Swoon A While

I've been spending a little too much time with Jane Austen of late, and I think I would really, really, really welcome a good swoon right about now. But in my running shoes & sweats, it just doesn't have the same effect. (And wouldn't you know it, I run straight into the gossip queen at the grocery store on my way out - this is so not going to get me into supper club, let me tell you.)

But back to the swoon - my dearest sweetest boy just walked in, asked for another stack of laundry, and told me "I like taking the laundry, Momma."

Swoon-worthy, I assure you. Wagers as to where he's actually taking it?

Let the Good Times Roll

So, it's still Spring Break, officially, but since we are now down to just a weekend before my life resumes, I'm calling it off. The Break, I mean. Because aside from the sleeping until 8:30 thing at my parents, it hasn't been much of a break.

Let's review.

Monday - Mom works from home, taking conference calls amidst cries of "He's telling on me" and "I will never EVER clean my room." Flee to my parents in hope of a sanity break.

Tuesday & Wednesday - Play with sweet baby niece, sleep moderately late, allow my parents to deal with the "complete unfairness" of 3 children with new computer games, one of which "like totally stinks." Return home at the bequest of dear husband who proclaims that the house is too quiet without us.

Thursday - Spend some time with our friends at Urgent Care so that I can get antibiotics for the pink eye I've acquired from the sweet baby. More cruelty to children inflicted as I pronounce Thursday "no electronics" day, and force them to play outside. In 75 degree sunshine, I might add, lest you think I was sending them out to the tundra for a game of Ring the Reindeer.

Friday - Cave to demands of Happy Meals as well as video game time. Compromise is made that games can be played on the screened in porch to allow fresh air to actually see my children. Spend afternoon making a countdown chart for school to resume. Decide that summer-long sleepaway camp might be worth the third mortgage.

In two days, 18 hours, and 7 minutes. But who's counting?

We were on a break.

Spring used to be the two most magical words in my life. No classes, no pesky undergrad students, no stress. Go home, let Mom do the laundry and cooking, sleep 'til noon every single day.

And then, suddenly, I am Mom, and I hate those words. No schedule, no school, pesky elementary school kids, no sleeping in.

So what do I do? Go home, let Mom do the cooking, and sleep until the now heavenly hour of 8:30. Every. Single. Day.

Back soon, I'm on Spring Break.

Wish Granted.

So I was in a bit of a funk the other day. You see, moms around me were talking about Spring Break plans, supper club, and shopping trips, and I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. I wallowed, a little too long, frankly, and in my panic scramble yesterday to clean my house, find the right color shirts for Grandfriend's Day, and gather enough rations for breakfast, I realized that one of my big complaints in our old life was that I didn't have enough quiet time.

Well.

It would appear that although I am not capable of receiving everything I want in the way of say, lottery tickets and thinner thighs, I have been granted this one wish, and in spades.

So I got what I asked for. Be warned, apparently the universe (in whatever form you believe in) does hear these things, and grants them. And sometimes, just at the time you want them the least.

But today? Today I am thrilled for the silence, my parents have just pulled out, I had the right shirts, a public lunch with my children did not require me to issue "the look" more than twice, and it is finally, officially, Spring.

And as people around here will tell you, there is nothing better at all to wish for than a Southern Spring breeze. Here's to clearing out the cobwebs, y'all.

Table for one, again.

So if there should be a universal sign for "give me some darn space already" (courtesy of Mindy), is there a sign for "please, don't make me eat lunch alone again"?

I am not very good at asking for things. Honestly, it would less painful for me to ask you for a kidney as it would be for you to eat lunch. And lest you think I'm not moving ever so carefully out of my comfort zone, I have actually invited people to lunch. Or dinner, even.

Based on my call back rate, it would seem that I'm not a good second date.

We have always been the callers, my husband and I, and very rarely the recipient - do we just own our role, and suck it up, or wait? Or do I let my paranoia overcome me, and wonder if I smell funny?

Oh, the joys of living in a new place.

And they are 7.

Yesterday, for once in my life, every last thing I did worked out. On schedule, worked well, I was on my best game. Deliveries arrived when scheduled, conference calls ended in record time - it was like the planets aligned, and I was a rock star.

And then, of course, I had to actually pick my children up from school. And what did they do? Walk past my car, and around the other side of campus, forcing me to park and chase them until they finally realized that the crazy lady waving their arms and yelling at them was in fact their mother. (It is fortunate to note here that I was only picking up the boys - if I had been picking up Kate, she would have looked, grimaced, and kept going. Embarrassing the family name and all that.)

Once I actually collected the birthday children, I tried to recover my rock star vibe - the car was loaded with birthday gear, my husband arrived on schedule to help with the festivities, and plenty of kiddos arrived to celebrate. I hadn't asked any one parent to stay, specifically, since I felt certain that some lonely 1st grader would require Momma to hang for the 2 hours.

Not a single parent stayed. For 2 hours, I had sole custody of 38 children.

And no alcohol.

Needless to say, the fact that I had to come home afterwards and deal with dinner, 43 un-iced cupcakes, healthy standardized testing snacks, gymnastics "watch night" and set of unassembled patio furniture killed my rock star buzz. But that was all fine, I had sort of planned it, minus the patio furniture.

But here's where the crow comes in. I think I've confessed my love for cute stationary, so the hand printed favor tags causes no alarm. But the cupcakes? I may have griped about the overachiever mom that uses fancy icing tips. And a pastry bag.

I have caved.
And bought the icing tip & the bag.
And I lurve them.
And iced 43 cupcakes last night with fancy swirls.
And Will said that they looked "perfecto, man."

But I did not wear makeup this morning dropping them off. Or anything monogrammed.

Crow at my house, high noon. Bring a screwdriver for the patio furniture.

Just when I needed that extra hour...

So I felt like I was on a bit of a roll there, and then Daylight Savings Time struck. I hate DST with all of my being for the first week, and then, once I'm no longer dragging children out of bed by their ankles, it grows on me. Particularly when I can gain a quiet house by throwing the children outside. For. Hours. On. End.

Needless to say, we haven't made it through the week yet, so no one in our house is getting up very easily. And since I am not a morning person to begin with, you can only imagine the chaos. It's also standardized testing week this week, on top of Kate's first try at Quarter Exams, birthday parties for the boys, and a round of my favorite houseguests, and you'll agree that maybe we've taken on too much.

The mothers here still astound me with their Martha-like overachievement. Birthday cupcakes are frosted with bags & fancy tips, snacks are brought in coolers so that the drinks are cold, and their makeup is impeccable. I, on the other hand, am thinking that 48 birthday cupcakes will be fortunate to actually get to class, much less wasting my time with a fancy schmancy icing. And the makeup? Not a chance.

Yet I persevere, and spent my time today printing "thank you" tags for party favors. Perhaps these will make up for the fact that I'm only wearing tinted sunscreen?

The Space Between

I am beginning to think that Nature had a decent plan, trying to convince me into having that second child so that they are 18 months apart. Things are getting manageable, you'd have a decent night's sleep once a month or so, and you're feeling like you could just do with a little more sweetness. All decent reasons, if you ask me. But the reason I didn't hear advertised?

You don't want the view so far ahead.

You see, we didn't fall for the siren song of 18 months apart, we waited a bit longer for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was that we weren't sure we could handle pregnancy again. (For the record, I'll announce that while I am a champion at getting pregnant, I am not good at making it into the 3rd trimester. I hear it's overrated, the 3rd trimester, but it sends my dear husband into convulsions at the mere mention of baby envy. Ahem.) So we waited, and our children are 3 1/2 years apart. And this, I'm thinking, is not such a good thing.

For starters, our oldest was a pretty easy child, once we got her here. No behavior problems to speak of, good student, easy going. Our boys, on the other hand, are famous for pine-cone throwing, being "active", etc. We were not prepared, and had become complacent "older" parents. Been there, done that does not win you favors in the Principal's Office, let me assure you. It's more like "You've already done this, why are you having so much trouble?"

But the real kicker? The preview of what will happen later with the troublesome younger children. As my oldest gets ready for Quarter Exams, boy-girl parties, and the icky May Day forced march dance around the may pole, I can only watch these older boys and moan. That is what I am raising? Those goofball 11 year olds? You mean they never quite change?

The view far ahead is not pretty. I am beginning to understand the UK system of boarding school at 8, so that you don't get to watch. Or spend quality time with the Principal, explaining why you still can't quite get it right the second and third time around.

New Year's Resolutions, Strikes 1, 2 & 3

So I took a little unplanned break. I'd tell you that my keyboard was frozen solid, or that I was trapped underneath a snowbank, but since I've revealed my southerly location, I doubt you'd buy it.

In all honesty? I haven't been able to think of a second sentence. I have lots of first sentences floating around, begging for my attention, but when I sit down to write them? The second sentence runs for the hills. (Yes, I'll note here that I've now written like 6 sentences, but let me assure you that none of these sentences were the ones I had planned on my list.)

So let's recap my failed resolutions - Write More? clearly, no. Photos? not exactly. Less Caffeine? Oh, please. The only reason I'm actually sitting upright after last night's storm bands is 3 Diet Cokes. But I've been great about exercise, and I've even managed to send a few craft projects out the door without reworking them 58 times. So I've made some progress.

Back on the wagon, I suppose. Send me some 2nd sentences and some film?

Karma, Redux

When we bought this house, we joked often that Bob Vila would have to move in next door, with Norm on the other corner because we were the absolute last two people that you would expect to own a "vintage property." And oh, do I mean it's vintage - so far, the building date is listed at 1896, and the family who sold us the house caveats that with "so far."

But we fell in love with wavy glass, rolling floors, and 5 different electrical panels and we bought it, for better or worse. And as we got settled, we bragged that "there were no projects - the house is done!"

We were so flipping wrong, I can't even tell you.

For those who aren't sure, I moved pretty far south. Far enough south that I promised my children that there would be no down coats this year. No mittens, no icy windshields, none of that nonsense. Again, I was wrong. In a true freak of nature, we had 3 days of weather below freezing, and this house? Was not prepared. It was cold enough that no matter what we set the thermostat on, the temperature in the house never rose above 63 degrees. And one morning? It was 58.

Apparently, insulation never quite got crossed off the list, and now, we have a project. Note to self - while a new house doesn't have soul, old houses will put you right back in your (very, very cold) place.

The New Year, Carpool Style

So. It is, of course, another new year. My children, finally, are back in school, and it is time for me to celebrate surviving last year. Instead of doing the obligatory recap (which I don't think I can do without whining, frankly), I'm doing what I always do at the first of the year. Make The List.

The List, you see, is not the Gratitude List, which while helpful, is not goal-oriented, it's the List of things that (hopefully) have been finished. Either finished or haven't killed me, anyway. No. This list, you see, is the list of things I want to do this year. You would think that I would wise up and actually make the list attainable, but alas, the making of the list is so much fun that I just wind up with 428 things on there because one rambling thought leads to another and all that. (Sort of like this entry, but bear with me.)

This year, though, in an effort to actually cross more things off the list than I've added on, I'm trying a monthly format. Oprah would be all kinds of proud, since this puts me in a state of continual resolution. Surely there is a self-help book like this?

So. January. There are the must dos, like finish my niece's baby sweater before she arrives, and at least start her quilt by then, and the would really like to dos, like write more and clean out my office. (There is indeed some dissension in Casa Carpool as to which list that particular item falls on, but since this is my blog, I win. ) Then, the worst category of all, is the "dreading them but need to anyway" list - clean out clothes, make the new budget, find an anger management strategy that is better than continual chanting of "be good" and total avoidance of PE, figure out how to insulate under the house, etc.

Those things do seem awfully low-brow for a New Year's list, though, so I broke down and thought that if people keep making a singular resolution list, perhaps there's something to it. (Like Eastern Medicine. You don't really know why it works, but if it's been around since the beginning of time, there must be something to it, right?)

So here (drumroll, please, and hold the snickering) is The 2008 List.

- Give up on being a Size 8 again. There have been 3 babies in this body, and I just need to deal with it.

- Exercise anyway.

- Figure out how to garden without killing everything or using 427 pesticides in the process. (Which, frankly, still allowed me to kill the actual plants.)

- Clean more than once a month so that it's not so overwhelming.

- Play more games with my kids.

- Take more pictures. Develop the film, even. (It is not good form when you get your baseball pictures back in January, especially when baseball was in March. Of 2007.)

- Act on the things I want to try or do, instead of just filing them away for "someday."

Now to figure out how to make those things happen - and to make the January "to do" list coincide with it.

Happy New Year, y'all.

Welcome home, Carpool

I feel like my life is a big blur lately - first there was Thanksgiving (aka puke-fest 2007), then the standard winter colds and the start of basketball season, next are the multiple office Christmas parties and gift-buying Olympics... but then what?

At the end of December, I usually get a monster of a cold and a serious social hangover. To be honest, I'm sure the cold is my body's way of saying "Seriously, not one more conversation with someone we don't know. Not one." But this year, we don't know many people, so will it come sooner? And how do I ward it off, just stop speaking to people in August?

I'm on serious social overload. Because y'all, I might, just might, have made some friends. For I have found them, the sarcastic few in a saccharine culture. The girls on the snarky schoolbus pulled up into my driveway, and made me feel welcome.

Finally, y'all, I have come home.

Martha, eat your heart out.

I think that it's safe to say that where there is a holiday, and where there is the extended Carpool family, there will be chaos. And something worthy of laughter. So Happy Holiday Season, y'all, sit back and enjoy the Carpool Thanksgiving - the holiday that just kept giving, and giving, and giving.

We begin our saga with the fact that I agreed under some duress to fly 800 miles north for the holiday. And stay in a house that would temporarily contain 11 children. Under the age of 10. Including two infants. The faint of heart should likely just go lie down now with a cold rag. The rest of you? Don't say I didn't warn you.

The Carpool Husband is the oldest of 4. The rest of the 4 live in a large ring around Boston, in houses we rarely frequent. So it came as no surprise to me that we would be required to drive around Boston to visit all of the houses. Let me state for the novice that driving around Boston is akin to walking through quicksand. It looks like it won't take that long to get across, but before you know it, you're almost in Canada, and nowhere near your actual destination. Throw the first snow into the mix, and you might as well just walk your 45 miles and be done with it. I finish Day 2 by stating that 5 boys under 7 in 400 square feet is 5 boys too many. (For that matter, 5 of anything in a small space is probably too much. But you get the idea.)

Day 3 brought puking by two of three in the Carpool household, one of whom did so spectacularly on the kitchen floor.... just as lunch was being set out. It was the Alberta Clipper of viruses, apparently, quick but powerful, so we spent the day in solitary with an abundance of disinfectant. Child Number 3, not to be outdone by his siblings, joined the sick parade at 3am on Thursday. This did, however, get me confined to the infirmary for the better part of Day 3, which was indeed a blessing, seeing that the 11 children, 4 sets of parents and my inlaws were present.

I digress here to mention that 1) the host family has a large dog, and 2) 3 of my nephews are paralyzed with fear at the mere sight of a dog. As in, they are standing on countertops screaming as only a 2 year old can. Often, as in every time they caught sight of the dog. Even when the dog was crated. For two straight days.

Ah, Day 4, Thanksgiving itself. Having battled through the puke, Day 4 dawned with a rare break in the New England weather, allowing for the above-mentioned 5 boys to go outside with the remaining 3 cousins, leaving the 2 infants and one cranky tween, who was "so bored I could die." Day 4 also brought the annual dining conundrum, with dinner to be somehow scheduled with 4 competing nap schedules, only one small child's table, potatoes that "looked funny", and not nearly enough forks.

But the kids were grateful for all things, ranging from "my mommy" to "my new video game controller", the food was great, and the dog-screaming lessened to mere whimpers by the end of Day 4. (Or I became hard of hearing, I'm not sure which.)

Day 5 was travel day, highlighted quickly by my niece's sore throat. And cough. Guess what our parting gift was? (Bonus points if you too are currently buying stock in NyQuil.)

All in all, the perfect Carpool holiday. Hope yours was just as wonderful.

The End of Summer

Some of you are thinking that I've well and truly lost it, declaring that summer is finally over right before Thanksgiving, but the weather here is bizarre (80 today) We have no summer delusions, the leaves are turned and all over the place, and I've had to break out the fleeces and turn the heat on overnight.

But let me tell you, the Summer of Quilting is done. Over. Finito, as my boys like to say. In this one tiny area of my life, I am caught up - 8 nieces & nephews, 8 quilts, no more to work on. It is a huge satisfaction to cross things off my to-do list, but since this one also made me feel guilty (one recipient will be 3), it's all the better. Now I'll have to find another undone project to blame for my chocolate addiction.

The other areas around here are still works in progress - we've broken out the self-help books and the exercise plans, and I'm even taken to visualizing a week where I exercise daily and no child yells at their mother. Parenting is a funny thing around here - we may have twins, but good grief are they different children. What works for one most certainly has never worked for the others, and it's impossible for me to guess what will work next. But we are determined to figure it out, and I'm hopeful that the Summer of Quilting will not immediately progress to the Winter of Our Discontent. (Or the Winter of Excessive Yelling, your choice.)

Off to wrap the quilts - I'll take my contentment while I can, like the rare 80 degree weather today.

... in which karma kicks her, and hard.

Everyone has their idea of purgatory. For some, it's bad food. For others, it's not seeing your loved ones. For me, it's being locked in a room with a well-caffeinated cheerleading squad. So you can only imagine my shock and dismay when my adorable daughter announced, in her perkiest voice, "I want to be a cheerleader."

I have never been one to embrace my inner mouseketeer, and heaven help you if you are perky before 10am. In fact, it was pretty much my entire purpose in life to make fun of the cute and terminally cheerful. I was pretty sure hell on earth was driving the cheerleading carpool in high school - 3 bow-heads and myself, twice a day. No one is quite sure who was more mortified - me for having to drive them, or them for riding in the nerd car.

And now I am raising one of them. Karma sure does loop back around, and you just never know quite how it will get you. But it always does.

You'll have to come up with your own title.

Has it really been a whole month? Unbelievable, but let me tell you, there have been precious few things for me to blog about with involving the phrase "I know I'm whining, but". And I can't force y'all to listen to my whining. I'm not 8, so I assure you, I know I should have grown out of it by now.

So let's recap my month. Three things should do it.

Item One -
At an age substantially older than 8, I am diagnosed with food allergies - specifically peanuts and tree nuts. Since I'm pretty sure I didn't even try a sandwich other than PB&J until college, I'm pretty surprised by this. And am here to tell you that this is a colossal pain in my rear, adding at least 30 minutes to an already painful grocery store run while I read every last label in sight. Not mention the sheer torture of not being able to eat a single piece of my children's Halloween candy.

I will also tell you that if you're having an allergy test run, having the nurse come in halfway through and say "OH NO!" is never, ever a good sign. Aside from the nuts, I am allergic to everything they tested for, aside from seafood, which is the actual reason I made the stupid appointment. I am the Bubble Mom, and buying a historic house was pretty much the worst mistake ever. I do, however, have an excuse for not dusting - I'm allergic to the dust too.

Item Two -
My motherhood competitiveness has reached a new low. We have apparently reached the stage in her class where boys are asking girls "out." It is only out in a figurative sense, they go nowhere, but they're asking. And I'm freaking out, because good grief, she's like 3, and I am so not ready for this. But in the midst of the freaking out, I'm like "Why on earth are they not asking my child out? Is she not the cutest thing you have ever seen? And the funniest?"

Repeat after me: I will not project my middle school horrors onto my child.

Item Three -
I survived what had to be the most ambitious field trip ever conducted. I did not cry, I barely whined, and I only prayed to be beamed out of the field trip twice. Field trips should only be 1 day, not 7. They should not involve questionable hotels, children rooming without their parents, and difficulty obtaining alcohol or food not served on a plastic tray. But I get to go again in 4 years, this time as a care-free mother of boys, not a neurotic mother of a girl.

Item Four -
I am not meant to be an athlete. I think it's clear that the number of ankle braces, crutches, and surgical scars confirm it. But I will have to tell you that my hate of all things exercise is fading, and I actually look forward to it. I don't love it, but it's coming, they tell me. I still refuse to buy a workout ensemble for each day, and velour tracksuits just don't do it for me. I'm hippy enough as it is, purposely dressing as an easter egg is not going to be a flattering look.

I think that covers the month. I still have not finished the summer of quilts, I caved and actually bought Halloween costumes this year for the first time, and I'm craving a pecan pie like my life depended on it.

There is some crazy movement where people are posting every day - I won't promise you that, but I will promise it won't be a month before you hear from me again. Although I can't explain it, I miss you guys too.

Mimes don't talk, you know

It appears that I've needed a break. Sometimes the breaks are well-planned and announced, and sometimes they just sneak up on you a bit while the rest of your thoughts are kidnapped and run away on you.

It's not like things are getting any slower around here - school is busy, work is insane, soccer has started, the kids are... still my children, thank you for your concern, but we might have turned a corner. Or not, time will tell. It's a good life, but a busy one, and one in which I still don't know exactly where I am anymore. And while I made a pact to not whine, and keep my chin up, and move outside of my box, it's a struggle, and one I'm not particularly proud of, given my brave face and purported love of adventure. (To be fair, I do love an adventure, but only the ones I have complete control over. Which probably means they're not an actual adventure, but a well executed checklist.)

Change is a'brewing over here - maybe not big, noticeable ones, but changes that will help me move through the awkward and into the open space. Baby steps, if you will. I'll keep you posted.

From the mouths of small children...

"Mom! When I grow up, I want to be a street performer! You know, like those guys in the box? Look, Mom, I'm trapped!"

Later...
"Mom! When I get tall like Dad, I'm going to be a clown! Because you know, Mom, then I could put a banana peel on the floor? And trip over it when I walk? Because people will sure think that's funny, and I like to be funny."

What, exactly, are the odds of me having a 35 year old living in my basement? Do they go up if the 35 year old in question owns white face paint and a beret?

So I take it back.

Yes, two posts in one day, but this was worthy. To set the stage, our school retains 97% percent of their student body every year, and the majority of this 97% started in Pre-K. So lots of things are "understood."

So my glee about carpool? Was promptly thoroughly negated by the fact that not only did I have to do walk-in pickup today, in my sweats, but that I had to do it in front of the entire school, parents and all, because there was a seemingly unannounced PARADE for homecoming. With full tailgate regalia, I might add. And me the only mother that had NO idea it was coming. And seriously? No lipstick and a baseball hat, while the other mothers (all of them) had on cute sandals and full makeup.

I knew I had gotten a little cocky this morning, but I swear I had no idea the universe would work this quickly to knock me back down a peg or seven. Pride goes before a fall, that's for sure - especially at walk-in pickup.

Victorious At Last

I'm finding myself a bit blog-blocked this week - in a strange turn of events, I have nothing to talk about. No monogram mishaps, clumsy adventures, or child behavior issues. (Ok, I have issues, but I'm pretty sure we can all recite them by now. So let's move on. Because unless you have a new drink recipe to soothe my nerves, or a restraint for my chatty-in-class child that won't offend CPS, it won't help.)

But I am here to proclaim that I have won. My children? Got out of the car at the curb, and walked themselves into school. Victorious at last, people, I am back. Sport those pajamas and bedhead folks, because my children? Get dropped off at the curb.

(Did you hear me? The curb. Not at their classrooms, the most beautiful stretch of curb I have ever laid eyes on. I saw no one, and I am proud. )

Long live carpool.