Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Self-Awareness: How To Tell When Your Week Is Going Down The Crapper

That's right. The title of this post, should be self-explanatory. I'm forfeiting this week and giving into the inevitable: writing on my couch watching The Labyrinth while drinking a giant Corona. No, not Pan's Labyrinth. I'm not into artistic European schtuff this night. I'm talking da shiz David Flipping Bowie and Jim Henson's hand puppets. And yes, in light of last time's post, I feel it necessary to say, it's the only beer I'm having but it's alllll mine...

 (You've taken my youth but not my soul, November *fists shaking violently*!)

SO, you know your day could have some bumps ahead when:
You awake to hearing your darling spouse shouting, "NOOO! NOO! Computers are NOT for sitting ONNN!!" But you are positive because, it's only 7:30 a.m., and a lot of good things can happen today. After all, you're going shopping and might see Kick-Ass GF and have a reason for living (because God knows after shopping at Sam's Club with all of your children, you'll need some really good ones).

9:30 a.m., fifteen minutes after hopeful ideals.
You know your day might be a little less than what was expected when:
Kick-Ass GF calls and says, "I think *Jesse's arm is falling off...I'm pretty sure we need to take her to the ER." Simultaneously, you remember that you were supposed to take in your mini-van, Lucille the Wonder Tramp to a mechanic because oh yeah, your husband ripped off the **automatic-non-automatic door from it's automatic tracks the day after Glutton's Day (Thanksgiving), and basically your askin' for a helicopter ride experience (because the doors could open on their own AT ANY TIME)...And the door's stuck MOSTLY OPEN and your children scream that "cars are not s'pposed to be WINDY!" It is also at this time, you remember that you are supposed to call your children's doctor, the social security office, fill out paperwork for a new insurance policy, and return that damned child gate that didn't work. "SHIKES!" you think, because if you even think about the things you really wanna think about, it'd be such a long line of obscenities, it'd keep you in the Confessional for a solid three days. That's not doable. That's not fun. The bottom line: Kick-Ass GF is in her own trenches and so are you. The rest of the day is...pretty crappy. I won't even TELL you about Monday night. It is summed up by this: more PHALLIC stage drama, boys smelling each other's butts, a three-year-olds' demolition to an entire kid-bible, and...I can't even write anymore.

You know your week is not, definitely not, going according to any sort of plan...or hope when:
You roll out of bed (literally--"WHO THE HELL was wearing my stilettos?! They're by my bed?! OUCH!!"). Yes. My children *apparently* don't get enough "girl" in their lives, and have turned to cross-dressing. Fantastic. The first thing you do since you're already on the floor is drop to your knees. "Please Father-God," you pray, "I know this day is going to challenge...my character...my virtue...and pretty much anything I suck at but...Can you please just...help me not to completely lose my temper today when everything falls apart? And, give me something--anything to remind me to laugh?" Next thing you know, your nearly-three-year-old *apparently* has hips that gyrate (yes, that's what I said) and he's flippin' Elvis, dancing for the ten-month-old singing, "I not NAKED, but I do the naked DANCE!" You have several thoughts: first, you stare in awe that these little humans will one day be in charge of things; and they will blame you for how well they survive. Secondly, you remember--"Hot damn! I love my kids!! Thanks, God!" Then you hear the toilet flush to see Gyrate Boy running outta there with a cape on his head, clearly communicating to you that he is: a) being a "villain-girl" (hence the black cape-hair) and b) he's flushed Doc Ock down the potty.

For some reason--perhaps it's the metaphor of things going down the crapper--you recall that your appointment for Lucille the Wonder Tramp Van is in thirty minutes. "Oh my gosh--we have to leave soon! KIDS! GET DRESSED!" you shout. And just like that, the absence of all the brain cells that have been sucked out through breastfeeding, you forget. Again. No seriously--you forget in the next minute about the appointment you just remembered. "Van? What van? I have a van??

Kick-Ass GF calls. You indulge in much-needed venting and womanly comfort. Then your dear friend-with-more-kids-than-you calls. We'll call her, the ***Hope Queen GF. *Enter sentimental, comforting music.* You laugh. You cry. You lament about wifey things and wish you were better rested and more healthy, as you down your third cup of coffee and call the infant's cookies breakfast. You commiserate and form solidarity in just being a wife and a mom and a woman. You feel a deep sense of gratitude and joy that you have been given these loves like Kick-Ass GF and Hope Queen GF on this day, in this life. And all of those women in your life really are a giant part of the fellowship that God has given you to help make your heart tick (I love you the most, Sister Smarty Pants!)--"BEEP! BEEEP!!" Then there's the reality alarm. You were supposed to be the mechanic's. Ten minutes ago. "I DO have a van! SHIIIIKES!!" you actually yell this time. There are no snacks (or lunch for that matter) because you were supposed to go to Sam's this morning before the mechanics (why in the world did I think I would go??! Like, I'd just wake up and become organized or something?!).

Bottom line: you feel somewhat energized but the fact remains that you have half-dressed children with no food.

Tuesday afternoon. 
You know your day has a 70% probability...of sucking when:
Okay, you haven't lost your temper. Kudos. But your dignity: yes, you've lost that. (When your infant climbed to your feet as you answered the door to The Mailman Who's Mom Was A Baker And Tied Him To A Tree To Get Work Done When He Was A Kid), and pulled your pants, A LOT down. *insert FROWNIE*. Wait--I didn't tell you that story?! Well, the high points are obvious but one day, the mail man says to me--he says, "Hi there! THREE boys? THREE boys?! I was one of three boys--"
I try to interject but saying "Four actual--" but he just keeps on going like he's knitting a sweater in his own happy little weirdy rocking chair and smiles serenely saying, "--and we were so bad that my mom--she was a Baker--would put us in these harnesses and tie us to a stake outside HAHA!" he laughs nostalgically. "Can you believe that?! We thought it was so funny." I stare for a long while. "My mom--she was a Baker" he nods reassuringly. "Oh..." I say. "Have a great day!" he smiles and walks away. Yeah. Mail Man Story tiiiiime is the shiz. Okay, that was a bunny. Like, when you are driving and suddenly you see a bunny and it's like you're with him, flopping and hopping all happily. Then you remember you're driving. Bunnies are code for "distraction." Sorry--shoot the bunny! Aaaand, I'm back.
Anyway, you are thinking of what kind of baker this mother must have been when you glance at the clock. Your heart skips several beats--you have NO van. You have to pick up your kiddo in five minutes and you'll have to walk there! GAA!! It's like a Bull Run in your home with you trying to get your kids re-dressed (because every SINGLE time you walk in the door, the first thing they do is strip down to their hero underwear, turn them backwards,"so you can see the heroes," and don capes, tearing through the house. One is dead-asleep, the other melting down that you are dressing him, and the third just wants what guys always want: boobs. "I don't have time to nurse you, buddy!" you try to reason with your ten-month-old. Currently, he doesn't speak
you've also lost several competitions for most fashionable mom--all week and it's only the second day of the week I might add. You're unshowered, braless, and  wearing the type of clothing you used to make fun of your mom for wearing around the house. (Except no giant tube socks. Thank you, God--so far, no tube socks.) You finish the kitchen (score!), finish scrubbing the floor on your hands and knees, finish Magic Eraser-ing the walls of crayon (thank you, Mr. Clean; you're buff and you're bald, therefore you're just about as cool as Jason Statham because I don't recall him ever offering to clean my walls) when: you look up from your hands and knees and see, there's crayon...ALL over the glass in the patio room. To be precise, there are three patio windows, and three doors. You don't like seeing the world from this height; you decide it's overrated. Ignorance is bliss, and baby-proofing or cleaning or whatever, by being on your hands and knees is more like the truth hurting...And is for morons. You decide also, that five-feet-four-inches tall, is the New Truth and all things you really need to see are this high. This next part deserves it's OWN section. And, most of you won't believe it. But I swear, this is my life.

Tuesday night.
You know you have received the 'Your Day's Officially Crap' memo when:
You are convicted about this, until you see: a mouse. That's right. A furry little nasty vermin. Gus-Gus. You think about this; you hope it can't talk, wear little Gus-Gus clothes, or sing. By the time you've thought, it's seen you and you both, freak out. A lot. "HEEELLLLP!!!" you shriek. "But I'm not afraid of mice! Why am I yelling for help? Who's going to help me?!" But still you keep running, much to the alarm of your kids. "Mama--is a mouse chasing you?' your four-year-old asks. "Um...No. No, Mommy was just...running...?" But, you don't have time to think about this because, your five year-old comes bookin' it out of the bathroom shouting, "MOMMY! MOMMY! It's over-flowing! It's gonna drown the HOUUUUSE!!" He's practically right. The toilet's overflowing alright. It's even overflowing some fun looking stuff into the bathtub, and in the main bathroom too. "This is SO...POOPY!" you yell kicking the wall, setting a picture-perfect and shining example of all a parent can be, to your children, and send them into roaring laughter because you said, "poopy." You put the baby down and grab every towel you can find and while your shoes are being filled with cold toilet water, the door-bell rings. The mechanic was so kind and drove your van home so your kids wouldn't have to walk back to the place and then home again in the cold. He says, "Sorry but just to let you know--that van has too many problems to count!" he snorts because he's laughing so hard. But, we did get the door shut; the parts to fix it though only come in a package that is around $700. We are trying to find just the piece itself in a junk yard to help you out." (Is there a light at the end of the tunnel?) "Aaaand the motor mounts are out--all four of 'em. That's estimated at about $600, plus the heating system I fixed today, and not counting the installation of the oil pans." (At this point, you are thinking you will train your children to be a dog-sled team, and pull the littlest one the sled, with you cracking the whip because, there is NO way you can pay $2000 to fix it. You consider asking him if he has a dog sled at his Mechanic Place but instead he stares at you oddly, with your yoga pants rolled up to your knees and your shoes sopping in sewage, and the half-naked baby on your hip.) You take your keys back, thank him for shutting your van door, and making the heat work, and shut the door.

There won't be a dog-sled team made out of boys this week however, because the oldest announces that his tummy hurts and feels like "knives are inside," he's "freezing cold," and says that his throat is "giant inside." You take his temp, feel his neck all over, and peer into his throat. Sure enough, his glands are like little walnuts, he has a big fever, and his throat has blood-red little prickly dots all over. You don't know what this is. Even though you do doctor-ish things, you a) don't get paid a doctor's salary, nor b) actually have the degree. Strep? Viral infection? In any case, this night ends in many respects, even worse than the night before because Handsome Husband had to take an extra client to make ends stretch a little further. You are grateful. And, you are pissed. This is unfair that you're pissed because he is being selfless by working more. But you feel like you need a break. You wonder why all you want to do is shower...then you realize, you can't REMEMBER the last time you showered and think it might have to do with something like, last week. Euew-but-true. You look in the mirror and see: bags under your eyes, dandruff, and splotchy skin, and you conclude, "You don't look so hot, Mama." In effort to make yourself at least feel better and so maybe you won't look like a vagabond to your husband, you put on a new shirt. It feels a little better. You decide it's time to pay attention to Baby who's been stalking you for a solid fifteen-minutes. You pick him up and squeeze him and...other stuff also gets squeezed out. From his diaper. IS THERE ANY END TO THIS DEVILRY?!?!

The good: Handsome Husband gets home, exhausted but walks in holding out Chipotle to you like a steak to a tiger, so it won't attack. "I was even later because I wanted to surprise you," he says. You feel like a jerk for being pissed and thank him for thinking of you. He even makes you a margarita even though your resources are low. He gets creative and makes one out of Berry Blast Naked Juice which...is really good. And later, when you don't get to go to bed until 2:30 am because of kids, you are grateful for his love. And the leftover marg.

I've decided that, I will only put in a teaser to "Wednesday" to leave you hanging! And because it is actually stressful to even write about my last week. Plus, I don't want to stress YOU out! I at least want you to be like, "Thank GOD that wasn't my week!" Or, "Wow--that was TOTALLY my week!" That's what it's all about here at The Kids, The Cat, & The Dirty Kitchen, we aim to please. I desire to make a place that makes you feel better about how you are doing things, and laugh about how I do things. I have to, or I'll end up in a loony bin. So, I am breaking it up--tomorrow night's endeavor will be to write the rest of the week.

A lot of people might say, "After reading these, why would you think anyone would want your life??" I don't. I love my life. I love my kids and my Handsome Husband. If I didn't, I wouldn't be writing about it for your laughter; I'd be in the fetal position, banging my head against a wall instead. So, prepare for more crazy! More mice, more toilet trauma, and a new whammy: The Chic That Hit On My Husband At Mass! For REAL...

*Jesse: Name changed to protect the arm-gimpy. Not Kick-Ass GF's daughter's real name but, I had Rick Springfield in my head (I wish that I was Jesse's giiirl!) so it just came to me.

**Automatic-non-automatic door: Yeah. Our van...Hmm...where to begin...Is a precious gift from some dear dear friends that saved us by lending/giving it to us. However; it's got some quirks. Its...eccentric, really. Like that lady perhaps, that always came through your check-out line when you worked retail, and had crazy clothes pieced from ten different places and smelled funny. You can tell she may have used to be really cute but somehow life, has made her a little scattered. The door got jammed ON Thanksgiving, courtesy of Handsome Husband. (That's another post.) But, it only jammed in that, the back wouldn't shut. So, we had to pay the Mechanic Man to slam-jam it permanently shut. Ergo, only one side of our van doors open now and it's really fun throwing the baby in that corner...

***Hope Queen GF: This gal is...a beautiful soul. (And woman, but we're talking her soul right now.) She...has been through a lot. God asks a lot of her. Somehow, she still desires to give to others. She thrives on giving to others in any way she can. There was a time in my earlier youth, that I was really placed in people's lives to give them hope. Since many things we've gone through, I've needed hope. Not just the kind that wishes for brighter things. I'm talking the real stuff--the kind that perseveres through all things because at the heart, there is a faith that trusts in the absolute good and knows that God is sovereign. That is a gift to see such hope. I love her especially for bringing God to me in this way. Love you!!

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You know your day just might be suffering from a curse when...
You sleepily trudge down the hall to the front door to get the paper. You are hunched over. You didn't sleep since The Oldest was dehydrated last night and cried about it all night long accusingly, as though you'd stuffed his cheeks with salt tablets. You put your hand out to turn the knob, and a spider lands on it. "GAAAARF!" That's actually what you yell. This is unknown but your husband comes running to see you having a convulsive fit of sorts, and when you spit out the word, "SPIDER!" he shakes his head in disgust and walks away. "IT WAS BIG!" you shout after him. "That CAN'T be a good sign!" you try to explain. It can't, right? Who wakes up and has Creepo The Demon Spider landing on their finger?! You wonder if Handsome Husband called into the school, to tell them you're keeping the oldest home...You start having anxiety because those secretaries already think you're nuts and disorganized, and if they think you forgot to call, they'll think you're irresponsible. "Phone's for you, honey!" Handsome Husband chirps happily. You narrow your eyes to slits and he knows. "I'm SO sorry! I was supposed to call in, huh?" It's The Secretary. The Main One. Like the Lead Gremlin that has that stripe down his head so you know he's the Leader. "We are...concerned, Mrs. Langley. Why didn't you call Michael in? His teacher was worried sick." You consider your options: you can be the funny bitch you want to be and say, "FIRST of all, Grasma, it's only FIVE minutes past the bell and there is NO way that uptight broad of a teach is worried sick when there are twenty-six other students to be counting." But, since you'll probably be seeing her for a long while, you decide to be apologetic and sound responsible. Your mother would be proud. "I am so sorry to have caused any upset--he is very sick you see, and we weren't sure if he was coming or not until--" But she interrupts you because, she doesn't have time for irresponsibility. "Yes well, that's fine. I hope he feels better. Do call next time?"