And now we're broke. The end.

Since I decided to participate in the NaNoDooDah thingy, I've been trying my best to post every night, which generally means posting from my iPhone or iPad, because I am too lazy to get out of my bed and sit at the computer by the time I remember that I was going to post something, and my laptop has somehow mysteriously gone to live in Carlie's room since I got my iPad. Anyway, I just looked back at recent posts and see how riddled with typos they are. Whoopsie.

Yeah, I know, first world problems.

Speaking of first world problems... this is Carlie at 9:40 this morning.

And this is Carlie at 11:30 this morning. Notice anything different? In her toothal region, to be specific. And yeah, toothal is not a word. I know.

Now here's me at 9:40 this morning...
And here's me at 11:30 this morning...

Let's celebrate in haiku, shall we? This week's theme: Fleeting. How appropriate.

Money comes and goes

I won't always be broke, right?

The smile is worth it

Happy Fall - Blog Post No. 900 (yowza)

The nitty gritty crap of real life has been interfering with my ability to enjoy the good things. And there are so many good things going on that have been pushed to the back burner. The change of season is in full swing here in the Pacific Northwest, with highs in the 60s for the rest of this week. I love fall. It always makes me nostalgic with memories of high school football games and French Quarter Halloweens.

An update on my brood...

Maggy's wedding was a raging success. We danced, danced, danced all night long. Photos coming soon. Prepare to be dazzled by the incredible photography work of Amy.



Taylor is still doing his thing in Santa Barbara, glass blowing and skateboarding. He came home for a quick summer visit. That boy still cracks me up, even if he might look a little scary sometimes.

Erinna is at UW in Seattle, attending rush week. I'll go up this weekend to be with her on Bid Day, where I will capture every exciting moment of the start of her Greek life with my iPhone, much to her chagrin.

Carlie has started seventh grade with NO DRAMA (hope I didn't just jinx that). And she's not too old to go out and play in the fall leaves. Thank God.

First and Last

This is my oldest daughter...

And this is my youngest daughter...

My youngest daughter (age 12.5) is going to visit my oldest daughter (age 24) for three weeks. Without me. In another state. And then? She is going to fly home. On an airplane. By herself.

I am kind of not dealing with this very well. Gulp.

Also, I have no idea why that stuff is underlined. In case you haven't noticed, I have absolutely no control over this blog whatsoever.

Speaking in Code

The other day I saw a boy. He was about 14 and skinny and lanky, wearing baggy (not saggy) jeans and sneakers that looked way too big, but probably fit, because young teen boys have ridiculously huge feet. He reminded me of my son, who used to be a lanky boy with ridiculous feet and is now a "man" at age almost 23.

And for a minute, my stomach lurched into my chest and my eyes filled with tears and I missed my boy so badly it hurt, physically hurt, because that boy is gone and I'll never see him again. He's a "man" now, which is as it should be. That's the natural order, right? We birth them, we raise them, they grown up and we celebrate the milestones of growing up. But as that probably smelly stranger boy walked past me, I went into mourning. A true grief for the loss of my boy, who is making his own way in the world now without any guidance or help from me, because he's headstrong and persistent and is making life choices that lead him down a different path than anything I would have ever chosen or imagined for him.

After the stranger boy walked by, I called my son. But he didn't answer. So I left him a message. He didn't call back.

The next day, I texted my son. But he didn't text back. I imagined him dead. I'm probably not supposed to say that out loud, but that's what happens when your kids grow up. You call them, you text them, and if they don't respond you assume they're dead. It's fucked up, but true. Or maybe it's just me.

So I texted him again today, and I said, "LET ME KNOW YOU'RE ALIVE," which is what I always text when he goes a day without responding to me.

And he responded with a text. It said, "DUH." That's code for "I'm alive mom, stop worrying. I'm fine. I love you and miss you very much."

Because that's what happens when your kids grow up. They speak in code.

My son, photographed by Chris McDonald

People of Earth, How Are You

I've been away from my blog for so long, I had to create a new password to get in. This is in no way related to my constant state of estrogen deprivation induced brain fog.

Last weekend I ran a half marathon. As a follow up to that spectacular feat of athletic prowess, I ate everything not nailed down for the next 48 hours. so yesterday I decided to replenish my stash of healthy snacks and get back on the good diet band wagon.

In unrelated news, today was carlie's first day of **summer** vacation, wherein **summer** = 66 degrees and overcast. For the first half of the day she was all "Woo hoo! Summer vacation!" By 3 pm she was texting me at work because she was bored and this house is boring and we only get the boring channels and there's nothing to eat for lunch except for boredom.

When I got home from work my healthy snacks of raspberries and brazil nuts had been molested.

Brazil nuts dipped in chocolate coating. Raspberries stuffed with white chocolate chips. Powdered sugar on everything.

If school doesn't restart soon, I will be rolling through my next marathon rather than running.

Don't tell child protective services, but...

A new depth of parenting low has been reached. I actually texted Carlie on my way home from work today while she was on the school bus, had her get off of the school bus at Beaches and snag us a table for happy hour. Yes, my 12 year old child was fighting for a much coveted table in a bar full of happy hour crazed adults. By herself. Texting me with every move she made.

"Theres no tables"

"Sum people are eating A TON of stuff"

"I think they r almost leaving"

"Got it!"

To which I replied:

"WINNING!"

And she replied:

"Huh?"

And I replied OH NEVER MIND, but only in my head.

Does she look traumatized? Even if she is, the wings? Worth it.

I am Tiger Mother. Hear Me Roar.

Carlie, age 11

Carlie, age 12

When I first heard the fuss about Amy Chua's book, I was in complete agreement with all of my friends that, you know, this chick is whack. But as the "I am 12, deal with it" hormones have begun to takeover my previously-precious daughter the way a zombie bite infects even the most diligent zombie hater, I'm rethinking my stance on Ms. Chua's parenting style.

Case in point, Tim was helping Carlie with her homework last week on a particularly bad homework night. And he went 100% Chinese Mother on her ass. He made her erase a million times and told her to stop being lazy. She pouted. She even cried a little. But guess what? By the end of the Chinese Mother via Father torture session, she had her math homework done, understood the math concepts, and was happy that it was all finished in one sitting.

Hmmmmm....... curious.

So fast forward to last night, in the midst of Week 2 of No TV and, bam, my previously-precious daughter is all, This is stupid. I want to watch TV. My homework is done. Turn on the TV. This isn't fair. Blah Blah Blah. The whole thing? Was annoying. Also? I really wanted to watch Firefly on Netflix, which made it even more annoying.

My Typical Response (aka the type of response that led us to where we are now) would have been: Well, as long as your homework is done, I guess one episode of iCarly will be okay. Good job on getting that homework done, honey! Oh, and let's not tell dad.

My Stick to Your Guns Western Mother response (aka the type of response that I strive for when caving in is just too irresponsible) would have been: We established a rule of no TV on school nights, and we need to adhere to it. There are plenty of other things to do. We can play cards, we can play a board game, we can finish making the necklaces that people have ordered from you. I understand your frustration, but this is the way it is going to be.

But behold... the genius of the Chinese Mother response (aka the type of response you get when you combine excessive sassiness and whining + mom is hungry and no plan for dinner + week three of a lot of work + week 900 of Tim not home in the evenings to help with this shit + the next episode up on Firefly sounds really good and I want to watch it tonight): Shut your mouth, now. Each time you ask to watch TV again, you are going to lose a day of watching TV on the weekend.

Which led to no more asking to watch TV (gasp!) but also led to more sassiness and negative comments about EVERYTHING** and a general bad attitude.

My Chinese Mother Response: For every negative comment you make, I am assigning you another chore. And "negative comment" includes dramatic sighing and eye rolling.

And guess what? By the end of the night the dishwasher had been unloaded. And the towels had been folded. And the towels got put away. And the kitchen counters got a thorough wiping down with disinfectant. And the kitchen got swept.

And I started to think, OMG, this kid has brain damage. She'd rather do chores than shut her sassy mouth.

And then, finally, she ran out of sass. And she asked me to help her put clasps on charm bracelets. And she apologized for being a beep. That's her exact apology. Mom, I'm sorry I was such a beep.

When Tim finally got home from work at 9 pm I decided to let them have some quality time without me, because I really needed to go mediate for a bit in my room. Or watch Firefly on my iPad. Either/or. And as I headed up the stairs, proud of my crackerjack parenting du jour, I heard Carlie say, "Dad, do you want to watch Pawn Stars?"

**As someone with a recent Facebook status of "I hate everything," it takes A LOT of her being negative to push me over the edge. I have a high threshold for it.

PS: He said no.

PPS: But do you like the way she makes it all about what dad needs after a long day at work, and not about her own desire to watch ANYTHING on TV, even if it's Pawn Stars? That kid is slick, I'll give her that.

Family Fun Day. Really, why do I bother?

We just waited over 20 minutes in line for lunch. At Ikea. And then? Left without shopping. Because? Carlie had a melt down. A. Melt. Down. The girl is almost 12 years old and the situation would be comical if it were just a tad less tragic.

If you have young children, especially daughters, I will warn you now. The terrible two's are a JOKE compared to the onset of puberty. Seriously. Because this pre-teen shit? Is the pits.

So now I am home alone, our day of family fun cancelled, and everyone banished from the house. Carlie's beef (today) is with her Dad (mostly) and her sister (a little bit), so I sent them out to "work it out," where in "sent them out" means came home from Ikea, was first out of the car and into the house, where I dead bolted the door and texted Tim 'ALL OF YOU NEED TO GO AWAY RIGHT NOW'. So they're at Erinna's soccer game, and no one is allowed back into the house until they have become a happy family unit once again.

I will take my solitude anyway I can find it.

Yeah, so, I'm shallow... WHATEVER

Jeez, you guys sure know how to make a person feel shallow with your lofty ambitions of traveling with your children and buying the world a Coke. But guess what? I still want an iPad. And you don't know. Maybe while I'm only working part time, I'll be knitting caps for the hungry in my spare time. Take that, Judgey McJudgerson.

Speaking of knitting, I've whipped up some pretty cute stuff in my not-blogging time. Behold the wonder of my magic needles...

The strawberry hat... my staple tried-and-true baby gift

An acorn hat, first time and loved the results

And the Baby Yoda sweater in a pink silk blend. So lush.

What sparked the sudden knit-a-thon? We have a new addition to our family... Chloe, my gorgeous new baby niece. Behold the wonder of my sister's magic..... erm.... parts....

Could you just die? Baby!

There's another impending addition slated to join our family in August 2011. But I ask you, what exactly is one supposed to knit when your oldest daughter sends you a photo of this?

Yikes!

A list, in lieu of a real post

Because? Lazy. Hello.

1. On Tuesday, my sister is having a baby girl. I'll be an aunt again! This has sent me into a knitting frenzy. Also, my sister tried to strong-arm her doctor into inducing her on Sunday so the baby's birthday would be 10/10/10, but the doctor doesn't work on Sundays. How cool would it be to have 10/10/10 for your birthday?

2. Stealing a quote from my favorite birthday girl, because it sums up my feelings perfectly: The phone part of my iPhone totally sucks, but the awesomeness of the “i” part makes the suckage of the phone part sort of totally worth it...

3. Carlie has missed two weeks of school. Started with a stomach bug, ended with severe flare of her IBS and a trip to the hospital for blood work and an abdominal x-ray. Actually, it has not ended yet, but now that we've confirmed she doesn't have an Asian parasite (thanks for nothing, WebMD) and just needs to take a good poop, I am hopeful that the end is near and she'll be back in school Monday.

4. Missing two weeks of school is extremely stressful when you're in sixth grade and prone to anxiety.

5. Having a sick kid at home when you have to go to work is also extremely stressful.

6. My work schedule got screwed up last week and I was sent out on a job that I was not prepared for and, honestly, not qualified to be on, and yet, BAM, here I am and let's deal with it. Only "deal with it" turned into "mess it all up" and... yeah, I don't want to talk about that just yet.

7. Why is it so hard for me to accept the fact that the only way to lose weight and feel better is eating healthy food and exercising? I refuse to believe I cannot find a magic shortcut. One that involves fries. And donuts.

8. I've recently diagnosed myself with two new ailments... the one where you think you have bugs crawling on you, but you really don't, but it doesn't matter that you really don't, because, hello, invisible fucking bugs are crawling on me RIGHT NOW. Also, I've developed a case of animism with regards to my love for my new coffee maker. Like, I want to marry it. OK. Not quite as bizarre as these folks, but still.

9. Fall is here. I love fall, even if it means rain. Fall makes me nostalgic and homesick. But I love it anyway.

10. I am making a quilt for my oldest daughter, Maggy. It involves cutting and pressing and sewing and cutting again, and pressing again, and sewing again, to the tune of eleventy million 6x6 inch squares. My original goal was Christmas. My revised goal is her 50th birthday.

11. The combination of my love for American Pickers and mid-century decor a'la Mad Men has led to some extraordinary finds lately... including a pair of 1950 glass lamps, a 50's era mod wooden lamp, a 1960's drop leaf table and some very cool artwork circa 1974. Photos in next post.

12. Lastly, Not to sound cliched, but TGIF. Actually, more like FTFGIFF. Insert F word for all extra Fs. Yeah, it's been that kind of week. xox.

Why my child is an only child when she actually has three siblings

I posted one of Erinna's senior photos on my last blog post, and commented that I rarely post about my "big" kids because they don't like it. Really, I'm not playing favorites. They Do. Not. Like. It. Sometimes I feel guilty, not on my blog, but in real life. I have real life acquaintances who think Carlie is an only child. And Carlie kind of functions like an only child. Except she has three siblings. When you have big kids and little kid(s), it gets complicated.

Also, it's next to impossible to get a decent family photo with adult children living hither and yon. So I thought I'd post up a couple of my favorite family photos, wherein family photo = you take what you can get.

These are in completely random order, because I have no control over my own blog. Thanks, Blogger.

This is what our current family configuration mostly consists of: Me, Tim, Carlie, August 2010

Why just three of us? Erinna is living with her bio mom and stepdad about 20 minutes away, plus has no interest in our lame family outings. Taylor is in Santa Barbara partying like a rock star, or make that extreme sport/skate star. And Maggy and Iris are in Houston, where Maggy is two semesters (squee!) away from finishing her AA.

Christmas 2009, The year of the homemade snuggy. This is the last time Taylor was home.

May 2010, two out of three sisters was the best we could do.

June 2010, one auntie and one tired niece.



Christmas 2007, the last time I had all of these people in the same place at the same time.

Christmas 2008, almost everyone home for Christmas.

August 2010, all the girls, except for Iris.

Like I said, you take what you can get.

The First Day of School

Carlie and Erinna both started school today. Erinna is a senior. She took awesome senior photos with Amy and I can't wait to see the rest.

But Erinna is a young adult, and my big kids don't like to be the subject of my blog. So that's all I am going to say about that. She's going to have a crazy/busy/awesome year.

Carlie, on the other hand, is still young enough to be denied access to my blog, so I can talk about her all I want. She started middle school today. I was absolutely traumatized. How pathetic is that?
You've got to remember, she has gone to the same small Catholic school since she was three years old. That's eight years in the same building. And now? Middle school. At a public school. Twice the size of her old school. Also? It's not just a middle school. This school serves grades 6-12. Which means that when I dropped my baby off for sixth grade today, we were greeted by grown men who still happen to be in high school. Seriously.

I had neglected to pay for her school lunches at orientation, so I had to go into the building with her this morning. The place was chaos. Huge teenagers everywhere, and because my shorty is literally a shorty, her face is, like, right at backpack height of all of these gargantuan teens. She was being battered by backpacks as we made our way to the cafeteria.

And then? She fell down the fucking stairs. I kid you not. Fell. Down. The. Stairs. On the first day of school. She wasn't hurt, but she was stunned and a little teary eyed. When she regained her composure, the only comment she made was, "Thank god no one saw me fall." (We were the only ones in the stairwell, because apparently i am the only parent who didn't pre-pay for lunches. yay me.)

I had a hard time leaving here there. She looked like a preschooler amongst all of those tweens and teens. I'm no rookie, I've been leaving kids at school since the early 90s, but this one was especially rough for me. This is a year of a lot of transition for our family, but especially for Carlie. We've moved out of the home that she was born into, we're living in a very small condo, she's basically gone from being one of four to an only child.

And now a new school for the first time ever. Oh! And she's riding the school bus home. She's never ridden a school bus before. Ever. The bus got her home at 5 p.m. FIVE P.M. In another couple of weeks, it'll be dark by 5 p.m. Oy.

And what about me? I need to form a whole new mom posse. At her old school, I had no less than a dozen people on speed dial that I could call if I were running late or needed any kind of help with transportation or a missing lunch, whatever. But now? I've got very limited back up. Plus? At her old school, I would have spent 20 minutes hanging out in the parking lot chatting with friends, and then ended up having coffee somewhere with someone. Today? Nada.

What? Now I'm supposed to make new friends? Honestly, I'm too old for this shit.

Delinquent

How I spent my summer vacation... predominantly in the ballroom

*********

I've had so many things to write about, but no time to write them down. Which is, ultimately, a good problem to have, versus nothing to write about. I guess it's called "being present" in my own life, or some new-agey crap like that.

I did have a huge burst of creativity at about 4 a.m. recently, with an idea for a story so tremendous I was giddy. And when I woke up, the idea was gone. Gone, but it left a shadow that has nagged at my brain for days. I have a feeling that *the big idea* is just on the outskirts of the shadow, waiting to be rediscovered.

Do you watch Mad Men? There's an episode called The Color Blue in which Paul has The Best. Idea. Ever., doesn't write it down, and then forgets it. Paul, brother, I feel your pain.

*********

We are in our last week of summer vacation. School starts a week from tomorrow for Carlie and for Erinna. Ironically, it's currently a dark shade of winter gray outside and the temp is 56 with a high of 66 expected. I've been obsessed with the crazy weather all summer long.

To celebrate the end of summer... a roundup of what my kids are doing.

Maggy is winding down her two-year college program and starts her second-to-last semester of school today, in Texas. Iris continues to be unbelievably cute, even though we only get to soak up her cuteness through Skype. They were here to visit early in the summer, and it seems like it was a very long time ago.

Taylor is still living in Santa Barbara, firmly on the grid despite earlier rantings to the contrary. But in a bold showing of distinct counterculture behavior, he has just moved into an unconverted warehouse with two roommates. They have no kitchen and they have a shared bathroom with the rest of the building, with no shower. I asked where they would shower, and his answer was the beach. At least he has a plan. He has not been home since Christmas.

Erinna starts her senior year a week from today, and is embracing all that that entails. She is back to a good tennis practice regimen to get ready for the season after a summer of not playing. And she has her first job, bussing tables at a restaurant, where they pay her money! She has her senior portrait photo shoot scheduled for Thursday with the ridiculously fabulous Amy and a back-to-school shopping trip scheduled with Carlie for later this week. Because Carlie needs new school clothes. Clothes which are not uniforms. Because...

She was (finally) accepted into VSAA, aka, Vancouver School of Arts and Academics. Can I get an amen?

We spent Sunday at Carlie's third Ballroom Showcase. I've linked the videos and told the sad tale of how her dance partner was sick and couldn't make it on Facebook, so it feels kind of repetitive to retell it here. If you're not on Facebook, though, and interested in seeing her dance videos, here is a link to her Viennese Waltz. She did five dances, but I think once you get to You Tube for the V. Waltz you'll be able to see all five videos, right? I am many things, but You Tube savvy is not one of them.

It's time for me to go to work on my stack of transcripts that need finishing. Thanks for sticking with me to the bitter end of the most boring blog post of all time. I'll do my best to recapture that elusive big idea and come back to dazzle your asses soon.

Back to school

Carlie spent her day today planning her fall makeup color pallette. I am not even making this up. Have you met me? My makeup color pallette consists of brown/black mascara and -- oh wait, that's all.

Middle school. God help us.

The stress of our back to school situation is not helped by the fact that we still do not know which school she is going to. Her current school (Catholic, private) starts one week before her potential new school (Art School, public), which means if the Art School waits until the last minute to let us know that she is in, we will have to (a) purchase unnecessary school supplies from the current school's list (b) buy 6th grade uniforms (which we have zero of, because it is different than the 5th grade uniform and (c) pay the first month's tuition.

I don't want to do any of those things.

I am considering homeschooling her, except I get hung up on the part where we are (a) at home together and (b) doing school type stuff. Other than that, homeschooling is our backup plan.

I am really very much not ready for summer to end. Or for my baby to grow up.

Spreading the love

I've been spreading the love, wherein *love* = strep throat. I was going to insert a picture here, but was so horrified by what google images presented me with when I looked for strep throat images, that I couldn't bring myself to do it. You're welcome. In my defense, I thought I had allergies, and then I thought I had a cold. I never would have attended those two birthday parties and one dance party had I know that I was contagious.

Meanwhile, our family continues to single-handedly keep the medical industry afloat. Sunday, Carlie and Erinna went to the grocery store to buy eggs to make brownies for dad for a Father's Day treat after dinner. The joys of having a teen driver in the house, no more last minute grocery runs!

I get a call from Erinna to "meet them at the hospital" because the "ambulance" is taking Carlie and BLAH BLAH BLAH I can't make out the words here because HELLO, WHAT?

The store is less that five minutes from my house, so I tell her GO NOWHERE and Tim and I hustle our butts off of the couch, where we're both being lethargic and streppy ( he has it too ) and get to the grocery store, where we find this...

Tell me that's not enough to give you a little heart attack on the spot?

Per Carlie's telling of the tale, she tripped and bumped a wine display. At this particular store, wine bottles are stacked on the corners of aisles and I've come pretty close to knocking a couple down myself when rounding corners. When she bumped the stacked bottles, one fell, but it didn't hit her in the head. It hit the ground in front of her and shattered. And a big chunk of the bottle rebounded up and smacked her in the forehead. Seriously. How does this even happen?

The store personnel called 911 because she was bleeding profusely from the head. The emergency guys got her cleaned up and she had a small gash in her eyelid that would need stitches. They were worried about glass in her eyes, so they bandaged them shut.

After some haggling about the direness of this emergency, I had them wheel her on the gurney to my car and I drove her to the hospital myself. WORST MOM EVER, I KNOW, SHUT UP. Sorry, but I'm not paying $800 for an ambulance ride to a hospital that is two miles away, at least I wasn't once they confirmed that there was nothing further they could do for her in the ambulance and it was just a matter of getting her to the ER. I got her there.

Not going to lie. I contemplated going home and putting a butterfly closure on the wound. It was very tiny but deep. Carlie was not complaining or crying, she was a little discombobulated with her eyes bandaged shut, but she had no eye pain, nothing. I asked the emergency guys if they could just but a butterfly thing on it and they said they could, but really they wanted her eyes checked for glass. Even though was not complaining of eye pain, it was a concern. So that's what led me to the hospital ultimately.

And as the doctor flushed out the wound, a glass shard about the size of a half-carat stone popped out of the wound.

OMG. Can you even imagine if I had left that in her head? Shudder. I placed it next to the penny for scale, because it doesn't look like much, but when it POPS OUT OF YOUR HEAD, it seems a lot larger.

The end result, she got five stitches and she's got a shiner. No glass in eyes, thank God. And we can add the ER to the list of places that I spread my streppy plague, because I sat in there coughing for a good three hours.

So, what did ya'll do this weekend?

Meet my daughter, Veruca Salt

Do you see the resemblance?

Alternate title to the post: "I hate summer vacation."

Fifth grade is over, which means elementary school is over. Which means my list of "nevers" has expanded to include: I will never be an elementary school mom again, I will never have to buy blue plaid uniforms again, and I will never have the luxury of on-site after school care again. But, wait, I have a middle schooler now. I shouldn't need after school care, right? Because middle schoolers are mature and self-sufficient?

Bwahahahahahaha

Side note: significant "nevers" in my life have included never change another diaper, never have to strap a kid into a car seat again, never lug a stroller along and never pack another diaper bag. But guess what? PSYCHE. Because when my "baby" was 10 years old? I got pregnant again. Boo yah, aka natural planning fail.

But I digress. Back to the mayhem of summer scheduling. This summer was supposed to be pretty laid back on the Carlie front, because, hello, middle schooler, you can hang out at home while I am a work. We don't need no stinkin' camps. Still, we made a few selections of age appropriate camps that she really wanted to do for fun. These are babysitters boot camp, "make a music video" camp, choir camp including a production of "Sound of Music," and be a helper at VBS.

Carlie has gone to VBS every summer since preschool (minus one when it conflicted with an out of town trip.) That's six sessions of VBS at our church (plus a few at other churches, which I'll tack on at the end of this post because? OMG, holy cheap child care). Last year, fourth grade, she didn't really want to go to VBS, but then decided at the last minute to go, because "next year, I get to be a helper." Why those two are connected, I don't know, but the "get to be a helper" aspect of VBS has been on her mind for at least a calendar year.

All of this build up to get to the inevitable point: of the few measly camps she was wanting to do, VBS and "music video" are the same week. OF COURSE THEY ARE. Have you met my life?

Let us compare, from Carlie's standpoint:

Music Video - work with a hip hop choreographer and vocal coach, record and tape in a professional studio and get to have a copy of the video on DVD at the end of camp

VBS - get to be free child labor doing the grunt work for the teachers. But you get a free tee shirt!

Music Video - of course someone will notice her raw talent and untapped potential and within months she will be the next Disney flavor of the week

VBS - brownie points with Jesus.

But let us also compare:

Music Video - noon -2 x five days a week. Noon to 2? That's convenient for a working parent!

VBS - 9 am to 3 pm, enough time to actually, I don't know, say, GO TO WORK

Music Video - $125 (ish, don't feel like looking it up fo sho right now)

VBS - $30 fee waived, because you're helping (generous!)

And of course, I got her signed up as a VBS helper before realizing the scheduling conflict, so she is committed to that now.

Fast forward to Friday night. I am laying on the couch, hacking up a lung, spewing green phlegm all over the place (not really, but kind of ), and at 8:30 pm Carlie runs into the room and shouts "I'm going to be late for dance!" Oh, son of a... that's right, she has a dance class at 8:45 pm on Friday nights, followed by practice dancing from 9:15-10:30. How could I forget? Said class has sucked the life out of my Friday nights for a year now.

So I haul my sick ass off of the couch, brush my teeth and hair, put on a bra and shoes and schlep her ass to dance, feeling like total crap. I get her there, and even dance a few times, you know, to make sure I spread the plague to everyone in the joint. And did I mention the part where I pay $7 billion per year for dance?

And at 10:30 pm, with my throat swollen shut and my lungs collapsing, I get in the car with my little sweet girl, who I know is oh so appreciative of the sacrifices I make for her, and she gets sad and teary-eyed. ME: Oh, honey, what's wrong? HER: I really want to go to that music video camp.

Are you fucking kidding me?

So I, sick and full of martyrdom, commence to have a melt down about appreciation and commitment and blah de blah blah blah.

And she, over-tired, up too late and channeling Veruca Salt, commenced to have a full blown fit about NEVER getting to do ANYTHING that she wants to do.

Scroll up and re-read the part where I just crawled out of my death bed to take her ungrateful ass to DANCE CLASS.

I am so jacked up on sudaphed (the real kind) and dexamethorphan that I can't even remember where I was going with this story. Oh, wait. I remember. My kid is an over-indulged brat. That was the point.

On the plus side, she has also been raised with a healthy dose of Catholic guilt, and I have no doubt she will wake up and be apologetic this morning, as is her usual M.O. But still...

THE END.

PS: My VBS story. I'll keep it short. One year, about second grade'ish, a girlfriend and I got this GENIUS idea to schlep the kids around town to all of the different church VBS programs because, hello, cheap to free daycare all summer long. Some of the highlights were Carlie receiving communion at a church of different denomination BEFORE having gone through the rigorous "first communion boot camp" at our church, Carlie needing to learn a significant amount of Vietnamese (wherein significant amount = enough to survive in a 100% non-English speaking environment) and Carlie being featured in a gorgeous photo on the cover of the newsletter of a Presbyterian church as the poster girl for their children's program. The Great VBS Caper was not one of my more well thought-out plans.

Spring, who?

Today, June 4, I will be volunteering at the Our Lady of Lourdes Golf Tournament. In the rain. With an expected high of 60 degrees. I'm not going to lie... I kind of wanted to get out of it. Wherein *kind of* = please, God, no. But then I heard the volunteers were dropping like flies, or more like wet rats, so I'll be there. In the rain. With an expected high of 60 degrees.

At least I own it

Carlie has not been to school this week. Today is Thursday. She has a stomach bug. She is queasy and runs a little fever every now and then. When she is not laying in bed, clutching her stomach and moaning, she feels pretty good. It's been back and forth like this since Sunday. I described her symptoms to her doctor, who happens to be out of the office, at home with her son who has the stomach flu, and the doctor said, yeah, probably that nasty stomach flu that's going around. So, yeah, awesome.

I moved a truckload of boxes over to the townhouse last night when Tim got home from work at 8:30 pm. When I got home at 9:30, Tim is in bed on his laptop, and Carlie is sound asleep and snoring like a lumberjack. In our bed. UGH.

Tim relocated to Carlie's bed. I slept in my bed with Carlie, wherein *slept* = OMG I AM EXHAUSTED FROM NOT SLEEPING NOW, THANKS.

The point of this post: I think I am sick now. I woke up feeling queasy and nauseous and Tim felt my head and said I felt warm, even though I am under the covers and shivering.

FUCK.

I am self-aware enough to know that this is very likely psychosomatic. Wherein *self-aware* = yeah, so, I'm fucked up, at least I own it.

UPDATE: Took a shower, ran some errands and feel less vomity. Screw you, psyche! I win!

Riveting update on my moving status. AKA do you hate me yet?

Everything that we do not use on a daily basis (clothes, toiletries and basic kitchen stuff) is packed. I am working Mon-Weds, off Thurs-Fri for final pack down. Saturday is moving day.

Sunday, surprise, will be spent at "dance camp" for Carlie, wherein "dance camp" is too far away and too short a time for a drop off/pick up situation, so I have to kill four hours in Beaverton. And, insanely enough, I am actually toying with the idea of participating in the "dance camp." Shut up.

This weekend I took down everything hanging on the walls (which are plaster and, OH MY, what a PITA to hang stuff on) and Tim patched the holes and tonight he'll paint. He swears we'll never hang anything up in this house again.

The whole "we never did sell our house" aspect of this move makes these moments kind of bizarr-o, when we're patching and painting the nail hole where something has hung for 12 years, knowing that in a year, maybe two, we could very possibly be moving right back into this house, and putting that picture right back up in that very spot. Same feeling I get as I parse out our furniture to be replaced in the townhouse by smaller, scaled down versions. It's weird to keeping thinking, "When we move back in...." as I pack things up. But at this point, I have to just get totally "out of my head" and move on autopilot, because it's the only way we're ever going to get out of here on time.

Having a two-year-old in the house while packing is going great, where in *great* = what's that? is that mine? that's my new one! what's that? is that mine? that's my new one! what's that? is that mine? that's my new one! what's that? is that mine? that's my new one! with regards to every single item in the house. So stinking cute. Packing up some plates: what's that? a plate. is that mine? no. that's my new one! that's my new plate!

On the super surprising and shocking news front: Carlie is sick today. She has a stomach ache. If she can manage to resolve her issue (i.e. take a poop) before I leave for work, she'll be going to school. Otherwise, she'll be missing school. Shocker! She has 16 school days left not including field day and a planned absence for an upcoming trip to Great Wolf. 16 days and she can't tough it out? Sheesh. Also? For those 16 school days she will be wearing inappropriately skin tight school skorts. Because apparently she's grown in the last few months. And those school skorts? Are, like, $40 each, and she can't wear them again next year (middle school, different uniform, if she even stays at the same school) so no way no how am I going to Dennis Uniform, where there is NO PARKING, and buying skorts for 16 days of school. Mean mom, I know.

So, yeah, off to work for me, leaving behind one home for a visit kid, one sick school skipper kid, one inquisitive grandkid and a house that looks like someone's poorly packed storage unit.

Holla.

I am an awesome mom... the mood swing edition

A belated ode to myself on Mother's Day. Coincidentally, as of yesterday, May 11, I have been a mother for 23 years. Carlie is by no means the first victim of my parenting. Go Maggy! Way to age!

Happy Birthday, eldest one

LAZIEST MOM EVER: Woke up on time, but dicked around on Facebook to the point of being OMG WE'RE LATE late this morning.

GROSSEST MOM EVER: Eight minutes past the time we normally leave for school, I left the house wearing dirty yoga pants picked up off of the floor, over my nightgown, which I tucked into the yoga pants, and then put on my disgusting red sweatshirt over the top (more on that later). And flip flops. And yesterday's mascara. And a giant tangled knot of hair on the back of my head. Doesn't matter, I'm just dropping her off anyway. Famous last words.

MEANEST MOM EVER: Made Carlie were socks that "don't work" for her. And then scolded her for the less-than-two-mile drive to school about the fact that she JUST CLEANED OUT HER DRESSER, so why does she still have anything in there that "doesn't work"? (And on an unrelated/related somewhat note: This child has had sock issues since she was 18 months old. ENOUGH ALREADY with the effing socks.)

AWESOMEST MOM EVER aka ENABLER MOM: Clandestinely snuck into Carlie's school (see outfit above) and stole a pair of socks from the "I peed my pants" stash of spare clothes. Wherein *clandestinely* = we were in the dark stealing socks and some helpful passer-by popped in and said, "You could use some light" and turned on the damned light and totally outed us on our covert mission.

We're moving in TEN DAYS. My current Facebook status reads: I've passed the point of panic and have settled into mellow acceptance of the fact that it is all going to go horribly wrong. And that? Is not a joke.

UPDATE: My disgusting sweatshirt is over 20 years old. It belonged to my mother and somehow came home with me after she died. It is made of the *fur* that stuffed animals are made of, but not, like, beanie baby or webkinz stuffed animals, I mean the stuffed animals you win at the carnival. And, bonus points, it cannot be washed because it has a hole (as being modeled with two fingers sticking out of it) that will get bigger if washed.