Mom to the Screaming Masses

Answer me this

Shamelessly stolen from the most gorgeous and talented Sarah...

My answers under the fold, with explanations as necessary.

1) What is the last movie you saw in a theater? Was it good?

2) What is your favorite tv show?

3) What is the last album you bought (or stole from the internet, or burned from a friend) that you loved?*

4) If you were in charge of People Magazine’s Sexiest Person Alive, who would win?

5) Who is your favorite artist? (Like art artist)

6) What is your favorite musical/opera/play?

7) What do you think is the worst song ever recorded?

The meeting that I was dreading

This week I took Riley for a checkup with the neuro developmental pediatrician.  We had to do this to see if she was going to be able to attend preschool in the fall.  Her current teachers have no trouble with her - we have plenty at home, but the principal of the school, a wonderful woman who I greatly admire, requested that I have her seen and have the doctor write his recommendations.

Whoa, that was a long sentence, but I think that you get the idea.

We drove to the therapy building, and she looked out the window with interest.  She didn't remember our thrice weekly visits, she didn't remember the office at all.  I guess that's good?   She was very comfortable with the testing, although timid and hesitant at first.  She still struggles with dealing with new people.  She stacked small blocks, demonstrated the concepts of "above", "below", "In front of" and "behind".  She tossed a ball, she caught a ball, stood on one foot and demonstrated her pincer grasp with both hands.  She drew a line, cut out a square drawn on paper, identified fish and dogs and I don't know what all else. 

I spent most of my time talking with the doctor, answering his questions and telling him our experiences. I told him that every day, we do fine motor skills - either cutting, coloring, play doh or sticker work, stringing beads or mushing gooey junk - gross motor skills and social skill work.  She plays with sand every day, an area of ginormous trouble at the start of the sessions.  We work on mouth skills - blowing bubbles and speaking nonsense words and other stuff. 

At the end, his findings were such:

My Policy on My Writing

Last week, when I posted that I had reached my 1,000th post, lots of you left great comments for me.  Thank you so much; I really appreciate each and every one.  I am a HUGE comment lover, the more the merrier. 

One refrain was repeated over and over.  Almost 100% of you spoke of your love for my "plain talk" - the policy I have to tell it like it is, all the time.  I'm that way in real life too, at least I've been told. It's gotten me into trouble more times than I like to think about - in fact, I'm squirming in my seat right now.

See, I think of it as a service to other mothers.  Who really wants to hear the stories of how wonderful little Jimmy is, how precious darling Marley can be, and how overwhelmingly wonderful and absolutely perfect their children are? 

Well, except my own kids, because we all know how perfect THEY are. 

I hope by sharing a bit of the frustrations, a bit of the challenges, a taste of the struggles that I face, you all can take heart and know that you aren't alone.  I often have to remind myself to never compare my INSIDES to someone else's OUTSIDES and this blog is my way of opening up my INSIDES to all of you.  Does that even make sense?  Lots of people tell me that I seem to have it together, to make raising a larger than normal sized family appear effortless, and that they feel inadequate and ashamed that they struggle with a fewer number of children. 

Huh?

My blog, and the way I write on it, are how I show everyone that I CAN'T do it all, that my kids are just as obnoxious and loud and outspoken and prone to temper fits and bad moods as everyone else's kids.  That I lose my car keys and dream of naps and fall behind on the laundry at an astounding pace. That I often feel like making sandwiches five nights in a row and hope that the multi vitamins I force down their throats will fill in the gaps.  That I fight with my husband and make up with him daily, weekly and monthly, and I struggle with surly office workers, recalcitrant clerks and know it alls in my life just the same as you. 

I hope that I succeed with this, at least once in a while. It is sometimes hard for me, though, because I've become aware in the past year that my blog is not really mine - that, often, people use it as a way to place their own emphasis and twists on what I say.  I've been outed more than a half a dozen times, which smarts.  My blog is no longer my place to vent about people, situations or concepts - because, more than likely, those people who are affected are reading here and many of those people like to put a, shall we say, different slant on things than I do. It definitely crimps me somewhat, that's for sure. Occasionally, I really want to write about something and I know that I can't, which stinks. 

If all else fails, at least I can make you laugh, eh? 

And I know that, no matter what, we are all in this together.  Warts and all, we are all in this together.  Doesn't that make you feel AWESOME??

Wrong Number

The Hubster called our house the other day. 

Ring, ring.

"Personal Touch Services, how can I help you?"

He smiled, thinking I was playing a joke on him.  "Hey, I like that." "Oh, I'm glad!"  she replied.    Maybe you can give me a little personal touch when I get home tonight, hmm?"  he asked.  And then he stopped to think about exactly what was going on. 

"Um, can I speak to Carmen?"  he asked. 

"Hold on a second - let me check - nope, we don't have any girls named Carmen here."

He'd called the wrong number.  One digit off.  And one digit the other way is the local big time religious counseling service. 

Black Beans and Rice

My boss is from Columbia, and she's a FANTASTIC cook.  Recently, she brought in some black beans and they were superb. She shared her recipe (below the fold) and I made them and brought them for my own lunch one day.  I ate them between shifts, devouring their warmth and spiciness.  I'd mixed them with brown rice and chopped tomatoes and it was SOOO good.

Later that day, we had a delivery of goods.

i try to be friendly to all of the delivery people and this guy was new, so I made an extra special attempt.  When he came in with the first palate, I smiled widely and said, "Hi, how are you?"  He looked at me kind of oddly, but nodded and continued on with his work.  Each time he came in, he looked at me and I smiled back.  "Wow,"  I thought to myself.  "I must be looking good today.  He keeps checking me out."  Indeed he was - we exchanged glances and smiles more than a few times.  It is good for me to feel like I'm able to look good to other guys - at least I think so.  It's certainly a new experience for me.  It's taken some getting used to, this new body I've earned, and I must admit that times like this have been really good for my ego.

The last trip through, I smiled and wished him a good weekend.

He kind of shot me a strange look - I must have been the only friendly person he'd seen all day, I thought.

Until I went to my van and glanced at myself in the mirror, and saw that my top teeth, up near the gumline, were covered in great big pieces of black beans.

I looked like my teeth were rotting out of my head. I am soooo swift.

Anatomy of a (failed) nap

Thanks to a very late, waste of time evening - we went to a comedy club and it was AWFUL, seriously, why do people equate HUMOR with FILTH, I'd love to have those four hours of my life back, and my GOD, what is up with the smoking? - and a very early, hey, let's get up and wake Mom up and go to EARLY mass - I was really tired this afternoon and thought I'd grab a nap.  Let's evaluate that process and see if it was a good idea, or a not so good idea.

Ah, bliss. I lay down in my comfy bed and pull the covers up.  After warning the kids, bribing the kids, and putting on a movie, I anticipated at least 30 minutes of quiet.  I closed my eyes and almost immediately felt myself sliding towards Nirvana.

"Mom?  Can I lay down with you?"  No.  Go to your own bed.  The door closed behind that child, and I turned over.  "Mom?  Can I come out of my room if I promise to be good?" Said child had been punished for a smart mouth.  I mumbled something along the lines of I don't care, don't bother me, don't be loud and close the door on your way out, and pulled the covers over my head.

I heard the phone ring.  I ignored it.  I heard Riley crying - what else is new.  I ignored it and drifted off.

Crash!  What sounded like a stack of dishes hit the floor, and I woke, a drooling mess, with a start.  A glance at the clock revealed 12 minutes of sleep.  I heard furious arguing over WHAT had HAPPENED and WHO was AT FAULT, but no one called for me and I closed my eyes.  Surely they could take care of it, I thought. I heard Riley laughing uproariously and Emma counting as she climbed up the steps. 

ACHOO!  ACHOO!  AAACCCHHHHOOOOO! My oldest has a cold, apparently right outside the door.  I gritted my teeth and pulled the covers over my face completely, allowing a small hole for air.  Snatches of music from High School Musical II from my constantly singing daughter wafted through the door - I surmised that she was laying RIGHT outside my door, a suspicion that I confirmed when I heard her scream when another child tripped over her on the way to ask me if she could eat a cupcake. 
Riley was crying - either still or again, and then almost immediately, I heard her feet running on the hard wood floor and she was laughing hysterically.  The phone rang, and my kids competed for the privilege of answering the call. 

Two voices clamored to be heard over one another - Press A, and the droid will vanish - no, dummy, I have to be PK4 or if I'm not, I'm going to die (Nintendo DS Star Wars of some version, I think).  A request came through the door - "Mom?  Are you up?  I need the iron.  Mom? Aren't you ever getting up?"

I guess 12 minutes is better than nothing.  I'll take what I can get and go to bed early tonight.  At least maybe it'll be quiet.

Just Three Words

In the newspaper, there has been an ongoing biography section, profiling Great Black Persons in history.  Each one is titled with three descriptive words.  This week, one guy had a really varied assortment of words - Slave, Dentist, Politician.  I couldn't think of three less similar words.

So I started thinking about what three words I'd use to describe myself.  At one time, the words would have been advocate (for breast feeding, natural childbirth or large families, among other things), militant, baker, dancer - the list goes on and on.  I've done a million things.

Right now, today, I'd say mother, exercise enthusiast and writer.

What about you?

In which my daughter worries for nothing

Last week, The Hubster and I were invited out to a bar with some of his work friends.  We went and had a blast - our usual MO is to go to a restaurant, where we sit and talk, so going to a crowded bar and standing around with drinks was WAY different than usual.  It was a blast.  The only thing that would have been better would be if there was lots of dancing to go with the loud music.

The next morning, my daughter told me, "Grandpa called last night." 

"Ok,"  I said. "I'll call him later."

"MOM!  I had to tell him that you were at a BAR. He was SMOKED about it, too!  He couldn't believe that you were at a BAR!"  Now, I happen to know my dad - duh! - and this would be the furthest thing from the truth.  Certainly he was playing with her.  "I can't believe that I had to tell YOUR dad that you were hanging out at a bar!  I was so embarrassed for you!"

Let's review, shall we?  I am 38 years old.  I've been legal for 17 years.  I have six kids, and the very nature of THAT equation means that I don't get out too often.  I work early in the morning, write late at night,  exercise like a demon, and get up at the butt crack of dawn - all of which preclude hanging out at bars until the wee hours of the morning.  So said bar activity was a rarity.

Except that Saturday we decided to go to an Irish bar.  TWICE in one week - she was shocked. When I told my daughter where we were going, she looked at me darkly and told me, "Well, don't ask me to cover for you with your dad again.  If he calls, I'm telling him the truth about where you are."

PS - my dad found this story as funny as I did.  He wasn't upset at all.  I wasn't out drinking like a mad woman, so, please, no emails worrying about my health.

I would never be a 7th grader again

My daughter went to a dance at school and came home in tears.  She had a miserable time - no one asked her to dance.  So, I shared the story of my first school dance with her, in order to cheer her up.  Gah, I hated to see her so upset.  That is, I think, one of the worst parts of being a parent - knowing that your child is hurting and you can't fix it.  But I think this story helped a bit. 

When I was growing up in the 70's and 80's, junior high was 7th - 9th grades.  The summer before I started 7th grade, so about 1981 or so, I was determined to change my look.  I'd been picked on unmercifully, taunted and ridiculed and I wanted to be a different person.  I checked out a book from the library, something along the lines of Change your look! or some other such nonsense.  I read it from cover to cover, devouring it daily.  I decided that I'd follow all the guidelines.

I told my mother that, per the outline in the back of the book, I'd need to get some new clothing.  I remember that the list contained such items as a taffeta dress, a velvet dress, three crinolines and 2 pocketbooks.  Also gloves.  Yeah, the book was published in the 50's, only I was too stupid to know better.

When the first school dance came, I just KNEW that I was going to shine.  I told my mother that I'd need a velvet dress.  (I shuddered just now, knowing what a fool I was, and am amazed that my mom didn't laugh her head off at me.)  She offered up a dress that she'd made as a teen, a red velvet long sleeve, high necked, below the knee thing of beauty.  Perfect.

I showered and styled my hair - parted in the middle, straight down on both sides, slightly oily and very lifeless.  I shoved my coke bottom dinner plate sized glasses over my acne covered nose and looked in the mirror.  With my wooden handle clutch purse - remember those, with the buttons on the handles that you could attach any number of fabric covers to? - my hose and low heels, I thought I looked ready for anything.

My girlfriend came over to go with me, and I stared at her in shock.  She wore ripped jeans tucked into striped leg warmers and a sweatshirt with the collar cut off, hanging off one shoulder.  Her permed hair was teased out in a moon and her eyelids glistened with blue frost.  She looked at me, I looked at her, and at the same time, we both said the same thing:

"You're going like THAT?"

Of course, everyone laughed at me.  Of course I had a miserable time. 

I was, however, able to use this story to console my beautiful daughter, who was dressed EXACTLY like her friends.  And that's the great thing about life.

1,000

This is my 1,000 post on this website. 

That's all - I just wanted to mark this date - February 19, 2008. 

Would you do me a favor?  If you don't mind, tell me either what post of mine was a favorite or yours, what you like to read that I write about, or, you know, what you wish I'd shut up about.

But be kind and gentle - I am SUCH a delicate flower lately.