Thirteen years ago, I was pregnant. I was only 27 weeks preggers with my first little bambino. All of the books said that he'd come at 30 weeks. So, that's what I believed would happen. (Of course, all of the books were correct at that point in my pre-parenting antics). However, after peeing myself repeatedly (this was pre-childbirth so it was not a routine part of life at that point), I phoned a friend. She laughing told me that my water had most likely broken and that I needed to call the midwife. Um.... I remember sort of trying to be in denial about the whole situation - especially since Eric was out of town. So, I called the midwife. She told me to take two Tylenol and get some rest and then meet her at the hospital the next morning. Seriously. That's what she said. I called Eric and he headed home.
After a rough night of sleep (the Tylenol was pointless), we headed to the hospital the next morning.
After a relatively easy labor, Grant's shoulders becoming stuck and having to be popped out of me, and me having to be put back together again like Humpty Dumpty, I was ready to go home. (I was so stupid to have gone with natural child birth. Who knew an epidural could be so wonderful)?
Grant was the first-born child and grandchild. He's always erred on the side of being spoiled rotten. I've had to repeatedly explain to my father that Grant cannot walk on water and does not need his every whim catered to. However, when I look back at what he's endured as a part of this nuthouse, he probably does deserve a little bit of spoiling.
I'm avoiding getting too emotional about the situation but, despite this really weird and stinky stage of life he's in, I couldn't ask for a more wonderful son. How many 13 year olds do you know who are capable of doing laundry, doing dishes, cutting grass, changing diapers, cooking dinner, babysitting a demanding toddler, and trying to protect his mama and sisters from all of the terrors of the world?
Like I said, if I dwelled too much on the sentimental side of this whole birthday thing, I'd end up as a babbling fool tonight. I'm just sticking with being a fool for now.
Hmmm... Where to start? Well, first, let's just say that if you didn't notice, you landed on a new blog page. This space has been my venting area for the last three years. This is where I've written some pretty nasty stuff and let it simmer before coming to my senses. I've never published from this site before. Since I somehow revoked my own administrative privileges for the other site, I cleaned this area out to use for now. Those who followed the other blog by email feed only won't have a clue what happened but... Maybe I'll get a personal call from Google one day with the answer to my technology issues. Maybe not, though. For now, I'll settle in here.
Here's the update since the last blockbuster about my New Year's Eve party...
The remainder of my break was uneventful. I decided to get overzealous and go all Pinterest on my entry area only to end up with black spray paint all over the "hardwood" floor and carpet on the bottom step. Just because the paint can guarantees "low over-spray," don't believe it. It lies. However, a couple of hours with a Magic Eraser fixed it all. Maybe I'll go back and give you the details of the whole escapade because it was actually quite histerical now that I look back. At the time, I really thought I'd tranversed about four circles of Dante's Inferno with three kids in tow. We all ended up with spray paint covered feet. When I ran to WalMart to buy non-spray paint to finish the door, I slid socks on which sort of melted together with the paint to glue my socks to my feet. No, I'm not kidding. I could also tell you how mortified I was when I realized that although I'd put my socks and shoes on, I had not put my bra on. There I stood in WalMart assuming THE pose that all ladies know. I don't think I've ever pulled that sort of stunt before but I embarrassed myself enough that I'm pretty sure it'll never happen again! When things don't go as I planned, I lose all of my senses!
Sunday, it was time to commit to going somewhere to church. I've been visiting churches for the last several weeks trying to find my spot. I feel sort of like a round peg trying to fit into a square hole. Never mind the fact that I also have three other little pegs that I'm trying to fit into matching spots, too. It's been overwhelming. So, I made what I sort of considered the "easy" choice and just went back to my home church where I grew up. It's not right for many reasons but for this Season, it works. With that being said, I also went to Sunday school. I purposely did not go to the Sunday school class inhabited by Jello girl or any of her cronies. There's no way I could keep a straight face after watching her pop like a can of biscuits during that party. (Can I just say that I have a hard time using the term "biscuit" to refer to ample body parts about the burst from their confines now thanks to Honey Boo Boo's familys' use of the term for a very specific body part. Ewww). However, while I was nicely tucked into a large class so I wouldn't be noticed too much, I looked around and spotted someone that made my stomach churn. Remember my New Year's Eve fiasco? Do you happen to remember the guy that I quite rudely said, "No," to? Ha! There he sat. What are the chances? Once again, he had a name tag on. There was no mistaking him. I wish I could have seen the look on my face. I probably looked like I was choking on a live squid. Has he seen me? Do I go apologize for being so rude? Do I act like I'm clueless and just ignore him? Ashamedly, I just ignored him and then rushed for the door when it was over. Oh boy. As I've thought this over, part of me keeps saying, "Why do you think you're so special that he would remember your rudeness?" Then, the other part of me says, "It doesn't matter if he does or doesn't remember what you said. It's bothering you that you treated someone (other than my children) like an old sippy cup of milk that was just discovered under the car seat in July." Anyway, there's not much I can do about it today. I don't know what I'll do.
After Sunday school, I met some girls at the Cheesecake Factory for our annual reunion. How sad is it that we spent years together. Two of us live within a mile of each other and one takes Annie to school every day but we only see each other once a year.
Then, there was today. I managed to get everyone up and out of here by 6:20. It was not the easiest thing I've done in my life. At one point, I felt like I was trying to round up a bunch of zombies, strap them into what would become a moving vehicle, and then push them out the door at their various locations before getting my day underway. Fun.
I made it through the day without yawning too much. When I picked Annie up, the sitter asked her if she needed to pee before leaving. Annie quickly said, "No," and I strapped her back into the van to go get in car line to get the big kids. As usual, Annie and I chatted as we waited. She quickly informed me that she'd gotten a "sad face" today for kicking someone. Ah... The last of the Randolphs with a clean record. Her defense was, "It was an accident." However, upon further questioning, there seemed to have been quite a skirmish over who would get to drive the "bus" on the playground and you're supposed to put your foot out to keep others from getting there first. Personally, that sounds more like a tripping penalty to me but, call it what you want, it was her way of getting what she wanted.
I thought all was well despite the loss of the last incident free child. I got the larger convicts and made it home. I let Grant out (he can't get out of the van once I'm in the garage due to the remainder of the wall), parked, got out, opened Annie's door, unstrapped her, and then heard her say, "That pee is just running down my leg like a warm tickly river." Huh? What did you say? I did the quick check feel that only a mom can do to see what damage has been done. My assessment from the front made me breathe a sigh of relief. Not too bad. Um.... Let's think about gravity. Liquids go downhill. I checked the back to find she was soaked. She'd soaked the car seat and it seems that she was sitting at the perfect angle so that the pee tricked down through the buckle and onto the van seat. I could have driven the van through a car wash with the windows and sunroof open and it wouldn't have been that wet. Do you know what a major pain in the butt it is to pull a car seat out and wash the padding? Not what I had on my Things to Do for Fun list. So, I got the party started and climbed to the back of the van, unhooked the tether strap and managed to only think a few unkind words. Then, I got the LATCH buckles out even though they seemed to be glued into the seat. At one point, I might have stepped back and fallen out of the van and acted like a rabid raccoon. Finally, I got the seat out, stripped the cover, and tossed it in the wash. Now... what to do about the pee covered seat? Please don't judge my next actions. Desperate times call for desperate measures. As I surveyed the damage and tried to towel dry the area, I looked over and saw an entire box of cat litter. A light bulb went off. Cat litter is made specifically for sopping up pee. Ha! I'm so smart! I dumped about half of the box into the seat and rubbed it around. (This is one of those situations where leather seats would have saved my sanity). I left the litter sitting on the seat and went to fix dinner still thinking that I was one step away from genius.
Dinner was sort of like a scene from Call of Duty. Annie was underfoot and what I had prepped and had on the menu was not what my sanity deemed appropriate. If I'd had my way, it would have been a Little Ceasars sort of night. (However, I was cognizant that I was wearing my pjs and no bra at that point so I was not going to have a repeat of the WalMart scene). Anyway, I threw fish sticks and fries in the oven. I didn't even put them on two different pans. I took a pizza stone, tossed on the frozen fishies and the frozen crinkly fries, threw the oven to 400, threw a bag of broccoli into the microwave and went to vacuum up the cat litter out of the van. Very funny. The litter on the bottom of the pile had, indeed, absorbed some of the pee but it had also gotten wet and smushy. It wasn't easy to vacuum up and I ended up taking the broom and sweeping the litter out of the seat and onto the garage floor. I threw a towel onto the seat and popped the booster seat in. Riding in the booster seat instead of the nice 5-point harness will not bring the world to a stop tomorrow. I went back into the kitchen, called everyone to come eat and used a spatula and slapped a mixture of fish and fries onto paper plates. (Hey, I should have just told them that it was an old English specialty of fish and chips). I did use a bit more finesse when plating the broccoli, though. That crazy guy from Hell's Kitchen didn't have anything on me tonight. I didn't even need a sous chef.
Annie decided she wanted ketchup. I can't blame her. I might have let the fish cook a little too long so they were sort of like eating hollow, crusty, logs. Instead of getting ketchup, she grabbed cocktail sauce. Can I just tell you that the cocktail sauce was a remnant from a former life? Ah... shrimp on the grill... broiled shrimp... coconut shrimp... I'm starting to sound like Buba Gump. Oh well. Bottom line, I discovered quite by accident that eating your fish sticks with cocktail sauce instead of ketchup gives you the slight delusion that you're eating something that hasn't been "minced" (aka ground up weird parts) and covered in bread crumbs. It was my moment of happiness tonight.
After dinner, shipping Grant to scouts, and playing ABC Mouse with Annie for way too long so she could earn enough tickets to buy her online hamster a new cage, everyone is bathed and bedded, lunches are packed, agendas are signed, "I'm sorry that I kicked you on accident (purpose)" notes were written by Annie and packed up for delivery tomorrow, and I'm done for the night. I'm wresting with some pretty big decisions right now (finish my doctorate and go ahead and sell my soul to Sallie Mae to finance the degree, job decisions, legal decisions, education decisions for the kids...) and even when I finally collapse at night, my brain continues to run marathons. I'm beginning to think that the Chariots of Fire theme is lodged somewhere in my subconscious and is causing my brain to think it can continue to run these sort of endurance races. Note to brain... you are not made for endurance. You do much better with sprints! Geez. Anyway, there are lots of things going on and despite two weeks off, I need some quiet time to think and get my bearings about what to do. I'm not sure how or when I'm going to be able to do that but it's time to make some hard decisions. I've decided that this will be the year that I stop putting things off thinking that something about my life is going to change. This is the new "normal" and I've got to start making the hard choices from the boundaries of this lifestyle. I wonder if there's any possible way that I could reprogram my brain's playlist and replace Chariots of Fire with the theme from Rocky? Hmmm... That might be more appropriate. Oh, heck. Who am I kidding? The most appropriate song would be the Spongebob Square Pant's theme! Ha!
