The Sea Monkey Chronicles

If it isn't blatantly obvious, I am procrastinating, so I don't have to go back to the arduous task of packing my kitchen. Why else would I be blogging about something like sea monkeys?

Gabe, (bless his strange, strange, little heart), has wanted to have his very own sea monkey habitat for, well, forever. He was happy to settle for this rudimentary option when I informed him awhile back that he couldn't have a fish tank yet, and must've been fairly dead-set on this little miracle of science, because it was one of the first things he scribbled down on his Christmas list this year. Considering he didn't give me a whole lot of "realistic" options on his list (a toy tornado?), I was happy to oblige his request, and on Christmas morning, he was thrilled to discover his very own sea monkey starter-kit under the tree.

It goes without saying that Christmas Day was beyond chaotic, shuffling the kids between 87 different locations, so that everyone had their "turn" (sigh). By the time they returned to my house late that afternoon, all of the day's excitement had not been enough to distract Gabe from the pressing task at hand-- the single most important thing he'd been waiting for-- hatching his sea monkeys. I had about a million other things to do that did not involve sea monkey birth, like collecting the mess of wrapping paper off the floor, beginning to unwire all of the toys from their packages (whoever invented toy packaging devices should be considered a terrorist, in my personal opinion), and tend to three whiny, very exhausted children. None of this mattered to Gabe, of course. He just wanted those darn sea monkeys, and he wanted them now.

Fine, fine. Give Mommy a chance to, I don't know, use the bathroom without being disturbed?-- and I'll get right on those sea monkeys. At this point, I was kind of questioning what must have been going through my mind when I decided to buy them, but I figured it couldn't be that hard, and began reading the instructions. Okay, there are three little packets here, clearly numbered in order. I can figure this out... Wait... Oh, c'mon! Oh, you've got to be joking! We have to wait 24-hours for the water to purify? I groaned, knowing this unpleasant news was going to send Gabe, (who was already cranky from the events of the day), spiraling into a wave of drama from which he would likely never recover.

Um, Gabe? Honey? Sweetheart? Sugar-plum? I have some bad news.... Well, that did it. The tears started, as well as a lot of groaning, and big, dramatic, sweeping hand gestures, that only served to highlight the absolute injustice that had just befallen him. It was, in fact, the end of the world. But I can't wait 24-hours! That will take forever! He was not to be consoled. After Gabe began to come to his senses a bit, I explained the necessity for the water purification, emphasizing the fact that his primitive new pets would, in fact, die, if he ignored the 24-hour rule. Although he was still incredibly disgusted by the idea, he agreed to wait until he returned Monday morning to introduce his sea monkey eggs to their new home.

Geez, all it takes is some lousy shrimp eggs to screw up one kid's holiday.

Bright and early, at 6:30 Monday morning, the kids returned home, and the very first words out of Gabe's mouth were, "Mommy! Let's do my sea monkeys now! It's been 24-hours!" Lovely, sweetheart. I've only been awake for 15-minutes, I broke my nose yesterday afternoon, have a splitting headache, and haven't even peed yet this morning, but sure, we'll be sure and hatch those sea monkeys. So, as promised, I tore open the little packet with the big number "2" on it, and dumped it into the water. The packaging reads "instant life--sea monkeys", but I instantly saw nothing. I mean, I knew they were teeny-tiny and everything, but there was nothing to be seen. Gabe was displeased (and that's putting it mildly). After managing to distract them for a bit with some breakfast, I decided to consult the official sea monkey website for some answers. The fact that there is an entire website devoted to the details of sea monkey life is a little disturbing, but then again, I'm devoting an entire blog (or more) to it, so who am I to talk?

Upon perusing the website, I discovered that I needed to stir the water gently after dumping the second packet into the tank. Well, it sure would be nice if they indicated that on the actual packaging, instead of just showing you a cartoon of someone sprinkling the contents in the water, but whatever. So, I stirred, and still, there was nothing. Great. There was absolutely no way on the planet that I was going to tell Gabe that our project had failed, so I side-stepped the issue and told him we'd check on the tank again in a little while, to see how things were going. Yeah, that little line continued on into Tuesday.

Highly dissatisfied with the progress of our little experiment, I took the kids to Toys 'R Us Wednesday morning to fetch a new starter packet. By golly, we are going to grow some darn sea monkeys if it's the last thing we do! Of course, this mind-set was also coming from someone who has failed at keeping a house plant alive, so the fact that I had yet to succeed at a scientific process that had an actual "guarantee" attached to it was not surprising. We returned home, starter packets in hand, and I once again consulted the website, to insure that I didn't screw this up again. I wasn't sure Gabe could take anymore disappointment, and if we had failed again, I'm pretty sure he would've started questioning the meaning of life at that point.

So, there I was, navigating their impossible website, when I ran across a portion that reminded new sea monkey owners that they might not see any signs of life at first, but that they should not dump out the water, because there could very well be tiny baby sea monkeys alive and well inside the tank. Well, I certainly couldn't risk adding "sea monkey murder" to my long list of sins, so I decided to check the tank one last time before adding the new eggs. Lo and behold, there they were! Teeny-tiny, little baby sea monkeys, propelling themselves around their new home! What the? Okay, these things look like sperm. Are you serious? Wow. I got my child a sperm farm for Christmas. I am officially Mother of the Year.

Although I was pretty disturbed by the sperm resemblance, I happily called Gabe into the kitchen to introduce him to his new pets. He grabbed the magnifying glass and excitedly peered into the tank with a huge, goofy grin on his face. I see them! There's a whole sea monkey family! He was beaming-- a proud new papa if I'd ever seen one. His faith in the world had been restored by the proven existence of baby shrimp in a little red plastic tank.

Since then, Gabe has been religiously checking on his first-born, and is quite excited to give them their first feeding tomorrow. After doing more reading on the website, I was shocked to find out that a sea monkey habitat can last as long as two years, because they reproduce and so forth (I knew sperm had to come into play somehow). So, providing Gabe is a responsible parent, this little project could last us some time to come, and I am sure there will be many an interesting tale involving our latest additions (hence the title of this particular entry). I just hope they survive the move, in approximately 16 days. Speaking of which, I should probably quit rambling about shrimp and get back to packing.

The Broken Nose Story

So, although I should be packing for our move, which is in approximately 17 days, I've had enough demand for "The Broken Nose Story" that I need to get this out of the way. Geez, you people are pushy ;-)

So, without going into too much personal detail, the days surrounding Christmas were extremely stressful. I got notice that I was being kicked out of my house, had to secure a new place to live, and wrestled with the fact that I had only 3-weeks to pack up a family of four and a 2400 square-foot house on my own. On top of that, there was the typical, emotional, recently-divorced holiday drama, which was highly unpleasant, to say the least. Between all of that, and just the normal level of exhaustion that plagues us all around the holidays, I was pretty well spent.

After surviving Christmas Day (a miracle, if there ever was one), my brother came over that night so we could wrap up our viewing of "Megashark VS. Crocosaurus" (holiday classic, of course), and he brought some Sonic food with him. I was initially aggravated when he showed up, 8-mile long chili-cheese coney and fries in hand for himself, and nothing for me (sniff, sniff), but when the fast-food Gods smiled in my favor and screwed up his order, I scored some free tater tots, for which I happily gloated. My gloating, (as well as a few other rotten comments that will go unmentioned), came back to bite me in the rear around 4:30 in the morning.

Food poisoning! Yes! Just what everyone wants for Christmas, of course, and what caused me to shoot chunks of tater tots from my mouth and nose for a good 20-minutes. I knew that karma had paid me a visit in the wee hours of that morning, so I quickly acknowledged and apologized for my wrong-doing, and crawled back into bed. I awoke around 9:30, feeling decent enough to eat some breakfast, and around noon, I felt good enough to try to tackle some day-after-Christmas bargain shopping.

If there is one thing that I have never learned, it is how not to push myself. I'm stubborn and determined, so if I have my mind set on something, there isn't a whole lot that can successfully stand in my way. I managed to knock a few stores off of my list, purchasing some new bed pillows that I'd been coveting for months, as well as a new pair of boots for work. I felt pretty good, and was staying hydrated, so I ventured on to the next store so I could purchase some work pants with a gift card I had received for Christmas.

Even after what seemed like an eternity in the dressing room, I felt fine, albeit a little tired. I conceded that this would probably be my last store for the day, and that I should probably head home for a nap, and got in line to pay for my pants. Right before it was my turn at the register, a very strange feeling came over me that only reassured me that my decision to go home was the right one. I removed my coat, and took a drink of water, but nothing helped. I grew increasingly warm, light-headed, and a little nauseous, but made it to the register, where I apologized to the cashier for leaning on the counter, explaining I didn't feel well. She hurried through my transaction, and I asked her if there was a place I could sit down once I completed my purchase. She went to grab a chair, and pointed to where it was, and that was the last thing I remember.

I woke up on the cold tile floor, with people standing over me, asking me a battery of questions, like, "Can you hear us?" and "Do you have any conditions we should know about?" I could hear them, obviously, but everything was dark, and my nose hurt. When I finally opened my eyes, there were people talking to me, offering ways to help and so forth, but at that point, I felt a million times better, although my nose had grown increasingly painful. That's when it started bleeding profusely, and once I got to the point where I could stand up and walk to the aforementioned chair, I had already soaked through a couple of handfuls of paper towels. Good times.

So there I was, like a total rock star, sitting in a chair, holding a paper towel to my face. Stellar. I called my parents to come pick me up, and then called my brother to relay my hilarious story. It was clear that my body had basically reached its breaking point, and although I wish I could sit here and say that I got into a fight with someone over a really cute outfit, that simply wasn't the case. It's still funny, though.

After I got home and assessed the damage, I realized that I had actually split my nose, just below my septum, and along my right nostril, but nothing major. We figure I must have hit the counter on the way down, or something. My insurance wasn't due to kick in for another 6 days, so even if I had needed stitches, I probably wouldn't have gotten them. I was just thankful I didn't bust anything else. Lord knows I can't afford dental work as a working, single mom.

Now I'm just dealing with the joys of swelling and sinus congestion. My right nostril started to drain yesterday, which means that the swelling is going down, I guess. Not that I can blow my nose anyway, because it's far too uncomfortable, but it's better than being congested. Last night, I sneezed for the first time, and it shot pain clear down into my front teeth and back into my ears. Besides those rare occasions when the pain is escalated, it basically just feels like a bad sinus headache, and the splits are healing up nicely. Scars are cool, anyway.

So, that's it. Nobody beat me up. I wasn't in an accident. I was just a victim of holiday stress, who refused to let go of a cute pair of pants.

A Warning To All Adolescent Male Grocery Cashiers

Keep in mind that I am not, by any means, a feminist, but tonight, I am feeling a bit snarky.

As if going to Walmart and grocery shopping for a family of four wasn't thrilling enough, tonight I was faced with a situation that, I feel, warrants a documentation of the inner monologue I was having after an adolescent male cashier asked me, "So, do you have a husband waiting for you at home?" Bad idea, man. Bad idea.

No, as a matter of fact, I don't. Just me. No husband, but thank you for reminding me of that fact. I appreciate it. As if I didn't have a long enough day, now I have to come here, alone (no husband, of course), to shove an overflowing cartful of stuff around, that now I have to be subjected to you, someone who is likely legally a juvenile, reminding me of my place in life, and/or attempting to hit on me. Bravo.

Oh wait, now you're probably wondering, "My goodness, woman! This heap of groceries is just for you?" Wrong again, blondie. Can I call you "Chad"? You look like a "Chad" to me. Well, Chad, not only do I not have the husband you inquired about, but I'm a single mom to three kids. Doesn't that just sound rad, Chad? I'll bet you're looking forward to the day when you, yourself, get to drop nearly $200 out of your teeny-tiny paycheck every week, to buy groceries, huh? It's fantastic, let me tell you.

Yes, Chad, I am without a husband. Please, oh please don't try to make up for your inappropriate question by asking if I have a boyfriend. You have dug yourself into a hole, and there is no getting out of it now. Nope, no boyfriend, either, Chad. Just me. Did you see anything in this cart that would indicate that I have a boyfriend? Had you been more observant, you would've noticed the bag of chocolate gem donuts and a few TV dinners, which are both standard-issue Single Mom With No Man In Her Life Equipment. Do those things just scream "romance" to you, Chad? Do they? Didn't think so.

Man, look at all of these groceries, Chad! Can you believe it? $178-worth of stuff. Oh, c'mon, you don't have to try to make me feel better by saying that I got a lot for $178. You can't redeem yourself, and you know it. The can of worms has been opened, and you have unleashed the fury of a single working mom, now. Time to just shut your mouth and nod your head, Chad, if you know what's good for ya. Two giant bags of dog food, this week's groceries, food-drive items, and would you believe that I get to unload all of this stuff by myself when I get home? That's all because of the husband I don't have, remember? Just me, unloading my groceries, eating my donuts, Chad. Man, I'm so glad you reminded me. I nearly forgot.

Yes, Chad, I'm going to pay for this stuff, out of my teeny-tiny paycheck, load it all into my trunk, hope I don't get mugged in the parking lot (since I don't have a big, strong man to protect me), and drive home, so I can make twenty trips to and from my car to drag it all inside, all when every other woman on the planet is sitting down to have a nice dinner with their husband, who is waiting for them at home. Thank you, Chad. Thank you so much for reminding me that I don't actually need someone waiting for me at home, because I'm doing just fine, all by myself.

Dear Casey

Dear Casey,

I've been composing this in my head for weeks now, but, of course, you already know that. I can almost see you, squirming a little, trying so hard to come up with something sarcastic to say, a way to tease me for dwelling one it, but uncharacteristically able to combat my sincerity with any sort of suitable quip. Your heart was just too good for that. Bet you didn't know I knew that.

I've been thinking about you a lot lately, but, of course, you already know that, too. You're probably sick of seeing me, visiting you so often these days, and I'm sure the groundskeepers think I'm crazy, sitting there, undisturbed by the cool morning temperatures. The bench is nice, by the way. I think I've told you that. I'm glad they put it in, although it's frightfully cold to sit on, and I'm fairly confident that amuses you. I always figure that, when my butt goes numb on the cold marble, it's your way of telling me to go. It always seemed too formal to have to stand over you like that, anyway. So many timesI just felt like I should plop down on the grass instead, but I didn't figure you'd appreciate me sitting on you.

Yes, you've been on my mind so much, and I can't quite place why. Maybe it's because it's just that time of year. I can't believe it's been three years already. So much has happened since then, man-- I wouldn't even know where to start, but, of course, you know that, too. I know you've been here. Thanks. Just in the last couple of days, you've dropped in on me at work, in ways that have made the things in the room seem to almost go silent. Way to go, man. So often in the mornings, there you are, with a way to make me laugh, and you always have a way of letting me know it's you. That's funny, because you never struck me as a morning person. Oh well. Oh, and my good hair days?-- Yeah, well, those are all yours too, you know. Don't worry. I think it's fantastic that you can be hair-obsessed, even now.

I don't know. Maybe I've been unable to shake you because I'm getting my second chance at life, when you barely got one chance at your own. It's always easy for us to forget how fortunate we are in life-- to be alive, to embrace what we have, no matter how small or silly it all may seem. I got to turn thirty. You didn't. I got to have kids. You didn't. It doesn't seem fair to me, sometimes, that someone like you, so vibrant and who lived life with such zeal, wasn't given the gifts that I was given, when I'm not even half the personality that you were. Sometimes I think God takes the good ones in order to remind us how to live. Life is a gift, and it's sad that so many of us resent the lives we've been given, never satisfied, and always looking for something more or better, holding out for the big ticket, when it's all right in front of our face already. Our gift is today, not tomorrow.

I miss you. I miss you a lot. Sure, roll your eyes and "pssssh" me all you want. I can hear your voice as plain as day sometimes, you know, and see that cocky little strut you exuded with every move you made. It was a show, albeit an entertaining one. I'll give you that. I knew it then, and I know it now, and that's why I know that, while it would be in your character to try to find a way to give me a hard time for writing this, that at the heart of it all, you'd be touched. I know that's why you drop little reminders for me in the strangest places, because you'd never be able to actually find a way to drop the act, even now, and say, "Thanks, Hill, for thinking of me."

It isn't fair, what happened, but clearly we're not supposed to think it's fair. That's not the point. We're supposed to be reminded of the unexpected nature of life, and how life comes down to moments and choices. You made a choice that night, and it defined who you were. You dropped the act, for the sake of someone else, and we should all be so lucky to have that opportunity. It isn't about it being fair. It's about being fortunate enough to be chosen to have those defining moments in the first place. We don't have to go out and seek to save someone's life every day, in order to define ourselves, but we can choose to live each day, searching out ways to let the true nature of who we are radiate onto the world around us, and that's exactly what you did.

I know that it's okay that you're gone. I know that-- I just hate it. I can't let go of it, even three years later. Maybe I should be glad that I haven't. That's why I still drop by, I guess-- for you to help me understand somehow, for those little reminders that help me put it all in perspective. Don't get me wrong-- you know I look to God for my ultimate perspective, but sometimes I need someone like you-- someone a little more tangible, to dumb-it-down for me, to speak my language, to whack me upside the head, to make me laugh, to make me quit feeling sorry for myself, to help me along. In three years, you've never let me down, and it is because of that, that I write this to you. Thanks. Love you, man.

http://new.music.yahoo.com/other-desert-cities/tracks/walk-with-me--176773525

Change

So I know I haven't posted anything in awhile, but I'm hoping to get back into it-- whether it be as a photo blog, or a single mommy blog, or something. Just gotta find the time. In the meantime, I wanted to post this, because I think we could all stand to hear it. It's my new mantra.

Like so many people, I was excited to catch the season premiere of Grey's Anatomy last week. Without going into detail, I kind of hated the episode. It was weird and detached and wrapped things up in nonsensical little packages, and I just sort of generally hated how they went about it. Meredith's character is growing more and more annoying, and more and more undeserving of Patrick Dempsey, but I digress. The only redeeming thing about her lately, was her monologue:

Every cell in the human body regenerates, on average, every seven years. Like snakes, in our own way, we shed our skin. Biologically, we're brand-new people. We may look the same. We probably do. The change isn't visible, at least, not in most of us, but we're all changed, completely, forever.

When we say things, like, "People don't change," it drives scientists crazy, because change is literally the only constant in all of science. Energy. Matter. It's always changing. Morphing. Merging. Growing. Dying. It's the way people try not to change that's unnatural. The way we cling to what things were, instead of letting them be what they are. The way we cling to old memories, instead of forming new ones. The way we insist on believing, despite every scientific indication, that anything in this lifetime is permanent.

Change is constant. How we experience change, that's up to us. It can feel like death. Or, it can feel like a second chance at life. If we open our fingers, loosen our grips, go with it, it can feel like pure adrenaline. Like, at any moment, we can have another chance at life. Like, at any moment, we can be born all over again.

This Isn't What Saturdays Are For

What happened to the Spring weather? I woke up this morning to blue skies and sunshine, windchimes and chirping birds, and it was ever so lovely. Unfortunately, it also made me feel guilty that I haven't done a darn thing in the yard so far this Spring, and that I needed to stop procrastinating about mowing for the first time this season. Note: I have not missed mowing, at all.

In a vain attempt to find a way out of this annoying task, I managed to convince myself that the inside of the house, and its cleanliness, outranked what the outside of my house looked like. Sure, the house is on the market, but surely anyone who comes to look at it will understand that most people haven't even begun to whip out their lawn mowers yet, right? I'm so good at conning myself, plus, it's a little hard to get motivated to make the outside of your house look all pretty, investing in flowers and such, when it belongs to you on a limited-time-only basis.

Admittedly, the inside of the house needed a little rehab, but not too much. Mostly, just a good wipe-down, to rid it of dust, stains, crayon marks, and fingerprints. The way my house accumulates dust is truly uncanny. I could dust twice a week, and it wouldn't make a bit of difference, and as it is, I'm lucky if I get to dust every couple of weeks. As I was monotonously swiping a rag full of Pledge over every little thing in the house, I made a mental note: The less you take with you when you move, means the less you'll have to dust once you live there. Sounds good to me-- I've always wanted to pursue minimalism, and now a simple thing like dust gave me an excuse.

I know you're thinking, "How did you manage to successfully dust your house when you have three kids pestering you every four seconds?" The answer: I tossed them outside in the backyard, and issued the threat that, if any of them started fighting or screaming, they would have to come in and help me clean. Given the choices between playing outside in the sunshine, or helping Evil Mommy/Cleaning Demon, it's fairly obvious what they chose to do. Miraculously, they played peacefully for long enough to allow me to dust the entire house and tidy-up my disaster of a desk, and Gabe even gathered a lovely bouquet of weeds for me (awww!). I took the time to appreciate their very dainty, heart-shaped leaves, until all hell broke loose because Gabe wouldn't take turns with Quincy on the swing, and everyone wound up coming inside (sigh). So much for progress.

Soon after dragging them inside, it was time to tackle Quincy's room. I had been getting onto her all week about the Mt. Everest of messes that had taken center-stage on her bedroom floor, but she kept fiddling around, making excuses about why she couldn't/shouldn't clean it. She's very convincing, or at least she thinks she is, making attempts to negotiate her way out of cleaning it, somehow trying to persuade me that the house (and the world itself) will be a better place with the pile of Legos, plastic food, and puzzle pieces blocking passage through her room. I remained unconvinced, and decided to get tough, threatening to put her favorite toys in the trash if she didn't start making the pile smaller, immediately. After issuing this order, I went into my room, to finish putting some laundry away (my other mortal enemy, besides yard work), and after about fifteen minutes, I returned to check on her progress.

She was in her bed-- HER BED, lying down under the covers, all tucked in, nice and comfy, smiling at me as I stood in her doorway, fuming. She appeared confused by my anger, since according to her, she "was tired and needed to rest." Mmmmm-hmm. Yeah, sweetie. Mommy's tired and would like to rest, too, but I'm not, which means you're not either. One of my favorite phrases around this house is, "Mama didn't breed 'lazy'." I detest laziness, so when Quincy was lounging in her bed while she was supposed to be cleaning up her mess, you can imagine that didn't sit too well with me, and I was off to grab the roll of 39-gallon, lawn-n-leaf, heavy-duty, could possibly hold a dead body, trash bags.

Imagine shrieks so shrill that they are nearly above human hearing range, and those are what I heard when I started collecting Quincy's favorite toys for the garbage bag. Her giant, talking Buzz Lightyear (gasp!), her Buzz and Woody dolls (double-gasp!), her Toy Story books, her baby and various members of her core stuffed animal posse-- all being re-dubbed The Garbage Bag Gang. I'll admit, I felt a little awful doing this, but like I said, this Mama didn't breed "lazy", and I wasn't going to put up with her resistance any longer. I meant business, and she figured that out very quickly when she watched her most prized possessions disappear inside a big, black plastic void.

Feeling satisfied that this little tactic had motivated Quincy enough to begin chipping away at the mass of stuff on her floor, I took the opportunity to vacuum the upstairs, and felt a great deal of satisfaction when I was able to finally take a step without stepping on stray Cheerios, and the ceiling fans no longer appeared as if they were growing fur. Then I took a moment to help Quincy in her struggles, because she had started to do more pouting than cleaning, and then went downstairs to get started on the boys' lunch. This reminded me that I hadn't even stopped to eat breakfast, and considering it was after 12:00, I decided I should probably stop to eat something. So, I offered Quincy a reprieve from cleaning, and we all gathered around the table for lunch, where, as usual, they all wanted something off of my plate, and I was left to basically starve. I knew at that point that all I might succeed in consuming over the course of the day was a Little Debbie snack, if I was lucky.

Yay, nap time! Not for me, for them-- duh. I would never be that lucky. I was nice enough to let the boys nap in the living room, and even bestowed a little kindness onto Quincy by allowing her to rescue one member of the Garbage Bag Gang for nap time. To no surprise, she picked "Big Buzz". By this time, dark clouds had started to roll in outside, and the memory of hearing my neighbor's mower and weed-eater purring earlier in the day had begun to plague me with more of the guilt I originally felt when I woke up this morning. The last thing I wanted was for the Amazon jungle of weeds to grow higher and thicker, and for my already squishy yard to become even soggier and harder to mow, so I reluctantly (very reluctantly) ditched my pj's for some mowing attire, and trudged out to the shed, secretly praying that my suspicions about the mower's inability to start were true. Upon arriving at the shed, I realized that I had forgotten the key, and the little imaginary light-bulb clicked on, reminding me that I didn't have the foggiest idea where I had put the key at the end of last season. On top of that, I had actually packed things in the house since then, which meant that the key could, in fact, be lost forever. Oh, darn! Well, at least I won't have to mow, but the impending doom of the storm, and evil snarls that came from the jungle below my feet made me abandon that excuse pretty darn quickly.

Ah, yes! Check your desk drawer! Sure enough, there it was (whew!). I swear, I must put everything in my desk drawer. Now, back out through the mine-field of dog poo, to open the shed. I'm always a little nervous when I open the shed after several months of non-use, fearing I'll find a dead squirrel, hoards of gigantic spiders, or something worse (I'm not sure what would be worse, but you get the picture). Sure enough, there was one seriously ginormous spider, but I managed not to have a complete heart-attack, and quickly yanked the mower out into the daylight. Please let there be gas in the can. Please let there be gas in the can. Okay, whew! Just enough to mow the front and back. Now please start. Please start. Please start. Several pulls on the cord later, the mower came to life like Frankenstein, and I let it idle while I poked my head inside to make sure the boys hadn't destroyed the living room. All was well, so off I went to do what I'd been putting off for weeks now. Gross.

The front yard went fast, because it wasn't as weed-infested as the back, but I was still wishing I had a working weed-eater, so I could clean things up around the mailbox, but at that point I was just grateful that the mower was running. At the point I reached the backyard, I sort of went all cross-eyed, because it was hard to know where and how to start. This is a good time to mention that the self-propel feature on the mower quit at the beginning of last season, and never got repaired. Yeah, good times, especially when the weeds were so thick that they actually hid pieces of firewood-- no joke. No time to dilly-dally, though, since the wind was picking up, the clouds were getting darker, and the temperature was dropping.

I should take a moment to let all of you know that I don't typically allow my yard to look bad, like, ever, but as I stated earlier, it's hard to stay inspired to keep it pristine when it doesn't even feel like it's yours anymore. Technically, I don't even live in my house anymore-- I am the maid and the groundskeeper, so to speak. Still, I was a little embarassed when I saw just how bad it had gotten, and was still desperately wishing I had a weed-eater, so I could actually see the fruits of my labor more clearly, but no.

SCARY!

Now, I told myself when I went outside that I was only going to mow-- no weed pulling, sweeping, rearranging, sprucing, etc. No time for any of that today-- just mow. That was easier said than done when I rounded the north corner of the house, only to be reminded of how much mildew had grown on the siding in the past few months, to the point that I felt like I was looking at the inside of a dirty fish tank. This does not scream, "Buy me!" Just take care of this, but nothing else. So, because that side of my off-white house had now turned a disgusting shade of green, I went inside for a bucket of hot water, some bleach, and a scrub brush.


ALL CLEAN!

In case you were wondering, yes, the storm in the sky was still brewing, but there I was, like a completely obsessed moron, diligently scrubbing away on the north side of the house. I'm OCD, and I just couldn't stand it, and I didn't figure it would take too awful long. The problem was that bleach spray and strong winds don't mix... in your eyes. Mmmmmm, fun! I... will... not... be... deterred! I... will... get... this... done... if... it... means... blindness! Hey, at least if I was blind, I wouldn't have to look at it anymore if I didn't get it done.

When the house was returned to its original, algae-free color, I retreated inside, my hands and arms aching from pushing the busted lawn mower, and scouring the side of the house. Time for a shower. I pleaded with the boys to behave themselves for just a short while, so I could relish a hot shower in peace, and they agreed. Quincy was quarantined in her room, so I had no worries as far as she was concerned, although I was dreading what she had done to her room during nap time, despite the fact that the Garbage Bag Gang was still contained in their dark, plastic residence. Ahhhhh, shower! I even managed to shave my legs, which, in and of itself, was a huge accomplishment for the day, and not much unlike shredding the jungle in the backyard.

After emerging from the shower, and realizing that there weren't any shrieks coming from anywhere in the house, I decided to take advantage, and snag a few extra minutes to try on an outfit that I had discovered buried in the back of my closet earlier in the week, to decide whether or not to wear it to church tomorrow. This is going to be a matter of whether or not I want to take the time to alter the straps this evening, or not, and considering you've already had a busy day, I would be betting on "not". (Sigh), so cute-- ah well, there will be other Sundays. Now, get out of La-La Land, and go fix dinner.

Can I just take the opportunity right now to say that hot dogs kind of gross me out? Sure, kids love them, and they take no time at all to cook, but what's in them? Hmmmmmm. It's questionable, at best, but considering I was starving from my Jungle Workout 9000 (aka, the busted mower), I was not as dramatically opposed to hot dogs as I usually am. Gabe, for one, was tickled pink, eyes the size of dinner plates, and thankfully, all the kids ate without much complaint.

Now, after dinner was a different story. I went upstairs to clean Quincy's sink (which she had decorated with bright blue toothpaste and half a bottle of sunscreen earlier in the week), only to discover that she had gone to the sink, and used the faucet to fill up her Lego table with water, so she could "do her dishes". Yes, all of her plastic dishes were submerged in water, which was sloshing around inside her Lego table. Now, most of you might think this is just darling, but considering I have asked her countless times to stay out of the sink, and to stop using the water for dishes or tea parties, I was peaved. Had she not learned her lesson from earlier? Was she willing to risk "Big Buzz"'s safety, for the sake of nap time entertainment? Surely not. I summoned her upstairs (using my big, mean Mommy voice), and she immediately hid her face in her hands in guilt. Total shame. She tried to rattle off some quick and charming excuse about doing dishes, but I think even she knew it wasn't going to fly, so she helped me sop up the mess, and went back downstairs to wreak havoc on the boys' foam block hotel that they were building. I call her, "Godzilla".

After I managed to finish peeling the chunks of toothpaste off of Quincy's vanity, and vacuumed the downstairs, I heard wild, wailing outbursts coming from the boys, and saw Quincy running down the hall with some blocks in her hand. Lovely. Just lovely. If I hear anymore screaming or whining today, I'm going to the boys' ear/nose/throat doctor, and asking him if he can actually remove my eardrums, so that I no longer have to listen to any of this. It is at times like this that I would like to go hide in my closet-- my happy lil' safe place, where I am surrounded my all of my dear, sweet, comforting friends, on hangers, and in shoe-cubbies, and I can pretend that my kids aren't actually mine. Unfortunately, reality never actually allows me to do that, and even if I did, the kids would just find me anyway, so what would be the point?

Sure enough, the latest and greatest Gabe n' Josh Hotel had been demolished by the blonde-haired, terrorizing monster that is my daughter, and this just confirmed that it was, in fact (thank you, Jesus) bedtime. I herded them upstairs for pj's, and then Gabe wanted to sit and read the entire 60 pages of "Hop on Pop" out loud for all of us, which of course, I let him do. Josh just shook his head in impressed disbelief, gushing, "Gosh, he sure is good." I managed to contain my laughter at Josh's comment, and Gabe continued to read page after page to us. By the end of it, I had to agree with Josh, Gosh, he really is good. Even after the day I had with them, I had to say that they all really are good at the end of it all.

Now, with the peace and quiet that has taken over the house, I am putting my last batch of flash batteries on the charger for tomorrow's pictures for children's church, and trying to remember the settings I used the last time I shot pictures in there. I also need to devote at least an hour of my life to the bike (and Season One of Grey's Anatomy), or else I may be tempted to make chocolate-chip cookies instead. Truthfully, I really want to give myself a pedicure, but I can't very well do that before stuffing my feet inside of my cycling shoes, now can I? Considering it's after 9:00 already, I am thinking that my unsightly tootsies will have to wait for another day, because I might as well punish myself a little more while my body is already aching.

A VERY Whiny Blog

When... are... these... boys... going... to... go... back... to... school?

To anyone who says that tonsil surgery is no big deal, I stick my tongue out at you (as well as throw up a few choice gestures). Here we are, nine days post-surgery, and I still have a couple of sick, worn-out little guys, who are ready for their lives to return to normal (as am I).

If I could just get them to eat consistently, I'd be happy. I think Gabe must've lived on fudgesicles for several days straight, but once they started proving to me that they could eat regular food, I started cracking the whip, and now they are incredibly upset to lose their ice cream diet (hey, I would be, too). One minute they're up, the next minute they're down, and if they could just give me one "solid" day, I'd be more than happy to let them go back to school, just so we could all return to some sort of normalcy.

Oh, and I'll be seriously happy to get away from the boys' dragon-breath. It's really beyond words, in terms of "awful". The doctors warned us about this, because they cartarize the wounds, but they really didn't give us enough warning. It's like a combination of really bad farts and burnt flesh. Sound appetizing? Mmmmmmm. Try being cooped up in the car with them, unable to roll the windows down? I'm not exaggerating-- even a very short car-ride is enough to make you want to choke, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. It's "all part of the healing process".

The combination of the time-change, Spring Break, surgery, weird diet, and completely whacky routine this weekend have all basically turned the kids into little monsters that need to be reprogrammed. Like, do they have a "restart" button? If so, where is it? LOL. I keep trying to tell myself that, by this time next week, things should be at least close to normal.

Of course it doesn't help that Quincy decides to get into things during her nap-- things that she has no business playing with. Today, it was a bottle of sunscreen. Fun. A few days ago, it was blue toothpaste. Like I needed one more mess to clean up, especially since I have a realtor bringing people to see the house later this week. Thanks, Quincy, for giving me another time-consuming thing to do, as I scramble to get the house ready to show! You are an angel!

Kooka also thinks this is a great time to pee a little extra in the house, creating more laundry and mopping than I already have to do. I also have a bone to pick with Mother Nature, for dumping a bunch of snow on us, and then immediately melting it, to create a yard that is full of overgrown weeds, but yet, is too soggy to mow. I hope my potential buyers don't mind the fact that the yard is a jungle, because I seriously doubt it will be dry enough to mow it anytime soon.

With Spring weeds, comes Spring weather, which is awesome, but it would be more awesome if I actually had time to ride my bike or run, or something this week. So yes, I'm bitter about the weather, too-- because I can be. LOL.

Yes, I'm whiny. This is a whiny blog. Whine, whine, whine. I'm entitled. My kids do it 837 times a day, so I'm entitled to at least one blog. So there.

First Blog In Forever/Boys' Surgery Synopsis/Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Wow, okay. So I haven't posted since July (which, coincidentally, is when I joined FB). Now that I have finally figured out that I can link the two, I have the best of both worlds! Since I've had a lot of questions about Monday's surgery with the boys, I figured what better time than now to combine my FB and my blog, right?

So, Monday morning started early, and I mean EARLY. Like, sickening, should-be-against-the-law-early. I got up at 3:45, which actually felt like 2:45, given the stupid time change. I wondered, "Why did I even bother going to bed?" Unfortunately, the boys had to be at the ol' hospital by 5:30, so I didn't have much of a choice if I still wanted time to get dressed, feed the dogs, and eat a little breakfast (plus, I'm just a slow-mover-- mornings and I are not friends). I finally woke the boys up at 5:00, and they were less-than-thrilled, especially when I told them they couldn't have breakfast (Good morning, boys! It's so stinkin' early that it's still dark outside, AND you have to get up, AND you have to starve! Happy Monday!).

Their "I'm not very happy with you, Mommy!" attitude quickly changed once I informed them that they could wear their pajamas and slippers in the car. Considering we were the only ones in the waiting room, they got to watch Disney Channel, while we tried very hard not to pass out from exhaustion and boredom. Luckily, they took us back pretty quickly, and the boys were excited to discover that they each had a fancy backpack waiting for them on their beds, complete with a teddy bear in a doctor's coat. Given some of the squirrelly names that Gabe gives his animals, I was pretty surprised when he named it "Mr. Doctor Bear". B-O-R-I-N-G. Oh well, maybe it was still too early in the morning for him to be creative. In my opinion, it was too early in the morning to know my own name, much less come up with a name for someone else.

The nurses were all super nice, and a little before 7:00, one of them came in to give Gabe his "silly drink". Gabe was adamant against the idea of falling asleep, and insisted that I give the doctor his request, so I was glad that they gave each of the boys a little "liquid happy" to chill them out before taking them down for surgery. They warned us it would make them goofy within about 10 minutes or so, and while Gabe didn't seem all that phased by it, Josh was incredibly entertaining, to the point that I wished my phone was able to capture video clips. He absolutely insisted that he had eleven fingers, and just laughed at us when we told him he only had ten. Then, I guess his vision must have been getting blurry, because he told us that his "eyes were getting old, because he couldn't see very good" (laughing the whole time). The best part was when he was swatting at all of the invisible "bugs" that were in the room. I'm ashamed to say that we got a good laugh out of it all-- it was kind of like picking on the drunk guy at the party. Hey, anything to keep us awake, because I could hardly keep my eyes open, and the rocking chair they gave me to sit in certainly didn't help matters.

Gabe's tonsils, adenoids, and ear tubes only took about an hour, and then we were taken to the recovery room. A warning to all parents who have never had their child come out of anesthesia before: Be prepared for a violent child. I kind of wish someone would have warned us about how kids react when they start to wake up from surgery, because at least we would've been prepared for the angry, confused little monsters they turned into. By the time we arrived in recovery, Gabe had stripped his gown off, was trying to pull the IV out of his foot, swinging and kicking at anyone who was handling him, and screaming and crying. It wasn't fun. Luckily, they don't remember that part of things, according to the nurses, which is good. Plus, they felt like they couldn't breathe, because the numbing agent in their throats left them feeling like they had something stuck inside, so he kept gagging and coughing. The nurse warned us that it could last 30-4o minutes (jaw on floor at this point), but that most kids end up falling back asleep, which Gabe did after about 15 minutes or so, thank goodness.

Josh's tonsils and adenoids didn't take quite so long, but when he finally arrived in the recovery room, his whole waking-up process went the same way, only a nurse finally had to hold his feet, because he was kicking everyone so bad. He also stripped himself (ha-ha), but it took him a little longer to fall asleep. Once he calmed down, Gabe had started to wake up enough to want his pj's, and the first thing he asked was, "Where's Josh?" so we wheeled his bed into Josh's recovery room, where they both slept for a couple of hours. Once they were both able to drink, and we had Josh's pj's back on, they were ready to go. They must've been on a lot of pain meds, because they were having entirely too much fun wheeling themselves around in the wheel chairs at that point.

Once we got them home, they took over my bed, slept a lot, ate some yogurt, and watched TV. We began the lovely medication schedule, that will last until Monday at least. Every 4-6 hours, around the clock. Good times. That is why I finally passed out on the couch around 5:30 for about an hour, until Eric woke me up for dinner. Once we got them to bed, I took care of a few things around the house, and crashed about 10:30, because I had to get up again at midnight. The boys wanted to sleep in my bed, and I let them, which was kind of a huge mistake, because I didn't sleep a wink with all of their gurgling and coughing. Then, later in the night, Gabe threw up, which they warned us they would probably do from all the drainage (I won't gross you out with the details). Needless to say, it was a L-O-N-G night, especially after I had been awake since 3:45 the previous morning.

Yesterday, they both tanked, which they also warned us they would do. Gabe felt decent enough in the morning, even though he wasn't eating, because he had enough thought and energy to get into costume and make a silent (but noteworthy) appearance downstairs.

Not too long after that, everything went downhill, and they just sort of laid there, watching TV and sleeping, with their mouths hanging open, barely talking. They were like little zombies. While they are both usually really good about taking medicine, I've had to all but hold them down just to medicate them, which makes for a long process when you have to do it for two kids. Then, they refused to eat anything yesterday, and didn't want to drink much either, which can pose a real problem when the doctor wants them to drink 60 oz. per day. Yeah, right. I fell asleep for about 20 minutes sometime after 4:00, but that was about it. They wouldn't even eat dinner, but I at least convinced them to have a shower, which they were resistant to at first, but then enjoyed, when they realized how good it felt on their stiff neck, back, and shoulders (for some reason, this particular surgery causes those muscles to get stiff). I convinced them to sleep in their own bed, didn't have to completely wrestle and hog-tie them for their bedtime medicine, and got them into bed by 7:30. I finally got myself to bed a couple of hours later, so as to prepare (yet again) for the 12:00 and 5:00 doses of medicine.

Had I known how last night was going to go, I would've skipped the two hours-worth of cleaning-up I did after I got them in bed, and taken that time to sleep. Gabe threw up again once, and Josh threw up three times, once all over the floor, so I had to stay up to clean that up (for reasons I won't go into, due to the gross factor). Then, they wanted to come back to my room, but rather than try to move them in with me, I just told them I'd take the top bunk instead, and they seemed pleased with that. So, it was another night of gurgling, coughing, snoring, puking, and medicating, and I'm beginning to forget what it feels like to sleep. Words can't describe how excited I am about doing this little routine until Monday (but hey, at least it's probably only until then-- it could be worse).

Today they seem to be doing better, although now that they're talking more, I can definitely hear the change in their voices. It's really, really weird. Josh has fought me on his medicine, but Gabe is finally starting to take it like a man. Part of that is due to the fact that Josh is convinced that the medicine makes him throw up, but I've explained to him why that is not the case. Once he managed to hold down his medicine, he got brave enough to eat some Cheerios, and now some Spaghetti-O's (GAG ME). Gabe is on his third bowl of Cheerios today, so that's good, too. I'm just hoping they nap this afternoon, so I can squeeze in a power-nap, or a shower, or something along those lines. It's like having new babies all over again-- LOL.

Oh yeah, Happy St. Patrick's Day!