The Big Yellow House

Open Letter to the Saleswomen Working at JJill

2006-06-12T14:30:00.000-04:00

Hi. Remember me? I'm sure that you do. In fact I'd be willing to bet that you haven't stopped talking about me since I left.

This morning I went into your store to return a shirt I bought that had the hem ripped out of the bottom. You weren't as nice or apologetic as I felt you should be since I am the one who bought a defective shirt and had to come all the way back to the store to return it. But, whatever. I was willing to overlook that as I browsed through the store to see if I might like to exchange it for something else.

I browsed around, a little perplexed by the sheer volume of elastic waist clothing. Um, yuck. Are you a clothing store for old people and I just didn't know it?

So I walked through the store and found a different shirt. I was still looking when my husband popped into the store to see if I was done yet. He is frightened if I am in the store for too long.

You had to stop what you were doing and count my children out loud. I'm used to that. I don't understand it, but I am used to it. I'm willing to humor you and laugh when you do that, and correct you when you count incorrectly. Because seven is such huge number it is hard to count that high.

What I am not used to, nor will I ever make excuses for is blatant rude behavior to my children. When you stepped in front of my eldest son and said, "Can I help you, boys?" while blocking their way into the store, you crossed a line.

When you stared at them, with a look of horror on you face, which is how my 11 yr old described your expression by the way, you crossed a line. Then you looked down your nose at me as if I was a leper that you couldn't wait to leave your store. Who do you think you are?

I know the stereotypes about women who have lots of children. I have heard more than my fair share of rude and obnoxious comments ranging from, "Do they all have the same father?" to "Are you on welfare?" Both of which I won't even justify with a response. And the not so sublte glances to my ring finger to check out my wedding rings. And for the record, yes, they are real. Are yours? Because they looked fake to me. But shhhhh, I won't tell.

Giving birth seven times may have weakened my stomach muscles, and my bladder control has never been the same, but surprisingly my hearing is intact. That was why I turned to you and said, "Hi. I can hear you, you know."

Then you said to me, "What did you do pop one out every year?" and "I'd kill myself." Well you pissed me off, frankly.

Afterall, you are the one working in the store. Not me. You are there to wait on me. Not the other way around. I'm not sure that you could afford to shop in the store with what you must be making an hour, so your behavior confuses me. There is nothing I hate more than stuck up sales people. You work in a clothing store. Despite what you may think, that is just a tiny side step from being a cashier at Wal-mart.

And that is why I took a perverse amount of pleasure in saying, "It's too bad that nothing in this store comes in my size. It's all so.... big."

chris

Waste Not...

2006-06-12T07:09:00.000-04:00

Mir has begun a new blog about being frugal, Want Not.

When she first told me about it, she said it was going to be about living frugally for real people, who still like to have nice stuff. People who don't want to brew their own coffee in their used stockings and reuse their coffee grounds multiple times, so that they could save that $10 a year or go dumpster diving for discarded but still edible produce.

Okay, she didn't actually say these things, but that is what I thought. I read the Tightwad Gazette. Actually I bought it, which is telling in and of itself about how frugal I am.

I mean I like being frugal, in theory.

Then I read one of her posts about how frugality requires a separate freezer. And I screamed, "I have a freezer!" And I felt so good about my frugalness that I went to zappos.com and browsed pretty shoes .

Already I have learned that sunblock expires and that I shouldn't stockpile it in my basement, no matter how good the sale or how close I think End Times might be. And I found out about a 10% off sale at Overstock that is perfect for Father's Day. And laundry, I love Mir's laundry tips. So go on over there and read, you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll become frugal through osmosis. Okay I can't promise you that... but you will laugh. So go on and leave her a comment, today is the public unveiling.

Then she asked me about my grocery bills and I told her how much we spend. And she fainted. After a while she revived, but evidently was brain damaged in the fall because she told me what airline she was flying to Blogher next month. And I decided to fly on that airline too. But then... I found out I could get on the same plane, because every airline wants us New Englanders to crisscross the country, stopping at least three times, turning what could be a three hour tour into an all day long affair, for which we will have to bring our own snacks. Why aren't there any snacks, you ask?

We are flying the cheap airline, see already I am becoming frugal. There aren't even seat assignments, it is first come, first served and this is where Mir's training for her 60 mile walk will come in handy, as she runs, jumps over the defenseless, pushes down the elderly, and secures us two seats together. She has been instructed to grab the barf bag and moan should anyone try to sit next to her.

(The only exception to this is if a NORMAL single male who has all his teeth, is literate, and employed wants to sit next to her. But we have already determined that there are none of them left in the world, so no worries there.)

So hopefully more of her frugal living ideas will rub off on me. Though I do draw the line at fashioning attractive footwear out of the skytop magazines, or a fetching hat out of our personal flotation devices.

The Curse of the Homerun

2006-06-11T07:55:00.000-04:00

I don't think I will give up my day job just yet and become a motivational speaker. Not that I actually have a day job.

Yesterday was baseball from 8:00 in the morning until about 4:30 in the afternoon.

I often think it is some sort of divine retribution that I, who despise sports so fully, would end up with boys who love nothing more than participating in sports, any sports.

That I, who think a good time in the sun involves laying down, moving only my eyes to read and my lips to suck my fruity drink, would end up with sons who need me to run, jump, cheer, and not lay down at all in the sun.

That I, who cringe and cover my face when a ball is tossed near me, would have to watch balls thrown 70 miles per hour perilously close to my sons' faces.

That I, who hate to get dirty and sweat, would be faced daily with more stinky laundry than a frat house.

There is a God, I say. And he is vindictive.

So we had four baseball games back to back at different locations. The locations did have something in common though, they were all muddy and freezing cold, with a wind that chapped our faces and caused us all to collectively wonder if it was really March.

My oldest son, of the-hit-an-out-of-the-park-homerun-and-now-has-a-head-so-large-we-had- to-put-extenders-on-the-back-of-his-baseball-cap-fame, he had a double header yesterday. He got up to bat 7 times. He struck out five of those times. FIVE. It was painful to watch. The other two times he grounded out. His little feet, or huge flippers if we are striving for accuracy, never touched first base.

He cried. This is permissible according to The Code of Boys (ages 11-12) which allows for crying when you miss important plays. The Code of Boys (ages 11-12) allows you to cry from physical pain only if there is lots of blood or requires a trip to the hospital in an ambulance. At least this is what I can make out from my vantage point as an outsider.

On the positive side, his baseball cap now fits again and he no longer resembles a bobble-head.

Don't Mess With Chris

2006-06-09T01:00:00.000-04:00

We recently discovered that someone is stealing stones off of our stone wall, as well as that of our next door neighbor. This person is coming into our yard several yards up our driveway to take these stones.

Coincidentally, another neighbor a few houses away is building a new stone wall. Hmmmm. Not accusing anyone, but what a coinky-dink.

This is a huge problem here in our area of the country where there are numerous old stone walls and the price of building new ones is cost prohibitive.

In any event I am really mad. It takes a special sort of brazen asshole to come up someone else's driveway and steal their wall away under the veil of darkness.

So I have made some signs that I am going to post out in my yard, if my husband will let me.

To be alternated with this one:

So if you don't hear from me for a few days, it is because I have built one of those deer stands high up in a tree and am just waiting silently, biding my time for the thief to reappear.

How I Plant A Tree, With Children and a Husband

2006-06-08T09:13:00.000-04:00

Tree we transplanted last year doesn't make it through the winter
Decide we need a new tree
Go to nursery and pick out a large tree
Realize it can't fit into any vehicle we own and arrange for shipping
Find out the price for having them dig and plant the tree
Decide that we can dig the hole ourselves
Because I am ~~stupid~~ frugal
36"x 30" deep doesn't sound very big at all
We own shovels
I have children who like to dig
Arrange for tree to be delivered on Wednesday
Ignore digging the hole for an entire week
Realize Tuesday that hole has to be dug today
Organize a digging party with children
Hand out the shovels
Children act like they have never seen, much less used a shovel, before
Spend the time asking children to get their shovel out of the way
Get their heads out of the way
To stop dueling with the shovels
Ask children to stop jumping in the hole
Inform children that there is no treasure buried in our yard
or corpses
or dinosaur bones
or anything worth diving into the hole in front of my shovel
Get hit in face with shovel handle
over
and over
and over again
Take a break when 7yr old gets hit in the eye
and scratches his cornea
get out eye injury supplies
Doesn't everyone have an eye injury kit?
You would if you had six sons.
Patch up his eye
Continue digging
At 26" hit a huge rock with the shovel
Decide to raise the level of the yard 4"
Try unsuccessfully to keep small children out of the hole
Rain for next 24 hours
Yard is a slippery mud pit
with a mud pool in the center
Crew arrive to deliver tree in the pouring rain
Realize that the tree looks much much larger when not surrounded by other trees
Thankful that they will plant it
Crew inform me that the hole is too deep
But it isn't wide enough
They drop the tree NEXT to the hole
Did I mention the pouring rain?
And the mud?
Stand on the porch shocked
Wonder how I will get the tree into the hole
Realize too late that I should have cried
Told them about the surgery
And the sad story of my husband's thumblessness
Offered them cash, the great motivator
Instead I say bad words.
Wait until afternoon, hoping against hope for sunshine
Resign self to plant tree in pouring rain
begin the shovelling, again
Am joined by helpful children
Who enjoy the mud more than I want them to
I feel like I am in a Tide commercial
Except I am not smiling and happy about my laundry situation
Husband who has his arm in a sling "helps" by giving instructions
Until he can take it no longer
Then he helps us lift the tree with his one good arm
It was much more of an ordeal than it sounds
All the twisting, lifting, turning, straightening
Backfill the hole
Stake the tree with the wire and stakes provided
Tell children to stay away from the tree
Stand back near the road to admire tree
Pose for photo lest we forget the fun

Collect shovels laying around the yard
Trip over the wire securing the tree
Fall in the mud
While laying there glance up at flowers
The drought resistant flowers
the heat tolerant flowers
that could withstand the unrelenting summer sun
and me never remembering to water them
the flowers are now drowning and cold

A New Project

2006-06-08T07:26:00.000-04:00

I am involved in a new website called Larger Families. From the website:

largerfamilies.com is the site dedicated to parents raising the modern larger family! We strive to be a source of ideas, resources, entertainment and inspiration by and for moms with more than the "average" number of kids. We'll keep you entertained, informed, and inspired with a daily blog written by over a dozen moms with between four and eleven kids, an advice column, links, resources, articles and interviews.

I am writing the advice column, called Advice from the Trenches, where I answer questions from ~~poor, unsuspecting souls~~ people. I will also periodically be interviewing other mothers to see their personal takes on raising a large a family in a world designed for two kids, as well as doing the occasional book review.

I'll have a link up in my sidebar as soon as I get around to it. And my new blog home should be up and running soon, unless my blog designer shoots herself or finds me and shoots me for my incredible pickiness and unrelenting idea changes.

Tying Your Shoes, Typing, Washing the Dishes, Squeezing the Toothpaste Tube

2006-06-07T10:55:00.000-04:00

What are things that are difficult to do with a huge bandage on your half missing thumb.

This is a picture of the built-in benches that cost Rob his thumb. They turned out really nice and were totally worth sacrificing a finger, that wasn't mine.

Rob is in surgery as I type this, having his thumb repaired. He sent me this email yesterday afternoon:

She told me to be sure to where a very roomy shirt, as my dressing will be quite bulky and may not fit in a normal shirt.. Excuse me....! Uhm.. What exactly do you think this surgery is for? A heart transfer or a damn thumb??!! Too bulky?? Just how much dressing are they expecting to put on one hand? There is just so much wrapping they can do.. Am I supposed to wear this roomy shirt for the next two weeks too? Should I go shop at the big and tall shop to outfit myself to accommodate my "dressing"..?

In case it isn't clear from the email he was also told that he would have to leave the bandages on for two weeks without having them removed. If his hand can't fit inside a regular shirt, what is he supposed to do for wearing clothing to work. He is also traveling for business next week and part of the trip is going to Universal Studios in Orlando. I can't figure out exactly how that is business related either, so don't ask me.

I joked to him this morning that I half expect to pick him up from the surgery center and find him in a apparatus like this:

with one of those dog cones around his neck for good measure.

What Did We Do Before Google?

2006-06-06T15:34:00.000-04:00

Today I am third in this google search:

what did the trenches look like?

In an effort to be helpful, here is the answer:

I Used To Be Perfect

2006-06-06T10:49:00.000-04:00

Remember my motivational speech to my children that I wrote about in my last post?

My oldest son hit his first homerun last night. He was thrilled. And I was $20 poorer.

The night before my 10 year old hit two doubles and a single. And I was $5 lighter in the wallet.

I'd like to think it was my incredibly motivating and inspirational talk with my sons, and not the lure of cold hard cash.

It's funny, before I had children I though I would be one of those parents who didn't bribe or punish. I strongly felt that the intrinsic value of doing something would be lost if I put an outside motivator on it. But my children were also going to be perfect and want to learn their multiplication tables for fun and spend their spare time composing original violin concertos to play on their weekly visits to the elderly. They would self discipline!

Before I had children, I was the perfect mother.

And so the other night after my motivational speech, when my 10 yr old asked, will you give me something if I hit the ball into the outfield? After negotiating we decided on $1 for a single, $2 for a double, etc. The kids has the best game of his short little life, probably because he was too busy mentally calculating his newly acquired cash and what he would buy with it,than feeling anxious.

The 11 yr old said, "That's not fair."

I answered, "Welcome to my life, dear."

"What if I hit a homerun? Like out of the ballpark homerun? Will you give me $20?" he pressed on.

I calculated the odds of that happening. He has never hit a homerun. I figured my money was safe.

So under the guise of being magnanimous I answered, "Sure. Why not."

At 8:00 pm last night I got a phone call from him on his father's cell phone. He hit that homerun.
I wasn't there.

"I wish you had seen it, Mom."

I think I may have died a little.

He came home with the ball. A dirty, smudged ball, that someone had dug out of the woods and given it to him. He held it up proudly, for all of us to gaze upon it's magnificence. He wanted me to write the date on it so he could save it.

I pulled out my trusted Sharpie, asked him to verify the date on the calendar, took a deep breath to steady my hand, and proceeded to write the wrong date. The wrong freaking date.

He cried. I scrubbed the little spot on the ball trying to get the marker off. In the end I was able to "fix" it in a way that was acceptable to him, and if you didn't know any better you wouldn't even notice. But you'll always be able to see that little clean spot, where I tried to fix my mistake.

Every time I look at that little ball sitting on his shelf, I'll remember this night, and my woefully inadequate self.

My kids might not be perfect, but I love them just the way they are. I hope they think the same about me.

$20 should buy a little forgiveness... right? right?

Baseball is a metaphor for everything

2006-06-04T07:39:00.000-04:00

A few nights ago I was talking to my two oldest sons about the power of positive thinking and the self fulfilling power of negative thoughts. Of course this was all in relation to baseball, because aside from Legos their thoughts are consumed with little else.

One of them has been having a lot of trouble at bat during games. At the pitching machine... he hits everything beautifully. When the coach is pitching, or during practices, the same.

But put him up at bat during a game and it is like looking at a different kid. There is no explanation for it, other than the negative self speak. The coaches come up to us, privately, and say that he should be the best on the team. That is what all the evidence during practice would suggest. And yet, time after time, in a game situation he fails to come through.

So I began this conversation telling them both that I wanted them to think positive thoughts when they got up to bat. I gave them a little mantra to say when they got up at home plate. "I am a hitter. I can do it. I can hit a homerun. I can do it." They looked at me like I had lost my mind.

"I'm not saying that," my ten year old protested.

"You don't have to go up to there and shout it, though maybe that would scare everyone else away from you. No, you say it in your head."

From the way they protested you would think I had suggested they go up to bat naked.

*************

A few days ago I got an "opportunity" to get paid for some writing. If we use the word "opportunity" to mean "lay down while we run you over with a steam roller to extract every last ounce of your soul from your body and then pay you a pittance". I don't want to get into details because it seems as though they could be a particularly litigious ~~club~~ group. But suffice it to say that the offer was insulting. And not just insulting to me, because I am sitting on some sort of high horse, just plain old insulting to writers everywhere ( imagine my sweeping arm gesture which encompasses all of you)

As I said to the person offering the job, if I accept this sort of job I am basically saying that what I do has no value. That my writing and the writing of other women and mothers (not to exclude men out there, but this offer was a mom thing) is worth nothing. And I don't believe that. I can't believe that.

I told the person offering the job that I hoped no one accepts this job under these terms. But I know someone will. I know someone will believe the lie that we have been collectively fed, that mothering, and the writing about mothering, has no value, that you should be happy for a little pat on your head. Now go sit in the corner, fiddle with your pearls, and look pretty.

Writing about being in the trenches of motherhood is revolutionary. Our mothers didn't have this outlet. Being able to write honestly about all facets of our lives is freeing. Finding out that other women feel like an outcast from the "perfect mother" club is comforting.

I seethed over it for days, and a wise friend told me I needed to let it go, and I have. Or rather will after I write this. She also asked what I was going to do about it. Do? Isn't my outrage enough.

And as I began to hem and haw she said, well you have a safety net I have kids to feed, that's the difference. No, it's more than a safety net I had said. I couldn't think of what it really was. Safety net implies that you are doing something, but what will be caught if you fall. No, I have been treating my life as a crutch.

Have I worked on my book at all in the past few months? No.

Why not? Oh the reasons I could give are numerous and varied. With seven kids people don't expect much of you. If my shoes match and my shirt is buttoned correctly, people are impressed. The world is my enabler. But, if I have time for this I have time to do writing that will pay me.

In the end though it comes down to the negative self talk. My own reluctance to step up to the plate and claim the title of writer, lest some one slap me down. My life long pattern of giving up, so that I don't have to fail.

'Tis easier to stand motionless at homeplate, ostensibly waiting for the perfect pitch, blaming the pitcher for lousy throws, blaming the umpire for bad calls, than it is to claim the game as your own, to swing with all you heart, all your strength, and strike out.

Old habits are hard to change, the negative self talk even harder.

So now it is my turn up at the plate. I understand fully the protests of my sons. I feel naked.

"I am a writer. I can do it."

Way Back Weekend

2006-06-03T07:17:00.000-04:00

Planting with Children

2006-06-02T11:38:00.000-04:00

This is when you get to practice that deep Lamaze breathing that was completely worthless during labor.

And anyone with the slightest bit of perfectionism, will need some drugs. Or at the very least to put the camera down and help. By help I mean take over and ~~yell~~, ~~mumble expletives about how expensive the plants were~~, gently guide the small angels. Gosh, that is hard to type with a straight face.

And just to prove how over protective I am, here is a picture of my daughter playing t-ball.

It's a dangerous sport. You never know when you might hit yourself in the head with your bat, or drop the ball on your toes. Better to be vigilant and prepared.

Tying Up Loose Ends

2006-06-01T08:04:00.000-04:00

1) Rob went back to work today, thankfully. The man does not sit down. It can be maddening. He has to go to the doctor all week for "whirlpool" treatments for his thumb that somehow help in the healing process. Then on Monday, he will have surgery. The doctor now thinks he will be able to save the length of his thumb and not cut down the fingernail. So, his hitch hiking days are not over. (kidding, he doesn't really hitch hike.)

2) People, they send me stuff.

A few weeks ago, maybe more who can remember, I received and email from someone asking if I would like to try their Milk Tray. It was developed by two breastfeeding mothers and is designed to be a freezing container for pumped breasting. It has single ounce compartments to cut down on wasting, because nothing sucks more that defrosting an 8 ounce bag of breasting, knowing that your baby is only going to drink five ounces. They freeze in slim lines... hence the name of the product, so that they can slip into the opening on the bottle. Am I sounding like an info-mercial yet? I didn't try it, but I think that a few frozen milk sticks would fit right into an Advent sized bottle still frozen so one could defrost them inside the bottle in the refrigerator. Since I am no longer breastfeeding, I filled the container with water and then used the ice sticks to put in the kids water bottles, they liked that. If you are a nursing mother check it out. Also, if you are a nursing mother and would like the sample tray I received, I'll send it along to you free of charge to test out and you could write your own review on your blog if you like.

I also got some Clorox Everywhere Sanitizer. Eh. I like my disinfecting products to smell like chemicals so that I know they are working. This one smells nice... like febreezy nice. I am just not convinced that it works as well as my trusty Lysol.

I'd really like someone to send me a Scooba to test out. I think the iRobot people should send me one. I have a huge house with wood and tile floors, including seven bathrooms. Two are not functional right now, but the other five are. If I didn't have to clean them all, theoretcially, perhaps the other two would be functional as well. My seven children think that it is their God given mission to bring as much of the outdoors inside of our home. Also, I am lazy and hate no task more than mopping my floors. You can ask my husband. If he ever divorces me, that will definitely be one of the things he would write down as a reason. So iRobot, I eagerly await my Scooba in the mail.

3) Today I finally do not look like I am storing nuts inside my cheek for winter.

4) If you have emailed me and I have not responded yet, I will. Soon. Hopefully. The only exception to this is all you people who emailed me to tell me that I am an overprotective nut who is raising my children to be overly dependent upon me and that I am destined to have them all still living at home when they 45 years old, their only love interest a couple of mangy cats. You people I am not going to email back. Because you obviously don't know me well at all. I am allergic to cats.

5) Today I am planting my flower boxes. Thus begins my first attempt at Operation Don't Kill the Flowers, that is on my forty before forty list. I'd really like to keep these flowers alive this year. I bought flowers that the garden center told me like lots of sun and drought like conditions. That is perfect for me and my inability to remember to water my flowers.

6) I know that there were more things I wanted to say, but they have all slipped out of my head.

And Now For Something Completely Different

2006-05-30T14:34:00.000-04:00

I have a post up over at dot-moms today:

I have kids now who want more freedom than I am sometimes willing to give. Items to keep them safe aren't readily available in the aisles of Target anymore. Unless they are selling micro chips that I can implant in their brains to force them to make good decisions, override their dangerous ones, and track their whereabouts at all times.

What do you all think? Especially you experienced moms of older children. I thought as my children got older it would get easier. I have found that while it has become less physically exhausting, it hasn't become easier. The issues have become more complex, the answers less clear. My hand wringing and mental flagellation have increased. As have my grey hair and need for an occasional alcoholic beverage.

I wrote that I don't allow my children to used the public restrooms alone. There is no discussion about it, though my older sons wish I would relent. I either bring them into the women's bathroom, or depending on the location, open up the bathroom to the men's room and send one of my sons inside to see if it is empty. If the bathroom is completely empty they may use it. But I hold the outside door open with my foot and don't let anyone in. Usually no one wants to go in anyway.

Rob always thought I was being over protective until someone he knows personally had a 12 yr old approached by a man in a women's restroom. Not only did the girl not tell her parents, who were with her at the store, until weeks later, the way that she interacted with the man proved my point that at 12 years old, children just do not have the maturity to always make good decisions.

So, go on over there and read and then let me know what you think. And while you are there read some of the other essays by some other fabulous mothers.

The longer version

2006-05-30T07:12:00.000-04:00

Rob was finishing up the trim work on our window seats in the kitchen. I was outside on our sunporch watching the little kids who were playing in the back yard.

Suddenly Rob came running out screaming that he had to go to the ER right then. I started screaming back, "Shut-UP! I know you are joking." And even though he was holding up a bloody stump and blood was pouring down his arm, I kept yelling at him to stop the joking around. After a couple of times of going back and forth I came to my senses and told him to get in the car.

Before we left I wrapped the base of his thumb in duct tape, what's not to love about this tape, to stop the bleeding. It also pretty effectively cut off the circulation to his thumb so it wasn't hurting as much as it could, and would once we arrived at the er and they cut the duct tape off.

We did find out that chopping of most of your thumb does not give you a free pass out of the waiting room. Also, that only men come to the emergency clutching bloody rags to their bodies, having cut, chopped, or blown off parts of their bodies. And with every man, sits a woman shaking her head.

Basically he cut off the back half of his thumb. Almost as if you scooped out the entire area, including the bone, behind your fingernail, yet left the fingernail pretty much intact.

Since it was a holiday weekend, Rob had to wait until today, Tuesday, to see the hand surgeon, who will repair the damage. He will have to have the tip of his finger cut off and a skin graft from his hip.

To say that he is bummed out, would be an understatement. He is also disappointed in the level of pain relief afforded by his Percocet prescription.

Not that it stopped him from finishing the building of the window seats or coaching baseball practice. He's tough like that, or crazy.

In Which I Can't Complain About The Gum Surgery I Had Yesterday, even though it really really hurt

2006-05-28T09:50:00.000-04:00

This house has taken blood, sweat and tears in it's restoration.

And now it has taken a thumb.

Rob in the Emergency Room, after the morphine IV.

I discovered three things about myself from this experience, because yes, it is all about me:
1) I am not the person you want around in an emergency
2) It is a good thing I decided long ago not to be a doctor
3) I am lots of fun to have around in the emergency room after the initial crisis.

Oh and a fourth thing,
I need to remember to bring my camera with me everywhere, even when someone is holding a bloody stump of a finger in my face.

Are You There God? It's Me Chris

2006-05-25T08:18:00.000-04:00

I told myself that once the boy stopped nursing and the boobs resumed their normal permanent state that I would buy some new bras. But you probably already know that God, since you are omnipotent, omnipresent and omniscient. And, as an aside, my children want to know if you and Santa are friends? Anyway, wearing baggy stretched out nursing bras does nothing for the self esteem.

So I began looking for some new bras. Online, of course, because what little is left of my self esteem can not take trying on bras in a brightly fluorescent lit dressing room.

I actually broke out the tape measure and measured. Then I read the directions again.

Then I remeasured, because surely I was doing it wrong.

Then I read the directions again, out loud this time, just in case I had suddenly been struck by some sort of reading comprehension problem.

And then I remeasured again, with both lungs filled to capacity with air.

And I got the same result.

I feel so deflated, literally.

The website laughed at me and sent me to the children's department to buy undershirts with a tiny pink rose in the center. Which will inevitably make it look like I have three nipples.

A friend of mine told me recently that she noticed her daughter had stuffed her bra with cotton balls. I can relate.

And God, while I am on this rant. Why can't clothing manufacturers agree on sizing? Remember when I went to Old Navy a few weeks ago? Well I bought two pair of capri pants for myself, in the same size. One fits perfectly. One not at all. In fact, I am not sure who the second pair is made to fit. Someone who has hips three inches bigger than mine, yet thighs that are a few inches smaller. Maybe they are made for ten year old boys. Who don't wear underwear. I don't know.

Also God. Bathing suits. I don't think I need to say anymore on this topic. I am afraid that should I wear one people who turn to look at me will be turned to pillars of salt, so great would be the horror.

Well, God that is it for now. I must go take my children to their class. Where I will see that woman who will totally insult me because she is perfect. And I will quietly seethe. And say curse words inside my head.

You might think I am taking your name in vain, but God, I am not. I want you to damn her. Smite her. If I wear a bathing suit under my clothes and flash her, could you turn her into a pillar of salt? or a burning bush? That would be cool. I'll bring marshmallows.

Thank you,
Chris

Things that defy explanation

2006-05-24T06:59:00.000-04:00

Alternate title, Things I'll be muttering about when they lock me up in the asylum.
I don't know why I bother asking questions.
Do I like to hear myself talk? I don't think so, at least not at the decibel and frequency that these sorts of questions require.
Yet, I can't help it. I long for answers, where there are none to be given.

Here are the top five ridiculous questions (that I can remember) that I have asked my children this week and their answers. Identity of children is not being disclosed to protect their ~~innocence~~, ~~future ability to find dates~~ identity

Scene I:

Me: "Why did you think it was okay to poke your brother in the back with your fork because he was breathing near you?"
Child: "Because."
Me: "You are breathing near me and I'm not stabbing you with my fork."
Child: "Well, I bet you want to."
Me: "But the point is that I'm not"

Scene II:

Me: "Why is this shirt on the bathroom floor? What's that on it? Oh no.... no.... is that poop? Is that poop all over the tshirt? Why would someone do that? WHY?"
Child: "Maybe there was no toilet paper."
Me:"I think I have animals for children."

Scene III:

Me: "What do you mean you didn't want the hamburger anymore? Did it not occur to you that the garbage can would be a more appropriate place for it than under the couch cushion?"
Child: "Well, I might change my mind and still want it."
Me: "Oh puh-lease, were you really thinking you would eat it later?"

Scene IV:

Me: "Why did you just trip him?"
Child: "I didn't think that would happen!"
Me: "Well, how about you clear this up for me. Just what did you think would happen when you stuck your foot out as you brother ran by?"

Scene V:

Me: "Why would you think it would be okay to dry your wet body by rolling all over my bed? Wouldn't it have been easier to walk to the linen closet and get a towel?"
Child: "What's a linen closet?"

Bonus Scene inside my head:

Me: Why did you wax your own eyebrows?
Myself: It seemed like a good idea.
Me: But you have trouble handling the tweezers.
Myself: Yes, I remember that now.

Yet Another Bonus scene that occurred as I was typing this:

Rob: Why did you take a stick and beat all the plants and flowers that were just planted in front of the house?
Child: I don't know why.
Rob: What were you thinking?
Child: I don't know.
Rob: Were you angry? Is that why? You obviously did it on purpose. What were you thinking?
Child: No. I just thought of doing it and did.

Finally, one that isn't related to my children.
Why am I the number two result in this google search: how to bring shape in big hanging boobs in India. Why, I am shouting at you internet.

What Every Girl Needs

2006-05-23T08:42:00.000-04:00

a tattoo... of Cinderella.

The Best Years

2006-05-22T07:47:00.000-04:00

Every time I go to the store with some or all of my children, old people will come up to me and comment on my family. They always have this wistful nostalgic look on their faces while they tell me to enjoy these years. That these were the best years of their life.

It used to sort of depress me, because, really? Is this as good as it is ever going to get? Am I really going to wax nostalgic over night after night of interrupted sleep, dirty diapers, endless laundry and tantrums? But then I began thinking that perhaps these old people were just going senile and that was oddly comforting.

Last week, nabbalicious wrote a hilarious story about something she did as a child. At the end of the post she wrote that she asked her mother about it and her mother told her that she didn't remember the incident, that she had in fact blocked most of the things she and her brother did out.

I thought it was just me. No wonder that past 11 years seem to have flown by. I hardly remember any of it.

Yesterday my kids started playing the "Remember when" game, otherwise known as the game to make Mom feel as though she has early onset Alzheimer's.

Some of the things I remember well, like when my then 3 and 5 yr old decided to "help" open the box that our pool came in, by sitting on top of the box and repeatedly stabbing it with steak knives they had pilfered from the dishwasher. The pool was damaged, though we didn't notice the damage until after we filled it and 2000 gallons of water leaked out all over our backyard. In fact it was the subject of my first blog entry ever.

Some I sort of remember, like when we first bought our house and one of the kids, Not Me, pulled the downspout (which was attached to the gutter three full stories above) off of the house and everyone rode over it with their bicycles until it was a flattened piece of aluminum laying sadly across the lawn. I have completely blocked out my reaction and Rob's reaction, though judging from the way the kids were laughing and holding their stomachs while retelling this story, whatever our reaction it didn't have the effect we desired.

Some are gone forever, like my 5yr old falling down and putting his teeth through his lip. I don't remember this at all. But apparently it was fairly recent and my kids tell me that I let him stay up late, sit on the couch with me, and eat popsicles until he felt better. I said, "Wow I am such a nice mommy, huh?" To which one of them responded, "No, it wasn't fair that he got to have all those popsicles and stay up late." Can't please everyone.

And they continued on. Some of the stories made me laugh, like when one of my kids went through a stage where he would like to pretend he would fall down the stairs, very theatrically and scream, "whoa, whoa, whoa" the entire way down. And how one time Rob thought he really was falling and shoved another child aside to "save" this one.

Some I am glad to have almost forgotten. Like the time everyone in the family had a stomach bug and my oldest son leaned over his top bunk to throw up and did so all over his brother sleeping below him. And how we had to wake him up and tell him he was covered in vomit not his own, and uh he might not want to open his mouth and talk just yet. Sometimes I feel like I live in a frat house. Also, we have never ever regained an interest in eating pizza pockets. In fact, if you want to get back at someone for wronging you, you only have to utter the phrase, "I am thinking of... PIZZA POCKETS"

Most of the stories I wish I could remember with more clarity. Some made me cringe with embarrassment over my own childish reactions. You'll have to trust me on this one. Not pretty.

Overall, I found myself feeling relieved since their stories were being recounted with laughter, even things that were not funny at the time had taken on a new humorous twist.

That must be the reason the old people say that it was the best years of their lives, they barely remember any of it. And the things that they do have been spit shined by time.

When I grow up, I want to be one of those old people in the grocery store. I want to remember these as the best years of my life.

I really, really do.

Way Back Weekend

2006-05-20T07:59:00.000-04:00

I'll be making a raft out of the empty bottles while I wait

2006-05-19T09:54:00.000-04:00

I'm Pacing Myself

2006-05-17T09:54:00.000-04:00

One of the recurrent "discussions" that Rob and I have is my lack of attention to detail. Don't you love when someone points out your flaws under the pretense of helping you? I know I LOVE it. Especially when you don't consider said attribute to be a flaw at all.

One of the ways that this "discussion" takes shape is the way I serve dinner from the pots on the stove. I think why bother dirtying more dishes just to put the food out on the table. Why make more work for myself?

My husband says that if you tell yourself it is work, of course it will feel like work. Just tell yourself this is how it should be done. I will go on record here saying that I hate this sort of mind over matter crap advice. Let me just pull myself up by my bootstraps and turn my frown upside down. (Which reminds me I have been wanting to write a review of Kathryn Sansone's book, Woman First, family always)

However, it has been brought to my attention, repeatedly, that the stove top is not a serving station and that when he makes dinner he always sets the table properly. The atmosphere is part of the enjoyment of the meal. This all begs the question of exactly how often he makes dinner? or eats dinner with us? And does he really think the words atmosphere, enjoy, and seven children go together with meal? Me thinks he has been inhaling too many fumes from the polish he uses on his office furniture every day.

I think, let's not prolong this affair any longer than necessary and lets try not to make any additional work for me. If I could get the kids on board with eating directly out of the pots with their hands I'd totally consider it. Oh heck, I lie, I'd be all over it. I consider dinner a success when no one falls to floor writhing in mental anguish over the dinner I have just prepared.

But when he makes dinner he washes all the pots and cooking crap before anyone sits down to dinner. The table is set with napkins...NAPKINS folded into shapes, not torn paper towels, chargers and actual glasses, not water bottles. You think I'm kidding? No wonder I feel inferior.

I usually tell people that my husband would be a much better wife than I am. And I mean it. But the fact of the matter is that it is easy to be perfect when you are only doing it a few hours a week.

When I go out alone I come home to a list of "helpful" hints on how I could run the household more smoothly. I LOVE that. Most of the suggestions involve me cleaning way more, following the children around the house demanding they put their toys away whether or not they are still playing with them, following a detailed minute by minute schedule, and basically not sitting down or relaxing ever. It's just so not going to happen.

In return, I like to make nonsensical suggestions to him about how he should do his job. I give him my advice about dealing with the IRS and taxes and stuff, though my expertise begins and ends with filling in the bubbles on the 1040EZ form. But, like him, it doesn't stop me from freely handing out my advice outside my realm of expertise.

So I give advice like:

"Make sure you color in the entire bubble. Just to be sure."

"What? There are no bubbles to color in."

"Well, Rob, just keep it in mind for future reference. M'kay?"

Or like this:

"You should sharpen all your number 2 pencils in advance and put them into one of those cuppy things on your desk."

"What the hell are you talking about?" he'll ask.

"Just giving you my advice. You know those cuppy things I am talking about...what are they called..." I'll continue.

"A pencil holder?"

"YES! That's what you need. You should get a cute, yet manly one, for your desk. You know, to create the proper work atmosphere."

At this point he will usually laugh. He knows his "helpful" advice drives me crazy, yet he is unable to stop doing it. I guess much like I can not stop driving over the front lawn and hysterically laughing while I deny it and try blaming it on the oil man.

I have come to realize that if I only had to play housewife a few hours on a weekend day, I'd be able to do a kickass job also. Unfortunately, I don't have that luxury. I have to pace myself like a marathon runner.

And not one of those freakishly fast marathon runners, no more like one of those slightly overweight older housewives who probably have their own forty before forty list, and have trained for a year to do this once in a life time thing and feel like they are about to drop dead half way through but realize that there is no way to turn around so they have to keep plugging away... maybe even crying while they run?

Yeah, that's the kind of marathon runner I'm talking about.

I'd totally love to ponder this some more, but I have laundry to do, a diaper to change, breakfast to serve, and meals to plan. Somehow I haven't been able to convince myself that they aren't work. My suggestion of naked fasting week was not met with the sort of enthusiasm I had hoped.

Can't Get Enough

2006-05-16T12:49:00.000-04:00

I am the featured mommy over at mommybloggers today.

And to everyone who said such nice things about me, I take it that the bribes arrived to you safely? No? They'll be there soon. Soon being relative of course considering I can't seem to make my way to the post office but once a week. Seeing as it requires I leave my house and go a whole half mile away and all.

Thank you for all your kind words. I wish I had something better up today than my floor.

I can give you this little snippet of previously edited out conversation that occurred while I was on my hands and knees cleaning up all the excess grout off the floor:

"You should totally be thankful that you have a wife who does these kind of home improvement projects"

"I am very thankful, though buying this old fixer-upper house was your idea, remember? Now, if you would tile the floor wearing nothing but a thong, that would make me very very thankful."

"You know, there are some things that are better left to fantasy. Having given birth to seven children, my naked thong wearing body in the glowing fluorescent light that is our kitchen, is one of those things."

Yes, I Am Getting Old

2006-05-16T08:43:00.000-04:00

My thighs are killing me. I can barely walk and am resigned to hobbling around for the second day in a row.

But since it was a "holiday" we had to do it. It was the only thing that I really wanted for Mother's day.

We have been meaning to get around to it for awhile now, but other things kept getting in the way, namely all the baseball running around. But with the non-stop rain this weekend there was no excuse, no reason to leave the house.

So, we got out all of our tools. Took a few deep breathes and we dove in.

And yes, we took photos.

More photos that you probably want to look at.

Then some of them escape.

Except the baby. He LOVES to watch us from afar.

What isn't visible in the photo are the hot pokers with which he is being stabbed.

Here is my tool.

Are you asleep yet? Too bad.

Even small children are forced to labor here.

"No, no breaks for you! I don't care if you are tired!"

Because I had scrub each individual tile with a wire brush, steel wool, and denatured alcohol. My daughter is "helping" with her bucket of water and little scrub brush. And though she tried her best, she could not gouge the already hardened grout out from between the tile.

I love this floor and it's dirt hiding properties. We have the same tile in our mudroom and it never looks dirty. I haven't mopped it in... well, how about we say a month. m'kay? But the thing is a quick sweep and it looks clean! My husband likes to point out that it is just as dirty as a white floor, and that just because you can not see the dirt doesn't mean it isn't there. But I just plug my ears, say," lalalala... you know where we keep the mop" Though, after reading about this on Mary's blog, I think I am going to have to buy my husband this for Father's Day.

Completely unrelated, my 8yr old made me this at a leather working class he took last week. I don't know what to say about it other than should I ever run into David Blaine I am prepared.