X is probably 42

While I would like to celebrate the fact that we’ve survived 4 weeks of nursing school plus 2 whole weeks of middle school and first grade at chez moi... I don’t think I can do that...

Yes, I did manage to get them there on time without missing any busses, and yes, on 75% of the days that I sent them, the lunches I lovingly packed full of nutritional goodness like Doritos (cheese, right?) and dry cereal (um...) were actually in their book bags. It’s just that the sense of accomplishment of sending 3 people out into the world is dimmed by the fact that tomorrow is Friday, and I have done no laundry since Tuesday. This, of course, means that I have 6000 pounds of laundry to do before Monday rears it’s ugly head...

How I have so much laundry is a mystery of the universe that probably requires a mathematician or physicist to write into an equation so that some poor high schooler will have it to solve in a text book for advanced math so that they can grow up to go to college to be a physicist, etc.

My personal nightmare would read something like:

If a mother has 3 children, and the oldest wears 1 outfit a day, the second wears 1 outfit and 3 pairs of socks a day, and the youngest wears 2 outfits, 8 pairs of socks and 3 skirts a day, how many loads of laundry will the mother have to wash assuming that there was no rain but a dirt pile was delivered to a neighbor’s yard? Solve for X...

X is probably 42.

Or purple.

Meanwhile, I think I deserve a break. And a beer. And heck, maybe an award for managing to remember to pay the babysitter... wait... did I remember to... 

I am not raising The Ugly Step Sisters.

I knew as soon as the words were past my lips that I had hit a chord with them. Three sets of eyes widened. My son’s mouth formed a little “oh”.  My eldest coughed up some words of dispute, like the young teenager she is, she was quick to defend.

“It’s not like that!  Well, we aren’t like that.”

“Hmm” I mused, “I think when children don’t contribute their share in the household, they’re behaving like the ugly step sisters in Cinderella.”

By this point, we’d finished our chores and were sitting knee to knee in a circle in my daughters’ bedroom.  It was clean, just waiting for a vacuum, which I would do later.

In fact, we had just finished combing through the entire residence for the 20 minutes before I had the Cinderella Step-Sister Revelation.

Like a swarm we moved from room to room.  As the General, I throw out orders as we arrive in each space. They must sound crazy to anyone from the outside: What do you see that you KNOW how to fix? Start with that.

The youngest lines up shoes in the closets, the eldest hits the tallest items, the middle pulls sheets into place and starts the beds.  Together we are a well-oiled machine.  Each room is a blur.  Three minutes later, we move to the next space.

Repeat:  Look around.  What do you see that YOU know how to clean?

And again, in 3 minutes, we are done. Moving on. Next. 

And so on and so forth.

At the end my son commented on how fun it all was today, and how great it felt to be done so fast.  I’m a lucky Mom.  I know this is a wonderful gift. Cooperative children who work together are a precious commodity. I thanked them for their great help.

But in an odd turn, in our last space, we stopped to wonder what the house would look like if I didn’t function as the “boss”.

~like~ If there was no Mom, would we, the kids, still clean?

“Yes, I think we would” one said... but another looked less sure....

“Not cleaning would be like telling me I should do everything.  It would be the same as being an Ugly Step Sisters, and treating me like Cinderella.  ‘Get my clothes, make my bed, fix my food, clean my room...' and that wouldn’t be good for any of us.”

Remember that time I finally got through to my kids about what it means to be a contributor? 

Thank you, Disney.

Huh. I never thought I would say that.

Why it's OK to Ignore Your Children

As the summer wraps up and my school year gets underway, I have to stop and reflect on the fact that I’m not a very good mother for a lot of the school year. I rarely volunteer, and I will never win the award for MOY – Mom of the Year.

I go to Nursing School, so the quality time I get with my kids during the week is when we all sit down and do our homework together. As they’re significantly younger than I am, their subject matter is slightly less disgusting and time consuming than that of a 4^th year nursing student. It is no surprise that they will finish their work in 1/16 of the time it takes me to finish mine.

Once they’re done, I need quiet to continue in my studies, and one way that happens is that I totally ignore them for hours on end.

I sit on my porch, with my laptop burning into my thighs, and furiously type away at Geriatric Teaching Projects, Case Studies, and Antepartum Evidenced Based Practice while my children have to self entertain.

They must.

There is no choice.

Without self-entertainment, I would not be able to finish school.

Self-entertainment is not the same thing as being entertained by the TV. We are long past the days of asking Elmo in Grouchland to supervise the toddler so I can work on something, and Sponge Bob has never had a place as a babysitter in this home. I do not allow screen time, and instead I do dreadful things like make children play with toys, or each other, or read, or color, or play outside where they are being exposed to the harmful UV rays of the sun... the possibilities are endless, and they are their choices to make.

They make up new rules to “soccer” on the field next to our home, and they play modified kick-ball with children ranging from 3 – 13. The ethnic diversity is as expansive as the ages involved, and the self-entertaining sometimes results in learning about different cultures. They ride their bikes in a disorganized pace line around the parking lot that surround my building. They roller skate when the weather is nice, and when that gets tiring, they mark the sidewalks with a rainbow assortment of chalk. The summer rains clean the canvas, so tomorrow’s art will be new.

Now I’m not saying you should give your children scissors, matches, and a knife and then tell them to go play in traffic. I’m suggesting that allowing them the independence to make their own leisure time decisions teaches them to prioritize and encourages budding time management skills. I require an hourly check in, and ensure that there are consequences when the timing requirements are not met.

I consider this playtime as an introduction to economics, only instead of manipulating money, my children are learning to negotiate something far more valuable:  responsibility for themselves.

Christmas Newsletter Fail

I have decided.  I don’t need to write a Christmas newsletter anymore.

I have Facebook.

The newsletter is obsolete.  

No really, the newsletter is for bragging about awesomeness, right?

Well, seriously, isn’t Facebook for bragging about awesomeness?

like bragging about how awesome my kids were when they assembled the tree?

About bragging about how I got into the tough nursing program?

And about how I ran an XYZ minute PR on XYZ date at XYZ race?

So why do I need to write a newsletter….

Not only that, but the status updates of my friends never fail to keep me up to date on their children & the greatness that their children produce in the form of art, music, glue facials, and grades.  So many trees will be saved this year, all thanks to Facebook.

Of course, part of the reason that I don't write a newsletter this year is because of it's obnoxiousness....  

Dear Family & Friends,

We hope this year has been as good to you as it has been for us.  This year has been exceptional on many levels. 

GBA gf’s parenting skillz reached an all time high when she threatened to sell the kids on e-bay enough that our youngest child threatened just this week to sell Daddy.  We’re not anticipating a lot of income off that endeavor, but B’nut is hopeful that we make enough to go back to Disney World.

As a family we scored a new babysitter.  She’s remarkable, and lovely.  And has “mad basketball skills”, and #1 Son’s really hoping he grows very tall very fast in the hopes that she might agree to marry him, or at least teach him to play basketball in the near future.

C has survived the first 13 weeks of middle school with some quickly passing tears and minimal cussing.  Ok, there was some cussing & crying by mommy, not too much though.

It was a near miss, but GBA gf did not choose to drop H's cat off at the SPCA, even after it sprayed her new Brooks Adrenaline....

Yes, I think probably we should just skip the letter and send out a photo card instead...

and that's what happens when you sell one of your offspring on eBay to the highest bidder

Last night was a typical night here.

We did the homework Nazi routine, scrambled to chauffeur our kids to their various events, I came home and started dinner, H came home and we had the usual exchange.  You know,

"Hi, how was your day."

"Fine."

"Great, good.  yada yada."  (we've been married a long time, he doesn't really listen to me 92% of the time).

"So what's for dinner?"

And that's when I casually told my husband that I sold one of the kids on eBay for $12.82.

He stood before me with a stricken look on his face, mouth slack jawed and slowly dawning horror as my words sunk in...  "Seriously?"  He choked out through trembling lips.  His indrawn breath was followed by a second gasp.  "That doesn't even sound normal!  You're making that up."

OK.  What I actually said was not actually related to e-bay, it was instead more along the lines of:

"I'm making Spaghetti Squash Taco's for dinner."

And so that's how I ended up cooking 2 meals for dinner last night.

One for me.  And one for Them.

So.  Does anyone want to guess how his response to the information regarding the new/used treadmill delivery date went down?....

Yeah, it was almost as good as spaghetti squash.

I am two women

“I am two women: one wants to have all the joy, passion and adventure that life can give me. The other wants to be a slave to routine, to family life, to the things that can be planned and achieved. I'm a housewife and a prostitute, both of us living in the same body and doing battle with each other.” 

― Paulo Coelho, Eleven Minutes

And I'm thinking, is there anything that I have ever read that comes close to summing up my life as a runner more than this?   I really don't think so.  No wonder I'm so exhausted when I fall into bed at night.

And that's how I know that B'nut is gifted

Just so you all know, B'nut is probably gifted.

I'm not saying this just because she spells her name Bribget, and recognizes most of the letters of the alphabet.

"What else starts with H?"  

"PUMPKIN!"

"or... Halloween?"

"Or Pumpkin."

But the main reason I believe she is gifted is because of the conversation I had with her the other day.

We were in the beige mini van driving to school.

Well, she was riding.

I was sadistically trying to run down the squirrel that refused to get out of the middle of the road.  Seriously, suicide squirrel...

AND B'nut says, "Look mom, the Baby Girl Squirrel grew up to be a Mommy Squirrel."

And I said, "Yes B'nut.  Baby Girl Squirrels grow up to be Mommy Squirrels."

AND THEN I quickly added, 


"Baby girl squirrels can also grow up to be scientists squirrels, or Dr squirrels or the President of the United Squirrels of America...."

"Or runner squirrels?"

"Yes, B'nut.  Or Runner Squirrels".

I love that Runner falls on the "scale" right up there with Md. and President.

Taper Island, Day 8

Follow the Yellow brick road...

So about 6 months ago my H & I were informed that it was very likely that our 11 year old daughter was ... is.... autistic.


I felt like the worst mother ever.  Not because she was autistic.  I mean, how was I supposed to change that?  


I felt like a bad mother because I had failed to SEE it.  I had failed...


I was too selfish?, perhaps.  Too in denial?, perhaps.  Too something?, perhaps.  


Anyway, now it's done.  


The autism diagnosis is official.  We've got her in 200 different forms of Therapy designed for the autistic kiddo.


She's adjusting really well, and seems very happy now that people seem to understand her "language" a little.  I admit, I had one moment there where I thought "Oh this is going to be bad".  But, she rallied.  She was cool, chill even.  


As I would expect, I suppose....


AND she EMBRACED THIS.  She did.  She ran the AUTISM 5K with SpeeDee, her running coach.  


All of TEAM GBA Running was out in force, running with her, ahead of her, behind her, etc.  


She ran IN HONOR OF HERSELF.


"Like, I'm running for me, mom.  OK?"


"Yes, we are all running for you.  Including you."


"I like that."


AND I realized, after that pre-race conversation, that I am not upset anymore.  Shouldn't I be angry?  Shouldn't I be upset?  Shouldn't I be SOMETHING?  I am her mother.


And then I realized, we're all a little happier with it all, because now we know where we are... we know what language we're speaking.  


I have a map.  And a translator.  


I mean, I'm obviously NOT in KANSAS anymore, but, now that the rose colored glasses have been removed, at least I know which COLOR the bricks are under my feet...  I don't know exactly where the road goes, but I know my daughter & I are on it.  Together.

BLUE Business

In my blue-ness I was thinking about my blog, and how much it has evolved over the past few months as I became completely obsessed with running and art, and how my blogging about mommy-hood has decreased.  Of course, this whole reflection was made at 7:45am as I was listening to Eminem's Business while driving my Beige Mini-van home from the grocery store- and who else but a MOM would be DONE grocery shopping that early?  *for the record, I was alone in the van. my 4 year old doesn't know the unlyrical lyrics just yet...

My beauty process today included brushing my hair, swiping my fingers under my eyes, and brushing my teeth, before dressing in running clothes.  I'm not wearing them because I was running, though.  I changed into clean running clothes after my run.  The reason I'm in running clothes is because A) my wardrobe is pitifully small and B) I had 15 minutes to make a 25 minute grocery run. C) it's the day before ThanksGiving and frankly... running clothes seemed appropriate.

As I was sprinting through the store grabbing bananas, milk and eggs, which, by the way, are as far away from each other in the 13 acre grocery store as physically possible, I'm certain I was looking a bit like a half crazed lunatic.

And out of the corner of my eye, I saw a magazine with Brad & Angie on the cover.

Ever since Angie and I were pregnant together, I feel a certain sisterhood to her, you know?  We're just alike.  Except that she's a 109 pound 6ft tall beautiful, rich, husband stealing, humanitarian, model-slash-actress married to Brad who can afford to hire 28 people to help with her mob of kids.

But, other than that, we're just alike.

We're moms who have the nerve to go to the store wearing no makeup and a scowl.

Of course, the true difference is that no one in Kroger is going to publicly criticize me for buying Frosted Fruity Oh's for my sick child because she's miserable and I thought, "Oh, I'll buy something she doesn't normally get so she can have some calories."  Sure, someone might quietly look in my cart and think, why would she buy that crap, but they're not going to publish it on a cover of anything.

But my life is like Angie's - or so the cover of the magazine tells me.  We're struggling with some "depression" thingy, while surrounded by kids and the staff who helps us care for them... wait... my staff has failed to show up for work 10 years in a row...

Life is messy, cluttered with a side of childhood, topped with a helping of junk mail, served with the chaos of 5 people in one space.  And, for the most part, I'm OK with that, Blues and all... And on that note, I think I'll put on some hard core rap and get down to the Business of mommy-hood, Hosting Thanksgiving, and all the junk that goes in between.