The Season for Being Sick

Yes, Sick Season is upon us and my family is getting a head start with a round of fevers and coughs. Sure, this is to be expected this time of year, but that doesn't mean that everyone who is sick has an all-access hall pass to spread their germs. Here are a few ways I will do my part in helping society by NOT spreading our flu-like germs to others, and if you care about your friends and family then you will too!

1. No parties or play-dates. Spare others the pain of your illness by staying home until everyone is feeling better. It doesn't matter if the kids are going stir-crazy, so am I! But it's a matter of respect for other people's health.

2. Teach your child how to cover their cough. The new thing is to cough into your elbow, not your hand, that way you don't continue to spread the germs from your hands to whatever else your grubby little child touches. How gross is it when you are out and someone coughs over his shoulder without even paying attention to the pregnant chick standing behind him?

3. Fevers mean...stay the @!#$ home! Don't go out until the fever has been cleared for 24 hours without the use of fever-reducing medications, at least that's what the school attendance line says, so you'd think that more parents would be aware of the reasons behind that and stop spreading their kids germs. There are good reasons for these rules, people.

4. Stop the denial. If you think it's going to just resolve itself, you are wrong. You need to address whatever is ailing your kiddos and follow the recommended treatment. It's best to start at the first signs of being sick, so don't spend a week "waiting to see" what happens. Water. Rest. Quarantine. 'Nuff said.

5. Be rude if necessary. I am going to be more assertive in telling sick people to stay away. Okay, I don't want to be rude, I like to be nice and have people like me. But, I HATE being sick and even worse having SICK KIDS. So, with that said, you need to take a stand and just be frank and honest with people who are obviously sick and tell them to stay away until they are better. No offense. (This, however, takes some practice, and you have to be prepared to call someone out with your bull-@#$% detector. We've all heard the excuses, "Oh, it's just a little cough. Just a runny nose. Oh, it's not contagious. It's just allergies." Be prepared to JUST SAY NO to the people who actually really LIE about their kids being sick, then claim how coincidental it is that now you are sick, and how it must just be "going around.")

Okay, that's enough for my rant on getting sick from kids who should be home in bed, and their parents who either don't know better or just don't care about other people's well-being.

Now I'm going to go drink more honey-lemon hot water, and convince the kids it's time for a family nap.

Graduation means...Officially Unemployed?

Every student looks forward to the last day of school, but as it nears, the temperatures rise and end-of-year events, birthday parties, and FINALS overwhelm! But, when it's all said and done, there's a good reason to celebrate. I wish my graduation ceremony had as much entertainment as my kids preschool graduation. They sang cartoon-inspired songs, featuring such catchy favorites for the boys as "I Like to Move It" and "Shake Your Groove Thing" (which Tristan insisted was actually "Shake Your Groofy", hm, can't imagine where he gets his stubbornness). The girls danced in tutu's and the one on the end pulled hers up around her head, covering her face for the entire performance, although impressively still dancing along in sync with the others even with the head-dress blinding her.

I could have saved some money if I had just made my own square paper cap and yarn tassel like theirs. Especially when I realized I had mine on backwards nearly half the time, the top-heavy thing just kept sliding off my head. Of course it probably didn't help that I only brought one bobby pin so I only had it pinned behind one ear. But it's not even about the costume of it all, because, yes, I get it, we all wear costumes every day. We will have to dress for the jobs we want, not the one we have (don't have?). But it's a day of achievement, and celebration, and yet all I can think is: What's next? And that's something I had not even had time to figure out, as I struggled to get chapters read, essays written, and creative nonsense structured into something tangible. Something I had not come to terms with until it was inevitably time for me to come up for air.

So, Happy Graduation? Yes and No. Yay for my kiddos, they are so smart :) But, boo, for having a three month run of not seeing their friends, and the temps getting too hot to do the outdoor stuff they love all the time. And boo for me trying to keep up the momentum of the final quarter of my undergraduate studies! And everybody's favorite question to answer: so, now what are you going to do?

Well, anyone with even one child knows that there's never a dull or boring moment, or a moment when you find yourself sitting in a big cozy chair twiddling your thumbs and falling into a leisurely nap. But, the job hunting starts, and instead of considering myself unemployed, I think it's fair to say that I still have several jobs, of which being a mom can get a little more attention now, and not getting out of pj's until lunch an added perk of summer time. Not to mention the three days worth of laundry I did immediately following my last final exam.

And for me, the college grad? Preparing for the GRE, researching graduate schools with MFA programs in Creative Writing (and great financial aid), and finally revising the work I've been letting marinate for a while, buried in various notebooks, files, and shoeboxes. I guess a scavenger hunt might be in order too!

Park Bombers

Ahhhh, school's out for the kids and the June Gloom fog burned off to reveal a blue sky screaming "Park Day!" It's been a while, I must embarrassingly admit, since I've taken them to the park. This has been a tough quarter, at school four days a week, sometimes more. But I felt ready to go let them run around and perhaps sneak in a few chapters of my first summer leisure read :) yay!

But, of course, Ashlyn wanted to swing, which requires me to get off the bench and push. Maybe I would try to read while pushing, but on better thought I told myself "This is their time, I can read later." And then, sure enough, the girl who stole Ashlyn's first choice swing began engaging in typical child banter. Quickly I learned she was NOT a little girl, but a four year old. Along with so many other useful tidbits of information I feigned much excitement over, while I thought deeply about what lay ahead in the next page of that book. I was only in six chapters, a tease.

"See how I pump my legs. Yea, I don't even need a push, because look how fast they go, because I push them out early, you see. Look at me, look how fast I'm going," said the annoyingly sweet little girl with too-short bangs and a proud smile.

"Wow, that's really cool," I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could bare to muster up for someone who I was NOT related to.

"I've already been to kindergarten," she says.

"Great. Good for you," I said, not realizing until now that the math doesn't add up if she's only four, but I never really cared for math all that much.

Ashlyn began to slip off the seat, so I grabbed it to slow down and she went flying off, plopping in the sand. Oops. I'm a little out of practice.

Yes, I get to read my book now. So I sat down on my bench, and the woman on the bench next to me tells me how cute the kids are.

"Thanks," I said, sighing, preparing for another unwanted conversation.

"Yes, so cute! I'm here with my grand-daughter. See her, over there. She's so gifted. I saw your daughter, how old is she? Three? Well, you have to take her to the dance studio down the street. You just have to. They have all these great classes that she can take, and they only enroll twice a year, that way she can be in the big recital in June," she said, as if she were going to get commission from this referral.

"Thanks, maybe when she turns four," I said, and then stared at my lap, to the book eagerly awaiting my attention.

"I forgot my book," she said, forcing more conversation. "My grand-daughter takes piano on Fridays, and then Tennis on Wednesdays, so she doesn't have time to do dance anymore. But it's a great studio. You should take her in, just to look around, if anything. She'd really love it. I know she would."

And so I continued with her as much as I could tolerate, sneaking in a paragraph here and there, in between telling the children not to play in the mud or dip their wet shoes in the sand. After her fourth or fifth endorsement for the local dance company, I decided it was best to give a five minute warning call to the kids, and get out of there. Oh yea, it was dinner time anyways, I guess.

And that, my friends, is what I call getting park-bombed. Even with oversized sunglasses and book in hand, there is no avoiding it. So maybe someday, when I tell you about the little boy I made cry at the other park, you won't judge me.

I Just Need to Practice Dancing

We all need to be reminded of how important it is in life to slow down and enjoy ourselves. Amid my rigorous sixteen unit schedule I find myself being away at meal time far too often. I get frustrated sometimes at feeling like I have to choose between being a student, or being a mom. But my kids remind me that it's okay to struggle with this. Because everything takes practice. Even as an adult, it's impossible to think we suddenly know how to do it all. Be it all. Be everything to everyone.

So, when we sat down for our fancy dinner: corn dogs, peas, and chocolate milk, Tristan was feeling jittering, nearly jumping out of his chair. Now, if you know Tristan, this would not surprise you. He's the type of kid who literally lights up whatever room he's in with his intense energy, a smile that spreads the span of his dimpled face as he cooly swipes his bangs out of his eyes.

"What's the matter? Do you have to go to the bathroom?" I finally asked him.

"No, mom. I just have to dance. I have to get up and practice dancing when I'm done with dinner. Because I haven't danced in a while, and so I need to get up and dance," he said, in his matter of fact tone, that, if it weren't for it's high pitch, you might expect an older child to have said, not a five year old.

It took me back to Jr. High, practicing my moves in the mirror before the big dance. And yet, when the dance came, I ended up just going with it and moving in ways that weren't planned. And then I realized it was silly to practice.

And yet, isn't it funny how when we become adults, we think we can stop practicing? We leave ourselves to our own habits, uncaring if we are better or not, but accepting this is who we are. But I say, Practice to Dance. Dance as if it's eighth grade all over again, but this time you don't care if you look silly or not. You are out to dance in the world, and if you want to dance, son, Dance.

Don't get mad when you aren't good at something right away, because chances are that anyone who is good, has been practicing every day since they were five.

The house is alive with the sound of muuuusic....

Mommy coping strategy #1: How to stop yelling at my kids

I may not be the screaming mom who overreacts and gets irrationally annoyed, but maybe I am. Sometimes it feels like children are little manipulative monsters who drive a splinter under your last nerve. It's those rare occasions that I become that mom, you know, the mean and loud one who your kids are afraid of, and who is ashamed of themselves for not setting the best example.

And with kids, you always know how you dealt with them because they copy your behavior like an obnoxious trendy commercial. My daughter has told me 'whatever' and my son says 'frickin', and it's those times that I sarcastically call myself 'Mother of the Year.'  

Maybe I'm too hard on myself, maybe we all yell at our kids and they will all turn out okay. But I hate myself for doing it, even if it's not often, and I've come up with a great alternative...

Whenever I want to scold them, I take a deep breath (yea, I know, that's not original) but then I proceed with my lecture in the form of a song..."Pick up those toys right now before I send you to your roo-oom" I try to end each line on a high note to keep the song feeling positive.

And then, even if they don't listen, and I have to get louder, or more threatening, at least it's not as bad in song form: "I'm going to have to start taking stuff awa-aaay, if nobody can do what they're toh-ooold. Maybe I will just give it to children who waa-ant it, and know how to clean up after themsehh-elves."

I feel better, and the kids respond better when they feel like I am not going to blow a fuse when the house is a mess. I'm still up in the air if it's totally effective, but it does lighten the mood and has really (stupidly) worked to help me feel like I am scolding less, but still keeping the kids in line. Because one false move and they will walk all over you....

What the ????

9:45 am today and I had just spent nearly an hour on Facebook, tagging my family in pics from a fun-filled weekend in Las Vegas. I checked my school email and found that my professor had emailed the syllabus and signed his note with a "See you this evening." But that message was yesterday, and that was impossible, I thought, because it's still Spring Break.

He's just a visiting teacher, I thought, silly guy. But when another email was found with another syllabus and a message, "See you in class!" the suspicion that I was wrong became disgustingly clear. I checked the school calendar online, and sure enough, the first day of Spring Quarter was YESTERDAY!

Okay, don't panic. I had fifteen minutes to get dressed, put make-up on and head out the door to make it to my Tuesday classes on time. What about the kids? Hubby was supposed to go to LA today. Sorry hubby, gotta go!

Pulled into the parking lot and found a space. Pulled in too close between two other SUV's. Ugh, the gardener mowing the lawn in the parking lot is staring at me, I back out and pull to a free space with nobody next to me. I get out, it's crooked. I start her up and do it again. Better. Off to school. Damn, car's still crooked. Oh well, I'm running out of time.

Cross the street. Damn, forgot soda on top of car. Run back and grab it so it doesn't ruin my paint on the car (does it do that? I know it does on coffee tables). What building is my class is in? I forgot the schedule in the car, crap. I know it was BY-something so I find the map. Where's a campus directory when you need one? I need an app for that! So, found "Boyce Hall" and I think that sounds right. And I head into the side of campus where the trees are big and shady, and it would be beautiful if they weren't covering the building names. Circle around the library once. Better check map again.

Stopped to consult my laptop campus map and knew that if I saw the Physics building I had gone too far. And low and behold, I finally found it! Hooray! By this time I was sweaty and tired, and had to creep into an already started History of Modern Mexico class. About ten minutes into it, as I reapplied my lip gloss and checked emails, I remembered why I used to hate school, and history. Ugh.

After getting through this class I would have to revise a play that was due in my next class, and figure out what room number that class was in since I wasn't "officially" enrolled in it. So I would be spending the short break between this class and my next one trying to eat lunch, revise a ten page play and then find somewhere to print it out, and hope either my professor emails me back with the room number or my friend texts me back in the next hour.

All I can say is, 10 more weeks until Graduation...

She's Marking her Territory

Okay, I know this is typical of new male dogs, but my tutu-clad 3 year old is already a year past potty training days, so what gives?

I have changed the bed sheets in the house probably four times in the last week. First we had a run of the flu, so all the sheets got cleaned and the house smelled sanitary like the pungent aroma of bleach escaping from the laundry room. The next night Ashlyn crawled into bed with me somewhere around 3 am, and I woke up at about 6:30 in an enormous puddle of urine soaked sheets!

Good thing I bought a new mattress protector a few weeks ago, except that this girl must have leaked a gallon of pee into my bed, soaking through the pad and into the once nice and new pillow-top mattress. Why was I so eager to get her out of pull-ups at night?

Then the laundry starts again. A couple nights later she is unable to sleep all night again (all these darn colds and coughs going around) but I wasn't going to make that mistake of letting her in my bed happen again, no sir! So, I climbed into her bed and tried to snuggle her back to sleep. She sweetly told me not to put my arm around her because it would hurt her belly, so I pulled up her pink pony comforter and rolled over to try to get some shut eye. After countless conversations, I realized that there was no chance of being able to sleep with my insomniac daughter, I gave up and brought her into my bed.

We woke up to yet another puddle, and I cursed myself for giving her so many sips of water in the middle of the night. But what was I supposed to do, she was coughing? I didn't make her sit on the potty, even though it is usually a steadfast rule that no kids can sleep in Mommy's bed until they at least try to go pee on the toilet. But at 3 am, or 4:30, whatever time it was, Mommy was delirious and just wanted to go back to sleep! So, shame on me for not enforcing my own rules. And I see clearly why I set that rule in place.

Today I am washing Ashlyn's bedding. I just put new sheets on her bed two days ago, but this morning she wet right through her comforter, blanket, sheets, mattress pad, and even managed to soil her snuggly kitty-cat Armando.

If this wasn't enough evidence that she is marking her turf, her vomit explosion on the sofa sealed the deal. It wasn't bad enough that she threw up all over the couch, but it was on the part of the sectional where I typically sit and lie down. So now, after a week of continuos sheet changing and bleaching laundry, I can't even sit on the couch and relax without the lingering aroma of vomit.

I looked up how much it would cost to have the couch cleaned, but since it's a sectional (and the vomit was right in the middle section of course!) it would be almost $200!!! So, I scratched that idea and googled how to clean up vomit, coming across a recipe for white vinegar and warm water, followed by a baking soda paste. Let dry, then vacuum.

I followed the instructions, eager to get that stench out of what used to be my nice navy blue chenille sofa. The vinegar stung my eyes, but was refreshing compared to the smell it was trying to clean. I waited all day for it to dry so I could vacuum it up, but after ten hours it was as dry as it was gonna get and the vacuum effectively smeared the baking soda deeper into the texture of my couch, it did not suck up the white at all.

Well, I flipped the cushion, but the smell still won't go away. I sprayed a new bottle of Febreze all over the cushions five or six times throughout the next couple of days. But I still can't lay down on my couch without catching a not-so-faint whiff of vomit.

But why should a Mom get to take a break anyway? There are more loads of laundry to get done, folded and put away. Oh yea, and finals week for this college mom...

Poop Stains

Okay, don't tell my son I told you this, but it's too good not to share. And inspiration to write doesn't come along this easily ever.

Sitting down to blank screen, even though it's fifteen minutes past the kids bedtime and I should be bathing them or something, but they are playing and it's quiet and I should check on them but I don't and then their friend (a six year old blonde quite like a young Alice in Wonderland) skips into the dining room and announces

"Tristan has a poop stain" as if it were the time of day.

I should have known better how to react. I am a mother of two, with over five years hands on experience. Right? No, it stumped me. Why was she telling me this? I don't care if he has a skid mark. It happens. I do laundry, I see it. But why did she see it? These thoughts, paired with my goofy-tired state of mind, make me just laugh hysterically. I can't even see clearly, the tears running out of my eyes, and I can't speak or I bust up again. I realize I need to investigate.

I go upstairs and find him on the toilet. I go in to help and check out this poop-stain, when I discover an entire poop smeared over the front of the toilet bowl! That was way more than a poop-stain! So I look to Tristan for an answer because he never does this, and he gives me the stink eye, saying "I heard you laughing at me, mom, and that wasn't very nice," while holding back his anger tears.

I feel so bad that I was busted, that's not my finest parenting, and I rarely slip up like that. But it was so funny and caught me so off guard. So I tell him, "I'm sorry buddy, you're right, that wasn't very nice and I shouldn't have laughed like that, but think about if someone came up to you and said 'mommy has a poop-stain', would you laugh a little?" Luckily he starts giggling at that idea and so I'm off the hook. I peel him off the toilet, give me a baby-wipe bath, and send him to his room to grab some fresh clothes while I finish cleaning up. I'm grateful for lemon-scented Clorox wipes to help do the dirty work of cleaning up that toilet and then throwing them away immediately.

Ah, poop stains. Happens to the best of us.