Endurance Marathons

If you're wondering what happened to your notcinnamon, I can tell you simply, it got sucked into the vortex of time and money that is my master bathroom.
I will be posting at stage of life regarding the saga of the bathroom renovation, but for now, suffice to say that the score is now: Thirty Year Old, Unpredictable House: 5, Me: 0.
Remember when Diedre Hall was possessed by the Devil on "Days of Our Lives?" about 15 years ago? The demon has moved on to S. What was previously an occasionally sweet and lovable boy has become a bizarre distortion of himself.
This morning, I offered to color in the coloring books (with his new pack of 120 crayons...I love new crayons) and he body slammed me. He got up on the ottoman (I thought he was going to grab Clooney) and he turned and jumped on to me. Unsuspecting, coloring Pluto a lovely goldenrod color, completely defenseless, Me.
I thought I was going to have to get a new ribcage.
Did I get an apology? "Gee, sorry to have nearly killed you, Ma. Are you ok?" No. Nothing. Just a very quick attempt to try to do it again. Which I foiled. Where did THAT impulse come from? Why was he trying to smush me flatter than a pancake? What did I do to him?
S is certainly in a monkey phase now. I find him climbing on banisters and barristers (if they let him), he even does this weird spider crawl thing halfway up a wall. Yes, for real. My son is LITERALLY climbing the walls. (How often can one use that sentence correctly?)
I cannot get him to play outside, play by himself, play with his brother (without committing a misdemeanor), play with his dog (without committing abuse), or entertain himself without an adult fully clothed in that dog training protective gear that you sometimes see Police K9 units wearing.
I don't even know what day for sure his preschool is supposed to start: it is usually one week after public schools start. Which means that theoretically, both my kids could start school the same day, and that day is only 19 days away. And, per Guinness Book of World Records, a group of Chinese karaoke lovers sang 6, 281 songs over 19 days to set the world record in non-stop karaoke singing.
If some poor souls can listen to and sing karaoke for 19 days, then I can survive until the first day of school. Right? Maybe.

Music to my ears

Worst sound at 4:32 AM (Sun): that hollow, churning, rhythmic gulping sound that dogs make right before they puke.
Worst sound at 3:30 PM (Thur) while people are tearing up your bathroom: Clunk, "I ain't never seen THAT before."
Worst sound at 4 AM (Sun)after being up with puking dog: "DAAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDDDDDY. (Scream whisper) SHHHHHHHHH. Don't wake up Mommy. Is it time to go to Waffle House yet?"
Worst sound (FRI) while bathroom is in throes of demolition and the pool man is cleaning the pool: "(doorbell) Ma'am. I just don't think this pool liner is going to last much longer. We can maybe pull through til the end of the summer, because we're just about done...but it isn't going to last through the fall. It's got to be replaced. We can do that for you...the price is just...."
Worst sound at dinner time (SAT): Clink clink--empty gin bottle.
Best sound yet: 7:30 AM (Sun): beep beep--coffee's done.
The dust is an inch thick all through my house from the sanding and finishing of drywall. I need a respirator just to sit and think about cleaning it. (The only thing I can think of is Darth Vader on a mad cleaning spree.)
Bathroom re-do is becoming a THING. In related news, court grants M easy divorce on grounds of INSANE wife.
Oh, well. Coffee's made.

Stormy Weather

There is a folk legend that says you can count the seconds between a flash of lightning and the initial clap of thunder to determine how far away a storm is. This piece of information stems from the very real fact that light travels faster than sound. Pretty basic.
There is a lesser known corollary to this rule that says the volume of the thunder clap is directly related to the speed of the footsteps from a child's bed to his parents'.
This morning at 5, that flicker of light woke me, so that I was already braced for the subsequent thunder and the subsequent patter from S's room to mine.
Of course, then, the bed was more like a pit of snakes than a bed. S is wiggly, especially when he is trying to manipulate his body into such a position that he can cuddle the dog. The dog, already startled and uneasy about the thunder resists cuddling, and perches himself on my head. This brings the child closer to me, and in a cascading chain of events, everyone is suddenly ON ME.
Which happens to be one of my least favorite things EVER. I hate having my personal space invaded, which is partly why I hated being pregnant so much, but that is a different (and much longer) story.
So, after about 5 minutes of being kneaded in the kidneys by S's ankle, I sent him back to his room to weather the storm alone. I suppose he fell asleep again, but I can't be sure, as I waddled into the bathroom to pee, and promptly went back to sleep.
M woke up early this morning, as he was expecting a call from a service person, which (surprisingly) never came. So, S and he did their early morning business while I slept in. I have had a cough for about 5 weeks now, and it is migrating to my sinuses, so I slept 'til 7. Then, the subcontractor I was expecting to demo my bathroom came. And demolished my bathroom. Did I mention DIY reassembly of bathroom? Perhaps that was a tactical error.
An early start to an annoyingly out of synch logistical day. And more storms expected tomorrow...it's a metaphor.

Crazy is as crazy does

My boys were anxious about finding jellyfish in the Gulf again this year. Last year, the population of jellyfish was out of control, and there were at least 4 or 5 within reach everywhere in the water. This year, thankfully, there were none of the pesky critters (although of course this year, I bought divers' jellyfish repellent.)

Nonetheless, my children are inclined to the melodramatic, and require something to complain about. E was in the water, insisting that something was attacking him, and the ensuing conversation boasts some of the most apt dialog for my family ever:

E: Something is stinging me! It's jelly fish, I know it.

M: There are no jellyfish. I think it's time to explain to you what psychosomatic means.

J: Don't bother. I explained it to him yesterday.

That my children would experience psychosomatic ailments, that we would explain said condition to my 7 year old, and that we would attempt to explain it TWICE says a great deal about this family.

I'm feeling especially proud at this moment.

Squirrel: It's What's for Supper

Sometimes, as a parent, I am aware of how well I've handled a situation with my kids. Be it disciplinary, social, or emotional difficulties, some situations resolve with a feeling of satisfaction on my part. As the boys' problems are eased, if not solved, I can tuck them in to bed knowing I have done my best for them, and they feel better about themselves.
Then, there are other times.
Last night, I sent the boys out with Clooney. I was preparing dinner, and setting the table. Way too quickly, all three of them were back in the kitchen. I turned around from the sink to find S holding a dead squirrel in his tiny little fist.
That was it. That was the moment where my mothering instinct failed, my urge to protect my boys' feelings failed, my impulse to put their feelings above mine, failed. It all failed right then at the sight of that bloodied, limp squirrel drooping from Sam's hand.
I screamed.
A lot. I might have even jumped up and down a little bit. I screamed some more. I ran out of the room to hide. I ran back into the room to see if they had left. I screamed again. I ran out. I screamed for M. I screamed at S. I kept screaming.
Of course M was right there. He might have been in the kitchen when the whole thing started. I am not sure. But he was calm. He took the squirrel out. He took the boys out. He took off their possibly rabid clothing and washed their hands and arms and legs with diluted bleach.
I screamed.
He determined that E told S to bring the squirrel inside. And that E had also handled the squirrel despite his protests to the contrary.
I screamed.
M wrapped the squirrel in funerary Target bags and deposited it in the trash. He examined the squirrel to determine that the cat had killed it and that it had not up and died, foaming at the mouth and hydrophobic.
I sat in the kitchen. Trying my best to console S. He was distressed that a.) the squirrel had died b.) he was stripped down and washed in hot water c.) I was screaming
He was totally baffled. From his perspective, his compassion for the squirrel had gone horribly wrong, and through some fast and very noisy events he was standing naked in the kitchen fully assessing for the first time what happens when good moms go bad.
I drank a gin and tonic. More gin than tonic and hastily stirred.
Dinner's noodles were overcooked, as was the asparagus. S never really recovered. I kept drinking.
Last night, when I tucked S into bed, I apologized for freaking him out. I told him I handled it badly, that I wasn't expecting to see him with a dead rodent in my kitchen. That I was sorry for scaring him.
Sometimes my best behavior is not my first behavior. And apparently, my anti-deadsquirrel-impulse is stronger than my protect-S's-feelings-at-all-cost impulse. Who knew?

What's Your Mantra?

I read an article yesterday outlining how to survive--even enjoy--your family road trip. I find survival probable, however, I am still skeptical of enjoyment. It seems to me, that when we were young, and we took many family road trips, that the only way to survive was to sleep. Nowadays, kids have the DVD player, and the handheld game players, and even (as the article suggested) iphones to load up with things to do, that I can't imagine that survival is that hard. After all, how many hours can a family drive in a day? Maybe 8 or 10? My kids could easily go zombie in front of an electronic babysitter for that long.
MT and I drove for only 4 hours last week each way. The way up was easy--DVD, stop at Chic Fil A to get the antsy pants out, and we were there. No problem. For whatever reason (mostly I think logistical) we didn't put out the DVD on the way home. I thought for sure that after S's restless night of kicking me in bed, and the late bedtime, and the early rising, combined with a full 4 hour walk around the zoo in the heat, that four kids would get into the backseat of the car and pass out.
Wrong.
Those kids talked, played games, fought, hassled, complained, wrestled stuffed animals, listened to music, and asked incessant questions the whole way home. At the last exit, S started getting really restless. I said "shit" as I was changing lanes to exit the highway for the last little stretch home, and S started repeating it. Like a mantra, "shit shit shit shit shit shit" until the other 3 joined him. By the time we pulled into the driveway, the kids had established a harmonious little round, and I thought MT was going to pee herself from laughter. I guess it takes only four hours of being constantly peppered with questions to go insane. Has anyone talked to Dick Cheney about this enhanced travel technique?

All or Nothing

It seems as though I would skip a week of posting if my life were incredibly boring...as if I had nothing to post about except for laundry and whining kids. In fact, I was surprised to find the reverse to be true. There has been so much activity chez nous these days, that I don't even know what happened to the last week!
Aside from my Bejeweled addiction, we have been to Birmingham for a few days. My girlfriend, MT and her two kids, my two kids, and I went for just an overnight trip. Which, as usual was a mixed bag. We took the kids to the Science Center and to the Birmingham Zoo. Both of which I thought were worthwhile destinations. The annoying part is that I kept having to remind the kids that we were on this vacation FOR THEM. It's as though the whiners think I dragged them to the zoo because I was dying to see the lemur exhibit and do my King Julien from Madagascar voice. (Which, of course, I kind of was, but certainly would have been content to do my voice from, say a spa whirlpool somewhere). This was also the first time that I have ever traveled with some one from outside our family. That element of the trip was really successful. I want to give full props to my friend MT. She was, as usual, fantastically organized, and tolerated my (as usual) slight lack thereof. She is earnest in disciplining her kids so that they do not run around like wild things. She is also comfortable giving my kids a stern talking to, which is helpful when parents are outnumbered by kids 2 to 1. She was a great sport while navigating the insanity that is the inner highway loop around Birmingham. And, this is no surprise, is a great martini partner.
In fact, as I was lying in my bed at 3:30 in the morning--sleeping S seemed to be able to locate my kidneys with his feet with consistency--I was thinking how great the trip would have been with a non-kid-friendly destination. Like a casino. Or spa. Or tropical beach with cabana boys. MT would be a great tropical beach with cabana boy travel companion. Maybe next trip, we can convince the hubbies that a girls' trip to Biloxi, Point Clear, or St. Croix is absolutely essential. I promise not to complain about the heat, the walking distance, the food, the sleeping arrangements, shower arrangements, sibling issues, the long car ride, the fading batteries in the hand held game, the reflection of the DVD player screen, or anything else that kids find interfering in their vacation enjoyment.
If MT comes with me on a girls' trip, I promise to shut up, drink my margarita, and not get lost. Now THAT sounds like a vacation...
Thanks, MT for a fun trip despite the kids, and here's hoping for a grown up one soon. Cheers!