Migraines, caterers, deadlines = SUCKAGE

It has been chaotic in these parts for the past couple of weeks. My blog has been left to fend for itself, and all I have been able to manage has been stringing a few lines of six words to pretend that I am actually writing. But we all know the truth.

Last March, in the spirit of doing things on a whim (as much as any mother of three who works full time could do) I booked our family for a Disney Cruise. Although a bit apprehensive, my (very wise) husband figured it was easier to go with it than to fight me on it. The two younger boys birthdays would be celebrated with the world's most famous mouse, and this family of five would take their very first voyage on the sea (for three nights, anyways).

When I made these plans, I assumed several things. First, and foremost, I believed that our State Mandated test from hell would have been administered in March, as it has been since its inception.

I assumed that Andrew's First Holy Communion would be in late May, as his older brother's was two year's prior.

I believed I had another year before I would have to begin the renewal process for National Board Certification.

I also believed that it would be a relaxing trip.

Fast forward to the beginning of the year and the release of the State's testing schedule. Yeah, you guessed it. The test was scheduled for the Monday after we docked. As a bonus, we also had a short week the week we left, thereby cutting my instructional time as I crammed as much review as I could for my poor students.

When I received the schedules from the Church for the Communions this year, I was SHOCKED that Andrew's would be scheduled for the Saturday of the week that we returned. A mere 6 DAYS after we returned. During a testing week. In which two thirds of my offspring would be required to partake of.

But better yet, the first year I was eligible to renew was this year. And the box is due to San Antonio in a mere 10 days.

A sign of the Apocalypse. And very poor planning.

Maybe I am not cut out to be spontaneous.

But I digress.

The week leading up to the trip was hectic, at the very least. There were orthodontist appointments, birthdays, packing, reviewing, writing and MAJOR picking up and preparing for the party after the Communion, 'cause really, who goes on a trip the week before a major religious sacrament.

After marathon packing into the wee hours of the morning, we departed. The weather was perfect. The food was delectable. And for the three nights I was on that ship, I didn't think about all that I had left behind.

I was reminded as soon as we arrived and got to our car, only to discover that the battery was dead. Some nincompoop (me) left an interior light on the whole time we were gone. Or rather, until the car's battery went dead. After a good 45 minutes and endless attempts of getting jumper cables that were functional, we were on our way home. Clearly, God had other plans than for me to spend Monday morning explaining to my principal why I was still 2 hours north of my school.

The week of testing was endless and harrowing. The children managed not to throw up or have nervous breakdowns in school. There were endless appointments that some nincompoop (me) had scheduled for dentists and such. Oh, yeah, I forgot. The Communion was supposed to be in MAY!!

Our Church decided that the children who were to receive the Sacrament on Saturday needed a lengthy (as in almost 3 hours) rehearsal after religious class, on the night before even MORE testing. Andrew and I had dinner at 8:30 p.m., after they locked the gates to where our car was parked.

Finally, testing finished. The week finished and it was the night before. My late period decided to make an appearance the night before the Communion. John and I shoved stuff in boxes to store in the garage, went out for a last round of stuff we needed for the party, set up tables, chairs and floral arrangements. I prepared platters of food and left them in my neighbor's refrigerator. I ironed (as I muttered silently to myself) the after the ceremony clothes, showered, shaved and blow-dried my hair. I went to bed at 1:30 a.m.

I rose at 6 a.m., fixed the salad, put on my dress (it fit!) and headed to weigh in for Weight Watchers. I did a little gig as there was no change in weight (yippee!!) and headed to the local grocery store to pick up the cake and the mother lode of food for the party.

Here is where we ran into a problem.

The deli department had NO RECORD OF MY ORDER! I had to be at church with dressed children and looking like a person by 9 a.m. At 7:15 a.m., I wanted to cry. And swear. And curse. Except I had gone to confession the night before. I didn't want to blacken my soul before at least 12 hours had passed, you know?

I handled myself with as much grace as I could muster. The deli manager promised to have my platters ready within an hour. I had her draw up a much reduced bill for my inconvenience, paid said bill, and left to put my face on and dress some boys.

John went to pick up the food when they called. I hurried to dress children and make sure lipstick was somewhere in the near vicinity of my lips. As I was heading out the door to get to the church on time, John came back, one platter short.

It was hard, folks. Keeping it together. Not letting my raging hormones just take control and let myself become a sobbing, wet, hot mess. I drove to Church. I left Andrew with his group. I got a knot in my throat seeing my little boy looking so big.

And then, I remembered I hadn't had breakfast. And my migraine began.

I survived the ceremony, in spite of Joshua acting like he was crazy. The food crisis was averted and we got our money back for our trouble. Everyone had a great time. Andrew had a glorious day. It was worth all the craziness to see him smile as he came into the Church, gleaming in his white hand-me-down suit.

But my migraine was bad. I fell at home. With a house full of guests.

I couldn't eat later that night because I hadn't taken my prescription before the migraine got out of control.

I went to bed with bruised knees and a nagging question of where it all went wrong.

But next time, you'd better believe that I won't be so quick to fly by the seat of my pants. Calendars will be consulted. Arrangements will be made. Care will be taken.

I mean, it's simple math. Migraines+deadlines= MAJOR SUCKAGE.

April 30 and a FedEx confirmation cannot come soon enough!

When Mommy is down for the count, send in the reinforcements...

After a delightful evening out with very close friends and all the collective children, Hubby and I brought our brood home late last night in much cooler than expected temperatures. Cold, tired, cranky children are not the way to end a particularly nice evening, however; truth be told, the mission of getting everyone showered and in bed was much less painful than typical.

After the routine morning wake up (Joshua hollering that he needs something in particular at that precise moment, which also rouses his two older brothers), I tried to go back to bed. I had the beginnings of a migraine and wanted nothing more than just to lay in bed for a few more precious minutes to see if it would dissipate on its own.

I know that you all know how the story is going to develop. Joshua decided that the thing he needed the most was to climb up in bed with me, with Nick Jr. in the background, and use my tired, aching body as his own personal playground equipment. This would have been fine, (as a mother of three, there is MUCH that can be blocked out by sleep) except that the only way that this was going to be fun for Joshua was if he could continue to climb up and off the bed. Yeah, I know. I was also delusional in thinking that I would knock that migraine away early.

I got up, got the brood ready and did what needed to be done. Running errands on Sunday, particularly errands that involve wholesale stores, is something my children hate. They whine and beg and make general pests of themselves. And on this particular Sunday morning, I had big plans for getting my tires balanced too. My van is the vehicle of record for transporting my precious cargo. At over 84,000 miles, and nearly 5 years mine, I am determined to keep it as long as it will have me and keep it running safely. As soon as Matthew, my nine year old and Andrew, my almost 7 year old heard this, the verbal attack began. "But I'm so hungry," Andrew exclaimed. Matthew: "When are we going home?" Joshua: "I vant Dora!" We were off to a great start!

Somehow, in spite of the whining, complaining and overall repetitive commands by two desperate parents, it got done. Then came the debate over where to eat. No consensus, no problem. Hubby was quick with a "no one is getting what they want" rebuttal and we were off. Of course, the migraine is seeping into every lucid corner in my brain and the kids can smell the weakness in the air.

Children fed, check. One more stop before home...except that by now, I can't remember that we need sippy cups (because there is a sippy cup thief in preschool who loves our cups), that we need a new trash can for the kitchen because the old one doesn't open on command...and the two children who aren't strapped into a stroller are stuck together like magnets wrecking havoc in our path. Of course, I remember the things I have forgotten after we pull up to the house, as I am ever so carefully unloading my sleeping toddler...no easy task for a woman who so desperately needs meds and a quiet, dark room.

I no sooner lay down for a short nap that will restore my superpowers (and at this point, I will be thrilled with human capabilities, at least) than the two older ones start in on their famous "but he's cheating at chess" tirade. They started at THE EXACT MOMENT my head touched the pillow. And Hubby sprang into action. Pleading, shushing, threatening...because we all know what scares Hubbies the most. Not a bad economy or the monthly household budget being out of whack. No. What scares this Hubby, (and I suspect that this is a common affliction), is when Mommy is out of commission. Because that can only mean one thing. That he is on his own until Mommy is as strong as a newborn colt...

I know that I am human. I shudder to think what would happen to "the routine" if something seriously happened to me. I know Hubby can hold his own. But the drudgery of everyday, the handling of the sibling rivalry requires the training of United Nations workers trying to diffuse a potential nuclear threat. The coordinating of schedules and transportation for activities rivals that of any political candidate in the throes of an election season. There is so much information stored in this aching head of mine, that it would be nearly impossible for me to list it all. How to describe how Andrew's face scrunches when he is upset about something? How to detail a course of action when Matthew is plotting an intricate plan to get you to do something he wants? How to respond when all Joshua needs is a really tight hug when he is so contradictory, that politicians would be envious of the fence-riding?

So, instead of beating myself up for being human, I continue to lay, knowing that I won't be able to sleep, but content in knowing that this rest will somehow be enough to fuel the rest of the day. So that it can be enough that this colt can stand and regain her strength. So that Hubby can exhale and be ready to dodge the next bullet...