Notes From the Nest

Today was Alena's first day of high school.

We woke up when it was still dark out.
Something that is NOT high on my list of favorites.
If God intended us to be awake at those hours, He would have given us basic things then
- Like the ability to SEE.

I helped her blow dry her hair and put on her makeup through bleary eyes.
We discussed which earrings she'd wear.
I microwaved a breakfast sandwich, wrapped it in a paper towel and printed her a map of the campus.
I took pictures of her outside in the designated "First-Day-Of-School-Picture-Spot."
I told her to "do her REAL smile."

Then we were off.

She was quiet through almost the entire car ride.
I kept glancing at her in the mirror.

"Are you nervous?" I asked.
"More excited than nervous, She said.

When we pulled into the bus circle I got nervous.
There was a SEA of kids.
My high school memories came flooding back.
Good, bad, and great.

The freshmen were as obvious as if they'd been doused in red paint.
Not just because they were smaller, but because their pupils took up the entire colored part of their eyes, and lots of them were still with a parent.
Like Bush Babies, every last one.
They all looked like if you shouted, they'd scatter and shake and cling to a limb.

There were two freshman boys standing in front of the main sign.
It was clear they'd probably called each other last night and agreed to meet there.
They poured nervously over their schedules and looked back and forth at the map, then around the school, trying to figure out what to do and where to go.

Obviously THEIR parents hadn't taken them to the campus on two separate days to walk around and find each class to help ease their first day panic even though it was a hundred degrees and they had three other little kids with them complaining that they were hot.

*Eh hem*

I noticed the big girl with greasy hair who walked alone.
Day one and she already looked like she knew her year would be awful.

I could see the senior boys surveying the new girls,
and the senior girls who knew they would be and had,therefore, dressed accordingly.

I saw girls that looked like they thought prom was on the very first day.

I saw boys who looked like their parents had thrown them in the back of a truck still asleep and dumped them at the front steps with just an uncrustable in a bag.

I saw a lot of new shoes, and some kids you could tell had maybe never had some.

I started sighting several of Alena's friends from Jr. High and felt relief for her because I TOTALLY remember how it felt the first day.
I had spotted the only person I knew and clung to her.
My life raft in shark infested waters.

I'll never forget walking into science class and attempting to sit looking super cool in the swivel chairs they had at the tables
and having mine fly out from underneath me leaving me flat on my back on the floor.

Hi. I'm Kerri. Nice to meet you all. Are my bangs flat now?

I saw what I viewed as the trendy, the lonely, the goths, and the geeks,
and then I saw my daughter exit the car and gather her stuff, kiss me goodbye, and head off to greet her friends like it was nothing.

I felt so proud of her.

Like, Dangerously close to bursting into song proud.

Proud because I know that she won't see things the way you'd worry some kids would.
Proud knowing she will look past the skinny lonely boy and see that he's really super smart and fun to be around.
Proud that she'll probably try to befriend the big girl because she doesn't like it when people are alone.

Sometimes watching her feels like watching magic happen.

Alena is a friend to everyone.
She's a complimenter.
She's an encourager.
She sees a need and tries to fill it.

She is going to totally thrive.
I just know it.

I mean, I wish I REALLY knew it - Like with surveillance video or one of those Nanny Cams disguised as a bear or something, but still...

I circled around in the car and drove past her slowly, rolling down my window.
She was standing talking to a friend I didn't even know.
I did loud fake wailing cries and yelled her name as I passed.
It was really the least I could do.
I mean, I DO have a reputation to uphold.

She waved and I drove.
I was blocking up the bus circle with my neediness.

And then I got just past the school and started to feel like I was choking.

This was it.
I'd nudged her from the nest and she was flying on her own.
As a matter of fact, she hadn't even looked back at me until I'd called her name.
It's happening.
She's leaving me.

Before I knew it she'd be sitting in bleachers watching her boyfriend on the field under the field lights;
Excited breath like smoke in the night air.
Soon she'll be driving and wanting to go to dances and maybe even, Dear God help me,

on DATES.

I feel like she is ready, but also like there are some things she still needs to know.

Like
That this is when it really begins.

That these are the years she will probably remember most and think back on most often.
At least until she has children of her own and then is left thinking only about how fast they're growing up.

That the words she says now will be remembered and worn and used to form someone's sense of self,
so to choose them carefully.

That the words other people say to her can do one of two things.
They can scar her or they can spur her on, and which one they do is up to her.

That every hurtful thing that happens in those walls can be turned to triumph.

That one day she can look back and use every episode, every trial, every heartbreak for her own good.
Stepping stones to personal greatness.
That growth cannot happen without pain. Stretching hurts, but it's necessary to keep you flexible.

That she will probably get her heart broken at least once by someone she wished would love her,
and meanwhile,
another someone would love her and she'd never even know it.
That one day she'd look back and be grateful that she got passed by by that heart-breaker,
because she will see that it led to someone who could love her in the way she could never even understand in high school.

That she doesn't have to be the smartest,
the most beautiful,
the most popular,
the most wealthy,
the most athletic,
or the best at everything.
That all she needs is to be herself, because who she is is one of the most beautiful treasures - worth more than any title.

That it's OK to struggle at something, because for every struggle, there will be a success at something else and all of life is about balance.

To never judge herself by what she sees in those crappy high school bathroom and gym locker mirrors.
They're warped and scratched and are never your true reflection anyway.

That her thoughts of herself will be in constant metamorphasis, but mine and God's will not.

I will never doubt who she is.

She is mine and I am hers and that is all that matters.
Just as it's always been from that very first time I sat alone with her in the hospital room with her tiny hand wrapped around my index finger.

And I know she needs to learn this on her own.
I know that my words cannot ever be her only teacher.
I know that some lessons cannot be taught by another person, but only by experience.

But I hope, above all, that she can always choose to see the value in herself that I see in her.
That she will never surrender that easily.

Today was the first day since her very first day in school that I haven't written a note on the napkin and tucked it in her lunch.

This note just wouldn't fit on a napkin.

Alena, I love you.

Now FLY.

Perceived Crisis, Meet Actual Crisis

The other day we set out for the outlet malls.
We all piled into the van as usual with Chloe and Tessa fighting over which booster seat they'd get and Alena begging to PLEASE sit by Paige and NOT *eyeroll* by them.
Nothing new under the sun.
I settled my purse by my feet and secured my water bottle into the cup holder.
I handed Paige a book over my shoulder as she has trained me.
Then I put the car in reverse and began to back out of the driveway.

That was the moment a cry rang out from the backseat unlike any I had ever heard.
A WAIL like a siren.
A cry so loud,
so panic stricken,
so alarming,
that I was POSITIVE when I turned around there would be blood splatter on the back window, and limbs strewn about.

It was Tessa.

The veins in her neck were bulging and her eyes were the size of dinner plates.
She looked clammy.

I slammed on the brakes.

"Tessa?! What on EARTH is the matter?!" I asked.

When I heard the answer, I just sat frozen.
I locked eyes with her in the rear-view mirror and just kept staring for a minute.
Was this for real?
Was this really happening?
Was I on some sort of acid trip?

"My seatbelt isn't buckled yet."
She moaned.

Now I am all for safety while in a car.
I am 100% on board with always ALWAYS buckling up.
I have actually reported parents to the police before who I have seen driving with their toddler standing up on the rear seat completely unbuckled.

It wasn't the being unbuckled.
It was the complete and utter PANIC that happened before and as she told me.

"Tessa. It's OK. Just tell me next time. Good grief. You almost gave me a stroke."

It took a good 10 minutes for her to return to her normal self.
15 before she was back to annoying Chloe.

What a freak.

Then, the very next day, while I was applying my makeup, I heard footsteps.
It was Alena.
Her hands were clasped around something I couldn't see and her face was ashen.

"Mama! I need help!" She said.
The tone of her voice was worry mixed with fear and had a dash of terror added.
She was almost shaking.

I got worried.

The weirdest thing is that the first thing my imagination came up with that was happening was that she was clasping some sort of mangled baby bird that the kitten had gotten ahold of.
I was picturing making sutures out of fishing line, and possibly having to heat the hot glue gun.

When she opened her hands, it took me a second to even figure out what she was holding.

What IS that?......

"Tessa broke it. I can't get it to work now."
Her voice cracked like she was on the very brink of tears.

The Laser pointer.

It was the LASER POINTER?!
The little key-chain attachment laser pointer that we got to play with the kitten?

The battery was missing.
The button was jammed.

For the love of all that is Holy.

Can someone please explain to me how a LASER POINTER is worthy of tears and trembling and sending one's own mother into stress triggered A-FIB?

"Honey. This is NOT a crisis. I will fix it later when I'm done getting ready."
"But the BUTTON IS STUCK!" She burst.

And that is when I realized:

My kids have NO ability to judge the difference between PERCEIVED crisis and ACTUAL crisis.
And I realized it was time they learn.

Therefore,
I have created a master list of scenarios to aid in the detection of Actual Crisis.
When in doubt, they can access this list and weigh out the likenesses of their own situation in their own minds.

I hope this helps:
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
PERCEIVED CRISIS vs. ACTUAL CRISIS

*There is a man with a chainsaw hiding in your rear floor-board after you pump gas. You do not see him until it is too late.
*ACTUAL CRISIS

*Tessa won't hang up her swimsuit and the floor got wet by your bed.
*PERCEIVED CRISIS

*Your shoelace gets caught in the rungs of the escalator at the mall and your foot is then detached at the ankle in front of multiple onlookers.
Mall goers shriek and panic. A stampede breaks out.
*ACTUAL CRISIS

*"She got the pink one."
*PERCEIVED CRISIS

*A flash flood ravages your entire county and the only way out of your home is by helicopter that never comes.
You are forced to eat a beloved family pet.
*ACTUAL CRISIS

*Chloe is laying on the right side of the bed and you wanted that SIIIIIIIIIIDDDDDDEEEEE. And she had it LAST time!!!!!!!
*PERCEIVED CRISIS

*You are casually looking out of a 50 story window when an earthquake hits, shattering the glass and pitching you outside where you hang on to the window ledge by your fingertips. You then remember that earlier in the day you had received a text message saying that your mother had been kidnapped and if you did not respond to the text by 3:00pm, she would be tortured and killed. You had forgotten to respond. It is now 2:59pm.
*ACTUAL

*The bee won't leave your meat alone.
*PERCEIVED

* Your arm gets wedged in between boulders and you have to use your own pocket knife to cut it off and then find help after two days of drinking your own urine for hydration.
Everyone you love thinks you're dead.
*ACTUAL CRISIS

*Someone drank the last watermelon Honest Kids and you really wanted that last Honest Kids because last time you asked for it and she took it and then she promised you that you could have it the next time but then she took it anyway even though she told you you could have it next time, and......

*PERCEIVED
FREAKING
CRISIS.

To make matters even more clear, dear children, I have also composed a
CHECKLIST FOR ACTUAL CRISIS.

Use this for self evaluation:

Am I bleeding profusely?
Am I even bleeding at ALL?
Is a crime in progress that is punishable by time in a federal prison?
Do I, or someone around me, suddenly qualify for a teardrop tattoo?
Will it ruin yet ANOTHER article of Mama's clothing?
Is the mere sight of it enough to cause someone to have an actual cardiac event?
Could I die from it?
Could someone I love die from it?
Has anyone in the history of time ever died from it?

If you have answered "Yes" to any of the above questions, Proceed to "Actual Crisis Protocol."

*ACTUAL CRISIS PROTOCOL*
Call 911.

Hello.
Obviously.

If you answered "No", then you will follow "Perceived Crisis Protocol."

*PERCEIVED CRISIS PROTOCOL*
Take a breath.
Sit down.
Consciously make your voice three octaves lower than is your first crisis-loving instinct.
That VOICE you're using technically gives ME reason to use Actual Crisis Protocol.

*If something you own is cracked, broken, leaking, melting, wilting, running, torn, too soft, too hard, too cold or too hot- NOT A CRISIS.
*If you are bleeding but I still would require a magnifying glass to locate the injury- NOT A CRISIS.
*If anyone took your anything and you had it first - I repeat - NOT A CRISIS.

People have REAL needs in life!
Food.
Water that is not contaminated.
Vaccines.
Shelter from the elements.

You want help picking the bits of your chewed up La La Loopsy out of the dog crate because your arms are sore from the Wii?
That's not one of them.

If you spend most of your days with a roof over your head and a big bowl of something called "Cheddar Rockets" in your lap and you never have to leave your seat to even get the mail let alone find a well,
chances are you will rarely ever have an ACTUAL CRISIS.

I'm not trying to be mean.
I'm just trying to do my job as a mother.
The job that says that I need to somehow form you into an adult that doesn't freak out every time they have to stand in line or they don't get the parking spot they want.
An adult that can hold it together in Costco when for some unexplicable reason Kleenex stops making their kleenex boxes in 16 oz. size and now they are 14 oz.s for the same price.

And who checks the weight on Kleenex ANYWAY?!

It's my duty that you know this.

It's my job to make you awesome and to teach you how to handle things and to simply COPE.

So, in summary:

There are far too many nut jobs out there already.

Don't be one of them.

Take a deep breath,
Assess the list,
And

JUST

CALM

DOWN.

Thumb-Down to Top-Up

I had to call Virgin Mobile tonight.
Calling tech-support is the bane of my very existence.

Justin and I, and our po-dunk roots are ghetto, and we have only recently even stepped up from flip phones with 1.5 inch screens.
The switch was prompted by looking around at dinner one night as all our friends watched the latest You-Tube video on their iPhones and we just sat picking our teeth, unable to watch You-Tube on phones that were less technologically advanced than Etch-a-Sketches.

We upgraded, and therefore now have the ever illustrious pay-as-you-go plan that requires "Top-Up" cards be purchased once a month at Target and then loaded onto our accounts in order for our phones to work at all.
It's cheap, and cheap is good;
But it's ghetto.

Last night I had purchased said cards and applied them to our phones online.
I have done it multiple times.
I'm no Steve Jobs, but I'm no chimpanzee, either.
I had made sure to read the
"Congratulations! Your Top-Up is complete!" message after both Top-Ups, and rejoiced the next day when my phone was working again.

Justin, however, was not so lucky.

His phone said it was out of minutes still.
He'd tried to text me twice today and the text just got bounced back.

So I called them and I tapped my fingers.

Just like I had called last month when I added minutes and for some reason the minutes I'd added to his phone had been added to mine,
resulting in me having double the minutes I needed and him having none.

It had taken 3 Indian men and a prayer to a cow to figure it out and transfer the minutes from my account to his.

They told me I must have keyed something in wrong.

I told THEM, "False."

This time when I called I got a sweet little woman, at least a continent away, who I can only guess was new, and who promised
"I will try and be doing everything in my power to be of assistance to you with your troubles."

Golly.
Thanks.

THESE are the events which followed:


AGENT: "HOW MAY I BE HELPING YOU, MAAM?"

ME: "Well, yesterday I bought two top-up cards. One for my phone and one for my husband's. When I brought home the top-up cards and applied them online, it said everything had been successful, but today my husband's phone is not working. When I applied the cards last month, this same thing happened. It ended up that, for some reason, both top-up cards had been applied to MY phone only, and then he had no minutes."

AGENT: "I WILL BE SEEING WHAT I CAN DO FOR YOU. MAY I HAVE THE PIN NUMBER FROM THE TOP UP CARD?"

ME: "Do you want the numbers from BOTH cards, or just one?"

AGENT: "OH. YOU SAY YOU HAVE TWO CARDS, MAAM?"

ME: "Yes. That's what I said."

*TYPING*

This is when I explained my whole first paragraph, in entirety, again, and read off the numbers.

ME: "147278378983."
AGENT: "OK. THAT'S '147228378983."
ME: "No. I'll read it again. ONE. FOUR. SEVEN. TWO. SEVEN. EIGHT. THREE. SEVEN. EIGHT. NINE. EIGHT. THREE."
AGENT: "I AM VERY SORRY. I SEEM TO BE MISSING A NUMBER."

I read it again.

Four times.

AGENT: "I AM SORRY, MAAM, BUT IN MY SYSTEM, I AM SHOWING THAT THAT TOP-UP NUMBER HAS ALREADY BEEN USED."

ME: "I know. That is because I used it. Yesterday. When I bought the cards. I went online and used the cards and it told me my top-up was successful."

*pause*

*TYPING*

AGENT: "OH! I AM SEEING, MA'AM. THE PROBLEM I HAVE DETECTED IS THAT THIS ACCOUNT IS ALSO REGISTERED TO KERRI GREEN."

ME: "That is ME. *I* am Kerri Green."

*pause*


AGENT: "MAAM, I AM VERY SORRY BUT YOUR HUSBAND'S ACCOUNT IS SHOWING THAT IT HAS NO MINUTES AVAILABLE, AND BOTH OF THE TOP-UP CARD NUMBERS YOU HAVE GIVEN ME ARE SHOWING UP THAT THEY HAVE BEEN USED."

ME: "That is EXACTLY why I'm calling. Because yesterday I bought two top-up cards and put them on the phones, but one phone is working and the other isn't. I am suspecting that the same thing happened that happened last month, which is that both top up cards got applied to my phone number by mistake, and none got applied to his."

AGENT: "ARE YOU ABLE TO REPEAT THAT PIN NUMBER FOR ME MAAM?"

ME: "I'm sorry. What was that? I was busy jabbing out my eardrums with a burning hot poker. Can you repeat the question?"

AGENT: "I'M AFRAID I CANNOT GET YOUR HUSBAND'S PHONE WORKING IF YOU DO NOT HAVE ANY MINUTES PURCHASED, MAAM."

ME: "But I DID purchase minutes. I purchased TWO CARDS. I think both cards got put on my phone and none ended up on his. I need to transfer minutes from my phone to his phone."

*TYPING*
*MORE TYPING*

AGENT: "CAN YOU BE HOLDING ON FOR JUST ONE MINUTE, MAAM? I AM GOING TO TRY TO GET TO THE BOTTOM OF YOUR ISSUE. I AM THANKING YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE."

Here is where I paused for NOT just one minute, but 10.
Finally, she came back on the line.

AGENT: "MAAM, SORRY TO KEEP YOU WAITING, MAAM. I BELIEVE I HAVE FOUND WHAT IS CAUSING YOUR ISSUE, MAAM. IT APPEARS THAT WHAT HAS HAPPENED IS THAT WHEN YOU ADDED MINUTES WITH THE TOP-UP CARDS YESTERDAY, FOR SOME REASON BOTH TOP-UP CARD AMOUNTS WENT ONTO YOUR PHONE AND YOUR HUSBAND DIDN'T GET ANY."

Oh
for
the
love
of
GOD.

ME: "That is what I said in the beginning! Can I please transfer the minutes?!"

AGENT: "PLEASE HOLD FOR JUST A MINUTE, MAAM, AND I WILL TRANSFER YOU TO THE DEPARTMENT THAT CAN HANDLE THAT FOR YOU. I HOPE I HAVE ASSISTED YOU WITH EXCELLENCE."

Transfer music.

Poking out of eyeballs with mechanical pencil.

Wishing for a wood chipper to stick my head into.

Then it came.
The voice of true help!
Could it be?!
The right department for all of my needs?!

AGENT 2: "HELLO, MAAM. HOW MAY I BEING OF ASSISTANCE TODAY?"

ME: "Well, you see, yesterday I bought two-top up cards........"

Scribble, Scream, Pasta's Mean.

Today was a horrible day.

The kind of day that leaves you wishing you could dive head first into a black hole.

The kind of day where your kids end up in bed at 5:45 blinking at their ceiling,
that is still lit up from the sun,
wondering how they can possibly fall asleep when they can still hear birds chirping outside.

The kind of day where after you put them in bed you lay flat on your own bed with the fan blasting you and you pretend,
just for a second,
that it's blowing chloroform at you and you'll soon be blissfully...... un...aware......

That kind of day.

It started out alright,
but by 9:00 I realized I'd already been thinking of a nap for over an hour.

Not a good sign.

The girls fought
ALL.
DAY.
At one point, Tessa bicycle kicked Chloe's torso and screamed like a banshee because Chloe was about to tattle.
Hours later, Chloe stabbed at Tessa's arm with a mechanical pencil.
Later,
Paige threw a fit I will most likely remember for the rest of my life over PASTA.

As in - I tried to give it to her (sue me) and she didn't want it so her eyes glowed neon green and she turned to stone and I looked up numbers for exorcists
kind of fit.

Who throws a fit over PASTA?
Seriously?
Pasta is loved the world over.
Practically half of Eat, Pray, Love is about it, and I'm pretty sure that was a best-seller.
Pasta is known to cause actual chemical reactions within your body releasing comfort hormones.
COMFORT HORMONES.

I'd say it's one of the most ridiculous reasons to cry EVER, actually.

Pasta.

By the time I gouged my shin on the dishwasher door and almost immediately slammed my pinkie in the silverware drawer I had HAD it.

My body went into auto-pilot mode and I did some weird mime move, shook my hands violently in front of my face, almost said some "naughty words" in front of my kids and then I stormed out the front door to sit on the porch.

I'm stressed today.
I'm worried for someone I love.
I need way more hugs than I get.
And sometimes you just don't want to be the strong one anymore.

I was having a major pity party on the porch.

This was no cute little Georgian porch session sipping sweet tea and smiling at no particular "thang."
This was a scene you'd take one look at and tell whoever you were with to avoid eye contact with "that lady."

I rarely have days like this, actually.
Usually I can laugh it off.
Usually I can keep going and put it all on the back-burner while doing crafts out of dowels and flower tape.

But not today.

Today I wanted to scribble and stomp and scream.
Today I wanted to kick a can.
Hard.
I want to dig things up and stomp on something crunchy.

Today I wanted to just be MAD.

So I sat on the porch fuming.

And I looked out at the world.

And I realized how small the frustrations I was having were.


I started to soften.


Time passed and I thought and I went back inside.

Still frustrated enough for the 5:45 bed time.

Still frustrated enough for laying on the bed and the fan and this blog.

But, as I lay on the bed and felt the blowing,
more than air hit me.


I thought of some people I know who just lost their baby.
A pain that cannot be fathomed or stormed away.

I bet they would love a fit over pasta.

I thought about the truly lonely people.
The ones who don't have "I love you, Mama. Fum Chloe" pictures littering their desk tops, or the hilarious Tessas narrating their days.
How it might seem great to have the quiet and the alone time, but how really -
The silence of loneliness would just about deafen you.

I thought about how I could POSSIBLY be frustrated at Chloe who nurtures me, even though I'M the mom.
At Tessa who makes me laugh a hundred times a day.
At Paige who's version of the word "Octopus" is enough to melt me into the inability to ever be frustrated at her ever again.
Possibly even enough to last me through the teenage years.
"Ahbuss?"
AMAZING.

Actually everything I have is amazing.

There are things I am frustrated over that some people would LOVE to have.

Today I took Alena to a doctor's appointment and while she was in the room, a nurse came out and literally spent 20 minutes MOONING over Paige.
Saying she was the cutest thing she'd ever seen. EVER. She actually used the word. She was seriously enamored.

At the end of the 20 minutes, she mentioned that she only had "fur babies."
That she'd never had kids and she just thought I was so so lucky.

And I thought - "Dude. Do you want her for awhile? I'll just go out for a bit. I'll leave a snack and an Elmo book or something. She's cool."

It's all about perspective.

It's about gratefulness for every day.

Even the "horrible" ones.

My most horrible one is a walk in the park to some people.

So now I have decided I'm OVER IT.

Happy is a choice and I'm making it.

I have a home.
I have food.
I have beautiful children who are healthy and awesome, and possibly smarter than me.

The last thing I need is an imaginary horrible day.

The Great Tessini

Tonight Tessa came into my room and announced,

"I have a magic show for you! Prepare to be amazed!"

I could see her rubbing a quarter around her left ear lobe and I thought I knew where her show was headed.


I was wrong.


She then told us all to close our eyes.

That alone scared me, but I did it because curiosity beat out experience.
Then we heard her say,

"Abbra Caddabrah! You can all open your eyes!"

When we did,
she was just standing there with her arms out to her sides, her head tilted towards the ceiling, her eyes closed, and a grin on her face, as if she had triumphed.

The four year old King of the World.

I questioned if I had missed something.
Wasn't there supposed to be a quarter somewhere?

Then Chloe yelled out,
"It's in her underwear! EWWWWWWWWWWW! It is! It really is! I saw her put it in!"

"CHLOE! I SAID no peeking!"


"Tessa," I asked,
"Did you put a quarter in your underwear?"

"No." She said.
"It's definitely not there. It's.......somewhere else. I didn't....."

"Yes she did."
Chloe said.
"Hahaha. Tessa's got money in her undies!"

Tessa shot Chloe a look.

I noticed her nightgown was a little bunchy and her legs were knock-kneed.

"Tessa?" I asked,
"Then why are you standing that weird way? What's going on with your bottom? Do you need cream?"

"There is nothing going on with my bottom, My Lady. Goodnight."

Then she backed out of the room as quickly as she had entered, though slightly more awkward.


Moments later, she re-entered, I thought to show the retrieved quarter in question in order to wow and astonish.


Wrong again.


"I'm sorry."
She said.

"I believe I forgot to introduce myself...."

Diapers, Dressing, and Desperation - A Shopping List

Tonight I took all four kids on 3 hours worth of errands.
Errands that I had to run so that I didn't end up having to run them on Mother's Day.
(A day that I think should always be written in quotes, anyway.)

"Mother's" Day.

More like "Mother's Six Minutes Before You Need To Get Off Your Butt and Make Me a Snack."

We went to Target and Costco and Trader Joes.

Basically every store you don't want to have to take even ONE kid to.

First up was Target.

The girls wanted what they call a "car cart."
This is the Green Family term for any cart that can hold them all at once to keep Tessa from opening Dixie cup packages and filling them with Scope and Chloe from whining that she feels weak from all the walking and needs to be carried.
So I grabbed one and strapped them in, smiling,
forgetting that it's not necessarily easier just because they're all in one spot.
Now you actually have to MOVE them all,
which, when your kids are so heavy they won't even register on the growth chart,
takes the strength of Sampson.

I was struggling so hard to even get the cart started and push them up that blasted bump strip before the main entrance that my body was at a 45 degree angle to the cart.
I won't even get STARTED on asking what the purpose of that bump strip even IS.
In my mind, it's there to begin my inevitable Target panic attack.

At the exact moment where several blood vessels burst and sweat began to bead on my upper lip,
Kim Kardashian walked out of the store and passed me, giving me a smirk as she tip-toed in her stilettos across the strip.
OK.
So maybe it wasn't the ACTUAL Kim Kardashian, but close enough.
No doubt smiling because THAT poor woman had to push a load nearing 110 pounds BEFORE the shopping had begun, and all she had to hold was this precious little sparkly clutch, which, added to HER weight was merely HALF of that number.

I thought several Non-Christian thoughts by the time I walked through the automatic doors into the store.
Thoughts that involved accelerants and seam rippers.
But, there's no need to go into detail on THAT.

I pushed on.

"Don't touch that."
"Put that back."
"Don't poke her eyelid."
"Don't even THINK about it."

Determined to let nothing come between me and The Paper Plates.

Like the Holy Grail to a mother of multiple children.

Actual dishes are for Christmas.
Everyone knows THAT.

By the time I'd walked five feet, EACH kid had already asked for someting.
"Can we have goldfish crackers?"
"Can I get out? My legs are cramping."
"Can I pretend I'm not with you guys?"
"GOG?!"

You get to guess who said what.

We went through Target in our usual way.
One of the kids ripping something and me stuffing it in the back of a shelf and praying we weren't caught on camera,
forgetting something (Even though it was on the list) and having to go back all the way across the store,
leaving a trail of crackers we hadn't even paid for yet, but I'd ripped into to shut someone up,
me wondering if I was having a stroke, etc.

Once we left there, we were on our way to Costco, where we always saunter in without ever having to show our Costco card.
Everyone knows us there.
"Wow. You're like a celebrity here!" Alena mused.

Yeah.
In the same way Gary Busse and Joan Rivers are celebrities.
Because they're freaking CRAZY TRAIN WRECKS, and you just can't look away.

Everywhere we go we cause a scene.
Or at least I feel like we do.

The mere fifteen minutes spent feeding Paige some pizza and letting her try a berry smoothie in the Costco food court tonight was enough to almost have our membership revoked.
There was pizza all over the floor and cascading into my purchases, A kind man appeared presenting her left shoe (?), and there was a large gap of un-taken seating mysteriously surrounding us.

There was a brief moment where I wondered if what she was doing was actually Epilepsy,
but nope.
Just passion for blended fruit.

I would not be surprised if Justin comes home telling me that they've created a "Special V.I.P. Exit just for us next time!"

We had the typical meltdown when Paige realizes that Daddy's staying at Costco and not coming with us where she screams as loud as she can and attempts to break free from the cart seat belt and leap into oncoming cart traffic, followed by the typical episode of me reading lips as I see people asking Justin,
"Is that YOUR kid making that sound?"

I left humiliated,
yet with my cart full of cheese and lunch meat, at least three items I never knew I needed, along with delectable frozen pesto Tilapia.

I try to breathe.
We're walking.
We made it.
We're in the home stretch.

Then,
on the way to the van,
Tessa opts to dart in a zig-zag pattern while making the face of a loon,
right in the path of an oncoming truck with an approximately 107 year old driver who - surprise, surprise- doesn't see her.
I suddenly got tunnel vision.
Then instinct kicked in and my arm shot out like a .bungee, grabbing her and yanking her back to me, where she gave me a painful flat tire in my already constantly painful leg, ripping my shoe off, and leaving me limping and almost crying.
Then she started shrieking.
"You're HURTING me!"
"AAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
Then Paige, Whose Spiritual Gift is Sympathy Crying, started wailing, too, as if she was watching a live reel of Elmo being hanged.

Cars were pulling over thinking it was the Fire Department coming up from behind.
People were pausing from loading their 16 gallon mayo jugs into their trunks and staring.

"Hi.
It's just Us.
The Greens.
Back again.
No need to call CPS.
I was merely saving her life.
No need for alarm."

*Wave. Nod. Vow to never return.*

SO HELP ME, IF YOU DON'T STOP SHRIEKING RIGHT THIS MINUTE, I AM GOING TO TAKE ALL YOUR BARBIES, AND COLOR IN ALL YOUR COLORING BOOKS, AND NEVER LET YOU WEAR THOSE PURPLE PATENT LEATHER SHOES YOU LOVE EVER EVER AGAIN - NOT EVEN ON YOUR BIRTHDAY.

OK.
So I didn't say that.

But I wanted to.

Once we reached the van, I just started shoving kids in.
I was giving The Look as I buckled.
THE look.
The look passed down to me from my mother
and my mother's mother.

There I was shoving food into the back of the car on top of piles of beach parephenalia from the trip we started to take last week and never accomplished due to the stomach flu popping up mid-drive.
Precariously balancing the paper plates from Target and the three pack of lunch meat that will be eaten in two days,
all to the continuing sounds of Tessa and Paige HOWLING out into the night.
Just waiting for their wolfish fur to appear.

I saw Alena checking the clock and mournfully and pointedly looking at me as if to say,
"It's already 7:40. I was supposed to be at Gabby's 10 minutes ago."

I can't blame her.
I wouldn't want to spend the weekend with us, either, right now.

Alena,
You can either have the sounds of screaming and choking on pizza cheese, or, you can have a luxury trip to the country club with a day spent in the pool.

A hundred pleads to PLEASE take your sister, or, Gabby's Esthetician mom offering you a facial.

Me nudging you at 9:00 because the dog just threw up and I need you to hold Paige back out of it while I clean it, or, sleeping in until noon and being hand fed grapes while you swing in a hammock.


CHECK.
A.
BOX.

Yeah.
Gabby's.
Can I come, too?
I won't, like, TALK or anything....

This is when I realized I still had to go to the grocery.
At Gabby drop off time.
At little kid bed time.

I only needed a few things, thankfully, so I left all the girls in the car with Alena and ran in.

I thought I'd be in and out, until I realized I was ALONE and had some sort of strange moment where my lip did a half-smile about nothing in particular and I found myself circling the pears three times.

"Oh. I'm sorry. Am I in your way?" a lady asked.
"No. I actually don't have a clue what I'm doing." I said.

She laughed.

I wasn't kidding.

I got all the usual things and headed to the line.
Sad to see my 10 minutes of silence and peaceful thought coming to an end.

"And how are YOU tonight?!" the chipper check out guy asked.
He couldn't have been more than 22.

I remember 22.......

He was covered in tattoos.
Trendy hair.
No deep set bags under his eyes from nights spent hyperventilating that one of the kids MIGHT wake up and WANT SOMETHING.

Obviously, the only care in his world being if his iTunes purchase downloaded correctly.
"Are you doing anything fun tonight?!" He chimed.

"I just ran errands for three hours with four kids,"
I said.
"The most fun I'm having tonight will come at about 9:03 after they're in bed."

He laughed like I wasn't serious.

The next stop was Gabby's, where Alena got out, tried 6 times to record a video of Tessa, rolled her eyes because it wasn't working out how she wanted, and then sighed and said she'd get it tomorrow.

When she opened the trunk to get her stuff, 10 yogurts, a coconut water and all our bananas came flying out onto the driveway.
A yogurt broke open.
The white, curdly proof that we,
The FABULOUS Greens, had been there, too.

Our Calling Card, of sorts.

"DON'T LEAVE ME WITH THEM," I begged as we cleaned it all up.
She, too, laughed like I wasn't serious, and shouted that she loved me over her shoulder.

I actually believed it until she practically banged the door in with obvious desire to be ANYWHERE but where she'd been for the last three hours.

*sigh*

Kerri Green -
Kicking Mother's Day weekend off with a bang -

With some gagged up cheese on my iPad case, yogurt covered groceries, and a most likely permanent look of desperation.

Crazy Cakes

This link appeared on my Facebook page twice today.
Kids snack ideas on steroids.



Cutest little idea I
ever
did
see!

Look at those perfectly chopped bits of celery made into grassy knolls!
Look at that shredded carrot leprechaun beard!
Adorbs.

But, people,
in all seriousness -
PUNCH ME IN THE FACE REPEATEDLY if I have to ever

EVER

actually
do this.

I get that there are parents that do this stuff.
They probably live in D.C. And have precise little blunt-cut bobs with bangs.
They have prized geraniums and
they button their shirts up all the way to the tip-top button.
They have a mail box in the shape of a Corgie.
They wear heels even in sand.
They actually polish their silver utensils and those utensils didn't come from Big Lots.

And they probably never come screeching into the bus circle three minutes late every day still wearing pajama pants with paper plates covered in syrup remnant littering their floorboard.

I know they're out there.

They're the parents of the kids with monogrammed Pottery Barn backpacks.
The parents of boys named Kelsey.
They don't have to Google what a "Spice Kitchen" is.

And I admire it.

I really do.
I WISH I had the free time to volunteer in reading group.
I wish I always drove for a field trip and could yammer off the school schedule with the accuracy of Rainman.
I wish I cared about going to the state level of ANYTHING.
But I don't.
I just CAN'T.

I admire the idea,
But something ALSO rises in me to yell "I'm gonna wreck it!" And to pound each perfectly shaped mini crust-less sandwich with giant Wreck-It-Ralph fists.

But I admire it.

Right before I hate it.


Upon first seeing this picture today, the very first thought I had
(besides telling myself to stop making my "Crazy Face")
was that my kids could never ever know food like this existed.

How,
I ask you,
after eating a miniature cheese chicken nestled under a snap pea palm,
would they ever be happy with just regular FOOD shaped food ever again?

I already feel pushed to the upper limits of my sanity just having to butter four pieces of bread with dinner while they ask for ketchup and tell me their sippie cup "tastes funny," and while they raise the corner of their tiny food critic lips at me when they see what I'm presenting.

Why would someone even DO this to me?!
Why does this photo even EXIST?!
Who POSTED THIS?!

Un-friend!

All I can think is that this is some sort of terrorist attack.

Is it not enough to have to pack a regular school lunch when all you can dig from your pantry is the crumbs of some herbed popcorn, a Greek yogurt, and a very questionable zucchini?

I'd like to see what they would make of THAT.
If that was a food picture, I'm pretty sure it would be a tiny edible street in Harlem,
or a person shopping while riding a Lark.

I know I've harped on this before, but America,

STOP OVERCOMPLICATING EVERYTHING!

I can't even pick CAT FOOD easily anymore.
Should I get chicken, or beef, or salmon, or tuna, or tuna flaked chicken with beef sauce?
Does he like shreds or pâté?
Soufflé, or chunks?
Wait.
There's GRAVY?!
Is he a regular adult, or a senior adult,or a "mature" adult?
Good grief!
Can I get assistance on isle 13?!
I mean, this is an animal whose tongue and butt regularly collide.
He's not exactly a connoisseur.

Then there are 103 types of squeezie fruits and two full isles of baby wipes?
Why are we coddling them in this way?

I once wondered what that was coming out of Alena's mouth, only to realize it was fly legs.
There's no way she needed eight types of purple beet purée.
She didn't need a PB and J flower.
What she NEEDED was to not ever kiss me with that mouth again,
that's what.

So just STOP.

You're making moms crazy.
You're making Dads afraid of their own wives because "she's making that weird sound again."
You're making kids into over-indulged brats.

Kids don't need food pictures.
I'll give them a picture.
It's of me telling them to
be still and stop wiggling, wnd gagging, and poking their sister's eye, and to eat their dinner and to
just let me sit for
FIVE FREAKING SECONDS.


Besides,

FYI -

It's weird to eat something that's smiling at you.