Mom, Ma'am, Me

Help me, Bloggy-Won Kenobi, you're my only hope.

(Imagine me appearing, hologram-like, before you all, with a beseeching look on my face. Much as Princess Leia did in Star Wars when Obi-Won was able to disengaged the stuck holographic image from R2D2).

(and yes, I'm a complete dork for using that reference.)

Every single year in July October when the Halloween decorations appear in full force throughout our nation's fine retail establishments, I have a moment of wistful consideration: should I try and make costumes for my girls?  Or shall I maintain the status quo and plunk down $50 each for some cheap plastic or vinyl crap costume that they'll wear once before a) it falls apart, b) it is coated with chocolate smears, c) the costume owner absolutely refuses to wear it again, or d) all of the above?

Since I work full-time in an office job which tends to suck every productive bone out of my body, and I don't have much time for bubble baths cocktails creative pursuits, the latter scenario usually wins. 

Come the second week in October, I begrudgingly pick out some fugly princess or character-inspired costume from Target (having weeded for hours through the already picked-over selection, and removed from consideration "Candy Apple the Slutty Witch" and other similarly inappropriate selections for my elementary and preschool age girls).  And really I don't give it a second thought until some adorable child in a handmade lamb costume shows up for the neighborhood Halloween party, and I wistfully eye my daughter's paper-thin princess skirt, on which the hem is already unraveling...

Sigh.  The self-induced angst.  Makes your heart hurt a little, doesn't it?

Anyway.  This year I had a kind of salvation in the form of Mimi's desired costume theme.  She has decided she wants to be Hannah Montana for Halloween (along with probably half the female population aged 6-8).  As costumes go, this one's a cinch!  She's already got the long blonde hair, a great pair of pink boots, and a Hannah-inspired messenger bag shaped like a guitar.  I picked up the rest of her "costume" (mini-skirt, sparkly leggings and t-shirt, jean jacket) at Old Navy.  We're already set, and it's barely mid-September!

Once I decided to go the handmade -- or at least self-assembled -- route for Mimi's costume (and since I'm SO FAR AHEAD OF SCHEDULE for once in my life), I decided to tackle Rosie's costume in the same way.  For the last couple of months, she's been practically obsessed with Toy Story 2, so I thought she might like to be Jessie the cowgirl for Halloween.  That would be easy, I figured -- blue jeans, some sort of checkered shirt, a cowboy hat, and we'd be done.  *I* certainly loved the idea. 

I had Mimi help me to try and get Rosie excited about the Jessie costume, but unfortunately she had other ideas: 

Mimi: "Rosie, do you want to be Jessie for Halloween?"
Rosie: "No.  I want to be ZURG!"

So yes, Rosie's going to be Emporer Zurg for Halloween.  And people, I know you will be impressed -- I've actually started on her costume!  I bought 2 royal blue long sleeved women's shirts from Old Navy, shortened the arms (and hemmed them with fabric glue) so they're the correct length, and even added a tier at the bottom kind of like Zurg has at the bottom of his robe.  It looks fabulous considering I almost glued myself to the damn thing about 10 times when I was putting it together.

But now I'm stuck, and I'm not talking about the fabric glue.  The only other piece of the costume which I've got is the wide black belt which sits at Zurg's midsection -- my mom lent a stretchy belt of her own for this purpose.  What do I do about Zurg's shoulder pads, gloves, and cape?  And what about his headgear?  I have a few ideas for the cape (seems like it would be easy to stick a big-ass piece of fabric on the back of the robe), but I'm especially at a loss as to how to render Zurg's head.

Help, my creative friends!  Any ideas?

Oh, if it helps, here's a better picture of Zurg (with Mimi, taken during our Disney trip last year): 

I welcome your thoughts and I promise to share pictures of the finished costume at a later date, if you would be interested. 

p.s., just in case I accidentally trash the whole Zurg costume with that fabric glue, I've secretly assembled all the components needed for Rosie to dress as Jessie.  Us moms have gotta have a backup plan, right?

I need a drink.

I need a tall, stiff drink, with several shots.  Perhaps a Long Island Iced Tea or one of those poorly named concoctions that they serve at chain restaurants with names like "Holy Crap Am I Glad This Week Is Over." (The chain restaurants, not the drinks.  The drinks have names like "Your Baby Mama's Miniskirt.")

(I feel like I'm channeling Deb here.  Not a bad thing at all.)

Anyway, back to my point.  I'm really not a big drinker, despite the fact that 1) I'm currently wearing my Mommy Needs a Cocktail t-shirt (get yours today!), 2) I've been known to drink with girlfriends on occasion, and 3) I actually sound in this post like I've already been drinking, although I am sadly stone cold sober.  I guess after a lot of drinking in college, plus some instances where I saw up close and personal the effects of alcohol abuse, drinking heavily just doesn't hold much appeal for me anymore.

But not tonight.  Tonight I could use that drink.

(Can you tell I'm having a hard time getting to the point here?)

OK.  Sigh.  The funeral was today.  The funeral of my coworker and former friend.   I'm sure my current coworkers probably thought I was off to a job interview today in my somber attire (hose and heels on a FRIDAY, even).  I wish.

The service was nice, but very rough.  I stood in line for several minutes to greet and express my condolences to Joe's stunningly beautiful wife, who I had not previously met.  She looked fragile, but was holding her composure so well.  When I said that Joe was a great guy who would be sorely missed, she looked me straight in the eyes and said sadly: "Joe was perfect, to me."  I nearly wept right then and there.

There were a few moments during the service that I really had trouble.  When Joe's brother did a reading, I could hear a familiar cadence and pronunciation in his voice.  Closing my eyes it was like hearing Joe, and I lost it.   And another time, more than once actually, the officiant  referred directly to the manner of Joe's death, which was like a shock to my heart even though I'd heard the rumors. 

The turnout from my old office was amazing, though, and made me proud.  It would have touched Joe deeply to see how many people from work were there, to see how many of us had been impacted by his strong work ethic, his kindness, his gentle but insistent ways of educating others.  I know Joe's family was tremendously grateful to have so many people paying their respects.

Such a roller coaster of emotions hit me directly after the service.  I'd just said final goodbyes to one friend and then saw so many other friends (most of whom I have not seen in over a year) for a teasingly brief period of time.  I felt a little bit guilty to see these friends with fresh tears on their faces, grieving at Joe's loss, come over to greet me and give me a hug after the service.  Guilty because I'm the one that left, and I haven't been great about keeping in touch, and I don't want to wait until someone else is gone to see these people again.  I'm not going to let that happen, no way.

After the service and lunch with a few former coworkers, I headed back to my current job in a haze of residual grief and exhaustion.  I barely remember the drive back.  Not surprisingly, it was business as usual at work, and I just couldn't keep my mind focused.  I kept whipping out the program from Joe's service to gaze at his dear face. 

So I called it a day and went to pick up Rosie, only to discover that the car was not where I'd left it when returning from the funeral.  I take that back.  The car was EXACTLY where I'd left it, only I'd parked one level up in the garage from where I usually park.  I just shook my head ruefully when I realized my mistake.

That's when I first started thinking about a nice frosty beverage, or maybe a fruity one.  Figured I'd come home this evening and let J handle the kids while I relaxed a bit. Also, my disease seems to act up when I'm under stress (bone pain increases) so I thought the drink might numb me nicely.

Heh.  No such luck.  J's come down with the horrible icky achy sickness thing I had two weeks ago, and headed to bed about 6:30 PM.  Rosie tormented Annie while I prepared dinner (a bagel and fruit, which she asked for but did not eat).  Mimi insisted she was not hungry, though I asked her repeatedly, until 3 minutes before bedtime when she was immediately STARVING and needed food ASAP.  The girls wanted to sleep together, but could not agree which room to sleep in, and Rosie for kept up her shenanigans for almost an hour (keeping Mimi awake, calling me, etc.) before passing out a little while ago. 

So no drink, no relaxation. 

But do you know, I am just so happy to be alive today.  Despite everything -- the grief, the regret, the difficulty of young cranky children -- it's a blessing to be here in this world, living this life. 

I think that calls for a toast.

Top 3 signs that I'm mentally 8 years old:

1.  As I type, Mimi, Rosie, and Mimi's best friend Lilly are watching the movie Enchanted.  I seriously can't remember the last time I laughed so hard watching a movie.  (I thought I would die laughing when Princess Giselle cut dress pieces out of the curtains in Patrick Demspey's living room.)

2.  I've become a resident of Disney's online world Toontown.  My cartoon feline, Little Cricket Fuzzypounce, enjoys go-kart racing, collecting ice cream cones on the playground after a tough battle, and hanging out with her pet Doodle (sort of a cross between a puppy and a sea lion). 

3.  Since a picture's worth a thousand words, check out this one. 

Juvenile sense of humor?  Check.  Vastly entertained by trivial pursuits?  Check.  Questionable fashion taste?  Check. Mate.

Next week's plans: Memorizing the lyrics to all of Hannah Montana's hits and crushing on Zac Efron.

The "A" words

Today was the final diagnostic appointment with our developmental pediatrician to discuss Rosie.

J and I were so ready to end the uncertainty that we didn't even flinch (well, not too much anyway) when she said those three words we dreaded, but expected: "autistic spectrum disorder."

There were lots of positives throughout the discussion, and we know this isn't some sort of horribly debilitating medical or psychological thing we're facing -- it might be a label, but it does not and will not define Rosie.  Still, it's going to take us some time to process it all.

Thanks to all of you for your wonderfully supportive comments on my Rosie posts (and for your comments about Poppa).  These past several weeks have been rough for me, and I haven't adequately been able to reply to your comments or even reciprocate by visiting your blogs, but I hope now that we have some clarity on things (or at least a little more pattern to the chaos, heh) I'll be able to get myself back in some semblance of order.

Humiliation, with a side of decaf

Last Thursday was one of those stressful days that couldn't be over soon enough.  Between our intake visit with the developmental pediatrician (who was 15 minutes late starting and ran 15 minutes over our allotted time -- gah!), me taking a wrong exit trying to rush back to the office to pick up Rosie (dammit, no U-turn there either?  gah!!), and forgetting the chocolate milk that I usually ply Rosie with before her speech therapy visit (GAH!!!), I was a mess by the time I dropped Rosie off at therapy. 

Then on the way to get Mimi from her after school program (after a harrowing near-miss with an ambulance, gah!!!) I got a phone call from J.  "I have to warn you -- the school just called, and Mimi cut off a big chunk of her hair this afternoon.  It was in her way."  (GAH! WTF?  Are barrettes not good enough?!!)

Suffice it to say, by the end of speech therapy when I had both girls in my possession (the cranky chocolate milk-less younger one and the remorseful older one with the crappy-looking hairdo), I felt like we deserved a little pick-me-up. 

"Let's go to Silver Diner for dinner!" our heroine crowed.  The girls love Silver Diner's milkshakes, and I like nothing better than a side of bacon and some fattening breakfast item to help me stop singing the blues.  And our waiter was eager to oblige our emotional need to feed.  He caught me eyeing the beer menu wistfully -- they actually serve some decent imports at SD -- and offered to bring me a frosty beverage, but I stuck with decaf and saved my gluttony for the main course.

We had a pleasant dinner, punctuated only by Rosie's clamoring for another cup of chocolate milk when she drained the first one in 10 seconds flat, and as I asked for the check I ordered us some shakes to go.  I wanted to pay and then take the girls to the restroom while they prepared the shakes, so that we could get on the road quickly.  So I reached in my little wristlet wallet to grab my credit card...

... to find no credit cards, no cash, nothing resembling a form of payment.

For a brief moment I pictured Mimi sweating over a sink full of dishes in the kitchen, Rosie handing out kids' menus in the front, and me scrubbing toilets in the back of the restaurant. 

I caught the waiter's eye and stammered, "Ummm.... I don't seem to have my wallet... I live close by, could I..?"

He smiled and shook his head.  "Let me get the manager."

Fortunately, as the manager was walking over, all the relevant digits of my credit card number came to me, as in a vision.  (Not really surprising that it should come to mind so easily, since I used the damn card for all my online shopping this past holiday season.)  I was able to somewhat save face by scrawling my credit card number and expiration date on the back of my receipt, and the manager processed my check without incident.

I could hear the manager and our waiter chuckling as the girls skipped and I skulked out of the Diner.  All's well that ends well, I guess, but I'm not sure I'll be eating out again anytime soon.  Next time I need a pick-me-up, I'm headed straight for my kitchen.  It's stocked with wine, ice cream, and chocolate-covered pretzels -- and they're ALREADY PAID FOR.

We're watching Rudolph. AGAIN.

After 2 sleepless nights (with Rosie awakening for a couple of hours after midnight, wanting to talk/cuddle/watch movies/play with noisemaking toys), our youngest was diagnosed with strep.  And apparently when you are three and have strep and generally feel like crap, the ONLY THING IN THE WORLD WHICH PROVIDES COMFORT is repeated showings of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" while laying comatose on Mom's lap. As if we hadn't already enjoyed several, um, marathon sessions this past weekend.

The good news is that this time spent trapped under Rosie's sweaty clingy body as a captive audience of "Rudolph" has helped me to memorize large expanses of the show's dialogue.  It's also led me to ponder many of the show's quirkier elements that I accepted in blind faith as a young child.

This will undoubtedly demonstrate that I've had too much time on my hands, but here's what I've noticed:

• Rudolph's "friend" Fireball may act like he's hot shit when Rudolph's nose first glows -- too good to hang with a red-nosed reindeer -- but has Fireball ever made Santa's Christmas Eve starting roster?  I think not.  (Anyway, that would seriously mess with the rhyme: On Dasher, on Dancer, on Prancer and Vixen.  On Comet, on Cupid, on Donner and... Fireball??)

• If I were an animal scientist, I would feel compelled to undertake a study of the Bumble (a.k.a., Abominable Snowman).  Its molecular composition must be unique -- Bumbles sink, but bounce?   What are they made of, some sort of heavy duty metal/rubber compound? 

• And speaking of the Bumble, don't you wonder what sort of perverse deeds Yukon Cornelius performed in order to "reform" the Bumble to place the star on top of the Christmas tree?

(No?  Okay, must just be me then.)

• Speaking of Yukon and his perverse deeds, what sorts of activities do you think he has imagined that require his supply list of "cornmeal, gunpowder, hamhocks, and guitar strings?"  I'm not sure I want to know, actually...

• Of course I'm not alone in wondering what's wrong with the red-headed baby doll on the Island of Misfit Toys.  But I like the theory that this writer shares:

"One myth has it that she is a homicidal maniac, but the barely known fact is that she is included among the Misfit Toys because she pees hydrochloric acid."

• I crack up every time Donner tells Mrs. Donder that she cannot go with him to look for Rudolph because, as he says in a gruff voice, "This is MAN's work."  And it's especially satisfying that Mrs. Donner and Clarice ignore his ignorant ass and go off themselves anyway.

That's what I call an uplifting holiday message.

All right, Rosie the Demanding beckons, and so does that glass of wine over there on the sideboard.  Let's see what new observations come to light after a little bit of holiday cheer and Rudolph viewing #467.

Blur

December by the numbers:

Number of...

• holiday events that I had to bake for last week: 1
• hours spent baking and frosting maple walnut bars: 2 1/2
• minutes it took for office staff to eat one and a half dozen maple bars: 10
• wreaths I toted and distributed for a day care fundraiser: approximately 80
• teacher/daycare staff gifts I purchased and distributed Thursday and Friday: 20
• pipe cleaner snowflakes made by Mimi's class, instructed by moi, during the kindergarten class Winter Party on Friday: 19
• liquor shots in the festively delicious caramel apple martini I enjoyed last night: 5
• hours I slept after imbibing on said martini: 11
• holiday cards I just finished addressing: 101 (note: want an official holiday greeting card from the MMM household?  send me your address!)
• dollars we've spent on holiday gifts this year: more than I'd hoped
• gifts we have left to buy: 0, I hope
• gifts we've wrapped: 0
• times we've watched "Rudolph" this past week per Rosie's request: at least 15 (probably pushing 20 by now)
• girls in this year's photo with Santa Claus: 2 (better than last year!)
• blog posts I've read this weekend: 0 -- hope to catch up this week!
• work days until my long weekend: 5 days, 40 hours, 2400 minutes, but who's counting?
• girls who will be happy on Christmas morning: two little blondies

What's your December been like?

Once upon a mattress

As a teenager I occasionally babysat for one of my dad's coworkers (a teacher at the rival high school) and his wife.  I honestly don't remember much about the kids, aside from the fact that one was a boy and one was a girl.  Oh, and I do recall that I liked babysitting for these kids -- if only for the simple fact that their parents usually went out late in the evening, so I only had an hour or so of active interaction with the chillins before putting them to bed.  I wasn't experienced with young children and so I didn't really enjoy babysitting all that much.

What I do remember is that all of the bedrooms in the house were furnished with waterbeds.  The parents had a waterbed with a mirrored canopy -- the purpose of which really baffled me at the time, though I had my suspicions about what it might be for.  And yes, each of the children had their own waterbed.  As I'd tuck them in at night I wondered why the heck the parents felt it necessary to purchase such expensive and extravagant furniture for their kids.  I thought back my own childhood, where I'd easily have passed out on a pile of thorny branches in the backyard if I was tired enough. 

Well, it's taken me more than a decade, but I've finally figured it out.  After several days of single parenting, when I spent more than a few minutes camped out on Mimi's bottom bunk (nightmares) and several hours on Rosie's single bed (soothing the savage cough), I've realized that those parents were brilliant. 

Yes, even though your kids can sleep peacefully and wake up refreshed on a cheap mattress, your thirty-something year old body will hate you in the morning.  You'll spend the day after popping ibuprofen pills and guzzling gallons of coffee to keep your sleep-deprived selves.

Learn from my incompetence (and from the wisdom of my old babysitting clients): when your kid is graduating from the crib to the big-kid bed, get yourself a quality bed and mattress.   Something that you'll be able to sleep comfortably in during the inevitable bad dreams/stomach ache/sleeplessness that will rouse you from your own comfy pillow-top, electric-blanketed bed and end with you uncomfortably sandwiched in a 6" wide patch of bed with no covers, next to a child who grinds her teeth and jabs you in the ribs with her feet every. ten. seconds.

While you're at it, think about investing in a double.  Or a queen.  Or maybe even a waterbed.

You're welcome.

p.s., and don't try to scrimp and save on the bedclothes, either.  Even though your kids won't notice, those cheap cotton blend sheets feel like sandpaper on the skin of, um, the more mature folks in the house during a sleepless night.  I'm just sayin'.

I'm helpful and stuff

Coworker to Nancy: "...So you see we're looking for the source of this $1.6 million which is now categorized as frizzle but needs to be distributed according to the rules of razzle.  And we need to determine if the $4.7 million should be fribbitegibit or dispositional fundage for the purposes of outyear funds."

Nancy (desperately hoping that brain will begin to engage): "Mmmm.  Hmmm.  Yes, fribbitegibit or dispositional fundage."

Coworker: "So what do you think?  Do we recategorize the $1.6 but take a summation in the amount of 7.6 percent divided by the misvaluation factor?  Or do we disregard the previous $2.8 million in light of the new information provided in the dispensation related to the superiority of the flaggle klabble blaggle?" (TM: Mo Willems)

Nancy (COMPLETELY. CLUELESS.): "So you're saying... the misvaluation factor... we need to determine the summation..." (long pause)

Coworker (somewhat impatiently): "Yes, that's what we need to determine.  Or if we're not going to circumcise the misvaluation using the terms of endearment, we must use the 68% sludge factor to estimate the percentage of agreeable persnickitiness represented by the $3.25 million.  Agreed?  Or perhaps we just recalculate given the $5.6 plus the $3.87 which will give the gross adjusted total we need for our basis of dipwad fundage?"

Nancy (praying that she can keep up this charade): "Mmmm.  Yes, I see the difficulty.  Well, what do you think?"

Coworker: "Well, I honestly think the best solution would be to prorate the estimation percentage represented by the $3.6, add a ministration adjustment to compensate for the supercalifragilistic exception placed on us by the Bureau of Funk, and round the final valuation to the nearest smooth integer.  Summarily placing us on or about the $8.59 million threshold, give or take a pedigreed rooster, and taking into consideration the possibility that the dwelling will be superseded once the full funding amount is intercepted by the pentagonistic superiors."

Nancy (pauses as if considering): "You know, I think that approach makes perfect sense."

Coworker: "Great.  Thank you so much for your input, Nancy.  Your assistance on this task has been invaluable."

Nancy: (retreats to restroom to wipe up remnants of exploded brain with a wad of government-issue paper towels.)

Jumbled

...this word would describe the state of my house, the state of my existence at the moment.  One peek in the trash can under my desk at work and you can see what I've been dealing with: a horrible and surprisingly debilitating cold (as evidenced by the 4,367 used tissues) and stress (as evidenced by the mini Mounds-bar wrappers). 

I'm going through some sort of rough patch right now.  I don't know why, exactly, but sometimes it's hard to explain emotions and stress and dissatisfaction.  My instinct is to withdraw, so that's what I've been doing.  Eat, work, sleep, cope, and all the extra stuff is shuttled off to the side.

Anyway, thanks to those of you who've e-mailed or commented to check in.  I'm off to continue reading the contents of my trash can like they're tea leaves.

p.s., on your way out, please head over and give Whymommy a big show of support.  She's facing something huge and could use some upbeat companionship, laughter, words of inspiration.

And then maybe go check out Lemonland too.