Unexpected Joy

Piles of boxes have surrounded me

All summer long, in many forms.

Ten long weeks. Five longer days...

Checklists miles long, endless errands run.

Time shrinking away as I prepare:

my mind, my home, my room;

for a new crop of brains, smiles.

The greatest unexpected joy this week:

mountains of empty boxes, abandoned outside

the gleaming neatness of my classroom.

Tasks accomplished, tools ready, tasks completed:

my mind, my home, my room;

awaiting my new students with joy,

with unexpected ease, speed and enthusiasm,

even after seventeen years of unpacking!

Unexpected insights, visitors?  Unexpected news, joy?  Share with us!  Visit Melissa and find out about Six Word Fridays!

When it's a go...

Red light: gather your thoughts, prepare.

Yellow light: a pause to breathe.

Green light: go forth, obstacle free.

Set your compass, plan your way,

map in hand, dreams unfolding; everyday.

When you know it's a go,

put your best foot forward, ready.

Let yourself be, challenged, marvelously, uniquely.

Let yourself be, always ready, willing.

Do not wait. Ready? Set. Go!

Ready to give it a go?  Visit Melissa at Making Things Up and try out Six Word Fridays!

'Cause I can...

On Sunday, I was a Princess. A Princess who awoke at 3:00 am, donned her hot pink, glittery headband, a pink tutu, and a killer pair of compression sleeves.

On Sunday, I participated in my second half marathon, ever. Just a month shy of my first.

If I was excited about the first one, I was more than a little nervous about this one. I was worried I would oversleep like I had for the few runs we had done in the last two weeks. I fretted over the weather. I worried about the lack of training because of my neighbor's injury after the marathon last month. I wondered how my husband would handle the three kids without me and venture in the Spectator sections with countless other husbands and children at Epcot.

I worried for nothing.

My neighbor and I did not oversleep. We made it to the buses in plenty of time. I met up with Liz, from ...but then I had kids, who also happens to be my son's teacher. I cannot tell you how happy I was to see at least two familiar faces in that multitude of estrogen.

The day was warm. The weather was perfect. My husband fared well, as he is now a seasoned expert at maneuvering large crowds with small children. My lack of training was a non-issue, since I virtually made my same time in spite of posing with Disney characters and NUMEROUS potty breaks... (I won't even tell you how un-Princess like it was to go potty in a portable toilet with a tutu...)

And I had a marvelous time. For a little while, I was Princess Maria. I was living the fairy tale I wish I would have had the courage to attempt to live 15 years ago. Or even ten years ago. But I am definitely living it now.

There was no overwhelming urge to vomit when I crossed the finish line this time. As I looked around at the cheering crowd, knowing that my guys were somewhere out there in that sea of people, I was filled with awe that I had come this far. That I was still standing. That I was still running.

This time, when I crossed the finish line, there was pride. There was joy. There were tears.

And yes, I ran in that tutu for 13.1 miles. And I felt every bit a princess. Even if it was for one day.

Anticipation

Crossing the finish line...
Turkey Trot, Thanksgiving Day 2010

About six months ago, with a mere suggestion and an urge to do something different, I decided to start training for a half marathon. I have never been athletic in my entire life. I thought I could help out a worthy cause and challenge myself out of the tightly drawn box I had created around myself.

Little did I know what these six months would bring.

And how that decision would truly challenge me in ways yet unknown.

I did not know the strength I held within myself. I did not know that I could train my body to raise at un-Godly hours, in equally un-Godly temperatures (no eye-rolling Mid-Westerners and North Easterners. 40 degrees is COLD in Florida!)

But now, the half marathon is a mere six days away. I am nervous. I am excited.

I am changed.

I set out to do something I thought was impossible six months ago. The thought of raising over $1700 was terrifying. The notion that I could make my legs run for 13.1 miles was inconceivable.

Yet, here we are. Nearing the end of one goal, embarking on the start of other ones.

One half marathon in six days. A 5k in two weeks. Another half marathon four weeks from now. And plans for yet another half marathon before the end of the year.

Yet another piece falls in place in this puzzle that is my life.

Had I not had this all encompassing task, I surely would have handled my dear mother in law's cancer with a bit less humor and a whole lot of anxiety. At least for me, nothing makes me feel better and change my perspective than keeping busy, preferably with something such as this, that makes me oh-so uncomfortable, AND helps others.

So dear readers, I am in the final countdown. I am mentally preparing packing lists, have decorated my team shirt and am constantly encouraged by three little guys who totally rock my world. Those three little guys who make me want to work harder at being the person they think I am.

Slowly but surely, I am getting there.

Hopefully, I will cross that finish line Sunday morning without dissolving into tears, with a time that I can be proud of. And then, I can take the next step, into the next chapter, knowing that I can do just about anything.

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself...

Being a math teacher is hard. Being a math teacher in third grade is like growing teeth and THEN pulling them out. Being a math teacher in third grade with a new math series sucks rocks. SERIOUSLY.

Most kids begin third grade with an abnormal terror of all things mathematical. Apparently, the stigma of having to memorize your times table is a ghost that lingers past my own childhood and continues to haunt GENERATIONS of children. The fact that we have a state mandated test that determines your promotion into fourth grade does not help.

Our old math series was traditionally heavy handed with lots of computation skills, a fair amount of reinforcement exercises and plenty of opportunities to provide homework after good amount of practice. Basically, it did the job, had adequate opportunities to practice, and had a good amount of resources for remediation and challenges.

The new math series is a consumable workbook, which means you can write in it. And that pretty much sums up all that makes it great.

I REALLY hate the new series.

Don't misinterpret me. I did not love the old math series. But I knew it. I knew how to circumvent the obvious deficits of academic types who have never actually taught third graders. I knew when to strap on my boots when the skills to be taught were going to drive me to drink. I knew what concepts my kids would literally sail through.

With this series, I got nothing.

Except that the kids can write in it and instead of 3 GIGANTIC teacher's editions, I have six small, lightweight teacher's editions.

Not much of a selling point folks.

For you naysayers, there is a huge amount of deep psychological reprogramming that has to occur in third grade to not turn off kids to math. I remember constantly feeling stupid at the beginning, middle and end of every math lesson from Kindergarten through 12 grade. Every single one. I NEVER left my classroom feeling like it owned whatever we had covered. I hovered between treading water or drowning. And I cannot say it was my teachers' fault. They were good teachers, but every year I struggled so much that they focused on keeping me with everyone else, rather than finding out WHY I was so frustrated.

And for the first 13 years of my 16 years of teaching, I NEVER felt qualified to teach anything above first grade math. Because even as an adult, I was still afraid of math.

Then, I decided to teach third grade. And my administrators agreed it was time for a change. And for the first time in my life, I knew I had to be okay with math so that I could make sure no student ever walked out of my class feeling like I had for so many years.

I took that damn math book home over the summer and I taught myself all the sh*t I could not understand when I was in third grade. I started to see that there were patterns. That is really wasn't all that hard, if you were paying attention. That numbers, dare I say it, were actually pretty cool.

After discovering, albeit too late to do anything for myself, this new respect for math, I knew that I had the power to help my math haters reform themselves while they still could enjoy it. I vowed to make those kids who so closely resembled my former kid-self learn from my mistakes.

Was I not, after all, one of them?

The first year in third grade was rough. I had an intern the first quarter of the year. There were so many days I left school with bite marks inside my mouth from trying to keep myself from interjecting in her lessons. When she finally left, my real work began.

My students were timid, afraid of making a mistake, unwilling to let go of this fear. I vowed to do my best and promised them that if they paid attention and asked questions, success was theirs for the taking. I told them that if they didn't get it after holding up their end of the bargain, I would have to do a better job of explaining it.

It worked. Two years in a row. Glowing scores. More importantly, children who LOVED math.

Once they knew, they had nothing to fear anymore. They knew that they were more than capable.

Flash-forward to this year. A whole new crop of eager brains. A new math book.

A monkey wrench.

Our first math lesson was a disaster. I actually had one little boy start crying and tell me he was stupid. As I looked around the room, it seemed like there were many eyes teetering on tears as well. And then I wanted to cry. But more than that, I was pissed off. That this stupid book, written by people who had never met these kids were making this poor kid think he was stupid. Just like I thought I was.

And so we had a little talk. About people who write books that are designed to trip up kids. About how we are in this together. About how we were going to GPS anyone who was lost and help them find their way back.

We kept on it. In the midst of these past weeks, they tried to hide in their seats, behind their neighbor's head so that they could deflect my eagle eyes, searching for those who didn't want to be found. The last few weeks have been more than a little rough.

But we have persevered. We have hung on.

And today, my students actually felt ready to complete math problems on their own, without me holding their hands. I had students eagerly waving their hands, waiting to be called, instead of students with sullen, shifty eyes that beg not to be called upon.

Today, I had success. My kids got it.

But I will make a confession. Even though there was some deep psychological drama going on in that classroom for the last three weeks, my students owned it today. They proved to themselves that they are capable. And that is going to fuel the fire in their belly to continue to succeed.

And if I were the math problems in that sh**ty, new math textbook, I would be afraid.

I would be VERY afraid.

Helpful back to school tips or how not to piss off your child's teacher before school starts

As many of you know, I am a school teacher. I have been teaching for sixteen (!) years. Throughout the many years I have educated children, I have encountered all kinds of children and parents. Just so you know, there can be a lot of "problem" children out there, but "bad" parents are by far the worst problem teachers have to deal with throughout the school year.

I have decided to share some helpful tips for all you lucky people who don't start school until AFTER Labor Day, as the good Lord intended.

1. Please do not disturb a teacher before school starts. This means refraining from introducing yourself to said teacher as she is head deep in opened and unopened boxes, when her room closely resembles Hiroshima after the bomb went off or in the full throes of the nervous breakdown that occurs when we realize the summer is over and school starts in a mere four days from now. This also includes sending emails telling her how gifted your child is, asking what supplies to bring. Bear in mind that any of these actions can remind her that the summer is over.

2. If you decide to come and show your child where his or her classroom is, please make yourself scarce. Teachers who need to move boxes, furniture and books do not tend to look where they are going. Once they gain some momentum on their hand trucks, they forge full speed ahead, rarely noticing if they are running over pedestrians. This is especially true of short teachers, such as myself, who usually pack hand trucks and carts to above my eye level, making a line of vision impossible. Consider yourself warned.

3. Please do not tell us how you can't wait to send your child to school, how the summer was endless and your child was driving you nuts because they were bored. You are not making a good first impression. More importantly, your child's teacher not only has to deal with your "angel." She has 36 other little "angels" whose mothers are desperate to unload come the beginning of school. For the record, we are not here to entertain. We are here to educate. You are not inspiring confidence in us when you relate your anecdotes. Truly.

4. We get the issues your child has with homework. We have kids too. We also have classwork assignments that we have to pull teeth in order to get done. You have our sympathy. It is an unpleasant part of parenting. Get over it.

5. Be truthful of your child's strengths and weaknesses. We will figure them out sooner rather than later. It would be nice to have a heads up so we can address it quickly and efficiently and help your child succeed. We like nothing better than to have a successful academic year and confident students, in spite of what you may have heard about us.

6. Don't schedule teacher conferences the first week of school to gossip about your ex-husband and his new girlfriend. Discuss what is pertinent to your child's educational and emotional well being. We don't like tattling from adults either.

7. Please refrain from blaming your child's prior year's teacher for all your child's academic shortcomings. Surely, uninterrupted TV and video games for the last ten weeks did nothing to strengthen their academic progress. The tons of junk food and soda did not help either.

8. Please, please don't put sodas, cookies, chips and candy in your child's lunch box and call it a lunch. Call it what it is. A teacher's nightmare.

9. Teachers are people too. We have many responsibilities and obligations, inside of the classroom and in our personal lives. Please don't get upset if we don't respond within five minutes of you leaving a message in the main office or sending us an email. We are teaching.

10. If we call you with a concern, we are not picking on your child. We truly have your child's best interest at heart. But when push comes to shove, you are ultimately responsible for your child. We know parenting is hard. Most of us have children of our own. We share the same anxieties and insecurities in our own parenting. As teachers, we know your child in a way you will never know, just as parents know their children in ways teachers never know. We get it. But we are here to help.

11. The way to a teacher's heart is through kindness. There are only so many scented soaps we can use and necklace sets we can wear. If you think we have really touched your child's life, write us a letter. Let us know what we did right so that we can do it again and reach another child. Keep in touch with us throughout the years. We love to hear how our students are doing in other grades, as they get older.

12. Be enthusiastic. Your child will pick up on it. It will make all the difference between having a good year and having a phenomenal year!

And so, it begins...

We were scheduled to leave on our vacation early on Thursday afternoon, with John hurrying back from work. I was supposed to have everything packed and ready to be put in the car, with the final arrangements of light timers, raising the air conditioners thermostat, etc. The plan was to hit the road by 4:00 p.m., guaranteeing that we would leave the great state of Florida by midnight.

All wonderful plans. And of course, Murphy's Law knows no bounds...

The realtor handling my mother's condo rental called twice, the last time telling me that I had to come and sign papers. Fine. Hauled tail, signed papers, hauled back. Met a friend for lunch, but forgot her daughter's birthday card and a piece of red velvet cake for her. A tropical storm was looming and heading our way...

But the clincher was the front door.

Our lock has been acting funny for a few months. The key for the double lock would need some coaxing to get it out, re-turning to get it unlocked or locked. It decided to get jammed. As I was getting ready to leave it at my neighbor's house, in case of an emergency. Four hours before we were to depart. After I had told the realtor I was on my way. Before lunch with my friend.

This would not have been a real issue if not for some major points. First, I have a glass sidelight. Second, and most importantly, my door in the garage that leads into the house has not permitted a key within its sacred lock in well over seven years. A born again virgin, if you will.

So, it was crunch time. Delay the trip to fix the lock. Wait until getting back and hope we can get in.

Right.

I called a locksmith, on the way to lunch. Before meeting with the realtor. Forgetting the card and cake.

The locksmith came. He did not have a brass lock. Off he goes to his supply store to get one. He returns. He installs. He rekeys. He repeats for the second door. Lock still sticks. He uninstalls and reinstalls.

Hubby comes home and starts hauling loose items from the back yard into the garage, just in case the tropical storm gets frisky while we are gone. He goes out the back door and gets right to work.

Four hours later, we try my key: success. We try my husband's key: FAIL. He uninstalls and rekeys and reinstalls. Key fails. Epically.

I want to be clear that I did not change locks on my husband. There have been times I may have toyed with the thought, but decided that I needed strength in numbers with dealing with my children.

Regardless, his key did not work. I promised to get him a new key upon arrival AFTER the trip I was now thinking may not be such a great idea. 'Cause the start was not going too smoothly, you know?

In the meantime, while the installing/uninstalling/rekeying/whatever was going on in my living room, I was a woman possessed. I ran laundry, folded and put away, I packed and paced. For all five of us. I had children bathe and get dressed. I had a spouse who bathed and got dressed. I got bathed and dressed.

So when the locksmith left at 6:00 p.m., we started packing the car. We set timers in the house, double check the mental list, we load the children in the car, armed with DVD's for the ride. We're off...

Except we don't. Because we can't find the third, hundred dollar, wireless headphone for the van. We unload. We search. We panic. We take the keys out of the car to unlock the door to find a wired replacement headphone. We're off...

Except we don't. Because I can't remember if we locked the back door. Turn around and come home. To find it unlocked. We take the keys out of the car to lock the garage door for the second time.

And this time we are off...to meet Grandma and Granddaddy, an hour and a half later, to pick up a tripod to be delivered in the second leg of our trip...notes given, souvenir money distributed. We're off!

And about halfway out of the state, I remember that I didn't pack my bathing suit. That I need. That I desperately would turn around and get, just thinking about having to go into a fitting room on vacation, to find a replacement...okay, made peace with it.

Stop and get dinner. Get a taste of what Joshua will be like on our twelve day trip. Apparently, food is optional. Being loud about it isn't.

As the kids ate, John and I exchanged conspiring looks.

Decision made.

Tonight, we drive.

All night.

D.C. or bust!

To be continued...

Breathe in, breathe out...

After way too much time away from the gym, I recently snagged a really good deal and switched and FINALLY went today for the first time. I was excited to go, mainly because my neighbor is a member there and a exercise fanatic, so I know she will drag my pathetic ass more often than I will want.

Last night, as we made plans for the logistics, we decided on a Pilates class. Now, I am no exercise guru, but I thought that it would be easier than a traditional aerobics class and FOR SURE easier than a spinning class, especially after a self-imposed sabbatical from any exercise.

Hey, I hear you guys giggling out there. Not nice to make fun of the out of shape, have no idea what Pilates really entails lady. Not nice at all.

We got there early, and my neighbor showed me around. We decided to do some cardio work while we waited for the hour long class to start. By the end of 15 minutes on the treadmill, I was out of breath and determined not to let myself go so long between strenuous exercise again.

I saw our instructor walk in. A small older woman. Seemed like she couldn't do much damage.

She kicked my ass.

But I was proud of myself. I didn't cry out in pain when I made my body do all those twisty moves. I didn't walk out when I was made to hold a squat for WAY longer than it would take me to pee. And I didn't hobble too much when I walked out AFTER the class was over.

But I did wish I had taken some aspirin before heading out to the gym this evening.

That being said, after a stressful couple of weeks and the endless anticipation for the end of the school year to come (just 3 more student days after tomorrow, but who's counting, right?), I totally needed to focus on how I can make my body as strong as my mind. I totally needed to see what I could do when faced with a physical challenge.

I totally needed to focus on just breathing.

I did it. I breathed in, I breathed out.

When I inhaled, I felt the strength within myself. That which helps me rise to challenges, keeps me going in seemingly helpless situations, maintains me in a relatively positive state of mind and spirit.

When I exhaled, I felt the weakness in me leave the confines of my body. All that makes me anxious, preoccupied, distant, sad, angry and frustrated. All that keeps me from functioning at my full potential.

When you are focused on breathing, there is no time for nonsense. You are doing something that is vital to your existence. Instinctive, primal, necessary.

It was just the reminder I needed today. And when I hobbled out of the exercise studio like a cripple, I felt free of what the anxiety and stress had done to my body prior to this class. I felt loose, relaxed, deliciously tired and achy.

And it was good!

Please, PLEASE, tell me NOW!

For weeks, rumors have been swirling. Anticipation was at an all time high. And when we got word that that the news we had been so anxiously anticipating was in the building, there was a mad rush to the source.

My class sat for the state mandated test in mid March of this year. We worked, prepared, drilled, prayed, cried, made concessions, timed, cried some more, found our happy places, and spent many sleepless nights wondering how else we could prepare these children.

In the days leading up to the test, I wondered how the children would react to the test. Would they feel confident? Would they spend the majority of the morning keeping themselves from emptying the contents of their stomachs onto the test? Would they find peace in knowing that we had worked their butts off? Would they feel prepared?

Those questions have been dancing around in my little old head for the last eleven weeks. And even though my own nine year old son sat for the same exact test, I was less worried about him than I was about the children I teach.

Yesterday afternoon, third grade teachers caught wind of the scores. They descended on the main office like hungry vultures.

But everyone was told that we would be told today.

This morning, as I applied my face, I thought twice about wearing mascara, lest I turn into a raccoon upon learning the scores. I decided to live dangerously and made my lashes a little thicker and darker.

Upon getting to school, unloading stuff from the car and taking my junk upstairs to my classroom, I returned to the main office. Armed with my class list and a firm affirmation of NOT walking out without knowing how my children scored, I approached my principal.

As she beckoned me into her office, my co-teacher and I stood, ready. With each name that I said, the scores I heard were just music to my ears. Name after name, reading and math, those scores were worth EVERY single drop of sweat that been exuded over the length of the school year.

The numbers brought uninvited tears.

Tears of joy, relief, pride.

Damn mascara...damn raccoon eyes...

And the tears really flowed for the math scores of some students who had walked into my classroom, terrified of math. Those I had coaxed out of that fear, those who I had demanded so much from. Those that many a time during the school year reminded me of myself at that age. 

So scared, feeling stupid as the teacher would explain concepts and I lagged further behind everyone else. 

The ones I vowed to reform from math-haters to math lovers.

Those students were the ones that scored the highest on the math. I thought of their reaction when I told them what they had earned. I thought of how they had proven to themselves that they COULD do it.

Because they didn't just score what they had to in order to pass.

They went above and beyond.

And my students' reaction this afternoon was everything that I had hoped for during those dark days of preparation. Their eyes grew wide with disbelief. The uncertain looks were replaced with wide, confident, toothy smiles.  They asked to look at them again, perhaps to convince themselves that their eyes were truly not deceiving them.

I am not a braggart. But I am so proud of those children. I am so proud of the determination, consistency, effort and growth they have shown throughout this school year.

And I am SO relieved that the State agrees with me.

And so, for the rest of today, I felt drained.

More than what a teacher typically feels at this point of the school year.

Because you cannot hope and work so hard without giving of yourself.

And I gave.

And it was worth every bit.

***By the way, my son performed just as well as my high achieving students!  Happiness and pride all around!

Lust for Life (...after diapers)

Momalom's Five for Ten: Lust

One of my favorite commercials of all time was one from the Royal Caribbean Cruise Lines where Iggy Pop's Lust for Life blared. It was the perfect soundtrack for all the adventurous activities you could do onboard the ship and on the excursions.

There are people who have an affinity for the finer things in life; travel, gourmet cuisine, finely aged wines, art, music.

I am a WHOLE lot simpler. I have three children. I don't have time for fancy this or that. I often times forget what it was that I was going to do, going from one end of the house to the other. In my case, it is all simpler, except for one tiny, little detail.

My three year old is still in diapers.

I am ashamed to admit this.

When I had my youngest son, I had big dreams relating to potty-training. (Wow, that just might be the saddest sentence I have ever written.) I thought that this child would be the easiest to potty train, having two older brothers with the same kind of plumbing.

But alas, my older sons had different ideas. And in particular, one from The Diary of a Wimpy Kid.

For those of you not familiar with the story line, Greg is the middle child, getting ready to begin middle school. He has a younger brother who, in the midst of potty training, is told that there is a potty monster. Needless to say, the toddler will not go on the porcelain king, and mom is pretty upset.

So is this mom.

I discovered this debauchery when I took my boys to see the movie. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Laugh, because they saw the opportunity and took it; cry, because they saw the opportunity and took it.

Looking at the bright side, they learned to do something from a book, right?

But, on to reality. I have spent a small fortune on diapers and wipes. A small fortune I could have spent on the finer things in life, not poop.

I have purchased diapers for eight out of the last ten years, people. I am done.

There is a life I lust after. Not one that is fancy or complicated. It is very simple wish.

I lust for a life that requires no diaper bags, no refilling the wipes box, no Butt Paste.

I lust for a life where everyone wipes their own ass.

It will mean freedom for me. Of not being tied down to a baby. Of having three independent boys. Of life progressing, evolving.

It will mean that my youngest son will be nearing school age, and we will leave the preschool he attends now, where I send a hefty tuition check the first of every month.

It will mean not having to drive back home if I have forgotten the diaper bag, or harassing the older boys into carrying it to the car, out of the car, into the house, out of the house. It will mean one less thing to have to remember.

It will mean more stops on road trips, accidents while we are out, accidents while we are at home, accidents while we sleep.

And while I cannot wait to unburden myself and Joshua of chasing after him, getting all thirty pounds of him on the changing table and getting down to business, I know I will miss it, just a little.

Because it will mean that I no longer have a baby.

It will mean that I have raised another human being to some sort of independence, regardless of how basic that independence is.

I am starting to see the glimpses of this new and improved Joshua. Last night, he went pee in the potty. Mama did the potty jig and sang the happy Mama song for a good twenty minutes.

Lady Luck was at my house this morning too. He went potty again. Another round of dancing and singing.

But more than that, I saw my littlest boy proud of himself. He was so happy that he did it. He kept telling me he is a big boy. And, he is.

No fear of a potty monster.

And that was good.

Like anything in life, those things that are the most worthwhile never come easy. Not love, not good friendships, not parenting.

Especially not parenting.

But, if you encounter the difficult but worthwhile with a lust for life, then the whole journey is a little more enjoyable, even more worthwhile.

Even in the adventures of potty training.

And especially if you have a particularly good soundtrack playing in the background, even if it's only in your head...

(My version of) TGIF, Happy Hour!

The week has ended, thank goodness. Between a mountain of paperwork, papers to be graded, students drama, the field trip and my motherly responsibilities, I was really looking forward to this afternoon. This afternoon, when I would peel out of the teacher's parking lot, without a care in the world, if you don't count my three children, my spouse and the mountain of laundry that awaits.

But I have a confession to make. I was a bad mommy earlier this week.

In one of his many early morning rendezvous', Joshua awoke on Tuesday with crusty eyes. Only one explanation for this phenomenon: pink eye. Pink eye in schools is the modern day equivalent of the plague in the Middle Ages. No one wants a child that you even have a suspicion of pink eye. So, the drama started early that morning.

Me: I think Joshua has pink eye.

John: What are you talking about? He looks fine. (I think I detected recognition and a quick turn to denial.)

Me: I can't stay home. I have....(here is where I delineated all the things that would surely cause the school, if not the entire school district, to shut down for the day if I failed to show up.)

And this is where we proceeded to play the grown up version of Rocks, Paper, Scissors. I won. There were negotiations and compromises to be made. In the end, we had a plan. In the mean time, I had old eye drops.

I know many of you are wondering how I could diagnose and prescribe without an actual medical degree. If you have more than one child, you can skip to the next paragraph. You know what golden nugget of information I am going to pass on to the newbie's. If you don't, I will only tell you that the fear of going into a pediatrician's office is a magical thing. You will do just about anything not to have to go to the doctor's office, where, inevitably and without fail, you will pick something else up. That will cause yet ANOTHER visit, and so it goes. That is the real reason doctor's offices are always packed with miserable, sick children and even more miserable and broke parents.

I had been to the pediatrician's office on Saturday, for a well visit. My stomach trembled with fear. My husband scoffed at the idea that you could actually pick up something while you were there for a well visit. If you are keeping count: Mommy: 2, Daddy: 0.

So, yes. I had some drops from December. They were not expired. And I most surely opened up my son's eyes, and I put those drops in and marched my body to work. And for a couple of days, my medical band aid worked.

Until this morning.

Yesterday, Joshua had a runny nose when I picked him up from school. As my children seem to have inherited every unattractive trait that has been carried through in a recessive gene for centuries in my family, I naturally attributed this new malady to allergies.

This morning, in his nocturnal travels, Joshua came into our room, carrying his blanket and an accompanying cough. Again, no problem, I thought. He has post nasal drip. (Who needs an MD from Johns Hopkins, right?).

But the time of reckoning was at hand.

In all my years teaching and mothering, I have never seen a fit to the degree, magnitude or length that all of a sudden came upon my child. After assuring myself, and my husband, that there was nothing actually wrong with him, like a fever, I left for work.

And I prayed.

This afternoon, after a thorough ass-kicking, courtesy of long division with remainders, I got a call from school. Joshua apparently had coughed his way through naptime and was running a low grade fever. I felt slightly ashamed of myself, and didn't know whether to be happy or sad that the phone call had come at the end of the day.

I finally caved and called the pediatrician's office. It seemed that my TGIF Happy Hour was going to be spent in parental hell AKA the sick waiting room at the pediatrician's office. The ensuing phone call did little to quell my feelings of guilt.

How long has he had the symptoms?

You mean, the ones I passed off as pink eye or the ones that made the school call me today?

Fortunately, the doctor understood and seemed impressed with my mad diagnosing skills. He prescribed more potent drops (I hope they don't melt his eyeballs), antibiotics and a cough medicine with albuterol for the "slight" wheezing he could hear in Josh's lungs.

Way to go, Dr. Mom!

And for those of you who are not familiar with albuterol, it is the toddler version of crack. It makes kids super agitated. It is so potent, our local national pharmacy will not dispense it.

So yeah, not only did I have to go to the pediatrician's office, I now had to go to the corner family owned crack house, I mean pharmacy, to get the goods. Did I also mention that every imaginable waste of money toy is stocked right under the counter where you leave your prescription and wait for your stuff?

Good times. Know what the pharmacist's advice was as I was leaving with the cough medicine (and an overpriced junky toy for each child, Catholic guilt ups the score for the kids...)? "Don't give it to him right before bedtime. It might rile him up."

Thanks Dr. G! Daddy: 0, Mommy: 3, Kids: 1,000,000!

On the bright side, the kids were incredibly well behaved at the doctor's office AND the pharmacy. I also went to the local national pharmacy to leave off the other prescriptions (really, just because I had to get my stuff didn't mean I was going to leave everything AND get gauged!) and I even got to go to the fancy gourmet market without nary a fight between the children.

I know Joshua will be okay. He will bounce back just fine. The older boys will continue to be amazed that they scored overpriced pharmacy toys WITHOUT EVEN ASKING FOR THEM! Daddy will thank his lucky stars that he was spared the fate of the pediatrician's office on a late Friday afternoon.

And Mommy?

Mommy really wants to be looking at her second, EMPTY Cosmopolitan glass...

Not on this Friday night, though...

Conquering my own Mt. Everest...

Today was the day. I could no longer stand to look at the mess that had accumulated over the last six months on my kitchen island, my computer desk, my dining room table.

I am talking, of course, of the clutter of mail, bills and other assorted important papers that help define me as a "grown up".

Yeah, I know every single one of you out there is jealous that this is how I choose to spend my Saturday.

But today was the day. I have Tax Day looming over my head, and I just could not attempt to finish those dang taxes with all those papers, furiously multiplying by the day, much like the laundry baskets in my bedroom.

People, I want you to understand how hard it is for me to live like this; knowing that there is so much that must be done, but never having enough energy or will to take care of the things that would make my life so much easier on a day to day basis.

And, for the record, I do not have an obsessive-compulsive disorder. If I ever did, living with my dear husband has cured it, for sure.

Regardless, this morning with my head still throbbing from indulging in Bailey's Irish Cream and lack of sleep, (Joshua, God bless him, was our wakeup call at 6:00 am), I thought, today was as good a day as any. And so, I gutted the kitchen island, the dining room table, the computer desk, and began; cross-legged in pajamas (which I stayed in until 1:00 p.m.!) and began my quest.

I found pictures, notices, unregistered credit cards. Tax notices, bills, Medicare papers (Did I also mention I had all my mother's important paperwork to go through too?) , more bills, investment and retirement papers, tax documentation, etc. Thank goodness I had purged about six months ago, otherwise, it really would have been scary.

But sometimes, you just have to forge ahead. Even if the task is daunting and unpleasant, time consuming and emotionally draining, it must be done. And while you are bitching, you might as well get to work and be productive, cause it's gonna get worse before it gets better...

My dear husband went through the retirement papers as I happily shred papers that needed shredding. I personally LOATHE those investment and retirement papers, especially after looking at the dismal news they usually bear, and yeah, I know it's only on paper we are losing money.

The reward: I can see the beautiful granite countertop in the kitchen, I can see the beautiful wood grain of the dining room table (that goes beautifully with the engraving that Andrew has carved in his Homework Desperation) and the computer table no longer looks like the defining evidence for Family and Children Services to come and have my home condemned as unlivable.

Also a plus, Hubby treated me to Italian (that I didn't have to cook!) and white wine...downside, the entertainment was provided by the clan of children I bore and it was Harry Potter...

Now, I wonder what I could finagle if I really conquered Everest?

Nah, I am just happy with Hubby, Harry, the clan, Italian (that I didn't have to cook!) and wine...

Insomnia: A mother's nemesis....

After an eventful Super Bowl, I retired for the evening. Expecting my cocktail to have worked it's magic on such a tired and willing-to-succumb-to-slumber body, I gleefully jumped into bed and waited. And waited...and nothing.

Insomnia is a bitter enemy of mine. I can remember many a night spent fighting a losing battle against it. As a child, it is frustrating, but your inability to sleep does not carry horrible consequences the following day. The game changes as you age. The older you are, typically, the greater your responsibilities. Add three children, and you are as good as done.

Last night, I would doze, wake up drenched in sweat, glance at the clock try to settle back in and repeat. (On a side note, not looking forward to menopause...) My old nemesis Insomnia was back, and getting sweet revenge from the woman who could sleep all day long.

See, the thing about motherhood is that you are a closet superhero. Childless people stand in awe at what can be accomplished when there are bodies hanging onto to you in every direction. Other parents understand the intricacies of parenting multiple children, and often compare notes on the easiest ways to accomplish tasks in spite of the children. Parenting is simply the stuff of superheroes. Even when you can't, you must. Your needs take a back seat to the needs of your children. And somehow, in spite of whatever challenge you must overcome, you don't (generally) feel neglected. It's what you signed up for. There ARE times when your needs MUST come first. You must replenish the source that fuels you, but it is amazing to find how much mileage you can get from refueling...

I have often longed for Elast-A-Girl's super powers in trying to keep my chickees together in a busy parking lot. But Insomnia is the kryptonite to this Superwoman. No amount of caffeine can counteract it's nightly victory. Much like a good cover up stick, coffee can hide some of the damage, but never really make up for the lack of rest. Alas, superheroes are separate from the rest of us. Most are not entangled with mere mortals. They do not have to worry about groceries, dinner, homework, sick children, overstressed spouses or their menstrual cycle. Most can function with very little going for them...that is of course, as long as their powers work. Their biggest concern is saving the world. Piece of cake! Ever tried putting a teething baby to sleep? Yeah, I thought so...

That being said, this Super Mom rolled out of bed this morning, determined not to have Insomnia have the last laugh. You see, I have three grumpy, sleepy children. The ones who demand so much of me and require me to have at least four hours of sleep. But even on the days that the sleep does not materialize; that the kryptonite is hanging around my neck, I have the ultimate power source: the love of my boys. Even Insomnia is powerless against that! And in this super-parents headquarter, everyone is past teething...