Workin' for the Weekend

Hubby just returned from a seven day business trip to India.   Since I am the primary caretaker here at home (the CEO of the BoyMommy Household, if you will . . . ) things aren't THAT different when he's gone, but knowing he's on the other side of the world and that I will not have reinforcements is a bit disconcerting.  Again, I give a humble shout-out to single moms and military wives everywhere.  

I took the boys to visit their grandparents, who live 3 hours away (and whose visit requires a stint on Interstate 95, grrrrrr,) and rushed back home on Sunday only to find out that baseball practice was cancelled.  Then school was cancelled on Monday because WINTER WILL NOT END.  EVER.  Then I had Small home with me all day Tuesday because when the public schools have a two-hour-delay, Small doesn’t have preschool at all.  During that week I also fit in a museum visit, a pediatric "well" visit, and an allergist appointment which required a prescription pick-up at the grocery store.  Of course the medicine was unavailable so I had to return to the grocery store the next day with all three of the boys . .. my absolute favorite thing in the world to do, right after bathing suit shopping and toilet plunging.

Luckily I have a girls’ weekend to look forward to, and it’s happening in 2 days!  Hubby asked where we’re going. . .

“I don't know.  Wintergreen, I think?  Or Massanutten.  I don’t know.  Someplace,” I responded, providing about as much information as he had going IN to this conversation.  I had said all along that we could go to the Super 8 on Route 1 for all I care, so really, location is arbitrary.

“When are you leaving?” he asked.  A logical question, since he will be in charge of our offspring in my absence.

Hmmm.  I shrugged.  “I’m not really sure.  Friday sometime.  3?”

Frustrated, he asked, “do you know anything?  You don’t know where you’re going or when you’re getting there.”

“I know I’m gettin’ the hell outta Dodge,” I answered. 

I NEED this weekend.  I just need a little break . . . a refresher weekend in which I can take a deep breath and regroup. 

“What are you going to do?” he asked, and I know the response he wanted was something along the lines of braid each other’s hair, make prank phone calls, and then have a pillow fight in our skivvies. 

Alas. . . “drink beer and sleep.”  The girls have already planned for adequate beer consumption, and I have notified them that if anyone wakes me at 6 AM, I will “scratch your eyeballs out with my own hands.”  I think I made my point.

I understand Hubby's concern, of course.  'Member in college, when you'd be hungover on Saturday morning, but ready to go again on Saturday night?  Not so much any more.  Now I can have two glasses of wine on a Friday night and have a headache all day Saturday, OR I can have one martini and be home and in bed by 10:30.  

Funny (well, funny NOW) story:  I went on a girls' weekend years ago, on which I had a tad too much to drink.  There was karaoke.  I can't help myself when I'm belting out Dolly Parton tunes.  When we got home from the bar, I promptly relieved my stomach of all of its contents.  I was a bit lacking in the coordination department, however.  I leaned my head forward over the bowl of the toilet just as the seat was coming down, which led to an unfortunate bruise in the middle of my forehead.  On Monday morning, I had to lie about how I got the bruise because I couldn't tell a class full of high school seniors the truth.  

Man, that was a fun weekend.

Ugh. I'm going back to bed.

The Needy McNeedersons are at it again.  Within the first half hour of being awake this morning:

• I'm hungry.
• Help me put these in the bag.
• Have you seen my wallet?
• Where's my cell project?
  

• Who drank all these beers?
• Can you put the straw in my juice box?
• I can't get the tv to work!
• I need you to update this baseball roster.
• Remember?  From the Lego Movie?
• Can you read me a book?
• Can I watch another Scooby?
• What did you do with the other bag?
• I'm thirsty.
• Can Michael and I have a sleepover?
• Watch this!
• Look!  I took your picture while you were sleeping.  

  

  Here.  I brought you batteries.
  Now do it!  Do it now!

• Can I play outside?
• Where's the remote?
• Whose underwear is this?
• I need the tunnel!
• It's Talking Tom. . . .
• The red car's not going fast enough . . . can you put some more batteries in?
• Come look at my cytoplasm!

I'm going back to bed.  Y'all can fend for yourselves.

The Value of the Dollar

Medium broke my computer.  Lucky for him,  I've done some research, and I think it's going to be a quick fix.  (For the sake of his survival, I certainly hope so since his daddy is reading about it here for the first time.)  It still works, just not to its full capacity.

I don't think Medium understands the value of a dollar.  He certainly doesn't understand the value of $3,000, which is about how much it would cost to replace my computer.

Or, I should say, he didn't understand it:

He does now.

Diary of a Wimpy Mom

Large is headed to his tour of the middle school today.  I’m not ready.  It makes my stomach hurt to think of my baby going to middle school . . . partly because I want him to remain my little boy, and partly because I remember what a freak show middle school was.

I was so awkward.  My jeans were always too short because I was growing faster than my mom wanted to go jeans shopping.  I had braces … and a haircut that could only be deemed “unfortunate” … and hairy legs because my mom wouldn’t let me shave them.  And the hormones.  Dear God, the hormones!  It was not a good time in my life. 

I don't mean to brag, but I was a size 0.  For about two weeks in 1986.

Anyhoo, this is the conversation Large and I had this morning:

Large:  I have my middle school tour today!

Me:  It makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it.  (It will be important for him to tell his future therapist that he felt guilty for growing up because of how it made his mother feel.  Totally healthy.)

Large:  Why?  I’m excited!

Me:  I want you to stay my baby forever!  I want you to stay in elementary school!

Large:  Mooooom.  I’m gonna go to college.  And meet a pretty girl.  And buy a house with her.  And have kids with her.

Me:  (look of panic.)

Large:  But Medium will still live with you.

Remind me of this conversation in 20 years when my 30-year-old middle child is living in my basement. 

It's Not Crazy if You're a Mommy

In a conversation with some fellow mommies the other day, we started discussing the importance of a child’s lovey.

You know, those stuffed animals or blankets or other unseemly-looking mementos that they cannot live without?  

They never choose to love on the item that Mom and Dad think would be just adorable – instead it’s usually some gift they received from an obscure relative or that colleague that no one really likes anyway.  The choice is completely random.

Large has a blue blanket that was part of a matching set of baseball-themed clothes and accoutrements that we got when he was first born, almost 11 years ago.  His Daddy bought the entire set because, since Large was our first child, naturally everything had to be matchy-matchy. 

(One of the many differences between the first child and the third child . . . At 3-years-old, Large was dressed in an outfit that was purchased as a set at Gymboree; I never would have let Large leave the house in the following ensemble.  With Small, I'm just happy if he's wearing pants.)

The innate problem with Large's lovey was that A: he had to have it with him at all times and B: since he always had it with him, chances of him losing it increased exponentially.

See where I’m going with this?

So here's our story:  We arrived at LaGuardia airport after trip to the DC area.  We disembarked, loaded Large into the stroller with all our carry-ons, and began our trek through the terminal.  Suddenly I realized that Large did not have his blue baseball blanket, but I knew he had had it on the flight.

“We have to go back!” I panicked, but Hubby was frustrated/grouchy/indignant/annoyed concerned that we would never find it again.  I insisted, “we have to try!”

I ran back towards the gate and found a flight attendant.  I’m sure it had been a long day of shuttling back and forth between New York and Washington, DC,  and she was exhausted, but I appealed to her maternal understanding.  Obviously annoyed, either at our forgetfulness or our indulgence of our son’s every whim, she reluctantly descended the ramp in order to look in our seat for the blanket.  I crossed my fingers and waited. 

No luck.

“I’m sorry.  It wasn’t there,” she replied.

I had a decision to make.  Do I shrug my shoulders, thank her for doing her best, and face my boy’s disappointment and inablity to fall asleep?  Or do I get all scary-Mommy, fortheloveofgod, dear woman git-yer-@ss-back-on-that-plane and find that lovey!

Guess which one I opted for?

I pulled out the big bat-sh*t crazy guns.  “Please!  You don’t understand!  This is THE blanket!  The one he HAS to have!  He’ll never fall asleep.  EVER.  AGAIN.  I’m begging you to look just one more time.  Or let ME look.  That’s it . . .  Let me back on the plane!  I’ll find it!”

This was post-9/11, so even though a misplaced lovey was indeed a matter of national security and warranted a mad-dash of summer-blockbuster-movie-starring-Will-Smith proportions, she disagreed. 

Huh.

I’m sure, somewhere throughout this process, a subtle call to security was made.  She agreed to look one more time, but assured me it was not on the plane.

I waited patiently.  Okay, so probably not patiently, but I waited like a good law-abiding citizen. 

As if in slow motion, I watched her climb the ramp one last time.  I swear I heard Celebration by Kool & the Gang.  She was holding the blanket.  That blue, ratty, disgusting, booger-encrusted blanket.

“It was stuffed in between the seats,” she smiled.  I hugged her and told her she was my hero.  It’s possible I even shed a tear.  I will be grateful to that flight attendant forever for her willingness to look just once more even though she was convinced I was CrAzY.  

Sometimes it's best to just humor me and do it my way.

The Happiest Place on Earth

The BoyMommy family just returned from a trip to Orlando.  We had a great time, but even Disney World is not perfect, despite what those television advertisements with the smiley, tan, happy family might say.  

I found myself repeating the mantra "It's the happiest place on earth.  It's the happiest place on earth.  But it's supposed to be THE HAPPIEST place on Earth!"  

Things that bug me:

1.  Families who walk 5 abreast while holding hands.  Move along, Waltons.

2.  People who stop suddenly to look at a map or to take a photo.  I will ram your ankles with my stroller.  Just FYI.

3.   The fact that we traveled to sunny Florida with shorts and t-shirts and the weather was cold, cloudy, and rainy.  Mother Nature, you are a fickle b*tch.

4.  A Photographer wants to snap your picture every 15 feet, but when you go to view the photos, only 2 of the 6 employees behind the counter are “trained” in the art of PhotoPass downloading. 

5.   People whose personal space requirements are a few cubic feet smaller than mine.  Back up; I will cut you.

6.  Grown-ups who roll their eyes when they hear a child having a meltdown.  You’re at Disney World.  There are A LOT of kids here.  One or two of them are going to miss naptime and/or stay up past their bedtime because we-paid-a-sh*tload-of-money-for-these-tickets-we’re-staying-until-closing-time-dammit.  Take a deep breath, remember that kids get cranky, and keep your eye-rolling to yourself.

7.  Seriously, Walt.  I just paid $15 out of desperation so I could rent a stroller for my exhausted preschooler . . . you can’t hook us up with a seat that reclines?

8.  I just saw that Mickey t-shirt at Target for 7 bucks.

9.   Kissy people in line.  I don’t want to have to cover my son’s eyes as you writhe against each other as if one of you is a soldier on leave.

10.   Left-side-of-the-road walkers.  I realized Disney World attracts tourists from all over and that “rules” are different in various parts of the world.  But when you are the only one walking against a throng of people going in the other direction, move out' the way.