Outnumbered Two to One

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.

We’ve got a lot of junk.

No kidding. I don’t think we’re quite ready for a “Clean House ” intervention just yet, but it’s close. With Christmas looming, we’re certain to get a flood of bulky, difficult to stash gifts for the kids from relatives who have no vested interest in space saving. So, to circumvent some of the potential new clutter, we’ve got to eliminate some of the existing old clutter.

My husband’s solution is to have our first ever YARD SALE, an event that gives me all sorts of anxiety. I mean, there will be people there, in my space, picking through my things. It’s slightly disturbing in my opinion, but making a few bucks from our castoffs outweighs my initial resistance. Please feel free to share your reassuring (or not so much)  yard/garage/moving sale experiences.

Here are a few things I’d like to get rid of.

1. Two end tables we no longer have room for, which are coincidentally crowding are traditional Christmas tree space hence no Frasier fir as of yet.

2. An air hockey table that lives on the back patio but doesn’t see any play, it’s coincidentally covered in dust and gets sprayed with water everytime a storm blows through.

3. A programmable exercise bicycle that shares space on the patio with the hockey table. I’ve used it, but alas don’t include it in my exercise program anymore, so it sits pitifully outside and occasionally the kids use it as a jungle gym.

4. A box of VHS tapes  that sit on the end tables that are blocking my Christmas tree space. Seriously, nobody watches them. Ever.

5. A plastic musical jewelry box  my mother-in-law gave me Christmas three years ago, not really understanding that I don’t own a lot of jewelry and I’m not a big fan of twirling ballerinas.

6. A bagless sweeper vacuum that fell on my foot today, sending me in to a tirade of expletives I’d rather not repeat. Yes, I want it gone out of spite!

7. A George Foreman grill that’s new in the box but not worth e-baying since apparently they are not in demand.

8. Plush toys. They’re everywhere. I think they’re reproducing. Nobody plays with them. Ever.

9. A black table lamp that sits on those damn end tables along with the VHS tapes, collecting dust and taking up my tree space. I don’t think I’ve ever once turned on that lamp in the ten years we’ve had it.

10. Books. Read and unread, hardcover and softcover, fiction and non, all cluttering shelves and never with the hope of being picked up again. Why I even still have them is a mystery.

11. A Graco baby travel system because I’m done with babies. I mean it. Really, really.

12. Clothes I don’t wear, have never worn and most likely will never wear unless I embark on some weird midlife crisis where skin tight clothing and exposed cleavage suddenly become “my thing”. Gifts from my dear mom whose taste differs very drastically from mine and who doesn’t know me as well as she might think.

13. Toys, toys, and more toys. Unfortunately the problem I am discovering is that as we excavate deeper and deeper in to the children’s toy boxes, things that were forgotten are becoming the play thing du jour. Stuff my daughter wants to be rid of, my son wants to adopt. Somehow I don’t think ownership swaps qualify as clearing clutter.

What do I know?

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For more list fun visit Thursday Thirteen .

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Also check me out - I’m Neurotic .

97 times. Seriously.

I must have heard “Mommy” called at least 97 times today in various tones, inflections and states of urgency. “Mommy” when someone’s hungry, “Mommy” when someone fell down, “Mommy” when someone suffered an injustice, “Mommy” just to pinpoint Mommy’s exact location like a makeshift radar.

That’s my name, don’t wear it out.

But of course they did. They wore it to shreds. I’m actually considering a name change, something a little more dignified, maybe “Mother” or “Mama” with an accent on the second “Ma”.

It also amazes me how no matter where I’m hiding working in the house, my children have a way of always rooting me out. As if there’s an invisible tether between us that spools them back to me like little yo-yos, a bungee that makes it so that at any given time all four kids are forced to gravitate in to whatever room I’m in, usually talking at the same time. Sometimes they follow me in to the bathroom, sometimes they end up literally in my lap, which coincidentally makes it difficult to eat or enjoy any kind of privacy.

Tonight we tried to watch the shuttle launch. My husband set up a ladder and we were all going to perch up on the roof to see the rockets cross the sky. It was a good idea in theory, except at least three of the kids were terrified of climbing up, but heartbroken at the thought of being excluded and earthbound. Plenty of screaming and panicking ensued, which always makes for an entertaining family outing. Eventually we saw the flame shoot across the sky, then disappear, but by then at least two of the children were barefoot and barechested and cawing “Mommy” like nobody’s business.

I hear it’s quiet in space.

At least someone seemed enthusiastic about our science project. At least enthusiastic enough to lick it, even if he didn’t venture an actual bite.

I was recently tagged for a couple of memes somewhat similar in nature. They both require me to delve deep in to my memory stores and share those somewhat unsavory images with the rest of blog-dom. As if I don’t reveal enough already…

But I figured I can comply, since I’ve really got muffin nothin else going on. Let’s take a walk down memory lane, shall we?

Starting with my friend Elizabeth’s tag which demands I share seven truths regarding my high school experience, as if it wasn’t painful enough, let’s relive the gory details.

1. Career Choices - My very first job was as a sandwich artist at a local Subway shop. I applied because I figured it was cleaner than McDonald’s although I ended up coming home reeking of pickles and onions for the entire two years that I worked there. For years after I got canned, I couldn’t even step in to a sandwich shop without gagging involuntarily.

2. The Beau - My first boyfriend was a co-worker I met my sophomore year. He was a skinny, chinless bully that slaughtered my self-esteem, then went on to date my best friend. Coincidentally, having a crappy boyfriend is the best diet ever because I lost like 20 lbs during the course of the two years we dated.

3. The Getaway Car - My first vehicle was bestowed upon me my senior year of high school by my absentee dad who apparently felt he had stuff to make up for. It was a gray 10 year old Buick Regal, which my friends dubbed The Illegal Regal. Needless to say after I acquired ownership, it was far too easy to skip classes, and skip we did. Often. To have breakfast at Denny’s, among other things.

4. Bad Habits - I picked up smoking Marlboro Reds my senior year of high school, honestly, just to look cool. I think I nailed it. It was disgusting, I know and I quit several years later, but sometimes I still miss it.

5. Body Art - When I was 17 I got a tattoo on my upper thigh, it’s a two inch black ink drawing of a Chinese dragon. It’s fabulously bad and I did not have parental consent. It was actually done in the back room of a comic book store by some dude with a penis piercing. Strangely enough, it was here that I met my husband.

6. Underage Drinking - Because on average, we lacked adult supervision (and my friend’s dad worked for an airline caterer and had tons of mini booze bottles at her disposal), we collectively did a lot of underage drinking. More than once I hurled or passed out, much to my humiliation. I needed a serious ass kicking, truth be known, but I turned out alright. I do not drink any more.

7. Class of ‘93 - Despite all my fooling around, I actually graduated in the top ten percent. Even though I ended up failing several of my courses senior year, I had already accumulated enough credits to graduate half way through. One of the classes I failed was Psychology, not because it didn’t interest me, but because the teacher was a douche bag who in lieu of actual instruction preferred to sit the class in a circle to participate in confessional type forums and debates. It was way creepy.

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The second tag comes from another bloggy pal Lydia, who wants me to divulge seven things about the first month of being a mom. Being that this would be 14 years ago, I’ll have to exert some actual effort in recalling those conflicted moments.

1. I was a little preoccupied those first few days because I honestly thought my guts were going to spill out my c-section scar. I didn’t even want to sneeze or laugh. I will never have surgery again if I can avoid it.

2. I thought my funny looking little newborn was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, even though I did not immediately like her…mostly because she kept giving me the stink eye. She still gives me the stink eye.

3. I never thought I could be so tired. Even the espresso I drank in the morning made me drowsy. Getting up in the middle of the night for feedings was like trying to wake yourself from a coma.

4. Everything I thought I knew from reading baby books was completely useless. Once the panic of “oh-geez-I-don’t-know-what-the-hell-I’m-doing” set in, every logical bone in my body turned to gelatinous quivering mass.

5. My colicky baby cried non-stop around the clock, from one feeding to the next. When she cried, I cried, and I was convinced I was doing irreparable damage to her fragile infant psyche.

6. I was afraid my baby would not love me.

7. Seriously, it was one of the longest months of my life. It was a dark period for me, that I am grateful I emerged from. Even now, those memories are not very happy ones. It was quite a shock to my system, lemme tell you.

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Okay, walk it off. I’m older now, wiser, my scars have all healed and I almost never pick at the scabs.

Want to lay it bare? Want to volunteer some of your history?

I invite you to.

I won’t tag anyone specific, since I’m a slow runner and I don’t want to embarrass myself, but if you’ve been inspired by my frankness, then by all means join in. The more the madder merrier.

Nothing against the scientific method itself. Really, I know it’s responsible for a lot of modern advancements - microwaves, penicillin, espresso machines. But man oh man, my brain is so not wired for stuff like that. I’m less of a scientist, more of a free thinker, occasionally a non-thinker if I’ve had a particularly harrowing day and opted to sit down for a little tete-e-tete with my pal DVR.

Growing up I never crafted a science project of my own. It was always a requirement, every year, I just never understood 100% how to go about throwing one together, and my mother…let’s just say her parenting methods were a little hands off. Neither one of us minded the series of effs on my report cards much, so not plunging waist deep in to science was more than acceptable.

My strategies are a little different of course, I want my kids to excel in school. Their successes are my successes. Their first place ribbons, are my first place ribbons. (Really, I stockpile them in a giant tupperware under the bed.) So, we don’t opt out of science projects at our house, but every year I’m convinced these lengthy and detailed assignments are more of a task for the parents than for the children - the gathering of supplies, of research, of presentation materials, it’s like an extensive scavenger hunt my child would not be able to attempt without me to chauffeur her around and foot the bill. Then there’s that whole experimentation process with a minimum of three trials!

I’m whining, I know.

This year I’ve got two to do. One for fifth grade, one for eighth. My teen decided on a plant growth experiment, which of course involves growing plants, something I’m tragically bad at. So far we’ve gone through about 20 garden bean saplings, that are currently part of the circle of plant life thanks to my black thumb. My tween is equally baffled, for her we settled on a relatively simple project involving muffins and the manipulation of baking powder in a basic recipe.

Now here’s a project I can get used to, except I’ve got to make four dozen muffins of varying degrees of edibility. That’s a lot of dirty pots and pans, my friends. And we’ve got to measure these suckers, sample their textures, take photographs and create bar graphs.

Way to suck the fun out of a muffin Scientific Method.

It’s been a long Friday.

Heck it’s been a long week. Today in particular though, was fraught with domestic drama both minor and major. So much so that I began to wonder if perhaps there was some confusion or basic miscommunication between myself and the four lovely offspring.

I’ve decided to clarify a few things for both our benefits, unspoken rules that apparently need to be broadcast in surround sound for the younglings to comprehend them.

1. When playing catch with mom, please do not aim for her face with the football.

2. If you’ve got a significant dusting of play sand on your hands, do not rub your eyes with them.

3. Stop whining. About. Every. Thing.

4. A banana is a poor choice of plaything, neither is it a flattering accessory, if you’re not going to eat it, just put it down.

5. Stop screaming for no reason, otherwise when you have a legitimate reason to scream it might be ignored.

6. If mom is fully clothed and outside the bathtub, assume she does not need to get washed and try not to drench her in three quarts of dirty bathwater.

7. It’s not funny when the naked baby pees on the carpet, please stop giggling and grab the paper towels.

8. Stop whining. Seriously. I am almost positive you have a normal tone of voice.

9. Keep your feet out of each other’s faces at all times.

10. Stop screaming. For the love of all that is pure and sweet in this world, stop screaming. Especially when I’m on the phone, or when there’s someone at the door, or when the neighbors are peering over the fence to make sure no one is getting massacred. Just stop.

Maybe I’ll get through to them. When they’re 40.

Today we dropped the minivan off for service at our local dealership which was humiliating in and of itself due to the nature of its filthy interior. When my husband returned to pick up our vehicle and pay their exorbitant “analysis” fees, the service person struck up some conversation after seeing us with our youngest earlier in the day. My husband explained that we actually had four children, instead of just the one.

“Wow,” Ms. Service Person exclaimed, “your wife looks pretty good for four kids.”

Okay, so this is a compliment. I get it. And it’s not the first time I’ve heard it either, our roofers said the same several months back when they came to lay our tar. I graciously accepted similar comments last year when we were invited to a friend’s birthday party, a celebration I had to attend in my maternity pants even though I was almost 10 months postpartum.

It’s a compliment with a condition.

On average I consider myself pretty plain looking and unremarkable. I don’t wear makeup, I don’t style my hair, and my clothes are routinely frayed and/or permanently stained. Do I look good for having carried and being in the process of raising four children? I’m not sure what a mom of four is supposed to look like in their heads, surely they must have some kind of preconceived notion of my size, or maybe the amount of gray hairs sprouting from my head.

Could it be I look pretty good for having four kids because:

a.The bags under my eyes can be classified as carry-ons and not check-in luggage.

b. There are no straight jackets in my limited fashion repertoire.

c. I haven’t yanked out any of my own hair by the fist fulls.

d. I don’t mutter incoherently to myself.

e. I haven’t ground my teeth down to nubs.

So I’ve managed to maintain some shred of sanity and button my pants. Apparently that’s a flattering look for me. Probably if I ran screaming from my house in a mu-mu, shouting obscenities and barking at cars, nobody would be surprised.

Why wouldn’t I be flattered?

For more WW visit 5 Minutes for Mom & Wordless Wednesday .

Really, it’s more like I’m creeping back in, my collar pulled up, my shades on.

After all my frustration yesterday at being disconnected yet again, late last night when I was powering down the computer I decided to give the internet another go. For the heck of it. Lo and behold it was working once again. This after a 45 minute phone call with tech support then shutting down the computer, restarting the computer, ignoring old connections, creating new connections, scheduling a repair person, yessing and noing and being put on hold again and again and again.

Stupid AT&T.

My darling sister was kind enough to post for me yesterday, despite the anxiety blogging incites (she gets clammy and sweaty and starts river dancing). Please tell me she didn’t river dance…

Really she’s a great sport, I keep pushing her to join in the bloggy fun to no avail. She says she doesn’t have time. I say she’s a coward. So what if you don’t have time some nights to take a shower or brush your hair? So what if the laundry is amassing in frightening piles the children like to scale in their bare feet? So what if your dishes spend more time festering in the sink than plating actual food?

Not enough time? Not enough time? I scoff at time. Scoff! Scoff! A bunch of numbers all lined up in circle formation, what do they really mean?! It’s all relative, isn’t it?

Anyhow, thanks for sticking it out. Apparently her dancing was a hit, I might have to take some lessons, and maybe see if I can pick up some rhythm for cheap on Ebay.