Disney, part 2

We arrived in Orlando and boarded our Disney bus to the resort.  I was a little worried about the hotel because it was listed as a "Value Resort." 

I will admit it.  I have become a hotel snob.  I think it comes from watching too many exposé episodes of Dateline . . . you know the ones with the undercover hotel guest who is armed with a black light and the ability to find peep holes (because apparently all current hotel employees were once cast members in the 1980’s movie Meatballs.)  I travel with my own blanket because I can’t stand the thought of hotel blankets touching my face, and I pack socks because I don’t like my bare feet touching the floor.

We decided, since our visit to Disney World would be short, that in order to max out our time, we would stay on a Disney property.  Hubby, the money-conscious CPA, chose a hotel listed in the Value category. 

I'm thinking something along the lines of an Econo Lodge.  Um, hello! . . . it's not prom night circa 1990!  

Personally, I would have gone with the Luxury level, but I wasn’t paying the bill.

I am happy to report that the Value resort was perfect . . . every child had his own bed (be it sofa bed or cot,) we had a kitchenette with a fridge, and there were two bathrooms (one for Mommy and one for, well, everyone else.)  Girls only.  Keep out.

And the restaurant served beer.  You know what takes the edge off after a long day at the Most Magical Place on Earth? 

A six-pack o’ Miller Lite.

We had pre-purchased our tickets to the park, and Hubby was determined that we were going to get our money’s worth.  This can be translated as follows: we are going to arrive at the park so that we are the first people in line and we aren’t leaving until Mickey himself kicks us out.  Day one was great . . . no major meltdowns.  None of the kids melted down either.  Mommy only got mad at Daddy one time, and that was when he left us at the lunch table so he could set up a chair near an outlet elsewhere, ostensibly so that he could charge his phone though what he was really doing was watching the play-by-play of the baseball game.  Everyone had a great time and we were all ready to go back for another day of overpriced magic. 

Here we are!!!

We misread the schedule on day two, however.  After spending all day at the park the day before, we woke at 6 am so that we could catch the shuttle bus over to the park.  We were TOTALLY first in line!  . . . because the park didn’t open at 8 am; it opened at 9.  We spent two coffeeless hours waiting for the turnstiles to open.  By 10 pm when the boys were dragging their feet, my legs were sore, and I was cranky could barely keep my eyes open, Hubby decided we were going to ride just a few more rides . . . you know, to max out our time.  We caught the shuttle back to the hotel after midnight.  

We were all exhausted and irritable the next day, which was when the boys and I were scheduled to fly home.  We made our way to the airport with all our luggage and our souvenirs.  After a leisurely lunch, we settled into a sitting area in the Orlando airport to wait the remaining 2 hours until our flight.  Hubby booted up his computer while the boys played on the iPad. 

Demons must have possessed his body for a moment, because no one who is married to me would have asked the following:

“Do you need me for anything?  Do you mind if I head back to the hotel so I can get started on some work?”

I could have responded with a sweet but-I-like-spending-time-with-you or honey-I-could-really-use-your-help or something equally as saccharine.  But, you see, his innocent question was about to make me batsh*t crazy.  “YES.  I.  mind.  Would YOU sit with three exhausted children in a strange airport for two hours by yourself?”

So no, he did not go back to the hotel to get started on work.

Misery loves company, motherf*cker.

When the time finally arrived for Hubby to gain his freedom us to head to our flight, we were sent through a family-friendly security line.  This is gonna be a breeze, I thought. 

We arrived at our gate and I once again discovered that we would be boarding with Group 7.  Super.  There were literally 3 people who boarded after us.  Heaven forbid they take pity on the haggard-looking mom with the three hyper children.  Sure enough, just as they called for Group 7, Small took off running.  I dropped the stroller, which I was carrying over my shoulder, my purse, and a carry-on and told Medium and Large to stay right where they were.  I went running after Small, and of course, Medium and Large ran with me, running in circles and giggling at the sight of Mommy, all persweaty and bouncing through the airport after a wayward toddler. 

Thanks for spending $7 so I could nap the entire flight!

Sigh. 

We finally boarded the plane.  I noticed this plane was equipped with televisions on the back of every seat, and for the low, low price of $7 each, all three of my boys could watch tv.  Hubby would never allow that.  Seven dollars each?  That’s a rip off! 

Guess what?  I swiped my credit card.  Three times. 

Swipe.  Swipe.  Swipe.  Best $21 bucks I ever spent.   

My Day as a Fat Audrey Hepburn

Recently, some girlfriends staged a cardigan intervention.  Let it be known that one of my girlfriends is spreading a nasty rumor that I have 30 cardigans.  NOT true.  I had 27 at last count.  Just to be clear, I consider any sweater with an open front a cardigan.  So yes, I have the button-up cardigans from Lands’ End, but I also have some sassy flowy cardigans from Lands’ End. 

Anyhoo, in light of our recent conversation, I decided maybe I should break out of my jeans habit.  I have ALWAYS worn jeans.  When I feel like dressing up I wear khakis.  And a cardigan.  I broke out of my comfort zone and made two significant purchases: jeggings and black leggings.  For those of you who are not in the know jeggings are jean-leggings.  

Jeggings = good.  Jorts = bad. 

I had a little fashion show for my Happy Hour neighbor, who is quite the fashionista.  And by fashionista, I mean she hardly ever wears jeans.  She gave me some pointers on how to wear my jeggings (with boots because they’re a tad short) and my leggings (with either boots or flats.)  Yesterday I got all crazy and wore my black leggings with a long cable cardigan.  Tres cute, at least from the front.  I have no idea about the back, so perhaps I should just issue a blanket apology to anyone who may have found themselves unwittingly walking behind me. 

I looked JUST like Audrey Hepburn!

If Audrey Hepburn bought her leggings at Old Navy, her shirt at Target, and her ballet flats at PayLess.  And she also had humidity-induced frizzy hair and, to borrow a line from Steel Magnolias, it looked like “two pigs fightin’ under a blanket” when she took her sweater off.  EXACTLY like her.   

Summer "Vacation" - DAY 1

Summer “Vacation” has arrived.  I have taken some artistic liberties with the timeline, but all of the following have occurred at some point during the first 4 days of summer break.

DAY 1

7:44 AM – kids wake up.  Even though I have to rouse them from catatonic slumber on school days, today they are ready to go, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

8:07 AM – I am told that I “can’t be on WipeOut because small people do better.”

8:32 AM – the very first “What are we gonna do today?” of summer vacation. 

8:40 AM – “What are we gonna do today?”

9:07 AM – “What are we gonna do today?”

9:08 AM – Mommy threatens to take away a quarter for every time Large asks, “what are we gonna do today?”

9:11 AM – Large: “I’m just so anxious about what we’re gonna do today!”

9:31 AM – “So what are we gonna do?  Just sit in the house all day?”  (Someone’s getting sassy!)

9:38 AM – Lesson of the Day:  when the toilet is clogged with toilet paper that Small has stuffed in the bowl, for the love o’ pete, don’t poop on top of it. 

9:43 AM – Addendum to Lesson of the Day: don’t leave the bathroom door open, which will allow for Small to throw two Rice Krispie Treats and a pair of Crocs into the toilet. 

10:00 AM - Mommy:  “Can you get off the table, please?”  

10:16 AM – It’s Albert Pujols; not Albert Poopholes.  But Poopholes is much funnier.

10:32 AM – picture frame mysteriously falls from wall, throwing Mommy’s prized Gallery Wall off balance.  I become aware of this when Medium sheepishly announces, “Um, I have something to tell you, and I’m gonna be in BIG trouble.”  This never ends well.  

10:58 AM – restart WipeOut, so we can watch it AGAIN.

11:14 AM – Medium: “Did you know that Justin Beiber sings 'Eenie Meenie Miney Moe'?  And so does his best friend Utcher.”

11:20 AM – I know!  Let’s go to Target!  There’s a Starbucks there!

11:38 AM – “(Gasp!)  Mom!  Oh, never mind.  I thought that was Miss K’s car.”  Because we ALWAYS see K at Target. 

11:45 AM – Large: “EXTRA Large?”  Um, can we refrain from commenting, please?

1:00 PM – Blessed Nap Time for Small.  Find something quiet to do. 

1:07 PM – see neighbor boys outside with their mom, who is taking them to the tennis courts, and they want to know, can Large and Medium come?  Gee, I just put Small down for a nap . . . “I can take them,” says neighbor mom.  Well-played, Boy Mommy.  Well-played. 

1:08 PM – After admonitions to use their best manners, be good listeners, etc., Mommy sits on couch to catch up on the world news.  (Afghanistan?  Midwest Flooding?  The upcoming Presidential Race?)  And also, Real Housewives of New Jersey.

2:00 PM – they’re back.

2:14 PM - Overheard from basement: “Whoa.  It’s a good thing you were wearing a helmet.”

2:36 PM - Medium: “Is Pluto just a really small planet, or is it big but just really far away?”  F*ck if I know, kid.

2:53 PM – “Mom!  Come see!  There’s ants in here and they’re eating a dead fly!”

3:00 PM – Small wakes up from nap.

3:06 PM - Large:  “Mom.  Small has a runny nose.  Can you do something?”

3:07 PM – Medium begins doing laps around the kitchen and living room on the Ride-On vehicle intended for the baby and complete with a set of headphones.  At last count, he was on lap 75.  He’s perfectly content.  

4:00 PM – Know what time it is?  It’s Happy Hour!  We’re just gonna have one glass.

4:23 PM - Mommy:  “No, I don’t want to do Easy Bake right now.  Mommy’s busy.”

5:00 PM – kicked the bottle.

5:13 PM – Daddy’s home early!  Takes the kids out.  Somewhere.  Not sure where, but when they return, they’re singing . . .

7:20 PM – “I like big butts and I cannot lie.  You otha brothas can’t deny.  When a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in yo’ face you get SPRUNG!”  Super.

8:00 PM – While cleaning up bath toys, I notice equivalent of a cup of sediment in a ring around the bottom of our bathtub.  A sure sign of a good day!

Virtues I do NOT have.

Getting ready for church is no small feat in our house.  First of all, everyone needs to be clean.  At the same time.  In the spirit of portraying ourselves as something we generally are not, we like to show up at church freshly bathed and wearing clean clothes, looking like a wholesome, All-American family.  Occurrences of all five of us being bathed and cleanly dressed all at the same time are rare.  The boys usually bathe at night.  Small gets a Bio-Hazard Bath when he has a particularly eventful day in the diaper department, and then sporadically throughout the week.  Mommy showers sometimes.  But on Sundays, we all bathe or shower before church.

Bio-Hazard Bath . . . straight to the sink; do not pass GO.

Hubby had to go in to the office today, so the arduous task of getting everyone ready for church was left solely to me.  We needed to be at church and in Sunday School class at 9:45.  Naturally the process began at 6:45.  Small had an eventful morning – see reference above.  I stuck him in the bath first.  Large came into the bathroom when he heard all the splashing and general fun-having, so I got Small out and ran a bubble bath for Large and Medium.  Honestly, getting them ready for church was a breeze.  They bathed without splashing, dressed themselves for church, and met me downstairs for a hearty breakfast of cold cereal and gummy vitamins. 

The hard part of getting ready for church is ME.  I got everyone settled and preoccupied so I could have a few minutes of alone time to get ready.  I just colored my hair on Friday night, because I’m a party animal like that.  (Doug walked in to the bathroom and saw this: me, still dressed at 8:30 pm in my workout capris and tank top left over from the yoga class I took at 8:30 that morning, with my hair parted dramatically at 20/80 and slathered in an orangey paste.  I winked and asked him if he wanted to “hit this.”  He immediately announced that he needed a beer and took off for a friend’s house.)  Because this morning was a wash-my-hair day, my legs look like shag carpeting. 

My biggest challenge came when I put on my stockings.  I know, who wears stockings anymore?  (And who says stockings?  Well, ME, because I hate the word pantyhose.)  I decided to wear stockings this morning because my legs are so white (and hairy) that I really felt it is what God would want me to do when visiting His House.  Putting on stockings is like stuffing a sausage, and it looks just as sexy.  As usual, I stuck my thumb through the material as I was attempting to stuff that last bit of fat leg into the reinforced panty part.  I could almost hear the little threads of fabric screaming for dear life . . . “Must!  Hold!  On!  Just!  Stretch! A Little!  More!”  Nevertheless, I continued inserting my wobbly bits into the stockings and reminded myself that when I am making my weekly prayer for patience perhaps I should also pray that the hole doesn’t visibly extend below the hem of my skirt before the service is over. 

We made it to church on time, and I was able to offer my silent apologies for being so cranky last week, and AGAIN to ask for patience with myself and my family.  So I’m gonna put his out in the Universe - these are the virtues with which I need help, in no particular order:

1. the Willpower to put down the Thin Mints, for the love o’ pete.
2. a little Solitude.  Just a little.  Even just using the potty without an audience will suffice.
3. Humility when I know that chick in the convertible BMW is checkin’ out my Swagga Wagon.  Because I got it goin' on!
4. enough Patience to not get frustrated when Medium says, “um, I think I forgot to wear underwear.”
5. the Fortitude to build a strong army, even though I always get stuck with the tan guys, who are seriously outnumbered by Medium’s green guys.
6. Frugality until my replacement Starbucks gold card arrives in the mail.  Currently I’m paying cash for my caffeinated goodness.  What are we, cave men?
7. Common Sense.  If you found your yoga mat to be directly behind Cap’n Balsac (he of loose shorts and increased flexibility,) you’d move, right?  Me?  Halfway through the class before I realize my mistake. . . .
8. Sobriety.  At least until next Friday at 3:30 or so, when my girlfriend comes home from work so we can go to our Happy Place.
9. Vitality, especially at 6:45 a.m., and preferably in the form of coffee.
10. Modesty.  I’ve been told I could use some.

It seems I have plenty to work on this week.

Worst. Mommy. Ever.

I am in the midst of one of those Worst Mommy Ever months.  Hubby has been busy with late meetings and travel, so it’s just been me and the boys.  I feel like a Military Wife, and lord knows I was NOT cut out for that.  The Military Wife is a special breed.  I am a Husband Comes Home Every Night kind of wife.  Even though he works late a lot and I end up doing the dinner/homework/bath/bedtime fight (known as the Witching Hour) by myself most nights, it’s nice to know he’s coming home.

For the past three weeks, I have been doing the Single Parent thing.  There are some advantages – I can eat cereal for dinner, there’s 1/5 less laundry to do, and I don’t have to watch any sports.  But that’s about it.  It’s tough to go through the day knowing that reinforcements are not coming.  I feel like I’ve been left behind in the battlefield, bleeding and clinging to life.  Except instead of blood there’s just a lot of bodily secretions, and instead of shrapnel I keep finding soggy cheerios stuck to my shirt.

The worst of it was last Friday.  The boys are generally pretty tired by the time Friday arrives, which means that behavior gets worse and the mood around the house can best be described as tempestuous.  I, however, look forward to Happy Hour with my neighbor, a working mom who calls me on her way home so I can get the mommy juice chilled so we can go to our happy place.  The kids burn some energy outside while we sip a glass of wine on the front step.  The weather was nice and many neighborhood kids were out, so we made our way down the street to socialize. 

Except Medium had other ideas.  All the kids were playing together nicely, and then WE stumbled onto the scene and made our presence known.  Medium is zero to 60, and sometimes if things don’t go his way, he goes straight into tantrum mode with little to no warning.  He lost it.  There was kicking.  There was screaming.  There was talking back.  And somehow I have bruises on my legs from a certain Razor Scooter.  This all happened in front of the neighbors; I was mor-ti-fied. 

When I see other mommies trying to deal with a challenging child, I always think to myself that I know how she feels because girlfriend, I have been there!  But when it happens to me, I feel like I am the worst mommy ever.  I can’t “control” my child and every Judgy McJudgerson is looking down her nose at me.  I realize this probably isn’t the case, but that’s how it FEELS. 

I feel like I mention Medium a lot in my blog because when it comes to discipline and behavior, he is my most challenging child.  I worry that I have created this situation because he is the middle child.  I try so hard not to compare him to Large because they are two very different children and they have very different strengths.  I CAN'T treat them the same way.  I can tell Large something once, and for the most part, he listens.  Medium needs to look me in the eye and repeat back what I’ve asked him to do or else I know it hasn’t registered. 

"Here kids, watch the Electronic Babysitter
while Mommy "cleans the oven."

The funny thing is, after I wrote the blog where I mentioned Alpha Mom, one of my sisters-in-law said that she considers ME to be an Alpha Mom.  It would appear that I, myself, am a Judgy McJudgerson.  My personal feeling is that when one has a child who has peed in the trashcan NEXT to the toilet, presumably for target practice, one is automatically precluded from being an Alpha Mom, but I suppose it’s all about perception.  I think that I am guilty of perpetuating the idea that I have it all together.  (or perhaps NOT.) 

The truth is, EVERY day is a struggle.  I feel like a failure more often than not because my children are not perfect.  They misbehave and throw temper tantrums (on the way to the bus stop at 7 in the morning) and don’t always use their manners.  It is MY responsibility to teach them how to navigate through life and when they aren’t perfect I feel like it’s a reflection of me and my failure as a parent.  Intellectually I know I am not alone in feeling this way, and yet it’s very isolating on an emotional level. 

Being a mother is such a precarious job because so much of it is dependent on how your charges behave.  Exhibit A: On Friday, we already had plans to go to Bingo at school.  Ideally, I could have stayed home with Jack as a consequence of his tantrum and Hubby could have taken Large to Bingo.  With Hubby out of town, I had to decide whether or not I wanted to stay home and punish Large by not taking him to Bingo, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong, or risk "rewarding" Medium's behavior.  I actually overheard Large coaching Medium, who was refusing to go to his room, “Mommy’s really mad.  Now go tell her you’re sorry and go to your room so we can go to Bingo!”  After everyone had calmed down, we had a little chat about Mommy’s expectations.  It should be noted that Medium had a tantrum last year when he didn’t win Bingo because at 4-years-old, he didn’t understand his odds.  Which is why we don’t take him to Vegas. 

So we went to Bingo after I explained that if ANYone had a tantrum, we were sooooo leaving.  My expectations for an evening of family fun were a tad too high, however.  Even though I had prepaid for our Bingo extravaganza, I had forgotten to pay in advance for dinner. I only had $6, and Visa was NOT everywhere I wanted it to be because the PTA does not take credit cards. I could only afford 2 slices of pizza and 2 drinks, which meant that I didn’t get to eat, and that makes for a cranky, hungry Mommy.  The cafeteria was crowded and loud, so it was hard to hear what numbers were being called, and Small was fussy so I had to hold him.  I had hoped that he would sit quietly in his stroller and entertain himself by watching all the people.  (Totally overestimated how fascinating my fellow parents would be to an 8-month-old.)  I was holding the baby while trying to play Bingo and prevent my children from painting themselves with the Bingo daubers, all the while listening to Medium repeat, “do I have it?  Did they call my number?  Mom?  Mom? Mom!  Do I have it?  Mom!” 

There is not enough wine in the world to calm my nerves and stop my armpits from being all persweaty that night.  I hope Hubby forgives me for telling him “I’m hating you right now” when he called home from outside a bar later that night.  When he gets home on Friday, I might just have to escape for a while.  Don’t be surprised if you see me in the Sheetz parking lot, just sitting in my Swagger Wagon enjoying a schnacky-schnack and a Diet Coke . . . and a little peace and quiet.