A Little Pink On The Inside

So I’ve not been feeling well since yesterday.

Initially I thought it might be the fish and chips I had for lunch yesterday.

For some reason the fish didn’t look right, I ate more chips than fish, neither of which was a good idea.

I made it through the morning today, still not feeling well, got through a two hour training session, came home and tried to make a game plan for the rest of the day.

I didn’t even consider lunch.

By my afternoon appointment, I was really worried they might see my lunch from yesterday in their conference room.

But, it was too late to back out, I plowed ahead, got some crackers, and an hour and a half later, made it back home and crawled into bed at 4 pm, the work day nearly done.

Got the kids dinner, homework, normal sarcasm from Jordan all night when, at about 9 pm as Tyler is headed off to bed, he casually mentions to me, ‘oh yeah, Kelsey (ex-girlfriend who’s been at my house frequently up until, um, Sunday which is when I guess, as Tyler put it, ‘it didn’t work out.’) has the swine flu.’

Hello. Did ya not see me in bed with covers up to my chin at 4 pm?

I said, “Tyler, could you have told me that a little sooner?”

Typical 2009 teenager reply, “well mom, it’s not like were doing the wild thing on the couch. She just came over and watched movies in the living room.”

Ugh. I guess he needs to go back and YouTube or Google biology and germs and swine flu and see that her hand on my front door was enough to turn us all into little oinkers.

And dad, if you are reading this, did I ever, in my 18 years under your roof, refer to ‘doing the wild thing?’ Can you even imagine me saying that now as a just turned 40 year old?

I asked him how sick she is-I feel sick but fortunately, I’ve held down my food, just not feeling well at all-he said she has a temp of 103.

So, if I vanish for a day or two, just know I’m at home, sprouting a cute little curly Q of a tail, and ‘m hoping by Labor day weekend that I’m not taking care of four little piglets.

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Dear Google.

Dear Google,

I want to say thank you.

Last week, during the first week of school, my sixteen year old son announced that he’d figured out all by himself what ‘natural numbers’ are. Well, I think it was natural numbers. Whatever it was, it sounded hard, and what he was looking up was for his new physics class, which meant I was not qualified to reply.

My husband and I stared at him blankly as if he had just asked us to buy him a 2010 Camaro. We didn’t say a word because, well, we had no idea if what he had ‘figured out’ could possible be.

I tried to hide my ignorance to the laws of Physics, other than the fact that I know the gravity in my house seems to be stronger than elsewhere, and seems to instantly pull every kid item, especially socks, straight to the floor, and they’re held there like an enormous magnet is pulling them down. That’s gravity, right?

I asked him how he had taught himself about this new topic, and that’s where you come in.

His first reply was, ‘Well, I YouTubed It.’

Funny, in addition to not knowing Physics, I don’t know English. I didn’t know ‘YouTube’ is a verb.

Before I could reply, he followed that up with, ‘and then I Googled it and found the answer. Between YouTube and Google, I got it.’

When I was in high school, if there wasn’t a cheat sheet, Cliff notes, or a smart friend, I was out of luck.

Imagine what my GPA might have been if Google had been around in 1985! I may have gotten into Harvard!

In the last week, not only have we Googled physics, we’ve also Googled fractions for seventh and eight grade math for two other soon to be brainiacs, thanks to you!

After all, what parent out there, short of engineers and doctors, can remember how to divide or subtract whole number mixed fractions?

Yep, I believe your company might just be the secret into my kids going Ivy League, I’m sure of it.

Of course as I type this, they are probably Googling things I don’t want to know about.

But that’s okay.

Moms know how to Google also and I’ve long since Googled ‘internet spy software.’

I didn’t fall off the SUV yesterday!

Now, if you could just tweak your search formula a little, you would have parents lined up outside your doors for sure.

No matter how hard I try, when I Google ‘how to get boys to pick up their socks’ I get nothing but information on how to get my husband to pick up HIS socks?

Ahhhh…nevermind, I see trend there. It can be our secret.

Signed,

A Grateful Parent

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That’s Him with His Daddy’s Eyes

These are all my babies
Lord knows how we survived
The first one was hard and last was unplanned
What a big surprise
That him with his daddy's eyes. (Sugarland, The Very Last Country Song)

Today is Jordan’s birthday.

I love that song by Sugarland just because of that one verse.

Jordan was certainly a surprise to us, but I would never say unplanned, because clearly he was planned by someone with much more creative ability than Robert and I could ever dream up.

My third son, but I so wanted a girl.

I prayed for a girl, just about offered up the first two boys if God would give me a girl.

But, I remember clearly to this day getting the call that his pre-natal tests had come back at high risk for Down’s Syndrome, the flurry of medical tests that followed, and, finally, the high level ultrasound that oh-so-clearly let us know we were in for lots of testosterone.

I remember being in the ultrasound room, me covered in that stupid cold jelly they smear all over you, half naked, Robert crouched down by the bed, and the doctor saying, “well, so far the baby looks okay, but the only way to know is with an amniocentesis, which has about a 15% risk of a miscarriage. And by the way, you’re having a boy.”

Robert and I looked at each other and there was not even the slightest hesitation that, as much as I prayed and begged for a girl, that we would not risk the life of our third son with any test.

If he came out with Down’s Syndrome, so be it.

We looked at the doctor, thanked them, and waited five long months to find out those test results we’d chosen to skip.

Okay course, he came out fine.

Since the moment he looked at us in the hospital, he has marched to his own drummer.

If he didn’t look so much like our families, I would swear he was baby swapped.

But he is just, so, well, Jordan.

As one of his classmates told him in fourth grade, much to his dismay, he has a ‘strange nature.’

He loves Journey (or any other 80’s rock group) more than Jay Z.

If he tells you he doesn’t like mashed potatoes, listen to him, or they will come right back up, as will any food he doesn’t like. Strong gag reflex doesn’t begin to describe it.

He is sarcastic, funny, witty, has amazing comic timing, but yet once started to bawl because I didn’t tell him “God Bless you” when he sneezed.

He will sit through a horror movie without blinking, but when the movie ‘Bobby’ came out when he was in fourth grade, he became so fascinated with Robert Kennedy and his life, that he listened to ‘The Sound of Silence’ off the soundtrack 59 times in a row, until I finally threatened to delete it out of I-tunes for good if I heard it one more time.

And, lastly, I  LOVE the fact that he is probably going to be the tallest and biggest person in our house. How cool is that when you’ve spent your life as the youngest of three brothers?

He is the surprise baby, that continues to surprise us every single day.

And we are so, so happy that twelve years ago today he landed in our lives.

But we’re still arguing over whose side of the family that mouth and those size 11.5 feet come from.

It ain’t mine!

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Hello, Weekend.

It’s Friday night, this is where my husband found me, as he played with his new I-phone: the bath tub, with my supplies nearby.

It’s been a long, long week. Work trip. Reports. Truck stops. Beef Jerky. Beaver t-shirts. Hotel Food. Zero sleep. Yuck.

The first week of school has come and gone, we are already well into Algebra, Physics, Football and girls.

Work ran past 5 pm today and will likely spill right on over into the weekend.

I crawled into the bathtub at 9 pm or so and just tried to stay awake and not accidentally slip under, inhale a gallon of water, come up choking, and scar my children for life if someone had to do CPR on their choking mother, straight out of a bath tub.

I’m sure Tyler never intended on his life guard CPR training being used on his mom in the bath tub, tired from a long work week. As if. He’d give it a good 5 minutes before he rescued me from drowning in my bubble bath, and I’m sure my three kids would stand just outside the bathroom door and rock-paper-scissors their way into deciding who went in first. I’d be half dead.

Anyways, there I was, in my bubbles, Cheez Its on hand, Julie Child’s bio nearby. The only thing you can’t see is my glass of wine.

Oh, and I had sunglasses on to hold my hair back because I’ve learned a short hair lesson the hard way: It doesn’t matter if you are Posh Spice, Kate Gosselin, or Queen Victoria-if you go to bed with short hair that’s wet, when you wake up in the morning, it’s not Fashionable, it’s Frankensteinish.

Of course, if you are Kate Gosselin, the back of your head looks like that anyways.

I should stop making fun of her hair I guess, she has enough issues.

Kate, if you read this, ignore me, I’m tired, I’m sure you can relate.

Somehow, I’ve made it to the end of what seemed like a work week that would never end.

But I really like my Bucee Beaver Boxer shorts. I promise, they are much cuter when you are wearing them at home, than when you are in a hotel room and open the door for room service.

At least that’s what my husband tells me. ;)

Hello, weekend, I’m so glad to see you.

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You Look A little Uncomfortable

Today was my latest IST visit. So far, I’ve gone alone in order to get to know her and determine which of my many flaws we are going to address first.

Only this time, my wonderful husband agreed to join me.

By ‘agreed,’ I don’t mean I threatened him with bodily injury if he didn’t join me.

I just let him know it was today, said he was free to come along if he wanted, and to my surprise, he agreed.

We arrived early, sat in the waiting room, and chatted while we waited. No big deal.

But, when the IST came out, and we walked in, my husband went from Mister ‘sure, I’ll come along, no big deal’ to looking for the nearest exit like someone had just pulled the fire alarm. Trapped.

Even the IST noticed and said, “you look a little uncomfortable.”

He nervously replied, “well, maybe a little.” Ha. More than a little honey, come on.

I betcha her chart notes read: “Husband near panic attack. Wife clearly hog tied husband to get to therapist. Major problems.”

I won’t go into the details of what we discussed. Ya gotta draw the line somewhere and if I start blogging the details about therapist visits with my husband, I might not have a husband.

After a few minutes of him chatting (yes, to all of you who know me, I shut up and let him talk) and breathing into a brown paper bag (just kidding) he calmed down and was comfortable talking to her.

Well, as fine as a male can be discussing his marriage, with his wife sitting to his left and a stranger sitting straight ahead.

All things considered, he did great.

I will say this: I swear that woman has planted a spying device of some sort in our house.

The last time I was there, my second visit ever, she pegged me so quickly I was sure my mom had called her ahead of time and given her the Shannon Cliff Notes.

During the joint session of Congress therapy, she made a summary statement about where she thought some of our very few issues stem from (read: what’s wrong with me that carries over into the 4 males I live with) but her statement was eerily accurate.

All I could say when she finished was, “That’s creepy.” And then I turned to my husband and said, “I swear, I did not call ahead of time and tell her to say that.”

After one session together, we made great progress.

He’s agreed to take on all the dishes, laundry, bill paying, car pool and dusting.

And, I’ve agreed not to be a mad, raging lunatic of a woman. On Mondays.

Just kidding. On both accounts.

I didn’t say we drugged him.

And, I could never promise to be that normal.

I mean, just imagine how BORING our lives would be if I agreed to such a thing? ;)

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And English is Terribly Boring

I arrived home today from my work trip to Dallas, still feeling some of the mom guilt that crept up on me for missing the first few days of school.

I’m sure the fatigue I was feeling had nothing to do with the 4 hours of beauty rest I got in the hotel, or the truck-stop-diet I started on the inbound trip (bad idea.)

The business meetings wrapped up early and I hightailed it out as quickly as possible for the four hour drive home, feeling tired, and skipping every truck stop (no beef jerky this time, I learned my lesson.)

Ah, what 48 hours can do in terms of how you look at your kids.

I swear they’d grown an inch.

Okay, not really. But I was thrilled to see their smiling, sweaty faces.

They were anxious to tell me about the new school year, and I was ready to hear it.

I heard all about the teachers…..one teacher is supposedly 71 years old, one has less hair than me (hard to believe) and several are (right now) very ‘cool.’

As they crouched at the edge of the bed and tag teamed me with back to school stories, it was like a verbal ping pong match. I just sat and listened, my head bobbing back and forth.

Jordan: “Mom, I have lunch with all my good friends.’

Chase: “Yeah and we actually have the same lunch but we don’t sit together, so don’t ask.”

Jordan: “And I’ve already learned 5 Spanish words” (I’m praying they are not swear words.)

Ping pong, back and forth. Teachers, friends, classes, and of course, ‘I need money.’

Then Jordan said, “But English is terribly boring.”

I almost replied, “and would you like some tea and crumpets for dinner?”

My almost-twelve-year-old has a tendency to sound like  Robin Williams uncensored on HBO, but can, in the next breath, sound just like Prince Charles. He has always done this, and you never know if you are going to get the king or the comedian.

It’s just like him, all smelly and boy like, to say “English is terribly boring” instead of something more tween-ish like “English class sucks.”

Hearing him say that, listening to them voluntarily chat up a storm with me, when I am lucky to get a text messages that say anything more than “IDK”, erased most of the guilt I felt about being gone.

I’m home.

We’ll see what happens though in three weeks when progress reports come out.

It will either be, “that stupid teacher gave me a bad grade” or “I’m terribly happy with my progress this year.”

Or, he’ll be cursing us all out in Spanish.

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Like Sands Through The Hourglass

If you live anywhere near me and happened to look outside yesteday and see someone doing cartwheels down the street in their pajamas, that was probably yours truly.

The school year is off to a start, and if the State of Texas started school on a weekend, I would have been toasting myself yesterday with Mimosas, Bloody Marys, or both. Well, maybe not both. I cannot do tomato juice that early. Mimosas, for sure.

The kids headed off yesterday, scrubbed, immunized, shaved (I have a 7th grader that shaves, and 8th grader that doesn't, imagine what that does for sibling rivalry), and newly clothed compliments of Hollister and no thank you to the slow mall walkers.

I love the first day of school.

There are no pleads from me for them to get out of bed, no requests for lunch money, book money, picture money, or homecoming dance money. No last minute requests to sign report cards, book reports, or 'oh, by the way, I need black pants, socks and shoes for the band concert tonight,' from a child who has grown 6 inches since the last band concert.

My kids actually look forward to the first day, reconnecting with their friends, and comparing notes over which teachers they will collectively torture, which girls they will try to attract.

Several years ago, my two youngest kids were in first grade and kindergarten, respectively. Jordan was 4 years old, starting kindergarten with the teacher Chase had just finished the previous year with, we loved her.

Apparently, Jordan was having a rough first day, so the teacher, knowing Chase already, pulled Jordan out of class and took him down to find Chase in his first grade class, hoping he could give Jordan some 'words of encouragement.'

The teachers pulled Chase out in the hall, all three foot ten of him, and asked him to provide a little big brother psychotherapy, and talk Jordan into going back to class, ya know, help him out and all the things all good siblings should do.

Chase leaned over, whispered something in Jordan's ear, and Jordan turned around and went straight back to class, issue over.

I didn't hear about this incident until parent-teacher night, several weeks later.

I was beaming. All proud of my little first grader for stepping up to the plate and having Jordan's back when he needed it.

I was a little surprised though, that Chase had played big brother when it came down to it, there's no love lost between those two. Something didn't seem right.

I turned to Chase and asked, 'what did you say to him to make him go back to class like that?'

Chase looked at me and with his little 5 year old voice, and the same non-chalant, by-the-books, matter of fact personality has to this day and said:

"I told him to go back to class or he would end up stupid."

My how the time flies, from Jordan's kindergarten rescue, to yesterday when I jokingly said to him on the way out the door, 'try not to kill the girls with your cuteness' and he replied, dead serious, 'mom, that's kinda hard, okay.'

I am sad to have missed the first few days of school due to being out of town for work.

But, there is a silver lining in every cloud, right?

For the first time ever, it's my husband who gets to fill out three sets of the same forms we fill out every year, the paperwork that rivals in volumne the quantity of forms I filled out when I bought my house.

Have fun with that honey, it helps to switch pens to avoid writers cramp.

And please, don't forget to sign and date them properly, or the teachers might think we're stupid.

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I'm Just Saying....

If you're like me, and a working mom, here are a few tips if you happen to be out of town on the first day of school:

1.) Don't stop at a truck stop on your trip and buy beef jerky, praline rolls, AND Diet Cokes to eat on your trip, if you are overcome with guilt about not being there to greet your teenagers when they get off the bus, and you suddenly have a binge junk food spree.

2.) If you do decide to buy any of the above, be sure you buy lots of Pepto because by the time you reach your said work destination, you ain't gonna be in any shape to work. Unless you eat that stuff on a daily basis anyhow, and even then, I'm just saying, it's not fun.

3.) If you get to your hotel, and, out of sheer guilt that you are not home on a day you kids are certain to never remember, but your tired brain tells you the opposite, and you for some stupid reason follow up the truck stop beef jerky with room service, don't order anything with french fries to chase down the truck stop food. If you do, refer to tip #2, and double the amount you purchase.

4.) If the truck stop you were dumb enough stop at happens to sell really cute themed boxers and t-shirts, and you decide to have a shopping spree to go with your beef jerky, praline roll, and sodas, don't put your new digs on until AFTER the room service arrives. Bus boys give you really strange looks if they show up with dinner and you are all alone dressed in Bucee Beaver themed clothes from head to toe, regardless of how cute Bucee is.

5.) Last tip, most important. Once you get to the hotel, under no circumstances should you listen to your Ipod if it has any Harry Chapin on it, especially that awful, terrible working mom song: Cat's in the Cradle. Once you hear the verse about 'the new jobs a hassle and the kids have the flu, it's been sure nice talking to you dad,' you should hope your room is on the first floor so you aren't tempted to end the working mom guilt with a leap.

One extra: if you manage to get photos of your kids on the first day of school, before you leave for your work trip, and are dumb enough do all of the above, by all means, share them.

They are, after all, probably the reason you are working to begin with.

I don't know anything about all that stuff.

I'm just sayin....

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Your Mom Got Arrested for What?

I waited until the absolute worst possible day to take the kids to the mall for back to school shopping: the Saturday before every child attending public school in Texas starts. Yeah, brilliant, I know.

I didn’t even try to park, headed straight for the valet. I would have paid $50 to not hitchhike from the edge of the mall parking lot. It was easily 100 degrees, and I had, after all, taken the time to put on makeup, just in case I ran into any of my clients out shopping. The last thing I needed was my makeup melting off in the 30 seconds between my car and the mall entrance.

I sent the kids on their way shopping, instructions to not spend one cent over their $100 each budget or everything would be returned, and to call me in an hour.

Since I had time to pass, I decided to walk around the mall.

Walk? Anywhere? Who was I kidding with more people shopping than attending a rock concert. Not a chance.

What is it with people at the mall who walk in groups five across and refuse to let you pass? And then, they STOP, unexpectedly, and you end up nearly doing the Butt Boogie with a stranger. I totally turned into a mall tailgater. MOVE OVER PEOPLE, PLEASE, THIS IS NOT A SUNDAY STROLL!

Thirty minutes later, I heard from the kids. One of the models at Hollister wouldn’t let them use my credit card because Tyler’s ID didn’t match. Guess he doesn’t look Posh enough to be a Shannon R.

I headed off to pay so we could GET OUT THERE before I ended up arrested by the mall police for assaulting some slow walker.

I met Jordan, headed into Hollister, and ran smack into a line of parents waiting to pay. When I say line, I mean LINE, people. This line tangled all the way through that dark, loud store and stopped just short of the entrance to the mall.

For forty minutes we stood there in that cave of a store, unable to hear anything due the blaring music, continuously bumped by their modeliscious workers working. I counted to ten. Took deep breaths. Did I mention I hate, really hate, crowds?

The whole time, I was thinking, ‘this is not concert tickets to see Cold Play. This is 3 shirts and a pair of shorts. And Cold Play tickets would be cheaper. And if one more teeny bopper bumps into me, there’s gonna be a throw down.’

Jordan kept glancing at me like he was saying a silent prayer: ‘please God, get us up there before she really embarrasses me and tackles another parent or a Hollister employee.’

We finally paid, and headed out of the store back into the mall. I couldn’t see anything except stars, and not the Brad Pitt kind, unfortunately. The stars you see when you walk out of a long movie, straight into the bright sun, having just plunked down

All I could think of was, ‘next year, we’re so shopping online, come August. And thank goodness Nana’s a lawyer. Just in case.’

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Saturday Morning Confessions

I’ve decided that on Saturday mornings, I’m going to do a sort of theme: too-tired-from-working-not-getting-my-butt-out-of-bed-till-noon-confessions.

Why would you do such a thing, might you ask? Well, because usually on Saturday mornings I am in bed doing nothing particularly important other than trying to recuperate from the work week. And, I like to write early on Saturdays.

So, there you have it. Saturday Morning Confessions it is until I change my mind, which as we all know, could be by next Saturday.

I’m sure by now if my parents are reading this, they are wondering what sort of family skeleton I’m about to drag out of the closet. Keep your drawers on mom and dad, you’re safe. For now.

My first confession is completely harmless:

I am totally, utterly, hopelessly addicted. To Cheeze Its.

There, I said it out loud. Wow, I feel like a giant weight has been lifted off my back, I’ve come clean with the Cheeze It addiction.

I don’t know when this started, my addiction for those artificially colored orange crackers. But, I cannot get enough of them.

You know how the TV announcer used to say on their commercials, “Get your own box” in that booming voice?

Ha. You haven’t seen anything at my house until you’ve seen someone eat the last of the Cheeze Its.

You’ve never seen people duck and run so quick as when I open the pantry and, in a voice that WAY out does that man on TV, I say, WHERE ARE THE CHEEZE ITS?

Lord help the poor stray child that shows up to visit, gets hungry, doesn’t know the rules, and accidentally eats the last of a box.

We usually never see them again. They end up Cheeze It traumatized for life.

It’s crazy, I know, I cannot explain it, don’t ask.

I’m sure everyone has a strange addiction of some kind. Right? Someone?

I could eat these things for breakfast, lunch and dinner. In fact, sometimes, I think I do just that. There is almost always a box by my bed. And in my car. And in my desk at work.

I was thinking that if there is ever a Cheeze It Bake off on TV, I’m sure I could win. Except I cannot cook a darn thing.

But, if there is ever a Cheeze It eating contest, like the hot dog contests on July 4th, there ya go. I’m in.

I saw the movie Julie and Julia with Meryl Streep this week, and I thought, hey, I bet I could cook one recipe a year with Cheeze Its and blog about it?

Scrambled Eggs with Cheeze Its?

Cheeze It over baked chicken?

Do you see a trend here? I think it’s totally do-able!

I’m not sure I have much to confess every Saturday. And trust me, if it’s something major like I’m having a secret love affair affair with Brad Pitt, or I’m really known as the Lucky Jeans Bank Robber from Channel 2 News, you ain’t reading it about it here.

I’m crazy but I’m not stupid.

But Brad, if you’re reading this, I’ll share my Cheeze Its with you.

I’m sure Angie won’t mind a bit.

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It’s A Smaller World After all

As a teenager, I remember having several pen pals.

I cannot recall how we originally connected with each other. The back of 16 Magazine or Tiger Beat, maybe?

There was certainly no Internet, Facebook or MySpace.

But, somehow I managed to reach out and touch a few other teenagers my own age, who lived in far off places like the France and Beirut.

Weeks, months, would pass before I would receive a response to my American-teenage-girl, drama filled letters.

I would instantly recognize the replies in the mail: the tattered, striped international mail envelopes, the very-slanted-to-the-right non-American handwriting.

It felt like Christmas, opening those pen pal letters, other girls describing their own teenage lives, cultures, in broken English. I treasured every page, and held on to many of the them, with their small crinkled photographs, for years.

Flash forward to this past May, when Michael, one of the tweenies who spent a chunk of his summer at my house, announced he and his family were relocating to Azerbaijan. (I had to look that up three times to spell it, by the way.)

If you’re like most Americans, if someone announces they are moving to Azerbaijan, you might look at them like they’ve just said ‘I have eight toes on each foot.’

I had no idea where that is located, except that it sounded a long way off, and nowhere in Texas.

Turns out, it’s near Turkey (the country, not the food), thank you Google.

Michael and my boys hung out all summer and eventually, he and his family packed up and moved, with promises to return to visit next year.

Imagine my surprise when I walked into the living room Monday, only to hear my kids talking to Michael through X-box Live. There was his crackly little pre-teen voice coming through the our surround sound speakers.

As uber-connected as we are (I sleep with my head closer to the Blackberry than  the pillow on some nights, a terrible example, I know,) it never occurred to me that they would be chatting away with Michael from the other side of the world.

I just assumed he had moved to a place that sounded closer to Saturn than a TV and X-Box, and that we wouldn’t actually hear from him, Facebook updates aside, until next June.

In disbelief, I said, ‘Is that Michael? Coming through the TV speakers?"’

The kids barely looked up, ‘yeah mom, he’s 11 hours ahead of us, we’re good, we’re winning.’

I was amazed! I said, ‘wow, how cool is that, we’re able to stay in touch with Michael through the TV, from Azer-whatever (I can never pronounce it correctly)! Maybe we can all look up Michael’s new crib on a map, a GLOBE?’

Then they all looked at me liked I had eight toes.

Whatever. I tried.

I’m thinking this weekend I’m going to show my kids how to fill out the front of an envelope and affix a stamp.

Just in case they ever need to, you know, actually hand write a letter.

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Marriage Help

I may need some help with my marriage.     

This is not something even the IST could tackle.

I thought for sure my online mom friends could relate and provide some suggestions on how to cope with the crisis I am dealing with.

Okay, here it is: my husband has gas.

Now, I know that most husbands have gas. But we have a larger, more pressing problem. It seems as if no matter what room he is in at the moment, when the time comes, he ALWAYS happens to be near me when the mustard gas canister explodes.

And we’re not talking about little farts. We’re talking about rip roaring, make-me-lose-my-lunch, Febreeze-won’t-touch-it with-a ten-foot-poll type farts.

I’m sure the few men who run across this blog are cheering him on and would be doing the male chest bump if they were here in person. Go ahead boys, you wouldn’t be chest bumping, you’d be dry heaving if you smell these.

I cannot decide if this is intentional, accidental or a little of both.

You know, like giving your spouse a love pat, only he likes to give me a love fart?

I’m trying not to take it personal. If he is trying to prove his love for me, surely he knows, after 18 years together, that his gas can easily, quickly, turn me greener the pea soup.

And our house is 3,000 square feet! Why, why, why does he feel the need to come and locate my little 3 square feet I might be occupying at the moment, and let them rip? There are 2997 other square feet in our house that he could go to!

But noooooo, just like magic, he finds me and POOT, BAM there it goes! Kinda like the late Billy Mays, KABOOM!, or Emeril, BAM!

Does anyone else deal with this? Surely, I am not alone. Should I just add Beano to all the food in our house?

Can I join a support group for Wives of Severe Farters? Anyone wanna join me?

And honey, I promise, flowers are much more effective than farts if this is a way to prove your love for me. Please. At least aim towards the boys when it gets bad. This seems to be a male issue, they are already apprentice farters as it is, and can learn from your technique.

(Printed with permission from my husband, who farted while reading this, when he started to laugh. For real.)

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Smelly Shoes

As I was leaving for work yesterday, I tripped over one of my twelve year old son’s shoes.

This can be dangerous. At 5’6, he wears size 11.5 shoes. I know this for a fact, because we had his feet measured last weekend when we bought our only school shopping item to date-shoes.

I cannot comprehend being 5’6 and having feet that are size 11.5. That would equate to what I looked like on vacation in Hawaii: giant mask, snorkel and flippers, waddling down to the beach.

I’m not sure how he walks without tripping.

Nevertheless, the large pile of boys shoes by my front door made me stop and think about the shoes, and the feet that go in them.

Some of the shoes in the pile don’t belong to my kids, they belong to the other tweens who have invaded my house all summer.

As much as they have farted, burped, eaten and slept their way through my home since May, the shoes that don’t belong to my children reminded me that for some reason, children have chosen our house to re-locate to when possible.

I bet it’s my never ending supply of my Cheeze-Its that they gobble down, regardless of my threats.

Maybe it’s the fact that while many of their dads are at work during the day, my husband is plopped right there in the middle of them, game controller in hand.

I realized how big the shoes looked, and how little those feet had once all been.

With my first born, I remember my brother, no job, expensive tastes still in place, bringing Tyler a pair of mesh Air Jordans to the hospital.

In 1993, Air Jordans for a newborn cost $60.

My brother was unemployed, but this was his first nephew; money was not an issue.

With my middle son, I remember bringing him home from the hospital, barely tipping the scales at 5 lbs. He was tiny. I had to buy him socks from the baby doll department at Toys ‘R Us.

With Jordan, I remember the very first thing my husband said when he was born was not, ‘wow, he looks like me.’ It was ‘oh my goodness, look at those feet.’

Even as a newborn, his tiny feet eclipsed his little body. Little did we know.

I thought of all the times those 3 sets of once tiny feet once ran to the door to tell me goodbye as I left on random work trips, Jordan saying, ‘but mama, I will MISS YOU.’

I realized how much they’ve grown, those feet, my boys.

Now they drive cars, and those same feet storm up stairs to slam doors when they are mad at me, or carry them out back to clean off the patio for surprise parties.

Lastly, I thought of where those shoes, those stinky smelly, awful teenage boy shoes, and the feet that go in them will go; the fact that one day they will stand at the end of an aisle, (I pray in a church and not a courtroom,) or how many, MANY years from now, they will wait in a hospital room for their own new pair of tiny feet to arrive.

Somehow that stack of shoes reminded me of the half way point that we are at with these boys, closer now to men each day. Well, on most days.

I was, momentarily, thankful that the big pile of shoes, with my kids smelly sneakers, was at my house, and not at another house.

And I really want to track down the inventor of Febreeze and thank him.

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Back To School Cash Crunch

 

Here it is, less than a week now before school starts, and I am almost in panic mode.

Yes, of course, I am Team Captain of the Cheerleading Squad for moms ready to send their kids back to school.

Two-Four-Six-Eight, who do we appreciate? TEACHERS!

(I would insert a back handspring here, but I might hurt myself.)

Although we are a dual income family, at the rate we are going, I might need my younger two kids to lie about their age and get a job at a local burger joint to cover back to school costs.

I wonder how much trouble I could get into for that?

So far, we’ve spent $300+ on shots, $150 on two pairs of shoes, and $100 on pre-packaged school supplies for two kids.

That’s $550 dollars plunked down, and I haven’t purchased one article of clothing yet, not so much as a stitch of Fruit of the Loom underwear for one of my three boys, unless you count the gym uniform the school required me to purchase.

Somehow I don’t think the kids are going to agree when they ask me, AGAIN, about back to school shopping, and I say, ‘What are you talking about? We’re done shopping? I bought your gym clothes?’

On top of that, they have been hounding us, all three of them, for new cell phones.

Funny, I didn’t see that on the school supply list?

Not yet. I won’t be surprised in a few years if I open the school supply list and see ‘Razr or Sidekick’ on top. I just know it’s coming.

It’s gotten so bad with the new cell phone requests that one day I finally told them to all go and look out the window into the backyard.

They looked at me like I was crazy, but oddly enough, they complied. Such a Kodak moment, where was my camera when I needed it? All three of them stood there for a good thirty seconds before someone finally turned to me and said, ‘what are we looking for?’

‘A money tree,’ I replied. ‘Let me know where you see one growing because I need to go do some pruning.’

They were not at all amused. I thought it was kinda funny actually.

Forget all the hoopla over Health Care Reform.

I think we all need to band together and start writing our congressmen for Back-To-School-Supply-Reform. I’m ready to start a caucus or whatever they’re called.

Political Action Committee, that’s it.

Seriously. I hear my bank account draining by the second.

And until then, does anyone know what the going interest rate is for a back to school loan? And are Fruit of the Loom covered?

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Rambling Self Portrait at 40

My big day finally arrived, came and is almost over.

It was a great day, in all aspects.

I didn’t notice a single extra wrinkle or gray hair.

No more 30’s, no more subscription cards or church groups that are for people ‘Under 40.’ I’ve officially graduated to groups that start with the ‘4.’

For all the joking I’ve done over the past few months about this day arriving, I couldn’t be happier.

Yes, I actually woke up this morning, looked in the mirror, and I realized how happy I am to be here, at this point in my life.

I wouldn’t change a thing.

Well, I might skip the butcher haircut from last week.

And I might have tried to trade my little brother in.

But, his kids ended up too darn cute and they’re sort of a package deal.

But I wouldn’t change anything else. Life is good. I’ve been blessed.

I went shopping yesterday, a birthday gift from my mom, and a momentary distraction from my once again tween boy overloaded house.

Once I heard how outnumbered I was at home, I told them I was going shopping, and said if they got hungry to eat the Cocoa Puffs.

In the midst of trying on the Lucky Jeans I’ve waited a year to purchase (and fit into), I paused, had a brief return to my twenties, and struck the above pose in the Macy’s dressing room.

I decided it was finally time to come out with the hair cut, and my 40th birthday seemed like the perfect moment.

I’m great. Forty doesn’t need to be thirty.

As far as I’m concerned, I’m not over the hill.

I’m sitting on top of it.

And honey, don’t even think about trying to trade me in for a younger model.

I realized, after my dressing-room-photo-session that I AM the younger model.

After all, where else will you find a 40-something wife to three teenagers that looks more like Posh Spice. Who needs that Kate.

40 is fun. Life is good. And size 6 Luckys that fit without needing to lie down on a bed to zip up are fabulous.

(Note: My buddy Jason at Dog Makes Five.com made me post this tonight as a follow up to the morning post. He swears people want to read about more than just turning 40 on Facebook. So there ya go. Forty years old and I’m still submitting to peer pressure. Sheesh.)

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Turning 40 on Facebook

So it’s no secret, today is my 40th birthday.

I’ve been blogging, gabbing, texting and writing about this day for weeks now, it’s certainly not something I’ve made any effort to hide.

This is the my first birthday since I joined Facebook last fall.

The big day has finally arrived. I was wise enough to take off work today so I could celebrate in style and sleep late.

I eventually drug myself out of bed, made it to my beloved coffee and booted up the laptop.

Now, keep in mind, for the past 39 years or so, birthday wishes have been limited to random Hallmark cards in the mail, a few e-mails, and the required phone calls from my mom singing me Happy Birthday like she does every year, and my dad sounding all sentimental about me being another year older.

As the kids have grown up, I’ve been lucky enough to get a few birthday text messages also, which I am sure I paid out the wazoo for, seeing as how unlimited texting is relatively new and they were most certainly over the limit when they sent those.

Enter Facebook and 200 of my closest friends, family, neighbors and people I’ve never even met, that are collectively called my ‘friends.’

God, I love technology. What did we do before Facebook?

Instead of going to the mailbox and hoping to see a card or two from distant relatives and hearing my own voice echo back from an empty mailbox, I woke up this morning to hoards of birthday wishes, cupcakes, flowers, plants, cards, James Avery Jewelry and Farm Animals wishing me Happy Birthday.

All before 9 am.

Which was absolutely excellent seeing as how I didn’t have to walk to the mailbox and bare my Kate up-do to the neighbors before I’d had a chance to cement it in place.

The first birthday wish arrived from the super neighbor next door at about 12:02 am or so.

My poor brother somehow thought that he would get up at the crack of dawn and be the first to wish me Happy Birthday online, only to find out that he’d been beaten by a dozen other people.

I have a feeling I might never see an actual Hallmark Card in the mail again, which is just fine with me.

Well, I take that back.

Dad, if you’re reading this, please continue to send me your Hallmark card.

It’s the only one that still comes with a check in it.

As for the rest of my 'friends,’ from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Online cupcakes have never made a middle aged, working mom so happy.

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The Final Countdown

Well, D-day is nearly here.

Tomorrow is the big day, the big 4-0.

I think today I might run to the grocery store and yank out a bunch of random magazine subscription cards just so I can check off all the demographic boxes that say ‘Under 40’ on them, before it’s too late and I have to lie.

Or, I could go try to buy some liquor and see if I get carded so I can point out to the cashier that I’m 39?

Just in case my husband and kids are reading this, remember, I took off work tomorrow to celebrate the start of my new decade.

I am expecting breakfast in bed, flowers, and lots of fancy gifts.

Just kidding. Don’t panic.

The living room full of people who surprised me last weekend while I was still in my Snoopy pajamas, without makeup, will hold me over for a few years in terms of birthday gifts.

And, a note to my parents: I hope you are not too terribly stressed about having to tell people you have a child that is 40.

(Wow, just typing that sounds bad, let me know the first time either of you make that statement to someone else, aloud. You might want to practice alone first.)

I was informed by a Generation Y co-worker last week that 30 is the new 20. So that means that 40 must be the new 30. Right?

See, we’re all good. Just tell everyone you have a 30 year old child. No one needs to know the truth.

And just think, you could have been hanging out at Woodstock.

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Driving Mrs. Crazy

It's been two months now since Tyler got his drivers license.

Ahh, the memories. It seems so long ago, those days of me toting him around.

I was so sad at seeing him drive off that first morning.

My first born son, taking the lives of his brothers in his hand as he drove them off to swim practice, three blocks away.

I stood on the front porch watching, ready to throw my body down to stop him.

My, how a few months can change everything.

I still worry each time he leaves. There is still a teeny pang in my heart and the prompt to drive safe and text me when he arrives.

My neighbor tried to tell me how happy I would be once Tyler could drive.
At the time we were drinking martinis. I thought she was delusional.

All I could envision was someone running over my baby. I still do worry about that. I'm sure I always will.

But the rest of me is high-fiving myself, secretly woo-hooing, every day!

In the past two months, he has driven himself to work, made trips to pick up dinner, dropped off and picked up my dry cleaning, dropped off one kid at the orthodontist, picked up another at a friend’s house.

What did I do before I had my own personal errand runner?

Every parent needs one of these, it's the best thing since unlimited texting.

All those times I could barely get him out of his room, off the couch, or to speak in anything beyond a mumble are a thing of the past.

Car keys hold such enormous power, I had no idea!

All I do now is request an errand, and POOF! He instantly appears.

The jingle of car keys is like waving a magic wand.

He’s Happy. Cheerful. Speaking in full sentences. Right before my eyes, like a little lap dog, ready to perform whatever trick I need.

I'm trying to take full advantage of this before he catches on.

At some point me 'allowing' him to run up to Target is going to turn into me 'begging' him to run to Target.

I know that day is coming.

For now, it's cool to drive mom's car, which has a great air conditioner and even better radio.

I learned about the radio the hard way.

Monday morning, as I rushed out the door for work, hands full of a too many work items, 2 Diet cokes, cell phone, laptop, purse, never enough caffeine by that point, and I barely made it to the car without dropping something.

I turned on the engine first to get the air conditioner going, since it was 110 degrees by 8 am and my face was starting to melt.

Remember the old Bill Cosby routine about a parent getting in a car after a teen?

The man was famous for a reason.

The radio nearly blew out my ear drums and car speakers simultaneously.

No more need for the Diet Cokes or caffeine.

I managed to peel myself up off the driveway, crawl over to the radio and hit mute.

If you have a up and coming teen driver, be prepared to worry. It has, easily, been the scariest thing I have done as a parent. Hands down.

But it's also been the most fun.

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

But you might want to turn down the radio first.

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Weekend Hair Woes

What’s the only thing worse than having hair that’s too short?

Having hair that’s too short first thing in the morning. On a Saturday morning.

I went to brush my teeth this morning and whoa buddy, I took one look at my new do in the bathroom mirror, and realized I’d stepped into Chapter Two of the chopped hair crisis.

I normally drag myself straight to the shower, non-stop. So far, the crew cut hasn’t been an issue in the 72 hours since my bad hair moment turned into bad hair Ground Hog Day.

That all changed this morning.

I was fully intent on wearing my normal non-working-weekend attire of a ball cap, no make up and hoop earrings (at the most.)

My hair chopper off-er Lily failed to warn me that when you have more hair under your arms than on your head, and it’s been caked in hair products the day before, the result the next morning is a finger in the light socket look.

And, when your hair is this short, ball caps (of any style) are not a great idea.I tried out my weekend cap, and quickly realized I’d better wear hoop earrings as big as dinner plates to make sure no one thought I was, um, of the other gender.

Luckily, I didn’t have any errands to run until this afternoon, crisis temporarily averted.

The Target run became unavoidable, I left off the cap, tried to style my crew cut as much as possible, put on my fat sunglasses and started to leave.

I opened the door, yelled behind me, ‘I’ll be right back,’ heard Jordan said ‘okay'.’

Pause.

And then in a voice that was just barely loud enough for me and his tween cohorts to hear, he followed it with ‘Kate.’

I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around.

‘What did you just say?’

He replied, in a voice that was a cross between an answer and a question, a plead to laugh with him and not go all UFC on him in front of his friends, ‘Kate?’

The tweenies all howled with laughter.

Chase didn’t get it at first, ‘why are you calling her Kate?’

Jordan filled him in, ‘the hair, you know, mom looks like that lady off TV with all the kids.’

Chase looked from me to Jordan and back.

‘Wow.’ Light bulb moment. He, too, started to howl.

One of them tried to smooth it over, ‘it’s okay mom, you really only look like her before she had all those kids.’ As if.

That’s okay.

I guess they didn’t read the blog about the cat food in the Cocoa Puffs.

We’ll see who gets the last laugh.

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ISTology

I had my weekly IST visit this week.

Not the pedicurIST or the acupuncturIST, although I clearly saw a hair stylIST if you’ve seen my head.

If you’re new to my blog, I’m referring to the therapIST (I hate to use that word, since I’m so private and all, so I refer to her as the IST) I recently started visiting, as a way to get a third party opinion on how to find my life again, without using drugs, too much alcohol, or a straight jacket.

After this week’s visit, I believe she might have just dropped some sort of listening device into my purse last week when I wasn’t looking.

Get this: the woman has me pegged after speaking to me, well, you know, more like letting me speak mostly, for less than two hours total, half of which was spent with her contorting her chart to accommodate my lengthy lineage.

But, somehow, she’s very quickly figured me out. It’s a little creepy. I’m thinking someone I know surely found her contact information and e-mailed her the Wiki report on Shannon.

I’m actually kinda surprised she didn’t see my cuckoo haircut and immediately write me some sort of anti-anxiety prescription.

Now that I think about it though, that hair cut probably went right along with the personality she had sitting in front of her gabbing away: ‘where did she get that hair, never mind, it makes total sense’ is I am sure what she was writing in my chart.

Crazy hair or not, she already has me thinking about things in a different light.

Working mom, at home mom, single mom, 39.9999999999 year old mom-I’m not sure the titles matter that much, at least not to me.

If she can help me find the recipe for some work life balance, throw in a dash of higher cause type fulfillment, sprinkle in a way to have a healthier lifestyle while working 80 hours a week and raising teenagers, and ensure I don’t go broke or get divorced in the process (that’s a joke, honey, if you’re reading this), I will go in there with my head shaved.

Well, maybe not.

Oh, who knows, my head is half way there already.

And no, I’m not posting a photo.

The IST might not think that’s good for me.

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