TheMommyBlog

Saturday, February 26, 2005 Me, Me, Me

We told them this morning and Logan was the only one who paid any attention. He is naturally full of questions about anything and everything so I think we will be able to get through this with a good understanding.

I took down the last two posts because he asked me to keep this to a minimum. We have progress and we have momentum, and that is what matters, that and keeping the kids happy.

And with that, I’m off to finish emptying my cupboards. The ants are nesting in the dishwasher. I mean NESTING. I opened it up this morning to empty it and there were thousands of them, carrying in their larvae. I thankyew.

The Orkin man is here, Gil has taken Logan and Daphne to breakfast, Dylan is vegging on the couch, and I’m going to go pour myself a cup of coffee.

Friday, February 25, 2005 Me, Me, Me

He’s trying to talk me out of it. Tonight. TO.NIGHT. The night before.

I spent three hours making the kids’ beds at his place and making it nice and getting the nest ready and hurt my arm and my back and my neck moving furniture and putting linens on a bunk bed, and he’s trying to talk me out of it. Like a last-chance sale. I am sobbing my heart out and can’t breathe. I locked myself in my room and can’t let the children see me like this. Their mother is a mess. What am I paying for? What have I done?

The guy who delivered Gil’s new bed to the house said God had his hand on me today. Why did he say that?

I don’t know that I have every felt so hurt and alone and shitty in my life. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

P.S. Sorry for the confusion. (What? Me? Have trouble making myself clear?) Um, that would be the whole deal. No divorce. I nearly fell asleep on the garage floor, holding a load of laundry and resting my head on it in the open dryer door. Exhausted and wrenched.

/The Management

Friday, February 25, 2005 Me, Me, Me

Gil has asked to wait until next week. There’s no rush, he says.

I tripped over the dog leashed out front on my way to the car this morning.

I played this song over and over in the car on the way to work today. (Can’t figure how to upload it. Zeno?)

Thats all.

Update: After much heated discussion, it may still be on for tonight or tomorrow, so I will be busily fixing up their room today in case they want to go see it!

Thursday, February 24, 2005 Me, Me, Me

It’s bad enough to have so much stress in one’s life. It’s bad enough to be infested with rats and ants. It’s bad enough that my children are bent on total mutual annihilation. But now I can’t even get my mail delivered.

We have a dog. A nice dog. I like to think of her as Gil’s dog, mostly because I have never been able to teach her any kind of obedience when Daddy lets her run free and doesn’t make her wear a collar or a leash or heel or shut up or stay or anything that might make living with an 80-pound lab mix easier.

Over the seven years we have lived here, she has been picked up by well-meaning strangers at least a half dozen times because they assume a roaming dog with no tags is a stray. I have actually run out of the house and talked people into letting her out of their cars while explaining that she sometimes, um, wanders the neighborhood. Once she ran to Safeway two blocks down and lived with a woman for 24 hours before the woman thought to call the pound.

I HATE when she’s allowed to do that.

She is sweet, mild, wouldn’t hurt a fly, but she is big and black and has a terrifying bark. It took a few years to convince my spouse to at least leash her when she is out front, so that the people walking with kids or dogs aren’t greeted too enthusiastically. After a while, I noticed that people altered their routes to avoid our house, which is on a busy corner. I felt like such a jerk but I could not stop the dog-letting-out.

Recently, I have been coming home to an empty mailbox. Sometimes I came home to a mailbox with love notes on the envelopes. Not every week, but often enough so that the marker scrawl across the biggest item becomes ever firmer and more emphatic “DOG OUT, 2:35 PM.”

And it’s not just the mailman that’s pissed. There is one particular gentleman who is afraid of dogs and has pounded on my door and screamed obscenities at me with my frightened children clinging to my legs. And all I could say was, “I completely agree with you, sir. She shouldn’t be out. And I am very, very sorry.”

I pleaded and bitched and yelled and fumed, but could only persuade my husband that it was not ok to have her roaming the neighborhood (there is a leash law) but he sees nothing wrong with having her leashed up in front. The entire neighborhood knows she belongs to us, and she barks at everyone going by, and plus—stay with me here—her leash anchor is right next to the mailbox. Jesus gay, how are you supposed to get around that? And NO, it is not enough to call the post office and insist she is friendly.

So, tonight was the last straw. I received a notice from the Post Office that stated that as an animal interfered with the delivery of yesterday’s mail, all mail would be held at the post office. If it is not claimed in 10 days, it will be returned to sender. Incidentally, that official letter was the only thing in the mailbox when I got home.

Ten minutes ago, I laid it out: the dog will not be out front ever again, leashed or unleashed. We have a lovely back yard that is fenced and safe. And when he goes, she goes. He’ll have to work that out with his landlord. This landlord says no. I need my Pottery Barn catalogs.

Thursday, February 24, 2005 Family

Had a long debate about how much missed snuggle time is owed to Logan. Daphne gets me all night, Dylan comes in very early, and so Logan gets ripped off. I explained that he had me all to himself for 27 months before Dylan, and 45 months before Daphne. So, almost 1,400 days. Even if you calculate the days after Dylan as half-time, you still get 1,080. So I don’t know what he’s complaining about. Somehow, he still feels cheated.

Logan loses his belt every.morning. And he wants me to find it. “Keep looking, Logan.” “You ALWAYS want me to keep looking!” “Yes, I do.”

My two youngest now ask my permission before going to the bathroom at home. The preschool has really drilled that into them. Sometimes, Daphne insists I take her there. Sometimes, I talk one of the boys into doing it.

Dylan knows how to piss me off. If I am on the phone or busy with one of the other thirteen children, he will climb up on my bed and jump up and down on my laptop. I don’t think he’ll do it again after last night.

If a neighbor’s child comes by to play, I practically scoop him up and shuffle the parent out the door. “I’ll even feed him! Take your time!” Because suddenly? Whoosh. The kids all disappear. Sometimes into places they usually won’t go, like the back yard, with all those glorious double-paned French doors muffling the sounds.

The downside is that it’s hard to keep track of how many desserts have been finagled out of me. “No, you had a popsicle AND sherbet. That’s enough.” “No, that was Travis!” “No! I only had one!” Well, one is STILL plenty!” “No fair! “No kidding!”

More as I think of them…