Outnumbered Two to One

• My six year old has the flu. It sucks. He’s had a fever since Saturday. He’s lethargic, his appetite is nonexistent. I hate seeing him this way, I really get beside myself with worry. The kid is so damn skinny as it is, I’m afraid he’s going to waste away to nothing. I find myself hovering over him, constantly brushing the hair from his forehead and urging him to eat something, I’m driving myself bananas. It reminds me of when I brought him home from the hospital, he was so tiny and slight, he was terribly jaundiced and every time I looked at him I would dissolve into tears. I don’t want to cry every time the poor boy sniffles, I’m going to give him a complex, not to mention the puddles I’ll leave behind turn our ceramic tile floors into quite the slip hazard.

• Yes, it is in fact that time of the month again…thanks for asking.

• Sigh.

• It’s not that I get completely unreasonable during this particular phase of the lunar cycle, it’s that I tend to walk a very thin line between unreasonable and certifiable. It’s like I teeter on this very precarious edge, poised ever so delicately on that precipice I like to think of as the cliffs of insanity. Those of you who’ve never watched The Princess Bride really should.

• So let’s see…cramping - check, migraine - check, lower back pain - check, anxiety…anxiety? anxiety, where are you? Oh there you are, hiding behind the sugar cravings and the mood swings. Check, check, check. All systems go. Let’s just hold on to our hats shall we?

• It’s not that I meant to eat the muffin batter, I mean, I’m an adult, I can overlook the gooey, cinnamon and raw egg concoction in favor of healthier fare, like a carrot stick, or a bowl full of bran. I was actually on my way to dig some bran out of the pantry, when the muffin batter accosted me, nay provoked me, into licking the mixing bowl clean in a matter of seconds. It was over so fast, I barely have any memory of it at all. It must have been mind control. I’m thinking maybe the government is to blame, or aliens or…probably the government.

• According to our pediatrician the flu epidemic we’re currently battling is highly contagious so we need to take adequate precautions to ensure it doesn’t spread from child to child. Considering my kids are routinely spitting/coughing/licking one another, I am pretty much guaranteed to have four sick children sneezing directly on my person over the course of the next few days. Worse still is the fact that Spring Break is next week, so I’ll be home bound with four sick and incredibly bored kids for seven whole days. I may have to give myself a lobotomy as a precautionary measure.

• I’ve officially stopped watching Heroes. I’ve deleted it from my DVR as an act of protest against bad writing and lackluster acting. I think NBC is really going to miss me on Monday nights, I can feel it.

• That field trip I went on was instrumental in reminding me why I abandoned my aspirations of becoming an elementary school teacher. By the end of that interminable bus ride home, I was ready to fling myself from one of those emergency windows in the hopes of escaping the kicks to my seat and the incessant yammering. Kissing asphalt seemed like a better prospect than knocking one of the little monkeys unconscious with a souvenir Spider-man mug.

• It did however make me happy to come home to my own sleeping monkeys, that coincidentally missed me while I was gone.

• For the record, I would never knock a child unconscious unless they really deserved it  with overpriced drink ware. It’s just not in my peaceful, loving nature.

For more randomness…well, you know where to GO .

Yesterday during a routine and uneventful blog-hopping tour, I happened to discover that Robin had tagged me for a photo game on her blog Shrink Rap. Imagine my dismay at finding my link at the end of her post, I mean, did she think I had nothing bigger going on? Had she assumed I wasn’t diligently at work on some thought provoking, eloquent blogging masterpiece?

Okay, I don’t and I wasn’t…but that’s not the point.

Okay, that actually is the point.

Currently my digestive system feels like it’s staging some sort of revolt against the rest of my anatomy. I’m hesitant to diagnose myself with anything other than stupidity. Since eating the leftovers from my birthday dinner Monday night, I’ve been feeling less than stellar. My husband thinks the reheated shellfish was the culprit, I personally prefer to blame him since he was charged with picking up our take-out order, so obviously it was the mishandling that caused my illness. Maybe he was carrying the containers at a weird angle conducive to breeding gut wrenching bacteria.

The point is, I’ve got nothing to blog about and I don’t want to blog about my abdominal pains and heartburn and migraines (although I guess I just did), so I’ll participate in Robin’s little game in the hopes that it will get my mind off my gurgling stomach acid.

The idea was to choose the fifth photo from the fifth folder from my picture files, then discuss. Here’s the photo.

This is my then three year old son and his cousin…Groucho. Obviously the photo has been doctored to protect my niece’s secret identity. She and my son are exactly one year, one month, and one day apart. The photo was taken on or near my sister’s anniversary, while I was watching her girls so she and the husband could celebrate in grown-up fashion.

At the time I was feeling overwhelmingly fatigued. The slightest activity left me winded and I found myself sitting down quite often, the room at a slight tilt, my stomach feeling oddly replete. At night, I succumbed to sleep while the sun was still out, the kids’ screeching feuds a sweet lullaby I couldn’t ignore.

A week later I discovered I was pregnant for a fourth time. It took me another week to uncurl myself from the fetal position, stop whimpering, and enjoy my pregnancy. Actually the pregnancy itself was less than enjoyable, there were maybe three weeks right in the middle of my second trimester when I felt kinda good, but the rest was rather unpleasant, although it yielded some fabulous results. As unexpected as my youngest son was, he undoubtedly completed us. He made our odd numbers even.

As for the five tags, here they are in no particular order:

1. Blue Monkey Butt (Elle)

2. Blue Monkey Butt (Stacy) - wouldn’t want anyone feeling left out.

3. I’m Living Proof That God Has a Sense of Humor (Helene)

4. Glue 4 Families (Davida)

5. Small Town Mommy (Anne)

I personally refuse to harass anyone, so if you happen by and see your name, feel free to join in, otherwise feign ignorance, I won’t take it personally. Also stop by and visit Robin too since she’s hilarious and way groovy.

Yeah, I said groovy. What?

Good things about having a birthday:

• cake
• presents
• a husband to do dishes for you
• dinner out
• e-mailed coupons for free ice-cream

• spider veins
• constipation
• weird wrinkles on my forehead
• possible arthritis pain
• hair loss

• Daylight savings
• Springing forward
• Thinking I have an extra hour to do stuff, then realizing I’ve been robbed
• Losing an hour of desperately needed sleep
• Waking up with fat eyes because some guy thought daylight savings was a good idea

Seriously. That guy. What the hell was his problem? If the sun is still out, how can I possibly understand that it’s bed time? If it’s dark, how can I possibly assume that it’s time to wake up? Jerk.

Stupid daylight savings.

Happy My Birthday to Me.

If HASAY were Jeopardy, I’d be that mousy contestant who doesn’t know any of the answers and whose score occasionally dips in to the negative digits. You know the one I’m talking about - the one who can’t even participate in Final Jeopardy cause she’s got nothing to wager.

It’s sad, I know.

Since joining up with this online group fitness endeavor, it seems my motivation has consistently waned to the point of nonexistence. My occasional spurts of exercise and activity are superseded by my need to compulsively snack or sit at my computer for marathon stretches.

My failure is never more apparent than when I am in the fitting room of any major department store. Maybe it’s the awkward fluorescent lighting or the weird curve of the full length mirror, but I’m never more disheartened by my reflection than when it’s undressed and sadly staring back at me in those dreary close quarters. I think to myself, “Jeezus, I’m walking around in public like that.” My complexion always looks weird, my hair has that I’ve-been-caught-in-a-wind-tunnel look, and the belly I’ve assumed has been retracted in to my rib cage is bulging obscenely over the top of my pants.

Ugh. Double ugh.

What’s a girl to do?

Shop online obviously, but besides that…

My neighbor who recently delivered her baby boy is eager to get herself back in shape. She has enlisted me to be her walking buddy. I’m hoping the obligation will at least get me to commit to a routine that I might otherwise shrug off in favor of less strenuous work - like watching my nails grow. I’m hoping this will be the push I need to keep me consistent.

In the meantime, I’ll make a mental not to stay out of these…because I have enough self esteem issues as it is.

Today my neighbor came by with her brand spanking new baby.

She also let me hold her brand spanking new baby. For a good ten minutes.

I think new babies are like new cars, when someone you know gets one, you’re immediately overcome with the urge to follow suit and snag one of your own regardless of your financial situation. I mean they smell soooo good…both cars and babies.

So here I was holding this tiny, squishy, sweet faced, sleeping baby and it’s like there was a short circuit in my brain. Colic, middle of the night feedings, projectile vomiting, and ear infection memories were all filed in my mental trashcan. All I could do was suck in the smell of new baby (because I can finally breathe through my nostrils thanks my effective antibiotics prescription) and swoon and see this in my head…

This was my youngest mere days after we got him home from the hospital. My neighbor, who’s a great photographer, was nice enough to shoot these for me since our hospital picture taker ditched work early on the day of our departure. This sweet little newborn has turned in to this…

Which, don’t get me wrong, is always hugely entertaining and delicious in its own right, but…well, his feet will never be this small again…

Please, folks, convince me I don’t need a fifth baby. For sure, we can’t afford one. Nor can we fit another kid in our tiny shoebox house. But I need your help to clear the scramble that newborn left in my brain, that hardwired signal he triggered that tells me I need to reproduce yet again.

Tell me how awful new babies are. How unbearable those nine months of pregnancy can be.  How hard it is to give up sleep again. How gross baby barf smells when you unknowingly walk out of the house with it on your shirt.

It will help, trust me.

Sadly, this is what’s left of my husband’s recent Girl Scout Cookie purchase. I should be grateful that the temptation to binge on chocolate covered minty goodness and coconut caramel heaven has been eliminated, but the sad fact is I didn’t even get a single, pathetic lick of a cookie, much less an entire serving, before my children completely devoured our cookie ration.

I like to feel I’m doing my part to help the Girl Scouts out. Not by participating in any way, shape, or form, but by buying and eating and savoring their products in a carefully managed allotment, so that my yearly purchase can last me as long as humanly possible. This strategy helps me feel that I’m contributing in some small way to the Girl Scouts’ courage, confidence, and character building.

When my kids join forces to rob me of that experience, well that’s like mutiny…or something. It’s like a revolt, I mean it’s certainly revolting to me that I didn’t get a taste of a single Samoa. I’m not a perfect mom, but I’ve taught my kids the basics - don’t bite people, don’t eat your boogers, brush your teeth sometimes, share your toys. That last one applies to cookies too, dammit.

Did I have to spell it out for them? Did I have to be that specific? Maybe the right strategy would’ve been stashing the cookies in an undisclosed location then doling them out one at a time at my discretion…which would be never…muhuhuhahahaa (that’s my evil laugh, in case you’re not familiar).

Do as I say not as I do and all that…I’ll share the regular cookies with them - Chips Ahoy, Oreos - the special ones are mine next year…all mine.

For more Wordful Wednesday visit:

Cause some people don’t want to keep it Wordless apparently.

Last Friday my sister and I decided to meet up once again for another one of our  oh-so-rare girls’ night out. It had been a couple of months since we’d last ventured an evening without our respective broods and we both felt we needed some grown up time…you know, after dark, in our good jeans, with our hair brushed and sporting a little lipstick. Fancy, right?

Well, after abandoning my children to their father’s capable hands, I hopped in to my styling minivan, and shuttled off to meet my sister at the restaurant, which is about 20 minutes of highway driving from my house. About halfway there, cruising along at a steady 80 mph, I noticed some movement in the left corner of my windshield. What I saw lurking there was this…

Now, I normally don’t harbor any ill will toward the arachnids. Live and let live is my general approach, not like roaches which I strive to either annihilate or flee from. The problem was that as my vehicle was hurtling forward at an alarming rate of speed, I suddenly became terrified that this slightly repulsive critter was going to fling itself toward my face and I was going to drive my car in to a ditch where it would quite theatrically burst in to flames.

Spiders are fine, sure. Spiders on your face are somewhat less fine.

Rather than pull over to the side of the road and risk getting splattered by whizzing traffic, I opted to get off at the next exit, drive to the nearest gas station, and run screaming from my car, while simulataneously checking my hair for spiders. After a brief moment’s panic I walked back to the driver’s side and checked things out. The tiny spider was still perched at the edge of the windshield, possibly wondering what the heck was making me so twitchy.

After trying unsuccesfully for several minutes to flush the guy out with a balled up paper towel, I was approached by one of the car wash attendants who must have thought I was completely schizo dancing around in my flats and making little squeaking sounds on the asphalt.

Luckily he ignored his better instincts, and helped a girl out. He very gallantly grabbed the little guy by the legs, pulled him out, and set him free in the nearby bushes, hopefully to live out the remainder of his spider life in peace and happiness. He also was quick to point out that spiders are good luck and I should consider his little visit to be a good omen.

I suppose he was partially right, I was lucky enough to find parking that night at the restaurant , we only had to wait half an hour to be seated, and the movie we caught didn’t suck.

All in all it was a successful evening.

Now had a spider landed on my face, I probably wouldn’t have been so fortunate.

Exercise, thy name is HASAY . If that doesn’t ring a bell, go here .

No, no. Don’t get too close.

I think I have a sinus infection and possibly an ear infection.

I’m also pretty sure the cartoon rendition you see above is a very close facsimile of the appalling bacteria I’m harboring in my nasal cavities. It’s aggravating. I don’t even remember the last time I was able to breathe comfortably through my nose. I’ve become on of those annoying mouth breathers whose Ms sound like Bs and whose Ns sound like Ds.

(I’b sorry id advadce to all you bouth breathers out there. Do offedse.)

What does it all mean to my fitness goals?

It means I didn’t exercise…uhm…again.

I’m sure there are plenty of you die hard workout types out there in blogoland that will hop on to your treadmills even if you’ve just lost a limb. You strap on a tourniquet with your teeth and push through the pain.

I’m not one of those. When my head feels like it’s going to explode and my ears are ringing and nothing tastes right because it feels like there are two corks in my nostrils, I am just not doing it. The panting, the elevated heart rate, the sweating. Just getting out of bed in the morning is taking some concentrated effort.

What I need right now, isn’t a pep talk. It’s antibiotics.

What I need right now is a bubble I can put around my kids when they go to school, so they can stop bringing their diseases home to me.

What I need right now is a little sympathy.

Or not. Either way I still feel like crap.

Try me again next week.

Ever had one of those days…when the inspiration just gets sucked out of you?

Okay, so maybe I’ve had two. I don’t know. It’s hard to tell when all the days get lumped. It’s like when you mix all the Playdoh colors together - red stops being red, blue stops being blue, you just get a fistful of clay the color of overcooked broccoli. It’s just not appetizing.

How do you beat the blahs anyway?

So far I’ve tried cleaning, which left the house smelling nicer but did nothing for my mood. Particularly when my floor was promptly soiled by pudding and corn then my sofa slathered in puke…again? Yes again, the culprit this time…a hunk of Laffy Taffy lodged in my two-year-old’s throat. Banana flavored if you must know.

I also tried reacquainting myself with my inner child, but alas, my five-year-old doesn’t like getting the pants beat off of him on the Wii. Apparently it stops being fun for him when Mom dominates the scoreboard. Sure I have days when I let him win, sure there are days when he is legitimately the better player. But today, wasn’t one of those days. So I beat him. Again. And again. And again.

In your face, sonny boy.

It still didn’t help.

I had pizza for dinner. My husband brought home Girl Scout cookies. It’s Friday night.

And still. I feel. So. Blah.

I’m the sad clown. And if that isn’t bad enough, my head also hurts. And someone smells like poop. I’m not saying who. But that kid, in the smelly diaper, needs to limit his stinkier bodily functions to a one a day maximum. Seriously.

If you despise zombies and enjoy Maurice Sendak, check out my giveaway.

Generally I’m not a lucky person when it comes to games of chance. It’s why I don’t gamble away my husband’s paychecks on a single game of blackjack or eat mall sushi. The odds just aren’t in my favor.Then yesterday, I got this in the mail…

Free stuff is so much better than all those annoying bills and car insurance offers I keep getting. These are my first ever online blog giveaway prize winnings, sent to me by Cyndy from DysFUNctional Mom.

Three weeks ago her adorable daughter pulled my name out of a hat, and boom! my life was transformed. I was suddenly a winner. That big invisible L on my forehead miraculously erased. I was pretty stoked. I laughed, I cried, I considered hitting the slot machines to see if things had truly turned around for me.

Instead I waited for my shipment of stuff to arrive. And it did, Saturday. Truly it was the highlight of a day spent in pajamas in front of our new game system, contemplating the thin line between pathetic and copacetic.

Now, not only do I have reading material for the next several weeks, but I can finally see what all the Twilight hype is about (I’ll keep you posted.) Also I can keep track of what page I’m on with the lovely bookmarks Cyndy sent me. Isn’t that thoughtful?

The only way it could have been better is if the bottom of the bubble padded package were lined with chocolate truffles and/or cookie pieces.

Yes, I am PMSing as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?