A Prayer for St. Elizabeth of the Perpetually Late

"Girl. Your house is a hot mess." 

When the doorbell sounded this morning, at 8:11 am, I was a little confused. I was also a little naked, having just hopped out of the shower where I'd rinsed out the hair dye (to cover my also naked roots) I had applied 40 minutes earlier, at around 7:20.

Normally my morning routine consists of hearing the alarm start ringing, at 6:45, and hitting snooze and my husband until 7:30 where I finally give up and drag my carcass out of bed.

Today, however, I woke up at 6:45 as jazzed up as... well it was easily as jazzy and maniacal as Liza Minnelli on a bender. Today, I had energy to burn and inspiration to light the match!

Don't tell me not to live, just sit and putter. Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter. Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my paraaaaaaaaaaade.

Our house, by the way, looked like someone let loose four toddlers with cola-filled water balloons. And just as the mess was congealing, and the acid was corroding, the world's biggest dryer exploded raining socks and undies onto the fizzy, sticky mess. I'll let that sink in for a sec. Go ahead, re-read it to get the perfect image. There.

I know I could've added a little hyperbole with the toddlers-- I could've said there were 2 dozen with the water balloons-- but honestly, the widespread and fantastic destruction four toddlers can wreak is more accurate and therefore insane sounding. It's a mommy thing. You (unfortunately) would understand.

At any rate, I was inspired to clean my house.

We're going away for a few days for wedding and the only thing worse than cleaning your house before you go on vacation is ... coming home to the DISASTER you left. I end up dreading the entire weekend away, knowing that the closer I get to home, the worse the reality of house will be.

So, I decided I was going to take the day, clean the house (well, tidy it, which is a serious life-consuming task at this point) so that a miracle could happen while we're away; my cleaning fairy was due to arrive next week so that I can come home to an effortlessly spotless and great smelling house! Honestly, if this was a race, I would've just come up with a dark horse win. In Vegas, I'd've hit the jackpot. Or, (also) in Vegas, Ida gotten away with killing two hookers and riding a tiger down mainstreet. Hallelujah!

Unfortunately, Kiddo #1 is adept at mazes.

And when the doorbell rang at 8:11, while I was still naked in my bathroom, I was confused. I figured it was the neighbour kid who borrowed my copy of Mockingjay (Collins) set to return it. Or her mom, who borrowed my copy of 50 Shades of Grey (James) returning it. Either way, I'm still naked in my bathroom listening to the 5 year-old and and almost-two year-old trying to put the dog in the backyard so they can open the door to a potential stranger.

You know, this is when it would be nice if we had one of those slidey-lock things like those ones on apartment doors. It would keep our too-small kids from unlocking the door the normal way and just letting anyone in... Or, say, letting themselves out into the middle of the street while I'm sitting in the bathroom for the 3 minutes peace I get when the theme song to Mickey Mouse Club House comes on and my kids become zombies for 23 minutes.

I'm like frickin' Pavlov's dog-- I'm so conditioned to taking that time that when my daughter put on a Mickey Mouse Club House video randomly on the weekend I suddenly, desperately, needed to pee. Desperately.

Jason of Spades wins everytime.

But, see, here's the problem with those slidey lock thingys. It all comes down to two words: Jason Voorhees. As much as I really don't want my kids in the middle of the street, or being able to let crazy strangers into the house, the major Trump to that is that what if mother f-ing Jason shows up?

Here I would be, freaking out, screaming, crying with snot and tears streaming down my face. He's just walking though, right? Oh yeah, baby! So as long as I can beat him to the front door, I can escape. I can be the virgin who gets away! I can! I can! OH SHIT. SAY WHAT? I can't get the f-ing door open because there's some stupid child-proof lock at the top that I don't remember putting there, and now I'm flailing and tearing at the door while Jason Voorhees walks slowly toward me. Yeah. So. Yeah.

No extra lock bullshit.

Throwing on my robe and padding down the hallway towards the yelling children and barking dog, I shooed the four-legged outside and let the two-leggeds open the door.

Is that the theme song to Mickey Mouse Club House? Gang Way! Gotsta pee!

Diane!

I've never been simultaneously thrilled and panic-stricken. Diane. The Cleaning Fairy? Here? Now? But my house looks like ... and I'm in my robe ... and ... how did that pair of undies end up on the picture behind the piano?!?

Smiling a lot like the purple cartoon here, I welcome the modern-day Goddess of the Hunt (for dirt and grime) and begin barking as furiously as the dog had been. 

Me: Kiddo #1! Run to your room and pick everything off the floor and... put it ... um.. on your bed.

Kiddo #1: Really? (smiling because she can't believe she doesn't have to clean "properly" this time)

Me: Oh yeah, baby. Kiddo #2-- run to your room and put everything off the floor on your bed, too.

Kiddo #2: (squealing and chasing his sister) Uh-huh! Uh-huh!

Me: Hi Diane. You are awesome. Pretend this doesn't look like this. Please don't fire me as a client. I swear. ... I got the calendar mixed up and thought you were coming next week. Can I get you a coffee? Chocolate? A new car? Please don't leave.

There was a tiny voice of happiness reminding me that the house hadn't been SO destroyed in just the 7 days from her last visit-- it'd been the full 14. Always look on the bright side, right?

Somehow, between 8:11 and 8:54, I got the rest of the house tidied (by way of tossing shit into Mount St. Elizabeth on my bed), and I managed to get dressed. No make-up or breakfast though-- but hey, something had to give. Plus, my roots were done, which compensated for the lack of make-up.

GAH!

Kiddo #1's lunch?!?

I walk calmly into my bedroom and dig the alarm clock out of the rubble on my bed, I unplug it and take it to the garage, along with my hope for a great and inspiring day.

I put that damned harbinger of treachery under my back tires and throw the car into reverse as Barbra Streisand finishes that song from "Funny Girl."

Get ready for me love, cuz I'm a comer.
I simply gotta march, my heart's a drummer.
Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my paraaaaaaaade.

Very Pinteresting...

I’m hopelessly addicted to Pinterest.com. I mean, it’s bad. It’s so bad I feel the need to add some extra ‘A’s in there so everyone can clearly see how baaaaaad it is.

Honestly, it’s like I sit down at the computer to check my email and spy on my friends, I mean check Facebook, and suddenly I notice someone has added a new pin to their Pinterest pinboards.  I nonchalantly click to see what it was and suddenly the baby’s 2.5 hour nap is over and I’m can’t figure out how the time-space continuum shifted.   If there ever was a perfect example of time being relative, Pinterest is it.

Pinterest.com , for those of you ignorant of its awesomeness, is this magical place where you can collect everything in the whole universe that makes you happy.

Like unicorns? Pinterest has a bazillion of ‘em. Like to see pictures of squishy baby toes? Or fantastical places to holiday? Or kids’ rooms with pirate boats for bunk beds?  Pinterest has them in colour, black/white and sepia. Planning a wedding/shower/birthday party? Make a pin board and now all your favourite ideas will exist in complementary, colour-coded harmony.  Want to look at pictures of sparkly high heels? What about insanely difficult and awesome work outs? There’s something for everyone.

And once you get bored looking at beautiful things (which occasionally happens) you can look up DIY (do it yourself) and Crafts and find a visual explosion of cutting, pasting and painting that all lead to directions on how to make each and every craft there pinned.  It’s everything you love about Etsy, but with directions so you can make it yourself.   

I feel like the potential for Pinterest is just peaking now that summer is here. What better resource than a beacon that leads you to the best of the best crafts and ideas for anything, without having to roam search engines hoping your search for “whip up+ melted wax + into new toy” doesn’t find ... um... inappropriate images?  

It’s genius!  As such, I’ve decided that every time one of my kids is bored, or needs something new to distract them, we’re going to go into my “Mom, I’m bored” pin board and pick something to create and use.  I’m talking games, crafts, outdoor activities, scavenger hunts—and I know I could find even more if I just could devote MORE HOURS to Pinterest. Alas, laundry beckons.

Of course, I’ll have to limit what we make to things my 5 year old and soon-to-be 2 year old can do. 

Um. I mean, I’m going to have to limit it to things we can do together that mommy can make. 

And for which I have the ingredients.  And the tools.  And patience. 

Hmm.  

And now we’re stuck in what I call the Pinterest Paradigm: all this perfect awesomeness has a dark, shadowy side, just like those super scary Oompa Loompas (circa either film) or that heebie-jeebies instilling Willy Wonka (circa either film) that exist within the perfect Chocolate Factory.  See, the worst part of seeing Everything That Is Amazing In Our World, all within a series of beautiful, perfect pictures, is that ... well, reality is significantly less amazing.  Sure, I’ve pinned 504 kid-crafts for me to do either for or with my children. But with the dozen or so crafts we’ve already attempted, we’re running with about a 50% success rate.  Oh, and we consider anything that is remotely like the Pinterest picture a “success” and only fire is considered a “failure.”

Again, we’re averaging “success” only 50% of the time.

So, just know that if all you do is pin stuff to Pinterest, you’re missing out on the best part of the perfection: it’s the trying and failing miserably that makes the best memories! No kid remembers the time you bought play-dough; every kid remembers the time Mom almost burned down the house while the bunch of you tried make your own. No kid remembers the time you finished a pre-fabricated castle kit together; every kid remembers the time you accidently glued your left eye shut building a castle out of popsicle sticks, and you had to make everyone pirate eye-patches so Daddy wouldn’t find out before the glue dissolved.

Here’s to misadventures that lead to memories. 

Happy Summer.

(PS: I’m not in any way affiliated with Pinterest.com. I get nothing but a million ideas and hope for my crafting future from them. No money, no perks, nothing at all. Boo, right? I agree.) J

Kiddo #2 Doesn't Believe In Bedtime and Other Horror Stories

Husband returned home from his summer soccer league game in his Barney-purple jersey, looking rougher than normal. "Frick. I need new cleats. My feet stink."

I'm sure that was hilarious, but I'm immersed in my nighttime ritual of playing rounds of Scrabble on my phone while Kiddo #2 goes to bed, gets up, goes to bed, gets up, goes to bed, gets up, goes to bed... for anywhere from an hour to an hour and a half. 

Yes, it takes me a long time to play anything on Scrabble. 

Yes, I do suck at Scrabble. 

No, you may not add me simply for the joy of kicking my ass. 

At any rate, I was seated in the living room (which shares a wall with Kiddo #2's bedroom) playing frequently-interrupted-Scrabble when Husband returned from his game.

He crept quietly into the living room and silently mouthed the "Frick I need new cleats" thing because the house was deathly quiet. No, Sleeping Quiet. This is quite a feet when bedtime was a mere 20 minutes prior.

My husband has a dial on his neck.
My son's dial is stuck on Nickleback. Boo-urns.

He silently removed his cleats, but with every passing second of silence, I could see the glint of excitement in his eyes. No, not THAT "glint of excitement." Well, probably that one, but I ignore that particular glint. For reals, the excitement was due to Kiddo #2 clearly being asleep. Husband was excited that WE might be able to watch a TV show before 10pm. 

After basking in the silence a few minutes more, Husband raised the volume of his voice from "Breathy" to "Funeral" and said, "He's asleep? He's not coming out of his room? How did you do that?"

I glanced up from my phone, looked him in the eyes and said, "Yes, I believe he is asleep. (pause) No, I do not believe he will be coming out of his room again tonight."

Husband: Why are you speaking like a Sphynx? 

Me: Because you will never believe what happened.

Husband: Does it involve a Sphynx?

Me: No.

Husband: Aliens?

Me: No. 

Husband: Does it involve bribery of any sort?

Me: (thinking) No. Maybe.

Husband: Is there a unicorn or pteradactyl involved?

Me: (thinking) No. (thinking) No.  But, here's how the night went down...

Kiddo #1 sleeps like magic
awesomness covered in rainbows.

I did the usual crap getting the kids ready and into bed the first time. Kiddo #1 always goes to bed without a fuss and is sleeping/out cold within 2 minutes of her head hitting the pillow. It's like magic awesomeness covered in rainbows.  And then there's the other side to our genetic coin: Kiddo #2.  

Sensing Kiddo #2 was feeling naughty, I tucked him into bed and said, "The first time you get out of bed, you lose your ball. The second time, you lose Poochie. Dig it?"  

Haha. No, I'm not threatening to castrate my son for leaving his bed. Tonight he wanted to bring a soccer ball with him to sleep and, frankly, if it keeps him in bed, I'd let him bring a full-on horse and wagon. I was merely saying first I'll take his soccer ball and second, Poochie. 

He, within 35 seconds of my leaving, was up cavorting in the living room. I took the ball and put it on the mantle. I returned him to his bed. Within 10 seconds (wailing about his lost ball) he returned to the living room where I took Poochie, put him on the mantle, and returned Kiddo #2 to his bed.

He, with nothing left to lose, began a revolving door act that would make Scooby Doo look like an amateur. I didn't think through the whole "nothing left to lose" part or I might not have been so hasty with the removal of The Pooch. 

Meh. You win some you lose some, right?

Here's where things got interesting though: smack dab in the middle of one of my many games of Scrabble (I play with a girlfriend from Colorado. I think it makes her feel good to know she's kicking an English Teacher's hiney, but I digress.), with Kiddo #2 wailing, sobbing and generally acting like Natalie Wood in any of her films, out stormed Kiddo #1 from her bedroom.

Looking suspiciously like a TV lawyer in her pencil skirt, stiletto heels and hair done up in a neat and tidy bun, Kiddo #1 took her reading glasses off her face and gestured wildly toward the fireplace mantle where the dog and ball were sitting.  Smugly, I looked at Kiddo #2. Kiddo #1 was here to read him the riot act. Ha ha ha, little crappy won't-go-to-bed Kid. My unicorn sleeper is gonna tear a strip off you now. I wish I could say I feel sorry for him, but really, I'm secretly glad he's pushed her over the edge because maybe she can get him to do what I can't seem to.

Kiddo #1:  Listen! If you don't stop being so naughty and acting so bad, YOU. (pause) Are Getting a time out. Your "acting bad" stuff is getting old. Seriously. (pause) Seriously. (pause) YOU, are going to give back Poochie and his ball. He needs those to sleep! AND, YOU are being NAUGHTY taking them from him. So you GIVE them BACK or I will yell and SCARE you and I will be forced to... to. Tell.

Me: Are you talking to me? (confused)

Kiddo #1: Yes! Taking Poochie went too far. Too far, Momma. That is rude and hurts his feelings.

Me: Are you seriously talking to ME? (incredulous)

Kiddo #1: Yes I said. YOU.

Me: And who, exactly, were you going to Tell?

Kiddo #1:  (looking and blinking, clearly trying to figure out who she would tell on me to) Well. Yes. I would tell... Daddy.

Me: Well, Daddy would do the same thing I'm doing because Kiddo #2 needs to learn to stay in his bed.

Kiddo #2 takes this moment to wail loudly and hit his hand against the carpet in dispair. Next week he will be filling in for Dr. Drake Ramorez on Days of Our Lives, if you would like to see even more over-acting.

Kiddo #1: Yes. (pause)  I see. Well, this is inappropriate. He can't sleep without Poochie. So you are keeping him from sleeping. If he can't sleep, do you really think he's going to stay in his bed?

I shit you not, that is what she logically came up with. I wish I had that kind of reasoning power.

Me: Uh. Um?

Kiddo #1: So you are setting him up. He isn't going go to bed and stay there. And that is mean, and rude. And you are doing naughty things so if you keep it up, Time Out! You have to Give Him His Poochie BACK. Tonight! Right NOW! He always has to have Poochie and Never, ever to take him AGAIN!

And she stormed back to her room and slammed the door. 

And I stormed off to her room and opened the door like Storm from X-Men. 

Stormy storm storm (I feel like I didn't say storm enough in those first two sentences, so I added some just now for effect) She, startled, panicked and began scream-crying about how that was mean and Puh-puh-poochie needs to go back to Kiddo #2. 

Honestly, I was stuck between trying not to laugh my damn head off at her compelling case and trying not to cry because she was coming to the aid of her brother who was being relentlessly threatened by outside agencies (to her wee eyes, anyway). 

Once she'd calmed down, the two of us went back out to the living room where Kiddo #2 had put two step stools on top of each other trying to reach the top of the mantle. 

Good Lord. Pray for me.

I stood there, silently wondering what my brain was going to come up with to get out of this mess when my mouth took over and starting saying shit without even CONSULTING with my grey matter.

My mouth: Ok. Well. Ok. Kiddo #2. Your sister has successfully argued Poochie back into your arms.

My brain: WTF?

My mouth: She saved him. This time.

My brain: Seriously? STFU.

My mouth: But her excellent arguing skills will NOT save Poochie if you leave your room again tonight.

My brain: Where are you headed, Judge Judy, cuz it sounds pretty damn lame from here.

My mouth: Take Poochie and go to your bed. Know that if I hear so much as a peep from your room, a peep from your room, Poochie goes on the mantle all night long, no exceptions!

My brain: So ... nothing changed and we're starting this stupid shit all over again? Nice work, Mouth. 

Kiddo #2, sobbing into his newly restored Poochie glanced at me sideways, stood up and ran to his sister sobbing Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou while she hugged him. Honestly I think Kiddo #2 officially out-acted Natalie Wood with that and is now in Liza Minelli territory; my drama king settled down and walked himself directly to bed. 12 minutes later, into the house walked Husband.

So, to answer your question, Husband, Yes, I think he's asleep. No, I had nothing to do with it. Our daughter successfully negotiated for the return of Poochie which resulted in this outcome.  

Tomorrow she will be going with me to get a new cell phone contract that is less expensive, more reliable and will give me a free phone upgrade every time Apple comes out with a new product. Oh, and a back rub every Thursday. 

What have YOUR kids done for you lately?