Late last night after the boys were asleep (they were out by 7:55!) I received an email reminding me of a meeting I have at school this morning. At 8am. Now, when I was single – without kids – I would have been able to get up 30 minutes before my departure, leaving enuf time to get where I was going, I might have arrived less than an hour after waking. I am up several times in the middle of the night to be sure I have not overslept the alarm clock. At 6am I grab the clock and silence it, tiptoe to the bathroom and begin my day. I am brushing my teeth when not one but both children join me. “MOM! It’s too bright in here!” this from Sailor as he waits in line behind Mac to pee. It is still dark outside. I invite them back to bed but they would rather play. Per my instrux they are dressed when I come out of the shower. I am not in the mood for hair and makeup yet and contemplate making breakfast. It is really early.
Over breakfast Mac and I discuss the substitute teacher who will be in his classroom for two week starting tomorrow, while his teacher accompanies the 8th graders to France. Why, I have no idea. She does not speak a word of French and she will be apparently leaving her two small children at home with their father. I will not miss her.
I am helping Mac lean over his plate to get his ketchup covered scrambled eggs into his mouth. He rolls his eyes at me. I remind him not to be rude. He does it again. I can tell already how much fun we are going to have when these children turn to teenagers. I ask him to look me in the face and apologize.
I retreat to the bathroom and dry my hair. This behavior is heartbreaking to me.
Nearly two weeks after Mac brought Mrs. S a jar of homemade icing and a flowering plant from Sailor in celebration of her 39th birthday I have yet to see a thank you note in Mac’s backpack. And seeing as how she is off to France in 2 days I doubt we ever will see one. That is not the way to teach children.
I am generally very disgruntled over the way things have gone this year at school. I am happy to have been able to release Sailor from preschool, but that school was not giving me any sort of problems. I wish I could pull Mac from the big school. I wish it were that easy. I should know in the future not to involve myself with anything school-related if it is not directly Mac-related. That will be my new rule, except that I have already agreed to edit the school’s monthly newsletter for another year. I job I do nearly entirely thanklessly.
I am not sure whether or not Mother Nature has her own calendar, but she seems to be personally unaware that she set Spring in motion nearly a week ago. Our near-50 degree temperatures of yesterday afternoon have given way today to a raining snowstorm. It’s the kind of weather most people would simply describe as “gross.” It’s grey. And everything is wet.
Sailor and I spend this morning playing vigorously at one of those indoor inflatable playgrounds. I am exhausted, as is he. At lunch he swears he will not be taking a nap this afternoon and all the way home he negotiates with me until he finally asks what he has to do to not take a nap. I suggest he fold, distribute and put away (correctly) all the laundry. To which he asks, “And then can I have stories?” It’s only noon, so I explain to him that the reason he does not want to take a nap is that it isn’t nap time yet. So we decide to turn around and go back to the bookstore that has the train table. I can get a coffee! He can get a chocolate milk. We can look at books. “But I will not ask for a toy!” I am so proud of him. We pull into the parking lot and I catch a phone call. By the time I hang up 11 minutes later he is asleep. I start the engine to drive back home until I realize that I am in a parking lot that requires a validated parking ticket. Shoot. I drive up and call the attendant, whom I can see from the windowed booth she sits in across the side walk. I watch her let the phone ring twice before making a face at it, slowly picking it up and painstakingly pressing whatever she has to press to talk to me. The look of disgruntlement on her face is priceless and I wonder exactly how much she gets paid to do this job and precisely what she was doing before I so rudely interrupted her. I explain my situation. “Well, put your ticket in the slot [stupid lady! Don’t bother me!]” I call a generous thank you out to her as the card reader says I owe $0.00. By the time we get home, find parking and I am completely out of breath from not only carrying my winter-coat-clad 35-pound child up two flights of stairs, but carrying on a cell phone conversation simultaneously, Sailor is awake. “I thought we were going to the book store,” he wails plaintively. “Do you want to go?” I ask halfheartedly, tho we do have the entire afternoon ahead of us and the bookstore is always a good choice. He whines a little and I tell him to hang on a second while I go to the bathroom, the real reason I have carried him a block and a half and up two flights of stairs while on the phone. When I come out a minute or so later he has climbed up into my desk chair and is again fast asleep. The flash of my digital camera capturing this precious moment does not wake him. The house is so quiet. I should sleep a bit myself, but I don’t, of course. Instead I plug my new digicam into my laptop and find out how bloody easy it is to down load a photo! Wow, this is so cool.
I also contemplate dinner. We are way overdue for a trip to Trader Joe’s. But sometimes, just for fun, I like to hold out and see just how far we can get when we run out of food, because in truth we could never run out of food! But we are down to our last 3 apples. And while we can do without a gallon of milk due to the endless supply of milk boxes and organic soy milk my mother has so generously bestowed upon us, I just cannot turn a banana granola bar into a real piece of fruit.
Mac had homework to finish this morning, which of course ended in a battle of wills as he attempted to write sentences while balancing his worksheet on the corner of the bathroom sink. He does not understand the directions I am giving him in my smart mommy way of telling him how to spell “when.” This is one of your “wh” words, I remind him. He has no idea what to do and I am frustrated. More evidence when I try to explain further and he tells me that his teacher never comes by his desk to help him, that she is not teaching him well. Have I mentioned that I am completely over Mrs. S? Done. Finished. Caput. I will allow her to teach my child for the remaining three months of school but I will not be nice anymore. We are still waiting for her thank you notes from the gifts my boys brought her on her early-March birthday. Not a major error, true, but a very bad example to set for the children. And even worse when I am still disgruntled over her comment that even tho we moms do all the work it is really the father and his family who count. AAARRRGGGHHH!!!! I will not allow this woman to tell me how to raise my child or what name to call him. As I said, I am over her.
My 4-year-old sits at the dining room table while I fold his laundry. He plays with a set of plastic clothes hangers and two tiny plastic army men. There is a lot of shooting noise and moaning sounds. “Repair to die!” I overhear one army guy tell the other army guy.
After school Mac tells me he has learned to patch people up from like the movies, like that guy Fredrick Newtongale.
Saturday morning Sailor has changed his mind about wanting to go tot the strore for healthy donut ingredients. “What should we do then?” I ask him. “Settle down,” he suggests. “Settle down?” I ask. “Settle down, have a coffee, do what you want, do art studio business,” then he adds, “Take a rest.”
Mommies don’t get a rest, I tell him. But he disappears into the playroom and I am left to contemplate his wisdom. I guess in all practicality I could sit down and read a book…. Except I have to prepare my taxes. And I both boys’ rooms are terribly messy (not that it really matters since they don’t sleep there – tho Sailor’s room, still housing both his own and the living room rocker is too crowded to get to his clothing easily). And I do have work to do for the art studio…. Sigh…. There is no rest time for the Mommy. I just want to spend my day with my boys. Not in the same house as they are, but actually with them. Tho I don’t really want to play StarWars.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Week 27 Spring Break
Happy St. Patrick’s Day! Everyone in green! I have set out an impossibly green outfit for Mac that includes a green striped oxford shirt, a green striped polo shirt (“My Blues Clues shirt” he calls it), green corduroys (why he has these I am not quite certain) and green socks. Sailor doesn’t get to wear as many green things, but he does have Mac’s Old Navy St. Patrick’s Day t-shirt from two years ago and green socks, and we improvise with army green pants. He tops the outfit with a tall Dr. Seuss-like St. Patrick’s Day hat.
First day of spring break and Sailor comes to ask me if he and Mac can play StarWars. “No,” I say clearly, tho still asleep. He stomps out of my room. I get up soon after and am still peeing when he pops his cute little head into the bathroom to ask again if he and Mac can play StarWars. “No,” I repeat. He starts whining. “We talked about this yesterday and we agreed that StarWars is going on vacation. That’s the end of this discussion.” He storms out of the bathroom saying things about me that I hope he does not mean.
I am busy in the kitchen whipping up green milk and green cream cheese and green scrambled eggs – evidence that the leprechaun was indeed here messing around and playing tricks on us while we slept. “Mommy, I gave Sailor three choices for what to play and one of the choices was StarWars.” I look at Mac. At least he is honest. “Both of you, go to your rooms.” I am calm, I am rational, I am pissed off.
When the boys are back in the kitchen Mac starts in about how the leprechaun didn’t leave any green milk or green pee pee (in other words, the toilet water wasn’t green). I invite them to blow bubbles in their milk using their straws and lo and behold the milk turns green. Sailor doesn’t want the bluish-greyish green cream cheese on his bagel. The two get going on how there is no leprechaun. How Mommy must have done all of this. I can’t win.
I walk out of the room and call a friend. This has been a bad start to spring break. There is definitely room for improvement. We leave late and shop at a fruit market, each boy getting to choose some green vegetables and fruits to eat this week. Mac is all over the place and I realize how much easier my days are when he is in school. He has a lot of energy. This is not to say that I prefer to have him in school. It is just a statement of fact. Three grocery stores later we have a car full of fixings for our annual St. Patrick’s Day Irish Stew. Including $7 worth of hormone free, cage free, antibiotic free beef that you could not pay me to eat. But you can’t make a stew without meat. So the guests will eat the meat and I will eat the veggies.
Next stop: $1 bowling. Great idea. In fact, so great the entire population of some other part of our city has the same idea. The bowling alley is packed and we are on the waitlist for a lane. Friends meet us at the alley and after 30 minutes waiting we decide to reconvene at my house. I set out a healthy share-all version of lunch and put away groceries. The boys play with my friend’s 8-year-old niece while she and I and her college daughter work on a newsletter in the kitchen. When they leave I start cooking and cleaning for dinner. Guests are set to arrive at 5:00. It’s 3:00. Sailor goes down for his nap with such a fuss I nearly have to cancel our plans. Dinner is simmering in a pot. Soda bread is baking in the oven. Wine has been poured. Sailor is napping. Mac and my dad are in the kitchen working on math. And I retreat to the bathroom to fix my make-up and brush my hair. At this point I take time out of my busy schedule to teach myself an important lesson: Do not squeeze a zit on your forehead moments before guests are set to arrive, as doing so will result in a big red monster bite in your forehead for the remainder of the evening.
My friend’s little boys, who are roughly the same age as mine (a few months older), are afraid of the little loaner dog my sister has brought over, very loud, and they won’t even try a bite of anything I have served them. But they are polite and very cute so all is forgiven and the evening is boisterous and lovely.
So far our plans are going so-so for this week. Let’s see how the remainder of the week plays out. Oh, and did I mention that it started to snow while I was cooking dinner?
It’s Friday, March 21, 2008. The first day of spring. Or was that officially yesterday? Either way, Sailor has a terrible cold and it is snowing so hard I had to re-shovel before I had finished shoveling. Welcome to spring break, Chicago style! Oh, and Easter is in two days.
Most of our plans this week have been thwarted by one thing or another. First the bowling alley was too crowded, and yesterday I was planning to take the kids to one of those indoor inflatable jumpy places. But Sailor woke up with the cold and wanted to stay home. We discussed it and after a lot of leg wiggling from a disgruntled Mac and a lot of crying from Sailor I left the boys to decide on their own how to handle this unfair situation. I was much too tired to do it myself after having dragged my Spring Break self out of bed early to get them ready to be at said indoor inflatable jumpy place by 9:15 am. We spend the morning watching old Flintstones – whom Sailor has alternately referred to as the Thumpstumps, the Footstones, the Footstumps, the Flipstumps, and finally settling on the Thumps -- cartoons on DVD. The kids think they are hilarious and I love listening to them giggling. Sailor napps in the afternoon and Mac and I watch Les Miserables on DVD. The “talking one” as opposed to the “singing one.” A friend whom I have recently re-connected with and her twins came for dinner early just after Sailor wakes from his nap. So that has been our week. Just a lot of regular days and plans going south.
6:25pm Mac is making popcorn and Sailor is jumping up and down in the living room trying to reach the Thumps movie. We are heading to bed. I have had to shovel once again and as I am finishing up a storm of little white hail/snow balls dumps on our heads. “I just finished!” I shout at the sky. The kids climb up onto my car and together we launch snowballs across the street. Mine go far and I know I will have a sore right arm tomorrow. For now, hot chocolate is gone – a sure sign it should be spring and not mid-winter -- and dinner is over and Mac has filled my DVD player with the Thumpstones DVD and the popcorn is going crazy, abandoned in the kitchen, and while it doesn’t feel like it’s been a long day, I am very tired and so we retreat to bed.
First day of spring break and Sailor comes to ask me if he and Mac can play StarWars. “No,” I say clearly, tho still asleep. He stomps out of my room. I get up soon after and am still peeing when he pops his cute little head into the bathroom to ask again if he and Mac can play StarWars. “No,” I repeat. He starts whining. “We talked about this yesterday and we agreed that StarWars is going on vacation. That’s the end of this discussion.” He storms out of the bathroom saying things about me that I hope he does not mean.
I am busy in the kitchen whipping up green milk and green cream cheese and green scrambled eggs – evidence that the leprechaun was indeed here messing around and playing tricks on us while we slept. “Mommy, I gave Sailor three choices for what to play and one of the choices was StarWars.” I look at Mac. At least he is honest. “Both of you, go to your rooms.” I am calm, I am rational, I am pissed off.
When the boys are back in the kitchen Mac starts in about how the leprechaun didn’t leave any green milk or green pee pee (in other words, the toilet water wasn’t green). I invite them to blow bubbles in their milk using their straws and lo and behold the milk turns green. Sailor doesn’t want the bluish-greyish green cream cheese on his bagel. The two get going on how there is no leprechaun. How Mommy must have done all of this. I can’t win.
I walk out of the room and call a friend. This has been a bad start to spring break. There is definitely room for improvement. We leave late and shop at a fruit market, each boy getting to choose some green vegetables and fruits to eat this week. Mac is all over the place and I realize how much easier my days are when he is in school. He has a lot of energy. This is not to say that I prefer to have him in school. It is just a statement of fact. Three grocery stores later we have a car full of fixings for our annual St. Patrick’s Day Irish Stew. Including $7 worth of hormone free, cage free, antibiotic free beef that you could not pay me to eat. But you can’t make a stew without meat. So the guests will eat the meat and I will eat the veggies.
Next stop: $1 bowling. Great idea. In fact, so great the entire population of some other part of our city has the same idea. The bowling alley is packed and we are on the waitlist for a lane. Friends meet us at the alley and after 30 minutes waiting we decide to reconvene at my house. I set out a healthy share-all version of lunch and put away groceries. The boys play with my friend’s 8-year-old niece while she and I and her college daughter work on a newsletter in the kitchen. When they leave I start cooking and cleaning for dinner. Guests are set to arrive at 5:00. It’s 3:00. Sailor goes down for his nap with such a fuss I nearly have to cancel our plans. Dinner is simmering in a pot. Soda bread is baking in the oven. Wine has been poured. Sailor is napping. Mac and my dad are in the kitchen working on math. And I retreat to the bathroom to fix my make-up and brush my hair. At this point I take time out of my busy schedule to teach myself an important lesson: Do not squeeze a zit on your forehead moments before guests are set to arrive, as doing so will result in a big red monster bite in your forehead for the remainder of the evening.
My friend’s little boys, who are roughly the same age as mine (a few months older), are afraid of the little loaner dog my sister has brought over, very loud, and they won’t even try a bite of anything I have served them. But they are polite and very cute so all is forgiven and the evening is boisterous and lovely.
So far our plans are going so-so for this week. Let’s see how the remainder of the week plays out. Oh, and did I mention that it started to snow while I was cooking dinner?
It’s Friday, March 21, 2008. The first day of spring. Or was that officially yesterday? Either way, Sailor has a terrible cold and it is snowing so hard I had to re-shovel before I had finished shoveling. Welcome to spring break, Chicago style! Oh, and Easter is in two days.
Most of our plans this week have been thwarted by one thing or another. First the bowling alley was too crowded, and yesterday I was planning to take the kids to one of those indoor inflatable jumpy places. But Sailor woke up with the cold and wanted to stay home. We discussed it and after a lot of leg wiggling from a disgruntled Mac and a lot of crying from Sailor I left the boys to decide on their own how to handle this unfair situation. I was much too tired to do it myself after having dragged my Spring Break self out of bed early to get them ready to be at said indoor inflatable jumpy place by 9:15 am. We spend the morning watching old Flintstones – whom Sailor has alternately referred to as the Thumpstumps, the Footstones, the Footstumps, the Flipstumps, and finally settling on the Thumps -- cartoons on DVD. The kids think they are hilarious and I love listening to them giggling. Sailor napps in the afternoon and Mac and I watch Les Miserables on DVD. The “talking one” as opposed to the “singing one.” A friend whom I have recently re-connected with and her twins came for dinner early just after Sailor wakes from his nap. So that has been our week. Just a lot of regular days and plans going south.
6:25pm Mac is making popcorn and Sailor is jumping up and down in the living room trying to reach the Thumps movie. We are heading to bed. I have had to shovel once again and as I am finishing up a storm of little white hail/snow balls dumps on our heads. “I just finished!” I shout at the sky. The kids climb up onto my car and together we launch snowballs across the street. Mine go far and I know I will have a sore right arm tomorrow. For now, hot chocolate is gone – a sure sign it should be spring and not mid-winter -- and dinner is over and Mac has filled my DVD player with the Thumpstones DVD and the popcorn is going crazy, abandoned in the kitchen, and while it doesn’t feel like it’s been a long day, I am very tired and so we retreat to bed.
Week 26
Monday is completely lost. As if we had a day off or something. I know I did some food shopping. More than that I cannot say unless I consult the dry erase board beside my desk, which tells me, via barely legible things crossed out, that I food shopped, bought a white shirt for Mac’s assembly on Tuesday, wrote a note to Mrs. S about the 8:30 a.m. meeting she proposed for Thursday morning, called the GI doctor, called the printer, went to the pharmacy, and wrote a policy page for my art studio. I do also vaguely recall that a friend of Mac’s came over around 4:30 with his mom and older brother. But as far as the day goes, in direct relation to this week, I am a day behind,
Tuesday is Mac’s assembly. This is an excellent day to oversleep half an hour. Especially because Mac needs a bath.
Wednesday
Sailor has been a total pill today. Right now I am helping Mac look up "attribute" in the dictionary so he can use it correctly in a sentence for his spelling words. And Sailor is crying that he is lonely and wants me in bed with him right now. This after telling me several times today that I am the worst mom and that he hates me and I am mean and he is going to live somewhere else... all because I would not allow him a piece of rasin toast as part of his pizza and bagel and no veggies or fruits lunch and becuz I asked him to wash his hands after I clipped his nails. I don't know what I do to deserve such "love"! And then when he said I was stupid I spanked him. After which he rewarded me by throwing up in his bed. He came out crying in earnest and was very sweet when he told me that, "I hate to tell you this, but I throwed up in my bed." So I got to clean up that smelly (very smelly) mess this afternoon while awaiting a phone interview with Crain's Chicago Business. Then he fell right to sleep on the couch.
It's just not easy!
sigh
I keep reminding myself how much I love this job.
And after bath he stands on the toilet lid stamping his feet becuz he wants to play. There just are not enuf hours in the day to do everything we want to do, especially on Wednesdays!
Thursday is a regular day except Sailor has a soccer make-up during which I realize that the nice mom I chatted with last week during Parents’ Week at soccer is none other than one of the parents who brings her children to my art studio. Smallish world. Sailor and I run to Trader Joe’s after soccer to pick up some supplies for the next few days. By the time we arrive home Sailor is momentarily asleep and I am totally starving. Neither of which is a good thing. Sailor wakes so I don’t have to carry him in. I carry the groceries instead and barely make it to the kitchen, where I screw open the cap of a huge bottle of juice. Aahh, lunch. I can see that this is going to be a long and difficult day. I am on a clear liquid diet in preparation for my colonoscopy tomorrow. It is not my 1st, but my last was nearly 20 years ago and I am not excited about his one. I am starving. I manage to rejuvenate myself with a can of natural root beer and a big glass of juice. Then I busy Sailor with some squshy mushy, aka play-do, while I return some business calls. I sit quietly for this. I need to store all the energy I can. I have to pick up Mac in a few hours and I am already short on energy. I am a small person and I won’t last long without some food. Sailor says the 14 seconds of sleep in the car was all the nap he needs today and I don’t argue. I need the boys in bed early tonight and his lack of significant nap will probably help do the trick. It is a warm, sunny day. Our first this season. So when I have gathered some strength we head out with the stroller. We take a long walk, and I do some errands. I tell Sailor that good behaviour will be rewarded and so he is patient while I stop here and there. And then he gets to play in the school playground. I read. We bring Mac home and I think it might be nice to go back outside. We walk to the playground near home. The one I swore we would never go to again after both kids fell on their heads last summer. I give them some new safety rules to work with this year. I sit on a bench that is temporarily in the sun and the boys run off their energy playing Luke and Anakin. I appear to be “bad mommy” when I won’t push them on the swings. Must. Conserve. Energy.
At home I make them a small dinner and pour myself another glass of juice. Mac comes to the table, eyes his bowl of chicken broth (which was meant to be MY dinner, except as soon as I pour it I realize it is not clear! AAACK! I am STARVING!) with carrots and organic alphabet pasta floating in it. He takes a slurp and asks, “What’s the main course?”
“This is your main course,” I all but bark, “now please eat up so we can leave the kitchen.” While they eat I am forced to torture myself further with other necessities. I must make Mac’s lunch for tomorrow and prepare as much of tomorrow’s breakfast as possible. I do not know what condition I will be in come dawn and I need to be sure my children are taken care of.
By stroke of miracle both boys seem to fully comprehend the urgency with which I have explained to them that they MUST go to bed right away tonight. I have already explained earlier that I have to take some medicine that will make my tummy sick. All afternoon, concerned Sailor has asked me repeatedly if I have taken the medicine yet. When I do take it Mac seems to know. “You are sick now, Mommy,” he says, “I can tell by your voice.”
Mac gets up to pee twice and then joins Sailor in slumber. They are both out long before 8pm. By 8:30 my stomach begins its preparatory evacuation. I am in bed by 10:30 and only get up a couple times in the night.
Morning goes smoothly and because I have everything so well prepared from last night, the boys are putting on their coats at 8:10am. “You have 20 minutes to play,” I inform them. They are thrilled. My mother picks them up at 8:25 and she and Sailor walk Mac to school. I shower, dress, put on my face, dry and curl my hair, do some work, make some phone calls, and when my last two tablespoons of saline laxative kick in, I do a few Sudoku puzzles. It’s an easy morning. I am fatigued and weak with starvation by the time my mom and I leave for the hospital. Before we go I hop on my parents’ bathroom scale. I find it odd that I weigh a mere 37 lbs more than my 6-year-old. In fact, I weigh the sum of my two children together. My mother, for the first time, does not see my low weight as odd. We examine, and we see that I do not look bad. This is good.
We spend the remainder of the day waiting around at the hospital. After 90 minutes I am ready to pass out, and am finally hooked up to an IV. Aaah… sugar water! I am bored, tired, hungry and cold. But I am over being particularly nervous. The prep has been a breeze and the test goes just as well. And best of all, my doctor tells me mine has been the best colonoscopy all day. I am fine. Nothing is wrong. I am relieved beyond measure.
And so I must do something. Not sure what yet, but I am thinking along the lines of exercise or something. Something to show that I am grateful that the doctor found my colon to be clean and in good health. Something that says I will not take my health for granted again. Something….
And so my week ends. It will be a slow and quiet weekend while I regain my strength and the few pounds I lost.
I must say, the colonoscopy experience was not so bad. I didn’t like the starving part but otherwise I can honestly say that if the doctor had told me he’d see me back next year I would have just smiled and said, “Ok, see you then.” I can’t even fathom how different my life will be when I go back for my next colonoscopy in 10 years. Maybe Mac will drive me!
An ultimatum? On Saturday night the boys are in bed early and I overhear Mac make the following offer to Sailor: “If you let me read to you I will let you play with the Luke with one arm until…” I don’t hear the rest but can’t help wondering if this is an offer Sailor can’t resist.
Tuesday is Mac’s assembly. This is an excellent day to oversleep half an hour. Especially because Mac needs a bath.
Wednesday
Sailor has been a total pill today. Right now I am helping Mac look up "attribute" in the dictionary so he can use it correctly in a sentence for his spelling words. And Sailor is crying that he is lonely and wants me in bed with him right now. This after telling me several times today that I am the worst mom and that he hates me and I am mean and he is going to live somewhere else... all because I would not allow him a piece of rasin toast as part of his pizza and bagel and no veggies or fruits lunch and becuz I asked him to wash his hands after I clipped his nails. I don't know what I do to deserve such "love"! And then when he said I was stupid I spanked him. After which he rewarded me by throwing up in his bed. He came out crying in earnest and was very sweet when he told me that, "I hate to tell you this, but I throwed up in my bed." So I got to clean up that smelly (very smelly) mess this afternoon while awaiting a phone interview with Crain's Chicago Business. Then he fell right to sleep on the couch.
It's just not easy!
sigh
I keep reminding myself how much I love this job.
And after bath he stands on the toilet lid stamping his feet becuz he wants to play. There just are not enuf hours in the day to do everything we want to do, especially on Wednesdays!
Thursday is a regular day except Sailor has a soccer make-up during which I realize that the nice mom I chatted with last week during Parents’ Week at soccer is none other than one of the parents who brings her children to my art studio. Smallish world. Sailor and I run to Trader Joe’s after soccer to pick up some supplies for the next few days. By the time we arrive home Sailor is momentarily asleep and I am totally starving. Neither of which is a good thing. Sailor wakes so I don’t have to carry him in. I carry the groceries instead and barely make it to the kitchen, where I screw open the cap of a huge bottle of juice. Aahh, lunch. I can see that this is going to be a long and difficult day. I am on a clear liquid diet in preparation for my colonoscopy tomorrow. It is not my 1st, but my last was nearly 20 years ago and I am not excited about his one. I am starving. I manage to rejuvenate myself with a can of natural root beer and a big glass of juice. Then I busy Sailor with some squshy mushy, aka play-do, while I return some business calls. I sit quietly for this. I need to store all the energy I can. I have to pick up Mac in a few hours and I am already short on energy. I am a small person and I won’t last long without some food. Sailor says the 14 seconds of sleep in the car was all the nap he needs today and I don’t argue. I need the boys in bed early tonight and his lack of significant nap will probably help do the trick. It is a warm, sunny day. Our first this season. So when I have gathered some strength we head out with the stroller. We take a long walk, and I do some errands. I tell Sailor that good behaviour will be rewarded and so he is patient while I stop here and there. And then he gets to play in the school playground. I read. We bring Mac home and I think it might be nice to go back outside. We walk to the playground near home. The one I swore we would never go to again after both kids fell on their heads last summer. I give them some new safety rules to work with this year. I sit on a bench that is temporarily in the sun and the boys run off their energy playing Luke and Anakin. I appear to be “bad mommy” when I won’t push them on the swings. Must. Conserve. Energy.
At home I make them a small dinner and pour myself another glass of juice. Mac comes to the table, eyes his bowl of chicken broth (which was meant to be MY dinner, except as soon as I pour it I realize it is not clear! AAACK! I am STARVING!) with carrots and organic alphabet pasta floating in it. He takes a slurp and asks, “What’s the main course?”
“This is your main course,” I all but bark, “now please eat up so we can leave the kitchen.” While they eat I am forced to torture myself further with other necessities. I must make Mac’s lunch for tomorrow and prepare as much of tomorrow’s breakfast as possible. I do not know what condition I will be in come dawn and I need to be sure my children are taken care of.
By stroke of miracle both boys seem to fully comprehend the urgency with which I have explained to them that they MUST go to bed right away tonight. I have already explained earlier that I have to take some medicine that will make my tummy sick. All afternoon, concerned Sailor has asked me repeatedly if I have taken the medicine yet. When I do take it Mac seems to know. “You are sick now, Mommy,” he says, “I can tell by your voice.”
Mac gets up to pee twice and then joins Sailor in slumber. They are both out long before 8pm. By 8:30 my stomach begins its preparatory evacuation. I am in bed by 10:30 and only get up a couple times in the night.
Morning goes smoothly and because I have everything so well prepared from last night, the boys are putting on their coats at 8:10am. “You have 20 minutes to play,” I inform them. They are thrilled. My mother picks them up at 8:25 and she and Sailor walk Mac to school. I shower, dress, put on my face, dry and curl my hair, do some work, make some phone calls, and when my last two tablespoons of saline laxative kick in, I do a few Sudoku puzzles. It’s an easy morning. I am fatigued and weak with starvation by the time my mom and I leave for the hospital. Before we go I hop on my parents’ bathroom scale. I find it odd that I weigh a mere 37 lbs more than my 6-year-old. In fact, I weigh the sum of my two children together. My mother, for the first time, does not see my low weight as odd. We examine, and we see that I do not look bad. This is good.
We spend the remainder of the day waiting around at the hospital. After 90 minutes I am ready to pass out, and am finally hooked up to an IV. Aaah… sugar water! I am bored, tired, hungry and cold. But I am over being particularly nervous. The prep has been a breeze and the test goes just as well. And best of all, my doctor tells me mine has been the best colonoscopy all day. I am fine. Nothing is wrong. I am relieved beyond measure.
And so I must do something. Not sure what yet, but I am thinking along the lines of exercise or something. Something to show that I am grateful that the doctor found my colon to be clean and in good health. Something that says I will not take my health for granted again. Something….
And so my week ends. It will be a slow and quiet weekend while I regain my strength and the few pounds I lost.
I must say, the colonoscopy experience was not so bad. I didn’t like the starving part but otherwise I can honestly say that if the doctor had told me he’d see me back next year I would have just smiled and said, “Ok, see you then.” I can’t even fathom how different my life will be when I go back for my next colonoscopy in 10 years. Maybe Mac will drive me!
An ultimatum? On Saturday night the boys are in bed early and I overhear Mac make the following offer to Sailor: “If you let me read to you I will let you play with the Luke with one arm until…” I don’t hear the rest but can’t help wondering if this is an offer Sailor can’t resist.
Week 25
The weekend passes as weekends pass. Except Mac has a major meltdown in a department store over a toy I don’t want to buy him. And Sailor has $50 to spend from a gift certificate he was given at birth! It’s so old it’s an actual paper gift certificate that I have to turn into a gift card at customer service because the cashiers in the kids’ department don’t know how to redeem it. Sailor uses his $50 wisely: he chooses a linen suit and an Aquaman action figure for himself and the Superman action figure Mac is throwing his tantrum over. I do not allow Mac to have his Superman right away and in fact it is still in the bag. Sailor’s Aquaman is decapitated within an hour of opening when his buddy Chris slams it to the floor. Sailor shows true and justified anger. Chris’s mom superglues Aquaman’s head back on.
And then it’s Monday again.
We have another glorious day off on Monday. Our first plan for the day is to tackle the still-clogged and now-dripping kitchen sink. I follow the instructions my friend Anna prescribed last week. To no avail. I call Anna to come do it herself promising that I will both entertain and feed her daughters.
The boys and I return home from errands to find Anna under our sink working hard. Again to no avail. And to make matters worse the pipes are beginning to crack and break. I call my father for the plumber’s phone number.
I run the dishwasher by bailing water to the back yard.
When Anna and her girls leave we take a walk to the bank. The boys insist they don’t need coats on because it was slightly warm out yesterday. It is not even slightly warm today. It is cold. But I let them wear their puffy vests and they don’t complain about the cold.
More friends are due for dinner and I try in vain to clean up and clean the kitchen before they arrive with strawberries and raspberries and good conversation. Ten minutes after they arrive the little girl is wandering aimlessly around our playroom and my boys are nowhere to be found. “Did the boys abandon you?” I ask. She nods. I find them in the living room, seated on the sofa reading a book. I am not quiet when I read them the riot act and let them know how rude they are being. I don’t leave them any choice but to hang their heads and tuck their tails between their knees and come up with something they can do with our little friend.
Tuesday is Tuesday as most Tuesdays are (which really means I don’t have a clue what went on two days ago!). In bed that night Mac is asking for another kiss and another kiss and another kiss, and Sailor is following his lead. Which would be sweet and fine if it were 7:30 or even 8pm. But it’s not. It’s 9:30. Which is much too late to be just getting to bed. We have read our stories and the boys should be dropping off to sleep. But Mac thinks it’s hilariously funny to try to lick his own armpit. Which is seriously grossing me out. Finally when I have had enough I let them both know with a not-so-kind tone of voice. Mac cries and I feel like the worst mom in the world. It’s so hard to wind down and get to bed on time, and even harder on evenings when the boys have a visit from their father. I must learn to cope with it better and simply allow for them to be a little extra wound up that night and a little extra cranky and tired in the morning that follows.
Wednesday morning Mac is up first and I estimate it’s about 6:30. Sailor gets up a little before 7:00 and I am last to leave the comfort of the bed at 7:05. I go right to the showering, allowing them a bit more play time and myself a bit of a slow wake up. I am dressed and out of the bathroom before 7:30 and I drop outfits for both boys near them in the playroom. At 7:45 I call them to breakfast. Sailor hops over to his seat and within minutes he has devoured scrambled eggs and oatmeal and he is asking for more of both. I scrub the frying pan to make more eggs while he works on his toast and fruit. Mac is still in the playroom putting together every single one of his puzzles. I am torn among the possibilities of how to handle this, which are all clouded by my guilt for yelling at him last night. I do nothing. He comes to the table at 8:25. “My oatmeal is hard as a rock!” he exclaims.
“That’s because I served it to you 45 minutes ago,” I explain.
Five minutes later I tell the boys it is time to get their coats on. Sailor complies.
“But I’m not dressed!” Mac mentions.
“Well, I am not sure why you are not dressed. I gave you your clothes an hour ago,” I remind him. “And now it’s time to go to school. Put on your coat.”
He is wearing red and black “Incredibles” pajama pants, Crocs and the red turtleneck from yesterday. In my own mind I know he does not have enough clothing on to go out in the chill of the morning. I also know he would have a very bad day dressed this way. I consider tossing him a pair of jeans.
“NO!” he shrieks as he runs to his playroom and dresses faster than I have ever seen him dress.
“I hate stupid school!” he yells, “and I hate getting up so early!”
“Ok,” I say calmly, “let’s not go to school today. I take off my coat and instruct Sailor to do the same. I start some work on my computer.
“No! I have to turn in my homework and my friends are waiting for me!”
I invite him to the couch for a talk.
He is an hour late for school.
I have left word with his teacher that we need to talk. This is just not working out.
Don’t worry. The week actually gets better. I busy myself with Mac’s school’s upcoming auction and with our neighborhood’s summer outdoor event. I shop at Trader Joe’s. I let Mac have a friend over after school on Thursday and find out on the walk home that the little chap is from London. How is it that I have never noticed his accent before today?
We go to bed reasonably. We snuggle and sleep well. We wake up happy. The parking ticket issued by Officer Dick is dismissed. My children are kissy and huggy and affectionate. Things go well.
Sailor is doing so well out of school. He is a different child. I wish I had traded in the grumpy, whiney model ages ago!
Both kids have been saying such funny things lately and Sailor has decided that being a hunter is too dangerous so he is going to be a racecar driver when he grows up. For some reason this strikes me as quite something odd. Considering we know nothing about racecar driving. I don’t even know where this notion has sprung from. It does amuse me no end.
On the way home from school today, for no specific reason, Mac says, “Mom, I call Sailor: Sailor, Brother, Buddy, and sometimes just plain Say.” I live in the same house with you, I think. Also on the way home Mac tells me he got 102% on his spelling test today. Despite the fact that we practiced spelling “perseverance” incorrectly. I am proud!
As for me, I have been 40 for 5 weeks. I think I am doing a pretty good job. Except for my hands, which look like they have preceded the rest of me by a few decades. I am so embarrassed. Next week I get to enjoy another rite of 40-year-old passage: a colonoscopy. Stay tuned for that fun story!
And then it’s Monday again.
We have another glorious day off on Monday. Our first plan for the day is to tackle the still-clogged and now-dripping kitchen sink. I follow the instructions my friend Anna prescribed last week. To no avail. I call Anna to come do it herself promising that I will both entertain and feed her daughters.
The boys and I return home from errands to find Anna under our sink working hard. Again to no avail. And to make matters worse the pipes are beginning to crack and break. I call my father for the plumber’s phone number.
I run the dishwasher by bailing water to the back yard.
When Anna and her girls leave we take a walk to the bank. The boys insist they don’t need coats on because it was slightly warm out yesterday. It is not even slightly warm today. It is cold. But I let them wear their puffy vests and they don’t complain about the cold.
More friends are due for dinner and I try in vain to clean up and clean the kitchen before they arrive with strawberries and raspberries and good conversation. Ten minutes after they arrive the little girl is wandering aimlessly around our playroom and my boys are nowhere to be found. “Did the boys abandon you?” I ask. She nods. I find them in the living room, seated on the sofa reading a book. I am not quiet when I read them the riot act and let them know how rude they are being. I don’t leave them any choice but to hang their heads and tuck their tails between their knees and come up with something they can do with our little friend.
Tuesday is Tuesday as most Tuesdays are (which really means I don’t have a clue what went on two days ago!). In bed that night Mac is asking for another kiss and another kiss and another kiss, and Sailor is following his lead. Which would be sweet and fine if it were 7:30 or even 8pm. But it’s not. It’s 9:30. Which is much too late to be just getting to bed. We have read our stories and the boys should be dropping off to sleep. But Mac thinks it’s hilariously funny to try to lick his own armpit. Which is seriously grossing me out. Finally when I have had enough I let them both know with a not-so-kind tone of voice. Mac cries and I feel like the worst mom in the world. It’s so hard to wind down and get to bed on time, and even harder on evenings when the boys have a visit from their father. I must learn to cope with it better and simply allow for them to be a little extra wound up that night and a little extra cranky and tired in the morning that follows.
Wednesday morning Mac is up first and I estimate it’s about 6:30. Sailor gets up a little before 7:00 and I am last to leave the comfort of the bed at 7:05. I go right to the showering, allowing them a bit more play time and myself a bit of a slow wake up. I am dressed and out of the bathroom before 7:30 and I drop outfits for both boys near them in the playroom. At 7:45 I call them to breakfast. Sailor hops over to his seat and within minutes he has devoured scrambled eggs and oatmeal and he is asking for more of both. I scrub the frying pan to make more eggs while he works on his toast and fruit. Mac is still in the playroom putting together every single one of his puzzles. I am torn among the possibilities of how to handle this, which are all clouded by my guilt for yelling at him last night. I do nothing. He comes to the table at 8:25. “My oatmeal is hard as a rock!” he exclaims.
“That’s because I served it to you 45 minutes ago,” I explain.
Five minutes later I tell the boys it is time to get their coats on. Sailor complies.
“But I’m not dressed!” Mac mentions.
“Well, I am not sure why you are not dressed. I gave you your clothes an hour ago,” I remind him. “And now it’s time to go to school. Put on your coat.”
He is wearing red and black “Incredibles” pajama pants, Crocs and the red turtleneck from yesterday. In my own mind I know he does not have enough clothing on to go out in the chill of the morning. I also know he would have a very bad day dressed this way. I consider tossing him a pair of jeans.
“NO!” he shrieks as he runs to his playroom and dresses faster than I have ever seen him dress.
“I hate stupid school!” he yells, “and I hate getting up so early!”
“Ok,” I say calmly, “let’s not go to school today. I take off my coat and instruct Sailor to do the same. I start some work on my computer.
“No! I have to turn in my homework and my friends are waiting for me!”
I invite him to the couch for a talk.
He is an hour late for school.
I have left word with his teacher that we need to talk. This is just not working out.
Don’t worry. The week actually gets better. I busy myself with Mac’s school’s upcoming auction and with our neighborhood’s summer outdoor event. I shop at Trader Joe’s. I let Mac have a friend over after school on Thursday and find out on the walk home that the little chap is from London. How is it that I have never noticed his accent before today?
We go to bed reasonably. We snuggle and sleep well. We wake up happy. The parking ticket issued by Officer Dick is dismissed. My children are kissy and huggy and affectionate. Things go well.
Sailor is doing so well out of school. He is a different child. I wish I had traded in the grumpy, whiney model ages ago!
Both kids have been saying such funny things lately and Sailor has decided that being a hunter is too dangerous so he is going to be a racecar driver when he grows up. For some reason this strikes me as quite something odd. Considering we know nothing about racecar driving. I don’t even know where this notion has sprung from. It does amuse me no end.
On the way home from school today, for no specific reason, Mac says, “Mom, I call Sailor: Sailor, Brother, Buddy, and sometimes just plain Say.” I live in the same house with you, I think. Also on the way home Mac tells me he got 102% on his spelling test today. Despite the fact that we practiced spelling “perseverance” incorrectly. I am proud!
As for me, I have been 40 for 5 weeks. I think I am doing a pretty good job. Except for my hands, which look like they have preceded the rest of me by a few decades. I am so embarrassed. Next week I get to enjoy another rite of 40-year-old passage: a colonoscopy. Stay tuned for that fun story!
Friday, March 7, 2008
Week 24
When you arrive at someone’s house for brunch, just as you know nothing about what they have been doing all morning except cooking, which you really don’t even think about, they don’t know anything about what kind of morning you have just had. They don’t know, for example, that you woke up at 7:30 and then went back to bed until 9:00. Or that you let your children watch a bit of TV but then they had a fit when you told them you have to get ready for brunch and the TV has to go off. Or that you spent the morning running back and forth from the kitchen to the bathroom bailing out the kitchen sink, which is stopped up and filling with water at a steady pace because you just had to run a load of dishes in the dishwasher because the dishes were starting to smell and you were out of cups, spoons, forks and small plates. Or that the other reason you were hiking back and forth thru the house had to do with the way your stomach was reacting to having way overeaten tapas for dinner last night.
No, all your host knows is that you are 15 minutes late for a multi-course brunch that her son’s nanny has been up for hours preparing.
We have just arrived home from said brunch, where we were treated to several courses of homemade Chinese food. Noodles, shrimp, chicken, soup, rice balls, fruit. It was all delicious and the conversation was stimulating. And the little boys played nicely, though they didn’t eat much. And the Chinese nanny, who does not speak any English, insists on serving and cleaning up. She is not invited to join us at our meal and she hides her boredom only fairly well, hovering over the boys, who have all come down baring swords and wanting to watch a Pokemon video. In Japanese. And they will yell at us to be quiet even tho not one of them understands even a word of the dialogue.
Meanwhile, we, the adults, have a beautiful front view of the street below. It’s a residential street just a couple of blocks from our own home and right around the corner from Mac’s school. We watch the sun come out and make a guest appearance on this Sunday afternoon in February. My parents, who have joined us at this brunch, along with my sister, take their role as parking police very seriously and before we realize what we are doing, we are all standing in the window directing a husband and wife duo down below. “Move back move back!” “Stop!” “No a little further back!” “Don’t pull forward.” And when the male driver hits the spot we approve of, we burst into applause. The window is closed, thank goodness, and tho I don’t believe the wife was able to hear us 2 stories up, I get the feeling she senses she is being watched, as she looks up and scans the building briefly. We are pathetic.
“I would like a cup of hot chocolate and a book, my Pokemon book, and a few miutes to rest on my bed,” Mac requests on our walk home. I want to go to the zoo. “That would be fine, too,” he says. Sometimes he can be fabulously agreeable. “I don’t want to go anywhere!” That’s from Sailor, who is tired enough that he mouthed off at my father before we left brunch, “I am not listening to you, GrandDad!” He needs his nap. At home he cries and cries and fights me, but not fiercely and I manage to escort him to his room and put him down to a nap. “I don’t want to be left alone in here,” he cries. I fetch myself a cup of tea, go to the bathroom, check in on Mac: “You were supposed to find my Pokemon book!” Right, because there are two of me, one to fulfill the wishes of each of you, on demand. I remember putting the book away earlier this week but am not sure where – the book shelf in Mac’s room or the book basket in the playroom. I find it in the latter. Return to Sailor’s room where I remind him that if he is not going to go to preschool he has to take a nap. He is out in a matter of minutes.
My head throbs. I need 10 minutes with my eyes closed, too.
So Sailor finished up preschool last week. Or actually 2 weeks ago would be more accurate. He didn’t go this past week and was sick the week before. He is too tired. And I have run this by a few friends and the best mommy advice I have received matches my own thought that he is only 4 and doesn’t need to be in school right now. Not if he is this unhappy about going. It’s just not worth it and he is going to end up hating school in the long run if I push him. Mac already dislikes school and there is nothing short of pulling him out for homeschooling (which, believe me, I am seriously considering) that I can do for him right now. Sailor on the other hand is little enough for it not to matter. But our understanding is that he will be homeschooled by me and that he will nap. I am right about his needs.
We have pizza dinner plans tonight and I don’t want to bring any crabby, tired boys to dinner. So Sailor sleeps. Mac rests. And I am now considering a trip to my lovely new pink room.
Mac is awake so I lie on the couch for about 3.5 minutes before my sofa siesta is interrupted by the phone. Is there a law that dictates this? My father is primed to come up and help me fix my kitchen sink. I am not in the mood, and as I have already run the dishwasher, dumping bowls of water out into the backyard. So I am in no big hurry. I tell him we will work on it tomorrow. I go back to Sailor’s room with my laptop and Mac comes in and asks me if he can watch Empire Strikes Back. I have no really good reason to say no, other than that he has already watched an hour of PBS in my bed this morning and a Pokemon video at brunch. I ask him if I may join him. He is delighted to have me sit with him. I type away entering 165 emails into the art studio’s database, all the while listening to a hellish blow by blow of the action on our television screen. It’s driving me NUTS! I don’t care about StarWars. I really and truly do not! But I do care about being a good mom, so I feign interest, nod, say “cool” and “mmmhmmm” and “oh, really?” a lot. And try really hard not to voice my total frustration every time he drags my eyes from my laptop to “watch this!”
Monday afternoon I get in touch with Teacher S at Sailor’s preschool. I send her this email later in the evening:
Teacher S,
Thank you for calling me today. I still feel terrible and guilty on the side of school, but of course on Sailor's side I feel like I have done what he needs me to do for now. I didn't want to look back on all this years from now and wonder why I didn't just let him stay home with me; I just hope I don't look back and regret letting him out. I do think he has some issues with separation and also with going places in general, but with that in mind I don't know that forcing him is the way to go. He did say something about going back to school tonight, so who knows if he will be back in a week or a month! He does understand that he has to go to school when he is 5 (too bad he is not going to kindergarten in the fall, where I do think he would do well).
Anyway, for now, all I can say is a big thank you for being so understanding and for not judging me (at least not to my face!!). I want you to know how much I love you and your school and no matter what happens with Sailor, I have told you before that I always want to be part of your preschool in whatever way I can be of service.
Thank you! See you Friday night!
SuperMommy
She was kind enough to let me know that Sailor is welcome back at any time should he decide he wants to return to his class. This teacher is a gem! And I hope Sailor will agree to return in the fall. I really hate for this to be over and done with, without so much as a hug or a gift or something ceremonious after all these years.
Meanwhile… our kitchen sink remains clogged. I have a guy pal possibly coming over to look at it tomorrow. But my father wants to look at it tonight. So after listening to Mac whine about homework, heating up leftovers for dinner and then attempting to clean up after dinner without a sink, I call my dad to come up. It is 6:00. I think we will have out little project done shortly. I treated myself to a manicure and pedicure today so the last thing I am going to want to do is ruin my nails. I don Dad’s heavy workman gloves and set to work under the kitchen sink. I am proud of myself for my role as woman doing the work with moderate instruction from my father. Until things get difficult and he is the one crouched awkwardly under the sink because the wrench is really too heavy for me to get the right leverage. The angles are all wrong under here, too, and the wrench is too long. I get testy and I wonder why my attitude toward my father is not good for this moment: is it because I am resentful of my inability to do this task without his help, or because he is no longer capable of doing it without my help? I lower my expectation of the situation and am grateful that he is willing to come up and help me at all. The pipe drips and the powerful goo that I have poured down the drain is dripping into a bucket below the pipe. I attempt to tighten the pipe fittings but loosen them instead. They refuse to tighten again. And soon enough there is nothing happening in the drain. What is happening is that we are slowly suffocating from the smell of the powerful chemical. We decide to release the pipe and let the water fall to the bucket below rather than stand in the sink stinking up the house all night. Before I know what is happening, toxic water is splashing and spraying all over everything. I shout at the boys to go to my room, away from the water, the smell of the chemicals and the noxious gas now escaping from the pipe. My dad retreats downstairs for paper towels and returns huffing and puffing. I am pissed, simply pissed. I have more work to do tonight than I want to stay awake for, the children were finally going to be in bed on time, and now I have a kitchen covered in toxic water that I now have to clean up completely. Did I mention I am pissed? My father opens the back door, letting the snowing February night in, brings a fan up from the basement, closes doors, and does his best to make our living environment healthy again. The kids are in my bed goofing off and receive a good shout. I am tossing plastic water bottles in the trash and washing cups in the tub. My dad tells me to let him know when we are going to bed so he can come up and see how bad it smells (I think he is considering having us sleep downstairs for our safety). My upper respiratory tract hurts.
Later, when Sailor is eating cereal on my bedroom floor instead of sleeping, I hand him the phone and tell him what to say.
My dad comes up a few minutes later laughing. “I have been asked to do many things in my life, but never before have I been asked, ‘Come up and smell my house.’ ” He is amused. He says it smells better. I hope my guy pal comes over tomorrow!
We wake up freezing, despite the fact that we are huddled together like a pile of puppies.
The kids get out of bed when the alarm clock – the buzzer in Mac-speak; the timer in Sailor-speak – rings. I freeze alone. When I crawl from beneath the covers I find the boys in the playroom, wearing their robes over pajamas. This is a sure indicator that it is far colder than usual in the house. I don’t know why it’s so cold. The back door was only open for an hour last night. On my way to the bathroom I look down the stairs and to my shock and dismay I see right out to the front walk – it’s snowing like crazy and the wind is blowing wildly and our front door has been open all night!!! Apparently my father forgot to lock it on his way out last night and the wind took it and blew it open. And that is how our Tuesday begins.
Sailor has soccer. I sit and listen to a rich mom tell her nanny her plans for the day, which include a pilates class and taking her oldest daughter to the dentist after school, and what the nanny is to make the children for lunch and how really helpful it would be if she would stay til 6:30 and help with bath and dinner. I want to throw up. I want to tell her to take care of her own children herself. I want to ask the nanny how she puts up with this. I want to ask the nanny how much she gets paid to put up with this. I hate these moms. They make the rest of us, the stay-at-home moms who actually take care of our children by ourselves, look bad.
Sailor and I drive all over the place doing errands and shopping for food. By noon we are exhausted and done. We go home. Sailor swears he is not tired and does not need a nap, but when I insist he does not fight me. He sleeps fast and hard and I have to wake him to get Mac from school. He cries that he is still too tired and I feel his pain. We decide to drive to get there on time. But once we arrive Officer Dick is at his usual post and he won’t let me stop my car. He waves me along. I have already yelled out my car window to ask the Australian mom to hold Mac for me til I get around. I scream and pound my steering wheel in frustration. I just want to pick up my child! When I double park illegally two blocks away Sailor runs to school with me, without complaint. I tell the Australian mom how much I hate Officer Dick, more than anyone I know. “Oh, I love him,” she gushes. I totally lose it. “I HATE HIM!” I scream, and gather Mac in my arms. Tomorrow night I will call her after she is already asleep and explain (but not apologize for) my mini-tantrum. I want to know who else this officer is harassing and why he thinks it is ok to treat me this way.
Our next adventure for this long day involves the “check engine” light in our car, which has been on for about 24 hours. We stop by the garage to see if they know what the problem is. They agree to look under the hood. We trek off to the library. I let the boys pick some books and they choose StarWars. Which I will not want to read. I choose some others for them. Mac is starving so we walk over to Starbucks and get a sandwich and milk and coffee. Sailor spends my last $1 on cookies. We sit. The boys play in the little play area we watch a little boy color on the table and I wonder what makes his mom think it’s ok for him to do that. Mac tells the boy’s mom when he is coloring on the window. We eat. We talk. Mac plays with the other little boys, two toddlers. Mac makes friends wherever he goes. Sailor sits with me. I read to the boys from our new stack of books. Then we are told Starbucks is closing early tonight. In 15 minutes. Of all nights!
Our car is not done when we get back so we sit in the gas station. Mac wants me to buy him a candy bar. Gum. Peanuts. In a too-loud voice I tell him for the umpteenth time that I do not have any money left. He offers to put my credit card in the ATM and get money for me that way. It is so hard for them to sit here. They walk around the store. “Look Mom, a shaver and little shave cream,” Sailor finds. Mac searches the store for the peanuts I won’t buy him. I look at all the things on the shelf that end in x: Kleenex, durex, tampax, kotex, blistex, carmex, windex. Four older kids come in, whom Mac recognizes from the library. One boy spies condoms and says, “condoms,” out loud and then seeing me, mumbles, “gross,” as an afterthought.
When we finally get home I still have to prepare dinner, help Mac do his homework, get the kids to bed and read to them, clean up the kitchen… and I think about the mom at soccer this morning who asked her nanny to stay and help with this part of her day. It disgusts me that some moms use their children as an excuse to not go to work and stay home doing as they please.
Wednesday is a wild and crazy day as always. But instead of French class this morning Sailor has 4 little girls over to play at 10:00. We run Mac to school and Sailor walks home slowly because, as usual, his feet hurt, or so he says. Never mind that my hands are freezing or that we have a party of people coming over in an hour. I run around the house putting every last thing away between 9 and 10am. The house is all picked up but in desperate need of a good cleaning, which it will get at 11:45, when my friend’s cleaning company will come to use our house to train two new girls. So my friends arrive one by one to find un-vacuumed carpets, dusty surfaces, and a smelly bathroom. I offer up my apologies and no one seems to mind.
The first to arrive is a little Chinese girl with an Irish name and an Irish father. He sits and chats with me while I keep busy assembling projects for Sailor’s French class. We talk about whatever until Taylor and her mom arrive. I am not particularly used to having someone’s dad in my house in the middle of the day, but we do well and he holds his own. Soon enough there are three moms, a dad, 4 little girls and Sailor in the house. It’s not noisy nor does it get particularly messy. One of my friends instructs me on how to fix my sink and she seems to know exactly what she is talking about. I suggest she go into business. I flit around making macker cheese for 5 and spinach ravioli for the adults and serving it all on toss away dishes so I don’t have to run the dishwasher so soon again. The sink is still not fixed. I seat all the kids, pour their milk and chocolate soy milk, dish out their food, and leave them to their own devices. The adults are soon joined by the Irish mom and we are 5 and 5. It would be all wonderful if the doorbell didn’t ring again announcing the arrival of the cleaning girls and if I didn’t have to be out the door for Mac’s noon hour art project at 12:00. It’s chaos for me, cleaning up lunch, instructing the cleaners what to clean, introducing them to my clogged kitchen sink and so forth. We are 15 minutes late leaving for Mac’s school and of course there is no place to park when we get there. Have I mentioned how I am so over the whole school thing? And the parking and driving part of it?
We get to Mac’s class and run down to the cafeteria to buy Sailor a chocolate milk. I have prepared a great project: the boys will make foam airplanes and the girls get to make princess wands. The girls’ faces really lite up when I tell them what project is inside their bags. The kids are good but I only after I have had to yell to get them to settle down. It is so hard for them to stay inside for recess. They really need to be outside running around!
Just before we leave I hear one of the Evans telling Mrs. S that someone hit him for no reason. I don’t realize that the perp is my kid until I see Mrs. S crouch down to talk to my boy. I do not intervene. And I am glad she does not ask me to. I like that she has the confidence to reprimand my child in front of me.
Sailor, who has been quietly attending me this whole time, and who did not get to do a project with the other boys (no extras) falls asleep in the car on the way to the party store, where I need to get a helium tank and some party favors. Sailor wants some toys and leads me to the aisle where he remembers tiny pirates. I let him pick out one but he wants two, one for himself and one for Mac. How can I say no to this? I can’t. So I don’t.
Our day goes as usual, with Sailor at art class, today not participating but sitting near me while I fill out auction paperwork, but answering questions from across the room. He doesn’t want to get his hands messy doing the art project but I convince him to do it becuz it is cool and I want it. Which is how it usually goes.
So since Sailor and I have decided that preschool is over for him this year and we are doing home schooling, he asks me every day if we are doing home schooling today and his version of home schooling is that he gets to take a nap! It’s a really insane situation! But he seems to be happy, much happier now. And that makes him utterly delightful.
Our house is spic and span when we get home. So the children splatter chocolate cake crumbs all over the kitchen floor. I have to sweep the floor that has just been professionally cleaned.
The kids are up too late. This is my fault. I put them to bed, read. Leave the room to make a phone call. And Sailor goes into his craziness. Both boys get kicked out of my bed. Mac is beside himself, “I didn’t do anything!” he cries. It’s always this way and chances are he is telling the truth. Sailor comes out and asks if we can get Mac. They know me too well. I explain when I get Mac that they get to come back to my bed because that is where I want them. I can tell Mac is really upset and this makes me really sad.
No, all your host knows is that you are 15 minutes late for a multi-course brunch that her son’s nanny has been up for hours preparing.
We have just arrived home from said brunch, where we were treated to several courses of homemade Chinese food. Noodles, shrimp, chicken, soup, rice balls, fruit. It was all delicious and the conversation was stimulating. And the little boys played nicely, though they didn’t eat much. And the Chinese nanny, who does not speak any English, insists on serving and cleaning up. She is not invited to join us at our meal and she hides her boredom only fairly well, hovering over the boys, who have all come down baring swords and wanting to watch a Pokemon video. In Japanese. And they will yell at us to be quiet even tho not one of them understands even a word of the dialogue.
Meanwhile, we, the adults, have a beautiful front view of the street below. It’s a residential street just a couple of blocks from our own home and right around the corner from Mac’s school. We watch the sun come out and make a guest appearance on this Sunday afternoon in February. My parents, who have joined us at this brunch, along with my sister, take their role as parking police very seriously and before we realize what we are doing, we are all standing in the window directing a husband and wife duo down below. “Move back move back!” “Stop!” “No a little further back!” “Don’t pull forward.” And when the male driver hits the spot we approve of, we burst into applause. The window is closed, thank goodness, and tho I don’t believe the wife was able to hear us 2 stories up, I get the feeling she senses she is being watched, as she looks up and scans the building briefly. We are pathetic.
“I would like a cup of hot chocolate and a book, my Pokemon book, and a few miutes to rest on my bed,” Mac requests on our walk home. I want to go to the zoo. “That would be fine, too,” he says. Sometimes he can be fabulously agreeable. “I don’t want to go anywhere!” That’s from Sailor, who is tired enough that he mouthed off at my father before we left brunch, “I am not listening to you, GrandDad!” He needs his nap. At home he cries and cries and fights me, but not fiercely and I manage to escort him to his room and put him down to a nap. “I don’t want to be left alone in here,” he cries. I fetch myself a cup of tea, go to the bathroom, check in on Mac: “You were supposed to find my Pokemon book!” Right, because there are two of me, one to fulfill the wishes of each of you, on demand. I remember putting the book away earlier this week but am not sure where – the book shelf in Mac’s room or the book basket in the playroom. I find it in the latter. Return to Sailor’s room where I remind him that if he is not going to go to preschool he has to take a nap. He is out in a matter of minutes.
My head throbs. I need 10 minutes with my eyes closed, too.
So Sailor finished up preschool last week. Or actually 2 weeks ago would be more accurate. He didn’t go this past week and was sick the week before. He is too tired. And I have run this by a few friends and the best mommy advice I have received matches my own thought that he is only 4 and doesn’t need to be in school right now. Not if he is this unhappy about going. It’s just not worth it and he is going to end up hating school in the long run if I push him. Mac already dislikes school and there is nothing short of pulling him out for homeschooling (which, believe me, I am seriously considering) that I can do for him right now. Sailor on the other hand is little enough for it not to matter. But our understanding is that he will be homeschooled by me and that he will nap. I am right about his needs.
We have pizza dinner plans tonight and I don’t want to bring any crabby, tired boys to dinner. So Sailor sleeps. Mac rests. And I am now considering a trip to my lovely new pink room.
Mac is awake so I lie on the couch for about 3.5 minutes before my sofa siesta is interrupted by the phone. Is there a law that dictates this? My father is primed to come up and help me fix my kitchen sink. I am not in the mood, and as I have already run the dishwasher, dumping bowls of water out into the backyard. So I am in no big hurry. I tell him we will work on it tomorrow. I go back to Sailor’s room with my laptop and Mac comes in and asks me if he can watch Empire Strikes Back. I have no really good reason to say no, other than that he has already watched an hour of PBS in my bed this morning and a Pokemon video at brunch. I ask him if I may join him. He is delighted to have me sit with him. I type away entering 165 emails into the art studio’s database, all the while listening to a hellish blow by blow of the action on our television screen. It’s driving me NUTS! I don’t care about StarWars. I really and truly do not! But I do care about being a good mom, so I feign interest, nod, say “cool” and “mmmhmmm” and “oh, really?” a lot. And try really hard not to voice my total frustration every time he drags my eyes from my laptop to “watch this!”
Monday afternoon I get in touch with Teacher S at Sailor’s preschool. I send her this email later in the evening:
Teacher S,
Thank you for calling me today. I still feel terrible and guilty on the side of school, but of course on Sailor's side I feel like I have done what he needs me to do for now. I didn't want to look back on all this years from now and wonder why I didn't just let him stay home with me; I just hope I don't look back and regret letting him out. I do think he has some issues with separation and also with going places in general, but with that in mind I don't know that forcing him is the way to go. He did say something about going back to school tonight, so who knows if he will be back in a week or a month! He does understand that he has to go to school when he is 5 (too bad he is not going to kindergarten in the fall, where I do think he would do well).
Anyway, for now, all I can say is a big thank you for being so understanding and for not judging me (at least not to my face!!). I want you to know how much I love you and your school and no matter what happens with Sailor, I have told you before that I always want to be part of your preschool in whatever way I can be of service.
Thank you! See you Friday night!
SuperMommy
She was kind enough to let me know that Sailor is welcome back at any time should he decide he wants to return to his class. This teacher is a gem! And I hope Sailor will agree to return in the fall. I really hate for this to be over and done with, without so much as a hug or a gift or something ceremonious after all these years.
Meanwhile… our kitchen sink remains clogged. I have a guy pal possibly coming over to look at it tomorrow. But my father wants to look at it tonight. So after listening to Mac whine about homework, heating up leftovers for dinner and then attempting to clean up after dinner without a sink, I call my dad to come up. It is 6:00. I think we will have out little project done shortly. I treated myself to a manicure and pedicure today so the last thing I am going to want to do is ruin my nails. I don Dad’s heavy workman gloves and set to work under the kitchen sink. I am proud of myself for my role as woman doing the work with moderate instruction from my father. Until things get difficult and he is the one crouched awkwardly under the sink because the wrench is really too heavy for me to get the right leverage. The angles are all wrong under here, too, and the wrench is too long. I get testy and I wonder why my attitude toward my father is not good for this moment: is it because I am resentful of my inability to do this task without his help, or because he is no longer capable of doing it without my help? I lower my expectation of the situation and am grateful that he is willing to come up and help me at all. The pipe drips and the powerful goo that I have poured down the drain is dripping into a bucket below the pipe. I attempt to tighten the pipe fittings but loosen them instead. They refuse to tighten again. And soon enough there is nothing happening in the drain. What is happening is that we are slowly suffocating from the smell of the powerful chemical. We decide to release the pipe and let the water fall to the bucket below rather than stand in the sink stinking up the house all night. Before I know what is happening, toxic water is splashing and spraying all over everything. I shout at the boys to go to my room, away from the water, the smell of the chemicals and the noxious gas now escaping from the pipe. My dad retreats downstairs for paper towels and returns huffing and puffing. I am pissed, simply pissed. I have more work to do tonight than I want to stay awake for, the children were finally going to be in bed on time, and now I have a kitchen covered in toxic water that I now have to clean up completely. Did I mention I am pissed? My father opens the back door, letting the snowing February night in, brings a fan up from the basement, closes doors, and does his best to make our living environment healthy again. The kids are in my bed goofing off and receive a good shout. I am tossing plastic water bottles in the trash and washing cups in the tub. My dad tells me to let him know when we are going to bed so he can come up and see how bad it smells (I think he is considering having us sleep downstairs for our safety). My upper respiratory tract hurts.
Later, when Sailor is eating cereal on my bedroom floor instead of sleeping, I hand him the phone and tell him what to say.
My dad comes up a few minutes later laughing. “I have been asked to do many things in my life, but never before have I been asked, ‘Come up and smell my house.’ ” He is amused. He says it smells better. I hope my guy pal comes over tomorrow!
We wake up freezing, despite the fact that we are huddled together like a pile of puppies.
The kids get out of bed when the alarm clock – the buzzer in Mac-speak; the timer in Sailor-speak – rings. I freeze alone. When I crawl from beneath the covers I find the boys in the playroom, wearing their robes over pajamas. This is a sure indicator that it is far colder than usual in the house. I don’t know why it’s so cold. The back door was only open for an hour last night. On my way to the bathroom I look down the stairs and to my shock and dismay I see right out to the front walk – it’s snowing like crazy and the wind is blowing wildly and our front door has been open all night!!! Apparently my father forgot to lock it on his way out last night and the wind took it and blew it open. And that is how our Tuesday begins.
Sailor has soccer. I sit and listen to a rich mom tell her nanny her plans for the day, which include a pilates class and taking her oldest daughter to the dentist after school, and what the nanny is to make the children for lunch and how really helpful it would be if she would stay til 6:30 and help with bath and dinner. I want to throw up. I want to tell her to take care of her own children herself. I want to ask the nanny how she puts up with this. I want to ask the nanny how much she gets paid to put up with this. I hate these moms. They make the rest of us, the stay-at-home moms who actually take care of our children by ourselves, look bad.
Sailor and I drive all over the place doing errands and shopping for food. By noon we are exhausted and done. We go home. Sailor swears he is not tired and does not need a nap, but when I insist he does not fight me. He sleeps fast and hard and I have to wake him to get Mac from school. He cries that he is still too tired and I feel his pain. We decide to drive to get there on time. But once we arrive Officer Dick is at his usual post and he won’t let me stop my car. He waves me along. I have already yelled out my car window to ask the Australian mom to hold Mac for me til I get around. I scream and pound my steering wheel in frustration. I just want to pick up my child! When I double park illegally two blocks away Sailor runs to school with me, without complaint. I tell the Australian mom how much I hate Officer Dick, more than anyone I know. “Oh, I love him,” she gushes. I totally lose it. “I HATE HIM!” I scream, and gather Mac in my arms. Tomorrow night I will call her after she is already asleep and explain (but not apologize for) my mini-tantrum. I want to know who else this officer is harassing and why he thinks it is ok to treat me this way.
Our next adventure for this long day involves the “check engine” light in our car, which has been on for about 24 hours. We stop by the garage to see if they know what the problem is. They agree to look under the hood. We trek off to the library. I let the boys pick some books and they choose StarWars. Which I will not want to read. I choose some others for them. Mac is starving so we walk over to Starbucks and get a sandwich and milk and coffee. Sailor spends my last $1 on cookies. We sit. The boys play in the little play area we watch a little boy color on the table and I wonder what makes his mom think it’s ok for him to do that. Mac tells the boy’s mom when he is coloring on the window. We eat. We talk. Mac plays with the other little boys, two toddlers. Mac makes friends wherever he goes. Sailor sits with me. I read to the boys from our new stack of books. Then we are told Starbucks is closing early tonight. In 15 minutes. Of all nights!
Our car is not done when we get back so we sit in the gas station. Mac wants me to buy him a candy bar. Gum. Peanuts. In a too-loud voice I tell him for the umpteenth time that I do not have any money left. He offers to put my credit card in the ATM and get money for me that way. It is so hard for them to sit here. They walk around the store. “Look Mom, a shaver and little shave cream,” Sailor finds. Mac searches the store for the peanuts I won’t buy him. I look at all the things on the shelf that end in x: Kleenex, durex, tampax, kotex, blistex, carmex, windex. Four older kids come in, whom Mac recognizes from the library. One boy spies condoms and says, “condoms,” out loud and then seeing me, mumbles, “gross,” as an afterthought.
When we finally get home I still have to prepare dinner, help Mac do his homework, get the kids to bed and read to them, clean up the kitchen… and I think about the mom at soccer this morning who asked her nanny to stay and help with this part of her day. It disgusts me that some moms use their children as an excuse to not go to work and stay home doing as they please.
Wednesday is a wild and crazy day as always. But instead of French class this morning Sailor has 4 little girls over to play at 10:00. We run Mac to school and Sailor walks home slowly because, as usual, his feet hurt, or so he says. Never mind that my hands are freezing or that we have a party of people coming over in an hour. I run around the house putting every last thing away between 9 and 10am. The house is all picked up but in desperate need of a good cleaning, which it will get at 11:45, when my friend’s cleaning company will come to use our house to train two new girls. So my friends arrive one by one to find un-vacuumed carpets, dusty surfaces, and a smelly bathroom. I offer up my apologies and no one seems to mind.
The first to arrive is a little Chinese girl with an Irish name and an Irish father. He sits and chats with me while I keep busy assembling projects for Sailor’s French class. We talk about whatever until Taylor and her mom arrive. I am not particularly used to having someone’s dad in my house in the middle of the day, but we do well and he holds his own. Soon enough there are three moms, a dad, 4 little girls and Sailor in the house. It’s not noisy nor does it get particularly messy. One of my friends instructs me on how to fix my sink and she seems to know exactly what she is talking about. I suggest she go into business. I flit around making macker cheese for 5 and spinach ravioli for the adults and serving it all on toss away dishes so I don’t have to run the dishwasher so soon again. The sink is still not fixed. I seat all the kids, pour their milk and chocolate soy milk, dish out their food, and leave them to their own devices. The adults are soon joined by the Irish mom and we are 5 and 5. It would be all wonderful if the doorbell didn’t ring again announcing the arrival of the cleaning girls and if I didn’t have to be out the door for Mac’s noon hour art project at 12:00. It’s chaos for me, cleaning up lunch, instructing the cleaners what to clean, introducing them to my clogged kitchen sink and so forth. We are 15 minutes late leaving for Mac’s school and of course there is no place to park when we get there. Have I mentioned how I am so over the whole school thing? And the parking and driving part of it?
We get to Mac’s class and run down to the cafeteria to buy Sailor a chocolate milk. I have prepared a great project: the boys will make foam airplanes and the girls get to make princess wands. The girls’ faces really lite up when I tell them what project is inside their bags. The kids are good but I only after I have had to yell to get them to settle down. It is so hard for them to stay inside for recess. They really need to be outside running around!
Just before we leave I hear one of the Evans telling Mrs. S that someone hit him for no reason. I don’t realize that the perp is my kid until I see Mrs. S crouch down to talk to my boy. I do not intervene. And I am glad she does not ask me to. I like that she has the confidence to reprimand my child in front of me.
Sailor, who has been quietly attending me this whole time, and who did not get to do a project with the other boys (no extras) falls asleep in the car on the way to the party store, where I need to get a helium tank and some party favors. Sailor wants some toys and leads me to the aisle where he remembers tiny pirates. I let him pick out one but he wants two, one for himself and one for Mac. How can I say no to this? I can’t. So I don’t.
Our day goes as usual, with Sailor at art class, today not participating but sitting near me while I fill out auction paperwork, but answering questions from across the room. He doesn’t want to get his hands messy doing the art project but I convince him to do it becuz it is cool and I want it. Which is how it usually goes.
So since Sailor and I have decided that preschool is over for him this year and we are doing home schooling, he asks me every day if we are doing home schooling today and his version of home schooling is that he gets to take a nap! It’s a really insane situation! But he seems to be happy, much happier now. And that makes him utterly delightful.
Our house is spic and span when we get home. So the children splatter chocolate cake crumbs all over the kitchen floor. I have to sweep the floor that has just been professionally cleaned.
The kids are up too late. This is my fault. I put them to bed, read. Leave the room to make a phone call. And Sailor goes into his craziness. Both boys get kicked out of my bed. Mac is beside himself, “I didn’t do anything!” he cries. It’s always this way and chances are he is telling the truth. Sailor comes out and asks if we can get Mac. They know me too well. I explain when I get Mac that they get to come back to my bed because that is where I want them. I can tell Mac is really upset and this makes me really sad.
Week 23
Lucky for us, Monday is another day off. Those dead presidents really know how to party! We have made no plans, as yesterday was our first day out in a week. Sailor’s first foray into proper clothing in at least 10 days. He dislikes long johns and his snowsuit. It’s a choice he has to make daily when he is well and I can’t blame him for wishing it were summer.
Mac asks to be taken to the aquarium, but by the time we get there there is absolutely no parking unless I want to fork over $15. Which I do not. We drive back to our own neighborhood and try the History Museum. Again no place to park. So we end up at the indoor play place that Mac is just about too old for. But we can still go for free, thanks to the generosity of the owners. And I find a parking space. And have to wake up Sailor.
Tuesday is our day back to reality. It’s FREEZING outside and I leave Sailor with my parents to walk Mac to school. Which we do quickly partly due to the cold and partly due to my desire to have him arrive on time on his first day back after a total of 10 days at home. Which is no easy task when the child is still asleep 15 minutes before we are meant to leave the house. I have his hearty breakfast of oatmeal, scrambled eggs, milk, banana and apple slices on the table and his clothes are laid out on his bed. I am ready to go, except my hair is still damp. And Mac toddles out of bed at 8:15. It’s a dilemma I now know the answer to: do not let child sleep til 15 minutes before we have to leave. The morning gets ugly as Mac spends the majority of his 15 minutes eating apple slices s-l-o-w-l-y. I can’t make him understand that he has to rush. He simply refuses to comprehend. And he has no time for a bath. And he forgets his glasses. But we make it to school right as the bell is ringing and we pause outside for a hug and a kiss. He lingers slightly and I know he doesn’t want to go in any more than I want him to.
I walk home and get Sailor. We rush to soccer. It’s hard to get there and get him into his uniform on time. It would be a lot easier if we could just drive Mac to school as we used to before Officer Dick became my worst enemy.
After soccer Sailor is hungry, which amazes me considering he ate all his breakfast and had seconds on oatmeal. We swing by the big school to drop off Mac’s glasses. “I’ll see that he gets them,” says the office lady who I think pretends to like me when the other office lady is there. Today the other office lady is not there.
After lunch we play Candyland on the big Candyland rug Mac got him for Christmas. Except he wants Darth Maul to play along. We do art projects. At which time we talk about home schooling. Sailor tells me all about how he is a home schooler. Then he tells me he is not going to school today. Sigh. I can’t say I blame him for not wanting to venture back outside. It’s really cold. So I give in. “I think it’s story time now, Mama.” We read on the couch and then I tell him it’s nap time. He goes without a fuss and I call his teacher to tell her he will miss yet another day.
It’s 2:24 and I am eating chips and my dad’s famous onion dip. And chocolate. I am not particularly hungry. Just cold. And maybe a bit lonely. I am supposed to be working. Does this count as work? Sailor is asleep. Cute thing. Mac is home in an hour and while I am not relishing a walk back out into the cold I would love to stop at Starbucks with him for a few minutes if my dad can stay with Sailor.
I would really like to have a few moms who homeschool their children over for tea and to discuss what I want to do. I want my children home with me. I know I am wrong. Overprotective. I just don’t get why we are supposed to send them off after just a few action-packed years. They are my life and yet I am supposed to relinquish them. For longer and longer and longer periods of time. But they are my family. I think my parents are super-lucky to have their daughters live so close to them even after all these years. What’s better than that? I live upstairs with their precious grandchildren and my sister is a few blocks away. They can see us every single day if they choose to and I can see them every day if I choose to, and even if I do not choose to I know they are right there if I need them or want them. Am I nuts? Or am I just a really good family person?
I wonder what Mac will have for homework tonight. He is going to be exhausted when he returns home.
After school one of Mac’s little gal pals bursts into tears because she wants her mommy. I zip up her coat, remembering that she is the one who does not know how to do this herself, despite her advanced abilities on the piano. And we wait with her. My fingers are freezing.
According to Mac all of his classmates are back in school this week. “The only one who greeted me back was Claire,” he tells me. I am pleased with Claire. Now if only her mom would let us get together and play.
“Mom, there are some hairs what are bad for you what are called hairs what hurt when they get stuck when you try to do something. You see dat hair what I am holding? Those are the bad hairs.” I think Sailor is in desperate need of a haircut.
It’s 7:04 pm and I am dead tired. Just dead tired. The kid are tired too. Despite Sailor’s 2 ½ hour nap in lieu of school, he is tired. I don’t want to stay up any longer. But the boys have their father over for a visit. I suppose I could get ready for bed and go read, but it would seem weird. Perhaps I should just get the boys’ clothes out and plan our itinerary for another busy Wednesday. Sigh…
Sailor has ended his preschool year early. Just wasn't happy so today we made it official. It's over for him (tho I still have to chat officially with Teacher S). I am bummed about missing all the end of the year stuff but that's me, not him, so it would be unfair to keep him in school just so I can go to Mother's Day tea, know what I mean?
Mac asks to be taken to the aquarium, but by the time we get there there is absolutely no parking unless I want to fork over $15. Which I do not. We drive back to our own neighborhood and try the History Museum. Again no place to park. So we end up at the indoor play place that Mac is just about too old for. But we can still go for free, thanks to the generosity of the owners. And I find a parking space. And have to wake up Sailor.
Tuesday is our day back to reality. It’s FREEZING outside and I leave Sailor with my parents to walk Mac to school. Which we do quickly partly due to the cold and partly due to my desire to have him arrive on time on his first day back after a total of 10 days at home. Which is no easy task when the child is still asleep 15 minutes before we are meant to leave the house. I have his hearty breakfast of oatmeal, scrambled eggs, milk, banana and apple slices on the table and his clothes are laid out on his bed. I am ready to go, except my hair is still damp. And Mac toddles out of bed at 8:15. It’s a dilemma I now know the answer to: do not let child sleep til 15 minutes before we have to leave. The morning gets ugly as Mac spends the majority of his 15 minutes eating apple slices s-l-o-w-l-y. I can’t make him understand that he has to rush. He simply refuses to comprehend. And he has no time for a bath. And he forgets his glasses. But we make it to school right as the bell is ringing and we pause outside for a hug and a kiss. He lingers slightly and I know he doesn’t want to go in any more than I want him to.
I walk home and get Sailor. We rush to soccer. It’s hard to get there and get him into his uniform on time. It would be a lot easier if we could just drive Mac to school as we used to before Officer Dick became my worst enemy.
After soccer Sailor is hungry, which amazes me considering he ate all his breakfast and had seconds on oatmeal. We swing by the big school to drop off Mac’s glasses. “I’ll see that he gets them,” says the office lady who I think pretends to like me when the other office lady is there. Today the other office lady is not there.
After lunch we play Candyland on the big Candyland rug Mac got him for Christmas. Except he wants Darth Maul to play along. We do art projects. At which time we talk about home schooling. Sailor tells me all about how he is a home schooler. Then he tells me he is not going to school today. Sigh. I can’t say I blame him for not wanting to venture back outside. It’s really cold. So I give in. “I think it’s story time now, Mama.” We read on the couch and then I tell him it’s nap time. He goes without a fuss and I call his teacher to tell her he will miss yet another day.
It’s 2:24 and I am eating chips and my dad’s famous onion dip. And chocolate. I am not particularly hungry. Just cold. And maybe a bit lonely. I am supposed to be working. Does this count as work? Sailor is asleep. Cute thing. Mac is home in an hour and while I am not relishing a walk back out into the cold I would love to stop at Starbucks with him for a few minutes if my dad can stay with Sailor.
I would really like to have a few moms who homeschool their children over for tea and to discuss what I want to do. I want my children home with me. I know I am wrong. Overprotective. I just don’t get why we are supposed to send them off after just a few action-packed years. They are my life and yet I am supposed to relinquish them. For longer and longer and longer periods of time. But they are my family. I think my parents are super-lucky to have their daughters live so close to them even after all these years. What’s better than that? I live upstairs with their precious grandchildren and my sister is a few blocks away. They can see us every single day if they choose to and I can see them every day if I choose to, and even if I do not choose to I know they are right there if I need them or want them. Am I nuts? Or am I just a really good family person?
I wonder what Mac will have for homework tonight. He is going to be exhausted when he returns home.
After school one of Mac’s little gal pals bursts into tears because she wants her mommy. I zip up her coat, remembering that she is the one who does not know how to do this herself, despite her advanced abilities on the piano. And we wait with her. My fingers are freezing.
According to Mac all of his classmates are back in school this week. “The only one who greeted me back was Claire,” he tells me. I am pleased with Claire. Now if only her mom would let us get together and play.
“Mom, there are some hairs what are bad for you what are called hairs what hurt when they get stuck when you try to do something. You see dat hair what I am holding? Those are the bad hairs.” I think Sailor is in desperate need of a haircut.
It’s 7:04 pm and I am dead tired. Just dead tired. The kid are tired too. Despite Sailor’s 2 ½ hour nap in lieu of school, he is tired. I don’t want to stay up any longer. But the boys have their father over for a visit. I suppose I could get ready for bed and go read, but it would seem weird. Perhaps I should just get the boys’ clothes out and plan our itinerary for another busy Wednesday. Sigh…
Sailor has ended his preschool year early. Just wasn't happy so today we made it official. It's over for him (tho I still have to chat officially with Teacher S). I am bummed about missing all the end of the year stuff but that's me, not him, so it would be unfair to keep him in school just so I can go to Mother's Day tea, know what I mean?
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Week 22 – Mommies Don’t Get Sick
Mac and Sailor have a picture book appropriately titled Mommies Don’t Get Sick. In our house this rule holds. My mommy friend Michele gets some wicked stomach bugs, my mommy friend Lisa catches absolutely everything her little boys get, and my friend Anna has a habit of getting so sick she makes me think she has a chronic, underlying illness yet to be discovered. But me? I don’t get sick. Ok, a cold here and there (mostly there). A fever for a day. But not sick.
And so what do I get for spending the past week bragging to everyone lamenting about winter illness that we don’t get sick anymore – not since Mac had his tonsils out 2 years ago and we radically changed our eating habits? I get SICK! Cough and fever. And Sailor has it ten times worse than I do. We have just passed two nearly sleepless nights, while he whined, cried, moaned and coughed. At 1:45am last night Sailor has to get up to pee. But he is afraid, “Come with me, Mama.” In the bathroom he barks and coughs so hard he nearly vomits. And his pee is “stuck,” and he is “so afraid!” Finally I make him put on the sweatpants we left in the bathroom, sometime last week, I bundle him in his poncho snuggle blanket and his down blanket and carry him down the front stairs and unlock the door. “Relax and take deep breaths,” I instruct. I have neglected to put on any sort of outerwear for myself and have forgotten that the temperature is plummeting to 0 degrees F by morning. I hold my baby, whose face I see relax significantly as the cold, fresh air relieves him of his barking seal impression. I bring him back to bed where he falls instantly asleep and I am awake, but in deep thought about I have no idea what, an hour later.
We are awake by 7:30 and Mac is begging to help me out. He wants to make me tea, but I don’t want tea, I want to sleep. I have to explain that it’s only helping if it actually helps. I hurt his feelings and feel terrible. When I am up and showered I wait for him to finish watching his special event cartoon to make me some tea. He puts a measuring cup, half full, into the microwave for 40 seconds and attempts to get a glass, which he drops, causing it to shatter and him to burst into tears. I console. What do I care about a glass? It was from the dollar store, I assure him, as I sweep.
Mac spends the day alternating between being extremely helpful, “Can I make popcorn for you?” to typical six-year-old, “Honey, will you get the cards from the table for me?” “Why do I have to do everything around here all day?” Which I don’t justify with an answer. And all his helping is left with a cleanup project for me. I put away the popcorn machine and the popcorn, I put the breakfast cereal back in the pantry (he has made cereal and milk for us, as well as a cup of milk and gummy vitamins for Sailor) and the dishes in the dishwasher. Oh, and I spend the day cooking quesadillas.
By evening I am back to thinking Sailor has pneumonia and wish that I had braved the frigid temps to get him to the ER this morning. He smells terrible and I know it will be a fight to get him in the tub. Another long night looms ahead and I am grateful for the days off we have tomorrow and Tuesday. We will certainly be visiting the pediatrician or the ER in the morning.
Monday
And so it goes. Except while I still wake up today with a fever Sailor’s fever has broken. He has a bad cough but I no longer feel the need to take him out in the arctic tundra of February in Chicago to have his little chest X-rayed. I think he is over the hump.
Mac, who seems to be holding his own and has not come down with a cough or fever – yet – has designated himself chore boy. He cleaned the tv (with baby wipes) yesterday, dusted the living room, and threatened to wake up Sailor and me this morning so he could vacuum. A plan I quickly put the kibosh on. It all seems like a fabulous plan except that Mac expects to get paid for his efforts. He has his heart set on some big StarWars Lego thing that sports a hefty $103 price tag. I am fine with him earning money to buy his coveted toy, but what I am not fine with is his assumption that work around the house automatically equals $103. Perhaps he might have asked first. So he just mopped the kitchen floor, after sweeping up our Valentines art project. With attitude, no less.
It’s just barely past noon and we have already had lunch, made Valentines, bathed, played a little…. So much for a sick day. I am fairly wiped out, so we have plopped down in front of the TV to watch “the movie that tells how Santa became Santa,” as Sailor calls the 1990s movie (which we own on VHS, not even DVD) “The Santa Clause.” A perfect choice three days before Valentine’s Day, to be sure. I had voted for “Titanic” but was outvoted at the last minute. We need some new movies. Unfortunately, even if I update my Netflix queue right now we’ll all be well before the next DVD arrives.
I am having a great time unsubscribing from all the junk emails that I somehow signed myself up for. I don’t need to go to DeVry to further my education, I don’t want a loan, I don’t need to know my “real” age and I am not interested in meeting over-40s in my area!
Wednesday
How many times should I have to think about taking Sailor to the ER before I actually take him? How many times is one meant to shovel snow that continues to fall? How come my 4-year-old is better at nose-blowing than my 6-year-old yet refuses to do it because it’s messy? Why is the Underdog DVD still $20? Why does my 6-year-old still enjoy Sesame Street? How many days in a row can you have a fever?
Sailor has not worn clothes since last Thursday. Mac tried the natural cough remedy recommended by Whole Foods last night: a teaspoon of honey. And hour later I hear him calling me but I can’t find him. I finally locate him in the bathroom. Covered in poop. My bathroom is so small I have a hard time cleaning him up and maneuvering around him without getting covered myself. Both kids wake up when I turn on Janice Dickinson’s Modeling Agency. I don’t understand why. Could it be because the show is so LOUD?! Sailor has a 103.5-degree fever. Again.
Hey, I just found out I can watch Tootsie on my laptop straight from my Netflix queue. Good. The kids are watching Barney and they don’t want to leave my room.
I want to cook a lasagna. I don’t think I have the ingredients tho, as I don’t usually do that caliber of cooking.
4:45 pm. It’s time to be starting dinner. I am sitting down to watch Shrek III with Sailor. Mac refuses to watch, claiming to hate Shrek. Oh, what I know of this is that when he was maybe 2 or 3 my mother let him watch the 1st movie. She said he loved it. He has always claimed to have hated it. Years have passed and yet he still won’t even indulge me by joining me on the couch. Wait! The sleepy-head, pajama-clad sick boy has just acquiesced. “I’ll sit here and watch it for a few minutes but if I don’t like it I’m leaving.” Is that too much to ask?
I have pretty much reached the end of my limit with this sick stuff. And yet I see no end in sight. The germ-spreading sneezing, the vomit-threatening coughing, the relentless fevers, the stomach aches that are now giving way to some diarrhea. And the attitudes. No one seems to be getting better. At least not significantly. So I am methodically canceling plans, day by day.
I have emailed back everyone I have owed emails to. I made valentines for the kids for tomorrow. I am officially bored. And totally over being sick. I wish we had a magic pill.
I do appreciate the uninterrupted time at home with the children, however.
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. Usually I go all out. There is no All or Out to go this year. We are sick. Maybe we will feel like making cookies in the shape of hearts tomorrow. I have to remember to bring Mac’s valentines for his class across the street to the French girl who is in his class. She can pass them out for him. By the time Mac returns to school we will be on our way to the next holiday and no one will care about his valentines anymore.
“Happy Valentine’s Day! Wake up, Mom! It’s Valentine’s Day!” Uh, Honey, it’s not Christmas, it’s Valentine’s Day. There is nothing to get up for.
“Shhhhh….” I say. It is the first night we have all slept soundly without moaning, crying or coughing. I don’t want to wake up yet and I don’t want Mac to wake Sailor.
“I want to see what Cupid left us,” Mac says.
On the table he will find a pair of very adorable underpants adorned with hearts that say “MOM” tattoo-style; a book wrapped in heart tissue paper, sent from our relatives in Canada who would only miss sending the kids a holiday treat if they were dead; a chocolate heart lolli from the same relatives; cookies our friends Mac and Taylor dropped off the other day, which I saved for this morning; and two homemade cards from me, which I made while Mac napped yesterday afternoon. After that it’s just another sick day. So I don’t want to get up yet.
Eventually Sailor wakes up too and I encourage them to either go back to sleep or go play. Finally Mac says, “Bye!” and they leave for the playroom. I have the bed to myself for a few minutes. I fall back to sleep and dream that they have covered the kitchen with beautiful valentines for me.
When I do finally grace them with my tousle-headed presence they rip into their gifts and cards and …. Mac wants to know why his underpants are a size 7-8. “They’re going to be too big!” And Sailor begins in on how he knows there is no such thing as Cupid because he was with me when we bought the undies last month. It’s all happening at the same time – all the noise. So I walk off in a huff and slam my bedroom door. No doubt waking my parents below. Oh, wait, no probably not waking them. I think the boys took care of that with their running back and forth thru the house an hour before.
It takes too long for them to come find me. But when they do Mac hopes his valentines to me will make it up to me. He is a smart boy.
“Are you guys hungry now or do you want to eat later?”
“Later,” Mac says.
“Ok, then I am going to take a quick shower.”
“But I’m hungry,” Mac says.
Am I speaking Chinese, I wonder?
I bring out the blender and set it on the table. “The shake maker!” Sailor exclaims. I give Mac milk, a measuring cup and strawberries. He blends. Sailor hates the strawberry milk. I put chocolate in it for both of them. I cut hearts out of bread and make toast. I make heart-shaped eggs. Cut more strawberries. Sometime later the majority of my efforts are in the trash and the boys are on their way to try to clean up the playroom. So much for Mommy’s grand efforts.
It’s another day at home. I read to the boys. I bathe them – Mac decides Sailor needs his own bath because the skin from his feet is floating round the tub. I rub some pumice into Sailor’s feet and by the time our slow tub drains and Mac gets a turn, bathtime has been an event rather than a mere activity. I blow dry both boys after putting them in their valentine shirts (from 2 years ago! Funny how I hang on to some of their clothes that I really love even tho they have outgrown them – when everything else gets moved along the minute they start to fit properly). These particular shirts are from the GAP and they have a big read heart against a navy background. In athletic apparel style they cay “If Lost Please Return to MOM!” Which is why they are my all-time favorite shirts.
I share Japanese noodle soup with Sailor while Mac lies in bed. I try to bribe Sailor to eat his applesauce by offering chocolate milk. I hate having to work so hard to get healthy food into my kids. Or really what I mean is just food. I was food-obsessed for years. And now I am in a whole new way. At least now it’s about putting healthy foods into our bodies, as opposed to before when it was about not putting food into mine at all.
I am starting to really like staying home with the kids, despite our grumpy morning. I like sitting on the couch watching movies and eating healthy snacks (Mac requested apple slices and then fresh green beans after watching something in Madagascar) all day. I am over being bored. I have gotten all my bills paid, my phone calls made, the house is not particularly messy, and I feel cozy.
We are in the middle of another DVD marathon when my sister arrives with chocolate cupcakes from Whole Foods. YUM! We each take one. My parents stop up and each take one. The children leave theirs. Hmmm…
The little French girl from across the street rings our bell. She has brought Mac’s valentines and his homework. Mac goes thru the valentines, reading each name. “I thought Billy would give me a Pokemon valentine.” There are indeed at least 6 or 7 names missing. This virus has zapped the 1st grade. I send a thank you email to the parents in 1st grade for all the lovely valentines (am I a nerd or what?) and specifically thank the French mom and her daughter for stopping by. We eat sugary things with red dye #40. But not much, just one or two apiece.
7:50pm We have just completed a 4-DVD marathon. It’s time for bed. Sailor climbs up behind me on the sofa. Mac offers me an ultimatum: “You choose, Mom. Either more TV or Sailor gets to smack you in the head.”
And so what do I get for spending the past week bragging to everyone lamenting about winter illness that we don’t get sick anymore – not since Mac had his tonsils out 2 years ago and we radically changed our eating habits? I get SICK! Cough and fever. And Sailor has it ten times worse than I do. We have just passed two nearly sleepless nights, while he whined, cried, moaned and coughed. At 1:45am last night Sailor has to get up to pee. But he is afraid, “Come with me, Mama.” In the bathroom he barks and coughs so hard he nearly vomits. And his pee is “stuck,” and he is “so afraid!” Finally I make him put on the sweatpants we left in the bathroom, sometime last week, I bundle him in his poncho snuggle blanket and his down blanket and carry him down the front stairs and unlock the door. “Relax and take deep breaths,” I instruct. I have neglected to put on any sort of outerwear for myself and have forgotten that the temperature is plummeting to 0 degrees F by morning. I hold my baby, whose face I see relax significantly as the cold, fresh air relieves him of his barking seal impression. I bring him back to bed where he falls instantly asleep and I am awake, but in deep thought about I have no idea what, an hour later.
We are awake by 7:30 and Mac is begging to help me out. He wants to make me tea, but I don’t want tea, I want to sleep. I have to explain that it’s only helping if it actually helps. I hurt his feelings and feel terrible. When I am up and showered I wait for him to finish watching his special event cartoon to make me some tea. He puts a measuring cup, half full, into the microwave for 40 seconds and attempts to get a glass, which he drops, causing it to shatter and him to burst into tears. I console. What do I care about a glass? It was from the dollar store, I assure him, as I sweep.
Mac spends the day alternating between being extremely helpful, “Can I make popcorn for you?” to typical six-year-old, “Honey, will you get the cards from the table for me?” “Why do I have to do everything around here all day?” Which I don’t justify with an answer. And all his helping is left with a cleanup project for me. I put away the popcorn machine and the popcorn, I put the breakfast cereal back in the pantry (he has made cereal and milk for us, as well as a cup of milk and gummy vitamins for Sailor) and the dishes in the dishwasher. Oh, and I spend the day cooking quesadillas.
By evening I am back to thinking Sailor has pneumonia and wish that I had braved the frigid temps to get him to the ER this morning. He smells terrible and I know it will be a fight to get him in the tub. Another long night looms ahead and I am grateful for the days off we have tomorrow and Tuesday. We will certainly be visiting the pediatrician or the ER in the morning.
Monday
And so it goes. Except while I still wake up today with a fever Sailor’s fever has broken. He has a bad cough but I no longer feel the need to take him out in the arctic tundra of February in Chicago to have his little chest X-rayed. I think he is over the hump.
Mac, who seems to be holding his own and has not come down with a cough or fever – yet – has designated himself chore boy. He cleaned the tv (with baby wipes) yesterday, dusted the living room, and threatened to wake up Sailor and me this morning so he could vacuum. A plan I quickly put the kibosh on. It all seems like a fabulous plan except that Mac expects to get paid for his efforts. He has his heart set on some big StarWars Lego thing that sports a hefty $103 price tag. I am fine with him earning money to buy his coveted toy, but what I am not fine with is his assumption that work around the house automatically equals $103. Perhaps he might have asked first. So he just mopped the kitchen floor, after sweeping up our Valentines art project. With attitude, no less.
It’s just barely past noon and we have already had lunch, made Valentines, bathed, played a little…. So much for a sick day. I am fairly wiped out, so we have plopped down in front of the TV to watch “the movie that tells how Santa became Santa,” as Sailor calls the 1990s movie (which we own on VHS, not even DVD) “The Santa Clause.” A perfect choice three days before Valentine’s Day, to be sure. I had voted for “Titanic” but was outvoted at the last minute. We need some new movies. Unfortunately, even if I update my Netflix queue right now we’ll all be well before the next DVD arrives.
I am having a great time unsubscribing from all the junk emails that I somehow signed myself up for. I don’t need to go to DeVry to further my education, I don’t want a loan, I don’t need to know my “real” age and I am not interested in meeting over-40s in my area!
Wednesday
How many times should I have to think about taking Sailor to the ER before I actually take him? How many times is one meant to shovel snow that continues to fall? How come my 4-year-old is better at nose-blowing than my 6-year-old yet refuses to do it because it’s messy? Why is the Underdog DVD still $20? Why does my 6-year-old still enjoy Sesame Street? How many days in a row can you have a fever?
Sailor has not worn clothes since last Thursday. Mac tried the natural cough remedy recommended by Whole Foods last night: a teaspoon of honey. And hour later I hear him calling me but I can’t find him. I finally locate him in the bathroom. Covered in poop. My bathroom is so small I have a hard time cleaning him up and maneuvering around him without getting covered myself. Both kids wake up when I turn on Janice Dickinson’s Modeling Agency. I don’t understand why. Could it be because the show is so LOUD?! Sailor has a 103.5-degree fever. Again.
Hey, I just found out I can watch Tootsie on my laptop straight from my Netflix queue. Good. The kids are watching Barney and they don’t want to leave my room.
I want to cook a lasagna. I don’t think I have the ingredients tho, as I don’t usually do that caliber of cooking.
4:45 pm. It’s time to be starting dinner. I am sitting down to watch Shrek III with Sailor. Mac refuses to watch, claiming to hate Shrek. Oh, what I know of this is that when he was maybe 2 or 3 my mother let him watch the 1st movie. She said he loved it. He has always claimed to have hated it. Years have passed and yet he still won’t even indulge me by joining me on the couch. Wait! The sleepy-head, pajama-clad sick boy has just acquiesced. “I’ll sit here and watch it for a few minutes but if I don’t like it I’m leaving.” Is that too much to ask?
I have pretty much reached the end of my limit with this sick stuff. And yet I see no end in sight. The germ-spreading sneezing, the vomit-threatening coughing, the relentless fevers, the stomach aches that are now giving way to some diarrhea. And the attitudes. No one seems to be getting better. At least not significantly. So I am methodically canceling plans, day by day.
I have emailed back everyone I have owed emails to. I made valentines for the kids for tomorrow. I am officially bored. And totally over being sick. I wish we had a magic pill.
I do appreciate the uninterrupted time at home with the children, however.
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. Usually I go all out. There is no All or Out to go this year. We are sick. Maybe we will feel like making cookies in the shape of hearts tomorrow. I have to remember to bring Mac’s valentines for his class across the street to the French girl who is in his class. She can pass them out for him. By the time Mac returns to school we will be on our way to the next holiday and no one will care about his valentines anymore.
“Happy Valentine’s Day! Wake up, Mom! It’s Valentine’s Day!” Uh, Honey, it’s not Christmas, it’s Valentine’s Day. There is nothing to get up for.
“Shhhhh….” I say. It is the first night we have all slept soundly without moaning, crying or coughing. I don’t want to wake up yet and I don’t want Mac to wake Sailor.
“I want to see what Cupid left us,” Mac says.
On the table he will find a pair of very adorable underpants adorned with hearts that say “MOM” tattoo-style; a book wrapped in heart tissue paper, sent from our relatives in Canada who would only miss sending the kids a holiday treat if they were dead; a chocolate heart lolli from the same relatives; cookies our friends Mac and Taylor dropped off the other day, which I saved for this morning; and two homemade cards from me, which I made while Mac napped yesterday afternoon. After that it’s just another sick day. So I don’t want to get up yet.
Eventually Sailor wakes up too and I encourage them to either go back to sleep or go play. Finally Mac says, “Bye!” and they leave for the playroom. I have the bed to myself for a few minutes. I fall back to sleep and dream that they have covered the kitchen with beautiful valentines for me.
When I do finally grace them with my tousle-headed presence they rip into their gifts and cards and …. Mac wants to know why his underpants are a size 7-8. “They’re going to be too big!” And Sailor begins in on how he knows there is no such thing as Cupid because he was with me when we bought the undies last month. It’s all happening at the same time – all the noise. So I walk off in a huff and slam my bedroom door. No doubt waking my parents below. Oh, wait, no probably not waking them. I think the boys took care of that with their running back and forth thru the house an hour before.
It takes too long for them to come find me. But when they do Mac hopes his valentines to me will make it up to me. He is a smart boy.
“Are you guys hungry now or do you want to eat later?”
“Later,” Mac says.
“Ok, then I am going to take a quick shower.”
“But I’m hungry,” Mac says.
Am I speaking Chinese, I wonder?
I bring out the blender and set it on the table. “The shake maker!” Sailor exclaims. I give Mac milk, a measuring cup and strawberries. He blends. Sailor hates the strawberry milk. I put chocolate in it for both of them. I cut hearts out of bread and make toast. I make heart-shaped eggs. Cut more strawberries. Sometime later the majority of my efforts are in the trash and the boys are on their way to try to clean up the playroom. So much for Mommy’s grand efforts.
It’s another day at home. I read to the boys. I bathe them – Mac decides Sailor needs his own bath because the skin from his feet is floating round the tub. I rub some pumice into Sailor’s feet and by the time our slow tub drains and Mac gets a turn, bathtime has been an event rather than a mere activity. I blow dry both boys after putting them in their valentine shirts (from 2 years ago! Funny how I hang on to some of their clothes that I really love even tho they have outgrown them – when everything else gets moved along the minute they start to fit properly). These particular shirts are from the GAP and they have a big read heart against a navy background. In athletic apparel style they cay “If Lost Please Return to MOM!” Which is why they are my all-time favorite shirts.
I share Japanese noodle soup with Sailor while Mac lies in bed. I try to bribe Sailor to eat his applesauce by offering chocolate milk. I hate having to work so hard to get healthy food into my kids. Or really what I mean is just food. I was food-obsessed for years. And now I am in a whole new way. At least now it’s about putting healthy foods into our bodies, as opposed to before when it was about not putting food into mine at all.
I am starting to really like staying home with the kids, despite our grumpy morning. I like sitting on the couch watching movies and eating healthy snacks (Mac requested apple slices and then fresh green beans after watching something in Madagascar) all day. I am over being bored. I have gotten all my bills paid, my phone calls made, the house is not particularly messy, and I feel cozy.
We are in the middle of another DVD marathon when my sister arrives with chocolate cupcakes from Whole Foods. YUM! We each take one. My parents stop up and each take one. The children leave theirs. Hmmm…
The little French girl from across the street rings our bell. She has brought Mac’s valentines and his homework. Mac goes thru the valentines, reading each name. “I thought Billy would give me a Pokemon valentine.” There are indeed at least 6 or 7 names missing. This virus has zapped the 1st grade. I send a thank you email to the parents in 1st grade for all the lovely valentines (am I a nerd or what?) and specifically thank the French mom and her daughter for stopping by. We eat sugary things with red dye #40. But not much, just one or two apiece.
7:50pm We have just completed a 4-DVD marathon. It’s time for bed. Sailor climbs up behind me on the sofa. Mac offers me an ultimatum: “You choose, Mom. Either more TV or Sailor gets to smack you in the head.”
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