Busy Beeeees....

So this is what we did today. Woke up. LATE. Therefore getting to the gym.  LATE. Which led to me wearing my hair in a nappy fuzz ball instead of styling it and looking even half decent. Which always makes me feel gross and not well kept. And since that’s how I usually look- it’s an ongoing problem that is killing my morale. DEAD. And ALL I WANTED to do today was finish PAINTING Brighton’s room and the playroom. THAT’S ALL I had on my agenda. BUT then I had to deal with the storage units that we run as soon as I got home and have a “Let ME do it or YOU do it!!!” rif-raf with my darling husband that makes friends with every person he rents a unit to, and then feels some moral obligation to be NICE when they don’t PAY on time. (I obviously don’t have that problem. WHICH is why “I’M” supposed to be running it).

AND Starling had gobs of things on HIS list of things to do like WORK, which always frustrates me even though I do realize if he doesn’t WORK we won’t have money to EAT. So I bit my tongue and tried to NOT look disappointed that Starling’s deepest desires weren’t to have the house painted first thing today.

BUT THEN, the day livened up EVEN MORE. We found a bee hive behind our barn on Friday. HUGE massive amount of bees. Can you say, “My Girl?” There are TWO hives- both in Brighton’s favorite playing areas. So they have to go. Our friend Darren is a self-made Bee Man. So he showed up today to remove the bees. AND Starling suited up, too, so that they could box the bees. Darren made a box, a vacuum system to suck the bees into the box, a smoker, etc. and they hopped to it.  Well. There were more bees than they realized. By about a million or more.  And when Starling chain sawed into the column they were habituating, they were none too thrilled. At least fifty little honey bees committed suicide against Starling’s white bee suit. Bless them. They were just stuck to him by their stinger. And I thumped them off and they were dead. I’m allergic to bees so I made sure not to get stung while I was all up in the mix taking pictures with no suit and with my children. (HOME SCHOOL 101- NEVER miss a learning opportunity)!

At The Johnson Academy of Educational Excellence, we have no government regulation on our methods of teaching so we favor adventure and hands on experience over safety. I drug my kids out and made them watch Bee Extraction. I think mostly they learned, “STOP! Come back over HERE! STAY THERE! BEES will Kill you DEAD!” But they will have nice pictures to review the bee extraction process if ever they need that information. Like if we are lost in the woods about to starve to death and we HAPPEN to find a bee hive full of honey to survive on. (AND we HAPPEN to have BEE suits). Better than sticking them in front of the t.v. all day. Maybe not safer. BUT better.

Then 4:30 rolled around and the boys were STILL dealing with bees and sending me on errands to find more containers… lots and lots of honey cones. I had to take Brooklyn to dance at five. I fed her, dressed her, put her in the van and wouldn’t you know… my keys were in the ignition already turned for me. THANK YOU BRIGHTON! Unfortunately he had turned them WAAAY earlier and RUN my NEW battery down. AGAIN. (Yeah. He’s not even two yet).

This is a good time to tell you about me and my ability to deal with bumps in the road. I consider myself a relatively calm person so long as everything around me goes EXACTLY as planned. Any minute (pronounced my-nute) dissonance between game plan and reality? I’m not so calm. I go from calm to panic frenzy psycho crazy person in fractions of a second. So one minute I am on time for dance and I’m at peace with my life. Van won’t start? I’m Cruella De-Vil and the world is against me.

“BROOKLYN GET IN DADDY’s VAN!!!” ‘Still plenty of time to get to dance’. Trying to take deep breaths and calm myself down. ‘The worst thing that could happen is I might get Brookie there late. What are they going to do? Kick her out? And loose $58 bucks a month? Yeah. I’m highly doubting that. All I have to do is get Starling’s keys. We will be on our way. No big deal. Where are the keys? WHERE ARE THE KEYS!!!??? ‘

“STARLING!!! I can’t find your keys anywhere in the van or the house! I can’t find the SPARE!! Why are your keys LOOOOST???”

Starling, covered in bees, waddled to the house to help me look only to remember he had them on his way to leave when Darren arrived to save us from the bees. So they must be SOMEWHERE at the BARN. In other words? We will NEVER see his keys EVER AGAIN.  ‘We’ll NEVER get there! I could take a four-wheeler! Is that legal? WAIT! Stroke of genius.’

“WE HAVE TO JUMP ME OFF!!! Oh my CRAP we CAN’T because we can’t CRANK your van to put it by MY van to JUMP ME!!! It’s HOPEPLESS!!”

Starling, still covered with crawling bees, hands covered in honey, calm as a corpse, says, “Use Darren’s car.”

‘Great idea!’ I drove it to my van. ’Crap. Do I even know HOW to jump off a car? I’m sure it can’t be hard. I’ve watched Starling do it a hundred times.’ I popped the hoods and grabbed the cables. ‘Correction. I have sent Starling to jump off my van a hundred times. I have never WATCHED what he did. DANG IT! Why can’t I pay attention to ANYTHING!?  I just have to stick those clamps somewhere in the engine.’

“STARLING!!! WHERE do I STICK IT? Does it matter what color I stick first??”

‘This is taking TOO LONG! This is ridiculous! I’m going to beat Brighton for running down my battery and whack Starling for losing his keys at the barn and bang my head against the wall for not ANTICIPATING this situation and for not preparing to leave an hour in advance and double checking to make sure my car will crank’! (I know that is a GINORMOUS run-on sentence. When I’m having a nervous breakdown, I tend to think in run-on sentences).

“MOMMY I don’t WANNNA GO!” whines Brooklyn who was sulking BESIDE me and NOT buckled in the seat belt.

‘ERK!! She better WANT to go!! Does she think “I” want to drop everything I’m doing and TAKE her? She better appreciate the financial and time sacrifice we are making for HER to learn how to stretch her leg and tap in a circle! And she better get buckled before my head starts spinning and smoke starts seeping out my ears’. I got the van jumped off. I dashed inside to retrieve Boeing. He was happily cooing in a puddle of spit up. PANIC!! The mother in me screams ‘BATHE your BABY!’ The other mother, perhaps Mother B, screams, ‘LEAVE the kid and GET GONE!!” I listen to the latter.

“I’ll bathe you when I get back. Sorry!!” And off we went. Brighton was still crashed out on my bed taking an entirely too late nap. Amazingly I got Brooklyn to dance right as the dance teacher was closing the door. As Brooklyn would say, “Woo Hoo!” I rushed home, bathed Boeing, did a few other things and looked at the clock.

‘I’m LATE! Seriously? Did I learn nothing from 30 minutes ago?! I stress my OWN self out because I forget to remember to pay attention!’ I couldn’t find a check book anywhere to pay my soul to the dance people and this month they are requiring an additional $50 recital fee. SOUND OFF!! “You get paid $58 a month. NOW we have to PAY for our kid to be in the RECITAL? Well. Since we all have cash trees in our back yard. Solely for dance, here is $108 bucks. Did I mention I won’t be putting Brooklyn in dance next year?” (Actually, I might let her do dance at my friend’s church which only charges $25/month and no recital fee. And NO $150 for costumes. She is THREE! I didn’t pay that much for my PROM dress! Her “tumbling” class has taught her to roll over. NOT all that impressed. She taught Brighton everything she’s learned in 10 min. And he’s as good at turning flips as she is).

I was walking out the door when Brighton woke up and chased me down. So I grabbed him, stuffed him in the van, and left Boeing sleeping on my bed. Brooklyn was the last kid there, covered in a sticky sucker. I painfully handed over my cash, grabbed Brooklyn and stuffed her in the van next to Brighton. Brighton went hysterical. “LAY-LA!” Well, we usually pick up Brookie’s friend Layla from dance but she was in Picayune with her family so she wasn’t there. Apparently that devastated Brighton. He cried for her all the way home. AND he threw himself onto the ground when we got home and kept yelling, “Wan Lay-la! Marx! Howse!” I stepped over him and went inside where a lady sat holding Boeing. I tried talking to her and it became immediately obvious that she didn’t speak English. She had her daughter with her so I tried to ask her what her name was in Spanish. But I asked, “How are you? Or what’s up?” Heck I don’t know what I said. She started talking. I couldn’t understand anything she was saying and thought, ‘Wow… that’s a long name.”

Starling was in the kitchen with the husband talking honey. He had removed his bee get-up and Darren had left, but now instead of bees, he was covered in honey. Honey combs covered all available counter space. Awesome. I tasted some of the honey. Delicious. Tastes exactly like it does from Wal Mart. I would never go through that much work when I can buy it for $2 and it lasts until my great grand kids die, but I’m really glad that Starling and Darren got a chance to do it. It’s pretty cool to watch. Starling only got stung twice. I find honey ironic. People will throw out food if they see a fly land on it. YET, eat honey that is PUKED up from a bumble bug. Are flies and bees so different? Flies eat poop and bees eat pollen. I guess that’s the difference.

So Starling told the guy what we have left to sheet rock in the kitchen while the guy told him what house he wants Starling to find him. So they looked at houses on the MLS for an eternity while I tried to speak Spanish to his wife, failing miserably. And when THEY finished up, Starling left to go get some work done. At 7:30. On the bright side, he took Brighton with him. And I’m going to make us dinner. Mac n cheese. THEN I’M going to go finish painting at least ONE room! And tonight I’m praying that tomorrow is normal. And I finally got a picture of all three of my kids.

The Mower

Let’s see if I can type an entire blog in ONE sitting. (NOT likely since it’s taken me THREE tries to type the first sentence. My darling’s are “sharing” bubbles outside). That’s always a successful venture. Leaving them alone to SHARE. (And I’ve already had to go break them up AGAIN and dig the bubble wand out twice. WHY do the makers of bubbles sell a two foot tall bubble container with a two inch tall wand??)

So I have to blog about my anniversary gift! (Which is JUNE third- but Starling and I label things we purchase as gifts to save ourselves the trouble of remembering important dates in the event Facebook fails to remind us in enough time to prepare). So we are doing good! We remembered our anniversary three months early! And maybe we’ll actually be able to celebrate an anniversary since, for ONCE, I’m not barely done with having a BABY. We got THAT one out of the way six months EARLY. (See? Looking on the bright side of having two baby boys 18 months apart…). ANYWAY- he bought ME a zero turn lawn mower. (You see, he’s figured it out. If he buys toys for ME then he is rewarded with smiles and acceptance. Opposed to red-faced screaming, “YOU BOUGHT WHAT?!?!?” And even though I KNOW that’s what he is doing… it still works… well most of the time. You’ll notice he IS selling the motorcycle he bought ME).

It’s no secret that I choose yard work over house work 11 times out of 10. Give me a rake, a blower, a weed-eater (if you are feeling really brave), a paint brush, whatever! I LOVE to work OUTSIDE in the fresh air and the sunshine! As does Starling. So we are both very GRACIOUS about mowing as opposed to dishes, toilet scrubbing, and tooth-brushing baseboards. But even “I” draw the line at mowing five ACRES with a push mower. A push mower I am too weak to crank. So I was almost as thrilled as Brighton when Starling drove up with a giant lawn mower.

Brighton had climbed the trailer and was sitting in the driver’s seat before Starling even got out of the van. (The van makes an AWESOME truck! That can haul three carseats. Which is why we have two vans. OH the joys of being a rabbit). So getting the mower OFF the trailer shouldn’t be hard right? Reverse. The opposite of putting it ON the trailer. Well the angle was WAY too steep to drive it off. SOOO we disconnected the trailer from the van and jacked up the front of the trailer. That helped the angle. But not anchored, the trailer was a bit… umm.. wobbly? I don’t know- picture it in your mind. A giant mower going off a big trailer at a steep angle. Starling told ME to SIT on the front of the trailer to HOLD it DOWN. Now. Obviously he was functioning on near-a-none sleep. I weigh 115 pounds. The mower weighs- oh… a thousand?!? And ME, completely trusting my brainiac husband, immediately hops on WHILE holding BRIGHTON (you know- so he doesn’t get HURT). THANK goodness Starling had the light bulb idea to yell, “HOLD ON TIGHT IN CASE IT CATAPOLTS YOU OFF!” as he drives over the ledge of the trailer. AND as I shoot about eight feet into the air. I’m on the tallest see-saw I’ve never wanted to ride, suspended in the air and all I can yell is, “DON’T!!!” As Starling yells, “HOLD ON!” and REVS the mower to a safe landing. WISH I could say the same about my BUTT. My butt slammed down SO hard onto that metal trailer that I near about chipped a tooth. I hopped, or more like FELL off, holding a Brighton that was grinning EAR to EAR ready to go for round two, and I was MORE than willing to let him- this time with STARLING HOLDING down the trailer.

BUT, Starling promptly apologized and let me drive the mower without forcing me to sit through a six hour lecture on HOW to drive it and HOW to brake it, and a 45 minute list of all the things I did to our LAST riding lawn mower…s… that landed them in the mower grave-yard. Which was WELL worth the three and a half foot BRUISE down the back of my butt/leg. He did run along side of me telling me that the belts are expensive so PLEASE go SLOW and DON’T wreck it. I nodded and went as slow as possible…. Until he went inside. Then I had to test its speed. It’s like a flippin go cart meets the spinning tea cups at the fair! I was spinning that thing like a bar stool. Almost slung myself right off. I did catch a limb in the face and didn't know how to brake so I reved on through it. I have a lovely sliced face to show for my joyride. And I got some giant stand of Starling's stuck under the mower but got loose before he caught me. (Starling doesn't read my blog so he will never know if some loudmouth doesn't rat me out in the Wal Mart grocery line). Starling may have wised up because he brought BOTH Brooklyn AND Brighton to ride with me. SOooOoo it was back to poke- poke slow. But STILL- it was totally therapeutic. Watching three feet tall hay and little scrawny trees disappear under the blades and emerge… DUST. And it’s the kind of progress that lasts a full WEEK! (Unlike vacuuming that lasts until nap time is over).

All was well. The kids were in Heaven. Heck, it was better than riding “Paw Paw’s Choo Choo Tain,” as Bry calls it, at Kamper Park. We definitely saw more animals! There were birds, squirrels, rabbits, lizards, cats, and even some weird looking Prarie Dogs that Starling said are giant rats. The only things Kamper Park has on us are the “Striped horseys” and the “Giant Goat.”

Starling took a turn mowing while I nursed Boeing (only downfall about the mower. CAN’T operate it one handed. Trust me. I tried). Then I went back out and he said, “Two more laps!” So I put on dinner. (Canned green beans and BOILED potatoes- something not out of a box or a can. I know you are applauding). I ran back out and said, “You’re in charge of meat!” And resumed my place. SUCH a nice day!

AND on top of THAT we had a work crew actually SHOW up to WORK! They got the sheetrock hung in Brighton’s room and mudded in Brooklyn’s room. They didn’t show up the entire week to FINISH it… BUT they are SUPPOSEDLY coming back THIS week. (I’m NOT dipping the paintbrush or anything)! Lately our workers have been about as reliable as balled tires. On a car with NO brakes. Driving in a Flood. In 5 o’clock traffic. In Atlanta. JUST SAYIN. It was a great day!     

Cat. Chicken. Fail.

Since I have three children and only two nerves, I gave away all of my animals. I get the yippi-ya-yays every time I think about how I DON’T have to tromp out in the blistering cold or the Niagra Falls to feed rabbits. How I don’t have to chase down random “gifts” that Cat-Cat ran into my house with before KILLING them completely. Ugh… really glad about that one.

Now there is ANOTHER orange cat that just WALKED into my house. I do not know WHO is breeding the orange cats, but they need to A). SPADE the dang thangs or B). Keep them on THEIR property. Because they just show up at my house, and apparently no one in my family knows how to shut a dang door and Wa-La- I’m just minding my own business reading a recipe at the stove trying to decide what in the HECK white pepper is and if I leave it out (along with the other 6 spices I’ve never heard of) will it affect the taste of my chicken when my leg gets wrapped up in a fuzzy tail that is about a foot longer than a normal cat tail. I’m sure I’m being attacked by a mutated rat-snake combo and me stomping the cat is making it go ballistic and then I’m no longer imagining being attacked. And I can’t cook anyway- so giving me a heart attack while I cook is only going to condition me to have MORE anxiety at the thought of making dinner. I learned it in my psychology classes at Southern. Now when I think of cooking chicken I’m going to imagine the chicken coming back to life and pecking me to death. And I get stressed enough looking at chicken’s dead frozen pieces in a bag.

I posted the cat on Craig’s List and someone is coming to get it tomorrow. And then me and my chicken can cook in peace. Kind of. Starling told me there has to be a way for me to cook chicken without smoking up the entire house. I informed HIM that he is more than WELCOME to cook the chicken. I followed the recipe exactly. (Accept for putting half the ingredients). And it tasted like CRAP. Very SPICEY crap.  So I’m trashing that recipe. I am STILL coughing from dinner. I swear the red spice- Paprika or the other red one- whichever spice tastes like FIRE- is wedged into my nasal cavity. Poor Brooklyn. I told her she had to eat 3 pieces of chicken, three bites of rice, and three bites of green beans. She took a bite of the chicken, started coughing, her eyes started watering… I could barely make out- “Choc-lit MILK!” So then I tried it. I had the same reaction. And Starling wasn’t home when dinner was ready to eat. I just left his plate made for him on the stove. I didn’t warn him. Figured it was a nice little surprise for being two hours late for dinner. He told me, “It was pretty good.” I said, “I didn’t care for the chicken.” (UNDERSTATEMENT of the century). THEN he very GENTLY tiptoed around the wording, “It wasn’t my FAVORITE thing you’ve ever cooked…” and winced to see if I slapped him or just started the silent treatment. I was too tired to do either.

I really hate meat. Well. When I’ve cooked it. I could take the easy way out and just go vegetarian. I can put lettuce on a plate like no-body’s business. AND cut a carrot.

 

Everyone thinks I’ve quit blogging. I haven’t. I just don’t always post them on FB when I do. But I’ll do better!

I sort of feel like I’m deji-vooing (I have no clue how to spell that. OBVIOUSLY) last year after I had Brighton. Total euphoria at having Boeing OUT of me. Total impatience on waiting for my uterus to contract from a watermelon back into an English pea. Total mortification at the blobby remnants of the body that actually had a muscle once.

And thank you all you nice people that have told me “You can’t even tell you had a baby!” Now that I’ve said thank you, let me tell add, “You haven’t seen me naked.” If you saw me in clothes, I was probably sucked up into a girdle. In fact, I was still wearing a dang girdle when I got prego with Boeing! (Why does it have to be called a girdle? Such a distasteful name. Why not call it for what it is? Air de-compressor- bc you can’t take a decent breath in one of those things. Or Shrink Wrap. I always feel like I’m plastic wrapping my middle so the fat can spread out evenly and bubble over to form back fat and nice love handles). But I’ll tell you why I wear one. When I was prego with Brooklyn, I gained 50 lbs (like in every pregnancy) and my belly button exploded. It juts out like the nose of a hunting dog sniffing out a squirrel. Repugnant. I tried taping a quarter over it. It looked like I was wearing a quarter taped to my belly bottom. So how is that better? So the girdle smoothes out all that nasty.

And just to gauge the “poke out” of my stomach, one might think- I look pretty normal. But it’s totally an optical allusion. My ab muscles are dissipated. Straight up obliterated. I can stick my fist into my stomach and it sinks clear up to my elbow.

So I joined a gym the day Boeing turned 6 weeks. And unlike last time, I joined a gym with child care so I don’t have to work out at 3 in the morning. My pediatrician told me that joining a gym was probably the best thing I could do for my family. Boy was he right. Now I can throw all of my anxiousness and wrecked nerves at a pile of weights instead of at my family. And even though Starling is a bit stronger than me (He’s pumping 150… to my….10), it’s been really nice to work out together. And spending a couple hours AWAY from my darlings is SO relaxing! And we are all so happy to see each other after working out, that we get along, and stay on schedule rather nicely. We go 6 days a week at 8:00. Going on 2 weeks now. That’s a big deal. Our whole family wakes up at the butt-crack of dawn.

And with good reason. I think in terms of food. So let me build my body out of food for a nice mental picture. My arms and legs are cooked noodles. Scrawny, no muscle, boiled too long noodles. My stomach? Oatmeal. A glob of soggy oatmeal- all lumpy and mushy. My butt? A cabage. But less firm.  My boobs would be grapefruits. They are the only thing I got going for me. But only if you don’t touch them or make any noises resembling a babies cry. Because if that happens, they spring a leak and then everything in a five foot radius is getting doused in milk. So yeah. Gym is good.

Red Panties

I haven’t totally forgotten about my blog. In fact, I want to blog daily but everything I have to say is WAY T.M.I. Well, my entire blog is TOO MUCH INFO, but even I have to draw the line at SOME THINGS.

FOR example- some friends and I had a Lingerie Shower for Valentines  (how I would love to post pictures but that would be social suicide. I’ve already had people tell me they are afraid our conversations will show up on my blog. WHICH I have never done! I have my own internal and probably better left that way crap to share). You know, once you have kids you just GRASP for excuses to get together with other girls, buy things that don’t say “Maternity” or have elastic waist bands. And so we were each given a name and size of a lady and we set off to buy something “pretty.”

I had fun putting my little gift together and it is absolutely KILLING me not to share details- but I wrote a poem to go along with it and everything. AnY-wAy- my take home gift was some hot mama red panties (several pair) and matching brazier.

Okay- I haven’t even gotten to the EXAMPLE of the TMI part and I feel like I’ve already passed the line I’m supposed to be setting. So you should not keep reading if your face is already contorted into a “OH MY HECK- what is WRONG with this girl?!?” (Cause let me tell you now. Three kids up in this house with a husband scarcer than me cooking? A LOT is WRONG with this girl).

Like every NORMAL person does after they get something new, I had to try my things on. Simply for size. (like you can even return panties if they don’t fit. At least I HOPE you can’t)! Ugh. I won’t share the mental image I just had. And, like a NORMAL mom, I can’t get a half ounce of privacy. In barges Brooklyn just as I’m staring at the pile of cottage cheese in the mirror where my butt once sat.

“Um MOM! WHAT are you WEARING?” And what am I supposed to say to my 3 year old?

“P-panties?” I stammer hoping she’ll say, “Okie dokie. “ and find a Barbie to mutilate. But get real. It’s Brooklyn. The most observant, scrutinizing child on the face of the planet.

“Um, MOM,” she starts in her matter-of-fact mother voice, “you are TOO big for those panties. WHY are you wearing them?” Trapped like a mouse with his little squished head still clutching the cheese, I said the first thing that came to my mind. Which is NEVER a good thing in MY experience. “These are Mommy’s work-out panties.”  She then proceeded to grab at them. “WHAT are you DOING?” I half shrieked. “You have a really big wedgie.” I took them off, stuffed them in my drawer and hoped she forgot about them.

Fast forward two weeks. Brooklyn FLEW into the kitchen holding a red pair of panties. “MOMMAY! Look! I just found your work panties! They were on your bed!” (okay- that sounds bad- but they were in the pile of CLEAN laundry on my bed). “Work-OUT panties,” I corrected under my breath. I’m sure she’ll be telling her Sunday school class that her mom has red work panties and everyone will know I’m a stripper/prostitute on the weekends.   AWESOME.

WHAT. A. DAY.

I had the kind of day one just can’t NOT blog about. It’s a nice example of EVERY DAY I’ve been having for the last 3 months of my life.

TODAY 1.15.2013

I woke up to Starling speaking Spanish into his phone and an explosion against my bedroom wall. After officially WAKING up and becoming coherent, I realized the dude working on our fireplace was chopping up stones and hammering them into the mortar or something loud like that. Before 8 in the morning.

My newest addition, Boeing, was lying beside me kicking ferociously while grunting. ‘I did NOT wake up all night and change him,’ I realized. ‘I unconsciously fed him ALL night, though, so I don’t completely suck,’ I rationalized. ‘Just half way.’ I commissioned Brooklyn, who had emerged from her “big girl bed” that she is BRIBED to sleep in with chocolate “kitty-kats” even though the bed is a mere three feet from OUR bed, to get me a diaper for the baby. Brooklyn obliged. I wasn’t wearing my contacts and Brighton destroyed my new pair of glasses, SO I blindly unsnapped Boeing’s clothes. Since I am SERIOUSLY sight impaired, I had to stick my face like three inches from Boeing’s bottom to SEE what I was doing. I unsnapped the diaper and very CAREFULLY opened it. Immediate regret. Pee shot me RIGHT in the dang eye. NOT kidding. The boy’s got stream and he’s got AIM. I closed it and waited. NOT long enough. The boy’s got a LOOOONG pee. I waited a LOOONG time and finally peeked and dodged. Safe. I changed his diaper and removed his clothing so I could wet wipe wash him. Yeah. Don’t judge. One gets lazy with number 3. Heck I was lazy with number 1.  ANYWAY- he had poop on his shoulder. Not up his back… just chillin up there on his shoulder. I finally got him all cleaned up and dressed.

“All clean buddy!” I told him, feeling quite accomplished. AS he projectile vomited ALMOST simultaneously DRENCHING me. Him. My bed. Awesome. JUST awesome. So I REPEATED, and only half heartedly, the wipe down. Oh. And had to RE-FEED him because we were all wearing the gallon of MILK he previously drank.

While I fed him Brighton woke up. So much for getting ready before all three kids got up. Brooklyn and Brighton climbed all over me and Boeing for the duration of the feeding. I hate being touched after about 5 continuous minutes of fingers poke, poke, poking me. Well really five seconds, but I LOSE it when it doesn’t STOP. And it never stops. My kids would love nothing more than for me to lay on the ground and have no toys. Just me. On the ground so they could just poke, poke, poke me.

 So my nerves were completely shot before I even got OUT of bed and put in my contacts.

So then I spend half a decade feeding my children breakfast. I still hadn’t even gotten to PEE at this point. Then of course after they finished eating breakfast the “I needs” start. Chocolate milk. Well, I let them have some after breakfast EVERYDAY. However. We were out of milk. So I did what any self-respecting fed up mom would do after my one year old refused to comprehend the words “I HAVE TO GO TO THE STORE TO GET MORE” and my three year old said, “OKAY! LETS GO!” I grabbed their two sippy cups, pumped milk into both of them, stirred in some Nesley’s and WA-LA!! Chocolate milk.

Jessie, my friend in a very similar canoe with THREE children, (our kids are a week apart) texted me to see if Brooklyn could go over and entertain her 4 year old, to which I was VERY happy to oblige.

I told Starling, who was working on our house all day, that I was running Brooklyn over to the Spiers’ house and Boeing was asleep in the swing. That was the plan. Easy plan.

No. My battery was dead in my van. WHAT?? OH yes. BRIGHTON had turned my overhead lights on and apparently NO adults noticed. So FABULOUS. Starling has to STOP his project to come jump me off. Not so hard, right?

Wrong. HIS vehicle goes ku-put when trying to jump off mine. Double terrific. So Starling has to get his stone layer dude to stop HIS project and come jump me off. Well, because the whole ordeal is taking FOR flippin’ EVER, I get out of my van to go check on the baby. Because, we would have been BACK to my house by that point. He is still swinging. I look out the window. Starling and Milton, who only speaks Spanish, are trying to explain to Brooklyn how to unlock the door. All I can think is "I did NOT pray for patience. WHY is this happening!?" Apparently her ability to follow directions? She gets from me. For a solid ten minutes my three year old wanders aimlessly from one spot to another completely and totally NOT understanding what to push or pull on while my one year old digs out tootsie rolls from the candy stash under the passenger seat.

FINALLY Brooklyn presses the right button and the car is open. I promptly removed my keys so I could load my THEN awake baby who was AGAIN ready to nurse. So I haul ALL my kids a full minute down the road where, instead of dropping Brooklyn, I drag us all in and vent my worldly woes to my friend with a new born stuck on her stomach with one of those carry your baby things, with a one year old pulling chairs up to the cabinet and a four year old having it out with Brooklyn over a mermaid outfit. Lets just say… SHE CAN RELATE. So we had our little moment. That lasted 2 hours. And I got what I needed to get off my chest and left Brooklyn in HER hair so she could get equally woeful.

And then it was lunch time. Back to my house I went to babysit the little girl I babysit four days a week. I tried to keep the kiddos occupied, but Brighton was more interested in watching the completion of the fireplace. When the stone layer would go outside to get something, Brighton would try to hurriedly grab the trowel and get his dig on. It was like policing a kangaroo in a pasture with one foot high barbed wire. He was hopping around me, going under me, etc. It didn’t help that I was trying to nurse Boeing and chase him at the same time without flashing the poor, innocent man who just came to work.

And then, like manna from Heaven, Kaylee showed up to help me with the kids so I could piddle. OH and did I! With Brighton thoroughly occupied- POOR Kaylee’s back- no telling HOW many times she threw him into the air- I washed dishes, put dishes in my finished cabinets! (And really- don’t ask about the cabinets. I would have had them finished BEFORE I ever went into the hospital- but NO- Starling really thought they should be sprayed instead of all brush stroky from my NOT professional painting. So we hired one of my FRIENDS to do it. And he did a pretty good job. The first day. But the second day when he was supposed to FINISH, I don’t know if he got HIGH or just went brain dead, but he went over EVERYTHING he had SPRAYED with a ROLLER and had my cabinets looking like a hot mess straight out of a student hair salon. AND didn’t spray the doors and drawers at ALL. AND even though he said he’d return and FIX the cabinets for the amount we had already PAID him, he won’t return our calls, texts, nada. TOOK that money and RAN with it. So when you see the cabinets that “I” painted and their brush strokes, just DON’T SAY ANYTHING. Its KIND OF a SORE subject). Now finished cabinets is only referring to the part of the cabinets hanging on the wall. I am STILL painting the doors and drawers. And I’ll never finish. BUT I did work on those, also. All while Kaylee held my grunting, farting, little man. Referring to Boeing. Brighton eventually passed out.

And then Susan made us dinner which was divine and I’m fairly certain Brighton hasn’t jumped up and down and said, “BITE! WAN BITE! MINE BITE!” that fast ever before. Definitely broke a record.

We tried to get the kids to WIND down after dinner and let us take a bubble bath to ease our tired muscles. Yeah. You should see us take a bubble bath. Starling and I in tub. Brooklyn and Brighton hopping up and down beside tub, laying over the side of the tub playing with bath toys, asking every five seconds, “Are ya done yet? Is it cooled down enough for us to get in yet?” So after about five minutes we are like, “YES. We are DONE. YES you can get in now.” And Brighton readily hands us a towel before we can even ask. And Boeing takes the ONLY opportunity I MIGHT would have to just VEGGITATE for JUST a second while the kids are playing in the tub, to get famished.

And can he just EAT and be done? No, no. Even though I can pump TWO sippy cups full of milk in ten minutes, Boeing- who only drinks like 2 oz at a time- supposedly, takes FOR. EVER. TO. EAT. It’s like watching grass grow. He takes a sip. Rests. Falls asleep. Has to take a poo. Takes another sip. Chokes. Unlatches. Milk shoots him all in the face, his eyes, up his nose. He starts sneezing. Relatches. And when I think he is FINALLY done I burp him. And then try to put him on the other side. NOPE. He’s good. So I lay him down. He’s asleep, after all. NOPE. Got the poops again. And this time he needs help. Its stuck. So I get to bounce him for twenty minutes until he’s about exploded my arm off with grenade powered gas and singed my nose hairs from stench of rotten egg, and I lay him back down. OH WAIT! NOOOOWW he’s ready to nurse the OTHER boob.

SOOOOOOOOOO glad I can blog again.

The Attack!

The Attack!

It’s 4:44 a.m. I am awake because I can’t sleep.

I had a girl’s night with some of my friends and we ended our time together talking about ghosts. WHY we got off on that tangent is beyond me, but we DID. And if it hadn’t been after 1 a.m., then we would have changed the subject, and I would probably have forgotten all about the matter and NOT dreamt about ghosts. BUT, everyone was like “it’s after 1! We HAVE to go!”

I climbed into my cozy bed next to Brighton. Brooklyn was next to Starling. (I was actually shocked to see Brooklyn in bed at all because I left her NAPPING at 8:30p.m. and she’d been asleep since 5p.m. I assumed she would be wide awake). I fell asleep quickly, exhausted from a looong day.

I dreamt I was with my girl friends shopping in Florida. One of the girls had her three kids in her Suburban. One of the kids got sick and so I offered to take the other two kids shopping with us while she took her sick kid back to the hotel. My friend said, “Take the Suburban and I’ll take your car.” (Because, in my dream I was in my car without my children. None of us had kids with us except this one girl). My other girl friend climbed into the passenger seat and we headed off with the two kids. I noticed the kids looked terrified. I assumed it was because they didn’t know me. (I met the mother of the kids for the first time in my dream. And she isn’t a real person that I know in real life, either. Just some random girl and her three random children. Visiting me in a dream). When we got to the first thrift store, the kids practically jumped into my arms out of the van. Confused by this, I carried the little two year old boy and held hands with the little girl that was four. The kids were fine. They didn’t get antsy until we had to get back into the Suburban. The little one started to whimper and the oldest one started wringing her hands.

I buckled up the baby and shut the door. The baby started screaming. I looked at the six year old. Her eyes were wide with terror. “What’s wrong??” I asked her.

“Get him out! Get him out!”

My friend and I exchanged panicked expressions and I tried to open the door. All the doors locked with a loud click and I couldn’t open the door.

I looked back at the girl who was SHRIEKING, “Oh no! Oh no! Its going to get my brother!”

And my friend and I were banging on the doors, yanking them, crying, and an evil feeling came over me and I couldn't save the kid.

In real life, lying in my bed, my heart rate was increasing. I was getting short of breath. And suddenly I felt a presence loom over me and then a physical body lie across my chest. My eyes slammed open and I couldn’t move my arms because I was being held down.

I let out the “ahhhhhhh.” (You know the one. The precursor to the full fledged AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!). Starling, hearing the panic in my voice, sat up on the other side of the bed. “What’s wrong? What is WRONG?” I wanted to say, “I’m being held down by an evil spirit! I can’t move!” But all that came out was, “Ahhh!! Ooooeeek!”

And just when I thought my heart was going to beat out of my chest, a little voice whispered, “I’ve got you, Mommy. I won’t let anything happen to you.” I would have jumped at the voice, but I couldn’t move.

Then I realized that the physical being holding me down was, indeed, a Physical. Being. It was Brooklyn. Starling was still staring at me asking, “What is happening?”, when Brooklyn finished climbing over me and took her place on the edge of the bed. I gulped in air like a drowning cat, sputtering out words.

“I-I… Brooklyn just… I’m okay.” So Starling asked NO questions, flopped over and was asleep before his head landed with a thud on the pillow. Brooklyn pulled my arms all the way around her and kept saying, “It’s alright, Mommy. I’ve got you. I’ll protect you. I won’t let anything happen to you.” And I really felt a peace come over me like I had my little guardian angel chasing off the remnants of that awful dream. After a moment, I lifted my arm to my forehead. Suddenly little hands gripped my arm, and YANKED it back down. I jumped, still jittery.

“I’m sorry, Mommy. Don’t worry. Your arm almost got away, but I saved it. I’ll protect you.” So I didn’t move again until 4:42 when I thought my bladder might burst. I thought I’d sneak out of Brooklyn’s iron grip, but she was just laying there awake, still guarding me. Charkley was lying sound asleep on the other side of Brooklyn. He was sleep- whimpering. I touched him, going to shake him awake, but instead he yelped and jumped. I wonder what HE was dreaming.  

“I have to pee,” I explained. She nodded and whispered, “Me too.”

So we got up. Charkley beat us to the bedroom door. I made my way to let Charkley outside and Brooklyn fetched her “stomp” (which normal people refer to as a stool). She used her stool to turn on the hall light, her bedroom light, the bathroom light, the living room, and both kitchen lights. And after we peed, Brooklyn said, “Mommy, I’m getting hungry.” So I heated her up some spaghetti-o’s at her request and now she is giving her hands “a bubbly bath. Just a little one.” While singing at the top of her lungs. At least I didn’t send her to the master bath. Maybe Starling isn’t being disturbed too terribly.

 And I know that Brooklyn is up for the day. But what about ME? I had a whopping 3 hrs of sleep! (Day two of getting up this early, mind you. Last night Brighton woke up at 4:20 in the morning crying about who knows what. I gave him Tylenol and chocolate milk to get him back to sleep. But once I’m up digging around in the medicine cabinet and the fridge, I have an impossible time falling back to sleep). But I think I’ll at least give it a try. But if I find another kid trapped in a vehicle, I’m giving UP on sleep indefinitely.