Drive...

If you are a parent, there is nothing carefree about this stretch of road...

The action of driving: impending dread

(for oh-so-many reasons in South Florida!)

and what will bring our family

to the brink of bankruptcy when

we have three additional males insured

under our policy.  God help us.

But only if the grocery bills

don’t drive us there first. Seriously.  

Check out what drives Melissa and Six Word Fridays!

An explanation to the long absence...

As you have noticed if you frequented among these parts, things have been amiss for the past few months. While I have posted every week through Six Word Fridays, even that has been difficult and has, often times, alluded to all that has transpired since late last spring.

Life happens. And usually not in the way or shape we would like it to.

And because all that has transpired in these past months has been difficult and painful, it would have made sense to write about it here; to make light of it, to poke fun at the situation I found myself in. To be witty.

But I couldn't. For the first time in a very long time, it was just too painful to write. I had no way of expressing all the sadness, frustration, and fear I was experiencing.

And if I put it in writing, it would be real. I desperately wanted it not to be.

As many of you know, my beloved mother in law spent nearly a year battling breast cancer. Our family weathered the storm of the complications, the chemo, seeing her frail and warrior-like. Little did we know that we were in for more. We had another scare in the summer, but by now, we were also seasoned warriors.

My uncle, who has no children and is a liver transplant recipient, had a MAJOR health crisis. In early May, he was whisked away by ambulance in the middle of the night, and began an extended stay in the hospital and later rehab (and later the hospital again) before he took up residence at the assisted living center where my mother lives in mid-August.

The process of dismantling a life is an arduous one. So much to become acquainted with, so much paperwork and legality, to make repairs on a home, pack it up, put it for sale. So much to be made responsible for, when you are already responsible for so much.

My boys and I, along with my sister and my aunt (my mother's older sister) spent our summer cataloging my uncle's items, making piles for the dump or charity, and packing his things to be moved into his new apartment. I cannot tell you what a comfort it was to see my boys helping us in any way they could. Whether it was trudging down the stairs laden with books, to packing and sealing boxes, to making lists of things to be done, my two older sons were workhorses last summer.

And it quite literally broke my heart to see them so hard at work, peering curiously at me as I often stood, bewildered with worry and anxiety in the middle of my uncle's rundown house, wondering how the hell I was doing this again.

That flurry of activity was during the day. At night, my sister and I would go see him at the hospital, often wondering what his prognosis was going to be, wondering how in the world we were going to handle all of this new responsibility when school started back. Somehow, we would manage.

We emptied his house, made it sellable, sold it, and breathed a heavy sigh of relief when he moved into his new place, somewhat healthy and begrudgingly happy.

In the midst of all this, my mother's physical therapist was concerned at the pain she was experiencing during therapy. She ordered a routine MRI and uncovered a huge mass on her stomach.

Welcome to Round 2.

We had no sooner finished dealing with the immediate needs of my uncle when my mother was diagnosed with a somewhat rare cancerous tumor on her stomach. Her surgery was successful in that it removed a 13 centimeter tumor. However, she spent the better part of a week in ICU , unconscious, when she experienced difficulty breathing on her own a day after the surgery.

More tests.

More worry.

Another tumor was discovered on her larynx.

One that was seen and commented on by three different doctors.

One that miraculously wasn't there when they went to biopsy on Halloween Day.

The hell that went through was nothing compared to the generosity of spirit of our family, friends and coworkers. I have never felt so much love and support in all my life.

I am happy to say that things have somewhat returned to normal. We had a peaceful Thanksgiving.

We had so much to be grateful for. So many lives saved during a course of 365 days.

I had my "normal" Christmas. The one I so longed for last year when my world was collapsing around me. I had all my folks. My mother in law. My mother. My uncle and my aunt. They were all alive. My handsome new nephew, my brother and sister in law. My sister and her family. Every single person who weathered the storms of 2011 with us. They were all smiling; happy and healthy; under one roof. My roof. Even writing this now, the words blur through the tears.

So you can imagine why I couldn't write. Too much. Too fast. It was exhausting to live it, overwhelming to even think about putting it out there.

The prognosis are pretty good all around now. My mother in law is doing better than fine. She is back to doing her thing, on her own terms, and the mischievous gleam in her eyes has returned.

My uncle in is dialysis three times a week, but now he has to deal with my sister and I. I think he is slightly pleased that things fell into place as they did. He seems happy and has adjusted well, considering.

My mother's latest PET scan came back clean. She is on a chemotherapy that was originally given to leukemia patients. Imagine my surprise when I discovered it was funded by the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, whom I have fundraised and run for since 2010.

I hope that I am back to this, my writing in my space, more regularly now.

I hope you understand my lingering absence.

I know that soon, I will be laughing again. And taking you along for the ride...

Waiting...

On days like today, I feel like the waiting is endless. It seems as though I am always waiting on something to change, to getter better. I am always waiting for someone, sometime, to be ready, to get their act together.

On some days, like today, my tolerance is not as good as it used to be.

I am tired.

I am fed up of people behaving badly.

Of people who should know better to ACTUALLY do better.

And it makes me sad that these people misuse the opportunity they have to help others in inspiring ways. To use their opportunity to uplift people instead of bringing them down.

It makes me sad that I am still so naive when it comes to human nature, even though I'd like to think I am a cynical chick.

So, I am waiting.

Waiting to get over my over-anxious nature and not get worked up.

Waiting for the endless four days ahead of Spring Break.

Waiting for the glorious beach and hopefully, a couple of days at the sunny shore, ready to toss my thoughts into the endless waves.

And, I am waiting to be able to DO better, 'cause I know better.

And hoping I don't fall short.

A prayer for mercy...

Dear Lord,

Today, I ask you to be merciful. I know that I have some bad karma coming to me for years of giving homework to countless students, invoking the same misery I am experiencing right now to hundreds of parents over the last sixteen years. I know I have it coming. Times three.

Tonight, as I am sitting here writing in order to distract myself from my middle child, I pray for either strength or a quick death. Frankly, I cannot take anymore of the whining and complaining or inability to find anything in the book bag that is remotely related to homework. If it is death, please, make it happen NOW. It has been slow and painful enough.

Lord, if in your infinite wisdom you enlighten modern science in the cloning of humans, can I please be first to have one? So I can send her to drop children at tennis at differing schedules? So that I can have another making a dinner that my children will inevitably hate? So that I can perhaps get a massage, or, at the very least, a decent haircut and color? Right now, I would settle for a decent night's sleep or a solo trip to the bathroom.

And while I have your attention, did the garage door really need to cease functioning today? I mean, it has been nearly 12 years since we got it, but did it have to go today? When the entire week is filled with mindless and meaningless things that MUST get done...and when I have trash that needs to go out and have no other way to get it out? Since it's already busted, can I, at the very least, get the earliest, most convenient appointment for repair, without paying an arm and a leg?

Please, dear God, I know that the events of the last few hours are minimal compared to the crosses some people have to bear. Please, let my love for my children overcome the frustration and the feeling of wanting to pull out my already thinning hair straight out of my head as I am carried away to the funny farm. Let me remember how much I love them and so wanted to be a mother. Let those thoughts carry me through the next 14 years of schooling that lay before us.

Thanks for your time. I know you are Almighty. I know that you have my back. Just send me a sign so that I know that I am already on the life raft on this turbulent sea of motherhood.

Amen.

The road to hell....

The saying goes that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I should know. I think I have paved that road EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. OF. MY. LIFE.

And since becoming a mother, I would say that I have been working overtime.

In the last four days, I have seen the best intentions get feelings hurt, words misspoken, leaving people frustrated, angry, sad.

The intention was to be helpful. The intention was based on assumptions.

We all know what happens when we assume. You make an arse out of you and me.

So the question becomes, once you are witness to someone's frustration, and their subsequent feelings of defeat and receive an apology that you don't think you should have gotten (because we are ALL human), what do you do?

Do you email the person and attempt (with the best intentions) to cheer up the person?

Do you just let it be?

For once, I am going to keep my mouth shut. I will not call or email. I will not Facebook or text. I will give that person space. I will not, with even the best intentions, make the situation worse.

This is difficult. I am never short on words. I always have something to say. But, in this case; as I am guessing, is the case many a time; I will not say what will make me feel better, momentarily.

Because, inevitably, I will feel worse. Because the reaction will probably not be one that I anticipate.

Because most people need their space.

Furthermore, I think I have done my time paving that road.

I don't think I need to be told where to find it.

A handstand, in spite of the crud....

It's official. I can now say with certainty that I am sick. I have been in denial for weeks, making excuses for the scratchy throat, the itchy nose, the watery eyes. But yesterday, I could no longer ignore the aches and pains. I had an earache.

On Halloween night.

Right before trick or treating.

I would have been perfectly content with staying home, curled up in bed, watching some sappy movie (I watched My Sister's Keeper yesterday afternoon; a sure sign of impending sickness...). But, alas, I have children. Boys who love to dress up on Halloween, and beg for candy that they don't eat, but will inevitably make my ass larger than it needs to be.

I downed two aspirin and went trick or treating with Buzz Lightyear, and two Harry Potters.

The only treat I wanted was my bed and Nyquil. Not necessarily in that order.

I survived. I came home. My husband took one look at my pathetic carcass and commanded me to get a shower and go to bed.

Since he rarely commands me to do anything, I did just that and collapsed until this morning.

Flash forward to this morning. Body still aching, but not quite as bad, I decided to go to work. It was a Teacher's Planning Day. John suggested I stay home.

My husband doesn't understand the finer points of teaching. You NEVER take a day off on a Teacher Planning Day.

I went to work. I went to yoga. I did my first ever, assisted, hand stand.

Me. The girl who could not roll on a mat in elementary school because I would get dizzy.

Me. The girl that can run nine miles in under two hours.

And I can't wait to do it again.

By the way, I feel so crappy that I actually went to one of those clinics within the Pharmacy. And while they swabbed and tested, I do not have anything that antibiotics can cure.

Just plenty of fluids, a decongestant, aspirin every six to eight hours and rest.

The yoga class and an assisted handstand count, right?

Lettuce wraps and entitlement

Over the weekend, my husband and I took the kids out for dinner after Mass. It had been an incredibly busy day, and frankly, I am getting kind of bored with making dinner every night. Seriously bored.

We choose a semi-fast Asian fusion restaurant, where we can order our children's Honey Garlic chicken without the honey or garlic. Any guesses as to what's left when you remove those two key ingredients? Chicken nuggets. With steamed white rice. I know.

We placed our order, and went to find a place to sit with our family horde. And there, we were met with the self serving, entitled older folks. Giving us the evil eye.

And I swear that my children were being good. No one was fighting, no one was whining about the chopstick clips, no one was upset about being hungry.

So I gave the evil eye back. They kept glancing our way, with tight frowns on wrinkled, sour faces. They got their bowl of wonton soup before us, even though we got our order in first.

Eventually, we got our soup. And our fabulous lettuce wraps. And that's when one of the entitled retirees snapped at the waiter, and me, as I sat gap-mouthed, astounded by her rudeness.

"You didn't order lettuce wraps, did you?" she asked accusingly.

"We most certainly did. Sorry." I answered smiling sweetly as I seethed.

THE NERVE! TO ACCUSE ME OF TAKING HER LETTUCE WRAPS!!! WHEN I ORDERED THEM!

She must have taken the hint. She mumbled something, half-apologetically, about us having ordered first. My husband and I exchanged puzzled looks.

How do people think that being that rude entitles them to any kind of special treatment? Why do these people feel that anything and everything that they want, they are entitled to?

Our mean neighbor and her entourage got their order messed up. The restaurant was so busy that the waiters failed to catch they incessant bickering over the order being wrong.

And us?

We enjoyed the rare instance in which we dined out and our children actually enjoyed their meal and each other's company. Hubby and I had a deep philosophical conversation about the Bill of Rights and separation of Church and State.

And you know what? I felt sorry for that group of people who sat a mere four feet away from our table. Because everyone is entitled to some happiness. And it was clear that these four people were not happy. Not because their food was wrong or because they were sitting next to young children.

Because they were failing to see that happiness is something that they could grasp for themselves. It was not the lettuce wraps that they ordered and did not come as quickly as they wanted.

It is in our grasp to live in the moment.

To relish and savor the tender morsels of everyday joy, instead of cultivating anger and anxiety.

On the way home, I thought of what these people must have endured in their lives. But, we all experience disappointments, sadness, anger, rejection, sickness... What makes people hold on to that yuck? So much so that it taints everything around them? How do we avoid becoming that person?

We experience it, but we don't have to hold on to it. We learn from it. We release it. We move on.

And when all else fails, we dig into those lettuce wraps, and perhaps, gloat just a wee bit...

Hey, I never said I was perfect!

P.S. A very special HAPPY BIRTHDAY goes out to the best dad in law anywhere, Granddaddy! So sorry the kids were sick this week and we missed out on celebrating with you! We love you and will see you soon!

Intentional Happiness for the week of September 23, 2010

It has been an exceptionally rough week. There are many reasons for this, many reasons I cannot go into it on this blog, because of the nature of the circumstances, because of promises I have made. But in spite of the bad news and setbacks this week has ushered in, I am filled with gratitude for many things.

I am grateful for the kindness of the people that surround me on a daily basis. Their gentle words have slowly brought my soul back to life, helped me pick up my family from our worry, has helped my find the right words to bring comfort and hope to those I love the most.

I am grateful for the prayers so many have been saying for all of us. Those prayers are powerful weapons against anxiety and worry. That kind of faith can move mountains.

I am especially grateful to my students, my own sons, for making me think of someone other than myself. Their wit, perspective and humor fuels me on a daily basis.

I am grateful that, in spite of the events of the last 24 hours, we have been given yet another opportunity to embrace a new day with renewed faith that things can, indeed, get better. And they will.

Liar, liar, pants on fire...

I have one major pet peeve. There are very few things that send me over the edge, but the one thing that always gets me is when someone lies. To my face. Like I am stupid.

Unfortunately, in my line a work, the lies abound and come fast. A teacher can spot a lie a mile away.

So can a mother.

However, children often think that they are much more intelligent than their parents, and often, when feeling particularly bold, will make an attempt to make their point.

The worst is when adults tell lies in a weak attempt to deflect controversy, problems, or conflict. The problem with that theory is that usually, when the lie is discovered, the consequences are much worse.

It seems that there has been a whole lot of lying going on around here. And frankly, I am sick of it.

Our laptop's charger died about a week ago. I called our extended warranty and order a new one under our policy. It was to be delivered today.

My husband was home early due to a rabid migraine. I stayed at work later than usual to keep the children away, since nothing makes a migraine worse than having a house full of loud school aged boys. I picked up Joshua, headed to the local market for some tomatoes and headed home.

We unloaded the car, got in the house. I checked email, paid some bills online and decided to track my package. Imagine my surprise when it said it had been delivered almost 2 hours earlier! I stepped outside, checked the front of the house, the back of the house, called my neighbor to see if they had delivered it by error there. Nothing.

I called the shipping company and was promptly informed that I needed to contact the shipper so that they could initiate a claim. I did just that.

After being passed around to three different departments, and put on hold for 20 minutes, I started to give the man my information when I noticed a box in the playroom that my boys were attempting to restore to order. Shipped today. Open with a packing slip out, confirming what I was now suspecting. With said cord out.

I hastily hung up, mortified. Did what I think just happened, happen?

No one admitted to it.

So no one is allowed back in the playroom until someone 'fesses up.

It would have been easier to spot the liar with the smoking arse, though.

I interrogated everyone in my house under the age of 37. Everyone pleaded innocence, ignorance and shock at being considered a suspect.

There was a lot of finger pointing and prodding mom into thinking that a box can just walk into a house, clear it, and open itself.

I am mad.

But more than that, disappointed. Disappointed that they didn't trust me enough to tell me the truth. Disappointed in myself for badgering them with relentless questioning. Disappointed that I can't uncover the truth.

And the worst part is that I know that I could have handled it differently. I know that I should not have been so irate at being on the phone, telling the man on the other line that the shipping company had most surely NOT delivered what was in my plain sight.

Tonight, I feel like a liar. Because a good mom would have trusted that her kids were telling her the truth. Because I felt like crap when my middle son started tearing up, wondering how to trust me when I was clearly not showing him that I trust him.

Because I alone have made it that much harder for them to tell me the truth.

Truth: I think that damned box did just sprout some legs and walked right into our house, parked itself in by far the coolest room in the house, and decided to disrobe, letting all its cords hang out.

Either that or UPS has gotten a little too efficient in their delivery techniques, you know?

And when you thought nothing else could go wrong...

The first day of school is always a day when you must be ready to fly by the seat of your pants. Traffic is horrendous, school zones are in full effect, harried desperate parents ready to leave their children at school, children who won't wake up. In a nutshell, the converging of all Laws Murphy.

My day was no exception.

For one, I skipped out on the 5:30 am spinning class, mostly because I did not want to be late on my first day. My body took it as a sign that is was a day to sleep in, so I dragged my tired arse out of bed with PLENTY of time to get three sleepy children out of bed and get myself in some form of decent for school. I managed to get everyone moving, even darling Joshua, who has been known to be quite a sourpuss in the morning. He so agreeable this morning, I thought for sure he was kidnapped by aliens. Regardless, he even pooped this morning before school, to my complete delight (have weirder words ever been expressed), because that way he wouldn't have to go at school and have difficulty wiping his own ass.

Because Andrew is now in the "big" school, I had only one drop off. Before we headed out the door, the traditional first day of school picture, backpacks and lunch bags in tow. Three happy, smiling faces.

Got in the car with all my stuff, headed out. The interstate wasn't too bad and I decided to go the scenic route. BIG MISTAKE that cost me a good 40 minutes as I cursed under my breathe, cursed out loud, pounded on the steering wheel and gnashed my teeth. Good Lord, it was going to be a LONG day.

I tried calling my co teacher, M. Unfortunately, she had forgotten her phone at home, as she also has three children who needed primping and prodding to get out of the house. Universe 2, Maria 0, for those of you keeping count.

When I got to work, rushing like a mad woman in platform heels (Yes, I dress up on the first day of school. No need for parents to experience incredible disappointment from looking at their child's teacher and thinking she is a slob) after a whole summer in flip flops, I found my principal near the Main Office where we sign in. Now, I was on time, but I had not arrived as early as I wanted. Universe 3, Maria 0.

I rushed into my classroom with my two sons lagging behind. I couldn't find my co teacher. She was there, but I couldn't recognize her. She shares my philosophy in which we should look like decent human beings on the first day of school, not at all like the slobs we will eventually become as the school year wears on. I hurried to give Matthew his room number and asked him to drop off his brother. Shitty mother of the year goes to Maria...Universe 4, Maria -2.

The class of students are phenomenal! The parents seemed very supportive and willing to be active participants in their child's education. They also knew when to leave the premises. I felt all warm and fuzzy. Then I realized I was just warm. AC unit is still not functioning. Shitty classroom awarded to Maria...

Got through the preliminaries, got them to Physical Education, lunch, to the bathroom, etcetera. Everyone is fine. Everyone is following directions. Suddenly, dark clouds and storms threaten and unleash. Happy first day of school from rainy South Florida. Every year for the last sixteen years. That's what happens when you start school in the middle of hurricane season. Universe 5, Maria -2.

Then, one of the kids exclaim, "Mrs. E! Water is coming in through the ceiling!"

Oh yes, ladies and gentlemen. The universe's joke of a classroom is truly a prize. No AC and a leaky ceiling. You know it's bad when the head custodian apologizes for the situation in your room. And if you have ever been a teacher, you know the head custodian NEVER apologizes for ANYTHING...

Dismissal was a rainy one in which we don't recognize parents or students. It was a soggy wet mess.

But I survived.

My kids had an awesome day.

Matthew loved both of his new teachers. I got a phone call from one of them, saying he was just so polite and smart.

Andrew smiled and waved when he saw me in the cafeteria. He was happily relating the day's events later on.

Joshua had a good day. And another bowel movement. And his teacher, whom was Andrew's teacher when he was two, snuck a wipe on his behind, God bless her.

So, all in all, a great day.

But Momma is drained. Needs to sleep.

So she can get up at 4:45 am for her 45 minute walk.

And maybe, that's how I can keep the Universe from kicking my arse tomorrow.

Scratch that.

Tomorrow's election day.

And our school is a polling place.

Just when you thought it was safe to dive back in....you have to go vote too.

In search of...

Just recently, my sister and her husband decided that their little 2/2 love nest condo is no longer roomy enough for their ever exploring little girls. They just got a pre-approval letter from a mortgage company, so the search is on.

They are not too particular about what features they want in their potential new home. A nice yard, a certain location, at least three bedrooms, two baths, and a two car garage. They assumed that they would be able to purchase a little more home than they could have two years ago, given the flush of foreclosures and short sales in the South Florida area.

What they did not count on is the squalor these homes are in...They don't call them short sales for nothing, people.

Angie and I have spent the last two days with the five kids meeting real estate agents all around town, in joyful hopes of finding "the one." If you have ever tried to do anything with children, then you understand that it is the equivalent of walking underwater with 30 pound deadweights around each leg. Toddlers and other assorted young children should never, ever be taken on such an endeavor...

But I digress.

We have seen a kinds of gems in the last two days. Needs TLC is realtor speak for get ready to unload big bucks to make the Health Department award a certificate of occupancy. We have seen kitchens that would make any of us healthy eaters into anorexics. Bathrooms? Ever feel the urine creep right back into your bladder in a really filthy public restroom? Same feeling. And the carpets? YUCK. I felt like disinfecting my shoes before I walked into my own home after viewing some of the properties. Missing cabinet doors, non functioning central air conditioning units, suspicious water damage in corners, cracked toilet tank tops, shoddy enclosures in garages to augment living space, secret hair salons at home equipment and really questionable decorating choices. I think that the paint job in the master bathroom in the last house we saw today actually made me lose some of my vision. It literally burned my eyes.

The worst is when the owners are on the premises when you are viewing their homes. They either run for the hills (or in this case, the intense Florida heat of their "glorious backyard") or they stick around and help point out the upgraded Benjamin Moore paint that was obviously applied by a five year old, or tell you that they have taken their wonderful front loading washer and dryer to their new home. Thanks.

Even worse is how people fail to make their homes a little easier on the eyes in order to facilitate the sale. Really, do potential buyers need to stumble over your open luggage at the top of very narrow stairs and see that your packing skills match your non-existent housekeeping abilities? Or, how about making the bed if you know the realtor is bringing somebody by? Wash the dishes in the sink? Run a vacuum cleaner, perhaps? I don't think lived in should look trashed. I have seen some mighty messy places in the last 48 hours. My own home with my clutter would make Martha Stewart proud.

We have made realtors very nervous as they see us unload from my sister's van like clowns climbing out of their little car. They smile nervously, clear their throats, and clearly don't know how to proceed. Sometimes they can be very gracious and kind, offering to watch the five children while you have a quick look-see in the master bathroom. Sometimes, they curse under their breath when the security guards in these gated communities won't let them in after 45 minutes of pleading, harassing and threats. Sometimes they act aloof, like they are doing you a favor by showing you places that truly should be condemned by the Health Department. I guess it takes all kinds.

Then they try to educate you on what the procedure is for a short sale. Condensed version:
So, what you're saying is, we are going to make an offer on this heap of concrete blocks with a roof on it. The bank is going to decide if the outrageous amount of money they are asking for is enough for us to take it and gut it to begin again. And they can take months to decide. Great. I think I am ready for my lobotomy without anesthesia. That is one of the many services you provide as well, no?

Angie and I will continue to do the preliminary looking for the next couple of weeks, shrieking or napping toddlers and all.

But, I think that if she finds the "perfect home" within her price range, she owes me a drink.

Or two.

And definitely some disinfectant.

Getting busy (in search of knock offs)

This weekend was the weekend. Older two boys at Grandma and Granddaddy's.

Mommy and Daddy getting busy...

...getting rooms cleared out, furniture moved, rearranged, purchased, lugged home and assembled.

All to surprise the boys that rock our world.

But of course, we hit road bumps. Like damaged, still in the package sofas. Discard collecting agencies that don't collect furniture or do collect furniture but aren't open.

Other, more mundane road bumps: neck pain, back pain, furniture dropped on toes, cuts, bruises, strained arms and legs...all kinds of shizz.

After all is said and done, rearranged and assembled, comes the decorating. For boys. Whose idea of decorating is hand drawn Quidditch fields in frames. Seriously. (And for those of you scratching your heads at Quidditch, it is Harry Potter's signature sport, which does not exist for Muggles, who are non magical people...)

Mom wants to rebel and turn at least one little corner of her world into a snapshot of a Pottery Barn catalog. Except, I haven't lost my mind yet. Seriously, $80, clearance price, for a fabulous surfboard shaped corkboard? Seriously.

Where is the Pottery Barn knock off, people? Every store on Earth has a knock off, no?

Which got me thinking...movers and decorators are not necessarily an overpriced luxury.

People with kids and bad backs (because of the kids) need their services.

If only they had knock offs....Oh wait, that's what we are, aren't we?

Table for one at the Pity Party

Oh, people, it has been quite a week. Between the Money Pit, my three year old's constant vacillation between "I want to/I don't want to" and the older two boys constant fighting and bickering, I think I would like to be in a nice, quiet padded room.

Sure, I am off from school. I am down one full time job. But honestly, there have been a couple of times this week when I have snuck off to the closet for a quiet, desperate sob.

This is why we aren't cool as parents.

Perhaps it is my own fault. Because I planned for doctor's appointments this week, anticipating that it would basically suck, but after the week was over, no more constraints from the appointments. Because I went to clean up that darned apartment to FINALLY get it rented and I found yet more water where there wasn't supposed to be any. Maybe it's because my three year old can't make up his mind one way or the other about anything. Maybe it's because I am tired of running interference with the older two.

Regardless of whatever the cause, I am tired. Drained. Frustrated. Angry. Sad. Anxious. Fed up.

Whenever Joshua pulls the standard "But I don't want to," I want to jump up and down like Rumplestilskin and have a holy fit. I don't want to deal with a house in need of repairs. I don't want to hear my children fighting. I don't want to spend day in and day out cleaning after people, waiting for Joshua to use the potty, waiting for the plumber that doesn't show up, the realtor who won't call, the messes that don't get cleaned up.

And don't even ask what it is I do want, because right now, I don't even know.

But I do know what I don't want.

I don't want to feel this tired, this frustrated right now. I don't want to holler at my children because they won't listen to me. I don't want to send Joshua to the potty, only to find him standing in front of it, his pants drenched in urine.

There is no magical wrap up here today. No wise words of lessons learned.

Just one tired, frazzled mother of three boys, sitting at a table for one at the Pity Party.

Adventures in Potty Training: Part 3

It is time. I cannot justify spending another penny on them and if I were to add up every cent I have spent on them over TEN years, I could have a closet full of Banana Republic clothes AND fabulous shoes to match.

Alas, the time has come.

Joshua has started full blown potty training.

My mother in law, God bless her heart, helped him get a jump start last week while I was still at work. And she used our dearly departed Granny's secret weapon for potty training: leaving a slight trickle of water going on the faucet and slightly closing the door. And for all you naysayers , the woman raised FIVE children in poverty and using cloth diapers (YECH!), with an incredible sense of humor. For you environmentalists, what's a little water running when I am surely responsible for at least one landfill full of disgusting, non-biodegradable diapers.

TEN years, folks.

The running water is a drop in the bucket, literally.

So, Joshua performed admirably with Pull Ups while Grandma was in the house. When Grandma evacuated the premises on Friday afternoon, Saturday was a no go.

But Sunday began a new week.

And new awareness.

I decided to be bold and trade the Pull Ups ('cause dagnabit, those suckers are EXPENSIVE, too!) and dressed Joshua in big boy briefs. And bribed with M&M's. And put him on the potty every hour, on the hour.

And he rose to the occasion.

He even pooped on the potty.  Twice!

And today was no different. When I got back from my 5:30 a.m. spinning class (yes, I am well aware that I am on summer break, however, my waistline needs my immediate attention), I got a desperately needed shower. And then, we went potty.

And he did.

He went to take his brothers to Vacation Bible School in big boy briefs with no accidents. We went to run an errand right after, no accidents. In fact, he spent the better part of today in briefs. When we went out to get Daddy's Father's Day present, he wore a Pull Up. And after a two hour trip and a short nap, the rocket was still there.

The rocket was still there in transferring him from the stroller to the car. He went potty again. And then, he said the words I had been waiting to hear.

"Mama, I need to poop in the potty."

Music to my ears, I tell you.

He sat. He pooped. Mama did a crazy version of the potty dance and song.

And Mama doled out M&M's.

M&M's for keeping the rocket on the Pull Up. For going potty. For pooping in the potty.

And my little boy?

He smiled his delicious smile.

And taught me once again to never underestimate him.

Or myself.

And somewhere, on a big, fluffy cloud, Granny is smiling down at us. Grateful she no longer has to potty train anyone.

When "No" means "Yes" or How to keep your spouse guessing...

As many of you know, I have recently embraced physical exercise again. After my Pilates class last week, I felt inspired to try something new on Sunday.

And try something new, I did.

I decided to try Spinning.

For those of you not familiar with Spinning, it basically resembles about 20 gerbils on their own stationary bicycles, pedaling ferociously and in different positions, with differing intensities, in a supreme effort to lose weight.

It is not a pretty sight.

I cannot tell you what exactly made me decide that this was a good idea, but I vaguely recall a engaging conversation with my husband, and some words in the neighborhood of "Don't take the class, you might hurt yourself."

Now, I know that these words, however well intentioned, were not hurtful. But, damn if he doesn't know how to push my buttons after 19 years. So what did Maria do?

She walked into the Spinning class with her trusty neighbor (who is a Spinning junkie, for real) and got herself and the bike adjusted, strapped in, and began warming up.

In the row in front of me, was a 250 pound woman, with confidence to spare.

Class began. The music was pumping. And I held on. I pedaled. I sweated. I glanced at the clock looming ominously red, overhead. But I could not lift my behind off the seat.

I changed the tension, and try to stand. I quickly found out that you must REALLY jack up the tension in order to lift your arse off the seat and not eat the floor in the process. I found a little more success, but not enough. Throughout the hour, I did manage to try to lift my behind, but it was certainly harder than it looked.

And ahead of me, my 250 pound sister made it look easy.

I can't tell you how I survived that hour. But dagnamit, I will not walk away from a dare. And my poor husband saying those words to me were equivalent to the triple dog dare in A Christmas Story.

Of course, I had different problems after the completion of the class. Mainly, how to walk without looking like a cripple. And how to sit on a chair without wanting a visit from the Grim Reaper. I also looked like I had walked into a shower, fully clothed.

All in the name of burning anywhere from 700 to 1000 calories in that hour. Totally justifies the amount of humiliation and pain, right?

My neighbor looked at me with a look of amazement and doubt that she was dealing with a completely sane person. And slight admiration. She could not believe that I hung on, pedaled with intensity and determination for an hour, and was still upright.

My husband was astounded. And worried. Guessing.

Was I crazy? Did I feel okay?

I am a little bit crazy. I have never walked away from a challenge, real or perceived.

I felt okay, for the moment. But I had a sneaking suspicion that I would soon be in the need of some pharmaceuticals. Pronto.

And later on that night, as I stood in the hot shower, wincing in pain, I described what I felt like.

He laughed his hearty laugh.

And it was almost worth it.

What will make it worth it will be when I can do that class without sitting when I should be lifting. When I see the excess weight drop. When I am as strong physically as I feel mentally.

The pain did not do enough to deter me. I called my neighbor yesterday. We will be trying the 5:30 AM Spinning class at least twice a week during the summer.

No more excuses.

Just putting your money where your mouth is.

Just saying...

That and my twenty year high school reunion in a year.

I have time, right?

Watching paint dry...

Do you remember being in school?

Do you remember the breathless anticipation of the end of the school year?

Do you remember how the clock would not move?

Welcome to my day today. A day of endless waiting. A day of the clock remaining stuck at the same time, the whole day.

And if it was painful for my students, it was excruciating for me. Because in that endless waiting for the hands of the clock to move, I was also waiting for documents, lists of instructions, a hurry up and wait kind of situation that did nothing to help pass the time.

And the only thing that would have helped would have been to have had that endless list of tasks to be completed. It would have kept me busy.

Too busy to constantly check the clock.

Too busy to be reminded of how painfully boring it is to sit and watch a clock.

Or to watch paint dry.

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...

Motherhood: Bringing out the worst in women, daily

I know you have encountered mothers who are out running errands. They look frazzled and ready to either abandon their children in the midst of a busy store, or just sit on the floor, and sob.

Today, I was that woman.

My normally easy going boys were liked caged wolves who have been set free. They complained, they smacked one another, they refused to keep up with my frantic pace.

My toddler decided that he did not need a cart. He also did not need to hold my hand, walk next to me, or even be in the same aisle where I was frantically trying to find the items I needed, so that I could just go home.

Today, I could have easily walked away.

Except that my two older boys would have called my mobile, and I inevitably would have had to come back.

I would have made the local news. The degenerate mother who left her three adorable boys in a busy Craft store. On Mother's Day weekend, no less.

And there might have been some prissy women thinking what kind of woman does that.

And others would have been cheering.

I have noticed a strange pattern developing within myself when I witness children who are getting reprimanded by their mothers in public.

Before I had children, I would feel terrible for the children in question. Poor babies, being made to feel so poorly.

Now, after kids?

I feel terrible for the parents in question. Poor mamas, being made to feel so poorly. I say, take those kids down. Sometimes, you can almost hear the silent cheering of other mothers, who have also had to chase their toddler children around the store. We exchange looks of "You go, girl!"  We closely resemble men watching a boxing match.

Sometimes, we even high-five each other.

Well, not really.

But I wish we did.

Too little, too late....

It is too late tonight, almost tomorrow.

My day today has been very hectic, much like being a hamster on one of those silly wheels. You spin and run, but you don't really go anywhere.

Work and orthodontist appointment.

Making sandwiches and more appointments.

A little of this, a lot of nothing to show for.

In the midst, long division with remainders. Students who are longing for summer vacation. A teacher looking forward to rest.

So tonight, not too many words, because too many have left this body today.

Perhaps tomorrow, more energy, more creativity, more words, a brighter outlook.

Not too many words tonight, but enough to get the point across.

(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...