I was up past 4 this morning - this time due to a child who refused to fall asleep and instead thought crying was a viable alternative. I was so out-of-sorts that it didn't even dawn on me to give her Tylenol, a mistake that will not happen again.
To make it worse, I was up yesterday morning until 4:30 because I was trying to figure out if I had had a stupid miscarriage. And when I finally convinced myself it was just my uterus jumping ship, I realized I had yet to clean the house and it was already 2:30.
So this is my second day of less than three hours of sleep. And I'm out of caffeine, a horror which takes my breath away.
This morning, Alison was still moody and extremely sensitive since she got three hours of sleep as well. So far I've heard, "MOM! Kristin's yelling at me!" at least a dozen times today. I wish there was an effective way to denote shrill screaming in text form.
This last time, with tears still rolling down her cheeks, Alison said in a quiet, sad voice, "Kristin yelled at me, momma."
"She said she's sorry, honey... you've got to let it go. Are you hungry? Would you like lunch?" Three nodding heads. "Okay, what would you like?"
As if all her cares had been washed away, Alison propped her finger under her chin and thoughtfully looked toward the ceiling. "Ummm.... maybe.... Red Robin? Red Robin would make everything better."
I chuckled.
Red Robin can solve my problems if it serves pure adrenaline, otherwise we'll be in the parking lot taking a nap before we even begin.
I guess margaritas are out of the question. That would put me in my grave.
The gym was packed with hot young men tonight. It was so disproportionate with attractiveness that it seemed like a joke or absurd movie scene.
And there were hardly any women to be found who weren't older than my mother. Cougars, I tell you.
While I was enjoying this phenomenal hot to not-hot ratio with my mouth gaping, two guys looked my way. I suddenly realized I went to high school with them. My mouth slammed shut and I nonchalantly looked away. Wipe drool off and pretend you were watching the news.
What a change from two weeks ago when the only guys to be found were wearing polo shirts and expressions that said, "Girls. Heh. Heh. Boobies. Heh." (Don't get me wrong... there were still a few odd ducks at the gym tonight. Like this 50 or 60-something-year-old guy who did circles around every machine I sat at to lift. He apparently visits the gym for the hotness as well... heh.)
I realize this post is slightly hypocritical. I don't care. Until men stop mentally molesting every woman they meet, I plan to enjoy some eye candy at the gym.
Of course, I have my own eye candy to come home to...
My husband knows me pretty well. He knows my sense of humor. He knows my taste in clothes, shoes and music. He knows what I like to eat. He knows my weaknesses, and he knows I'm one badass mutha. He knows some of my deepest, darkest secrets.
Some of them.
One thing he will never understand is what it's like to stay home every day to care for our children. Oh, he might know what it's like to help care for them for a few days at a time, or maybe to take them out on the town by himself for four or five hours. That doesn't compare. It's called a honeymoon period. And I am well past the honeymoon.
If Mike went to work and was a boss over three people, and those three people never did what he told them to do, and they frequently made more work for him to the point that Mike might consider locking them in a storage closet all day, and they required help on the potty and to be fed almost constantly, and they ran to him incessantly whining about what the others did to him or her, he would lose it. Most people would. In fact, the word "postal" comes to mind.
Add on top of that no time off. Ever. You're always on call. No sick days or vacation days. I'm pretty sure any normal employee would burn the building to the ground and run away to a neighboring country.
The kicker? No paycheck. And you get to hear people say, "Oh I wish I could quit my job and stay home with my kids." Because it's so easy! Damn, I must've missed that memo. This is supposed to be fun. Can you hear me laughing?
Lack of empathy isn't necessarily Mike's fault. I'm sure if the roles were reversed, I would be equally ignorant to the horrors and depression that come with joyfully raising three 4-year-olds.
I just wish the mess would go away. The cleaning fairy has either skipped my house completely or she's rotting under a pile of laundry in the basement. So, it looks like it's all on me. I have to do it. I will do it.
Every day is like treading water. Just stay afloat. That's going to be really challenging once my head blows up.
Well, it's nearly midnight, and I'm off to clean. I'll let you know how it goes and if I find that rotting carcass. It might explain the smell...
It was one of those days today. One of those many, many, many many manymanymanymanymany days.
I'm not really sure what set me off, but the crazy came out to play.
(Kind of ironic that a friend called me today pretending to be CPS. Is it wrong that I laughed, even when I thought the call might have been for real?)
Oh yeah, now I remember what happened today... I spent more than a few hours yesterday packaging up and hiding every toy the girls own while laughing maniacally organizing. Unfortunately there were a few items I set aside as OUTDOOR toys to be dealt with in the morning. It doesn't even matter what happened at this point. What matters is that I've solved a mystery.
I've known for years the girls were trying to kill me, but I'd never figured out how they planned to get it done.
Over the last few months, my blood pressure has been creeping up to a significant level, and for me, that means something. My BP used to be so low I'd nearly pass out from standing. This particular morning, I could feel the sides of my neck bulging from the stress.
I figure the girls know, if they keep this up, my damn head is going to explode right off my damn body.
I've never heard of that happening, but I have heard of spontaneous combustion, and I'm thinking this would fall under the same category of rare-but-not-impossible-ways-to-die.
I knew my crazy shield was lowering and the girls were about to witness some unpleasant stuff, so I hid in the bathroom. I don't do relaxation techniques like heavy breathing or whatever the hell people do. Instead, I swear like a sailor. So I said the fuck-word at least a hundred times. And I yelled. A lot. I think people outside could hear me because the neighbor girl ran away from me this afternoon without saying hello.
I guess it didn't help when I summoned the voice of Lucifer himself as Alison dipped her arms and long-sleeved shirt into the pool as we loaded the car. And then I yelled "You're lucky my hands aren't free, or so help me..."
Today wasn't just the ordinary type of crazy that everyone encounters. This type of crazy was like shaking a pop bottle so it explodes. Except replace the pop with crazy, and when this special kind of crazy explodes it attaches to stuff where it melts paint and boils and burns and smells like sulfur or something really bad. That kind of crazy.
I don't know how long I can keep this up, but I do so enjoy a great challenge.
In the future, if you see a headless lady running after three kids, make sure to say hi or wave. Or I guess since I won't have a head, just kick me a few times to let me know you care.
And if you really care, send me a pool boy. I need a massage.
Like every great summertime story, this one begins at Wal-Mart.
If you've followed this blog for more than a month, you know I have a not-so-secret infatuation with our local Target. Compared to every other major shopping chain in our area, Target is a diamond in the rough. Occasionally we'll stray to Wal-Mart, but only to remind ourselves why we don't shop there. Like the time Mike was scammed in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Yeah, this story's a lot like that one.
My first mistake (besides going to Wal-Mart to begin with) was parking next to a cargo van. This white van screamed "FREE CANDY" or "surveillance crew inside." Aren't you never supposed to park next to vans? Anyway, I figured it was safe since there was no side door and only one window on my side.
When I peeked in that window, though, I noticed there was quite the little greenhouse in the back where they were growing a field of marijuana. And on the passenger seat? A huge bag of ready-for-consumption reefer. You can almost see it in this picture that I snapped, hoping the owner of the van wouldn't be nearby looking to gut me and my kids. (I wrote down your license plate number with the words "pot van" next to it, so don't even think about trying anything funny.)
A short time later, we almost got run over by some a-hole old lady who scowled at me when she realized she'd nearly taken out Emma.
On the way into the store, the girls held hands and followed behind me like little ducklings. Well, a mother decided it was entirely appropriate to hold her arm out with pointer finger extended at my children, as if to silently announce the freakshow entering.
Then we almost got run over by a crab-assed woman in one of those scooter/cart thingies. Oh, she saw us. She just didn't care. There was about twenty feet of room on either side of us, yet she drove through my kids like a child might run through a flock of pigeons.
My second mistake was thinking I would cross paths with a competent employee while searching for a product which, luck would have it, hadn't been restocked. After twenty minutes of dinking around with three sales people - whom I'm not entirely convinced weren't homeless people who were pretending to work there - I said screw it and moved on.
Why go to Wal-Mart if I have such bad luck there? you might ask. Well, I went for the cheap summertime entertainment. Like this pool. (And because I'm a rulebreaker, I allowed my kids to play in said pool while it was being filled. I didn't look, but I'm sure it says something bad about that in the manual. As well as being a rulebreaker, I often don't read manuals. Let's hope that pump works! Hey, I have a general working knowledge of physics and filters. Don't judge.)
That's Emma's oh it's so cold but I'm having fun pose. The water was crazy cold. I quit messing around in it after it went past my ankles for that very reason. Here's Alison spraying her sisters with the hose after the millionth time of being told to leave it alone. The neighbors appreciated the screaming, I'm sure.
The bonus to having a pool is that the kids will be entertained and they'll go to sleep before eleven. That is a miracle. The miracle of water and sun, baby. If you have kids and don't have access to water, get access.
And because this story needed a happy ending, Mike passed out from exhaustion on the couch after watching a movie and participating in a very close game of cribbage, something I've been told is an old person's sport. Which would explain why he crashed immediately afterward. Once asleep, the cat took shelter on his rear. She must really love him because I'm married to him and would never put my life in jeopardy like that.
You are quite a little package. Some days, you drive me absolutely crazy. Usually you do it with a smile on your face... that isn't-this-fun? look.
Your attitude is one of constant amusement and happiness. I guess that makes it even more difficult to stay mad when you pull one of your little stunts, like smearing frosting all over your body or painting the cabinets, furniture and carpeting in red nail polish. I know you're not doing it to be naughty. You are just so fascinated and find joy in everything. Is it possible to have a happier child?
You are very dramatic. I find you looking in the mirror, not talking to yourself, but watching yourself talk. You sing and dance and twirl in circles. You are a powerful little force in a tiny body. It would be a shame if you ever lost that spark.
Difficult, yes. Fun? Always. Even when I'm pulling my hair out.
Dear Emma -
You are so sensitive. I'm not sure when and how this developed or if you were born that way. It doesn't seem intentional... you're just unsure of everything. It's who you are. You hide your face from strangers. You cry a sad little howl if someone takes a toy from you. You pout and plead if your sisters don't make room for you on the couch.
That makes your laugh that much more amazing. While you are shy and sensitive, you are completely wild and giddy when you play with your sisters. I'll hear you playing in your room, and you'll laugh until you can hardly breathe. You have an incredibly vivid imagination and ability to tell stories. It's fascinating to see all the things your mind cooks up (literally and figuratively).
You don't show excitement about much, but you love school and music. From the moment I pick you up to several hours later, you chatter on about what you did all morning. It's so funny to see that twinkle in your eyes and hear your happy little voice when you're normally so quiet. You love singing and playing guitar - the real one and the fake Guitar Hero one - and I catch you playing on the piano and singing at the top of your lungs.
You have that sweet and innocent thing going for you... for now. I have a feeling you'll have boys wrapped around your little finger.
Dear Kristin -
You are a lunatic. Let's face it. If anyone's gonna turn out to be a genius, a class clown, or the next unabomber, it's you. I can tell just from looking at you that your mind is constantly racing with new and amazing ideas. You have always been able to play by yourself for hours while keeping completely entertained. If I had three of you, I wouldn't know what to do with myself all day.
When you decide to play with your sisters, you make them laugh until they're in tears. Emma depended on you to break through that shell of uncertainty, and you two are almost unstoppable when you get going on a crazed laughfest.
You are the first to notice everything, and you don't stop until everyone knows there's something to see.
You are a fool for your daddy, and you would trade everything in the world for a ride on his shoulders.
Even when your logic isn't sound (it's night time because it's dark out because daddy went to bed) you amaze me every day.
There are some concepts my children just don't "get."
Some they choose not to understand, just like Mike chooses not to hear me whenever I say anything that doesn't involve his stomach. Some of these valuable lessons would be:
Don't touch that.
I don't care if it looks like paint, it's not paint.
Clothes are for wearing.
... and my particular favorite ...
The cat is biting/clawing/hissing at you because she doesn't like that and you should stop whatever you're doing to her.
Other concepts are more complicated, and the girls simply cannot wrap their tiny four-year-old brains around them. Like being a triplet. They still don't "get" it. Even after being asked by half of the people we see every day if they are triplets. And after half of the other half of the people we see every day whispering loudly "oh my god, look, triplets!"
All they know is that something about that word - triplet - gets them goodies like free cookies and smiles from strangers and detains mommy in bathrooms far longer than anyone can keep three small children from touching every germ-coated object within sight.
A couple days ago as I unbuckled the girls from the truck at the mall, Kristin was so excited.
Kristin: "Momma, are we going to the mall??? And can we play with the trains?"
Me: "Maybe, honey, I don't know."
Kristin: "And can we go to the broccoli?" (The broccoli is a huge slide in the children's play area.)
Me: "Probably."
Kristin: "And then we can be triplets, too!"
Me: "You're always triplets, with or without the mall."
How do you even begin to explain the concept of multiples to a 4-year-old? Or three 4-year-olds? Or three 4-year-olds who went from thinking a triplet was a monster ("Oh my gosh, look! Triplets! I would kill myself.") to a persona saved for special occasions resulting in candy and treats?
I couldn't survive any weather but the Middle to Upper Midwest.
Droplets of sweat are running down my forehead.
According to my "hygrometer/thermometer" - which is supposed to be outside except that I couldn't get the nail hammered into the wood using the side of a wrench since Mike has effectively hidden every single hammer from me - we are holding at 80 degrees and 55% humidity... in the house. Did I mention it's almost midnight? Warm.
I know I have readers from the West who would say "We live in the desert and it was 500 degrees today in the shade, blahblahblah..." but I don't care because it doesn't affect me and it certainly doesn't make the 80-degree-55-percent-humidity any more comfortable.
It just makes me think you are idiots for living in the desert.
Then again, ask me how the desert sounds when I'm in the basement hiding from my thousandth tornado this summer.
The kids are onto something with the whole sleeping naked thing. Except I can only do that when there's another adult present to get the kids out of the house in a fire so I have time to dress. It's times like this I wish I was 4-years-old again with a unisex child's body and no shame.
Sometimes they're tame, like "honey." That's a standard here. As in Honey, get your hands outta the toilet. Usually my nicknames are more colorful, causing interesting conversations with the girls like this one today:
Emma: Because it's not for babies, right?
Mike: Nope, it's not for babies. Are you a baby, Alison?
Alison: Yeah.
Mike: Are you a baby, Kristin?
Kristin: No. I'm a... a... turd nugget!
Me: Yes, you are. Mommy's little turd nugget.
Alison: I'm not a turd nugget.
What I wouldn't give to be a fly on that classroom wall...
*totally stolen from "Negative, I am a meat popsicle" in Fifth Element with Bruce Willis.
This weather has been amazing. I've never been so excited about summer in my life.
The camping with friends. The vacations in almost-semi-exotic towns. The sun bringing freckles to the surface. The starry nights by the campfire. The cocktails for no reason at all.
And the shopping? Oh, the shopping!
I used to be the girl who would walk into a store and never try anything on because it all fit perfectly. I make me sick. I quit buying clothes a few years ago after seeing myself in the mirror two days post-babies and crying. "I look like Jabba the Hut! I still look pregnant. Did they leave one behind?!?" I bawled like a baby. How shallow and very sad.
After that, shopping became no fun.
But I am slowly getting that body back. SLOWLY. (That cookie I just ate isn't helping.) And shopping is fun again. Still shallow, but not quite as sad. Except I need to try the clothes on, which makes for a less thrilling shopping adventure, especially with three children in tow.
Maybe that's why I've fallen in love with shoes and purses. I just bought a pair of yellow heels on sale and found three more pairs of heels I forgot I had. (My mom likes to buy shoes, wear them once, proclaim them defective, and send them my way. It's her pity gene.) I love my accessories.
Today was no exception. I found a Juicy Couture purse which I lurve,but it'll have to wait until I sell a kidney. It's only (cough*only) $158. Relatively speaking, it's not that expensive. I bought my last purse, a D&B, for $450. Ouch.Mind you, this purse was bought when I was that pre-Jabba-the-Hut girl with the perfect breasts and thighs and no sense of financial responsibility. And when I had a real job. With real money paychecks. And real lunch breaks with a real expensive shop next door. And when indulging your purse fantasies didn't bring worries about grocery money because you lived off pop, microwave popcorn and long island iced teas.
Which is why I couldn't pull the trigger this time. Give me enough time and I can find a justification for it. The desire has to work itself into my skin until my fingertips are pruny.
Fortunately I did go home with some lovely parting gifts this afternoon.
I'm gonna look damn good in the dark in my backyard by the light of a campfire, damnit.
"If your ear feels better in the morning, we can go to the park!"
Think I can bribe Emma out of an ear infection?
So far, the movie in her bedroom seems to be working as far as keeping her from crying or insisting on sitting in my lap... at one o'clock in the A.M. The downfall with this plan is that she woke up Alison with her giggles.
Hmmm... is it possible my 4-year-old scammed me?
Convinced she had rammed her favorite toy - an American flag - into her ear, I held it in front of her with two other toys. "Does your ear hurt? Did you poke it? Did you poke it with one of these toys? Which one?"
She accused the tiny rubber pair of Polly Pocket pants, with glitter, of course.
I am sitting here as a deterrent to the three little rats trying to ruin my day. There will be absolutely no fun-having before 7 AM. (It's an unwritten rule here.)
I am sick and cannot talk let alone yell, so I have limited tools to work with here. Just my scary eyes. The eyes that say you'd-better-not-come-within-arm's-reach-of-me. We have a system down now. I nudge Mike. He yells at the kids. I follow them down the hall with the zombie eyes and stand guard to make sure they stay in bed.
It makes me wonder whose idea of a joke this is. Because I'm not laughing.
And I need my energy... there is still cleanup to do from Chocolate Paintfest 2009 on our livingroom floor. I keep finding patches of chocolate, usually because the cat won't stop sniffing it. Now if only I could figure out how to get her to eat it, I'd be set. Like a miniature, furry Roomba. She eats bread, so why not? What kind of cat eats bread?
Back to the subject at hand.
I'm going on week #Forever of being sick. I hesitate to go to the doctor since they didn't do anything last time except make me wait half a century to look at me like I was making the whole thing up.
Maybe I could wear a t-shirt that says I came to the doctor with the swine flu and all I got was this stupid asthma inhaler. To get my point across, I could bring the inhaler and chuck it at her forehead. Because I certainly can't speak to tell her what a colossal f*cking moron she is. Think that would work?
Have you ever ventured a little look-see down on the right-hand side of my page? Where it says "View My Stats" or some nonsense? (Feel free to look now.)
That little teensy weensy link is my secret way of stalking my stalkers. I know who you are, hate-mailers. Bwahahaha...
It also tells me how people find my site, which, in itself, is a very amusing pastime. Or as my husband might say, a time suck. It's called a keyword. Let's go through them and see if I can help these lost internet travelers, shall we?
Mexican donkey show
I'm not sure if you know what this is, but it's basically a woman having sex with a donkey. Until I started getting 5 hits a day from these search terms, I didn't know that donkey sex was all the rage in some Mexican villages. Kind of like America's version of wayside sex. Right George Michael?
I'm guessing it's all those pervy Americans paying to see this crap. Mexicans are too busy growing all our marijuana for ten cents an hour or not dying from swine flu to be going to those shows. (It's supposed to be funny, people. ¡Viva Tamiflu!) Anyway, if you use those keywords, you'll come to my crazy trip to Milwaukee earlier this summer. And no, no donkeys were hurt during the filming of that vacation.
Target's hours
Okay, really. I know I visit Target a lot. Obsessively even. (I've been good lately, I promise. Only one trip per week.)
But damn. Google it. I haven't checked in a while, but I was right at the top forever. And just for a post about being ill-prepared for the Apocalypse. And selling my youngest for canned goods.
If you've somehow found this site and you're legitimately looking for Target's hours: Mon-Sat 8-10, Sun 8-9. You're welcome.
Carry my, carry my, no you can't carry my...
This one cracks me up. It's the one search where I know I'm actually doing some good in the world. These are the wrong lyrics to Lady Gaga's Poker Face. I posted about my realization that her song had nothing to do with carrying rollerblades.
Spread the knowledge. Who says you don't learn anything from blogs?
I don't want a large Farva, I want a goddamn litre o' cola
Great movie. Littering and... littering and... littering and... smoking the reefer. Good stuff. Very quotable. Wow. Just mentioned pot for the second time this post. Yay, me.
Not really sure I want to know what people are looking for with this search. Somehow, I'm not surprised they get to my site, what with all the keyword hits from donkey sex and strippers. I'm hoping they're disappointed when they get the post from Elliott's birthday party. I'm hoping.
And for the record, I called him a drama whore. That's a very important distinction that Google somehow missed.
Loren needs
Have you ever played that game that you search for your name plus the word "needs"? Apparently I'm the only Loren on the internet playing that game and writing about it.
For all you curious Lorens out there, I can tell you what Loren needs.
Loren needs a shower, a hot meal, some jeans without holes in the crotch, 38 hours in a day, another tattoo, someone to massage this tension out of my shoulders, a poolboy, a pool, and a nanny who works for Cap'n Crunch. Oh, and wine. Lots of wine.
Here is proof that my kids are occasionally dressed in more than just underpants. Unfortunately, we still don't have evidence that I have ever worn more than pajama pants in the last four years.
I love this park. It has ducks and geese. It has a huge playground with tons of equipment. But the best part? It's in the middle of a big open park. You have to try to lose your kids at this place. I mean, fall asleep for a half-hour - or leave the park entirely - "trying."
This is what I was going to post about instead of the chocolate catastrophe.
I just wanted people to see that the girls are really, really good... when they're not being really, really bad every once in a while.
That's Alison pushing Emma on the swing, all on her own. Although this is a reenactment since she got overzealous and headbutted Emma in the back and got a bloody lip, hence the hesitation on getting too close.
I woke up this morning to giggles... my favorite alarm clock. I usually get a knock on my door at 7:30, but they slept in (thankfully) until 8 today. I love rainy mornings.
I opened my door and they came in to visit with their new barrels o' monkeys. They were just as excited as I was when I bought them at the store. They were laughing in the livingroom, talking about monkeys and what colors they were, and I had a thought of how relaxing a morning it turned out to be so far.
Do you think it's possible that that thought sealed my doom?
Three naked, chocolate-covered children changed my whole morning.
Alison, while dressed as a chocolate pastry, streaked past my door. Panic set in.
That was the moment I realized Mike didn't put away his frosting snack the night before. Because why put stuff like that away when it brings such joy to the children the next day? (Don't worry, it'll be my fault for not getting out of bed ten minutes sooner.)
Blogs always seem to slow down this time of year. Everyone's outside enjoying the weather, or if you're like us, outside trying to hack down the hayfield that pops up in sporadic areas of our yard.
My dedication to this blog falters for very few reasons.
Illness (only in extreme cases, as I'm sick pretty much every day).
Marriage problems (a.k.a. the "get off the goddamn computer" speech).
and finally...
Vacations.
I'm happy to report it's the latter.
Since I can't keep track of a doughnut let alone important holidays, I didn't realize - when I originally made plans to go to Milwaukee - that this past Sunday was Mother's Day. My mother offered to watch the kids so Mike and I could spend time without hellions for a few days. Smart lady, her.
This past weekend was nothing as dramatic as the last trip up to visit my cousins, as I had a husband chaperone. And I finally learned to walk in my black heels. Now the brown heels, on the other hand...
***
Here goes.
Drove up in rush hour traffic. On a Friday. In Madison. And Milwaukee. On the day of the Brewers / Cubs game. Where Danny Gokey was performing the national anthem. Can you say, "Oh shit I think we're gonna die in a fiery wreck"?
Mike and Ryan went to the Brewers game while Erin and I went to a pizza restaurant and I had a moment of clarity with the words, "Which one of these drinks will get me drunk fastest?" Moment of clarity passed, and so did the second Beverly Hills Iced Tea.
Erin and I teetered around the outdoor shopping mall where we found some adorable strapless dresses at New York & Co. Of course I went with the noisiest color... blaze orange.
I'll look like that in it, too. After a decade of working out every day and swearing off pop. That'll happen.
We met up with Mike and Ryan at a bar downtown. Hmmm... nothing really interesting happened there. We got drenched on the way to the cars and even more so when I had to play air traffic controller to squeeze Erin out of the parking space. "Forward two inches, back two inches, forward three, back up, stop, forward, stop, you do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around..."
At Ryan and Erin's, Mike proceeded to play a game I like to call: Last One. Mike, I hear you laughing. This game is played by two people, one with a guitar, and the other one named Mike. "Ooh, do you know Cliffs of Dover? Last one, I swear. Ooh, how about the intro to One by Metallica. Last one, I promise." Poor Ryan. This is the song Mike desperately wanted him to play:
Ryan's exceptional, but this is one of the most difficult songs he could have picked. Um yeah, maybe next time, Mikey.
I always get stumped thinking back on Saturday and what we did. Then I remember... we spent something like five hours waiting to get tattoos. When it was finally my turn, it took about a half hour and only cost $70. Pictures to come once it stops looking like the black death on my back. Erin and I are already planning our next one... tee hee.
That evening we did dinner. And bowling. And I found out I still suck at it. But in that regard, I wasn't alone. The "winning team" averaged a score of 115. On a side note, what good would bowling be if we didn't take pictures of each other's butts? On another side note, I'm holding onto those pictures for blackmail.
Then we went to Star Trek at the luxury theatre. Loved the cameo by Spock.
Finally, we went home and passed out. Mike was first to bed, and when I went to check on him, he was caressing a stuffed Tiger's head. At least he got some action because the rest of us were too tired or sick to function.
Since no one wanted me to cook for them, we went to IHOP the next day. We'll always have that moment to cherish. I never did identify the mystery goo on my spoon. Mmmm... pudding.
***
During the car ride up on Friday, Mike had turned to me nervously and said, "Oh yeah, I forgot it was Mother's Day this weekend. I'm really sorry. I didn't get you anything." I laughed so hard at how anxious he was. I don't know how he did it, but he made me simultaneously feel sorry for him and forgive him, even though I didn't expect anything.
I didn't tell him that just getting away for the weekend was enough for me.
A bonus was coming home to three happy children feeling refreshed and able to deal with the stress of it all once more.
Turns out my next vacation is Father's Day weekend. I really need to invest in a planner. Or a personal assistant. Something or someone who can keep me up to date with these random holidays.
***
Highlight of the weekend was brought to you by Mike, current Captain Obvious but newly ordained Sir Misspeaks-A-Lot.
Holding up a towel toward Ryan, meaning to ask if he could use the bathroom, Mike said with an upward inflection, "Shower?" It was one of those moments that cannot be duplicated properly, but from Ryan's face, you could tell that my husband had just propositioned him.
Until I get my weekend post up (our vacation was great, by the way), I thought I'd mention that our kids grew up by about two or three years while we were gone. I swear they are speaking more clearly - they say "yes" instead of "yeah" now - and they haven't had any potty accidents all day today.
With how much they cried when we left my parents' house, I think they should spend more time there. Like every weekend.
I hate fluorescent lighting. Not only does my skin look aweful and washed out in it, but my eyes get all wonky and I feel like I can't focus on moving objects. The gym I go to is, of course, lit entirely with fluorescent bulbs.
Nothing is better than working out to the point of near exhaustion and then not being able to see while you're walking. It's good practice for our trip to Milwaukee, at least...
So this evening when a cute guy moved across my path a few yards ahead of me, I shifted my glance to the side, avoiding the awkward do-I-have-a-lazy-eye focusing and then the fake smile you give strange men. You know that look ladies.
When I glanced up at the guy a second later, he had his head cranked back and to the side, staring at my chest. Like about to walk into a wall staring.
Before we go any further, let's just put it out there that my breasts are larger than the average woman's, but they're not freakishly huge. They were also not bouncing, talking or shooting sparks, which would warrant a few stares.
These posts are not to brag, I swear. I am just baffled at the brass balls these guys have that they would stare like that. Maybe with exercise, their filters shut off and their brains go into instinct mode.
And yes, I left my heels at home. (Turns out they frown on high heels when it comes to expensive exercise equipment.)
Besides duct tape, I don't think I can strap these things any flatter. It's a losing battle.
Yes, I realize the wedding was nearly 6 years ago, but this is the first I've seen of these pics. And wow, does my sunburn show, especially in the last one, after Mike smeared my makeup off using frosting.
In an effort to prove that I am not lazy, I spent the entire day yesterday working on random projects that needed to be finished. I'm not lazy, but people don't think you're not lazy unless you paint a goddamn sign in front of their faces that says, I'm not lazy.
I cleaned the entire living area of the house yesterday, which is saying something because the girls had been sleeping on the livingroom floor since the shampoo incident this weekend.
I finished picking up / scrubbing down the girls' room and hoisted their new mattress onto the bed frame. I rearranged their furniture and took some toys out.
All the while, I kept the kids entertained and fed and from killing each other.
I finished painting the deck, even though I had to stop at least a hundred times to tell the kids to get away from the road / quit playing in the paint / stay off the neighbor's yard / quit shoving dandelions up the sump hose. Finally I threw them in the house - house be damned - and sprinted to the finish, throwing paint globs everywhere.
Then I took the girls for a walk around the entire neighborhood in the wagon.
Then I cooked supper just in time for my dear husband to fall asleep.
But I am lazy.
I took a lunch break today. Anyone who understands multiples and 4-year-old multiples at that knows that you don't get a lunch break. EVER. But I took one.
I left the girls by themselves for fifteen minutes while I ate my lunch in peace.
I returned to a fascinating sight.
Dear Husband. Dear, dear deardeardear husband. You know those safety scissors that you "put up" for safe keeping? Somehow I'm thinking the table isn't considered "put up." Because the girls got them. Again. And Alison now needs a haircut to even up her pixie / mullet / flock of seagulls hairdo.
The cupboard was five feet further than the table.
"Mrs. Smith! Mrs. Smith! I was afraid of the red fishlight* last night, but it was just the school bus... remember?"
* flashlight
This morning the teacher's assistant didn't even get the girls out of the car before Emma was reporting on last night's traumatic events.
When I picked them up from school, the teacher laughed and gave me a knowing look as the girls chatted about what they ate for a snack and how scared they were of the red lights last night.
That's all they could talk about. Until I told them I had a doctor's appointment.
"Are you gonna be okay, mommy? Are you gonna be fine? Do you need some medicine?"
What I didn't tell them was that mommy did need some medicine... in the form of 28 little birth control pills. You heard that right. After being 13 days late (and having peed on as many pregnancy tests) one month, I decided I'd had enough of the baby roulette game.
I was ten minutes early to the appointment with three four-year-olds. That should be foreshadowing enough to figure out that I waited for 100 minutes. ONE FREAKIN' HUNDRED. To be seen for three minutes. Thankfully the nurse took pity on my starving children and fed them pretzels.
When the doctor finally came in, the girls dropped everything, sat in their chairs, and proceeded to annoy the living piss out of the two adults in the room discussing ways to prevent baby-having.
"Are you gonna be okay, mommy? Are you gonna get some medicine?" Rinse and repeat fifty times.
The doctor tried to pull out the sticker bin, but my kids couldn't be fooled by that amateur move.
"Mommy, she has two stickers. Mommy, she has two stickers. Mommy! Mommy! She has two stickers!!!"
Finally I got so fed up that I started making quick decisions.
I narrowed down my options using convenience and gut instinct. Because that's always the best way to make medical decisions. When the doctor got to the Depo shot, I wasn't interested until she said, "It starts working within 24 hours." Cha-ching!!! We found our winner.
I asked if I could do it today.
When the doctor make her quick escape, I turned to the girls. I wanted to use this as a learning opportunity on getting shots.
"I'm gonna get a shot."
Immediately, their mouths slammed shut and their eyes got wide. They were horrified and intrigued.
The nurse walked in with a syringe, and she asked me to pull my pants to the side. The girls leaned forward in anticipation.
"Mommy's gonna get some medicine," Emma announced to no one.
"Yeah, medicine to keep babies away," I laughed with the nurse.
We walked out happily to the checkout area. I handed over my paperwork and before I could say anything, Emma trotted up to the counter. "Mommy got a shot in her butt. It's gonna be okay. She got a band-aid."
A bonus to having triplets is that you don't just hear fun things like this one time. Oh no. The girls had to chime in and repeat it in agreement. Sho' nuf. Mommy did get a shot in her butt. Right in her butt. With a bandaid. She's gonna be okay. She got medicine. In her butt.
Can you imagine the earfull the teachers are gonna get on Thursday?
Sometimes, the most horrible things we do to our children are completely unintentional.
Like this evening of torture.
Nine o'clock bedtime, and the kids were tucked into bed. Emma cried out to me that there was a red "fishlight" (flashlight) in the bathroom. I assured her that there was no such fishlight, but maybe she was seeing the tiny red dot on their pretty princess TV.
Crisis averted, right? It had to be that they were just imagining things.
Ten o'clock. The kids were still awake, and they began making trips to my side to cry to me about the evil fishlight in their bathroom. I told them to go back, but they refused.
Okay, time to really check this out, I thought.
I sat on the end of their bed. And waited. And waited. And waited.
I saw nothing.
I did hear what sounded like the water gurgling through the pipes, but no red fishlight.
"Go to sleep," I scolded them.
Eleven o'clock. More crying. "I'm scared!" "I'm afraid of the red fishlight, mommy!"
I explained to them that I was here and going to take a shower, but I would leave lots of lights on in the house.
Nearly midnight. Finally sick of the tears, I turned on the bathroom light and inspected every crevice.
Finally, something happened.
The girls had, like many times before, tried rinsing (read: filling with water) one of their toys. The lucky recipient of this bath was their talking toy schoolbus. Guess what it has on its top, just peering over the edge of the sink.
If you said flashing red lights, you won the prize.
But they weren't really flashing. The wiring in the bus was shot with all the water they pumped into it, so they just fizzled every minute or so. And much like the talking puzzle that scared the crap outta me so long ago, the bus's demonic, painfully slow laugh was enough to freak me out and chuck the sucker in the garage trash bin. I had to hurry before it tried to communicate with me and tell me to do its bidding. Seriously, if I wasn't so freaked out by the sound of it, I'd take some video.
I can't believe I made them endure almost three hours of that!
Well, at least my kids aren't imagining monsters yet. They're just making them with water and crappy old toys.
I'm not going to talk about the garage sale this weekend because, frankly, it's boring.
It was the extracurricular activities that happened during the garage sale that are worthwhile.
I forgot to mention to Mike that the girls no longer take naps. (Whoops!) He tried to lay them down for one on Friday, and while it seemed to be working for the first hour, things turned ugly quickly when Mike took a nap of his own.
The girls have a seventh sense that tells them when they are cleared for destruction.
For the last half of "naptime," they emptied every single bottle of baby shampoo, conditioner and lotion all over their room.
Reading that back, it doesn't sound nearly as horrifying as it should. Let me try that again.
They emptied shampoo, lotion and conditioner onto themselves, their mattress and pillows, the toys they had emptied onto the floor, the carpeting, and the entire plastic kitchen set. When I walked in the door and was greeted with the glorious scent of lavender rather than the sound of children playing, I knew we were in trouble.
I don't think I can buy lavender scented anything ever again.
Jon Gosselin (of Jon & Kate Plus Eight, in case you live in a cave in Afghanistan) was photographed out with a mystery female friend in the early hours of the morning. Leaving a bar. Sans wedding ring. When his wife was across the country.
What are your thoughts?
I personally think Kate would be a horror to live with, but I'm not necessarily saying she's to blame for this.
I also think there are certain personality types that seek out fame, and this probably aligns with the need for instant gratification - putting them at higher risk for cheating.
OR...
Does it have to do with the stress of parenting high-order multiples?
According to this twinstuff article: "There are ... studies that show higher stress among families raising twins-or-higher has led to a divorce rate two to three times higher than the average divorce rate."
Yowza.
So Mike and I are all sorts of a crazy Rubik's cube of statistical anomalies. So far...
I've always thought Kate was driving her marriage dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. Would it be improper to give Jon a virtual high five for at least taking some initiative? *smack* Oh wait, that was my forehead.
This whole thing reeks of ratings grabs and open marriage. (I threw that one in there for you... you know who you are! Hahaha)
Even if it did involve a piece of ass.
but it'll have to wait until I sell a kidney. It's only (cough*only) $158. Relatively speaking, it's not that expensive. I bought my last purse, a D&B, for $450. Ouch.
Mind you, this purse was bought when I was that pre-Jabba-the-Hut girl with the perfect breasts and thighs and no sense of financial responsibility. And when I had a real job. With real money paychecks. And real lunch breaks with a real expensive shop next door. And when indulging your purse fantasies didn't bring worries about grocery money because you lived off pop, microwave popcorn and long island iced teas.
