch today!"
I set up an emergency OR (my desk) with my three scrub nurses (Bo, Bug, and Punk.) And I fielded questions like a champ.
"Can you save him, Mommy?"
"I don't know."
"Is he fixed yet?"
"I don't know."
"Bah?"
I don't know!"
I stitched, pulled, poked, and patched Bear Bear into the bear of Frankenstein. I have sewn until my fingers hurt and bled--all for the love of one little pyromaniac child.
And while I sewed like Bear Bear's life depended on it, I remembered why I was doing it.
I remembered Boo.
And, though now permanently crippled, I am pleased to report:
Surgery successful.
HE LIVES!

Climber!

Punk has officially turned in a deranged spider monkey on crack.
Yep, she's a climber.
Couches, chairs, you name it. She climbs it.
We found her straddling the side of her playpen watching TV the other day.
So far, fortunately, she still hasn't master crib climbing, but I know it won't be long.
She digs her mutant monkey toes into the furniture and hauls herself up. She throws her sippie, snack, or toys up ahead of her. I think she's having her bear do reconnaissance.
She also demands that we pick her up, crying "Uh! Uh! Uh!" while waving her hand imperiously for us to grab.
And if you dare utter the word no, if it even starts to leave our mouths, she melts. Her lower lip pooches, her eyes fill with tears, and she shrieks so high pitched and loud the windows shake and the cats scurry for cover.
She loves to climb our couch and lean over it smiling at you, happy as she can be. Then she plops down so close to the edge that I'm diving to prevent her from falling, all the while, she crows with delight.
I love her new found independence, but I think she's a baby daredevil. I know she has no fear. I know she's gonna get hurt. And I know she'll cry, get up, and do it again.
And, it's times like these when I recognize myself in my daughter. It's not enough that she is a mini me. It's not enough that she has my temper. I just know I'll be watching her climb trees in a skirt or run with the boys, all the while I'm wishing she would just be a sweet little girl, not such a tomboy.
And I know how my mom must have felt.

Sleep

You would think after I finally stopped nursing and the kids finally started sleeping through the night, I would sleep as well.
You'd be logical in thinking that.
Completely and utterly wrong, but logical.
I don't sleep.
No, I do sleep, just not long periods of time or enough to recharge my lagging batteries.
I wake up worrying, stressing, and organizing my life. I am up early most mornings running errands, going to the grocery store, or working on this blog.
I don't know how to wind down.
I used to meditate.
Now I try, and then dodge flying heathens and have my happy nirvana interrupted by the war cries of my kids.
I used to take Harvey Wallbanger (the dog, not the drink) and go for long walks. With The Man's new schedule, when I get home, I'm on parent duty
until I collapse.
I used to read, but now I fight for my book, have to read around kids in my lap, and maybe get two sentences digested before someone is screaming bloody murder about a taken toy or a cross look.
I miss the rest and the quiet and the peace I used to take for granted.
Now I'm chasing kids, cleaning, feeding, wiping arses and noses and hands and faces and anything else in my path. I'm refereeing and throwing penalty flags and running up and down the house chasing a deranged toddler on a sugar high.
I'm busy. And sleep is a luxury I cannot find time for.
So I eye my bed longingly, and then get up and chase Punk for the millionth time, ordering Boo to turn his underwear around for the eighth time that night, and telling Bug to stop stealing toys and act like a good big brother.
I'm in one of Dante's levels of hell. The one where they practice sleep deprivation. Or I'm a POW.
All I know is I want my pillow, a blankie, and my ratty silky bear and a couple of hours of quiet.
Is that so much to ask?

Sweet days of summer

My brother and his family did the unthinkable.
They took my boys to the lake.
And didn't drown them.
In fact, my sister in law said they were "perfect."
It was either the sun or the liquor, but she actually used the word "perfect" to describe my male heathens.
The boys were treated to swimming, sand castles, hot dogs, and s'mores. They were played with and pampered and made to feel very special.
I've been hearing about it for days, so i know they had a good time.
Boo did rat out his cousin, Guy. He said Guy tried to drown him. Several times. I figure it was the only quiet time they got all day.
But it was nice to know my boys could behave well for their aunt and uncle. Normally they are stealing their food and climbing their uncle like a tree. And asking, "You wanna piece of me?"
Uncle LeeBones takes it in stride. Auntie M finds them food. And the kids adore them.
And I think by boys just suckered a couple more people into the role of babysitters!
Woo hoo for me!