My Last Nerve Must Be Made of Steel!

There are some mom phrases that my kids won't accept. For instance, I tell them they're driving me crazy, and the 5 year old always says, "we're not even in the car. How can we be driving?" Every time. And yet, I can't stop myself from saying it when they are in fact driving me out of my mind. The other thing is, "you're on my last nerve." I say it to the kids, the dog, and on occasion, the husband. The same child muttered under her sweet breath not long ago when I told her that, "you ALWAYS tell us that." I just told her, "yeah, well it's lucky for you that it's such a strong nerve."
And she is! They all are! Some days I feel like I am a hair's breadth away from ending up on the evening news. The amount of restraint I can pack into that one last nerve is really astounding. Like just now...the girl is fascinated with the this Gyrobowl she has seen on TV. It cradles food in a weighted two-bowl system so that the food always stays upright and doesn't spill. GENIUS! I can only imagine the hours of vacuuming goldfish out of the car I could have saved myself if we had had those! However, as the youngest is about to be 3, I can't bring myself to spend the $15 plus shipping on them now. Enter the 5 year old. She has goldfish in a bowl, stacked in another bowl with small handles. I was typing and didn't SEE what transpired, but here's the auditory playback from 2 minutes ago:
"Look! I have my own Gyrobowl!"
[sound of goldfish hitting leather sofa]
"oops. ZELLLL_DAAAA" (Zelda's the dog/vacuum cleaner and the only reason I didn't bother turning around. She had it cleaned up before my last nerve had a chance to even waver)
I have only myself to blame though. I actually PRAY for patience! I thought that's what you were supposed to do as a parent of young, adventurous children, but my loving spouse reminds me that God gives us opportunities to PRACTICE patience. Nooo thank you! But I guess it's too late for me. I have prayed, and now I am in patience boot camp. And in the middle of my drills, I am left to wonder, do our "nerves" regenerate on a constant basis so that the kids, dog, and husband need only to lay low until some new ones can form and join forces with that last one, or am I really down to my last nerve? If so, they should build bullet-proof armor out of that!

When I grow up...

I have reached a pivotal moment in my life where I finally know what I want to be when I grow up. It's the thing my mother and grandmother told me as a kid I was destined to be but I refused to consider. So much so in fact that I spend 6 years in college being mediocre at something I thought I really wanted to do, even though it kicked my hiney. (hence the 6 years for only one degree!) Also, the entire time I was determined to get that degree and stay the course, I questioned constantly if that was something I really wanted to do as a career. I still feel the same about my degree 9 years after graduating as I did in the middle of school, so I think that means I didn't follow my passion.
I want to write. I would love to be a published author and get paid to sit in front of this computer and pour my stories into beautiful masterpieces that will entertain people. And while I type away, my income would pay for some sweet, efficient lady to take over my household duties while the kids are in school, and as soon as it's time to pick them up, I would morph into super mom-someone not tired from mopping and ironing, someone not frustrated from a trip to the grocery store, and someone not wondering what to make for dinner. That part wouldn't be my job anymore! It's good to have dreams.
Then reality whacks me in the face. I have spent exactly NO time of my 30-something years cultivating my portfolio or working toward a tangible goal of writing professionally. Changing directions midstream with 3 young children and several bathrooms that depend on me to care for them seems impossible. On the other hand, when I was  younger woman, I didn't have as much to write about. Becoming a parent and walking through some raging storms of life have given me more inspiration. It's a catch 22. Perhaps by the time they're grown, the kids will have given me enough material for a novel! In the meantime, I'm thinking of reading my stories aloud to the dog as I scrub toilets.

It Runs in the Family

My children's harebrained schemes never cease to amaze me. Just yesterday I had to supervise the oldest washing mud off the side of the house where he had used my bathroom window as target practice with custom made mud balls. It gave me flashbacks to last year when he spray painted a tiny sheet of paper in the floor of my office-in front of a space heater. He also has been known to remove the screws from his desk chair so it collapses on the unsuspecting victim who sits in it. Don't think though that he's the only one. Another child was seen walking down the stairs this morning with eyes squeezed shut just to see if it could be done without falling.
I am inclined to believe they take after their dad in this arena because I have heard stories of his childhood antics.  However, as soon as I convince myself that I was above such shenanigans, God (and my mom) remind me of my own ill-conceived stunts.
There was the time I cut my toe with a shovel, and as soon as it healed, I did it again-same toe, same shovel as I attempted a reenactment of what-not-to-do for my brother. I also once duct taped my eyes in order to pretend to be blind. Sometimes my plans involved an accomplice, who shall remain unnamed so that no one can urge her to spill the beans on any of our Lucy and Ethel adventures.
As I take stock of my childhood and the goobish stunts I pulled, my kids suddenly seem really smart. After all, when you walk downstairs with OUT duct tape on your eyes, they can be opened in case of emergency, and no eyebrows or lashes are forcibly lost in the process. Perhaps they do get that from their dad after all.

The Flu Causes Irritability...even if you're not the sick one

I just had a pretty little meltdown. Two of the kids are sick with the flu-going on day 4, so I am being held prisoner by two whiny kids who can't agree on show to watch or the proper boundaries over which the other's feet are not allowed to cross. I am also now the official butler, but instead of a tiny bell to get my attention, they have loud, irrational screams to make their requests.
Yesterday they both wanted orange juice, and being out, I decided to make them some from scratch. ie. fresh squeezed from a Sam's sized bag of oranges. Any other day I would tell them it's just too bad, but I was hoping to force enough vitamin C through their systems to end this viral hell. Do you know how many oranges you have to annihilate to get two glasses of O.J.? I'm not going to tell you-you'll have to do the work yourself to find out like I did. I do have sore arms from it today though. I should also point out that I am allergic to oranges, so I have had a massive headache since I did that, but it's a sacrifice a mother makes for her sick kids, right?
This morning they wanted French toast, and since neither has had an appetite to eat anything in several days, I thought making it for them (from scratch of course) would help them get some strength back. One kid ate some, but the other (the one who specifically asked for French toast) whined that it didn't look right and she could NOT eat it! And what was I thinking for putting eggs on her bread?! I guess the only reason she has liked it in the past is because she hasn't seen how you make it.
My printer picked today to decide printing photos is too much work as is printing any text on the left half of the page. Which means the printing job I needed to get done this morning gave me an extra measure of joy (and apparently sarcasm).
Now as I type, there is a tantrum in the works beside me as the colored pencil that was SUPPOSED to be gray is coloring purple instead. Somehow I am responsible for the misleading tint of the pencil, but I haven't figured out how.
The icing on the cake came when I was trying to get in a few bites of leftover pasta for breakfast/lunch at 10:30 to stave off hunger-induced irritability. I may not have eaten fast enough for that. The Elmo video froze causing an uproar among the feverish wardens, and in my haste to fix the movie, I dropped my food all over the floor.
As I screamed at my kids to sit down and shut their ungrateful little mouths, the dog sweetly cleaned up my mess and Handy Manny soothed the troops. I'd go soak in a hot bath to sooth myself, but the water heater is on the fritz, and we won't have hot water available until about 4:00. By the time the Littles all get to bed, it will be scalding, which is great because not a single flu germ can survive the bath, and I can stay well to do this all again tomorrow.

Little Debbie is the Devil in Pig Tails

I have been trying so hard to lose the extra pounds I let creep on after cancelling my gym membership. That, by the way, was a mistake. I had convinced myself this summer that my youngest would have difficulty behaving in the gym's crowded childcare, and our family would spend so much time swimming that I wouldn't need to go to the gym to stay in shape anyway. The faulty logic there is that moms don't get to swim! We get to catch little people jumping off the side of the pool, carry them through the deep water, dodge noodles, and occasionally jump in fully clothed to perform a rescue, but rarely swim laps! If you don't believe me, try it with three kids in the pool and see how far you get before either they pounce on you or you have to stop and help/break up a "situation."
When school began again, I had intended to rejoin the gym, but preschool takes such a chunk out of the bank account each month that I decided to save the money and put our Bow Flex and treadmill to good use. As it turns out, once a week (or um, once a month) doesn't actually count as putting them to good use. It took seeing the scales tell me an ugly number and feeling the ill-fitting bulges in my favorite jeans to propel me to really buckle down and fix this problem.
Now I am starting to see results, but they've come at a price. I have had to give up all the yummy foods that got me to this point in the first place, and I am missing them a lot! I would gladly embrace the notion that a little indulgence is ok, but it hasn't worked for me for one simple reason: when I give myself too much freedom, it consumes me. Oh, and because Little Debbie is pure evil in disguise. She packages those Swiss Cake Rolls in pairs so that I can convince myself eating one of them won't hurt me. But soon I've eaten both of them, and once I've plowed through the whole box, I must face up to the fact that I was duped by the cuteness on the box. How can a snack cake be so bad when a sweet little girl in gingham and braids is selling it? That's how I ended up in my fat jeans.
Maybe that's why God gave such strict guidelines to the Israelites. They had already demonstrated in the desert that they would turn away from Him at the drop of a golden calf, so it stands to reason that God was protecting them from themselves when he imposed a harsh set of rules on them. When they wavered from His rules and gave themselves too many freedoms, they were consumed by evil. Hopefully, I can continue eating strictly healthy foods and continue working out and avoid being consumed by my own over-indulgence. Wish me luck!

Anyone know an aquatic therapist?

Remember the fish I poured into the disposal? I mentioned him in my rant about why I am not a pet person. I do well to take care of the three kids, and the animals are just not my thing at all. Thankful for the big scary dog though-especially when I'm home alone. Anyway, back to the fish. He hasn't quite been himself lately, and even though his brain is about the size of a rice crispy, he seems to have post traumatic stress disorder. When I go near his bowl, he flips out. Sometimes he swims sideways erratically, and other times I'd swear he trembles. I understand that I caused the whole situation, but that was over a month ago! He needs to get over it! I can't even believe I'm thinking this, but perhaps he needs a lady fish friend to take his mind off his near-death experience. What am I saying?! If I poured one down the drain, what is the likelihood that I could keep two fish in the bowl when I change the water? And baby fish? I'm pretty sure any offspring would become casualties immediately. Maybe one fish with PTSD is fine for now. Once he graduates to the toilet, we can go back to being a one and a half pet family (the turtle hibernates half the year, and it's anybody's guess whether he'll emerge each spring, so he only halfway counts) where nothing living fits in a drain.

Sugar Detox is Just as Fun as it Sounds!

The week before Christmas I was doing great at eating healthy and avoiding all sugar and processed carbs. And then my husband brought home a goody basket from his employees filled with homemade candies and cookies. The white fudge proved to be more than I could withstand, and I at it. I tried to get my husband to fire the one who made it on principle because nothing before that had tempted me enough to consume, but he won't. Something about protocol for termination doesn't include giving yummy treats. Whatever. Since then, I have been on a steady diet of fudge, divinity, and cookies with an occasional slice of pie-a-la-real whip cream. My bloodstream couldn't possible have room for any nutrients in it at this point, and it's clearly time to detoxify my system before I become an unstoppable sugar fiend. I could live with being addicted to the sweet stuff if my clothes would also fit in the meantime, but there is definitely a cause and effect relationship between the amount of fudge I eat and the size of my butt. Not exactly rocket science, but it's a fact that's easy to deny until it smacks you in the too tight jeans. And so today begins my renewed commitment to eating right and working out so at the end of January I can wear my new formal gown without worrying about it fitting too snug. For you that means my blog during the next month may be littered with irritated rants as I fight the urge to ingest bad carbs and scream at the people who live closest to me. (Pray for them!)