All Around The Mulberry Bush

"I had ten thousand nightmares last night."

I Hulk-Smash the alarm clock, hoping to deliver it to its maker. Instead, I further piss myself off by scattering the five hundred thousand little things that were carefully Jenga-ed around the alarm clock on our teeny, tiny night table onto the floor.

The groan I emit comes from the centre of Hell itself. 

I bury my face into my pillow hoping every skittered bobby pin, hair tie, book, empty juice box, and random thing hitting the floor will spontaneously combust so I never have to figure out where the hell they all went.

"Oh? I'm sorry to hear that honey." He rolls over to give me a hug.  I snort like a bull, try to prop myself up on my elbows and fall in sleep-deprived misery back onto my pillow. Husband backs away like the smart cowboy he is. 

"Gah! I think it was all the creepy music I was listening to last night on the way home."

"Huh?"

"It was all ghosties and fog. The lyrics were all about dead people."

"What station were you listening to? All I ever hear when I turn on the radio is "Call Me Maybe.""

Seriously. 

How am I supposed to have a rotten day when Husband won't even indulge me? The nerve!

Laughing from my toes, I groan like an injured bull and propel myself forward.

I stand up. 

I feel unbalanced.

I sit down. 

I, with the speed of a locomotive, race to the bathroom. 

My stomach, with the speed of Superman, beats me to the toilet. 

I've never been so happy to come in second place in my life. 

Just as I put myself in the position in which I spent most early Sunday mornings in College, I look up to see I have a cheering section. 

Fabulous.

The thing about having kids is you can't even puke in private-- which means you can't cry and feel sorry for yourself like a normal human, either, because you don't want to traumatize the children who are sitting there watching you puke. 

There's nothing worse than kids who are traumatized from watching their parents have a meltdown while doing something. 

I have a friend who is so phobic of flies, FLIES, that her daughter screams, sobs and is inconsolable from March to about October here. When the wind blows too hard, the kid won't leave her room. 

I heard a mom tell her kids to stay close to her in the supermarket because there are crazy men that steal children and they hide just out of mothers' sights. They pop out like Jack-in-the-box people, grab kids and ... I dunno I had to get away from her crazyness because my kids could hear her and they could tell I was starting to freak the fuck out. 

I have a deep rooted fear of ninjas and mafia hitmen, as it is. I don't need to be on the lookout for frickin' Jack-in-the-box people. That creepy music those stupid "toys" make gives me the heebie-geebies. 

Kiddo #1 saw the panic in my eyes while I glanced between the crazy mom and the bananas I was pretending to study. Kiddo #1 realized I was believing Crazy Mom's story and wheeled me away before it could permanently scar me.

So here I am, puking my guts out (trying to also not pee on the floor, THANKS FOR THAT ONE MOTHERHOOD.) and Kiddo #2 goes "Momma. Oh no. Momma. Ok?"  and then he rubs my back. Oh, he'll be a good frat boy one day. 

"What's that, Brother?"  (yes, we live like the Berenstain Bears) and Kiddo #1 arrives on the scene with her video camera and microphone. 

"Momma. Bad. No. Ok?" he says proudly into the microphone.  Seriously, who thought the mini-TV studio was a good Christmas present? F-you Santa. Y'all are gettin' burned toast and sour milk this Christmas.

"Oh. No, Brother. Momma's sick. Isn't that right Momma?" Kiddo #1 shoves the microphone in my direction and smiles like a good news reporter. It is 6am. Jumpin' Lordy.

I look at her, look at Kiddo #2 and sweep my arm out in typical Police fashion.
"There's nothing to see here. Back off. Please. Get out, please. Please go away. ... Husband!"

I think, by the way, that Husband, for as wonderful as he is,will get a Hearing Aid for Christmas. (I guess it's back to milk and cookies for Santy-pants cuz those things are expensive and Lord knows I'm not shelling out for that stuff-- I need an iPad.) I mean, how did he NOT hear the excellent sounds of my stomach contents reappearing? How did he miss me begging the children to leave the bathroom? How? Hearing Aid, I tell you.

Husband appears, wrinkles his nose and shoos (gosh, that word looks funny.) the children away. I can hear the chatter but it sounds like it's coming from underwater compared to the echoes of the bathroom. 

I weakly get up off the floor and crawl to my phone. I type "Can the children come over today?" and hit send. 

I wait. 

I puke again.

I come back to my phone (I'm scared to bring it with me in the bathroom-- it doesn't have a good track record with toilets, and frankly, my contract isn't up until December) and check. Nothing.

Husband busies himself with the children. 

I head back to the bathroom looking for my lungs. Oh there they are. In the toilet beside my stomach and oesophagus. Fabulous.

I return to my phone. Nothing.

I wobble to the kitchen to get a drink of water. I flee to the bathroom and despite the deafening sounds coming from the bathroom, I'm able to barely hear the squeak of a text message. Oh thank you, Santa.

"Yes, no problem."

I text Husband that he'll be taking the children to our (amazing) child care provider's for the day and crawl back into bed. Wait. No, I brushed my teeth and then crawled back into bed. Frick. The first way is super gross.

I lay my head on the pillow offering all sorts of things I no longer have (like my virginity, my sanity, my brain, for example) to the Universe if only this (clearly) life-ending illness could go away. Responding with "No thanks, we don't care for empty promises", the Universe instead reminded me that the Cleaning Fairy is due to arrive in 45 minutes. 

Awesome.  Know what's worse than having to cancel your Cleaning Fairy? Having to cancel your Cleaning Fairy when you've ALREADY done the frickin' pre-clean! It's like taunting you. Or poking a bear. Screw you, bear.

I call the Cleaning Fairy and tell her not to come (between sobs that I don't mind the children seeing because this is a legitimately sad time. You have to be on death's door to cancel the Cleaning Fairy.). She says that it doesn't sound like food poisoning, BUT that there's some food poisoning-looking flu that's going around and she hopes I don't have that. I agree and hang up the phone in grave calamity.  I am clearly going to be bedridden today and neither will the house be clean when I arise, nor will I get any of the Me Work done (sewing for Fall Line or course work for the online class I'm taking). Gah!

I sleep sweat most of the morning while everything aches. Around 3pm I open my eyes, dry off my upper body with my Death Towel (I'm keeping it in case we need to sell DNA to a wizard or Rumpelstiltskin to get a cure) and realize I need to text my two very best girlfriends (with whom I was out to dinner the night before the onset of the Plague Part Two) and make sure they're ok. We shared a bunch of appetizers and laughs-- who KNOWS what caused this and whether they have it, too!

Text to: Very Best Girlfriend (VBG) and Second Very Best Girlfriend (SVBG or Lucy)

Me: Possibly dying. Food poisoning? You two ok?

VBG: Uh yep. I'm fine. Lucy?

SVBG: Oh no! What are your symptoms?

(see how Second Very Best Girlfriend (Lucy) is much more sympathetic than VBG? She might get upgraded for that. VBG: take note)

Me: Death.

SVBG: Like is your heart racing or slowing down? Puking? Shitting? Hemorrhaging?

Me: Grim Reaper hanging out watching Max and Ruby on TV.

SVBG: Mine's been racing since I got this text. Feel light headed and nauseated.

VBG: Calm down you two.

Me: If you've already puked your entire organs out, I'll let Grimmy know where to go next.

SVBG: Ooooh nooo.  I think I have hives.

VBG: Seriously, Liz. You're gonna make Lucy go nuts. Lucy: You're fine.

Me: Probably we're all dying. VBG: Pfffffft.

VBG: SERIOUSLY. Stop.

Me: Just told Grimmy to head your direction, Lucy, once he's done with me. Said he would after Max and Ruby. Max just said "Reaper!" 

VBG: Haha. ... Uh, hate to tell you but you might have brought it on yourself.

Me: Eh?

VBG: Last night what did you eat?

Me: The Laughing Buddha Salad. Or Smiling Salad Buddha. Or ??

VBG: ... Buddha died of food poisoning.

I can hear the Jack-in-the-box music playing slowly as the lights fade to black.  

It Be Pirate Week on Discovery

Last week was my first week of summer vacation; we’ve been out since the end of June here, but we immediately went on a mini-wedding-vacation which made ‘reality’ not have to set in until last Monday.

Oh yes, Hell it was.

I tried to tire them out by taking them to the splash pad for hours. True, they frolicked in the water and otherwise had a great time.  The physical exhaustion didn’t even TOUCH the mental non-tiredness they had from the lack of brain stimuli.  I, on the other hand, nearly suffered dehydration because it was roughly 680 degrees here, plus humidity last week. While the children drank and played in the water (uh, drank from my water bottle, not the splash pad), standing in the sun chasing Kiddo #2 and sweating from standing still isn’t very good for the ol’ bod.

By the end of the day, every day last week, I found myself looking at my wristwatch wondering why-oh-why Husband wasn’t home yet.

From 2pm on.

Also, I don’t have a watch.

So, as I sat in the closet curled in a ball hoping the children didn’t figure out I was playing Hide and Seek, it occurred to me that perhaps the problem could be easily remedied the way School and Daycares do it: bring on the theme weeks!

This week, I decided, would be Pirate Week. Arrrrgh!

Today we went to the library where we checked out a bunch of Pirate books (one including a lexicon with pronunciation) and a cookbook (Who knew? Mostly the recipes are for pickles, and fish, and pickled fish, though.)

Kiddo #1 and I spoke to each other in Pirate all day. As in “Momma Pirate Captain, ARRRRGH, I’d like some milk please. ARRRGH.”  And I, sounding like Pirate Steve from Dodgeball without the great hair, would reply with a bunch of “scurvies,” “walk the plank” and squinty eyes.  Kiddo #2 simply ran around roaring/Arrrghing and trying to eat things. I think he thinks we’re doing Dinosaur week,  but it’s ok.  Well, sorta. We all know there were no dinosaurs when there were pirates, so it’s kinda pissing off my historical accuracy, but I’d rather he roar around then whine my frickin’ head off like he did last week.

So,  Kiddo #1 and I spent Kiddo #2’s nap time creating a booty, which is not to say padding our asses with toilet paper.  If you’re very excited about it, I might post the directions on my (mostly defunct) crafty blog.  Let me know if you’re interested in that. Otherwise, know I’m bizarre and horde all sorts of garbage items thinking one day they might be handy craft items. Using my Pampered Chef can opener which doesn’t leave sharp edges, I removed tops and bottoms from all sorts of cans and kept them for this rainy day.

I pulled out the many, many can tops and bottoms and Kiddo#1 and I glued glitter, felt, fake flowers, beads, googlie eyes and ribbon to them.  Once Jr woke up from his (blessed) nap, we went on a treasure hunt. It was great to watch the two kids follow the map Kiddo #1 and I made to find the X – especially since I have NO spatial orientation and can hardly get to my bedroom from the basement without getting lost.

Mostly though, the best part, was the resounding lack of whining. 

Oh Lord, yes, the sound of silence is enough to make a grown woman cry.

Random: while I was at the library, I found out they have “story kits” you can take out for a WHOLE MONTH  at a time. This kit is a Rubbermaid bin full of puppets, stories, CDs, puzzles etc all on one theme. The pirate one was already out, but I picked up the Fairy Tales one and am very excited for next week!  It is sponsored by the Early Years Centre (meaning probably libraries all over Canadia might have this or something similar), and our library in our small town has probably close to 30 if not more. They also can put together bags of books for you if you call ahead. I’m telling you, for an English teacher, there was a LOT I didn’t know I could do at the library.  Bust on over and get yourself some relief from the summer heat, and the whine that goes along with it. J

Already 5, 5 Already

Already 5. How can it be?

We're in the most amazing hotel suite I've ever been in. It might be the most amazing hotel suite that I've ever imagined (I don't imagine hotel suites often, so it's possible). It's amazing. The King sized bed is just a hair bigger than the SHOWER. Yes. I said it.

The room was 2000 square feet, 1000 of which was shower. No kidding.

Unfortunately, Paint doesn't have anything but basic stupidity with which to draw-- no glitter, no marble for the counter tops, no hardwood flooring or diamond encrusted faucets, so you'll have to imagine those yourself. Suffice it to say I felt like a queen the whole time we were there.

Why were we there? Husband's cousin got married in California in Justin Bieber's backyard that goes to the beach. I don't have to tell you the DJ had a pretty limited playlist, in that we were at the Bieb's house and all, but who doesn't like JB anyway? Plus we got to hear Carly Rae Jepsen's song, and the couple of Selena Gomez hits. It was a swingin' night.

Where was I? Oh yes, it's already 5. See, Cali is 3 hours behind our normal time zone, so while 8AM is sleeping in for the kidlets here in Canadia, 5AM is the equivalent  to 8AM and here we are: Kiddo #2 gently caressing my cheek while Kiddo #1 tells me the most exciting news since Tom and Kate's upcoming divorce.

"Momma!" It's the whisper-breathy sound of her cute little 5 year-old voice that I hope I remember for the rest of my life. "Momma! Momma! Guess what? I have a wiggly tooth!" She's whispering because it's 5am and Husband is (the only one) still sleeping. She's so dang sweet I think MY teeth are wiggling.

I whisper-congratulate her and check the tooth and she's correct. Wiggly Tooth. Holy crap. Her bestie from JK lost a tooth just a week ago, but she's almost 6 months older than Kiddo #1 so I really wasn't expecting this until at least Christmas.

When her Bestie lost her tooth Kiddo #1 was happy for her friend; she was devastated when her own teeth refused to budge, however. Dismayed at the rock solid nature of her teeth, she stopped brushing them under the pretext that everyone "brushes their teeth so they don't fall out."  Oh the logic of my Math Award winning 5 year-old. At 3 I was pretty sure she's smarter than me; at 5 I know it now for sure.

I took some time, though, to underscore that some kids don't lose teeth until they're 6 and even 7 so that Kiddo #1 would stop playing Lacrosse without a mouth guard in the meantime.  However, it seems the Tooth Fairy is the only one in charge of both convincing and controlling Kiddo #1's oral hygiene.

Fortunately, Tooth Fairy smiled down on me and loosened Kiddo #1's tooth just enough to make it wiggly, but not enough to make us have to figure out what the Tooth Fairy leaves in exchange for the tooth in the middle of a vacation. Thanks, TF.

I didn't think I was the sentimental type, either. Maybe I'm hormonal or maybe it was the jet lag or that it was  already 5, but when Kiddo #1's tooth really was, actually, for real, wiggly, it made my heart ache. I had to take a shower in the biggest shower in the whole world to take my mind off it.

I think the shower is as big as those mountains. 

Truth be told, my shower looked a lot like the Sound of Music, minus the clothes and plus the singing. Oh, plus the singing.

5AM be damned, if I'm gonna rock out in the biggest shower in the world while trying to sing a song to make my sad heart feel happier at my daughter's wiggly tooth, I'm busting out "Climb Every Mountain," only with random lyrics about the wedding at Bieb's house and my daughter's tooth. I'd rewrite the lyrics for you, in my normal parody style, but honestly, I don't remember much between the twirling, the slipping on the wet tile, the legs in the air while my awesomest high note reverberates off the tile and glass bathroom fixtures. And diamond faucets. Don't forget how a High C sounds coming off a diamond faucet. And my face in the drain. Note to self: twirling while in slippery, sudsy shower and singing "Climb Every Mountain" is not the worst idea ever, but it's pretty close.

Despite the operetta going on in the bathroom, Husband managed to stay (fake) sleeping until I towel dried, got the kids dressed and out the door to hunt for seashells in the wee hours of the morning.  Down, down, down to the beach we went with buckets and hope.

I found out later, from Husband's other cousin, that our shell-search was going to be difficult at best because California has sand shipped in from Arizona in exchange for California's trash; if there is a better deal out there, tell me because up to now, I can't imagine any better deal exists in the universe.

Turns out though, when you're 5 and not-quite 2, the random rocks and random sized shells are all you need to pass an hour and a half on the beach at 5am.  Especially if your Momma can hardly see through the tears collecting in her eyes while she watches her babies hold hands along the beach, stopping every once in a while to examine a shell, or a set of pelican tracks. Or to build a sand castle. Or to let Kiddo #2 feel her wiggly tooth, proudly, while Kiddo #2 jumps up and down in excitement for her.

5 already.