Mom Plays Video Game (in related news, Mom sucks at video game)

So, E celebrated his birthday in high fashion yesterday. We rocked the Exploreum, tore through presents and dessert, and feasted like kings.
My mom and aunt bought E a Wii, finally bringing my older child into the technology of these 21st century kids. Until now, my children were living in the dark ages of analog toys and games. Our only forays into the digital realm were DVDs and the completely endearing games of the Leapster. The Wii is hard core. This little hub of digital information represents a giant leap in video entertainment at our house.
When I was a child, back in the day of the Apple IIc, and the 5 1/4 inch floppy disc, we had 2 video game systems. And we had about two games for each system. First, we had Intellivision, because my parents (probably thinking like I do now) figured, "hey, they put Intelligent into the name of the product--it must have some educational value." My favorite game on this system was an asteroid-shooting game whose name escapes me. The rinky-dink, highly pixellated little shooter raced horizontally across the screen to fire at different sized asteroids. If it failed, an unimpressive explosion filled the screen. In retrospect, this game rivals only pong in its visual and skill simplicity, although I suspect even then we had an inkling of how lame it was. We also had a Nintendo game with Mario Brothers. That game was light years ahead of the Intellivision, though still very rectangular and linear in play style. Everyone in my generation had that game and system. Later, we had a baseball game of some kind for that system, and my Brett Saberhagen square-body could pitch this crazy, giant baseball that no square-body hitter could come near. In fact, in real life, some pitchers in the major leagues have pitches with so much action on them they're known as Nintendo pitches.
Regardless, video games were never intuitive for me, and despite years of attempts, I don't think I ever passed level 3 of Mario Brothers. I was a video game failure.
Anyhow, M set up the Wii yesterday before the party, so that when the kids came home, they did not have to wait impatiently for battery installation or cable sorting. Everything would be practically plug and play.
We got the kids Lego-themed video games, as they seem age-appropriate and less violent than other games. When Lego Obi-Wan Kenobi wields his light saber, bad guys simply break up into little Lego bricks. It's kind of cute, really.
So, after the kids got frustrated with their inability to INSTANTLY master the game, M and I gave it a go. (We were just 'showing them how,' we weren't monopolizing the unit or anything.)
As it turns out, I am still a video game failure.
E kept screaming at me to assemble broken Lego bricks into tools or weapons or droids or something. Per the directions, I held the Wii nunchuk and stick in my hands, and moved my arms in a running motion.
However.
Instead of assembling the bricks into something useful, the running motion sent my Obi Wan on a murderous rampage. I killed hapless plants, bad guy droids, M's QuiGon Jin, and friendly JarJar Binks alike. My Obi Wan also managed to do this fierce jump and stab thing that struck terror into the hearts of my "allies."
I laughed so hard I had to sit down. E is yelling at me to assemble bricks using the Force, M is yelling at me to stop trying to kill his guy, and the game is ranking me as an unimpressive 2% Jedi. I kept falling off of bridges, running into walls, getting left behind, murdering my allies, and dismembering C3P0. Poor little Lego c3P0, one-legged and no-armed hopped behind me loyally, dreading in his little Lego brain the next time I lost control of my nunchuk and turned around to chop at him.
The best part about this game is that it is geared for children, so that no matter how painfully bad I am at it, my character never actually dies to end the game. He simply loses points. M finished the level with an impressive 22,732 points. I had 20. Seriously. 20.
Of course, now with the Wii, I am sure there will be arguments over whose turn, how long, when, and why the kids get to play. I am also sure that no one, EVER, is going to want me to be on his team.
I think my total ineptness has made it pretty clear that Wii Fit would be a physical and technological failure of epic proportions. I mean combining my physical prowess and my video game mad skills is a recipe for disaster. The treadmill is probably as advanced as I want to get when it comes to exercise.
Any one want to come practice Lego Indiana Jones today while the kids are in school? Otherwise, I will probably be whipping everyone to death the next time I show the kids "how to play it."

Small Gifts

Sometimes, in the crazy, runaround lives we lead, it is important to stop and consider the little blessings. This morning, ever so briefly, while unloading the laundry, making lunch, searching for sweatshirts, I experienced such a little blessing.
We have a neighbor, and I shall call him Joe. I call him Joe, not because I am trying to conceal his identity, because let's be honest, after you read this, you will know exactly who I am talking about. But, the fact is, I do not know Joe's name. He is, I suppose, a handsome man, by sexagenarian standards. He has a full head of pure white hair, a gentle face, and it looks like the man knows how to party--he has a bit of a beer belly. He lives in the kind of strange house on our street--every street has a strange house--with his sexagenarian girlfriend, who has one of those southern nicknames like Honey or Bitty, or Bebe and resembles the famous Ms. Frizzle of the Magic School Bus book series.
Joe and Bitty are not often home, they seem to own other strange homes on other streets around the Gulf. But when they are home, they take walks together around the cul de sac of our street. It's nice, actually. A lot of people on our street take advantage of the early morning and evening cool, and walk around the circle. And since most of the people on our street are older, it's very cute to me to see these couples holding hands as they take a little exercise in the shady path of our street.
This, of course, being the same street that E refuses to play on. He feels that he should be supervised at all times, and when I suggest that our 87 year old neighbor is NOT going to run him over with his walker, E remains unamused. If these slow pedestrians feel safe, surely a child on a bicycle would be ok, but no, E prudently remains on the driveway.
Oh, right. I forgot to mention the fundamental detail of Joe and Bitty's daily walk: he doesn't wear any clothes. Yup. He wears what very much appear to be boxer shorts or sometimes, a bathing suit. Socks. Shoes. That is what he wears. Beer belly and man breasts out for all to see. Thankfully, he must spend a lot of time au naturel, because he has a decent tan. But, please. It's so early in the morning, and I come down and turn on the sink, look out my window, and watch semi naked walker doing his laps, and I wish I had mini blinds.
But, this morning, my little blessing came in the form of a poly-cotton blend. The cooling fall weather prompted Joe to don a sweatshirt and pants. Hooray! Go, Joe!

Another Year, Another Party

So, I survived my pukers and poopers, and I think I'm ready to blog again...
Fall brings with it many traditions--football, school, gross germs, and of course, birthday parties. I know that my friends aren't going to be offended by this post because (haha!) I exacted revenge and invited them to E's party. But, I get ahead of myself.
First and foremost, yesterday was my baby's 7th birthday. And I totally forgot. He woke up and asked me what treats I was bringing to school, and instead of playing cool, I said, "treats? Why am I bringing treats today?" And in mid-question mark, mid syllable, it dawned on me. And like in the movies, everything turned to slow motion, and the word t--r---eeeeeee---aaaaa--tttt escaped from my mouth before I could shut it. So, I raced down to the grocery, snapped up some M&M cookies (thankfully, E has pre-baked taste) and delivered them to school in time for festivities.
Crap. Apparently the statute of limitations is 7 years. Seven years before I no longer go into full fledged crazy lady mode for my kids' birthdays.
I used to plan weeks in advance, order custom made invitations and monogrammed napkins, plan menus, and elevate my little celebrity to royal status. But, this year, I got crazy with the High Holy Days, I am looking ahead to our trip to Phoenix next week, and I didn't have a coinciding influx of family to gauge the countdown. And poor E's birthday totally snuck up on me. Also, S had Monday off of school, so my whole week was thrown off. And his birthday party is the week AFTER his actual birthday, which is a new development. And. And. I suck.
But, this brings me to the subject of birthday parties. Which I loathe. In Mobile, the parents don't drop the kids off and leave. Nooo, we get to stay and attempt to "visit" while being crawled on, interrupted by kids begging for tokens, listening to screaming kids and ringing, beeping arcade games. Whatever indoor playplace hell has become birthday central is my own personal misery. All I can think about is the Ebola (wearing microscopic party hats to be festive) leaving the giant slides, the arcade games, the museum exhibits and crawling on to my body, and infecting me with something snotty, achy, painy, and gross. Shiver.
Plus, it is a universal competition among parents to see who can sugar up the kids to the highest level and then send them home--totally amped on cake, frosting, and other sticky carbs--to break off into nuclear family unit torture sessions.
And, of course, birthday parties invariably coincide with soccer games, other birthday parties, Northwestern football games, my nap time, music lessons, baseball playoffs, my other nap time, or something else I'd rather be doing. (Which of course, is ANYTHING)
So, in short, I'd like to say that E's birthday party is this weekend. If you would like to come share in the "festivities" let me know. I'd be happy to invite you.

Good Jewish Mothers Are Always Prepared...

Yesterday, I was waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay to busy to post. In fact, I was so distracted that the chicken soup I started making stayed on the stove with the burner on for 5 hours while I was out with the kids doing music class etc. I had completely forgotten about it. Surprisingly, my soup was not ruined, nor did my house burn down. Woohoo!
And that's where my luck ran out yesterday.
Kids home and in bed. TV on. M home early. All is well. Then, E puked. Hurled. Vomited. Booted. Yakked. Threw up. All of it. All over. Until his poor little body had nothing left in it, and he was bringing up bile in the midst of dry heaves. Fever soared. Dixie cup of water came back. Nothing stayed down. Including the poor child himself. Up and down. In and out of my room. Miserable.
Sleep? No way. By 6 this morning, I was at the grocery store for Pedialyte, ginger ale, and massive amounts of Lysol. I want a decontamination zone right outside E's room. I think I've already scrubbed the outermost layer of epidermis off my hands. Positive thinking.
Ironically, flu shots are being given at M's work today. I think we might get immunity the hard way.
So, there will be plenty of time for me to post today. I will be here all day. Cleaning up sheets and towels from last night. Tending to poor E. I assume I should keep S home today, too. Just in case? My only outing today will be to the pediatrician. Hopefully, she has some magic cure that the media has been to distracted to publicize. Doubtful.
At least I still have chicken soup.

The Jaws of Ownership

Ok. Home ownership kinda sucks. I'm not complaining, because of course, there are many hundreds of thousands, millions of people who do not have the luxury of complaining. And yes, of course, I am complaining.
It's not just the money. I mean yes, it's the money. Everyone knows it's the money. The payments, the insurance, the maintenance, the unforeseen expense. But, the money is a problem for ownership of everything. I mean car payments, insurance, maintenance. Even renters have unforeseen costs. Spending money is the entry level nuisance.
It's more than the money. It's the life-sucking, time-warping burden of it all. The massive amount of paperwork going in and out. The decision making process, prioritizing, knowing everything, responsibility.
I've said before that to be a good parent and homeowner, one needs to be: an engineer, an architect, a contractor, a handyman, a lawyer, a doctor, an educator, a psychiatrist, a developmental expert, an arborist, a mechanic, a plumber, an IT expert, an air traffic controller, AND possess an encyclopedic knowledge of the world. It's overwhelming, and it's relentless.
I can walk by any square inch of my house and realize there is work to be done: new siding, new pool liner, grout sealing, paint touch ups, weed removal, driveway repair, vacuuming, landscaping, organizing, replacing,updating, cleaning...the list is virtually endless.
Today, for example, I have to call the electrician to fix the bathroom ventilation issue, get an estimate on replacing the kids' bathroom ventilation thing, and fixing the light in S's room, which seems suddenly disconnected from the switch that has historically controlled it. I also had to call the Whirlpool dude to fix my recently deceased, though previously mentioned NEW dryer which won't start. I also have my usual errands to run, and have to walk past the putrefying smell of squirrel decomp from the back yard trash every time I get into the car. I need to reorganize the tools in the carport to make getting to the car easier, and I REALLY ought to hang some pictures before they get broken leaning against the walls.
This being, you know, Monday. It's frustrating. It's enraging. It's completely too much to process. I fixed the boys' commode (sorta), I improved the drainage into the yard during the most recent rounds of torrential rain, I washed ten thousand loads of wash. And there's MORE MORE MORE.
I didn't think it would be like this. I thought that once we moved into a house, there would always be a couple of manageable chores on the "honey-do" list, but I didn't think it would be a ledger of expensive, long-term, irritating big projects. Projects that involve hours on hold, waiting for repair/delivery/maintenance people who couldn't value my time any less. Projects that I didn't make for us to do--things that are just ageing, corroding, wearing out, or fading fast. I thought eventually, the house would just "be."
Right now, I am procrastinating on the next project, which is short and simple: going out to get the mail. There are going to be bills, and reminders, and fees, and more things that require mine or M's attention. Right now, I just want to stare straight ahead, look into the vast newness of the Internet, and forget the mildewing, ageing, eroding, warping, wearing out that is occurring behind me.
Phew. I'm tired just thinking of it all....

Body Count Update

Another day, another squirrel. I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that our cat is schizophrenic. In the house, he's an affectionate, purring lovey. Outside, he's a murderous, bloodthirsty fiend. The squirrels call him Cat the Ripper. They run in fear, but apparently, they don't run fast enough.

Technicolor Torture

Some things just don't go together. They really just shouldn't even be mentioned together in the same sentence. Nuts and gum. Mayonnaise and picnics, Circus Peanuts, and well...anything.
This is my least favorite combination right this minute: crayons and my brand spankin' new high efficiency dryer.
I need not elaborate.
What is with my kids? Sure, I should have checked the pockets (though my kids hardly EVER put stuff in there) but WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Why? WHY? WHY?
My washer and dryer are shiny new. (Except for the dent put in it by the delivery man...) and so pretty. I sometimes just pet them when I walk past. The stainless steel drum of the washer is pristine behind the perfectly sealed glass. It's perfect.
Except for the orange and navy crayola-thon that went through the dryer yesterday afternoon. Fortunately, it was in a load of dark laundry, so you can't easily see the marks haphazardly drawn on EVERYTHING in that load. M's underwear looks like a Skittle farted in it. E's uniform has been spiced up a bit with wax confetti. My running shorts are going to melt multicolored sweat the next time I take them out.
But, oh. The dryer. My beautiful, pristine, white dryer. Rainbow Brite puked in my beautiful dryer after a late night with some Lucky Charms. My dryer...is...defiled.
Sniff.
I got out the Magic Eraser. (Isn't that Mr. Clean sexy?) I set to work inside my dryer. The drum light kept switching off. My neck was all twisted. I had a crick in my back. Cursing, pissed, mad as I've ever been. I've run stickers through the wash before, and in fact, my old dryer still bears a glittery cat by the lint filter. That was ok. I've run rocks, and playground gravel, and money galore. But never crayons. Crayons, of all things...not something like Play-do that gets HARD when it gets hot, but something that melts all freaking over everything.
In my new dryer.
My kids are a menace to everything new and shiny. Sure they break their own stuff, but that's not enough--now they have to break mine.
Instead of doing laundry yesterday, I spent my time cleaning the laundry MACHINE. That's just unfair. Now, I have to decide if it's clean enough to run again. The whites won't be as lucky, and I just can't bear to think of sleeping on Crayola-24 pack sheets.