A Pig, A Cat, and a Midget or Two

I am SO tired.

Like - I would KILL for the energy of an 80 year old tired.

The girls just yelled out,
"Mama! Pretend that you're the Mama and we're the babies and when we cry you come over and say, 'What's the matter?"

Pretend?
How is THAT a game?

Uh.
How about we play MOMMY'S favorite game of:
'Pretend you're trained masseuses and you rub my back and feet while I listen to soft music and then you go to bed?'

That's a good one.

Today wasn't a bad day.

It was actually pretty easy.

Well, as easy as it CAN be when you wake up before 7 and do daycare all day, change 15 diapers, cart all the kids to the preschool to pick up the four year old, work until 5:30 and then go grocery shopping before cooking dinner.
Oh yeah. While pregnant.

To truly understand what this sort of day is like,
I have created a training course.

What you will need to complete this course is:
An alarm clock, extensive weight training, multiple Legos and other small jagged toys, a pair of wild pigs, 6 cats,
and a death wish.

The night before training begins,
set your alarm to go off every two hours then drink 16 gallons of water.
You will now strap a 20 pound bag of dog food to your front.
This bag will not be removed.

Lay on a bed of nails. Flip side to side 60 times.

When the alarm goes off each time, get up and go to the bathroom.
In between those two hours, hire a midget to wake you up and tell you they had a bad dream and then carry said midget and hoist them into a top bunk because they are supposedly too tired to climb the ladder.
THEY are too tired.
Start to leave the room, then have the midget ask for "Itchy medicine."
Slather the midget with cream.
In the dark.
Take care to not get any cream on the midget's pajamas.
This midget has OCD and would require clean pajamas.

Place Legos along the path to get back to your bed and step on at least 3 with bare feet.
Suffer in silence.
Any hint of so much as a breathing sound will awake the midget and re-hoisting will be required.

After a combined total of 5 hours of actual sleep, get up for good.

Gaze for 2 minutes at your husband peacefully sleeping and wonder how it must feel to miraculously have night time hearing loss that allows for deep sleep no matter what the emergency.

Think about upping his life insurance policy.

But not for long,
because you must now immediately make a full breakfast for 6 to custom order.
This must be done no later than 3 minutes after waking and with your eyes taped closed.

Have aforementioned midget and two of his friends stand on your bare feet while you do this.
They will be asking for juice.
When you hand them the juice, they will ask how much longer till they eat.
While you are mid sentence answering that question, they will ask where their cartoons are.

Have a secret agent hide the remote the night before.
Search for the remote till you are sweaty.

Have one midget tell you you look gross.

Set the stove timer and microwave timer to simultaneously go off at the very second the midgets get angry because their cartoon is the wrong cartoon.

Now it is time to plate up.
Each plate is slightly different than the last.
You must have made a mental lists of who gets their waffle cut with syrup and who gets theirs with jam.
Think about which midget is allergic to peanut butter.
Think about where the Epi-pen is.

Have the midgets wrestle to determine their seating chart.
Check for bleeding.

After breakfast, release a pair of wild pigs into the house.
Attempt to capture both pigs at once with one hand, while wiping up a war torn table with the other, and bathe them.
Do this while resting your nose on cup of rotted milk.
Do not vomit.
*Vomiting = an F in the course and you will need to repeat your training.*

This is to simulate toddler diaper changes.

Have one pig roll in the rags you used to clean the other pig.

Re-wash this pig.

Repeat all pig steps up to, but not less than 15 times.

Now it is time for the cats.

Using only voice commands, guide all six cats at once into the family van.
It is time to get the preschooler from school.
There will be hissing and growling, but pay this no mind.
You are on a time table.

Spray all the cats with water, and then you must successfully strap all cats into the van in 1.5 minutes.
Warning: You may be injured.
Be strong, soldier.
The time is more important than possible Toxoplasmosis infection.
This 1.5 minutes is the amount of time left before you will be charged a late fee at preschool.

*Late fees = an F in the course and you will need to repeat your training.*

As you drive to preschool, you will be tested on which CD track is which.
Chim Chimney?
That's number 11.
It's a Small World?
That's good ol' 15.
You will be required to rapid fire off these tracks the entire way while being careful not to hit pedestrians and crossing guards.

Once you arrive at the school, release the cats into what is unfamiliar territory and again, using only voice commands, keep all cats together as you herd them, wide eyed, into the school.
Release a dog at the doors.
Attempt to keep cats cool and collected in the presence of said dog.
Have someone hide one cat in a classroom and carry all other 5, still soggy cats in your arms while you search for that cat.

Punch in your code to check out the preschooler with one hand while now holding all 6 cats in the other.
Allow one cat to poop.

Oops!
You forgot to pay tuition.
Write a check with your teeth.
Make the signature convincing.

Now go home.
Once home, run in a tight figure 8 pattern for a solid 3 hours.
Sort, correctly, several small items in 3 plastic bins without breaking your gait.

The moment you are done, have one of the midgets dump the bins out and then let a cat cough a hair ball on the mess.
Pretend you don't see the hairball and place your hand in it.
Sit with the feeling of warmth in your palm.

Never show frustration.

Remain in this mode until dark.

People will come to retrieve the animals.

You must now recount, in accurate detail to those picking up, everything each cat ate, licked, and looked at all day long.

Wish for death from exhaustion,
but only for a moment because now it's time to SHOP!

Gather 2 of the most angry midgets to go with you to the store.
For the best training possible, pick midgets who can't stand each other.

Place them in the cart and concentrate on a list while they box and bite and cause a scene.

Attempt to ignore the stares aimed at the angry boxing midgets.
Avoid all eye contact with other shoppers.

Write another check with your teeth.

Once home,
you will repeat breakfast procedure while all midgets scream and cry and stab at each other with pens.

Now yell something even YOU don't understand.

This course is complete when your third chunk of hair falls out and you have contracted a nervous twitch.

Now take a luxurious 12 minute break and then repeat all steps for 3 years.

Congratulations.
You have now graduated the course.

Your diploma will be mailed to you.

And yes.
It will be signed with my teeth.

Parenting Paxil

I had visions of lots of blogs while I've been pregnant.
I thought I'd really DOCUMENT this one.
Yeah right.

I Don't know who I was kidding.
She'll probably be lucky if she ever gets her picture taken.

Between daycare kids 40 hours a week and Alena's homework that practically requires a degree and breaking up cage matches over which Calliou episode to watch, I haven't had a moment to breathe.
Unless I look down, I sometimes forget I'm pregnant.

It's led to seven months that have flown by and an upcoming baby that I currently feel totally unprepared for.

I have ten weeks to go and whenever I think about how soon it's all happening, I almost have a mini stroke.

By baby four I'd imagine this is usually the case, though.
At least that's what I tell myself to feel better.

I remember with Alena I was on constant red alert.
I read all the books.
Googled everything.
It all had to be perfect.
Clean clothes at all times.
Stuffy nose?
911.
Crazed hyper-sanitization.

If her pacifier dropped for a split second, I would pull out a pot and boil it immediately.
If I was in public, I'd buy a new one.

By the time Tessa came around 10 years later,
as long as it wasn't covered in dog hair, I'd just lick it off and shove it back in her mouth and just keep right on going.
I didn't even blink.
As long as the stains on the clothes were clearly not poop or blood, we were all good.

Oh how things change....

I guess with natural progression, that means this one will get the pacifier back regardless of the dog hair situation.
She may be mistaken for an under-bridge dweller.

Maybe I should have a onesie printed that reads,
"No need to call CPS. I'm baby number four."

I guess it's normal that I still don't have any bottles or pacifiers or actual necessities.
Right?

Please tell me I'm right.

She'll probably come home wrapped in one of Justin's hoodies.
Her diaper fashioned from a sandwich baggie with holes for legs.
Car seat? Nah. We've got bungees in the trunk we use for camping.

I have not bought one solitary item for her.

When I see first time moms now, I just sit and smile at the neurosis.
It's the same knowing smile I give when a first timer says, "I plan on delivering naturally."
Uh huh. Sure you do, Hon.

I see the panic over every noise and gurgle.
The concern over dry skin patches and mystery bumps.
The bags packed to the nines with everything short of an emergency flare.

In my mind, the only things you ever really need for a baby are:
Three rags
Something wet - be it wipe or rag with water or rag with Mother's spit
Gas drops,
and a pacifier. Oh thank GOD for pacifiers.

And possibly some duct tape.

Anything else you need can be fashioned from a combination of these items.

We over complicate it.

I feel lost sometimes when I browse the isles of Target and see some of the stuff they have for babies.
The same babies who would rather eat cat food than sweet potato puffs.
The same ones who would rather play in toilet water than with their $70 Baby Einstein mat.

Einstein.
Yeah right.

When Alena was an infant, her very favorite thing in the whole wide world was a quilted watermelon patterned place-mat my odd aunt gave as a Christmas gift.
It went everywhere with us.
We'd be leaving the house and ask each other, before the door was latched,
"Did you grab the place-mat?" People overhearing probably thought it was code for something.

My friend Beth and I laughed the other day over how we'd morphed.
Both of us currently have 3 kids.

We'd come from late nights listening to rap music and being out late dancing to late nights walking the floor with feverish toddlers in just a few years.

We talked about how it is taking our nervous Nelly husbands a little while to catch up with us on the concept of just relaxing with the helicopter parenting a bit.

She said the other day her husband came home to find her on the couch watching TV with not a kid in sight.
He said, "Where are all the kids?"
To which she answered,
"I don't know. They're SOMEWHERE in the house. I'm pretty sure I locked all the doors."

I told her that sometimes Justin will say,
"Aren't you going to check on them?! I hear Chloe screaming."
After which I tell him,
"Chloe is ALWAYS screaming. It's practically her regular speaking voice. If I got up every time someone was screaming, I'd never rest. If they're bleeding I'll check. And not just bleeding the microscopic amounts that they say needs a Hello Kitty band-aid. I mean REAL bleeding. Tourniquet style."

I guess I've just mellowed out.
If we don't have the bassinet set up by the time the baby is born, she can just sleep in Justin's spot.
That dude's practically Narcoleptic already. It doesn't matter where you put him.
I can only imagine how it'll be come February.
Me, shooting bitter glares in his direction in the dark room as he snores while I hold Paige for hours wishing for just a 10 minute stretch of rest.
If he falls asleep on the couch after dinner, I'll just leave him there instead of calling his name 8 times and shaking the couch to get him to come to bed.

What has happened to our culture as parents?
No wonder so many mothers are on anti-anxiety meds.
We're told we need ridiculous things like these:

I mean - WHAT THE HECK?!
and this:

For when the 60 squares of toilet paper your toddler pulls from the roll just aren't quite enough.
Or how about this:

Because, frankly, who has ALL that TIME it takes to labor over cutting up a frank?
Or this:

Because we'd rather people think that our child had a life threatening condition than that they EVER get a bruise on that precious little head.

Just see how many play dates you get invited to when you bring THAT thing.

RELAX, people.
You're losing it.
And that's saying a lot coming from me.

The Hormonal Hulk

Oh man I'm in a bad mood.

I think the dark cloud above my head has a smaller cloud above IT.

This is the thing with pregnancy.
One day you're humming lullabies and making little tiny baby hats with sparkles in your eyes and the next your jugular veins are sticking out of your neck and your kids are scared you'll eat their brains the next time you get hungry.
Which is, like, every four minutes.

I just can't control it.
It isn't for any tangible reason, really.
Nothing I can pinpoint.

I mean, the screaming doesn't help.
The fist fights aren't awesome.
Neither is the fact that 45% of my job involves wiping someone's butt.
Neither does the back ache or what feels like stumps for feet.
I'm not fond of hearing myself say things like,
"Russian Nesting Dolls are not for throwing at your sister's head."
It doesn't help my mood that Tessa's favorite thing to do in public now is to shove her little midget head up under my maternity shirts so the fabric stretches against her face like some creepy scene from Alien.
Or that when she does that it exposes the giant full panel of my lovely maternity jeans as I try to free her as she giggles.

Evil beast.

I'm not in love with the fact that at only mid way through my pregnancy I'm already getting comments like,
"Wow. Look at your belly! How cute. HOW far along are you now?"

I know what you're saying, people.

I know that you're really thinking that I look more like you did at 7 months than 4.
Need I remind that I was not a size 2 to begin with?
Need I remind this is baby number 4 and pregnancy number 7?
My body is more silly putty than elastic.
And if ONE PERSON asks me if I'm having twins or triplets this pregnancy, I am promising without a doubt that I am going to get violent.

I will be on the news.

A mug shot will happen.

By baby number four, you're over the La La Land of pregnancy and more in
Look at Me Wrong and You Die Land.

I mean, most days I wake up at 6:30 and am beckoned to IMMEDIATELY make breakfast for children who, Lord only knows how, ended up being morning people.
I am, and will never be one.
Before my eyelids can stay open on their own I'm toasting things and spreading things and looking for a sippy cup that doesn't have that wierd black stuff in the stopper.

Then daycare starts and it's a whole day of diapers and feeding and removing inedible objects from slobbery mouths.
Then there are the "Mamas" - THOUSANDS of them.
"Mama?! She hit me!"
"Mama?! I want Cheese-It's."

"Mama?! MAMA? MAAAAAMMMMMAAAA?!"
"WHAT?!"

"I love you."

My mom says one day she'll actually keep track of how many times they say it.
She loves to mention that , "Pretty soon you'll have ANOTHER one calling you."
This is when I make the half-mast eye face at her. The face that says,

"Thanks. I hadn't thought of that."

By the time the daycare kids go home then I start dinner and help with homework then Justin calls to ask what's for dinner.
I haven't even eaten lunch.
I have literally not even sat down since I sat on the edge of my bed choking back tears aimed at my alarm at 6:30.

This is when I dunk his head under water repeatedly in my mind when he sounds less than thrilled with "Tuna casserole" as an answer.

Then it's baths and bed time which consists of 6 gallons of water on the tile and more demands than two terrorists could dream up.

They need to go potty.
They need a drink of water.
Tessa's spitting her water at me, can you tell her to stop?
Cwowie's wooking at me.
They are hot.
They are cold.
They need their feet tucked under their blanket like some helpless shut-in.
I can't find Spirit. (the 2 inch tall Parrot that Chloe must have at all times - WHY oh WHY does it have to be so small and hard to find?!)
You didn't pray that I'd have angels around my bed while I slept.
Daddy only gave me a kiss. He forgot the hug.

Bed time takes so long and so many trips up and down the stairs that I should just strap on ankle weights and make it my cardio.
I've thought of hooking up Skype to their bedroom just to save myself.

This is about the time I become Mean Mommy.
A Mommy who snaps things like,
"If you call me one more time I'm going to sell you to traveling gypsies. Now lay down and go to sleep!"

Justin just sits blinking at me from the couch when I go back downstairs for the 15th time.
He hears it all on the baby monitors as he eats the aforementioned tuna casserole and watches sports.
Looks relaxing to come home and REST.
I wouldn't know.
I'm finding Spirit.

I see the judging eyes that wonder why I'm not more calm with our precious angels.
My look tells him that I dare him to do more than chew and stare forward.

But I FEEL that I'm being unreasonable.
I don't need to be told.
I feel sorry for the kids at the same time as I'm losing my mind and my patience.

Yesterday at church I got approached by a girl who asked if I'd please call her and let her come watch the girls every so often.
She was actually ASKING ME.
She said, "I just LOVE watching them. They're so cute. Do you want my cell phone number?"

For a minute I looked around for hidden cameras.
Was that even a real question?

How does every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and alternating weekends from now till the end of time work for you?
Yes. Yes I want your cell phone.
You might have to block my number before it's over.

My poor poor family.

There's a pregnant troll living under their drawbridge.

If Your Eyeballs are Bleeding from Stress, Press 2.

And then a flare was sent up through the boxes, followed by a weak, paint splattered hand shakily poking up through the ruins.

She was alive.

Barely.

This move has nearly killed me.
The next moving truck I go in will be run by a company called the "County Coroner" and the only thing they will be moving is my cold, lifeless body.

I guess it would have been easier if I were the type to be happy with stark white walls and no thought towards aesthetics, but I'm not.
I must paint.
I must create balance.
It's in my DNA.

I have taped off and painted and touched up and found studs until I collapse into the bed at night only to have nightmares of non leveled pictures after hours of striving.

Trying to get the girls settled in here has been a feat.
For the first two weeks, Chloe kept asking,
"Mama, when we're done here, can we go home?" - Which broke my heart.
Tessa cried a lot.
That's not like her at all.

It's hard explaining moving to children.

It's also hard explaining moving to OCD husbands.
"Sweetheart, it's very difficult to dust the frames if they're packed away in a box. I'm sure it can wait."

Justin spent the first couple of weeks here storming around with his nostrils flared.
He doesn't do well in chaos.
He doesn't do well with wall to wall boxes labeled
"Crap that was just left over."

Between the kids falling apart and his plummeting mood, I had
about had it.

Sure!
Let's just have pregnant, exhausted Mama be in charge of it all.
Let's have her make all major decisions. It's OK that her pregnant brain doesn't even remember how to make coffee correctly.
Who cares if she's dizzy?
Send her up the ladder to cut in the paint edges.
And go ahead and ask her if she got anything at all unpacked today while you were at work and she did daycare and made lunches. Surely she must have had a FEW spare minutes.
Just ask.

The doctor prescribed blood pressure medication for me.

And good thing,
because getting the AT&T Uverse hooked up here ALONE has been enough to send me to a five story ledge and question leaping.
It was like a two day repeat of "Who's on First" just trying to work that phone system.

I have now spoken to approximately 30 AT&T workers in 15 different countries.
I can sing 15 Muzak songs.
I have chatted online with 2 technicians.
I have a new friend named Shelly and a new enemy named Baharat.

At least that's what I THINK he said.
Who can tell with all that background noise of the Indian marketplace?

I maybe even heard a chicken.

It has taken a week of waiting and 5 hours of hold and department transfer time to get a technician out here to simply run a cable to one of our TVs.
First they only had our old address.
The technician complained he was knocking and knocking and no one was home.
No one was home somewhere else, if you know what I mean.

I won't go into full detail to save you all from pulling out your OWN eyelashes and eating them out of anxiety, (as I have) but let's just say I could have gone to school to become a technician and run my OWN cable in a quicker and more painless time than this all took.

AT&T will not be receiving any Valentines from me.
They're lucky I'm a good Christian woman.

But as of this very moment - between the last sentence and this one, it is fixed.
Problem solved.
No more bulging carotid arteries for me.

Well, at least not from THAT.

And I do believe I deserve a medal, as I, Kerri Green, have not taken one single day of daycare off throughout our move.
I have made snacks and fed them from my cupped, clasped fingers when I couldn't find bowls.
I have wiped faces with my bare hands because the towels were packed.
I have caught kids just in time as they almost ingested handfuls of
"WHAT THE HECK IS THAT" that they found as credenzas were carried out and bare carpet was exposed.

There were north of 16 Cheese-Its found behind our entertainment cabinet when it was taken.
I have no idea how that even happened.
Especially since Tessa never usually lets a Cheese-It slip by unnoticed.

But now things are looking more like a home.
Most rooms are painted.
Things are hung up.
I'm in LOVE with our bedroom.
Next stop is curtains because I really can't handle the 6:00 am Chloe and Tessa alarm clock I have because their room is full of light.

It's almost like the sun is actually IN there with them.

All that's gone on in the last few months have made the idea of a new baby take a backseat. Poor thing. They way things are going, we may need to just save one of the empty boxes to use as a crib.
I still can't believe it's real.

My best friend Lisa asked me yesterday if I was SURE I was done this time and I probably scared her with how emphatically I answered yes.

Four is going to put me on the brink of insanity.
Five would have me so far past that, that the brink would look like an ant.
From a plane.

I already worry about making sure Tessa's never left alone with it.
Ever.
I can't even imagine how fast it would be covered head to toe in sharpie tattoos.

But what's one more set of hands prying my eyelids open at ungodly hours?

But also one more fresh-after-bath baby head to sniff......
How could I resist THAT?

I can handle it.

It can't be as bad as the last 2 days with AT&T.

If I can survive that, I can survive anything.

Movin' on up

To appease the masses, I will blog.

Though the water is just about boiling and I can hear the kids upstairs fighting through Alena's open window. I'm sure it's nothing to climb the stairs over.

I'll let her deal with that.

SO much has gone on since I last wrote.
People keep asking when I'll write another blog and I tell them I will - Just as soon as I'm done breathing into my paper bag.

First of all - I'm pregnant again.

Holy God in Heaven help me.

It wasn't a complete surprise.
We were semi-trying, I guess. I had known I wanted another one and Justin - well - He didn't argue TOO much.

Even still, it was a shocker to go in to the doctor thinking I most certainly had a UTI then to come out with a slip for the OB.

I wasn't even late.

The girls are super excited.
Chloe pretty much thinks it's her baby and I'm just a surrogate.
She keeps telling me what it should be named.
Emily, Vine, Angelina and Milo have been suggested.
Today she actually cried real tears when I told her what we really would be naming it if it's a boy.

She wants Arthur.
I want NOT.

I don't know why we even gave it a second thought, though.
We all know it'll be another girl.
I have a theory that all my miscarriages were male babies. That my body actually physically rejects boys.

Poor Justin.
Set adrift in a sea of emotional imbalance and tearful mascara run stains on the pillowcases he's washing.

We have had moments of "Oh crap. Where are we PUTTING this kid."
But - not to fear - that concept was taken care of for us when we got news that the house we have been renting and have loved like our own is now in foreclosure.
We have to move.

Perfect.

Just what I want to do.
Dry heaving while doing actual heaving.

My first panic attack came when realizing that since Justin had to work and my mom is out of town all week long, the majority of the packing would lie on me. Irritable, allergic to dust mites me.
My packing strategy has bordered on throwing every single item away and starting completely from scratch.

After all, Who doesn't want to feel that they will throw up just from brushing their teeth in the mornings and then have to clean out a 12 year old's hoarded room complete with tins of dust and hair covered gummy eyeballs?

"But Mama! I was SAVING THOSE!"

True story.

On top of all this I've been doing daycare for an adorable little boy named Jaxson.
I love him completely. He's an angel. But even angels have to be kept out of boxes of the aforementioned hoarded pre-teen room.

I was already exhausted just from the hormones.
I now feel on the brink of death daily.
The bags under my eyes have bags of their own.

Even when I try to sleep at night, my mind goes a million miles an hour with thoughts of paint palettes and furniture arrangement, baby names and wondering if I could possibly LOOK as horrible as I feel.

I almost had a nervous breakdown last weekend.
I came about one "She hit me!" away from needing medical assistance.
Justin just kept blinking at me as the veins burst from my neck.
I had been on an emotional roller coaster for days over looking at places and thinking about moving, then not sleeping and all the mood swings. Not to mention the nausea which wasn't just in the morning. It was all day.
It got the best of me.

I did an actual fetal position on the futon for a bit and then felt better.
It really is a "thing."
My family was wild eyed from having their heads bit off all day, but I felt better.

But, now we have a place.



It's great.
We're excited.
It's not tan with brown trim. (gag)
Bonus.
The kitchen is bigger than that of a motor home.
The downstairs bathroom does not require a daily juice fast to get into.
And I am permitted to PAINT.
Glorious.

My mom had so lovingly reminded
- approximately 100 times -
that I may not be permitted to paint in a new place as I had been here.
I responded as any grown woman would by placing my hands over my ears and yelling,
"Lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala" until she stopped talking.

I claimed The Secret and ignored all that negative talk.
I just can't handle white walls.
When I'm in a white room I feel like I need to be in khakis and a white button up shirt. Tucked in. With Mom hair.
What could be worse than THAT?!
Perhaps because I feel that I will be surrounded by them in the future,
So let's not jump the gun.

And maybe The Secret worked.
I am now ankle deep in wall to wall Behr paint samples.
I find a reason to go back to Home Depot almost every day for more.
It's almost an addiction.
(I don't know WHERE on EARTH Alena gets the hoarding from..........)

And poor Justin.
That guy is managing the stress as best he can, Bless his heart.
He's actually doing amazingly.

There have only been brief moments of corner rocking and so far
I've been able to talk him down from jumping from a high ledge over all the mounds of stuff in the garage.

Progress.

I do feel sad about leaving here in some ways.
I brought my babies home here.
We've had family holidays and birthday parties here.
There are tons of great memories.
I know where the creaky floor boards are. I can find my way around in the dark.

I've chosen to leave the little girls' room put together until we leave.
To not throw them off too much.
Chloe doesn't even handle moving her lunch time out 15 minutes - I can't imagine she'd do well sleeping on a plain mattress on the floor for a week.

I'm not so worried about Tessa. She'll be fine as long as the Cheese-It's are unpacked first.

I'm thankful we've gotten past the girls asking me, "Mama, why are you taking THAT down?" over every. single. item I took off the walls.
They have the memories of goldfish -
unless they are required to remember something like that I said maybe we'd get frozen yogurt tomorrow.
THAT they can remember.
Over and over and over.

I know that wherever we go, life will go on.
New memories will be made and thankfully they will NOT be memories of a kitchen so small you practically WEAR anyone else who is cooking with you. No one is ever a stranger in there for long.

And then there will be a new Green.

I'm scared of what THIS one could possibly be like.
When my mom asks me to imagine him or her, all I can do is practice my controlled breathing.
I am comforted only by the promise that God does not give us more than we can handle.

God must think I'm Superwoman.

But, what's one more patch of hair pulled out from stress?
What's one more worry line?
Why not add another scream to the choir?
What's the difference, really?
When you're crazy - You're crazy.

There's no insane-ER.

Might as well hold a newborn as I rock back and forth in the corner.

No. I See the Car Wash.

If I rated my patience level today on a scale of one to ten, it would be about a....well....

HALF.

I knew from the moment I woke up and could hear my heartbeat in my eardrums that it was going to be a long day.
My blood pressure had to be approximately 250/185.

I hadn't slept well.

It's hard to sleep well when every two hours you wake up to find you are sequestered to the right 1/6 of the bed because your four year old has snuck in somehow, AGAIN, and is taking up all the space.
Half of Justin's body was on the floor.

We have asked her before how she justifies laying diagonally for hours in a bed that is not hers and she just replied,
"That's just how I sleep here."

We carry her back.
She shows back up.
A preschool Houdini, of sorts.

And you never feel her get in.
She's a night time ninja.

I had to get up early to greet my new daycare baby Jaxson who comes at 7:15.
A perfectly acceptable start time for most humans.
MOST who are not of the opinion that morning should start at approximately 10:00am.

I just felt off

I was crabby. Snappy.

And coffee didn't help, either.
Then I was just crabby AND cracked out.

What about put me over the edge today was the constant eating the kids did.
Literally every 10 minutes I was being beckoned to find crackers or locate yogurts that weren't 'too cold.'
The moment I'd get settled from making one snack, they'd ask for another.

ALL DAY.

The list of things Tessa ate went something like:
* An entire adult sized bowl of cereal
* three bowls of bunny crackers
* a cheese stick
* a Greek yogurt
* a quarter of a watermelon
* 20 strawberries
* a turkey and cheese melt on whole wheat
* 3 graham crackers
* 3 cups of juice
* one glass of milk
* one glass of water

And that was all before noon.

And also I'm not even kidding.

The neighbors probably thought I was doing some sort of child deprivation as I yelled out, "Don't even THINK of asking for another snack before lunch."

Then I had the GENIUS idea to skip nap time today and just put them to bed early.
After all, we were going to have to take Alena to the orthodontist at 3:00 anyway and why cut into their nap time to drag them out? Why not just let them stay up?

Bad, horrid, awful, wretched plan wrought with woe.

After the snacking, the whining started and NEVER STOPPED.

"Mama! Tessa won't leave me alone in the bathroom!"
"Mama! Tessa's trying to wipe me!"
"But I don't want to wear pants!"
"I want to squish the snails first."
"But I don't LIKE those shoes."
"Mama! Tessa's eating MY snacks!"


But all of these complaints, as silly as they sound, PALE in comparison to the meltdown of the day award that goes to Tessa for the fit about....drum roll, please......


WHO GETS TO TELL MAMA THEY SEE THE CAR WASH.

Beloved family game.

The girls play this game daily. Every time we're parked at the corner of Piner and Coffey Lane, one of them yells out, "I see the car wash!" and they giggle.
After all, car washes are quite hilarious, no?

Well today, Chloe saw the car wash first and was first to report sending Tessa into an absolute crisis mode. There was snot. There were tears. There were swollen, and I think possibly glowing red eyes.
She seriously needed some sort of hotline to call because that girl came unglued.

"CWOWIE!!! I WANTED TO TELL MAMA I THEE THE CAR WASH FIIIRRRRSSSSTTTTT!"

Pretty sure you could see the van rocking from behind.

And that's when I completely lost it.

"Tessa! Stop! I see the car wash! I ALWAYS see the car wash. As a matter of fact, I see the car wash before EITHER of you because I ride in the front. I see it every day. But say it! Say it now! Tell me again. Tell me a MILLION TIMES THAT YOU SEE IT, but after that NO ONE gets to tell me they see it. Only I get to say it. I see the car wash! I SEE THE CAR WASH!!!!!!!!"


And then that thing happened to me. That thing where you re-hear something you've just said and you cannot believe you just said it. You can't believe that ridiculous thing came out of your mouth. You hover above your own body for a bit.
I wondered how I had just had a nervous breakdown over a car wash, and had I REALLY yelled out "Don't even ask for another solitary crumb" earlier?

I daydreamed of a random safari truck screeching by and having a hunter shoot me in the carotid artery with a tranquilizer gun rendering me unconscious for at least two hours.

I thought about being drugged and abducted and put in a trunk and whisked away for ransom.

Both of these options lending a nap, at least.

I stepped on the gas.
Tessa's head spun around.
We pulled into the driveway.

She was still muttering some unrecognizable sentences as she vibra-breathed.
Something about a balloon. Something about shoes. Something about the car wash.

For a brief second, all I could think about was lemonade.

Then I hustled their little butts upstairs so fast there may have been smoke.

I helped them brush their teeth. I didn't even care this time that they only brushed for 20 seconds and most of that was spent sucking the toothpaste and trying to brush the cat with their spin brushes.

Jammies flew on.
I sang the worlds fastest and probably least settling lullaby.
Then I kissed them goodnight, threatened their lives if they called for me and pulled the door closed.

But not before Tessa meekly muttered,
"Mama.....Can I have a banana?"
Which I pretended not to hear.

Especially since she'd had two actual dinners. Full. With sides.

I know it may sound mean and unmotherly, but it was primal survival at that point.

I have few plans for tonight.

One is to lay flat on my back as far away from the kitchen as possible - well - maybe not. That would be Alena's room and a pre-teen's room is frankly scary.

Another is to watch copious amounts of TV. TV that does NOT include singing or dancing or animated penguins. Not even a HUM of Chim-Chim-Churi.

And last, I will google "Mini Refrigerators" so that I can fill one with perfectly proportioned cheese-its and juice boxes and who KNOWS what else. Whatever's on coupon, I guess. 6 for the price of 5.

Because I'm sure we'll end up on a talk show for SOME reason some day.

Might as well be that.

Two Trailer Park Girls

Today I took the crew to my friend Beth's house to meet her new baby boy.

Adorable, perfect, squish faced little boy.

It was great to meet him and see how her other two kids have grown.
Great to see her new home and her lovely life.
It was great to make fun of her for the extensive and very adult looking encyclopedia library she has in her also adult looking "sitting room."

It was even better to see her.

I don't know what happens to us moms when we have families.
We get so sucked in that we barely have time to pluck our eyebrows on the same day we shave our legs, let alone make plans for coffee with a friend.
But Beth is a good friend. One of the best, actually.

When the door opened and she was standing there, our eyes met with a look of glee/desperation that only another stay at home mom knows.
The look that says,
"Oh thank God you're here. Please never ever leave me."

She passed off the baby. The girls shoved through and
threw off their shoes, made quick introductions and then ran off to fight over whatever they could find to fight over.
Which was everything.

We almost had to reintroduce ourselves it had been so long.

"Hi. My name is Kerri. I like coffee, writing, cooking and ACTUAL ADULT CONVERSATION THAT DOES NOT INCLUDE ASKING IF YOU NEED TO GO POTTY EVERY 20 MINUTES."

It was great to catch up, and also funny, because when it's an old and dear friend, it really doesn't matter how much time or life has passed.
You slip back into friendship as if it were a favorite pair of house slippers.

We laughed about how life had changed and then both of us fogged over and were transported.
Suddenly we were taken back to a place and time before all of this.
Before the nursing bras and nap time meltdowns.

A happy place.

When I first met Beth we were in our early 20's.
I had been attending a Bible study at a friend's house and she started coming with her then fiance.
Then.
At first, I thought she was quiet and demure. Shy. Meek.
Nice enough to study the book of John with, but not my type of friend for actually hanging out and long conversations.

Kerri is to demure as oil is to water.

That winter, the Bible study group planned a trip to Tahoe to stay in a cabin and snowboard and ski. Apparently we were also there for sleep deprivation and laughing so hard that it caused actual physical pain lasting for days.
I remember having to rub my jaws for days after that trip because of laughing so much.

Beth came along sans fiance.
Something I thought nothing of, really, until 2 nights in when she ambushed me in the downstairs bathroom of the cabin when no one else was around.
I walked in unsuspecting.
She closed the door behind me.
Click.

We hadn't even talked before, really.
That apparently didn't matter.
She was scrubbing her face so hard I thought she would remove skin. Possibly even connective tissue.
Her eyes looked like a caged animal and I thought I may need to call for help.
I didn't want to end up on the news or anything.
I knew how things like this could go. I'd seen CSI.

I didn't say a whole lot as she barricaded the door, but then she just started unloading.
She must have taken a dose of Meek-Be-Gone, because she talked.
And talked.

And talked.

She bore her soul while I just sat there and blinked and then she asked for advice and I gave it. Thus began our pattern.

One thing I'm good at is opinions. It's a gift.

That weekend, as we left, I had a new friend for life and she had, well, broken up with her fiance.

And they lived happilly ever after.

Thus began the pattern of us sequestering ourselves in small spaces and talking through major life decisions with ferver.
Mostly it was me listening as she told me all her grand proclamations and new plans.

The plan to buy her convertible.
The plan to sell her convertible.
The plan to get a dog.
The plan to get rid of the dog after it leaped from the aforementioned convertible onto a freeway overpass while she was driving.
The plan to drive across country with a boyfriend to live at a skydiving school in New York in a commune style tent and sky dive all the livelong day.

That one didn't last long.

It was a great couple of years.
Both of us single and carefree.
Years full of rap music and emailing back and forth when we should have been working.
We pierced our noses together.
She was the church secretary - which was hilarious in itself.

We used to barbecue every other day and stay out all night.
We once totally swept a contest on the radio for concert tickets by writing the most fabulous rap, ourselves, about why we should win.
We went out dancing.
We camped.

It was basically completely awesome.

...........And that's what we were both thinking as we sat there holding the babies.

Remember the days.....

They are days that are still in us, though.
We could never be the type to completely let that go in exchange for bouncy seats, sippies and bibs.

She even said to me,
"Ker, in your expert opinion..."
and then I held my breath for what she thought I was an expert in.
Sweat pants?
Banging one's head against the wall?
Best possible stain remover for dog vomit?

"Did my hair look better with highlights or how it is now - solid color?"

Oh thank GOD.
I have not lost it completely.
She is actually CURRENTLY looking at me and STILL values my opinion on hair.
All is not lost.

I'm glad, because there is a list of things that we vowed to never give up:
1) Good haircuts
2) Fashionable dress - at least 70% of the time.
3) Making SOME time for who we are. As women. Not just as moms.

Maybe it's something simple, like keeping a copy of Lucky magazine in the bathroom for you to thumb through while you wait for you toddler to finally go poop instead of just sitting there playing with the toilet paper roll.
"That's enough. I SAID that's enough."

Maybe it's just making sure the spit up is at the very least BLENDED into your hair so that the line of stiffness because of wax vs. stiffness because of vomit is too blurred to tell.

Maybe it's STILL doing cat eyes even if you ARE only going to Pinercrest Park for the 40th time this month. Even if you are also wearing yoga pants.

The Kerri I am now with my three kids and husband and spinning dog is my best Kerri.

It's the one I've wanted to be since the time I was old enough to talk and tell people what I wanted to be when I grew up.
This has always been it. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

But I'm also Kerri who likes Hip Hop.
Kerri who likes driving with the windows down at night with my music turned up.
I'm Kerri who doesn't want to come in when the sun goes down.
Who likes black nail polish and girl time and not being beckoned before I'm good and ready.
I sometimes want a hoop where my nose stud is.
I like 8 Mile.
A LOT.
I like pool parties, and a good glass of red.

Today, bathed in children and burp cloths and memories,
Beth reminded me again of who I am, and that me is more than just one thing.

I'm a great mom - (Despite what Alena may have thought at the park on Saturday.)

But sometimes even moms need a good bass beat.