Mom to the Screaming Masses

What do you eat for breakfast?

I'll admit it, I'm not a good breakfast eater.  Not even close.  Sure, I talk the talk about how important it is to my kids, and THEY all eat good breakfasts.  Hot ones, even, most days.

Me, I'm just not there.  Occasionally, I'll grab a piece of fruit or swipe a spoonfull of organic peanut butter, if I'm famished.  Most often I can be seen sucking down an Iced Quad Venti non fat sugar free vanilla latte - four shots of espresso is all that I need to get me going.

But I go through phases, and every so often I decide that I'm going to cook breakfast for myself.  I've almost deciphered Starbucks Holliday Gingerbread loaf and made my own version of it.  It's lower in fat and whole wheat.  I did some playing around today with another recipe and was pretty happy with what occurred.  I might even eat some in the morning.

Bad Dreams

Last night, or to be more correct, at 4:13 this morning, I heard Emma crying from downstairs.  I stumbled out of bed and started down the steps, and she met me on her way up.  She was crying and calling to me, "I had a bad dream!"  I sat down on the steps and pulled her onto my lap, and asked her what happened.  She said that in her dream, Gabriel hit her with a shovel.

That's a bad dream.

I had a nightmare earlier this week, the kind that shocks you wide awake, heart pounding hard enough to jump out of your chest, cotton mouthed and wide eyed.  I dreamt that I was invited to lunch with a couple that we know, and I took my children over to their house.  While I was visiting, the husband invited my children to go swimming.  I declined, as we had no bathing suits with us.  He lead me to a dresser filled with clothes, in sizes that would fit each of my kids.

Somehow, I didn't think that this was odd and I cheerfully grabbed a suit for my smaller children.  The next part of the dream I lost, but the following part is clear in my mind.  I dreamt that I was laying on the sofa, and he came up behind me to lay down as well.  He made a suggestive comment, and I turned him down. (Yay, go me.  At least I had SOME sense in this dream!  As well as, WTF?  because this man would NEVER, EVER do anything of the kind.  EVER.)  I said something about his wife, at which point he said to me, "Don't worry about her. I'll take care of her," and he got up and walked away, grabbing an axe as he went past it. 

???

In my dream, I knew what was up and I jumped off the couch.  I ran as fast as I could to the back yard, with the only thought of getting my children and getting out of there.  As I ran, I realized that the reason he had clothes for my children was that he was planning to kill his wife and my husband.  (How on earth did I know this?)   I grabbed my big kids, screamed as loud as I could for them to get the small kids and we ran to the front of the house.  All the time I could hear the chopping noises. We jumped in the van and I cranked the key.  It wouldn't start, and as I looked up in panic, the man came out of the house with the bloody axe.

OH.MY.

It was the worst dream I've EVER had - I literally couldn't breath when I woke and was completely unable to go back to sleep.  To make matters worse, I see this man at least twice a week.  I'm having a hard time even looking him in the eyes, and he's done nothing wrong.  Neither have I. What in the hell do you think this means?

I think it means I am a certifiable freakazoid.

What is the worst dream you've ever had?

I read something over at Cooking with Whine  that really got me thinking today.  In part, she said:

Here in Southeastern Michigan, it's not expected to get above freezing all week. Christmas is long gone, Valentine's Day is a couple of weeks away, and I feel like I'm trudging, literally and figuratively, through a freezing expanse of gray and white. I've been keeping my depression pretty well at bay, but I can hear its rasping breath like a wolf at the door. It's time to ramp up what I like to call the "militant self-care:" extra servings of kindness to myself and those around me, keeping my environment neat and comfortable, remembering to pray instead of bitch, and feeding myself well. I have slipped off the diet bandwagon, and I can feel it emotionally as well as physically. When you treat yourself as if you are not worthy of good care, you quickly come to believe it. The reverse is also true. If you treat yourself like a precious child, you will remember that, of course, you are.

Ei-yi-yi.  Also, and yes.

I haven't really slipped off the diet bandwagon, although I've been a bit more free with the choices one or two days a week.  I'm still exercising, most days, but I've dropped the intensity a bit.  For example, I did 40 minutes on the treadmill, 30 pushups and the ab dvd.  But I did nothing Saturday or Sunday. 

Mission Monday

Well, here it is Monday again.  WHERE did this weekend go?  I did fifty million things, completed almost none of them, and started fun jobs called "yearly taxes" and "financial aid packages" and the ever popular, "clean out the house of all junk" purge.  I grocery shopped, discovered that Gabe needs new school shoes and Nik needs a new dress shirt, and went out to lunch with my mother.  I cleaned my house from top to bottom, did laundry, and blah, blah, blah.  The same stuff that all of us did all weekend, I'm certain.  I was also serveda  fresh side of attitude, hot off the presses, several times by my children.  THAT was undoubtedly the best part of my weekend.  I only wish I knew as much as they do.

But, today is The Hubster's birthday, and we are going to have cake for breakfast, so, all can't be bad, right?  I made him a Pink Panther cake - chosen by Emma - and I think, served with milk, it'll make a fine breakfast.

Today's Mission is easy.  (I KNOW - I can hear your sighs of relief all the way over here - I've really given you all some hard ones, eh?)

Work and work and more work

I completed my first week of work.  Holy crud, was I tired at the end of the week.  3.5 hours a day doesn't seem like much, but it really wiped me out.  Lifting pots and trays, carrying heavy things, and me in what I THOUGHT was fairly good shape.  Ahem.  I have much work to do.  But I made it through and, God willing, that was the worst part, right?  Someone tell me I'm right.

Over at The Amazing Shrinking Mom, Mel reminded me that like it or not, summer's coming.  I'm not a huge fan of summer, although I LOVE not having to put coats on people and running out to an icy van.  Which, surprise, surprise! now has a broken heater switch.  I'm also not a huge fan of summer, especially since I have a hotter than normal thermostat and sweat like a pig from the time the thermometer touches 75 on.  What I love about summer is the ability to wear short sleeves, or sleeveless shirts.  I love being able to hop out the door and jump into the van with no preparation.  And this time of year, I day dream about that.

This year will be the first in a long time that I'm not going to hide from people in my bathing suit.  Not to say that I'll strut my stuff, but I can honestly say that this is the first year in forever that I will go to pool parties and swim.  Not be the mom who is in the kitchen on purpose, hiding out from everyone.

Jenny's got a great post up over at Big Slice talking about body image, talking about how to tell her daughters about growing old.  This part really struck me:   If I don't tell them that gravity and age and pregnancy and partying and lack of exercise will haul their bodies in unflattering directions, will they just assume that I became fat by magic?   

Ouch. And, right on.

How did your mom tell you about weight and exercise and the importance thereof?  Did she even mention it?  Were weight and body image topics of import in your family growing up, or were they discussions undiscussed?  What do you do with your children, or will you do if you had them?  What do you wish had been said to you?  Anything?  Nothing? 

I've tried to spend the past year telling my kids, especially my girls, that I'm exercising to be in shape and to be healthy, but I'm afraid that my oldest daughter has seen through me.  She asks me how much more weight I'm going to lose and what size I want to be, and what size I was.  The answers to those questions are very important to me, and yet I don't want them to be important at all to her.  I don't want her to turn out like me.  I tell her that I want to be strong and muscled and healthy.  All true answers, and yet I'm lying through my teeth not to say that I'd love to be smaller all over.

As hard as I try not to, I'm concerned about how I'll look on the cruise next month.  Totally vain, that's me.  How have you been able to work past it?

Flashback

Driving around a couple of days ago, I turned on the satellite radio that's in The Hubster's work car.  I dialed in Sirius 8, the 80's channel.  The deejay for the hour was Nina Blackwood - remember her?  The first veejay for MTV?  Remember when MTV premiered?  We didn't have cable and I wasn't allowed to watch it, but I remember being WILD with envy that my friends saw it. 

To the best of my recollection, Nina sounded the same.  (Well, you know, I wasn't ALLOWED to watch it, but that didn't mean that I didn't sneak it at other people's houses, or while I was babysitting...)  She sounded exactly the same.  I was pondering on that while thinking about the pictures of myself that I posted earlier in this week.  I was really surprised to see my face - I have LINES on my face.  Honest to God Lines. I didn't know that.  When did I get lines? 

I received an email this week informing me that this summer will be my 20th high school anniversary.  How is that possible?  When did that happen?  About the same time as the lines on my face, I'm thinking.

Remember what a big deal it was to see the music video for Thriller?  Oh, wait, I think that was only me....

An exhibitionist and a funny

Or an exhibitionist that was funny.

Today, as I was driving the kids to school, I passed a house that I pass every day.  As I turned the corner, I looked towards the house and saw the owner, a man that I do not know, walking out to get his paper.  He was a tall man, with a "flashback to the 70's" style.  He had a huge black afro, a blingy bling gold chain, and he was wearing a white bathrobe.  A bathrobe, loosely belted around the waist.  Loosely belted.  With nothing else on underneath. 

And by loosely, I REALLY mean almost non belted.  What an eye opener, way too early in the morning.

The Hubster joked that maybe he and his wife were swingers and he was inviting us.  Hmmmmm.

Tired+fatigued=me

Well. I'm obviously way out of the work gig.

I'm beat. 

I'm sure I'll get the hang of this in, oh, about 17 days or months or years or so.

The great news is that the girls did SUPER at the care, and cried when they had to leave.  I wasn't planning to take them tomorrow, as The Hubster is off work, but Emma cried (again!) when I put her to bed, because, as she said, she's sooooo SAD that she can't go back to school.  AND!  As a bonus, Riley was asleep by 6:30, and Emma by 6:45.  Sweet.

So, yeah, I think it worked out.

Mission Monday: time to have a schedule?

Well, this is the day.  The day that I've worked all week to get to.  (I know, I shouldn't end the sentence with a preposition - bonus points if you reword that sentence for me, 'kay?)

I have been fingerprinted:  gotten the image to mail in for my FBI background check: 

Yes, those are pics of me with no makeup on, online for the entire world to see.  That's what I look like on most days, and it was raining that day with blowing winds, and I didn't check my hair before the picture was taken. 

I have had my tuberculosis test done, updated my sexual predator testing, and secured positions for the little girls for the day care.  I've talked with one of the ladies who works there - who reads here, so hi! - and feel reasonably comfy about that.

I start my job tomorrow.  I've created a schedule for myself that, if adhered to faithfully, will allow me to work out every day and still get my housework and writing done.   (Never fear, though, as my track record for schedules is such that I will burn out in a week.  I'll be sure to post my failures here.)

Tonight I made a pot of sauce, a tray of lasagna, 4 dozen muffins and cut up fruit, so that I could be ahead of the game for the week.  All but five muffins and two pieces of lasagna are gone.  I packed 8 lunches for tomorrow and one extra book bag:

Alas and alack, my new lunch boxes are not here.  I'm hoping that tomorrow will be the day for them.  Aren't they cute?  I really didn't want to spend a bunch of money, but I wanted something special for my new to me job. 

BUT!  I did not forget that I have to leave a MIssion for you for today.   

A single moment of peace

I bought Emma and Riley dress up costumes today.  I had to, I couldn't resist - even though I'm (technically) on fiscal probation due to my purchase of a Le Creuset stock pan.  Hey, I've only got one stock pan, and I needed another, and I took it out of my ad money, and...

Oh, never mind.  We both agreed to curb the spending, so there you go.  With a boundary like that, you know I couldn't wait to fold.  I'm all about pushing the boundaries.

While at Wal-Mart, picking up three boxes of Claritin RediTabs and one box of Delysm (the best cough syrup evah, especially if you double dose it, ahem) and being carded AGAIN, I saw the cutest fairy costumes.  So I bought them. 

Riley loved Emma's, of course, and so did Emma.  The Hubster solved that by taking only Emma back to the store and exchanging Riley's for one that Emma would like, and giving Emma's costume to Riley.  That solved the struggle for, oh, twelve seconds.They agreed to swap off and played dress up for the rest of the morning.  Witness the picture below as an example:

Don't they look happy? That was IT for the happiness for Riley.  After that picture, the bottom of the world fell out for Riley and she spent most of the rest of the day tantrumming and crying for one reason or another.  She didn't like her dress, she didn't want Emma to talk, she wanted to watch The Backyardigans, not enough milk, too much grapes, not that plate, yadda yadda.  The clincher was when the phone rang, in mid tantrum, as she was screaming her brains out while restrained on my lap.  Because I am nothing if not stupid, I answered the phone and treated the caller to ear piercing shrieks.  It was a brief call.