Breakfast of champions

It’s no secret. My cooking skills are up there with New Orleans’ elevation level. I decided I needed some true and tried gourmet recipes. So, I started Pinterest stalking. If I stalked you, consider yourself a good cook. (Or a good pinner of yummy looking food).

I made a meal calendar. I listed ALL meals. Breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, dinner, desserts… I was going to go BIG! A food revoLUTION!! I was to start TODAY!

I saddled up this morning. I had the determination of a half-starved cheetah with a wounded elephant in my sights. I lured the children into the play room and, when I thought they were encompassed in their game of Conner and Brighton saving Brooklyn, a princess, stuck in the top of the tallest tower (or bunk bed), I tiptoed to the kitchen. I gathered my ingredients with zeal and turned on the stove eyes. I HAD this.

Before I could crack open the dang kitchen DRAWER, in TRAMPLES a HERD of children.

 “MOM is that EGGS?!” asked Brooklyn as she looked at the EGGS in my hand. I didn’t feel the need to answer her question. She obviously KNEW the answer. She can name practically all animals, tell you if it is a mammal, reptile, amphibian, insect, bird, arachnid, etc. and the climate in which they live. She KNOWS what an egg is. BUT, the question, apparently, bared repeating. Again. AND AGAIN.

“YES! These are eggs!”

“MOM! IS that BREAD!?”

I took a very DEEP breath, trying to focus on the task at hand.

“Attention little DARLINGS that I LOVE! Mommy is COOKING us breakfast. On the menu is French 

toast and eggs! NOW, I can’t focus if there is too much noise.”

Boeing thought that a fine invitation to ATTACH himself to my leg. Aggressively. I untangled him best I could, because I was covered in French toast batter; mostly raw egg sliding slimily through my fingers. But, no matter where I PUT Boeing, he CHARGED his way back to his perch on my leg. And NOT meekly. VERY OPINIONATEDLY. And Brighton and Co Co excitedly started dragging my bar stools across the TILE floor. (Nails on a chalk board ring a bell in the uttermost unnerved part of your brain)?

“WOE! WOE! NO moving the bar stools! Let’s put them back. No.. NO! We are NOT climbing on top of the counter. Get OUT of the sink! BRY! BOYS! Boeing, GET off my LEG! Brooklyn, stop crying! I didn’t mean to hurt your feeling by telling you I needed to focus. BOYS! STAAAAAAARRRRRRLIIIIIIINGGGG!!!”

Well. Starling didn’t come in a reasonable amount of time. (He never does). And so, immediately, the fact that I was standing there waving my battered hands at two boys laughing HYSTERICALLY, a bawling Brooklyn, and a baby wailing on my FOOT, became STARLING’S FAULT. For not foreseeing this moment and being on the phone with a client instead of helping me control the masses. (Eh- men are, at this moment, thinking that’s illogical & berserk reasoning. Women are saying, “EXACTLY!”).

I rinsed my hands, drug the boys to the table where I told them to STAY PUT, popped a bottle in Boeing’s mouth, tried to reason with a sniffling broken-hearted 4 year old DRAMA queen, and attempted to rescue the burning eggs and toast.

“I WANT EGGS!!!” Brighton started whining.

“Just a minute baby. Almost ready.”

Something happened. Who knows? Co Co looked at his cup. Brooklyn said she got the middle seat. Never can tell. But Brighton lost it.

“Mamamama I want EGGS….” How he correlated his dire situation to eggs missing from his life, I don’t know.

I dumped the toast on plates, threw eggs at them, put a vitamin, and a chunk of banana on their plates.

“HERE you GO!!” I said shrilly.

“MO-OM?! WHY did you put my EGGS touching my TOAST?! I just don’t LIKE when they TOUCH!”

“I wan-ned a BWOOO pork!”

“I wan CHOC-WIT MI-YILK!!”

I just stood there. I blinked about twenty five times. I breathed in. I breathed out. I held my breath. Then I made a volatile mistake. I parted my lips.

“BROOKLYN SOLICE (pronounced SO-leeece) JOHNSON!!!! YOU say THANK YOU MOM FOR MAKING ME FRENCH TOAST! THANK YOU MOM FOR MAKING ME EGGS! THANK YOU MOM FOR MY VITAMIN AND BANANA! YOU ARE A TERRIFIC HUMAN AND I ASPIRE TO BE JUST LIKE YOU WHEN I GROW UP!!!”

Then I turned on the boys. “YOU SAY THANK YOU MOMMY FOR GIVING ME A FORK. AND YOU SAY, ‘MOMMY MAY I PLEASE HAVE SOME CHOCOLATE MILK WHEN YOU HAVE A SECOND TO BREATHE.”

That obviously made everything better.  

But Starling DID show up, then. When breakfast was ready and all. Not that I let him eat.

“Will you PLEASE cut up their toast for them.” (It wasn’t a question).

Starling scarfed his breakfast and disappeared like shirts at a Mardi Gras parade. Brighton decided he was DONE, so he climbed down from his chair. “I WAN BRY’S!” And suddenly, as Co Co’s hands grabbed Bry’s plate, Brighton was suddenly NOT DONE. In fact, he was RAVISHED. And between the two of them they ate 3 MORE toasts. And just when I finished cooking and made MY plate, Brooklyn decided she wanted more toasts. So I gave her one of mine and had to make a decision. I decided I only wanted one toast and no eggs. I was too tired to eat by that point, anyway.

No sooner had I sat down at the table, a WAIL of horror sounded. I turned to see Co Co grabbing his stomach. He had one of the tiny little plastic chairs that Brighton and him carry around the house, for some ABSURB enjoyment of hauling and climbing, and he’d somehow tripped and the plastic leg had scraped his abdomen in a BIG way.

“Oh my GOSH!” I jumped up and wrapped him up in my arms, trying to get a look at the scrape without freaking Co Co out.

“WHAT happened?” Bry kept asking. “Did you get SHOT?!” Now where in the HECK did he learn about getting “shot”??

“I need BAND AIDE!!” Co Co actually didn’t need a band aide, but I got a ginormous one and stuck it on him just the same. That made everything better.

I got everyone calmed down and settled and FINALLY got to eat. I was GLAD I’d only had the ONE toast left to eat. Since it was COLD, soggy, and nasty.

Starling asked me to update our storage payments for the units we own. Co Co and Boeing were piled up in my bed watching me type on the computer. Brooklyn and Brighton were playing Barbies in Brookie’s room.

My friend came to buy my old camera and I went to greet her at the door. ONLY for her to call to my attention my new couch decorations.

Brighton was feverishly SCRUBBING a spot on the couch saying trancelike, “I gotta cwean dis up. I just weally have to cwean dis up.”

I took a moment to survey my living room. Cinnamon so carefully distributed in a lovely glaze over every piece of furniture I own. And carried on to the fireplace. And little mounds of cinnamon were perfectly centered on EACH of my 4 window seals. I walked to the kitchen. Every single counter had a gleeful little trail of Bry’s cinnamon parade. And in the middle of the kitchen was my giant, formerly full, vanilla extract busted in a cuzillion pieces.

Once I finished cleaning the kitchen. The living room. The CHILD. My extravagant resolve for cooking sunk down with the shards of broken glass at the bottom of my trash can.

We ate cereal for lunch. AND dinner. Tomorrow is a new day. It can’t exactly be WORSE.     

the incident

I keep getting asked about Foster Care and what’s it like. Well, obviously I love it or I would have made up an excuse to quit. Like, “Sorry. I already have 3 kids under 4.” But I am a person that doesn’t feel like I’m doing my part until I’m stretched like a rubber band. And that’s what makes me happy. Knowing I’m being 100% utilized. Not to mention the exciting joys of children. From the tender little expressions of love, like Brooklyn bringing home her M&M’s and telling Co Co and Bry, “sit down, guys! I saved ALL the blue ones for YOU because I know that blue is your favorite color.” And the boys taking turns bringing Brookie gifts because she’s a princess. And my little men asking me to dance with them, sing with them, put make up on me, asking Brookie to paint their toenails blue. They are precious. I love to listen to them pray. Especially Bry. His prayers usually go like this.

“Heb’n’ly Pawder. Thankful dis da-ay. Dat Co Co tooked my mon-ter tru-yuck. Dat I told him no. Dat Co Co told me ‘ain’t’ and dats not ni-yice. Dat Daddy can’t just leeb me to go work. Dat mommy can’t just tell me I can’t sleep in da ni-yite ni-yite. Name Jesus Chri-yist, Amen!”

Brooklyn’s prayers are heart- felt and bring tears to my eyes almost every night. (Either tender tears or tears from holding in laughter).  “I’m just SOOOO thankful that daddy got back to land and that… no alligators got to bite on him… and that Co Co is living with us and that please, Heavenly Father, help
Bry and Co Co learn to share. It just really hurts my little feelings when they take Chark Chark and Pretty from me (her stuffed dogs). And PLEASE, please. Help Boeing to be soft. He is just too rough.”

And Co Co. “Heb Pawder. Tank day. Tank mommie. Tank Daddy. Tank Bwookwen, Tank Bry, tank Bo-ee. Be ni-yice. Otter mommie. AYE-MEN!”

 My little 9 month old baby, Co Co’s brother, got moved to live with his grandmother. I won’t pretend that it’s easy to see my babies go, but I pray often and do my part to ease my emotional burdens. I wrote down EVERYTHING I loved about MM (my 9 mo old). I described how he couldn’t sit up, couldn’t hold his own bottle, couldn’t clap, couldn’t talk, couldn’t roll over when he came to my house.  Then I described each of his milestones as they happened rapidly. I wrote down his likes and dislikes. His favorite sleeping position, his favorite foods, things that make him laugh, etc. Then I sent a copy of that and an 8x10 pic I took of MM to the grandma. And that gave me closure.

And the other question. HOW do you DEAL with SEEING the birth parents??

Well. This is my 3^rd go round with foster care and my first time to meet a birth parent. I think there is good in all people and you have to do your part to bring out the good. (Otherwise you’ll be like the other foster mom I met that was going off about “all the little brats” and how she can’t believe her home is under investigation AGAIN while she’s doing the STATE of MS an ACT of KINDNESS. All the while adding Call of Duty to an 8 year old foster son’s Christmas list).

The first time I met Mom, I was anxious beyond belief. I assumed I would be hated and demonized. And I'm sure the Mom felt the same way. If my kids were taken from me, I’d lie, steal, cheat, rob, murder- ANYTHING to get MY BABIES back. So, in that mode of thinking, I decided she was treating me like a saint. And I told her as much. I told her I can’t even imagine being where she is, and while it isn’t much comfort, I wanted her to know I LOVE her children and they have been an absolute blessing to our family. I let her know quickly that I didn’t think I was all that and a bucket of chicken in the mommy department. I told her about my mediocre skills in the kitchen and some of the funny stories that go along with that. Then I gave her a hug and told her that we pray for her every night. (And not in a belittling way).

The next visit went TERRIFIC. I took Mom 8x10 pics of both her boys. (They look SOOoo handsome)! And she was so pleasant and grateful. She said, “You are so kind!” Which meant the world to me. I don’t much like being hated. And she played with her boys and loved on them. And we talked like old friends. And she asked Co Co if he liked living with “Mommy’s friend.” And she gave me a picture of her and Co Co that I put in his room. And she brought me stuff for the boys. She told me all her friends were asking if I was a total Bee. And she said, “I told them, ‘No! She is actually a normal person! Like someone I’d go have drinks with!” And despite the fact that I’ve never touched alcohol in my life, I was sincerely happy to hear her say that. It ranks up there with top compliments I’ve been given.

And the next time I go I’m giving her a CD of all the pics of taken of them. The candid funny ones. AND have I got a story to tell on CO CO!

So, the potty training has its ups and downs. I’ve basically told my boys, if the pee goes ANYWHERE other than the PANTS, it’s a GO!

WELL. Today at church I was yapping my gums, something “I” rarely do. (Lightening, do not zap me. It WAS a JOKE). Boeing is walking like a champ now, so he’s pretty much going to be the death of me. I’ll need to invest in a leash immediately. But I’d managed to get all four of my hooligans in the same vicinity. They each plastered themselves against a glass door and were watching the cars drive by. I, thankfully, was watching them out the corner of my eye while I RAILED on Starling and Aaron about their exaggerations of their little adventure in the Everglades. (Which they insist the story I heard was a MILD version; the mere CLIFT NOTES. –well MY adventure that “I” had while they were gone for 6 days has YET to be TOLD).

I saw movement and turned as the church door opened and Bry and Conner ran out. I was on their heels. “What are you- OHH!” Co Co turns to face me with his weenie hanging out of his pants. He has caught the attention of EVERYONE in the foyer watching wide eyed for the next segment of “Wendi’s World; Season 1.”

“Put that thing AWAY!” I tell him as he simultaneously lets loose. RIGHT in the MIDDLE of the WALKWAY, under the OVERHANG!  ON the CONCRETE! RIGHT in the MIDDLE of our congregation trying to LEAVE. This kid starts peeing like a keg of water that just lost his cork. It may be that time was altered, given my awkward circumstance, but I SWEAR the kid peed for 11 minutes. And I’m just staring at Starling, who’s watching, mouth agape from inside. I’m flailing my arms at him like he can perform some sort of miracle and make Co Co stop peeing mid flow. Starling FINALLY, in his Starling Johnson time frame of SLOTH, reached us and said, “No! You can’t just-“ and I stopped him short because Co Co was SOOO excited that he just peed OUTSIDE and NOT in his underwear.

“Let’s try to pee in the grass next time, buddy. Good job, though!” and I shoved all the kids at Starling who was shaking his head mumbling, “Talk about desecrating the church…”

In my moment of confusion and utter humiliation, I filled up Boeing’s bottle with water and dumped it on top of the pee. So the desecration was, at least, diluted. OOOOOOHHHH the joys of CHILDREN!!   

Potty Training

I have been blog deprived for LONG ENOUGH. Seriously, when a girls gotta vent, a girl BETTER vent or next thing you know her husband will be missing an eyebrow. (Passive aggressiveness MAY run in my family). And maybe just plain aggressiveness.

 I have been showcasing my little 5 kids under 4 years old circus for a while. I play the clown that juggles. (If ONLY I had to JUST juggle FIRE). My juggling act usually consist of something vomit worthy. Like- at what point do little boys decide, “Ya know. Crappin my pants was fun and all… but I think I’ll move on to graffiti art with mom’s paints or hoarding cookies under my pillow.” Every time one of them, ages 3 and 2, has an “accident,” or a moment of quick decision that leaving the comfort of the outdoors to poo in a toilet is completely absurd, I make them pull down their OWN pair of pants. Make them wash their OWN poopy undies, and make them wash their OWN brown butts under the shower. They gag and/ or vomit EVERYTIME. (As do I). But stop doing it? Heck no. That would be completely ludicrous.

 HOWEVER, they go pee every five minutes to get a potty treat. Aka a choice piece of candy from Starling’s personal candy collection. (That he purchased the day after Halloween HALF price, which of course justified his buying an ENTIRE BUGGY of candy. Eh- at least if my husband MUST be addicted to something, it’s not crack cocaine). So. When I decided that the boys were a Kit Kat away from diabetes, I changed the potty treat rule. I even wrote it on the giant dry erase board in my kitchen. (The one I decided to purchase at Lowe’s on the windiest day in the history of MS, after discovering that dry erase paint is $75 dollars for a TEE-NINIE can. The giant board was $13. But it, of course, wouldn’t fit in my van because it was too long and too wide. SOOOOOOOO a nice man named Jose helped me GET the board TO my van, because the board flew away as soon I came out of Lowe’s. I, of course, was attached to the board and therefore experienced life as a tumble weed. And when I declined his request to let him FOLD it in half, Jose WAITED with my board and open van while I ran through Lowe’s begging for string. Of course when asked how MUCH I needed, I panicked and implored the little 20 year old to tie it for me. He told me to pull my van to the tie up station outside and he’d do it. THANKFULLY Jose, a frozen addition to the parking lot, at that point, was STILL guarding my board. And hadn’t stolen my van.  He drove the board on that rickety blue buggy contraption, ALL the way to the OTHER side of the parking lot, the wind blowing him to and fro, and I moved my van. Then Jose stayed while three brains attempted to plan a way to mount the flimsy board on top of my van so it wouldn’t take flight. Then Jose disappeared, but not before I thanked him repeatedly, told him he was an angel, the most blessed human I’ve encountered, and all but kissed his hand. Which may be why he left. That, or he actually went to Lowes to BUY something, not save Wendi: the great thinker. Then the other kid and I put our boy scout knot tying abilities to use. He wasn’t a boy scout and I’m a girl. So you can GUESS how that went. I did come up with a genius plan to let down my front windows, tie the board down with me INSIDE, then roll UP my windows to properly secure my loot for takeoff. I’ll have you know, I had to climb out the back of my van (since I was tied inside) when I got home, but honey- I MADE it home. And the board stayed put).

But where was I going with this? OH YES the changing of rules. So I wrote in BIG letters, for STARLING’s BENEFIT, since the boys can’t read, “REWARD SYSTEM: PEE PEE= toy from lock box; POO POO= potty treat.” (The lock box is another concoction of mine to make me feel good about my efforts as a maid and passively aggressively punish my children for being sloppy little turkey feet. When I notice the house is a wreck, with TOYS dropped around the house like confetti at New Years, I make an announcement. “TOY ALERT! TOY ALERT!” The kids have a small window of opportunity to put their toys where they belong. If they are trucking it, I let them have a long window. If they are playing with their toys, completely immune to my threat of losing every toy I see, I get my bags out and start loading up the toys to go in the “Lock Box.” It’s a pretty dramatic process. I make the toys scream in agony as I shove them into the bag and I announce EACH toy as it goes in. “BRY’S giant monster truck didn’t get put back on the shelf! ITS GOING INTO THE LOCK BOX!!!!” –manly gruffy voice-“NOOO not the LOCK BOX! WhY didn’t you SAVE ME BRY!!” Brooklyn cares. But none of her toys ever get locked because she’s basically a perfect child. Bry and Co Co sometimes help me fill the lock box bag. But now that they have almost NO toys to play with, I keep thinking they are going to understand they are getting PUNISHED for not CLEANING UP). Utter shock. My boys are having sugar withdrawals. “I don’t WANT LOCK BOX!!! I WANT POTTY TREAT!!!” Then put your poop in the toilet. It’s working. Pretty sure they both have hemorrhoids, but suddenly pooping in the toilet is a HUGE priority.

Husband Training

I’m not one to sit around and contemplate how Starling and I, as a couple, compare to other couples. It doesn’t take too much thought to recognize we are FAR from “normal.” But just how weird are we? I don’t know exactly. I’m so used to being me, it’s hard to find my actions abnormal. But yesterday, after the fact of course, I thought, “Yes. That was probably quite peculiar.”

I don’t know how other wives discipline/train/punish their husbands, or if they even do. Surely they do. How else do they get their way? But, as with every aspect of my life, I am a WEE bit unconventional. I choose to rule by fear. JUST with my husband. I have a list of Do’s and Don’ts a mile long. And Starling knows them quite well. I need only utter 3 little words to get him hoppin’ like a grasshopper. My magical phrase? “THAT’s A BOOGER.”

This will undoubtedly make you think less of me, but AGAIN, I don’t so much CARE. It works. (And I’m not bandaging a toe that ain’t broken).

Yesterday Starling decided he would purchase a vehicle to flip at 7 pm. (We’d just purchased one the day before).   I meekly and encouragingly rolled my eyes. I didn’t ASK for the specs on the vehicle, mainly because I couldn’t care LESS. BUT, as always, he feels the need to CONVINCE me to WANT to do something he’s going to do rather I like it or not. And I said as much.

“This looks like a good flip!” He said. And all I heard after that was, “New BLA, replaced BLA, something about BLA.” And my concrete expression of, “I.Don’t.Care.” only increased his desire to make this deal appealing. Which, I don’t know why. I’m not going to drive it. If it were for me I’d be all up in the business of getting informed. But, even then, all I need to know is, can it fit my ARMY of children? Does it RUN? Okay. And if one MUST get into specifics, what color is it?

But, none the less, he got carried away and then read further down on the listing to find the catch. (There is ALWAYS a catch). “Oh it overheats at umm… 80 mph.” I yawned. “Good thing you never HAVE to drive 80.”

Starling said, “Okay. Maybe it says 70mph.”

WELL. As in many households, exaggerating, lying, stretching the truth, withholding information, etc is STRICTLY forbidden. For Starling. And, everyone knows, at least everyone that had to learn about Pavlov and his salivating dog every year in Psychology, that consistent reinforcement of a particular cause and effect paired with a completely unrelated correlating factor, will undoubtedly create an associated effect TO the unrelated factor. PHEW! That’s a mouthful and probably makes about as much sense to you as psychology as a WHOLE to me. In BASIC terms, every time Starling does anything on my To Do or Do NOT list, I say the word “Booger” which strikes utter fear in him, because that word ALWAYS comes prior to me jumping on his back and sticking my finger in his mouth.

Now, Starling FIRMLY believes I am trying to stick an actual booger in his mouth. THAT’s the kind of wife I am. (Probably not a good thing). And he PROBABLY thinks that because I tell him that’s what I am doing. (Which is quite hypocritical. I’m lying to him to train him into submission because he had to truth check something I wasn’t even paying attention to or caring about. But, again… I stick with what works).

So, after Starling corrected himself, my eyebrows lifted (the first inclination that I was actually HEARING anything that he was saying). He immediately stood up. When I asked in my loving voice, “Did YOU just LIE to me?” He got into the running position. When I calmly, but resolutely stated, “That’s a Booger.” He took off through the living room, through our master bedroom, out the sliding glass doors, across the driveway, past our barn, onto our frontage lot where cars were passing by on Oak Grove Road.

 Where was I? On his heels.  He may be “faster” than me, but NOONE is more determined than I am to be consistent with my discipline. (AND I’m not wasting all my breath cackling with laughter like HIM).

Meanwhile, a shirtless, giggling Brooklyn with a pink tutu comes barreling around the corner. (She was mid wardrobe change for the 14^th time that day when she heard the commotion). She was followed by a bouncing Brighton in nothing but his big boy monster truck undies. (Clothing is optional at my house, so usually no one gets dressed. Besides Brooklyn, of course, that makes it a personal goal to wear her everything in her closet EVERY day).

“I LOVE playing TAG as a happy family!” Brooklyn yelled as she chased after me, chasing after Starling. Brighton, having NO clue what the point of the game was, ran in circles, fell down, laughed hysterically, and ran again. (I can ONLY imagine what passing cars thought. One of Starling’s clients called and said he was going to stop by but it looked like we had a LOT of PEOPLE at our house. And didn’t mention that he thought most must have escaped from the loony bin).  

I hid behind a giant bush-tree and TOLD Eric, who never misses a spectator sport, to SHH, but he told Starling to run. (He’ll get what’s coming to him. Don’t you even worry about that). Eventually, I wore Starling down enough for him to stop and look around for me. That’s when I pounced on his back. He COULD just keep his mouth closed to keep my finger from penetrating his lips, or AT LEAST his teeth, but Starling gets so tickled he can’t keep his mouth closed, which makes it quite simple to get a finger jab in there, which I did, which made him all but wheeze with laughter, all the while sputtering like a drowned cat and gagging. Granted there was nothing ON my finger, but his BELIEF that there was, was enough.     

 And to top off the weird factor, how many couples find joy in photo texting each other from across the room just to see who can make the other one laugh harder? I always win. But that’s because I’m more creative. (And because Starling laughs about anything even remotely humorous or NOT humorous). When Starling was taking too long negotiating on the phone I sent him a video of me giving him “the look” followed by a picture of me pointing to my nose. I knew he got it when he burst out laughing. Ahhh… It’s important to laugh around here. For sanity’s sake.

In between our squeamish fun, I got peed on, puked on, and chomped on. I’m trying to wean Boeing (but not VERY hard. My doctor told me to wean him because I weighed 108 on her scale this week and the last time I was there I weighed 124. Never mind that the last time she saw me was 6 weeks after I had my baby. She said Boeing is draining all my nutrients and yata yata. And Starling says she’s right because I look like a noodle with a head. And the Lasik doctor said I have to be DONE nursing to get my eyes done AND wait a year to get pregnant. And I feel like I’m backed into a corner on getting this dude weaned and I can’t seem to remember how I weaned my last two). Anyway- I’m trying to wean Boeing, potty train Brighton, all the while taking antibiotics for my throat. I hope the antibiotics ward off the inevitable mastitis that is sure to arise. Most of the day, I just want to scream. So intermixing “tag with our happy family” is nice. I need to sleep a month to recuperate, but that’s beside the point.    

Gleeful TORTURE

So, I have started waking up consistently. Which, is the goal. To be on a schedule. Unfortunately, I consistently wake up at 3:30 in the morning. Now, you might think it’s because I sleep in “the sardine can” with a husband and three kids that scurry around the bed, completely asleep, like a pile of ants when you mistakably step in one of THEIR beds. And perhaps that is a ginormous contributor, though even when Starling was gone for 4 days and my parents took two of the kids for a slumber party, WHO was WIDE awake and bushy tailed at 3:30 in the morning? Yeah. Me.

I am always completely confused at what actions should be taken when I’m quite capable of mental and physical function that early in the morning. Thus far, I’ve attempted sleep. “Go to sleep. STOP thinking! YOUR STILL THINKING! Fine, then. Think of your alarm going off. That’s always worked to get you to sleep when you had to go to school and work.” Is it better to just get up for the day? Be a productive member of my family? Crank up the vacuum and hock some clutter? I mean, as long as I closed my bedroom door, my WHOLE family would be clueless. Except, of course, Eric, our 22 year old roomie sleeping in Bry’s room. But, I kind of find joy in scaring/annoying/sabotaging him, so that shouldn’t be a factor in my decision making.

OR, is it better to force feed sleep? And stare aimlessly at my ceiling fan and wish I had a doughnut to eat. I just don’t know. When my alarm goes off at 7, I will undoubtedly be the most EXHAUSTED human on planet Earth, staggering through a thick fog of mental incompetence, dizzy as a drunkard on Mardi Gras, and incapable of productivity until at least 10 a.m. (Though that mattereth NOT in the SLIGHTEST, because my children do not WAIT for my ABILITY to function. If left alone with a CORPSE, they would demand it RISE and make them CHOCOLATE MILK). And, if the corpse EVER wanted to be DEAD in PEACE; it would RISE and fulfill the little gremlins’ wishes.

As my choice has lead me to neither sleep NOR productivity… I am BLOGGING. (Though, I can’t be all that certain of the sense I’ll be making at such an outrageous hour). But. That’s never stopped me before.

I promised Eric he would make my blog, though he did beg and plead that he wouldn’t since his dear ole’ uncle reads it. HOWEVER, since I DID promise… I can’t break it.

I MAY have mentioned my enjoyment of treacherous trickery. WELL. Poor ERIC.

We buy 3 gallons of white milk and one gallon of chocolate milk. Every. Week. I already know it would be cheaper to buy a cow, but I barely have time to pump my own self, let alone milk a cow. A goat… maybe. But, I still haven’t tasted goat milk. Anyway- I’m getting completely off the point of this rambling story.

There is another milk jug in my fridge that looks com-PLETELY different, as it holds DIFFERENT milk. Eric was telling me how he poured milk from the “unique” milk jug into his cereal, and it looked different than normal; more watery. But, he ate it anyway.

I then shared with him WHY there is a jug of milk so DIFFERENT than the others in the fridge. “Total protein shake,” I told him. “Pure gold.” He turned solid white. And suddenly felt very ill. And then I told him all the new nicknames I could call him. He looked like he might faint.

“WHY didn’t anyone TELL me you keep BREASTMILK in your FRIDGE??!!” I shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”

“WHY is it not LABELED!?!” He questioned.

“Ugh… it looks COMPLETELY different than all the other jugs in the ENTIRE fridge. That’s all the labeling we need.”

“I’m going to die,” he concluded.

And Starling came home shortly after and I grabbed the milk jug and said, “Starling. Look what Eric drank.”

Without missing a BEAT, Starling eyes widened in shock and he started cackling. Eric, his ghostly pale face taking on a tinge of green, yelled, “I DIDn’t KNOW! You should LABEL or WARN someone about keeping breast milk in a MILK JUG!”

Starling and I couldn't resist. We simultaneously broke out in boisterous singing, "My milk shake brings all the boys to the yard!" complete with dance.

Just so everyone is CLEAR; I do NOT keep breast milk in a jug in my fridge. My parents dropped off the quarter-full skim milk on their way to their cruise. Didn’t want it spoiling and going to waste. Ah… thanks to Eric, it did neither.           

Because I became CERTAIN Eric was going to make good on his “I’m going to DIE.”- I told him I was just lying. But, because I was still laughing and Starling went along with the scandal so seamlessly, Eric is still concerned about the matter. AND, I may have said, “Would it make you FEEL better, if I told you I was LYING?” And alluded to the fact, I was just TELLING him it was a lie… to save his feelings. (I have an addiction to torturing people for my own entertainment. I know it’s not right. I should seek some kind of help. But it is just so FUN)!

I hope I never run for office or have to be in some sort of trial. That last little tid bit, taken out of context could be quite damning! “I have an addiction to torturing people for my own entertainment. I know it’s not right. I should seek some kind of help. But it is just so FUN!” Ohhhh, I should really be asleep right now.

On a positive note, for Eric’s sake, our cabinet man should be returning to put on our countertops and drawer guides tomorrow. I MAY, if some catastrophe stays put and doesn’t decide to infringe on my celebratory dance, no longer have paint splattered BLUE countertops! Not that they aren’t beautifully delightful. They have nothing on the matching wallpaper that will soon be travertined. By soon I mean when Starling HAS a minute. And apparently his minutes are a little wrapped up in making money. And every time I TUG him away from work to slave over a house project… well, it takes a crap load of money to remodel a house. And we’ll never be DONE remodeling houses since Starling and I seem to be ADDICTED to projects and gluttons for punishments. And, of course, taking our marriage on roller coaster rides and dangling it off cliffs to see how strong we truly are. He better watch out. He’s going to be spoon feeding me in a crazy house before it’s all over. Wiping drool from my chin. Washing my straight jacket for me.

But, until then, we’ll find ways to amuse ourselves at the expense of our children and the ones we borrow.  

The Outting

OH the JOYS of motherhood! I wish I could blog AS my life where happening instead of trying to remember how I managed to survive another day.

Today, I mostly tried to keep my darlings OUT of the house so Starling could tile the kitchen. So Brighton and Teagan, the 3 year old I babysit, played outside while Brooklyn had her violin lessons. Boeing also played outside which is why I will be pulling pine straw out of his fat rolls for the duration of his childhood.

Even in the solid shade, it was 3.6 million degrees. I felt like a polar bear being roasted like a marshmallow. I might as well have been wearing a fur coat with mittens, for I was BAKING. And entertaining children for a mere thirty minute lesson shouldn’t be that difficult, right? Heck, I think I only went inside a house to sleep when I was that age. We wouldn’t even go inside to pee. Of course, I stayed with my grandma who didn’t believe in air conditioning and had a wood stove that she kept burning up until June when she’d give it two months off and resume heat stroking her grandkids by the end of August. So, perhaps outside was more bearable than being indoors for me. But, that’s beside the point. My cousins and I built forts, made mud pies and ate them (though my grandma had chickens running around so I try not to think about what was in that mud), played house, etc. I don’t remember ever thinking… “I’m outside. Therefore I am bored.”

Boeing immediately set to cramming as much pine straw into his mouth as his little hands could muster, getting frustrated that both handfuls weren’t fitting so well. Brighton saw a cat. Enough said. Poor cat. Teagan started crying that she wanted to go inside. I called them over to teach them a really cool game. (Your welcome, Cat). Throw the pine cone at the pine tree. I demonstrated. Oh what joy! Bry thought it was more fun to throw the pine cones at the cat, and when it ran away, at my van. Teagan threw a pinecone at the tree, missed, and started crying that she couldn’t hit it. OKAY. Next game. Who can find the longest stick? Bry did. Unfortunately, he found it up IN a tree, still connected. This is because it was a LIMB. But he proceeded to try to LIFT the PINETRESS to DUMP out the tree limb. For obvious reasons, he was unsuccessful. Teagan found a stick. It broke. She cried.

At some point, I mentally gave up and thought Brooklyn emerging from her lesson was a mirage. But, thankfully, she was, actually finished and we loaded back up and stopped at the library. Finally, a nice relaxing sit while the kids play with the giant choo-choo- train set. Oh. Except today was some book reading activity thing. We got there after it had just finished. But no one left. It looked like a stork went postal and threw all the criers into one pile. Talk about weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. D-DANG. Brighton laid claim on a train and spent the rest of the time trying to defend it, Brooklyn attempted coloring, but little hands kept grabbing her paper, the crayons, etc. Teagan found some stuffed animals and was content until a baby decided he needed them.  ALL of them. And Boeing was in Heaven. He found a discarded train, climbed INTO the metal bookshelf, and beat the living heck out of the shelf. I had to, of course, remove him, since the people on the street could hear him banging, which royally pissed him off, and he made it his mission to return to his sweet spot for the rest of our stay. So, before the thought of sneaking away and hiding in a bathroom stall for an hour became too tempting, I loaded them up AGAIN and we went to McDonalds.

The entire way there, I am saying, “You are doing a good thing getting them out of the house. They are having fun. Or should be. And Starling is getting to tile. It would be worse trying to keep them out of the kitchen. This isn’t so bad. You got this.”

We drove up. “WOO HOO!! OLD MCDONALD’s! Just like OLD MCDONALD HAS A FARM!” screams Brooklyn. Yes. Exactly like that. We unloaded. People were staring at me like OctoMom just showed her face. I herded the kids into the play area like cattle and asked them to STAY in there while I ordered food. Did they stay? What do you think? And molasses moves faster in a snow storm than so called FAST FOOD. And I MADE my kids drink water. Worst mom EVER to graze planet earth. Because water is not a DRINK. Three lovely tantrums over that, BUT they drank water.

They did, indeed, enjoy themselves at McDonalds. And besides collected enough germs to fill up a five gallon bucket, I have no qualms about taking them back.

It was almost three and I couldn’t take them anywhere else. I took them home. Starling wasn’t done, but I figured movie time in the living room… they would all crash. I mean, I was a walking zombie. I was half heat-stroking, half sleep walking. And I didn’t run around ANY. I sat there. Just spectating the crazy. Did they fall asleep? What do you think? So I did some learning games with them to keep them occupied and OFF the tile. That worked. For a minute. Then they wanted a snack. So I gave them ice cream. Where they happy? What do you think? Brooklyn had a conniption because she couldn’t sit at the kitchen table even though I explained to her 600 times that we couldn’t walk on the tile, Brighton was whining, “I don’t like di-is! Its too BI-IG!” And Teagan didn’t like the color of her bowl. It wasn’t pink. I smiled and walked away and eventually they decided to eat their ice cream.

They were much happier after that and we ended the day on a happy note. Until of course I mentioned the words BED and BATH.  But I won. And I'm NOT leaving my house tomorrow.

Prayers

I am not emotionally capable of blogging about this, but I feel like I have to put it out there, at least in part. Because our foster son is almost nineteen, I will respect his privacy and not blog my usual TOO much information.

We got to know and love our foster son for many months and will be forever grateful that God saw fit for us to be a family. I knew the day would come when he would make his next step in life, and that day has come. He has many goals and aspirations, and he has started on his path to success. He is courageous and strong and taking the necessary steps to further his independence, his spiritual maturity, and enter the world as an adult.

We will, of course, not be more than a phone call away, but it is still a HUGE change for our family and for him. I hope that all those who have met him, befriended him, worked with him, etc will keep him in your prayers. He deserves the very best out of life and has made an amazing effort to better his self and others as he dwelled in our home. I know that wherever he goes, he will be a force for good. His optimism is contagious and his heart knows no bounds. I pray that he will always cherish his memories with us as we cherish our memories with him.

Foster care is truly a remarkable thing. So much good can come from taking a chance, a step of faith… making room for one more in one’s heart. Our entire family has grown leaps and bounds in a few short months. And hopefully, our foster son will continue in his “Jesus Journey,” as he refers to his new path in every prayer, and we will continue to open our hearts and be faithful to the promptings of the Spirit.