half a life ago ...

Gas was $0.89/gallon.  Life was easy.  My parents were amazing.  I was 16.  On my sixteenth birthday my parents rented the local neighborhood club house and bought about 20 pizzas from Customs Pizza (they were B1G1).  We set up a stereo, decorated, and just hung out.  Me and about 20 of my closest friends at the time.  There are moments of that night I will never forget.  Mimi (my grandma) was there.  Fussing at people for going outside, complaining about the noise, just being a grandma.  My friend S was there, and my friend L, who I think were trying to get back together after “breaking up” or something.  I can name almost everyone there.  And most I still at least talk to on Facebook ™.  That was the night I met someone who would be a dear friend for many years.  (Looking back I think it’s rather odd that someone I had never officially met showed up at my birthday party.  But there were actually 3 people that fit that description.  A little creepy, I suppose.  But I was a little odd.  I was building computers when other girls were shopping for new shoes.)  He introduced me to a new kind of music, a great author, and the idea that women were something special, to be treated with care and respected.  That stuck.  I held everyone else I ever considered dating to that.  It’s why I married Clark Kent.  But that’s another subject.

On my 16^th birthday my mom got me this massive cake.  It weighed 20lbs.  Seriously.  I’m not even making that up.  The sucker was HEAVY.  And there were presents.  And dancing, and a black light.  It was great.  Probably one of the best moments of my teen years.  Thanks mom and dad.  After it was all over I remember distinctly lying in bed and thinking about where I’d be in 16 years.  Yeah, that deep of a thought.  When your parents drop that much on a party for you, you think about what got you there, and where it was taking you.  I was pretty sure I’d be married to someone at that party.  Not really sure who, but someone.  I mean, that was my tightest circle of friends (at the time).  Life was that moment.  It was band, AFJROTC, Power Rangers (yeah, I watched it religiously), eating outside at lunch, getting yelled at by my band director, and tolerating my little sister.  Sometimes I loved it, sometimes I hated it.  But it was my life and I couldn’t imagine much beyond it.  I mean, what else is there besides friends, pizza, music, and high school?  Shallow isn’t something a teenager understands.  It isn’t self centered for them.  It’s just how the world moves.  I understand that now, even though I didn’t ever see it then.  And oh my goodness what would our life had been like with smart phones and facebook?  Lawdy lawdy we’d have gotten in trouble.  I watch the high school kids on my facebook lament over boyfriends, get angry at friends, and use facebook like the bathroom wall or the back of a yearbook.  Our fights would have been shorter, meaner, and well … involved more people.  Other than that fight that my on-again-off-again beau K and I had during a marching band day camp that seemed to involve the entire band.  Oh yeah.  I bet lots of people remember that.  It involved saying mean things under our breath while marching around during practice, and across the street to the football field for a run through, and during the run through.  Oh yeah.  Good times.  That’s being 16.  That’s being awesome (in your own mind) and having to have the. Last. Word.   

Anyway, I thought.  Laying in my bedroom, under the Power Rangers fleece blanket (that incidentally Monkey Man is currently sleeping under – true story), looking at my glow in the dark stars.  Listening to my dad watch John Wayne movies on TV at a volume reserved for rock concerts.  Sure I thought of practical stuff.  I’d have finished college.  I was going to be a trauma doctor (how’d that work out?).  Perhaps I’d be dating some guy and be thinking about marriage.  30, that’s when people do that sort of stuff.  I also figured I’d be living in a house on the beach in South Carolina (still on my to-do list).  My life is SO not that.  But I can’t imagine it any other way.  It’s amazing.  I love Clark Kent, and I can’t imagine life without my Peanut, Bean, Monkey Man and Bug.  As I sit and reflect over the last 16 years (I’ve been with Clark Kent for 12 of them) I can look forward to the next 16.  Where will I be in 16 years?  I’ll be 48.  Peanut will be 26.  My mom and dad could be great-grandparents.  I could be a grandma. *cough*  It will be 2027. Holy future Batman!   

Creepy Loyalty

Loyalty.  It’s such an interesting word.  The dictionary defines it as “faithful adherence to a sovereign, government, leader, cause, etc.  I’m loyal when it comes to the “cause, etc.” part.  I drink Pepsi ™.  I am not a fan of Coke ™.  Hands down.  If you offer me both, I’ll choose Pepsi.  Every day.  And all their products.  Sierra Mist ™ over Sprite ™.  I just like it better.  I prefer Target to Wal-Mart (for a kazillion reasons that I really won’t get into but suffice to say that one is the creepy people that shop there, and another is the way that they go and build 100 cash registers and only ever intend on opening two of them).  I prefer McDs over Burger King ™ if I’m going to ingest MSG-laden grease.  And I won’t go to a BP™ unless it’s the only gas station for 100 miles.  Call it what you will (psycho, sad, obsessed, impressive, astonishing), I call it loyal.  It’s who I am.  I find something I like and I stick with it.  All that to explain the following lament.

When Clark Kent and I first moved to Memphis we knew nothing about the place.  Even our small ‘burb.  Nothing.  And everything here is different.  All the stores we were so familiar with in the southeast are not here.  Everything is just different.  The only grocery stores here are Kroger (which we already weren’t fans of) and something called “Schnucks”.  So, when we moved here, we went to Schnucks.  Check it out, right?  See what it is, and whether we’d just be forced to shop at the other grocery store that I already didn’t like.  After all, if there’s no Bi-Lo (my favorite grocery store, which has stores all the way to Nashville.  Nashville.  300 miles to the right of us there are great grocery stores, BTW).  My first time in the Schnucks by our house, I was greeted, spoken to like an old friend, and invited to church. (There are two questions everyone asks you when they meet you in Memphis and find out you just moved here: What brought you to Memphis? and What church do you go to?)  Plus it was clean and had nice produce and meat.  These are important things to me.  And so I became loyal to Schnucks and those people.  I shop there for everything.  Peanut’s gym has a fundraiser through Kroger, but I don’t shop there.  I could.  It would help offset gymnastics.  But I don’t.  I don’t like Kroger.  It’s not further than Schnucks … it’s across the street, actually.  But the produce isn’t good, the meat is gross, and the people aren’t friendly.  In fact, they are the opposite of friendly. 

Now that you’ve been introduced with my weird love of grocery stores, you can understand a couple things.  One, I am obviously a bit off center.  No one should feel that way about a grocery store, right?  But if you haven’t figured out that I’m a few crayons short of a full 24 count by now, then you just wait … I haven’t told you my feelings about Dora yet, have I?  Two, you can understand why it devastated me a couple days ago when the news announced that Kroger had bought all the Memphis-area Schnucks.  Yup.  My favorite grocery store is going away. But it’s more than that.  It’s that all the people are likely going too.  They all have to reapply for jobs.  All the cashiers that know my kids, speak to them about school and dance and gymnastics, ask them how their day was … the nice guy who stocks the dairy area every weekday and knows I like the Gogurt instead of the Dannon for the kids.  The sweet ladies that are in the cook-demo place that understand that having four kids is a blessing, not a curse.  The one cashier who is “our” cashier in the morning when we go in and was excited with me when I found out we were going to have Bug.  The managers who will go back to the aisle you missed something on and get it for you at check out.  The nice bag boy who shares all the great fun things to do this weekend with you.  And the cute little high school guys who want to be smooth and “grown up” and try to impress me while they are checking out my groceries.  I will miss them all.  Even if they keep their job, which isn’t likely, I won’t see them.  I don’t like the other grocery store.  Not even if it has my favorite people working in it.  I might be crazy, but I will miss Schnucks.  So much that I took the time to whine about it here.  Maybe if I whine enough Bi-Lo will come save us from the not nice people and yuckiness.  Yeah, I’m whining about it.  It’s my take on loyalty.  And I can pout if I want to.  And enjoy my store.  For the rest of this week.  A few more days of the “way things are supposed to be” for me.  Then I guess I’ll move onto something else.  

Warm, Fuzzy Feelings

Bug has been sick.  Not “oh no let’s call the doctor and get medicine” sick, just “the weather changes too much” sick.  Allergies, snot, drainage, and coughing.  He decided a few days ago that being sick = not sleeping as well.  So we’ve been up at night while he plays instead of sleeping.  He’s been clingy.  He’s been whiney.  Oh my goodness he’s been whiney.  The kid never fusses.  But he has the last 3 days.  And on Sunday I couldn’t put him in the nursery at church.  I know he’s not sick sick.  He’s just yucky allergy sick.  But still, he’s green snot sick.  So I kept him in church with me. 

Where I sat there was a couple in front of me that I had spoken to before.  Funny story on a side track – the first time I met this couple they offered to take me to lunch.  I was alone, and Bug was teeny bitty.  I told them that, while I appreciate the offer, I had four kids and I’m sure they would be overwhelmed.  The lady was shocked, asked me how old I was (31, I told her), and then was even more shocked when I showed her the family picture (including a husband) on my smart phone.  I think she thought I was a teen mother (wow, I must look amazing!?!?).  They are such Sweetie Pies.

Anyhoo … they were sitting in front of me.  We’ve spoken a few more times since then, and darned if I can remember their names.  But we talked this past Sunday and I had Bug.  Mrs. Sweetie Pie asked if she could hold Bug.  Sure.  It’s not like they’d be going anywhere, and we’d talked several times and it’s church.  She cuddled Bug and he snuggled back, since he’s a sweet boy who loves everyone.  After a few minutes Mr. Sweetie Pie took him. And held him through two songs.  As I watched them coo and smile over Bug I realized something.

Sometimes people want to hold a baby not to help you, but because it helps them.  Babies (usually) love unabashedly.  They don’t care that you aren’t perfect.  They don’t see the baggage you’re carrying.  All they know is you’re pretty cool, fun to grab, and smile a lot.  The couple that held Bug on Sunday just kept loving on him and smiling.  He brought them a moment of joy that I couldn’t provide them as an adult.  For a moment they could dote on someone who wouldn’t get mad, irritated, or judge them at all.  Babies and puppies make us feel better.  We can look at the future in them.  We see the potential of kindness and acceptance.  Babies don’t see color of skin.  They don’t see age.   They just see someone who should protect them.  And that, sadly, is a fault too, sometimes.  But this time it wasn’t.  And as we sang praise songs and I watched Bug try to take Mr. Sweetie Pie’s glasses off and watched the man remove his glasses and laugh as his wife patted Bug’s back I realized two things.  It was okay that I didn’t know them too well.  I shared my love and my joy with them.  And I got a break.  Did I mention that he’s been a clingy, whiney, nonsleeping baby the last few days? Yeah, I was selfish and saw it as a break. J  

My train of thought is scary ...

I am known for my train of thought.  Or lack there of.  You mention mustard?  I've got something to say about s'mores.  Because mustard >> hot dogs >> camping >> camp fire >> s'mores. Sometimes I sit down at night and there are so many ideas in my head that I can’t even think.  They chase me all day long.  Like a wolf running through the forest.  Or a vampire?  A great big sparkly vampire?  No.  No sir.  Because vampires burn up into ash in the sun, everyone knows that.  Anyone who believes otherwise is a delusional teenager or a woman who wishes she was. So there.  I said that.  In MY post on MY blog.  I think sparkly vampires are dumb and the best acting Robert Pattinson did was at the very end of the fourth movie of Harry Potter.  He’s gross. And doesn’t fit the character in the book at all.  Incidentally, you know they were considering Henry Cavill for that part?  Yeah, that would have been better.  Because he doesn’t suck.  And now we get to see him as Superman.  A nice, not effeminate girly-girl Superman either.  Robert Pattinson goes right up there with Hayden Christiansen in my book of “well, we know people will pay bookoos of bucks to see this no matter what we do, so let’s just use this guy” actors.  The other two hobbits fall in that category for me too.  You know who I’m talking about.  Not Frodo and not Charlie (and if you don’t know why he’s Charlie, that’s just depressing and sad and you should be ashamed).  So does Abby Cadabby, but I’m fairly certain my obsession with the “rightness in the world of children’s television” is a certifiable one, and can be reserved for another post (Dora … why are you out ALONE in a jungle with a talking monkey, and why OH WHY do you trust that map that keeps sending you into the alligator infested waters?!?  YOU’RE FIVE!!)

But anyways …

This past week my dear friends had their first child.  A son.  I’m calling him Wookie Jr.  And he’s cute.  And not all babies are cute (sorry moms of ugly babies).  Some babies come out and even after that first swelling “what the hell happened to my head?” phase is over, they still look weird.  Bug looked like an old man forever.  Because he was born too soon.  He had no fat and just old man wrinkles.  But not Wookie Jr.  He looked awesome.  And still does.  Fortunately, I see a lot of his mom in him.  She’s beautiful.  Anyhoo … I’ve had a blast the last week helping her adjust to her “what the hell just happened to my life?” phase.  Not the “What to expect now that you have a newborn” frills and fluff stuff.  The “Oh yeah, this sucks and no one will tell you how bad it sucks” stuff.  Like how giving birth makes getting hit by a train seem like a pleasant idea.   How the very idea of ever wanting to procreate again seems like it ranks with sitting in a tub full of scissors.  How your body will redefine “amount of sleep needed” over night and all those mornings after parties you went to in college don’t even compare to the exhaustion level you now have.   How your insides feel like they might just fall out at any minute.  How your boobs no longer belong to you, and no longer belong to your husband.  And after awhile all you really want to do is scream and say “MOOOO!” because well, you’ve become nothing more than a machine that can produce milk and clean poop.  (Rosie the Robot couldn’t do THAT, I bet).  First kids are hard.  There’s no manual, no “how tos” (although my pediatrician gave us this clever “baby manual” when Monkey Man was born … for fevers and eating and when to call the doctors and the like.  So clever of them) Clark Kent and I had no idea what to do with Peanut when we brought her home.  We put her in the middle of the floor and stared at her, in her cute pink blanket in her car seat.  For almost an hour.  So, I’m glad I can be there for Wookie Jr. and his mom. And his dad.  Although, even with all the bottle feeding help he’s giving, there’s not much I can tell him.  Other than grab your butt and hold on tight, because this ride is fast, hard, and is gone in a blink of an eye.  (Or so those with older kids keep telling me.  Like that nice old man at the snack bar at Target who just patted me on the shoulder and said “You sure are a brave girl” and walked off laughing).  It’s a ride that I’ll take over and over though.  Despite the downward spirals it seems to take now and again.  I know I’m going to miss it when it’s gone.   Some nights I ponder that in a nice loving way.  Other nights I just repeat it 50 times like a good mommy.   But in the end, when I close out my day, check on sleeping angels (because they are angels when they sleep, right?) and remember how fast times flies, I know that the kids are my sanity, not just my sanity checkers.  They are my saving grace.  I may end the day covered in spit up, sweeping the kitchen for the fourth time because of some dog-food-bowl-kicking temper tantrum (that was tonight), sighing and wondering if I’m even cut out for this (I know, after 9 years, you’d think I’d know that), and wondering how I am still breathing.  I’ll take my cup of coffee (you’d be surprised how relaxing that is) and peruse my facebooks, and breathe the first breath of quiet air.  And remind myself that I can do it, and that being a mom rocks.  No other job on earth is as rewarding, though trying, as the one called “Mommy”.  

A Blink Away

I’ve found that when your day seems to go at 100mph, the wall you hit when you finally stop for the night hurts 10 times worse.  Since school started I’ve been going zero to 500 every morning.  From the moment that Bug wakes up (which is at 6:15am every single morning, thank-you-very-much) until I sit down at night to “relax”.  It’s go, go, go, go.  Get up out of bed; fight the dogs to get the door open, the alarm off and the back door unlocked to let them out.  And since Mr. Incredible comes to lock my doors at night after I’ve already locked them, they are suddenly impossible to open and I’ve got a wiggly Bug and 3 yipping, I-really-need-to-pee dogs at my feet.  Once that feat is accomplished it’s time to wake the monsters darling sweet children of mine.  Monkey Man usually gets up on his own and is happy as long as his Mighty Morphin Power Rangers™ fix is satiated.  Bean always jumps up out of bed.  One day she’s going to hit the ceiling, I just know it.  It’s always as if some giant gong has gone off as soon as I turn the handle on her door.  (Giant gong, now that would be funny.  I should look into getting one of those).  She literally screams “AHHH!” and jumps up off the mattress.  But that, while incredibly funny, is nothing compared to going into the dragon’s lair.   Waking Peanut up is like poking a hungry lion.  Or a raging bull.  Or a mad rhino.  You get the idea.  Now, Clark Kent just marches up there, grabs Peanut, throws her over his shoulder and brings her downstairs.  Kicking and screaming all the way.  I try a different approach.  I ask her to get up.  Nicely.  I try singing my obnoxious morning song (my mom sang it to me).  I try rubbing her back, hugging her.  You know. All those great motherly sweet things that June Cleaver and Carol Brady did.  No way.  None of it works.  She is just a bear.  A really, really grouchy bear.  And it’s every single time too.  Always a treat.  And before I’ve had my coffee.  I love that.  Why don’t we all try that tomorrow?  Act like a grouchy bear.  It can be “Act Like a Grouchy Bear Day”.  Sounds fun. 

Anyway, after all that goes down, and the fight to get dressed goes on, I go about the morning.  Assure everyone has gone to the bathroom, dressed, had their teeth and hair brushed, and the boys are fed.  Monkey Man and Bug eat breakfast at home.  Peanut and Bean get a nice, hot, free breakfast at school.  Saves me time, they enjoy it, and it’s free.  Did I mention it’s free? Yeah, free.  I like that.  After dressing and grooming is making lunches.  And shoes.  Shoes are always a fight here because, honestly, they have too many choices.  And then of course as we are getting ready to walk out the door I realize I am not fit for the public.  We walk, up to the school.  So, needless to say, I am never dressed for that.  So I throw on something less … embarrassing … pajama-y … old?  Anyway, and we’re out the door. 

We walk to school, get home, do the chores, play, have lunch, nap time (more cleaning for me.  Although I’m of the mind that we should all have nap time.  The whole country.  Latin countries do it.  Some European countries do it.  We should do it.  Shut everything down for an hour or two in the afternoon and just relax.  Sleep.  Whatever that isn’t work.).  Then it’s back to school, pick the girls up, and back home for homework.  Which is torture for everyone.  No one wants to do homework.  No child ever wants to.  Well, some children do.  There are a few who love it.  But Peanut and Bean are not those children. Those children live in a fantasy story that isn’t my life.  So we fight through homework, get ready for whatever extracurricular we have that night, and then dinner, baths, and bed. Then I sit down.  And deflate.  I sink into the couch and can’t move.  Hence the giant space between my posts.  Last thing I ever think about most nights is “ooh, look how my day went, let me write it all down.”  But I should.  I feel better.  And I can pretend that everyone really, really cares about the mundaneness of my day.  Because I know you do.  You sit there and think “how on earth does that crazy lady do it?”  and “why the heck does anyone have 4 kids anyway?”  and “does she ever eat?” or “wow, she’s absolutely bonkers, I feel much better about my life.”  So, as I hit the brakes and sit down for the day, recap on everything I didn’t accomplish that I should and listen to the hum of the dishwasher, I think that 100mph isn’t such a horrible speed.  And one day, when I’m sitting alone waiting for my grandkids to call, it will seem like the 100mph days were only a blink ago.  And as the country song says, don’t blink.

My glitter wand

I’m either on or off.  I accomplish tons or nothing.  Today I accomplished tons.  I am attempting to prepare for the first week of school.  The first week of school is like a dance recital.  All summer we’ve done nothing.  Then last week we started looking at the calendar.  Planning doctor’s appointments now requires a war plan.  Every day is a strategically planned wreck.  We have to get up for school, get dressed for school, drop the girls off at school, and then do a little PTA stuff.  What is PTA stuff?  Making sure the first couple days go smoothly for everyone we can.  It’s something I’ve practiced for 4 years now.  I’ve got the snazzy costume, the smile, and the “I know how this goes” attitude.  And the “don’t worry, it's okay” attitude.  But what I’m best at is not answering questions by answering them.  Oh yeah.  The good ol’ southern art of BS. Bull snot.  You know what I’m talking about.  The answering things without actually answering them because really, what is the point?  To reassure a frustrated parent that things will be fine, their child is taken care of, and the first week is always like this (no matter if their hair is on fire and their child is screaming like a banshee).  To help a teacher find that other list that they needed because this list isn’t the right one and who is that kid anyway?  To help an office staff member by bringing them a treat because God forbid they step away from the phone for five seconds.  Yes, yes they really want to answer every question you have, including the one where you called to ask if your child really (really?) needs 20 pencils.  Or whether we actually have school this week since it’s so hot.  Or that you want to speak to whoever is in charge because the car rider line was too long.  They love it. 

And that’s why we are there.  The PTA.  To help.  To ease stress.  And as a mom, I must ease my kid’s stress too.  That’s Act 2 of the dance recital.  It’s a different costume.  It’s the one with the extra glitter wand.  The wand that helps my Peanut walk into a classroom with enough confidence to find a desk and know that despite the lack of familiar faces, the year can be fun.  The wand that helps Bean know that she’s ready for first grade and it’s going to be magically fun even though it’s not her favorite teacher.  And it helps me too.  My glitter wand makes everything okay leaving my kids with a new teacher.  Leaving them amongst what will be friends, but is just a whole bunch of new faces.  Knowing that at the end of the day I’ll be right there waiting for them to come out the doors and hopefully smile and tell me that this is going to a be a great year. 

And it will be.  And we’ll survive the dance.  Tonight I relax after preparing stuff for the first week’s lunches, organizing school supplies and “Welcome Back” gifts for teachers.  All that’s left is a couple nights’ sleep and to don my “super hero mom” uniform that allows me to go through all of it without crying.  ‘Cause that’s what Mom’s do.  (And to be honest, I’ll have my best bud beside me too, which always helps.  Even super heroes needs friends.)  

Returning to home base

We survived vacation!  And approximately 9 million loads of laundry later, we’re about back to normal around here.  As normal as we can get with the crazy life of four kids that we have.  There were so many amazing things that we did on our trip. 

Our first adventure was sitting on the interstate just 45 miles from our half-way stop.  We stopped for gas, fed Bug, and got back on the interstate.  Just 65 miles or so to go before stopping for the night.  Just a little bit longer until dinner, the hotel, and relaxation.  Fast forward a few miles.  It was 6:12pm (yeah, I know exactly what time it was.  What?  You’d never pay attention to that.  You would be glad you had when you read the rest of this fabulousness).  Suddenly we stopped.  Dead stand still.  On the interstate.  Can’t be good.  And thankfully we’re sitting next to a trucker.  He is awesome and tells us what’s going on.  There’s been a fatality wreck just 2 miles ahead of us, and it’s “going to be a while”.  I was so sad.  Poor person/persons.  Tragedy on the road is always so sad, because I always think it could have easily been me.  But we didn’t dwell on that.  Clark Kent started looking for local news, traffic maps, etc. on my very, very smart phone.  And we sat.  Through two movies for the kids.  Through juice boxes and snacks and Goldfish ™ and coloring.  In the heat.  For 2 hours and 45 minutes.  Finally we started moving.  There was an exit they were moving people down as a detour.  Right before we got there, they started letting traffic on the interstate again.  I panicked.  I hoped everything was cleaned up, God rest the person’s soul.  And of course, we got past the exit, past the point of no return, and they stopped us again.  For another 45 minutes.  So 3 ½ hours of FUN on the interstate.  See?  You wanted to know what time it was too.  So you could appreciate us pulling into the hotel at 9:30, not 6:40.  Dragging 4 tired children to IHOP for a mediocre dinner at 10:00pm.  Dragging said tired children up to the hotel room, amidst crying, and putting them to bed.  Lying down for 10 minutes before someone needed something, or someone was touching someone.  Long night.  Adventure.  Excitement.  But all in all, we were so proud of Peanut, Bean, and Monkey Man.  They were troopers. 

The rest of our trip was typical.  Family reunion with people we don’t know.  200+ of them.  Learning more about a family that is so fascinating I can’t even imagine it was awesome.  We went to the Pittsburgh Zoo (which is a truly amazing zoo if you ever are in that neck of the woods).  Swimming, hair cuts, an Apple Farm, Chuck E Cheese and cousins of every age.  Great amazingness.  And then the two day trip home, which thankfully was dead-stop-on-the-interstate free.  What could be next?  School starts next week.  So this week was recovery from a trip, figuring out uniform fittings for next week, and helping at school.  I’m on the PTA.  We rock.  We just do.  We help everyone; we give kids popcorn, and wear snazzy t-shirts.  That sums up awesome if I ever could do it.   And next week is a whole new adventure.  Its fourth grade for Peanut, first grade for Bean.  I think I shall have to grow up soon.  My kids seem to be doing it at light speed.