We were unable to attend new parent orientation at Lily and Arden’s preschool last week due to Lois’ graduation, so I had a “makeup” day for Arden this afternoon at 4.30.  The idea is that you allow your child to explore their new room and teachers before dropping them off into a vat of unfamiliarity on September 5th.  I dutifully left work at 10 to 4, hauled over to Judi’s, and picked up Arden.  When I pulled up to the preschool, I immediately knew something was not right.  Could it have been the babies, being wheeled across the parking lot in their cribs?  Or the three fire trucks? One of those subtle signs tipped me off that things were amiss.  I asked what was going on, and Ms. Joyce told me that something had burned in the oven of dining car and everyone was evacuated until the fire department could clear the building.

I dragged Arden through the back until I spotted her future classmates. Unfortunately, Lily also spotted me - they were all lined up against the fence looking discombobulated and a little nervous.  It was close to 92 degrees out and humid, of course (I’m surprised we don’t all have mold growing on our bodies from living in this greenhouse called Richmond).  I decided that I was already there and how long could it take, really, before they’d let us all back into the building? 

Arden played on the playground and dug in the sandbox, and 40 minutes later, I’d burned through her patience, Lily’s tolerance of me “ignoring” her (because I had to keep a close watch on Arden), and my Sure deodorant.  The all-school picnic and art show was tonight at the preschool, and Lily realized that we weren’t going.  The truth as to why we didn’t go:  Mike took one look at the ticket prices for a family, uttered some choice cuss words, and said “no”.  I kind of agreed, though I’m much more apt to be shamed into doing things because it seems like the right thing to do.  Lily figured out that we weren’t going, but most of her class was, and she completely lost it.  “I WANT TO STAY WITH MY FRIENDS!  WHY AREN’T WE GOING TO DA PICANIK???”  Great.  The whole school population was staring at me, dragging both children behind me, like I had active leprosy.  I wanted to yell, “It’s MIKE’S FAULT, DAMMIT!  I would totally be here with my Ukrops packaged dessert in hand!” 

The long and short of it was that I left work an hour early, spent an hour on a steamy playground, pissed off both of my children, didn’t “facilitate acclimation” for Arden to the red room, and blew off a big warm fuzzy family evening at my children’s school.  Fabulous.

Mike and I had previously agreed that I would go to Wal-Mart as soon as he got home so I could stock up on groceries and prepare for a housewarming/wine tasting we are having Thursday.  Since it was already 5.25 and I was right near his office (which, by the way, is right near Wal-Mart), I called him, thinking I’d drop the girls off and head straight to the store.  I got him on the phone and told him all about the excitement, and then suggested I drop the girls off.  “No,” he said, quite firmly.  “No?”  I said, quite irritated.  “Just go home so I can come home at my normal time. It’s only 5.25 and I’ll just meet you there.”

“Normal” time for Mike to be home is around 6 ish.  He normally leaves work around 5.45.  So what I was asking was, “Can I drop the girls off 15-20 minutes earlier than usual so I can just go to Hell-Mart, get it over with, then drink heavily and slash my wrists from an entirely unproductive afternoon?”  He knew exactly what I was saying, but he wanted that extra time to get work done.  While I admire him for his dedication and unflinching love affair with the billable hour, I was also super PO’d because I hadn’t just WASTED 15 minutes; I’d wasted nearly TWO HOURS.  Yep, I was steaming. 

Lily then pelted me with questions the whole way home.  “Mommy, are you buying a red cake for grampa?”  (his birthday is tomorrow). And “Mommy, will grampa be 4 tomorrow?”  And, “Why can’t you bake a red cake for grampa, Mommy?” And, “Why are you honking your horn at that man, Mommy?”  I’m surprised she didn’t say, “Mommy, why are you pointing your middle finger at that woman there?  And what’s an asswipe, Mommy?” 

Ah well, tomorrow’s another day.  The Zoloft is kicking in and the bedroom is painted.  Much as I gripe about Mikey and his co-dependent relationship with his career (I have one as well), he’s a good boy.  Who the hell else would paint 3 nights in a row until 10 pm?  And who else would let his wife paint their bedroom . . . .drumroll please . . . . LAVENDER?

It wasn’t like I was in the running for the Mother of the Year 2006 award, but I really blew it when we returned from the Outer Banks.  I left my razor on top of my cosmetic bag in the bathroom, and while I wasn’t looking (I was downstairs - Mike was doing his morning deed in the bathroom), Arden decided to stroke it with her sensitive fingers. Next thing I know, Mike is running to the kid’s bathroom with a bleeding and crying Arden.  I think the razor was so sharp (it has to be to remove MY leg hair) she couldn’t really feel it, but she had cut a large slice out of her index finger and was bleeding profusely.  She only cried when Mike was putting the bandage on her.  I felt bad - really bad.  From now on the razors are safely stored in the shower.  I nearly passed out when I had to clean it, however, as there was dried Arden blood all over it.  Me and blood don’t get along too well. 

I caught Arden’s cold that she picked up during vacation - only mine turned into a sinus/respiratory infection.  I feel like a big giant turd.  I also got weighed at the doctor’s office today and that was enough to send me over the edge into insanity.  I decided, as I sat on the edge of the exam table, that I was done with being fat.  I’m not really sure how I’m done with it, but I felt something inside me snap a bit.  Last time I felt this way was before our wedding and I went totally insane on the dieting.  I am hopeful that I can approach it more moderately and respect the fact that these hips have birthed two children and might never be the same again.  Okay, they WILL never be the same again.  I look at other mothers - the ones Jennifer describes, during pregnancy, as olives on a toothpick, and realize that they will probably be the same again.  I was never an olive on a toothpick, so I definitely can’t hope for that. 

There is a lot of panic and anxiety about work right now.  We picked a bad month to start a new mortgage payment.  My Quickbooks says that historically August is a slow month.  Unfortunately, I really can’t have any slow months at all in order for us to pay the mortgage AND eat, so I am constantly fretting over needing more business and billable work.  I should take my own advice and do some marketing planning during the downtimes, or network, or get out on the street with a tin cup and beg.  Being paralyzed by fear is not a good thing to experience when it is up to me to feed myself.  Jennifer thankfully is staying calm and positive and focused, but she also got a nice big fat paycheck today. 

On the way home from school tonight, Lily asked me if I’d like for her to be the sun.  She had drawn a picture of the sun and some stars and was holding it during the car ride.  I told her that would be cool, but she’d be hard to hug.  She answered, “Mommy, I’ll just be Lily, cuz I need my mommy to hug me and cuddle me at night.”  I told her that was a great idea.  It’s nice to be loved and wanted. 

Let’s face it - I can be vindictive, and gleeful at other people’s misery - especially if I don’t like you.  I have moments of being, as Lily calls it, entirely “thumbs down”.  So if you are out there in internet-land, laughing at our moving and renovation hell, that’s okay. I’d laugh too.  According to a story NPR did on the housing market, we live in a McMansion now, in the way western suburbs, and we both drive Volvos.  We deserve to be ridiculed.  I’d ridicule us if I wasn’t one half of the aforementioned “us”. 

It took us nearly 2 1/2 hours to install a toilet paper holder, towel bar, and light fixture.  Additionally, Mike is unhappy with the way I installed the light fixture.  The faux painter who did the half bathroom for the previous owners apparently didn’t feel that painting behind the fixtures was important, so now one of the few rooms we hadn’t planned on painting must be painted, and painted soon. There are gaping holes I’ve filled poorly with spackling, and large white blocks on the wall where the previous fixtures were.  I was hoping that finishing off one room might give me a sense of accomplishment, but really all it did was create more work. 

The other night, I tried THREE different projects that I felt I could handle on my own without saying “Dad . . . Mike . . . ” in the process.  However, each one of the three proved more difficult than I thought, including the toilet paper roll.  As soon as I read the sentence “Measure in a vertical line from the 2 1/4” pencil mark (see step 3) 17/32” and draw a horizontal line”, I knew I was finished.  I couldn’t even pronounce that measurement, let alone know how to actually measure it. 

I did manage to clear out a chunk of the garage, enough to fit one car in there, and didn’t even scream when a very large, very unfriendly-looking arachnid sprinted across my bare toes (insert hurling sound of vomit here). 

The girls were also interesting last night, to say the least.  I hate it when I lose my cool and start screaming back, but sometimes I just can’t help it.  I’m better with Arden than Lily. For some reason Lily’s screams and protests are so much worse than Arden’s, basically because Lily can articulate her issues and Arden can’t, and when she choses not to, it really aggravates me.  The dumbest things can set off a temper tantrum that would rank a category 5 on the hurricane scale.  Last night it was getting in the tub with a scrape she received in school (so it wasn’t still painful after all that time).  I made her let me wash it out and that was the end of everything.  Screaming, yelling, flailing - you’d think I was trying to cut her leg off or something.  Dad tried to rescue her as I was near the point of pitching her out the window.  I went in and cuddled Arden instead, even though lately she’s been worse than Lily.  She’s 40 times more willful and independent than Lily, and those who know Lily should know that she was fairly willful and independent at Arden’s age.  If she doesn’t get her way or we don’t allow her to do something she wants (like run with toothpicks), she throws herself face down on whatever floor she’s on and starts screaming at a Spinal Tap Volume of 11.  They were both having simultaneous fits last night, and I looked around and wondered what drug I took in college that caused me to choose this life.  Then I had a moment of peace with Arden and my overwhelming love for the children returned.  Or something like that. 

So go ahead and laugh, and tell me we deserve it for getting out of our smaller, more reasonable house, that we had just spent three years improving, painting, gutting, renovating, and fixing.  Tell me people who live in Western Henrico deserve to have their moves cancelled at the last minute, their Volvos dented by Ukrops shopping carts, and their budget blown out of the water by a variety of problems the home inspector missed (like all that water leaking on the powder room floor and the black wood rot).  I’m laughing with you in spirit.  I really am. 

Judi sent this funny email out today, which I had to copy here, because it goes hand in hand with my story of the day. 

The Birth Order of Children:

Your Clothes:

1st baby: You begin wearing maternity clothes as soon as your OB/GYN confirms your pregnancy.
2nd baby: You wear your regular clothes for as long as possible.
3rd baby: Your maternity clothes ARE your regular clothes.
_______________________________________________
Preparing for the Birth:

1st baby: You practice your breathing religiously.
2nd baby: You don’t bother because you remember that last time, breathing didn’t do a thing.
3rd baby: You ask for an epidural in your eighth month.
_______________________________________________
The Layette:

1st baby: You pre-wash newborn’s clothes, color-coordinate them, and fold them neatly in the baby’s little bureau.
2nd baby: You check to make sure that the clothes are clean and discard only the ones with the darkest stains.
3rd baby: Boys can wear pink, can’t they?
_______________________________________________
Worries:

1st baby: At the first sign of distress-a whimper, a frown-you pick up the baby.
2nd baby: You pick the baby up when her wails threaten to wake your firstborn.
3rd baby: You teach your three-year-old how to rewind the mechanical swing.
_______________________________________________
Pacifier:

1st baby: If the pacifier falls on the floor, you ! put it away until you can go home and wash and boil it.
2nd baby: When the pacifier falls on the floor, you squirt it off with some juice from the baby’s bottle.
3rd baby: You wipe it off on your shirt and pop it back in.
_______________________________________________
Diapering:

1st baby: You change your baby’s diapers every hour, whether they need it or not.
2nd baby: You change their diaper every two to three hours, if needed.
3rd baby: You try to change their diaper before others start to complain about the smell or you see it sagging to their knees.
_______________________________________________
Activities:

1st baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics, Baby Swing, and Baby Story Hour.
2nd baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics.
3rd baby: You take your infant to the supermarket and the dry cleaner.
_______________________________________________
Going Out:

1st baby: The first time you leave your baby with a sitter, you call home five times.
2nd baby: Just before you walk out the door, you remember to leave a number where you can be reached.
3rd baby: You leave instructions for the sitter to call only if she sees blood.
_______________________________________________
At Home:
1st baby: You spend a good bit of every day just gazing at the baby.
2nd baby: You spend a bit of everyday watching to be sure your older child isn’t squeezing, poking, or hitting the baby.
3rd baby: You spend a little bit of every day hiding from the children.
_______________________________________________
Swallowing Coins:

1st child: When first child swallows a coin, you rush the child to the hospital and demand x-rays.
2nd child: When second child swallows a coin, you carefully watch for the coin to pass.
3rd child: When third child swallows a coin you deduct it from his allowance!

_______________________________________________

In my case, I should have something like this:

Immunizations:

1st child:  Religiously schedule immunization appointments 6 months in advance.  Spend hours of time on the internet researching the potential side effects or future repercussions of said immunizations.  Remember 30 minutes prior to appointment to spread LMX on injection sites so the pain will be lessened.  Take rest of day off to be with child for comfort and fun.

2nd child:  Forget entirely about immunizations.  There’s a 15 month checkup?  An 18 month checkup?  Call randomly to pediatrician’s office for another reason at 20 months only to realize you’re behind by 2 check ups.  Panic and schedule a combination appointment and feel horribly guilty about it.  Realize that you’ve packed the LMX and you have meetings all day of the checkup. 

3rd child:  In a moment of great clarity you realize you are already failing at raising 2.  Send husband for vasectomy.  End of story. 

I realized tonight as I sweated and tried not to curse that hell on earth was currently cruising in the shape of a Volvo wagon down West Broad Street.  Inside the car, trapped within the heated panes of glass, was Damien the Screaming 3 Year Old, the 666 on her scalp pulsing and throbbing as she screamed in increasingly loud and frantic bursts, followed by the usual chantings of “HOLD ME HOLD HOLD HOLD ME MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY . . . AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

I had already had a long day that I began early this morning in an effort to learn something new.  I attended the Legal Marketing Association monthly meeting in Norfolk with Jennifer - the speaker was amazing and validated all the things we’ve been trying to teach our clients for the last few years.  I did indeed learn a lot today, including how far behind I am in my reading and exposure to new thoughts and ideas.  Side note - remember the days of college when you basically spent your days exposing your brain to new ideas and ways of thinking?  Yeah, those were the days.  That was around the last time I felt really intelligent, like I had something to say, and would have been an interesting person to converse with.  These days, I am a fount of information on lactation, marketing for professionals, and potty training.  How the mighty fall.  But I do digress . . .

Jennifer had a difficult morning and as she recounted life with children and a career, I realized how amazing it is that all of us mommy-folk balance an amazing amount of shite on our plates.  We really do.  Stay at home, working, whatever - it’s all a lot to manage. Seems like there should be more moments of insanity or nervous breakdowns, but most of my friends are doing just fine.  Some of them even make it look easy.

I called Mike from the girls’ preschool with the brilliant idea to meet him for dinner. I was tired, hungry, really hot (I REALLY DESPISE RICHMOND IN THE SUMMER - the all-mighty creator obviously had a bug up his butt or some Southerner really pissed him off, because the humidity and oppressive heat here really isn’t necessary), and just needing a break from going home to look at the mess we are living with.  A side note again:  seems like every time I try to eat out with Mike and the girlz, chaos ensues, and Mike glares at me from across the table, occasionally muttering “Wow.  This is SO MUCH FUN. I LOVE having dinner with the girls.”  Me, the eternal optimist, thinks everything will be fine. 

Tonight was the usual - dinner with the girls, one always crabby, the other not.  Tonight Arden was having hissy fits because she wanted to do EVERYTHING herself (I’m using a lot of capital letters, but it was that kind of EVENING).  Feed herself, drink her own milk, everything.  That’s great, but she really doesn’t have the whole utensil-scraping-food-into-the-mouth thing downpat, and would get really hyper when she couldn’t shovel the food in fast enough.  Temper tantrums ensued, followed by a lot of eye-rolling and sighing from Mike, and me wanting to put my ever-optimistic head down on the table and just give up . . . relegate ourselves to a life of dinners at home where the dog can lick up the mess from the floor. 

Lily was pretty good except for using the booth as a trampoline and talking in a very loud, very un-indoor voice, and telling me that the word Rainbow started with an “s” instead of “r”.  I really hate those conversations.  She asks me to help her with the alphabet, which I do, and then she argues incessantly with me about how wrong I am.  Okay WHATEVER.  FINE.  You win.  Just stop talking to me. 

The real fun began when we left the restaurant.  Arden went with Mike in the “red car” and Lily came with me, as usual.  She asked me for her stuffed ducky, which I dutifully handed her.  I got in the car, started the engine, and she asked me for the “other ducky” (Arden has one too).  I looked briefly for it while holding up traffic in the parking lot, couldn’t find it, and told her I’d look when I got home.  That was all it took.  Damien took over Lily’s body and the screaming and kicking ensued.  At one point I decided to try to remove the duck she had from her as punishment for being a huge turd, telling her in my calm, Dr. Phil-like voice that I was not going to tolerate her behavior.  She got smart and SAT on the duck.  I nearly crashed the car in my fury and steely resolve to remove the duck from her posterior.  Success . . . at a red light.  More screaming, kicking, and eventually, shrieking followed by hiccuping, snot trails, burping and nearly puking from being so mad.  I lost it about 1 mile from our house.  I hit play on the old Ipod, cranked the music as loud as my ears could tolerate (not even CARING for ONE MINUTE what kind of permanent hearing damage I inflicted on Lily) and started maniacally singing along so that I couldn’t hear the wretched satanic sounds issuing from the back seat.  That made her cry harder, which gave me a combo guilt/pleasure emotion. 

At home, I calmly closed the car doors, thanking Volvo again profusely for their well-made, soundproofed automobiles.  I could barely hear her!  Bliss!  Heaven!  I walked to the mailbox, browsed through the junk mail, meandered back to her door, and asked her to get out.  Mike offered to take her, but I was feeling calm and triumphant. I’d only raised my voice once. 

Upstairs the screaming continued.  She was now mad about the lack of Ducky #2 and the fact that I refused to “CARRY CARRY CARRY ME MAMAAAAAAA”.  Then I tried to undress her for the bath, which caused another fit because she wanted to do it.  I finally became the anti-Dr.Phil and screamed, “THEN JUST DO IT!!! I’VE HAD IT!!!”  (Note to self:  screaming at Lily doesn’t help, at all, but man, at the time, it sure feels good)

Eventually I stripped her while she kicked and screamed, put her in the tub, and washed her.  After the bath, she calmed down, and I held her until she stopped crying and we had a rational, calm discussion about how her behavior is unacceptable, and that because of her 30 minute scream-fest, she would lose story priviledges for the night.  It set off another set of waterworks, but I held firm and told her that she would learn the hard way that the tantrums don’t work and there were going to be consistent repercussions if she kept it up.  As I put her to bed, she gazed into my eyes and said softly, “Mommy, PLEASE read me a story,” complete with quivering lip.  NO!  My Inner Disciplinarian shouted.  DO NOT GIVE IN TO THE DARK SIDE!  I explained equally softly, minus quivering lip, that it hurt me not to be able to read to her - that I love to read to her in bed - but that she had blown her chance and tomorrow was a new day, and a new chance to get through the day without the demon possession. 

I’m not proud of the music-blasting episode (and I subjected her to the Pixies, no less) and I’m not proud of the screaming fit I had, in which I threw her shirt at her and stormed out of the room.  I am proud that Mike and I stood firm and didn’t give in.  I’m also totally freakin’ exhausted and for tonight, wish that I had no children, especially a 19 month old who is teething, crabby as all hell, and ridiculously independent, along with a 3 1/2 year old who is as stubborn and willfull as me, and very articulate about her needs, no matter how crazy they may be.

And yes, yes, yes, I love them interminably.  They are my life, my humor, the stuff that makes life living and worthwhile.  That doesn’t mean that on days like today I don’t wish for a vacation from parenthood, or a very strong painkiller that renders me speechless, thoughtless, and very, very sleepy.