Outnumbered Two to One

It never fails.

When mom is sick and in dire need of some TLC, 24 hours of uninterrupted sleep, and perhaps a near lethal dose of Nyquil, the crap will inevitably hit the fan.

Currently our household is afflicted with the plague. At some point our borders were breached by some kind of uber-virus camouflaged as a runny nose. In a house with four kids, the cross-contamination is a given. That runny nose was passed on from one child to another, from that child to their mother, mother to father and back again, until everyone, everyone was seeping mucous. Harmless enough, right? What’s a little cold among family members?

Except instead of clearing up, it’s getting worse.

Yay!

Think puke, think ear infections, think orange tinged drainage. I’m coughing up solid chunks of something that could possibly be lung. Trust me when I tell you, it’s hard to sleep when you’re hacking up organs, when the offspring are waking up covered in last night’s dinner.

Is it no wonder I’m so anxious to leave 2008 behind?

I’m ready to hit that big reset button. Start fresh in 09 minus the infections and whining and drama.  That’s an option right, to shed the grossness and wake up cleansed, rejuvenated, ready to tackle anything except more of the same phlegm covered same?

Please tell me that’s an option.

To all of you healthy people out there, bring in the New Year with a delicious bang.

For the rest of us, just think reset button.

Casey tells me this is week 10 of Club HASAY.

I’ll have to take her word for it, since the month of December has left me feeling like I’ve stumbled in to some kind of vortex where time is completely irrelevant. Days feel like weeks, weeks like months that feel like years. It’s like I’m carrying an extra decade on my face. Surely that can’t be flattering.

So if a simple calendar puzzles me beyond belief, should I really be expected to count calories? Cut carbs? Blast my abs with a cardio workout?

The answer is nay. NAY I say.

I haven’t exercised. I haven’t dieted in…since…let’s just say a while.

Due to the emotional nature of the crisis I recently experienced, I waffled from no eating at all to binging on Christmas cookies to subsisting on Hot Fries and Green Tea. An unhealthy dietary regimen the consequences of which I am currently reaping.

I am sick. koff koff. With the flu. sniffle sniffle.

All joking aside, I feel like garbage. That got hit by a semi. Then trampled by a herd of Spanish bulls. Then slammed by a freight train. Hauling garbage.

There’s no way I’ll be facing Jillian Michaels in my condition.

The only squat thrusts I’ll be doing will be…okay no, I won’t be doing any squat thrusts for a while. At least until my nose stops whistling and my man voice disappears. Instead I’ll be drinking fluids, taking my vitamin C and various OTC meds and longing for the day I’ll be able to hop back on that HASAY wagon.

This week though, the wagon passed me by, while I waved half-heartedly and blew my chaffed nose in to a hanky.

Honestly, I didn’t have very high expectations for this year’s Christmas. I mean, the kids always do well thanks to “Santa” and all their too- generous relatives who believe there can’t be a holiday without giant sacks of unnecessary overpriced battery operated crap.

The kids are always satisfied (much to the dismay of my overworked fingers that end the day in arthritic knots from untangling scads of packaging twist ties and severely bloodied from all the third degree cardboard cuts.)

This year most of the adults in our family opted not to exchange gifts for a variety of reasons, among them financial and practical arguments against spending unnecessarily. Some people however could not be persuaded to quash their giving natures and chose to bestow presents upon my husband and I against our will. We struggled against them, but alas they were too persistent.

My favorite among the pleasant boxes of PJs and chocolates I received was a collectible Barbie. No, I am most definitely not a fan of the doll, nor do I collect things of that nature. This particular Barbie, however, was special. To know why, you’d have to understand that 1) I have always had a lingering love for all things dark and morbid 2) I’ve been a fan of The Birds since I was about eight years old.

Yep, I mean Hitchcock’s birds. The ones that inspired this:

Excuse the weird reflection, she is, of course, still in the box she came in, propped up on my dresser and  looking slightly aloof. Here, look closer…

Not exactly the expression I would’ve expected from a woman under assault by flocks of homicidal birds. More like she’s trying on a feathered hat she’s not sure goes well with her outfit, never mind the crow perched on her shoulder, or the one clinging to her skirt, obviously going for her femoral artery. You’d think the folks at Mattel would have opted for at least a scowl, or a grimace, instead she looks almost serene - completely resigned to the fact the birds are about to peck her eyes out.

I. Love. It. I really do.

The icing on the fruit cake was this bumper sticker from my husband, who after 15 years knows me pretty well.

Cause nothing says Christmas like zombies and birds out for blood.

At some point last week, we managed to put the tree up. Because regardless of whatever personal crisis the adults in the vicinity are fielding, the kids in the house need a tree.

They. Need. It.

They will ask every day when they can pick one. When it will be brought home. When they can decorate it.They wonder aloud how Santa will be able to bring them gifts if the house is bereft of a dolled up Frasier fir. They wonder if Christmas can even arrive without a tree standing guard in the center of the living room, blinking, glowing, exuding holiday cheer.

So at some point we caved and bought a tree.

Talk about excitement. Talk about glee.

I strung up the lights, the kids were responsible for the decorations. Multi-colored balls, plush bears, school crafted ornaments. All pepper the tree in a haphazard, uncoordinated, manic way that my children love.

And at the top is this lady…

Hold on, that picture doesn’t do her justice, you need to see her in all her fiber-optic glory…although this one doesn’t really give you the full, pulsating light effect.

This is our angel tree topper. A gift of Christmas past bestowed on me by my mother-in-law who thought she was simply a ceramic doll. When our Winnie the Pooh carousel topper quit spinning, I opted to put this glowing ceramic vision at the tree’s apex. Now I lovingly refer to her as the Vegas showgirl angel, which is where I think she moonlights when I unplug the power cord and head off to bed. The wild coiling blond extensions, the heavily made up bedroom eyes, the glitz on her seemingly austere robes. What other conclusion could I come to?

Now Christmas can arrive.

—–

I also want to take a moment to thank all of you who have stopped by with warm thoughts and well wishes since my last post. While we’re still dealing with some…er stuff, all your kind words are truly, truly appreciated.

Thank you.

Sorry no one is here to answer your call.

It’s nothing personal.

Currently I am experiencing a familial crisis of sorts and while I’m not really ready to go into a lengthy, detailed post about it just yet, the entire ordeal has adversely affected my blogging abilities. How I long for the days when I was only having anxiety over the holidays. Added to that are a whole slew of other concerns - worries and annoyances that are seriously sapping my strength both physically and emotionally.

I offer my apologies for not being able to read your latest posts, or comment on all the wonderful and amusing anecdotes you all are no doubt producing. I am missing the blogosphere (more than a little bit) and I hope to return as soon as I can. I will try to post as often as I’m able and hope you will all keep checking back, but for now please forgive my sporadic attendance and the fact that I’m not able to return your calls visits as often as I’d like.

I have a guest post up at Casey’s blog today, due to her son Graham’s recent surgical trifecta. They’ve had a rough patch recently with the slew of ear infections plaguing the house. You guys are welcome to visit me there. Stop by and wish them a speedy recover, and a good night’s sleep, cause that girl needs one in a bad way.

Don’t we all.

For more Wordless Wednesday visit here and here .

Occasionally I get out of my shackles, order a pizza for the family, and slip out the door while they’re watching reruns of iCarly.

Friday night was that night, the rare and coveted occasion when I’m able to shirk my motherly responsibilities and leave behind my brood for an evening of reckless abandon. Interpret reckless abandon to mean dinner and a movie. Not as exciting as say bungee jumping off the Brooklyn bridge, but definitely enjoyable in its own right.

My sister and I had a lovely dinner at PF Chang’s, consisting of appetizers, an entree, and dessert, during the course of which, I didn’t have to take anyone to the ladies’ room mid meal, I didn’t have to scold anyone through gritted teeth, and I didn’t have to walk out of the restaurant to field a loud, screeching tantrum. The only food I spilled on my person came from my own plate and I promptly licked it off, cause I’m classy like that. I even managed not to give myself indigestion …I wore my big pants.

We watched a 10ish showing of Four Christmases, in the hopes that it would put us in a festive mood. Alas, twas not the case. While it had it’s amusing moments, the sappy, heavy handed and too neat ending, had us both rolling our eyes. Alot.

The highlight of our evening, apart from a banana spring roll with coconut ice-cream (oh yeah, it was that good…HASAY who?), was this stylin mannequin with the porn-star rack.  I mean she’s no Kim Cattrall but obviously, she’s had some work done.

I suppose it wasn’t enough that we were staring, pointing, and giggling, we had to photograph her with my sister’s camera phone for bloggy posterity too.

Don’t we just reek of dignity and maturity.

After 24 hours of roaming hospital hallways, munching solely on ice chips, and having random nurses examine my cervix, my youngest son was finally delivered in to my eager, exhausted arms.

I was happy to see him and all, but right then I was more interested in the ham sandwich the nurse had promised to bring me. After not eating food for more than a day, I was famished. It was quite possibly the best sandwich I ever ate.

I have photos of myself in the hospital bed, holding the swaddled bundle in my arms, smiling for the camera and the nurse who offered to take the picture. I won’t display it here because while it is a sweet, satisfying moment, a woman after 24 hours of IV fluids, Pitocin injections, epidural administrations and an episiotomy…well she is clearly not in any condition to be photographed. My swollen nose alone seems to dwarf my 6 lb 4 oz baby by comparison. I won’t even go in to detail about my Fred Flintstone sized feet.

He was perfect though, the tiniest of all my babies and so worth the extended labor.

Happy Birthday to him.

And on to the terrible twos.

Sadly I have been under the impression that I had some wisdom to impart upon my darling two year old son. As a parent, I was convinced it was my sole responsibility to teach him the time tested basics of social behavior. Simple etiquette techniques like saying please and thank you. Unspoken rules like refraining from washing your hands in the toilet.

I was misinformed. It is my toddler who is teaching me. Instructing me in the not-so-subtle art of manipulation. Executing effective strategies that will one day help me to win over friends and influence my peers. I’ll share some of them here with you today.

1. A boisterous laugh can cover a multitude of sins. For example, you can slap a grown man in the face or pull a woman’s shirt collar down to her navel, effectively exposing a boob, then laugh loudly as if it’s all part of a grand joke and all will be forgiven. I’m pretty sure this would also work just as adequately when you’re insulting someone.

“You’re a furry faced muffin licker. Hahahahahaha. Your mother wears combat boots. Hahahahahaha.”

“I should be insulted but all this insane laughter clearly means this entire exchange is all in jest. I am thoroughly amused.”

2. If you’ve provoked someone’s rage, hide for a brief time. If you can’t see them, then they clearly can’t see you. Then when you emerge from your hiding place, they will be subsequently surprised and incapable of scolding, spanking and/or strangling you.

“That little muffin licker ate a box of crayons.

Wait, where did he go?

Here he is, he was playing peek-a-boo, isn’t that sweet?

What box of crayons?”

3. When someone is interrogating you about something you may or may not have accidentally broken or eaten, pretending to be asleep mid sentence, will effectively end the conversation. Occasionally this can lead to actual sleep, when you wake up you will be beyond suspicion and chances are someone will bring you a snack.

“Why you little…

Aw, he’s asleep. Shh, don’t wake him.

Let’s make him a warm batch of cookies from scratch to reward him when he gets up.”

4. When all else fails, shriek and cry at the top of your lungs. The benefit is twofold, while it will sometimes create the diversion you need to get away, other times it will draw a wave of people who will give you anything you want to ensure you stop that infernal ear piercing noise.

“For God’s sake give him whatever he wants, my ears are bleeding.”

I hope you’ve learned something. I know I have.

Shh. I’m sleeping.

My five year old is scared of the dark.

Because clearly that’s where the monsters lurk. Everyone knows that.

We’re working on this fear one day at a time. Our bedtime ritual consists of me kissing him and his brother good-night, him begging me to lay down in bed with him, then me promising to come back to check on him approximately every two minutes and make sure he hasn’t been eaten by something large and toothy.

He is always asleep by the time I make my first round, which is usually the ten minute mark. Since he technically does not tell time yet, I am not bound by the two minute constraint. Yes, I know, I’m a cheater.

The problem is not my five year old’s fear of the dark. The problem is tonight my toddler, having apparently caught wind of the lurking nocturnal beasties, proceeded to pitch a terrified fit the moment I attempted to leave the room. In his sweet toddler speak he very clearly said “monster” and “scared”. Then shrieked at the top of his lungs until I sat on the edge of the bed and promised not to leave.

Now a scared five year old is one thing. I can bargain, however irrationally, with a five year old.  A toddler, on the other hand, is not falling for a two minute monster rule. His grasp on the English language is somewhat tentative. I leave, he screams. There is no discussion. Unfortunately, it is infinitely easier to perch on the edge of a bed for fifteen minutes until he nods off, rather than listen to him scream for an hour until he either throws up or exhausts himself.

Sometimes, you’ve got to pick your battles.

Hopefully this won’t become a recurring theme. Just yesterday and for the past year, he’s gone to bed happily without a hitch. But all this talk of monsters has apparently worked its way in to his little brain and created a very dangerous wrinkle. One that threatens to blow our whole bed time routine out of the water.

I suppose we could always sleep with the lights on…

To add insult to injury, I was also summoned by my teen to kill a cockroach that was threatening her sanity…not to mention her bathroom time.

I hate roaches. I really, really, hate roaches.

I killed it, because I had to…what she doesn’t know is that I used the bottom of her sneakers.

Apparently I live in a house full of chickens, monsters and cockroaches.