TheMommyBlog

Wednesday, June 21, 2006 Our Holiday Curse, Haiku Smackdown, Family

On a scale of one to happy, I’d have to rate today a total fucking overload. I have residual blank stare and carpal tunnel pain from all those hours of working on the computer during live meetings across thee time zones. When you have muscular forearms like I do (the beach is *that* way) you’re constantly leaning on those muscles as you mouse and type. I have to watch that, because I don’t want to wind up like my mom (and grandfather), having to have carpal tunnel surgery.

On that topic, mom’s surgery went well on Monday, though not without the usual hiccups that seem to be part of our family tradition (for those who eschew the term “curse”); while taking out a segment of radius that healed poorly after a bad break twenty-five years ago, shaving it to a straight end, inserting a graft in its place, and screwing in a titanium plate to hold it all together, the surgeon’s screwdriver tip BROKE OFF and lodged in her wrist bone. They got it out (and all the shards, I hope), but since the screw was now stripped, they had to drill the screw in. If you know what that entails, please do not tell me.

She is at home and resting… no, she isn’t. That would be a normal person. She went to work for a couple of hours yesterday, and is there again all day today, interviewing candidates to replace her at the end of the year. I can understand her motivation, but good gravy, woman, REST! I’m a wreck thinking about you in a conference room all day, skimping on pain meds to stay alert.

All of which is a nice book-end to the start of Father’s Day weekend.

However, I always cheer up when I find things like what I’ve pasted into the extended entry. It’s an excerpt from the comments on a post in which I wrote a haiku nearly two and a half years ago. It started off a dog pile of ‘kus, sort of a tribute to the legendary Haiku Smackdowns and the very first one I hosted here. Kal in Scotland and Amber and Len in Belgium had a head start while I was still asleep. Somewhere, I have the transcript of the first time I hosted, when there was a brawl, someone got thrown out of the Smackdown, people left in protest, the server quit and we had to move it all to another place on the blog to keep it going, and everyone pretty much left my site looking like a smoking hole in the ground when it was all over.

If I find that I’ll post it; it must be somewhere with the rest of the Hall of Haiku archives. For those who are unfamiliar with the Smackdown, it was originally hosted by Chris of Rude Cactus, Amy of Amalah, and Colleen of… where did she go? I can’t find her anywhere! Anyway, the host would select up to a half-dozen really odd/creepy/funny pictures and post them at midnight on Wednesdays. All day Thursday the photos were the theme, and we’d show off our mad haiku skillz. Sometime if you were quick you could get one per minute up and hog a whole string of entries. Ah, good times. I’m sorry it faded away.

Monday, June 12, 2006 Our Holiday Curse, Family

How about, Where the hell have I been? That’s a good question. I’m not so sure myself.

Today I passed my trial by fire at work. I created configuration documentation for, designed new user interface for, and presented to a client the software my company makes. Woo doggies. I nearly fainted with relief and pride when the two-plus-hour call was over. Until I realized how much I still had to do to tidy up and bundle it off. Just think: one down, eleventy to go!

So I do apologize for the stale content (not as stale as my breath! *cymbals*) and lame linking around. Phil can attest to my zombie-like mien. He came by tonight long enough to listen to me yell at the kids for trying to kill one another while he grilled up some chicken we ate off paper plates in my kitchen. No, the dishwasher is not yet repaired. I even bought a stainless dish rack from Ikea. If that’s not sucking it up, I don’t know what is. I can’t wait for the 15th when the Maytag guy shows up. Not that I bought a Maytag, ohhh no. I have a top-of-the-line LG set. Which isn’t operational at the moment. More of life’s rich irony.

SPEAKING OF WHICH, is there a holiday coming up? Someone Famous’ Birthday? Lithuanian Plow Beating Day? Oh! Father’s Day? Well! It’s no wonder! My ex is going out of town for the weekend (so I get two weekends in a row, with a creamy week-long center) and the kids all have impetigo. Wait, that’s not completely accurate; the kids AND my ex all have impetigo. That’ll learn him to take it seriously. The trouble is, the kids are at that age where they can powder their own noses without help from Mommy, so Mommy doesn’t have much occasion to examine their nether regions. It wasn’t until my eldest called down the hall the other night, “MOM, I HAVE WARTS ON MY BUTT!” that I even clued in. I groaned inwardly. And outwardly.

*Organ music*

“Honey, those aren’t warts.”

“They aren’t?”

“It’s imetigo.”

“NO! NOT AGAIN!”

Exhibit A
Exhibit B
Exhibit C
Exhibit D
Exhibit Enough Already

I swear the stuff is like lice: no one child can have it without passing it to all the others. They just aren’t old enough to remember to wash their hands every time they touch something dirty, or clip their nails, or not scratch until they tear skin, or stop picking at a sore once it show up. As soon as I saw Logan’s, I went into military action.

“OK, listen up, everyone! We are no longer going to share towels. We will no longer share baths or clothing. Until Logan’s rash clears up, he will use my shower and a designated beach towel so no one will forget which one is his. We will wear undergarments at all times. We will strive to wear additional clothing over our undergarments. We will not scratch our bottoms, or anything else that itches or looks like a boo-boo, and we will bring any such boo-boos to the attention of the grownup in charge. We will not touch each other’s bottoms or boo-boos. No matter how funny it is, and it IS funny, we will not flash said boo-boos at one another or otherwise tempt someone into contact with our bottoms or boo-boos. Also? No kissing or sharing drinks. Period. You are accustomed to being at war with one another; this is no time for peace to break out. No kissing. I MEAN IT. And especially no sneaking sips out of my sodas. God knows I don’t need one of those blisters on my face while I’m on call to meet with clients.

“Oh, and another thing: no-parties-or-playdates-even-though-I-know-it’s-your-baseball-awards/first-visit-to-cafeteria/end-of-year-celebration.” I held my breath while mayhem ensued. “I’m very sorry, I really am, but we have to protect your friends. If we go to these events and we pass the rash to anyone else, no one will feel happy about it. Not the child, not the doctor, and certainly not the parent who has to schlep around to the clinic, the pharmacy, and keep the child at home. Not to mention the ordeal of having to administer three doses of vile antibiotics per day for ten days.” Oh, wait, that’s me.

About those antibiotics: SO not tasty. They can flavor it, but you have to quick, ask your child to decide between fifteen flavors, or else go with whatever the doctor called in. Everyone in this house hates the default bubble gum flavor. Logan wound up with cherry, which tastes like Blueberry Hill mixed with Kool-Aid powder. So far he’s only had three doses, but the first dose took twenty minutes to make it down the hatch and the second was spilled in the pre-swallow anxiety. The third was tossed back like a shot because Phil was there, watching.

I could ask him to suck it up, but when Dylan showed up with spots our regular doctor called it in and let me choose the flavor this time. I went for grape. Not only did Dylan get exactly what he wanted, but he got a different antibiotic which is only two doses daily for seven days. So that’s going over well.

*eyeroll*

To top it all off, Daphne has faint spots now too, so starting tomorrow we get to track multiple daily doses of three prescriptions of antibiotics for three children, all staggered over a two-week period. And there will be at least one house-change in there, complete with transport of all five bottles and ensuring the continual refrigeration of same.

Is anyone sorry I’ve started posting again? I freaking am. I’m depressing myself.

At any rate, I will be out at a Franklin Covey seminar all day Tuesday, so I won’t be around to breathlessly await your comments. That’s right! When you’re knee-deep in urgent deliverables, that’s the time to take an entire day off to learn to prioritize! Yes, sir!

*slumps over keyboard*

And with that, she swilled the last of her wine, popped an orange chocolate into her mouth, and shut down her many computers.

P.S. Apropos of nothing, there are photos of two of my friends with Pamela Anderson in the extended entry. Tahoe. Who knew?

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Monday, May 15, 2006 Our Holiday Curse, Family

First, an announcement:

We have friends, some of them teachers and computer professionals, who don’t believe in our Holiday Curse.

Thank you.

So yesterday was one loooong Mother’s Day wasn’t it? You know what I’m talking about, though no one usually says it out loud. We all dream of being pampered and some of us in fact are pampered on this day and we appreciate it—really—but secretly we wish it would just be Monday already so we can go back to mothering under normal circumstances.

My children have a highly developed sense of empathy and concern alternating with a deep vein of je ne se quois and whatever, dude. When we arrived home after the Fantasy Faire last night, I was limping from a blister and still a little weepy from limbic system overload. The kids asked why I was sad and I said, “I’m just very, very tired.”

Daphne took a long look at me and said, “You need a nap.”

“Yeah, mom, you should rest. You deserve it. Come on, guys, we should clean up so she doesn’t have to.”

“Yeah. Maybe we can make her some food and bring it to her.”

“Who are you and what have you done with my children?”

Daphne followed me into the bedroom and said, “Mama, I am very proud of you. When I was on that slide, and the air went out of it, and you climbed up and told me to jump and you caught me in your arms and I was so scared? I was very proud of you.”

And of course within minutes they needed snacks, help with baths, help with the TV, help not killing one another, help with a spill, a round of gin and tonics. But the thought was nice.

Mother’s Day is that kind of interlude writ large. It lasts all day! Starting at dawn! When they wake you to tell you it’s Mother’s Day! And there are surprises! That you can’t see yet! So don’t come in the kitchen even though we don’t know how to operate the coffee maker!

And, if you get up we will collapse into puddles of tears and woe because we wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but will never, ever actually verbalize it because that would be giving away the surprise that can’t happen anymore because it’s a surprise and you ruined it and now we can’t have the surprise and this is the WORST MOTHER’S DAY, EVER.

And you have to talk them out of it.

There are incredibly sweet moments, like when they bring out the treasures they’ve been making all week in school, the letters they wrote over and over to get it just right (“You can’t tell that I erased and re-wrote and erased and re-wrote, can you?”), the ten-pound fired clay picture frame that you hang from the overhead crystal cabinet next to last year’s fired clay hand print. This year, Logan went whole hog and made a fired-clay mask, complete with freckles pricked here and there, but the pieces holding the temples and the eye sockets together were fragile and the whole top crumbled. And then it was the WORST MOTHER’S DAY, EVER.

And you have to talk them out of it.

Phil prepared three meals for five, shopping for each one and actually turning on the BBQ and the stove for at least two of them. He spent all day making his grandmother’s spaghetti sauce and making artichokes for the second night in a row, this time just the way the kids like them. Not grilled, like the grownups liked them.

I prepared laundry for three and tried to keep the chaos to a minimum. We sat under the wisteria on the patio with coffee and the paper (me with Freakonomics) and tried to read just one measly paragraph without kissing boo boos or hearing he-did-this-but-she-started-it-and-i’m-not-ever-going-to-play-with-her-again. And ten seconds later they are dragging play table chairs up into the fort to play SpongeBob having a driving lesson with Mrs. Puff. Have you ever seen that episode? The one in which Mrs. Puff hits SpongeBob on the head with a plastic telescope and throws his chair down the slide and then he kicks her and throws her chair down the stairs? We saw it. Twice.

But of course I would take annoyance and frustration over fear and dread, but as it was a holiday, we had heaps of everything!

Dylan had been begging me to let him ride Logan’s old bike (it used to be Logan’s! Bike! but since he got a new one for his birthday last week it’s OLD). The seat’s too high and the handlebars are a stretch and it has hand brakes instead of the foot brakes he’s used to and his helmet? Well, he left it at Dad’s. So I said no. He pleaded. I said no. He whined. I said no. He finally called his dad and talked him into bringing him the helmet. Which he thrust triumphantly at me and asked, “NOW can I ride Logan’s bike?”

Sigh. “Stay on the sidewalk and practice the brakes and don’t go fast around the corner because people drive like maniacs down our street.”

Ten minutes later, just as we were settling back into cold coffee and newspapers, Logan appeared. “Dylan got killed.” Fuckwhaaa? He WHAT? Oh, he didn’t? THEN WHY would you say something like that? I shot Logan a dirty look and bolted out of my chair (“No! No! He just hit a car!”) to see my neighbor, the nurse, looking for Dylan. She explained that Dylan had been flying down the sidewalk on his bike just as her friend pulled out of her driveway in his pick-up truck. Dylan slammed into it, full tilt. She said that one minute he was lying there, and the next, he was gone.

I raced around to the front of the house, where neighbors were gathering and one of them waved me inside. “He’s in the house!” I found him in his bed, eyes wide and his quilt wrapped around him.

“Dylan, baby, I’m so glad you’re okay, can I see you? Are you hurt? Are you bleeding anywhere? Can you show me? Let’s take off this quilt and look all over. Is it just your chin that got banged?” There was a cherry tomato rising just under the point of his chin. There was also a welt across one cheek, but considering the impact it was a miracle nothing was broken. They showed me the divot in the truck’s fiberglass door runner and all I could picture was his little skull connecting with it.

“Come on, we’ll get you some Motrin (again!) and cuddle up.” He told me he tried to stop, he tried so hard but he just couldn’t and he crashed. “It’s not your fault, you came around a bend and he didn’t see you either and you were excited about riding a big bike. And I’m so proud of you for wearing your helmet. Did you hit the car with your head?” He nodded. “Then it’s a good thing I made you wait until you had it, huh?” He nodded, but I could tell he was still afraid he was in trouble and that it was all his fault.

So I talked him out of it.

Monday, May 15, 2006 Our Holiday Curse

I forgot to list this in the Holiday Curse Log:

Several weeks ago my mother fell down her stairs and broke four ribs and a wrist. I can’t even go into what that does to a woman who works two thousand miles from her home and was in the middle of selling one house and buying another.

Anywho, two days ago, she got rear-ended. Can you imagine this poor (undocumented) sap when my mother tottered out of her car hugging her side, wielding a hot-pink cast, with THAT LOOK on her face?

I would have thrown my wallet on the ground and run like the wind.

Friday, May 12, 2006 Our Holiday Curse, Bad Mood Dude

So after last night’s heart-stopping episode we were all looking forward to some fun and food and face-painting at the children’s school’s annual fundraising fair.

Yes, I can hear you laughing up there.

It was great through the first two cotton candies, the chicken sandwich, hamburger, hot dogs, dropped can of soda, torn bun, bumpy, lumpy, squealing roly-polies down the fifteen-foot, mega-inflatable slide. There was a little cake walking (Logan came away like a stunned Las Vegas loser—“Mom, I just used nine tickets on three turns and I didn’t win anything!”—a little jumper action, and then back to the slide.

Which collapsed. With my daughter and two other little girls on it. I looked up in slow motion as the slide lost air, as the upper landing sank into itself, as the last girl slid down and scrambled off the landing. “Is there anyone else up there?” A flash of bright pink and strawberry hair. Daphne. Crying. And sinking.

I chucked my clogs and thrust my soda can at a man standing there and clambered up the sagging platform and as I stepped onto the slide, the pull of my foot on the deflating structure increased the incline to oh, about perpendicular to the ground. Daphne was at the top and I could barely see her from her little pool of rising platform and when she saw me coming I yelled JUMP, JUMP TO ME, and she did and I caught her and then I was on the grass, holding her, legs wrapped tight around my waist, sobbing, sobbing together. Again.

The operator apologized over and over but she was just a mom volunteering and understood that all I cared about was that she was safe, and that she wasn’t too badly frightened. In fact, ten minutes later, she was lined up again, asking me for another ticket.

“Oh, I think they’ll let you on without a ticket this time.”

Friday, May 12, 2006 Our Holiday Curse, Bad Mood Dude, Family

Well, my night was exciting! If not restful! I wrote about it when the dust (or suds) settled, and it’s over at DotMoms.

On top of all the hoopla, Daphne pitched a one-hour fit at four a.m. about not wanting any of the other kids near me. I think it might have been night terrors.

I’m wiped, people.

Monday, October 31, 2005 Our Holiday Curse, Family

Two children. Two children. No matter how many times I count it doesn’t come up three. Everyone halting, moms herding. Dad one way, me the other. Thought he was with you. Thought he was with you. Already livid. But more scared. Taste of bile. So that’s what that is. Sour. Running. Scanning. Suddenly can see better. Filtering out all colors except red, green, yellow, black eye mask. Dylan. Dylan. Why is it always Dylan that gets separated, left behind? Dad says keep hitting houses, he’s with the other kids, he wouldn’t go far. I am sprinting down one block, two, three. Yelling, but softly. Don’t scare the kids. Once, I yell, “Robin!”

“Is Robin your son?” Across the street.

“Yes!”

“My wife is walking with him, trying to help him find his mommy.”

Hurried thanks, sprinting faster. I burst into tears. Two more blocks, can’t see anything. Fucking junipers. “Dylan!”

From far away, “Here!”

I run, he runs. We meet on the sidewalk, me skidding to my knees. Wife comes to me and says she knew we’d find him. When she asked him where he lived, he said, “I have two houses.” She was going to call next. Good luck dialing “Eight-seven-i-ah-poo-whatever.” Suddenly horrified that I thought that was funny and didn’t make him memorize our number on the spot.

“Dylan, I couldn’t find you.” Sobbing, the moms understand.

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” But I will never take my eyes off you ever again no matter how many parents are there.

Daphne crying for me when we find the boys. Other mom is holding her, but just barely. “She got scared.” Pause. “I guess you’ll be typing tonight.”

“No. Too hot.” But now it’s too hot to keep in. Little arms tight around my neck.

Cell phone. Back pocket. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t live here. This is your neighborhood. You tell me. Or come to us.” He’s pissed too, hears it in my voice. Holding Dylan, walking until we find him. No eye contact. I am livid. Sweating. My shirt stinks. Smells like fear. It’s not nice.

Daphne clinging to me, boys in haunted house. I cant stand not knowing where they are in there. It’s huge. Daphne’s hiding in my shoulder. “Want to go home, baby?” She nods.

“I’m going to take Daphne home. Boys, do you want to stay?” They do.

“I’ll walk with them and drop them off later.”

“I’m going home to throw up.” No eye contact.

At home, the doorbell rings and Daphne runs to open it in her underwear. Ten neighborhood kids, including four from directly across the street. We have no candy. Weren’t going to be here. The kids don’t understand. I am sorry. Moms gently lead them away. I am sorry.

Phone again. He’ll bring the boys in the morning. No eye contact.

Tuesday, February 15, 2005 Our Holiday Curse

I fixed the car today. With a pair of scissors.

Monday, February 14, 2005 Our Holiday Curse

You may have heard that our family has a curse. A holiday curse. Someone always gets injured, or has some mishap, or suffers a setback on or around almost every major holiday. For more background, see Exhibit A. In fact, I made a whole category for it.

As if today wasn’t enough of a challenge emotionally, what with sitting through a two-hour powwow with the child psychologist, but my ungrateful, middle-aged, passive-aggressive, been-in-six-accidents-but-is-better-built-for-it Volvo decied to pull a fast one.

I was chatting with a friend as I drove to the school and pulled into the parking lot to pick up the kids. I put the car in park, finished the call, and tried to take the keys out of the ignition.

No go.

This had happened just once before, but a series of taps and prayers and threats turned it loose and I forgot about it for a while. This time, there was NO give. The button on the gearshift that allows you to switch gears was stuck. Effectively, I could shift between Park, Reverse, Neutral, Drive, Second, and First with a fluid flick of the wrist. And I could not get my keys out.

So I did what any sane parent would do: I set the parking brake and went to get the kids anyway, deflecting well wishes for a fun, romantic evening, gathered book bags, art, and clothing, and scooted.

At home, I faced a tumbly, tangly, mess of a garage, but I knew that I had to put the car inside or anyone could just hop in and drive off. It’s still a nice car.

I shooed the kids inside, told Gil what had happened, and set about clearing out the garage (are you paying attention, Len and Amber? Sound familiar?). I moved strollers, Flintstone cars, art storage boxes, Xmas decorations, the hose trolly, a tent, several sleeping bags, the back seat of the Expedition (don’t ask), seventeen thousand articles of clothing waiting to be washed (none of them socks at least), and a pair of hockey sticks. Anything I couldn’t lift I kicked repeatedly until I cleared enough space for me to pull the car in.

Technically, I could go on like this forever, since I park in a secure garage and can now lock it inside at night. But wtf, people? Why today?

Because it’s a holiday, and such is our fate.

Wednesday, September 01, 2004 Our Holiday Curse

Thank you sooo much for your kind comments and emails and phone calls!! I am feeling SO MUCH better that I might go out and hug my local pharma rep. God bless modern medicine.

As an aside, another member of my immediate family landed in the same emergency room I was in, two nights later, with a similar complaint and was given a similar course of medication. That, plus my mother’s apartment in Gary, IN, losing all water for several days definitely constitutes the fulfilment of our family’s Holiday Curse for the Labor Day weekend. That doesn’t mean we will be relaxing; there are still several days before Monday, and we will remain vigilant.

At any rate, I am back at work, and upright, and even feeling on the chipper side. As for posts for you all, well, I got nothing. Truly sorry. Maybe later on.

Saturday, August 28, 2004 Me, Me, Me, Our Holiday Curse

I hate when people make astute observations about me and are always right. Someone called me Rollercoaster Girl the other day and I was spitting with indignation (actually I think I just told him to bite me). I like to think I am fairly low-maintenance (now hold on there hoss, I don’t mean to say that life flows smoothly for me, but I do look after myself so that others don’t have to) and the comparison to a carnival ride, though flattering, seemed like one I should work to avoid.

So. Back to today. Still feeling awful, but having committed to a half day of volunteer work at one of our grantees, I doped up against the achiness and carried on. By noon I was losing it, and by two I was limp on my office couch. By four I was in the car going home, and by five I’d been told be two doctors to get my ass seen, stat.

So, I put my work-and-juice stained shirt and shorts back on, duly noted the difficulty I had turning my head, sitting up, moving my legs, and holding my head upright, and drove myself to the emergency room. Which is exactly what every parent of three does who has the relative luxury of leaving the kids home with the other parent.

Tuesday, August 24, 2004 Me, Me, Me, Our Holiday Curse

Up in the night with fever and chills, and just chugged half a bottle of children’s Motrin. If you are a parent, push back your keyboard tray, find your children, and beseech them for forgiveness for ever making them drink that vile potion. I had to chug an entire can of Diet Coke to wash away the taste, which felt just a little too Old School to me.

Anyway, I really needed to know what was wrong with me, so I headed over to Dr. Northfield’s for a diagnosis. I am so totally not surprised.

Thursday, July 01, 2004 Our Holiday Curse, Family

Ever have one of those moments when you envision future doom and think to yourself, “Please don’t let it happen to the children!” Well, I had one of those pleas come true tonight.

Just after I put up that last, warm, fuzzy post, I rearranged my sleeping children and wandered into the bath to let the water out of the tub. I scooted the shower door over a bit so I could pull the plug, and BAM ~ CRASH ~ BAM ~ SHIT ~ SHATTER ~ HUH ~ TINKLE ~ SHATTER ~ SHATTER ~ SHATTER the shower doors came crashing down into the tub and freaking blew up all over the bathroom.

Sunday, May 30, 2004 Our Holiday Curse

Our family has a curse. We don’t shape-shift, or drink blood, or even sell Amway (shudder), but it is puzzling and bizarre and eerily predictable. Someone in our family always gets injured on a holiday.

We can’t explain it. We can’t avoid it. And whenever we think we’ve skated, we usually find out later that someone, somehow got hurt. This year is a little unusual, however, because there seems to be a 12-hour swing now on either side of the holiday. For instance, Gil is at the emergency room right now, but it won’t be Memorial Day for another 9 hours. Go figure.

I’ve sketched a recap of the last few years. I know there were more incidents than the ones I’ve listed, but I will have to check with mom to remember correctly…