The Revolving Bedroom Door and Presents Left Behind for Mama.

No, not my bedroom. Pretty sure the man would take issue. This one belongs to the oldest son. The quest for independence. Coming back home when friends decide they don't make good roommates. Leaving again when the idea hatches with another friend. I'm thinking there was an actual lease signed this time. Maybe it will last longer than 3 months.

After the great discovery of incompatibility, the boy moved back home about three weeks ago. Not sure why but the dirt bike came home first. Somehow, it was more important than the bed, clothes, or anything else. It was also then that I discovered there was no helmet to pair with the dirt bike. But that was another ride on Mama's Crazy Train all together.

When the boy left, there was a lightening fast round of musical bedrooms amongst the other kids. And that's how my former office/adopted girl's bedroom became my walk-in closet. When the boy told me he was coming back home-with only about 72 hours notice-there was really no option other than the basement.

The great cavern under the house. The dumping ground for all things we can't bear to part with. The home of the ever-expanding-take-over-the-world piles of laundry. And the home of the multiple litter boxes. There just really isn't a lot of space down there. At least, not that's very organized.

But being 20, that didn't bother him. He shoved things aside, dumped his bed in the space created and dumped all his clothes on an old love seat next to the weight bench. And that's where everything stayed until he decided to move out again last weekend.

Except when he left, all his laundry stayed behind. Being the wonderful mother I am-or believe myself to be-I graciously started the wash/dry/fold process that his clothes likely hadn't seen since his initial departure in March. It was impossible to determine what was clean and what was dirty, he said. After sorting the piles, I believed him. And wanted to go sanitize in a tub of bleach. It's no wonder the basement had taken on a new odor.

He had an entire load of work clothes that looked and smelled like they'd marinated in cow shit for a week in the hot Idaho sun. Yes, cow shit. Of course, it was all mixed in with all his other clothes. I've never used so much detergent and hot water washing clothes in my life.

Oh the things we do for our children. And my washer still hasn't forgiven me. I swear it tried to lock its own door when it heard me coming the other night. Honestly, I can't blame it.

Footnote: I was going to include a nice photo procured from Google to help illustrate this post. In looking for just the right one, I've managed to ruin my desire for breakfast. You're welcome.

Today's post sponsored by the letter P

As in perimenopause. The totally unwelcome and inevitable change overtaking so many of us. The condition that has made my last week a trip through hell. I do my best to ignore the symptoms most of the time; there's no sense concentrating on what you can't change, right? But this week has been a real bitch. With a capital B. So I figured I take a fresh look at the symptoms and see how I'm doing.

First, I needed a symptom list. I found a good one at this site. Just a quick top 10 type thing.

Let's see how I compare, and to be fair, this will be FULL of TMI:

10. Irregular periods. This is totally what touched all this off today. After rising entirely too early for a Sunday morning, I felt that all too familiar "gush". You ladies know exactly what I'm talking about. After a quick check of my period tracker, I was not surprised to see I'm a full week early. Looking back through my history, my cycle has gone anywhere from 23 days to 65 days.  At one point, I skipped a month entirely (hence the 65 days), sending me off to the store in a panic for a pregnancy test. Not a comforting thought when you're approaching your mid-40's.

9.  Problems sleeping. Did I mention I was awake early this morning? I can't fall asleep at night. I wake up on average of 598 times during the night. I'm either awake before the birds, or sleep through my alarm for 45 minutes. I nod off at my desk at work. I operate best on a full eight hours of quality sleep a night. Something that hasn't happened in approximately 1,825 nights. I'm not joking.

8.  Hot flashes. Sweet Jesus, what happened to my internal thermometer?? I'm just thankful they are usually at night. Needless to say, I no longer have to question if it's time to wash the bedding.

7.  Mood changes. Let me just say, The Enterprise entering Warp Speed has nothing on me. Olympic-class sprinters take lessons from my family.

6.  Low libido. Sex? Fuggetaboutit. More often than not,  my husband has a better chance of winning the lotto or being struck by lightning than enjoying the pleasures of my company.

5.  Vaginal dryness. I suppose it would be easier to verify this if I were actually having sex regularly. I'll have to get back to you on this one. Or maybe you'd rather I didn't.

4.  Weight gain. Particularly in the tummy area. I haven't had a pooch like this since immediately post-birth nearly 17 years ago. Thank the stars for spandex. Even last year, when I had my first - and hopefully last -  painful bout with diverticulitis and lost 10 pounds in nine days, I didn't lose the balloon on my tummy. And, sadly, the 10 pounds has found its way back home.

3.  Tender breasts. I'm convinced that somewhere in the chain of hormonal monsters, there is an ethereal being that holds a voodoo doll representing my boobs. Every.Damn.Thing.Makes.My.Boobs.Hurt. I finally got smart enough to decrease my caffeine intake, which did help. But they routinely remind me they are there and not at all happy to be in a bra/out of a bra/exposed to wind/exposed to the shower/within arms reach of my husband/or hanging out above the hot stove. Nothing makes them happy. Nothing.

2.  Urinary incontinence. This one just pisses me off. All of the symptoms do, but this one in particular. I don't dare sneeze, cough, or even blink my eyes most days. I know where every bathroom within a 100-mile radius is, because if my bladder isn't dripping like a broken faucet it is screaming at me that it has to pee, RIGHT FUCKING NOW.

1.  Migraines. In the last week, I've been under the influence of a headache for five days. Several of those days, I've been riding the very thin line between a ridiculously bad headache and a migraine. I've given serious thought to trying out the ancient procedure of tripanning. For those unfamiliar, here is a reference. Honestly, it sounds a lot more pleasant than the constant pain of a headache.

In closing, I'd like to address my ovaries directly, since they are charge of this delightful death march.

Fuck you, and the Fallopian tubes you rode in on.

I've been MIA

I haven't even thought about, much less looked at, my blog in over a week. I've been just a wee bit busy. And when the busy stopped, the headache began.

First, my mom and her two cats, Abby and Cuddles, arrived last Friday. This is her first visit since last October and she's long overdue. She usually makes her first trip of the year during our spring break, but couldn't due to work obligations.

Abby, listening to the meadowlarks.

The weekend was a whirlwind of activity and people. My brother lives just down the street from me. His girlfriend and three of her kids came down for the weekend. Since we're an easy walk down the street, the kids, all five of them, made numerous trips back and forth. Meals for the crowd are always at my house and are a production! Saturday night we did homemade pizza and salads, Sunday brunch was homemade waffles, bacon, and tons of fruit. And Sunday dinner was tater tot hotdish and salads. Sit down meals for 13 are so much fun, and so exhausting!

Monday, grandma and three of the kids left for their vacation trip. Disneyland!! She's a brave woman! LOL

And they're off!

I celebrated Monday by taking a much-needed three hour nap. 

By Wednesday, I had my feet back under me. My neighbor talked me into going to a Zumba class with her. I told her I'd be there with bells on, which was a lie because I don't have bells. But now I do. Not only did I survive the 60 minute work-out, I had so much fun, I'm planning on making it a regular thing. 

My Zumba bells!!

The rest of the week hasn't been so great. Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday had me fighting headaches. Could be hormones, could be the wildly blooming Russian olive trees, could be the relentless wind that insists on blowing. I just know I'm tired of them. And I'm tired of popping pills to try to get the booming to stop. 

I'm planning on enjoying the weekend before the rush of people returns on Monday. It's time to garden and work on the closet projects. And do the laundry. Always the laundry. 

Weekend Frat Party

OK, it's not a true frat party. There are no kegs. There are no drunk young women taking half their clothes off. At least not the last time I checked. I haven't heard a single, "Dude, watch this!" There isn't any loud and raucous music, either. Which translates into no visits from the cops.

Maybe it really doesn't seem like a frat party at all...

In reality, it has been deemed "Work on your vehicle in our garage weekend." Three vehicles, so far.

And what I do have is a house full of young men. Really, there's only two extra, but around here, that's a houseful. And what is it about the word 'houseful' that looks wrong on so many levels?

Spelling lessons later, perhaps.

What it means is someone is always thirsty, always hungry, and always in the bathroom. It makes life interesting for someone like me who has to pee every 30 seconds or so. Who would rather not have to cook on the weekends. Who NEVER keeps anything but water, iced tea, and milk as available beverages. I do have kool-aid, but they have to mix it themselves, which is clearly too much like work. I also have a lot of wine, but they are all underage and better not touch my stash of vino! They're more of a beer bunch, anyway.

It also means that after a long day of grease, banged up knuckles, and foul language, the bodies tend to fall wherever they come to a stop. Including the extra dog who is clearly comfortable with his slobbery mouth on a couch pillow thrown to the floor.



Nearly every clean blanket is now contaminated with manchild dirt and cat hair. Including the large one that must be washed at the laundromat. There are shirts, sweatshirts, dirty socks, and footwear all over. And half-filled glasses of milk. I'm surprised the cats haven't found those yet. I'm also wondering, with extra beds in the house, why the living room remains the place to crash. And why are the curtains all askew?

Don't be fooled though. Despite my observations, I'm loving every minute of it. Even if I will have to cook up a hot breakfast.

Of Biceps and Bleach: My Awful Bathroom

I may have mentioned in the past that I hate my bathroom. If not, let me just say, I hate my bathroom. For those in need of clarification, I. HATE. MY. BATHROOM.

Yes, it's an old farm house, so bathrooms weren't architectural beauties back then. They merely had to be functional. So my bathroom is functional, and that's about it. Only it's not entirely functional. There is no exhaust fan. None. There is a window, but we'll get to that in a minute.

I'm totally in the minority in my house when it comes to showers. I'm the "get in, get it done, get out" type. Maybe once a month I will just stand in the hot water for a bit. Seriously. I get peeved if I have to stand in there long enough to shave my legs.

My guys, however, would stay in there all day of the hot water held out. Literally. I've gone in after one of their showers and walked into a man-made weather system, complete with precipitation. Water literally drips off the ceiling. Back to the window. Do you know what happens to wooden windows with that much humidity in the room? They swell. What happens when a window swells? That's right, they don't open. So the sage advice of opening a window when you don't have a fan doesn't work for me.

So little by little, drip by drip, cloud by cloud, my bathroom dies a slow and painful death. The stranglehold of mold and mildew begins.  Until I go in with bucket, scrubbies, bleach, and gloves and do battle. It's ugly work. It stinks. When I'm done, I'm usually hallucinating. All because I refuse to let my bathroom look like this.

In good news, a miracle happened and the window dried out enough to open. But I'm going to have to post an armed guard in there to prevent folks from closing it again. I'd like to keep it open until the snow flies next winter. 

And that's what my afternoon is going to be today. If you don't hear from me again, I'll be stretched out in the tub talking to unicorns and smoking a piece of carpet. Wait, I don't have any carpet...

The week in review.

This is the highlight of the week. Before you sits over $100 worth of meds. For the dogs. Or more precisely, two of the dogs. Somehow, in typical mysterious fashion for our house, there is sickness afoot. Without being exposed to any other dogs, much less sick dogs, we have kennel cough germs tucking into the lungs of all the beasts, one by one. 

The dosage instructions are involved enough, I need a chart to keep it straight and make sure we don't miss any doses. Each course is 10 days. If all of the dogs end up getting this, I will be passing out pills for at least a month. I better stock up on hot dogs and lunch meat. They are so talented, they can separate pills out of a wad of bread and spit them right back out on the floor. Appetizing, to say the least. 

I've decided this is no different that having a house full of young children who bring home every bug known to momkind. I'm just really glad it's not chickenpox, stomach flu, or explosive diarrhea. Those were NOT the days.

And as luck would have it, the oldest son dropped off his dog on Thursday in order for me to take him to the vet for his annual visit. For some reason, his 12-hour work days prohibit him from having the time to take care of it himself. And because of those 12-hour days, the dog is still here because he hasn't had time to come fetch him. I've tried to keep him separate from the other dogs, but you know how that goes. They looked at each other, so that's about all it's going to take. If Junior starts coughing, I'm pretty sure I'll have him for the full 10 days as the boy won't remember to divvy out meds twice a day. I'm not entirely convinced he remembers to do his laundry or buy groceries. Unless it's beer.  Being the mom never ends, even after they move out. 

And from behind closed doors comes the sound of more hacking and coughing. From dog #3. 

Fucking fantastic. The vet is now on speed dial. 

Mothers and sons.

It is said that fathers and daughters have a special relationship, and they do. At least until said daughter dives head-long into her teen years, then all bets are off. I was a daddy's girl for many, many years. Sometimes, I still am.

But what about mothers and sons? Don't they share something special? You bet your football-loving, no clue as to wrestling, bicycle crashing, motorcycle revving ass they do!

Some days, I don't have the words to describe just how much I love my boys. Other days, my legs are tired from kicking them in the ass every time I turn around. I can't tell you how many times I've had to stitch my heart back together after it bursts in pride for some accomplishment. The well of tears I've cried as they grow and mature and take slow steps away from me is bottomless. The happiest tears of my life result from the out-of-nowhere hugs and the "Bye, Mama. Love you!" that I hear each and every day as they walk out the door or hang up the phone.

Yes, there is something special between mothers and sons.

I've been beaned with footballs. I've been run over with bicycles. I've been the unintended victim of wrestling moves gone awry. I've stepped on countless legos and matchbox cars at 3:00 am. I've learned to accept the sight of blood and not get bent about open wounds. Which is a good thing after Dean filleted his knee open two summers ago.

I've learned to understand auto mechanics and flying. I have a basic knowledge of welding and the proper way to ensure an awesome long distance spit. No, I will not demonstrate. Thank goodness I came into motherhood already knowing how to drive (and trucks, at that) so I had some sort of leg up on them.

The relationship I have with each son is as different as they are. One is known to seek me out in the garden, to visit and chat, and share what is bothering him. The other likes the same odd documentaries that I do, and doesn't overly mind going shopping with me. They both have physically picked me up and carried me past the shoe department lest we be delayed. They both eat themselves sick when I make homemade bread. Neither will eat peas, even if their very lives depended on it.

And they both know I will do anything for them, so long as it is in my power. Whether that be dropping everything to rush to their first accident, or slipping them $20 for gas because they don't get paid until the day after tomorrow.

My husband says I spoil them. That I let them walk all over me. Not so, I say. I love them. I nurture them (even when they think they're too old for it). I help them. I teach them. I bond with them. And when I've done my job, and they grow up and move out, I cry for what was, and what will be. Knowing that I've created something important beyond measure. Something that only another mother of sons can understand.

Preaching to myself

Fair warning: This post may find me using words not fit for polite company.

I truly believe that anger will get you nowhere. Anger closes the door to a happy life. Anger makes it difficult to get along with others. I remind myself constantly that getting angry at the behavior of others doesn't accomplish a damn thing. It just ruins my day. And life is too short for that.

BLAH. BLAH. FUCKING BLAH.

Well, today, I'm angry. I'm pissed. I'm full of vexation, animosity, indignation, fury, ire, rage, and resentment. I'm going to throw either a cat fit or a hissy fit. Thank you, thesaurus.

I got up today prepared for the normal course of cleaning. By normal, I mean the usual things one does to keep a neat and orderly home. Some laundry, dusting, sprucing of the bathroom and kitchen, sweep and mop the floors.

Instead, I've found myself (once again) cleaning up the messes left behind by others who live in this house. Messes that I shouldn't have to fucking deal with. Food messes. Drink messes. Dishes where they don't belong. Clothing everywhere. Garbage here, there, and everywhere. And why is it so flipping hard to refill the damn ice trays?

I haven't even started on what I wanted to accomplish today, except to start the laundry. And even to do that, I had to fold numerous loads left by someone else because they needed something washed, but can't possibly be troubled to fold a damn thing. No, instead they shovel it into baskets, stomp it down into a tightly woven mess of sweatshirt arms, blue jeans legs, and socks. Which is, of course, the perfect cat bed and now should really be rewashed because it's full of hair. Tough shit, y'all, you're getting hairy clothes in your piles.

I'm pissed so my stress is up, adrenalin is flooding my system. My normal case of the shakes has turned into my own awkward version of the Harlem Shake. Which I fail to see the humor in, but that's another post entirely.

You know the phrase seeing red? That's me right now. I can't even stand my own level of anger right now, that's how bad it is. I want to throw things, break things, throttle the people that do this. But that would just make MORE of a mess to clean up.

I'm going to go clean and continue preaching to myself. Maybe after a good long lecture, I'll calm down. I will say, it's a damn good thing that no one else is home. I'd either be headed to jail or the mental ward.

Memories of activities past

I read a blog post earlier this week from Suburban Matron on the jelly wars at her house. The entry hit home, as we've serious PB&J requirements at our house.

For years, as in the first 14 years Mike and I were married, there was NEVER a jar of store-bought jelly in this house. The only exceptions might have been gift jellies, or a special flavor jelly that I picked up to curb a craving.

Years ago, I had exclusive picking rights to a friend's Concord grape vines. He didn't have much, but it was enough to make 24-36 pints of homemade jelly, depending on how well the vines set each season.

For years, I'd set aside three days for the picking, juicing, and jelly making. And by Sunday night, I'd have dozens of jars cooling. When the boys were little, that would last an entire year.


We also used to rent a house where we had plentiful plum trees on the property. Plum jelly is absolutely marvelous!






In addition, my mom would usually try to bring me fresh picked chokecherries from the family farm in North Dakota. If she couldn't get me the berries, they'd get them juiced and canned, and bring that so I could make the jelly later. Chokecherry jelly is such a favorite here, running low could easily spark a riot.

When I started school four years ago, my jelly making came to an abrupt halt. Ever since, my guys have had to live with the indignity of store jelly. And let me tell you, they weren't happy about it! The horror! I was even told by my eldest, that lack of homemade jelly could be considered child abuse. Like I said, PB&J is serious business around here.

Now that my schooling is complete, I think there's jelly in our future. I have gallons of chokecherries in the freezer from step-mom's tree (she transplanted a tree from MN and it's thriving). I have raspberries in the freezer, also from step-mom's garden. And I still have canned juice from a variety of sources, including the grapes. The juice actually works really well. If it sits for a year (or more), the solids settle which makes for a clearer final product.

I'm thinking, before the weather gets too hot, it's time to dig out the jars, the stockpots, and the water-bath canner and set aside a weekend for my own jelly wars.



My guys will fall in love with me all over again.

Quiet...Blessed Quiet

I absolutely LOVE Sunday mornings. They are my mornings. Everyone tends to sleep in, which for the guys means I won't hear from them until at least 10 AM. Even I sleep in, which means if I manage to stay in bed until 8, I've succeeded.

This morning, not only did I succeed, I set a record. I didn't crawl out my cozy cave until 9:05 AM.

And here I sit, nearly 90 minutes later, still basking in solitude. Mike is still sleeping, Devan is still sleeping, Dean spent the night at a friend's house, the dog is sleeping, Roach is sleeping, and Leroy is outside doing kitty chores.



It's just me, my coffee, my cigarettes, and the internet. Oh, and the birds singing up a storm.



Does life get any more perfect than this??

I think not.

Happy Mother's Day!!

Saddle up the couch ladies, today is our day!

I went in search of a suitable picture to honor the day. You know, something heartfelt and special that would convey the deep and abiding love we have for our mother. I did find lots of those. I also found this book jacket. In my world, this is the picture of truth.

When I was a teen, that was the state of my room, much to my mother's displeasure. Now that I'm a mom, this is often the state of my house, and their bedrooms would be considered clean if they looked like that. Ahhh motherhood.

But honestly, think hard about the title of the book. I can't imagine life without my mom. She's awesome. I don't think I realized just how hard she worked at it sometimes until I became an adult and moved on. And now that I'm a mom, I couldn't imagine life without the boys that give me that honor.

See, I'm honored to be both a daughter of a great mom, and the mother of two spectacular boys.

I just have one question, why is no one awake making me breakfast?

(Book available here.)

Jinxed

Did I really say that my stress level was retreating? I should have known better. That simple statement immediately jinxed my day.

Yesterday included a milestone moment. One that every parent knows will arrive, yet no parent wants to experience.

Devan had his first car accident. And it was a doozy.

He and a friend were on their way back to work after lunch. In fact, I looked out the kitchen window right at the moment they both drove past the house, heading south, one right after the other.

Five minutes later, my phone rang, "Mom, please come and get me. Mike hit me." I can't describe the tone and feeling in his voice, or my immediate, and absolutely visceral reaction to hearing it. If more than two minutes elapsed between the time I got the call and hit the road, I'd be surprised.

The adrenaline kicked in before I was 1/4 mile away from the house. On a 35 mph road, I was flying at 65, flashers going, hands clenched on the wheel. When I arrived on the scene and jumped out, my knees nearly buckled.

I saw Mike's pickup from about 1/4 miles away; the front passenger corner mashed and crinkled, the tire at an obviously undrivable angle. As I got closer, I saw Devan's pickup. Sitting out in the field, everything on the driver's side from the back jump seat to the bumper pushed in and mangled. The driver's door was completely pushed in, frame warped, window gone. A trail of debris from the corner to the stopping point, probably some 150 feet.

A mom doesn't like to see such things.

His friend had a passenger, and Devan was driving solo. All three boys were walking around. Devan had a few cuts on his face, and the blood was already clotted and drying. The friend who was driving was shaking like a leaf, but bore no visible blood. His passenger didn't have any visible blood either, but was confused, unsure of where he was or what had transpired. I sat him down in the ditch next to my truck and called 911.

With the renewed surge of adrenaline running through my system, it took me a few extra seconds to figure out which intersection we were at. The 911 dispatcher had me running from vehicle to vehicle looking for leaking fluids. Finally, she informed me that sheriff's deputies and an ambulance were on the way. About that time, the friend's dad pulled up, so at least I had help keeping the boys calmed down.

The passenger was trying to talk to his mom on his cell, but wasn't getting anywhere because of the confusion. I asked him for his phone and talked to her. She was remarkable calm considering she was talking to a stranger, had talked to her son who couldn't remember anything, and had no idea where we were.

It must have taken a good 15 minutes for authorities to arrive, with paramedics right behind them. They checked out all the kids and loaded the passenger up for a trip to the hospital. They were certain he had a concussion, but weren't sure of the severity.

Devan's cuts and scrapes were from all the flying glass when his window shattered. Back home, while showering off the glass and blood, he found an impressive goose egg on his head. That explains the shattered side window.

All in all, the boys were extremely lucky. They were likely driving too fast and both earned tickets; Devan for failure to signal a turn and the other boy for following too close. The officer was extremely nice, more than fair, and even gave the boys a quick lecture about taking care.

Both pickups are likely totaled. I know Devan's is. Needless to say, in a match between a Ranger (Devan's) and a full-sized F150, the F150 won.

We haven't been able to get a complete report yet on how the other boy checked out at the ER. I'm going to place a call to the friend's parents this morning and try to find out.

Meanwhile, the fun will really start tomorrow when the insurance process starts.

I'm just thankful that everyone is ok and they weren't seriously hurt. Thinking back to the scene, it could have been much worse. There were three guardian angels putting in overtime yesterday.

Look Mom, I can get dressed all by myself!

You know how they say the third time is the charm? Well, evidently, it applies to dressing oneself. This week did not start well at all in the "dressing yourself" catagory.

Monday, in a haze after only 4 hours of sleep and in the dark of the laundry room, I managed to grab 2 bras and no undies.

Tuesday, I managed the right garments, but noticed on the way out the house that I could see my bra through my shirt. There wasn't time to totally change, so I grabbed a hoodie on the way out the door, only to discover the zipper pull was missing. I wore it anyway and fought to zip the damn thing up all the way to work. Then, if that wasn't bad enough, on my second trip into the bathroom after arriving at work, I discovered my undies were inside out. WTF? It's not like I got dressed in the dark.

So today, I took great pains when picking clothes and getting dressed. I made sure the lights were on and I checked everything twice. I'm so on the damn ball today, my socks even coordinate with my shirt.

Just don't ask how my mascara looks...

Life's Milestones

So Tuesday of this past week was a milestone. I turned 40. Theoretically, half my life is over. 40. How did I get here? Does it really mean anything?

The week preceeding Black Tuesday (as I wrote on my calendar) was full of deep, dark thoughts. It was hard to wrap my head around 40. I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel about it. Actually, now that I've tried it on for a few days, I'm still not so sure.

It's not like I was losing sleep over the whole thing, but it definitely snuck into my immediate thoughts on more than one occasion.

My building mate put together a little surprise party at the office. She's thoughtful that way. When I got back from my post office run, there was cake and ice cream, and a building full of people. Actually, it was nice. And it was a lot of fun. And it was just another day.

Until last night. Dean talked me into buying the new electronic version of Monopoly. It's his smile. When he turns up the wattage, I'm powerless. Anyway, the boys and I are in the middle of a heated battle to make our millions and Dean looks me right in the eye and says...

"Uh, Mom...you have a lot of wrinkles around your eyes."

Sigh. Last night, I really felt 40. And today, I just might go shopping for a really good eye cream.

Bits and Bobs

Wow, it's been awhile. Life has a way of running away with you if you aren't careful. So today, I'm just going to filter out some of the jetsam floating around, broom out the cobwebs, and otherwise declutter. Hmmm, sounds like something I should be doing around the house.

The 5th grade had their annual play this past Thursday and Friday. Wonderful performance! It's amazing that the teachers can get that many kids on the same page at the same time. And for a musical even! Dean didn't have a stage part, opting instead to be part of the stage crew. Those four boys did an outstanding job with the sets and moving things around quickly. His friend from across the street had a solo song to sing and did a great job with that. Go K! And so our elementary years are nearly at a close. Sigh.

The weather has finally straightened out. And in typical Idaho fashion, it's gone from the 50s to the 90s overnight. Damn. I got some of the storm windows off and screens in place yesterday and it's refreshing to get new air in the house. I will be pushing Devan up the ladder to remove remnants of plastic from the second story windows today.

Speaking of Devan, the driving continues. With his permit tucked safely in his wallet (which hasn't come close to the washer since May 7) he's more than willing to drive me all over. He's doing a good job, despite a few bad habits he thinks he needs. We're working on those...patiently.

Devan is also working. Every chance he gets. He's working for my Dad and uncle every weekend, moving pipe, helping in the shop, running the shovel for my Dad on service calls. He's also working for a local farmer moving and setting pipe, and whatever else they find for him. I'm honestly impressed with his treatment of paychecks, too. If it's cash, he takes a little stipend and sends the rest to the bank with me. A paper check goes directly to the bank. He's got nearly $1000 on deposit...I'm honestly a bit jealous.

Mike continues to work in OR. They came home last weekend for Mother's Day. He took me to dinner at one of our local steak houses. Not a national chain-type place full of noise and distraction. This is a very quiet, intimate eatery. Perfect for escaping life and kids for an hour. I had the best steak and shrimp I've had in ages!

He's home again this weekend, too. They had a rough week and accomplished little, so the boss shipped everyone home to get their heads back on straight. It's nice having him home, even if he chooses not to believe that.

Which brings me to a rant, of sorts. Why do men love independant women so fiercely, right up until we prove that we can indeed carry on our daily experience despite their absence? I'm not sure how my ability to take care of whatever comes up translates into not wanting/needing him around. He's gone. Things still need to be handled. I'm here. I must find a way to handle them. Period. I'm a smart girl with a good head on solid shoulders. I'm also not the type to fall apart and wring my delicate little hands at the slightest hint of a problem. I tend to take care of business and fall apart later.

Yes, the stress of being the only parent/adult does get burdensome at times. Yes, I miss him with every breath. But I can't fall apart, hide in a corner, or run screaming for the hills. I deal. And I deal the best I can, sometimes in very trying circumstances. The days get long, the nights tend to be short, and sometimes the stress builds. That's why I love it when he comes home, even if I seem grumpy.

Enough of that...for now.

Before I head off for the day's chores, just a few observances:

I discovered, in watching other play-goers on Friday night, I'm not necessarily the social misfit I often think I am. I'm a t-shirt and jeans kind of Mom. I don't wear the latest styles, the smartest shoes; I don't visit my stylist every four weeks for a trim and highlights; I don't have beautiful nails or a french pedicure. But I also don't have hair that is brown, red, and orange. Virulent orange. I don't look sloppy. I don't have a full calf-length tat of gouls and screaming demons. And I certainly don't put my body in a tight mini-skirt with a spaghetti tank that gives me uni-boob and head out in public. I look okay after all.

Despite the obvious lack of snow, people still can't find the lines in the parking lot at the grocery store and park in an orderly fashion. People, they are yellow lines. Aim for the area between them! If you have an over-sized vehicle, park at the end of the lot in two spots, DON'T park right up front and leave your ass hanging out in the driving lane three feet.

Do not tell a grumpy woman to "just start bleeding". Those are fightin' words.

Do not tell a woman who lives life surrounded by men of all ages that she is a man-hater. Just as you profess to not understanding the ways of estrogen at times, we are also struck, at times, with the inability to understand how a penis gets in the way of logical thought. We deal with you the best we can, just as you deal with us. Sometimes we can't understand, but we still have to coexist.

And finally, ladies, please, I'm begging you, just look in the mirror once in awhile before leaving the house. If you have 10 pounds of muffin top oozing out the top of your painted on jeans, it's not a good look. Mom jeans up to the eyebrows aren't any better. Just shoot for something that splits the difference.

An unexpected day off

I'm home today. Ahhh, the rest, the relaxation, the doing whatever the hell I want to do. >>SLAP<<

Wake up and smell the burnt coffee woman! I'm not home for my own leisure. I'm home because the youngest kid woke up pale as a sheet, dizzy and clammy, running for the bathroom. So much for the rest. The relaxation. The doing whatever the hell I want to do. No, I'll have plenty to do today. Not that it doesn't need done, of course. I just don't like being pushed into it.

So what am I going to do for a good portion of the day? Clean every blessed thing he might have touched in the last 24 hours.

I made the required run to the grocery store after getting him settled in. Because...well, what mom is stocked up on 7-up, jello, and fruit gushers when someone cops the stomach flu? But, I also managed to load up on some cleaning stuff.

Seriously, I needed to do a good scrub down throughout the house. And since I clean on the "want to" system, it doesn't get done as frequently as it should. Now that we've moved to the "have to" system, I discovered why I didn't "want to". I had very little in the way of cleaning supplies! What kind of wife and mother have I become? I have a 6-pack of Comet...which doesn't work at all well on hardwood floors. Pledge wipes (damn lazy is what I am) that don't work at all well on doorknobs and faucet handles. And some sort of fancy spray degreaser that hubby bought. He buys these things, but doesn't use them.

So now I have a brand new bottle of Pinesol, 2 containers of Clorox wipes, and some multi-purpose wipes. And I'm not afraid to use them. Just as soon as I finish my coffee, I really "have to" start cleaning.

Bittersweet

Today is a bittersweet day. Fifteen years ago, I greeted my first child. Bleary eyed and exhausted, I looked at him in awe. It seemed unbelievable that this cute little wonder had come from me.

However cute, he was still two weeks late and in no hurry to come out on his own. To this day, very little gets his sense of time in a huff.

Today, I saw not a cute little cherub with a gap in his front teeth and chocolate on his chin. Rather, I saw a handsome young man, taller than both his father and I, full of adolescent muscles and fuzzy facial hair. I saw a young man with a teenage strut and shoulder chip. A young man confident in having the world by the tail and the bull by the horns. A young man way short on sleep and grumpy with it. A young man who will be asking for the truck keys in only a month.

Sigh.

Just yesterday, he was climbing in my lap for a cuddle and a kiss. Today, he comes from behind to rub my shoulders and tell me to slow down.

Just yesterday, he brought his ouchies for kisses that only mom could give. Today, he takes his injuries out on the kid across the line or opposing him in the circle and wears the dripping blood as a badge of honor. The cotton wad up the nose is always a nice touch too.

Just yesterday, he greeted me with a joyous "Mommy!" Today, my "Yo, D" to catch his attention on the fly gets a "Yo Mama" in response. (And inspires a dual-sided fit of giggles!)

I'm so thankful I can still laugh and giggle with my little boy; that he hasn't outgrown me completely; that he will still tell me he loves me while on the phone from a friend's house.

Happy Birthday, young man of mine. I'm proud of you in ways you will never understand until you are a parent yourself. I love you with all my heart and am continually awestruck with the person you are becoming.

Love,
Yo Mama.