Melting Down

It seems ironic that as everything outside is freezing up, I’m indoors melting down.  It happens every year about this time – the lack of sunlight, the weather keeping everyone indoors, the post-holiday dullness enhanced by the blah gray days that the calendar says will continue for a dozen more weeks.  It all gets a bit overwhelming.  

If I’m being completely honest, it’s overwhelming to the point of possible internal combustion, that point where human contact should be completely avoided because you can’t seem to say anything without the receiving end responding “Don’t get mad at me!” or “You don’t have to yell!”.

I’m not getting mad… I’ve gone mad. I’m not yelling, I can just no longer control the volume (or the tone) of my voice.  This is me, metaphorically hanging by a few fingers from a cliff while trying to nicely tell you to pick up your ever loving sh*t for the 100^th time. 

My cliff is not a rugged rock formation carved by wind and water over millions of years, but a wobbly mountain that has grown over the last 10 years out of missing gloves, dirty laundry, unfinished projects, work and other obligations – until it grew too tall to balance on, so now I’m hanging by the thread of some sweater/backpack/blanket/toy I was supposed to fix.

It’s a common misconception that our obligations weigh us down. In fact, I think they build us up. They create our identity and we take them on to grow into the person we think we should be, or what we think others want us to be.  And when it becomes overwhelming, we cling to them and the person we think we are, even when it hurts those around us…. Because.

Because we have to?

Because we don’t want to fail?
Because everyone else can handle all this, and sometimes more, so I should, too?

So I do, until a recent chilly winter day at the tail end of the kids Christmas vacation, I was struggling to get my work done so I can make it to the grocery store and back before dinner time. The kids were fighting and my list had gone missing… and when I’m finally – keys in hand – ready to leave, a condescending voice complains that I neglected to warm up the car AGAIN.  And that little thread I was hanging starts to unravel.

I remote started the truck as the cold winter walls and closed up windows of my home started creeping in, and wondered “why is it so effing hot in here!”  Looking for an escape, I “hid” sitting on the edge of the tub in the locked bathroom, silent, hot tears running down my face – meltdown eminent.

After a few minutes and deep breaths, I felt better –  grabbed some TP and cleaned up what was left of my eyeliner before emerging to a worried daughter that offered to spend part of her gift card to buy me some coffee at Starbucks, and a sweet hug from a 5 year old as he says “Love you Mama” in a way I never want to stop hearing. 

Their love and need strengthen me, enough – maybe, to swing my foot to the side of that cliff and catch my toe on the edge of a laundry basket giving me just enough leverage to push myself back up on to the top of the pile seconds before that thread gives way.

I don’t want help. 
I don’t need help. 

I just need perspective -  a way to level wobbly Mt. Obligation to make that helpless melt down feeling a little less likely.   A new way to look at not just my to-do list, but the season.

Nothing gives you more perspective than dangling from the edge of your sanity.  For the to do list -  my game plan is prioritizing the obligations in to what I MUST do, what I SHOULD do and, finally, what I MIGHT do, making that mountain into a series of rolling hills that are far less likely to drop me into a crazed oblivion.

Managing the season will be a little tougher.  I’ve never been a winter girl. I’d much rather trade the sleds and snowmobiles for blankets and books – but after a few days of not being out of the house, hibernation in your cozy home cave can start feeling a bit like being trapped in a cage.  I think my fix is to float some life rafts on to my calendar – a night out here, an activity there, an event or two to look forward too. 

 It’s bound to be harder than it sounds, but the result will be more of the me I want to be.  And… it’ll probably save me a bunch of money on TP and eyeliner.  

Building Character One Crappy Parenting Moment at a Time.

I think most of us start out thinking we are going to really ace this parenting thing.  How hard could it be?  You just have to love them and teach them right from wrong and they'll turn out perfect, right? But that first sleepless night when your darling infant refuses to accept love, and pleading, and endless boob as a good enough reason to go to sleep, you may have realized this wasn't going to be a piece of cake.

The slow-learner parents might not realize this until a year and a half later when their angry toddler refuses to take "no" for an answer and an epic battle of wills follows, ending with a sobbing heap of parent and a giggling toddler flinging applesauce and eating those smelly fruit puff things, because... well, because the winner in a battle of wills is the one without the to-do list.

Over my past decade of parentdom, there have been many times when, my child(ren) refuse to accept my wise guidance, my incessant pleading, or loud - dare I say - yelled instructions, and I've said and done things that I wish I could take back or do-over.  Many of those times, the kids have deserved a do-over.  But there is no pause or rewind in parenting, and maybe in the minor ways that is for the best.

I was pondering this the other day, as I often ponder things.  After a not so "gold star" mom moment, I thought, wouldn't it be great if time could be returned, like the ill-fitting pair of jeans I impulsively pulled off the clearance rack and bought without trying on first?  You could just grab your receipt for a crappy parenting moment and Father Time would pony-up a few fresh minutes that you could use a little wiser, or a little nicer?

But nothing is so simple... here's where this blog turns into more of a story... [roll dream sequence footage here... everything is wavy, and there are chimes!]

An old man sits behind a simple counter with a small cash register.  His face is a web of wrinkles carved so deep into his flesh you wonder if they hurt.  A beard, frizzled and white, falls from his face, ending somewhere behind the counter, just barely revealing the ironic "Got Time?" logo on his standard issue customer service polo shirt.

As I approach the counter I can see that while time has left its mark on his skin, hair and stature, it has spared his eyes, which remain bright and wise and kind.

He watches as I place my purse on the counter, waiting.

I feel a bit nervous and stumble over my words as I dig through my purse.  "I'd like to return some time", I say, "Can I return some time?"

"Depends", replies the Old Man, "If it was truly poorly spent, I'd consider it, I suppose."

I pull out the first receipt, "Oh.." I say, "this was one of many times where I had to work and the kids were bored, If I had this time back, I'd spend it doing something they'd enjoy, or maybe something educational?"

The Old Man studies the receipt and passes it back to me.  "I can't return this." He explains, "this was educational.  Your children learned that life isn't always fun and games but it takes work and dedication.  That's a valuable lesson they're learning."

"Okay." I say skeptically, "I understand, but what about this..." I pull out another receipt, a long one. "This is all the times my children have hurt themselves in some minor way, and I told them to "walk it off" or "you'll live".  Surely I should have been more of a doting mother, tending to every paper cut and scratch, right?"

The Old Man laughed, "Did they live?"

"Yes."

"Then they learned that they can pick themselves up when they fall. You can't always be there for them.  You don't really want to return that do you?" he asks.

"No, I suppose not."  I agree.  I dig through my purse determined to find some time he'd return.

"Oh! This one!  You've got to agree this one is bad, I burdened the kids with a problem that was above their age range." I explain, "Money, house, car, people issues, I've probably given them too much information regarding all of them!"

The Old Man thinks for a moment, I thought I had finally got one, until he slid the receipt back across the counter.  "No." he says, "Of course it's not ideal to make kids worry about grown up things, but none of these are out of their realm of understanding, and a little reality when they are little will make a lot of reality easier for them to handle when they are grown."

I frown. Man this old guy is tough! Frustrated, I start lining up my remaining receipts, "What about this one?  The time I didn't take time to admire their art work?  Or this one, my poor kid had a nervous breakdown at the table when I made him eat his peas?  Or this - when I didn't let my daughter go to a party and it broke her heart?  You've got to admit these are..."

"Not returnable." He interrupts, pointing at each receipt he explains, "When you didn't have time to look, he had time to be proud of himself without others approval, and this one, well... peas are good for you..."

"That's what I said!"

"And this one? There are other parties right?"

I nod.

"And she learned that missing out on a little fun here and there isn't the end of the world."

"Right, Okay..." I say, "but, I saved the worst for last...."

"Alright." says the Old Man, "Let's see it."

I gingerly pull the last receipt from my bag and slide it across the counter. "This happens more than I'd like to admit."  Feeling ashamed I explain.  "I often can't shake a bad mood and it effects the way I treat people, including my kids.  If the work is piling up, or I have an annoying client hounding me, or nothing is getting done around the house, I get short tempered and snappy and have literally  no patience for what is really normal kid behavior.  No amount of taking deep breaths seems to help and I feel terrible for my tone and attitude when they deserve better."

"I see." says the man looking at the receipt.  He opens a drawer behind the counter and takes out a pen.  Finally! I think. At least I'll get a second chance to right this wrong.

Taking his time he scribbles something on the receipt and slides it back to me.  Before he removes his hand he asks "Do your children know you love them?"

I nod.  He releases the receipt and I read what he's written.  In shaky old man handwriting I see "No Returns. All Time is Final."

I look up at him confused and a little annoyed.

"Every day I sit at this desk and decline those who want to turn back the clocks, my clocks." he says.

"But... but why do you have a return desk?"

"Because," he explains.  "its important to review your life's moments, especially the ones you're not proud of, so that you can learn from them and decide how you'll react when you encounter those situations again in the future."

I nod.

"And," he continues, "most often the moments you feel you're failing as a parent are the moments your kids are learning the most valuable lessons.  They can learn their ABCs and 123s from anyone, but they need to learn the hardest lessons in the safety of love."

They need to learn the hardest lessons in the safety of love.

"Their trust and belief in your unconditional love lets them see past the tone that comes with your bad mood.  It teaches them empathy... and," he says with a chuckle "when to run their little butts to their room and quickly clean it before mom really blows her top."

I smile.

"The best parents not only worry about their mistakes, but they own them.  Take time after the moment has passed to explain or apologize and in return teach your children the most important lesson, that being perfect is not possible, but being accountable is."

As I stand there wrapping my mind around his wisdom, the old man starts to fade away, before he's gone he says "Your flaws build their character."

[Insert wavy coming out of a dream sequence and chimes here]

Our flaws build their character.

Imagine how little the child of a perfect parent would know.

Trying to be the best parent is still the goal, of course, but when I inevitably mess up, I don't need to save the receipt in hopes that I can get a re-do on that moment someday.  I can own it. I can explain it and I can apologize when necessary.  Saying "sorry" doesn't fix mistakes, but explaining them builds a base of understanding.  With that base, my kids will learn compassion, empathy and a way to understand people, not by what their actions are, but why they do those actions. And hopefully, this knowledge will help them to grow up to be better parents, and people, than we are.

My Mom is...Magic

When you’re a kid it’s easy to name the best qualities of your mom.  Usually they are scrawled in crayon on Mother’s Day projects sent home with your first grader or kindergartner.  Simple things like “she’s nice”, “she’s funny”, “she helps me”, or “she’s a good cooker” as my youngest says.  As you get older it gets harder to put into words what makes your mom great, because it’s less about what she can do and more about what she has done for you – how she made you great.

It's impossible to describe with words the amazing lady who made me.   I have one of those moms that’s good at everything, which makes it a real challenge to be “just like mom”.   She reminds me of Barbara Eden on “I Dream of Jeannie”.  Whatever you need she can wiggle her ears (instead of her nose) and get it done.

My mom raised four kids too, except she had three girls and one boy.  We were fairly confident kids, we new mom was there, but never overbearing.  I don’t ever remember my mom complaining either, even though I’m sure we were worth a “good long complain” a few times a week.

She taught us early how to do the dishes, sweep the floors and do our own laundry.  Maybe it’s because I have more boys, but I haven’t been as lucky in teaching mine.  They love to do the chores, but if left unsupervised, they go a bit overboard – using a quarter inch of water to clean the floor, or a half bottle of dawn just to rinse the dishes before they go in the dishwasher, and at least 18 paper towels to clean up the smallest spill.

My mom had patience beyond what I can muster.  As she created craft sale items, she’d set us up to make our own little projects – decorative pins, hair bows, painted things, boo boo bunnies, and she’d let us sell them at the show and keep the money.  I still drag out the a good ol’ glue gun and a tin of buttons to make a masterpiece or two with the kids, but when a button ends up glued to the table, and the tin gets tipped, spilling the rest to the floor, I’d rather call it quits than laugh it off.   She always let us decorate the cookies for the holidays, and painstakingly paint molds with candy melts to make fancy Christmas chocolates. She’d even put the splotchy, hideous ones we made out on the tray for Grandma’s house, so we could show them off.

My mom taught me the right way to play with your food – like creating pancakes in any shape we can imagine.   I’ve gotten pretty good at making pancake snowmobiles, 4-wheelers and princess crowns. I also remember all of us kids crowding around her, mesmerized as Mom carved a watermelon into an animal shaped fruit bowl and hand-decorated whatever we wanted on our birthday cakes.

Mom is quite the seamstress, making us clothes when we were little, as well as Halloween costumes, and  holiday dresses – letting us pick our own patterns and fabrics at the fabric store.  She even made our school uniforms and my wedding dress and all my bridesmaids’ dresses.

She walked me through crocheting a dress for my baby doll when I was about 12.  Taught me how to sew, cook, balance a checkbook, and even got us “jobs” at her jobs – mostly filing - during our Christmas and Spring breaks, but we loved feeling so responsible.

I realize now how my mom could have done things easier and faster by herself, but she always took the time, as excruciating as it might have been, to let us do and learn. I forget to do this sometimes, when dinner is already late, or I have a million things to accomplish and not a million hours to do them .  But the best way to learn is to do and my mom did this well – she continues her admirable patience with the grandkids now, letting them each add their ingredient to the pancake batter and mix it in, when she could just dump them all in at once.

Even now that we’re grown, my Mom is always there for us. In college my laptop wasn’t working and was sent in to be repaired.  When Best Buy wouldn’t fess up to what happened to it, it was gone longer than it should have been, and multiple visits to pick it up only resulted in lies and excuses,  my mom went to the customer service desk and in her perfected Queen Bee tone, told them they were producing my computer or getting me a new one.  After scaring the pants off the poor service guy, he confessed my computer was being held hostage due to a bankruptcy at the company that was supposed to repair it and I walked out of there with a new computer.  I must learn this skill!

And when my first child was born, she came to help for a few days, it was such a relief to have a pro on-site when you’re worried about doing everything wrong.   She came for the next three arrivals too, watching the siblings-to-be and keeping them busy when I came home with a new little one.  She stayed only a few days, as we settled into a new routine.  Then she’d float away like Mary Poppins leaving a well-prepared house behind.  I shed a few tears each time she left.  Partly hormones, I’m sure, but mostly because I was so grateful to have a mom willing to give not just her time, but care, comfort, and a clean house, at a time when I couldn't really give anything in return (unless you count the new grandchild).  And she always made it look so easy.  I hope I can return that favor to my kids someday.

Maybe the best way to describe my Mom is “Magic”.  I’m in the midst of this mom thing and I’m still not sure how the trick works. But I’m getting an idea.  As parents we have an audience all the time.  We are the show, and our biggest fans, who may occasionally get a little rowdy and throw tomatoes, are mostly mesmerized by what we moms can do.

The magic of mommyhood isn’t from fairy dust or some lucky kid rubbing a lamp to find an ear-wiggling genie.  It’s love.  Plain and simple.  It’s love in every handmade Halloween costume and decorated birthday cake.  In every time I didn't have to eat the Lima Beans.  And that night we spent changing each other’s scribbles into pictures.  In every time I pick up a crochet hook, sewing needle or spatula and think “my mom taught me this”.  And, when I sing to my kids and remember all of us in the living room singing “Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree”, trying to get my little brother, Ricky, to fall asleep.  Your actions, patience and all the effort you put into teaching us was the best kind of love, and it made us the capable and maybe even a little bit magical adults we are today.

Thanks Mom, for being “magic” for me, and now the grandkids. I’m still mesmerized

Hobbies for Moms with No Time to Have Hobbies

Sometimes in the process of deep cleaning (the scary, spiders are a real possibility, kind), you find things that surprise you. Pieces of yourself that have either been forgotten or put away "for a bit", that instead end up lost behind the vacuum, extra sheets and some interesting wedding gifts for an eternity.

On a mission to find some rummage sale donations, I found some of these... my old hobbies.

As I dug through our big basement closet for a tote full of garage sale left overs, I came upon my old
high school sketch pad.  As I looked through it I was surprised by how good I was.  Over the years I've bought new pads and pencils, planning to draw again, and out of about 8 pads I've used a grand total of 0 pages.  Not for lack of wanting, mostly just a lack of time or at the very least timing.  The kids make up for it though, using every page - so at least those $10/50 sheet pads of paper aren't wasted...

As I dug deeper, I found a half finished needlepoint, a whole tote of yarn, a box of oil paints, brushes and a half finished canvas, a box of VHS aerobics tapes.  There were probably a notebook or two of poetry in there too.  A whole closet of things I did when I had nothing to do.

And yes, I do realize I have the hobbies of an older middle-aged woman.  I also have a collection of decorative plates, what does that say about me?  If I had a half dozen cats and 25 days worth of ugly Christmas sweaters I could probably inspire a skit on Saturday Night Live. Luckily I derailed the crazy cat-lady train when I got married and had kids.

That's also when I realized that free time is taken for granted in the pre-kid years.  Meals aren't timed by impending tantrums.  You can pick up a book and spend an hour reading without interruption.  You might even just slip on your shoes and take a walk, without a plan, supplies or a half an hour spent looking for one small shoe.

I didn't intend to quit my hobbies when the kids came along, but it was just easier than trying to do them while being interrupted...every time.  Juice splatters on the sketch pad, tiny hands trying to tip the turpentine and not a single second of silence to ponder poetry or read a book. I traded wilderness photo shoots for candid baby shots, and aerobics for 100 reps of "pick up the toy and return it to the child in the high chair".  I still get to be creative with birthday cakes, decorations, and Halloween costumes, but all my hobbies now have a kid element.

Some parents manage to keep their hobbies post-kid, I get a mini guilt attack going for a walk and leaving the bedtime duties to dad.

Hobbies make people interesting, they give you something to talk about, to share with others, and since I don't have time to squeeze in some glamorous activities to make me seem cool and worldly, I decided to make some of what I have to do everyday my new hobbies, including:

1. Professional Driving.
   Whether I'm headed to school, the store or back home, the kids are loaded and locked, the radio is under my control and nobody can get into anything, what's not to love.
   
2. Repeating Myself.
   If I say it once, I say it 4 to 8 times. This hobby is a bit tedious, I'm considering giving it up and getting a parrot or digging a large valley between the living room and the kids bedroom so when I yell "Clean your room!" it will echo a few times at their end and I won't have to do it myself.
   
3. Yelling. 
   I think before I had kids there were years in a row when I didn't yell once, now with just a few years of practice I'm able to reach volumes and tones beyond my wildest imagination. I can also project not only sound but a sense of urgency loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
   
    
4. Making PB&J Sandwiches.
   I challenge anyone on Food Network to take on my PB&J skills.  Of course, I'd lose because JIF, Welch's Grape and Target brand white bread does not a Next Food Network Star make, but the efficiency of my sandwich assembly is a sight to be seen.
   
    
5. Saying NO.
   From the simple "No" to more sarcastic "Ahhhhhhh No." and occasionally the rapid machine gun firing "No no no nonononono NO!"  My faves include the "interrupting no": "Mom can I.." "No." and "read my mind no": "What do you think...." "No?" "Right." The "Art of the No" is an ancient one, but a challenge worth investing some time into.
   
6. Reading the same books over and over and over. 
   Which leads to other hobbies just to cope with the 14th night in a row of "Little Blue Truck", for example: singing books that weren't intended to be songs - if it rhymes it's fair game.  And reading books with accents and changing the words - Oh, you didn't know Curious George was Italian? Now you do.
   
7. I said.... Repeating Myself!
   Sorry... it's just a habit.
   
8. Questioning kids' cartoons. 
   
   
   Why does Mickey wear pants and Donald wear a shirt? Why is Goofy a dog that acts like a person and Pluto a dog that acts like a dog?  Why does Daniel Tiger's home have tiger patterned window curtains.  If I had human skin pattern curtains people would be totally freaked out, but PBS must think this is fine.
   
9. Clock Watching. 
   10 minutes to lunch... that'll keep them quiet for 7 minutes. 3 hours to bedtime, I can do this.  I. Can. Do. This.
   
10. Karaoke.
    Because sometimes I want an audience that isn't picking their noise, telling me to be quiet, or interrupting me at my favorite part of a song every single time.  And I don't have a real mic at home.
    
11. Thinking about wine way more than I actually drink it.  
    I wish I could be more dedicated to an actual wine drinking hobby, but since it's one of the more expensive ones I want to make sure to give it my all - so I don't drink when I'm tired or when I know I can't finish the bottle, so that's pretty much not a lot.
    
12. Sharing my kids mischief, mistakes and occasionally their cuteness and achievements for all of social media to enjoy.
    I figure, since I made them I own the copyrights to everything they do and say until they are 18 and I better take advantage of it while they are still too young to retaliate.
    

Someday I'll get back to drawing, photography, writing poems that don't have potty words in them. Until then I'll focus on perfecting my mom hobbies and hope they make me just interesting enough that I don't have to get a cat and a closet full of Christmas sweaters.

9 Ways Love Hurts When You're a Mom

Watch your back, the floor, and your heart when these guys are around.

No woman plans for having a child without expecting a little pain, and most little ones don't disappoint in arriving with a soul splitting dose of ouch, but it's the hurt that follows that moms aren't prepared for.  The mom truth is, unconditional love hurts ... as the song goes loves scars, love wounds and mars...

Here's just a few of the many ways:

1. The Newborn Burn
   Stitches, hemorrhoids, tender tatas... those first few weeks are the pop quiz of Mom pain and you forgot to prepare, even when the birth injuries start to heal, that darling 7-8-9-10lb baby in a few weeks will be a 9-10-11-12 pounder and hauling that darling and their endless gear is a "feel the burn" kind of workout that doesn't end for a good 2 years.
   
2. Brutal Babies
   One day your child is a sweet snugly angel, sucking on her clinched fists, swaddled in your arms, the next day the arms are flailing and those clinched fists have become velcro mitts ready to grab and grasp anything with in reach.  Favorites include: your ears, handfuls of hair, your nose, your favorite necklace and occasionally they'll get in a good eye poke or head butt to your mouth or nose and you're left looking like you just went 10 rounds with that know-it-all-mom down the street.  Why must face holes be so enticing and baby heads so hard.  I'm pretty sure the inventor of Scünci hair binders was a mom just trying to save what was left of her hair.
3. Tough Toddlers
   A year or two of hauling your spawn has left you with enviable biceps, but the added strength doesn't always make up for the awkward stances you have to take when holding your well-coordinated toddler. No, you don't need the help of a tiny hand when writing a check, answering your phone or stirring the mac & cheese, but they refuse to believe you're capable of managing these tasks on your own.  The result is awkward hip angles, neck stretching and back twisting that leaves you hoping there's still time for a hot bath at the end of the day.  Spoiler Alert: Not gonna happen.
   
4. You're Killing Me Kids!
   Once the children can be trusted to walk on their own, your spine starts to straighten and your head can safely center itself over your body, but the hurt doesn't end.  Whether you're hauling a dead fish tantrum thrower out of a store (how do they make their 50lbs feel like a 100?)  Or just poor decision making, like when I thought 3 weeks after gall bladder surgery I could carry my sleeping seven year old to her bed, only to tear some not quite yet healed stomach muscles.   The bigger kids bring the pain with their pounds, they also bring a new kind of hurt...
   
5. Don't Go Breakin' My Heart
   You send your kids off to school with hugs and smiles, knowing full well you're throwing them to the wolves. Sure enough, they bring home heartache.  It's impossible to prepare them for a world where they aren't the center.  It's impossible to explain why people are mean. Why "so & so" says you can play with her one day and not the next.  Why they didn't get the part in the the school play they wanted.  Because if it were up to you, they'd get everything they want.  So you join in their misery, but a mom's heart breaks twice, once for their pain and once for not being able to make it better for them.  The same goes when your child is sick or injured.  It hurts to see them hurt, that's how you know you're doing this mom thing right.
   
6. Insane in the Brain Pain
   Children bring the noise.  Before kids the sound in your home was mostly controlled - the music was loud when you wanted, there was silence when you wanted, when you heard a strange sound, you could usually find it without too much trouble.  But, the baby bag of tricks is mostly noise, uncontrolled noise, noise from them, noise from their things and eventually strange noises from their battery depleting toys, and a whole room to search for the Stinky the Garbage Truck that's saying in a low, creepy, dying battery voice "Heh. Heh. Thaaaaaat'sssss Grrrrroooossss!"  All that noise usually ends in a pounding headache and sometimes a sore throat from all that yelling at them to be quiet...because that always works.
   
7. Weapons of Mass Foot Destruction
   My kids love to collect weapons of mass foot destruction, from Monster High Doll shoes to Legos and Hotwheels cars with hard little spoilers.  You learn to walk so your feet brush the ground before you fully step down, and night vision goggles are a must for the 10PM bed check. Even the most innocent looking jacket left on the kitchen floor can bring immense pain when you land on a zipper just right.
   
8. Self-Inflicted Wounds
   Self-inflicted pain is the most common in love, especially the unconditional, from my loins, type of love.  Of course you want the best for your kids.  You think you know what they will enjoy, so you plan something special for them and it's received without the anticipated, "I love you Mom! You're the best, most amazing, hilarious, and down right beautifulist mom in the whole world... wait, universe!".   Okay.. that may have been expecting a bit much as a reaction for a surprise trip down to the beach before running errands, but, they could have at least given a tiny jump for joy. Next time we'll just go straight to the grocery store.
   
9. Back to the Burn...
   My kids are getting older and I find as the physical demands of care decrease, the mental and emotional elements increase, along with the levels of acid in my stomach.  Before one month is done, the next is full of obligations, doctor's appointments, dance, nature club, school events - just trying to remember when to pick up who is a challenge, let alone which kid definitely needs cold lunch because they are on a field trip that day.  And, that doesn't even take into account my own work, household chores and the dozen loads of dirty laundry that await me each weekend. The answer: Tum Ta Tum Tums.  Some maybe able to handle all that with style and grace.  I, on the other hand, am a tornado of blond hair, weekly planner pages and Tums causing a path of destruction while trying to get my world under control.  My middle name is Ironic.  The stress is probably doing irreparable damage I won't won't learn about for years, but all the calcium in the antacids should at least protect me from osteoporosis, right? 

I'm sure the worst is yet to come when my kids enter the teen years and bed time snuggles that help heal the pains of the day are replaced with a "knock, knock, good night" on a bedroom door.  That's why moms suffer the baby head butts, heartbreaks and stress with a smile (even if forced or wine induced).  Unconditional love hurts, but it's for the most precious of people, our darling kiddos, and who wouldn't endure anything for them. 

Six More Weeks of Sniffles

I should have known when January swept by without so much has a sneeze, that something (or things) ominous were waiting for February.  And sure as that rotten little groundhog predicted six more weeks of winter, the antibacterial bubble we were thriving in popped, flooding the house with germs.

It always starts so innocently, a little cough, a sniffle, a little throat tickle. If you’re lucky, it ends there. But, I've never been lucky.  So when I saw the shadow of my youngest whimpering in the glow of the nightlight a week ago I knew there’d be six more weeks of sniffles.

The little one’s whimpers signaled a sore throat and fever that ended up being Strep, which was promptly shared with his brother… as I waited for the oldest two to follow suit, something strange happened.  They felt fine and I started to cough. 

I’m not one to get “stick a fork in me I’m done” sick.  A little cough/sniffle/throat thing one or two times a year, sure, but nothing that isn’t gone in a day or two.   I actually felt perfectly fine the morning of “the cough”.  I thought it was just a little dry throat, but by that afternoon I was wearing two sweaters and a robe, debating burial or cremation… leaning toward cremation because it sounded like the only way I may ever be warm again.

As my fever rose, I thought, at least the antibiotics worked on the younger two, they were feeling better.  Until I remembered the only thing worse than worrying about your sick kids is trying to take care of your healthy kids when you’re sick.  They still want to eat and play and be loud.   I just wanted to sit and shiver in my blanket igloo.   When I woke for the 3^rd day with a fever I thought I better go in, my throat was irritated, maybe I have Strep too.

My go-to place for this stuff is the Qcare at Cub Foods, when I got there it was closed. The staff all had strep.  The boys were diagnosed there earlier that week, so that was probably our fault (and the half dozen other people we waited with who were all there for strep tests too).   This made me feel even more confident that I must be suffering the same thing.  I followed the instructions on the door and headed to the nearest Urgent Care where I waited 2 hours to take a 6 minute test to find out from a doctor who’s shoes sound like bubble wrap popping with each step, and who smelled like a fart (I could still smell at this point, unfortunately), that I did not have Strep.   He didn't offer any other thoughts on a diagnosis, just told me to “Treat my symptoms.”, and bubble wrap-popped his way out the door.

When I was emailed my lab result later I found the dictation for the visit in the Patient Portal, imagine my surprise to learn that “Treat my symptoms” means: “She is encouraged to take vitamin C and zinc supplements in combination with increased water consumption to alleviate her discomfort. She may also take Acetaminophen 500mg 2 tabs p.o. q.i.d. p.r.n.; or Ibuprofen 200mg 4 tabs p.o. t.i.d. p.r.n. discomfort. Use of lozenges is also encouraged.”.  Fabulous advice I never heard.

The dictation also said “It is not necessary for her to remain home from work or school at this time.”  The “all-clear” to spread my fevery germs far and wide.  Not so fabulous advice.

Two more days of fever later, as I’m serving up roast beef, taters and gravy for the kids, my temp’s running about 102 and I’m feeling a little wobbly, but I’m not supposed to take anymore medicine for another hour.  I’m pouring gravy on a plate while holding it, not realizing its tipped ever so slightly until the scalding hot gravy starts pouring through my fingers.   The jolt of pain transports me back to the last time I felt this sick. I was 17, so sick I could barely move, I really wanted a cup of tea, so I put some water in the microwave that hung over the range.  My mom had just taken dinner off the stove, and as I waited for the microwave everything went black. I passed out and when I came to I had this strange burn on my hand, apparently from trying to catch myself on the hot stove.   It was the flu then, and I realized, even though my brain has been slow-cooking for the better part of a week, that it’s the flu now.

Hours later three of the four kids are coughing, two with a fever.  Another trip to the Urgent Care and luckily a visit with a much (so much) better doctor, and now our fridge has more medicine in it than food. But this morning, while the horrible cough is lingering, no one’s temp is above 100, a small victory.  The next week will probably be a long one.  I was too far in for Tamiflu, so I’ll just have to wait this out, on the bright side, I could almost smell my coffee this morning.   So I’ll leave you with this advice Nyquil Severe Cold and Flu pills actually let you feel almost normal when you’re trying to fall asleep, and if you’re at Urgent Care and hear bubble-wrapped footsteps coming your way, plug your nose and get a second opinion. 

9 Reasons Moms Can Only Hope "We'll sleep when we're dead"

When they say “a baby changes everything”, they mean everything, from your body to your brain and even your relationships.  While the stretch marks fade, the “mom-brain” lessens and the Daddy finally realizes it’s just easier to do it all mommy’s way, there’s a change so prolific its effects last for years. And years.  And more years.  It’s the relationship with  your pillow.

I expected, like most, the sleepless nights with a nursing infant, the predictable awakenings of the toddler years, even the random bad dream or “I’m sick” snooze wrecker here and there, but not the near decade of substandard sleep I’ve endured since my first was born.   While the rest of the world REMs away, I am the nocturnal creature stumbling about the darkness herding children back to their beds with water, reassurance, new sheets or a puke bowl.

So I offer you 9 reasons Mommy can’t sleep.

1.  Moms sleep like a baby.  Let’s be real here, babies are crappy sleepers.  Sure, when they’re out, they’re out, but it never lasts long and grown up brains don’t really function on a two hours down, one hour up sleep pattern.  The result is actually sleeping like a baby, falling asleep on our lunch, at the computer or even while folding laundry.  I remember being so tired I actually felt nauseous.  I’ve put the milk in the cupboard and the cereal in the fridge. The only upside was that when my kids were babies, I never had trouble falling asleep at night 
2. Rotten Little Deal Breakers! After a few months, my tiny kids and I were able to strike an agreement – I fed them at 11PM with the understanding that they would then sleep until 4 or 5AM.  We were both happy, or so I thought, and the arrangement worked for weeks.   Then one night I hear rustling and a whimper at 2AM.  What the hell!  We had a deal! As I tried to console their desperate cries, my sleep deprived mind takes a journey through an emotional jungle – from concern and confusion (What. About. The. Deal?!) to “Why are you ruining my life, child!?” until we’re both crying until we fall back asleep.  In the light of day you notice the new tooth or that their 9 month pants are now suddenly an inch too short and it makes sense. Luckily within a few nights the deals back on, for now.
3. . Night Ninja  Once the kiddos start sleeping through the night (or so you tell people, it’s never actually through the night, most nights).  Of course, I have the quantity disadvantage – even if it’s just one kid waking up once a week, with four kids it’s still 4 nights of crappy sleep.   So you try to prevent the waking and to do so you develop Night Ninja skills.  Let’s set the scene:  its 4AM and the youngest wakes to a dark and eerily quiet house and panics, wouldn’t you?  As a mom, I can miraculously sleep through the snoring next to me, but my supersonic ears perk up to hear the telltale rustle of the waterproof mattress pad, the littlest baby moan or the PLINKO sound of the pacifier bouncing down the crib bars to the floor.  Like a ninja I slide out of bed, avoiding squeaky floor boards and knowing instinctively where the paci dropped, finding it by feel and returning it to the fussing baby without him even knowing I was there.  The ninja maneuvers are especially crucial for someone as nearsighted as I am.  My crappy vision puts me past the threshold for being legally blind and wasting time feeling for my glasses before “Operation Paci Retrieval” is the difference between a whimper and all out house waking wail.
4.  Sleep, the Musical  If you miss the whine to wail window, you’re in their room for the long haul, but that’s nothing a little choreography can’t fix.  One and two and three and four – five and six and seven and eight, rock-rock-rock, lay down slowly, three and four and butt pat, butt pat, butt pat, drop to floor, five and six and seven and army crawl, two and three, watch that floorboard, seven and eight.  Slide into bed … and sleep, or repeat.
5. Small Bedfellows  When the choreography falls flat and I give up, having my head on or at least near my pillow is more important than keeping my child in their own bed.  You 0, Them 105.  They win again, but I take comfort as a loser just having my own bed under me, even when there’s a toddler’s butt  on my head.
6.  Polk High’s Best Football Player  Now that the kid is in bed with two giant people on each side some precautions have to be taken, especially when one side could roll over the tiny human without even noticing.  So I give up my pillow to the little one and position myself in what can best be described as “Al Bundy’s 4 touchdowns in a single game” pose.  One arm around baby, one straight out, locked against the wall of dad to prevent or at least alert you to an impending roll.  Ahh, sleep, kinda.
7. Sick and Scared and Wet and Tired  My oldest is nine and I haven’t slept through the night once since she and her three younger brothers were born.  Even with my youngest, now four, every night someone is sick, or has a bad dream or gets up to use the bathroom and tries to pee in a closet, or just forgets to get up before going to the bathroom.   I’m beginning to think this is the longest phase and it requires the most supersonic senses and the most alertness in the wee morning hours.  You’ve got to assess the situation, find puke bowls and new sheets, banish mountain lions, white wolves and bears, oh my.  And then try to go back to sleep.
8. Spooked Sleep  On the rare occasion I don’t hear the rustle of the waterproof mattress covers, I usually awake with near heart attack to a small, dark figure standing bedside near my head, whispering “maaaamiiii” Ahh!  After you get them their glass of water or whatever, you’re heart’s still racing too fast for you to fall back asleep.
9. Did you hear that?  Even when the odds of a full night’s sleep are in my favor, my brain won’t let me believe a full night’s sleep is possible.  As I lay, one ear pressed to my pillow, trying to clear my mind, the white noise from the fan, the dishwasher, the furnace or the #&%$@ rock tumbler rumbling downstairs, starts to sound like a child.  Was that a cry? One of them talking? I lift my head and listen, and hear nothing.  Just the fan/furnace/dishwasher/handful of rocks on their 8^th day of rotation.  But, every time I put my head down, I hear it again, like the phone ringing when you turn on the vacuum or shower. 

I’m sure the tween and teen years will bring all sorts of new sleep issues and by the time the kids are out of the house, I hear menopause packs an insomnia punch.  The catch phrase “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” is a favorite with the party crowd, but I’m pretty sure it started as a mom’s mantra.  So, we’re gonna own this no sleep thing.  We’ll pretend the giant, puffy bags under our eyes are high cheek bones and maybe cereal tastes better from the fridge. If not, at least our pillows will have a longer than average lifespan.

Spin Cycle: Lessons in a Messy House

Standing at the sink, trying to figure out how to fit the day's 32^nd cup into the dishwasher rack that holds a maximum of 30, my almost 4 year old runs into the kitchen with legitimate excitement, wiggles his little orange and gray toes and announces “I found matching socks!”.  There’s crumbs and dirt (so much dirt, that is in no doubt related to the dirt/mud/ice/snow driveway we have right now), there are piles of tractor pictures on every flat surface, along with a baseball hat, mate-less glove, a half eaten granola bar.  Eeew.  And that is just the kitchen.

It’s not that I’m a bad housekeeper (I tell myself).  In fact, before we had kids, even in college, our house was always clean, my husband never had to wear damp from the dryer pants to work and the kitchen sinks were empty – even though we didn’t have a dishwasher.  How did it all go downhill so quickly?

I don’t think its laziness.  From about 6:20AM to 10PM I’m always doing something: the off-to-school rush, the banishment to my office for hours, after school chaos, dinner, homework, practice spelling and vocab, bath time, read stories to all four of them, tuck them in, make lunches for tomorrow, chase the kids out of the bathroom and back to bed, check out and/or clean up whatever science experiment they started in there, then finally sit down on the couch about 8:30PM and plan my work for the next day, make a grocery/birthday/Christmas/whatever is coming list until I put down my pen at 10PM for the news.

I wonder if the house would be neater if there were more hours in the day to get stuff done, then I realize that would just give the kids more time to mess it up.  So, while the “Mom Scouts” are off earning their badges in sock-matching, sink scrubbing and crumbless carpets, I decided to do what I do best, spin.

In my day job as a marketing professional I get to frame products and services to give them a purpose, and make them sound appealing or desirable.

My “spinspiration” came during parenting time at my youngest’s ECFE class, we were discussing the building blocks of math, and one of the first math skills kids learn is to group, match and organize items, recognizing similarities and differences.  How could I deny this learning opportunity to my offspring by matching their socks for them? And, what other important lessons can be learned from my shotty housekeeping.

So far, I've found a few lessons in my messy house:

1.  Perhaps when the 5-year-old can’t find clean pants because he put his clean clothes on his bed, instead of in his drawers, like I asked him to, asking him where he put them results in critical thinking and recognizing sequence of events.

2.  Maybe when there are only 4 forks left in the drawer because I haven’t yet emptied the clean dishwasher, figuring out how many are needed and finding them in the dishwasher is subtraction and addition.

3.  The investigation into the spilled juice that has mostly glued my foot to the floor is probably a good attempt at storytelling or persuasive speech, and cleaning it up anyway, is a good lesson in personal responsibility.

4.  The thin coating of dust on everything is most likely a better, organic immune system booster than vitamin C, I think I read… somewhere.

5.  The little pebbles that find their way in the house in the grooves of their boots serve to toughen our tootsies, no soft soled sissies here.

6.  Hurtling the heap of winter outdoor clothes that never seem to stay on their hooks most definitely improves agility and balance.

7.  Finding their homework in the tower of paper that arrives home in three backpacks each Friday afternoon teaches determination.

8.  When there’s no cups left for that 3^rd or 4^th glass of milk or juice in a day, Finding and rinsing the cup you used for drinks 1, 2 or 3 seems like problem solving to me.

9.  The mom’s fed up with all the toys everywhere and you have 10 seconds to get it in your room countdown is a daily lesson on how to count backwards.

10.  Avoiding discipline for the latest act of destruction: coloring on the wall, gum in the carpet, is a good start for Law Concepts 101 – pleading the fifth, deflecting blame, or pleading mom’s insanity (But Mom, it’s been there forever!).

11.  The long lived leftovers in the fridge, a science experiment in progress and quite possibly the next best thing since penicillin.

I’m still trying to spin a few things, like the clumps of SpongeBob toothpaste that magically appear on the bathroom sink daily and the tiny scraps of paper that look like a notebook had its own surprise party and didn’t clean up. 

I can tell myself how nicely the sandy dirt from the backdoor that trails into our kitchen exfoliates my feet while I cook dinner, but really the spin is just a final last attempt to not feel rotten about having a house that could probably apply for national disaster assistance 350 out of 365 days a year.  Trying to keep a clean house with 4 kids under 10 is a challenge, and when you’re not passionate about spotless windows and clutter-free counters, it’s nearly impossible. 

So I’ll try not to be jealous and maybe a tiny bit ashamed when the Mom Scouts parade around with their sashes full of super mom/housekeeper badges.  Instead, I’ll focus on my achievements in other motherly things. 

For example, my kids eat well, the freezer has just meat, veggies and a tub or two of ice cream, one may be coffee flavored (in other words, mine).  But, there are no frozen pizzas or chicken nuggets, if we have those I make them from scratch, that ought to count for something.  And probably is the reason I have so many dishes to do all the time. 

I write a note for their lunch boxes each day, I read to them all each night, really look at their pictures, even if it’s the 40^th green tractor of the day.  I remember, most of the time, to thank them or tell them about a good thing they did that day.  We talk about what’s on the evening news, even if it’s a bit scary, because I think, as they grow the more “reality” they know the better and being the one to explain the scary and strange things to them is important to me.

I demand their best, congratulate them on the best tries and help them understand their failures, so they can get better the next time. I come up with fun ways to remember their spelling words, for my 2^nd grade boy, that almost always includes potty humor.  I try to make their birthdays special by drawing their decorations, designing and constructing cakes and making the food they want.  I discipline them. I show them I love them.  And, I think, I hope, that when they’re grown, they’ll remember all that more than the daily search for matching socks and the towers of pieces of papers in our messy house.

#2 with a Side of Guilt...

A short nine months after our daughter was born, I discovered I was pregnant with Baby #2.  I would say it was a surprise, but we'd just put our house on the market and my husband specifically said "You better not get pregnant!", which is a clear opportunity for the universe to say, "You're not the boss of me!".  Sure enough, two weeks later I had to check the package twice to make sure the two pink lines meant "baby-on-board."

In the early weeks the idea of two kids didn't really phase me, "everyone" has two kids, right?  What's the big deal? But as my daughter grew and our daily activities and rituals became more routine, the idea of bringing home a baby created a feeling I didn't expect, a big heaping, helping of guilt.

Being a mom of one is easy to remember compared to trying to remember the early days with my other kids. Early morning wake-ups, followed by snuggling in bed, eating breakfast, holding a napping baby while I worked, breaking for The View for me and a bottle for baby. It was an easy schedule - a little of what I needed, a little of what she needed.

One morning I was balancing a bowl of Corn Pops on my baby belly, my daughter tucked to one side of me, mesmerized by some toy she was holding, when I realized soon it wouldn't be just us taking turns with daylight hours. Pretty soon there'd be a tiny person who needed me "now" and my little girl would have to wait.  And it made me feel awful. It made me cry.  It made me think "What have I done!"  And each sweet moment we had began to feel like the last, and in some ways, they were.

We sold our house just in time.  I was 4cm dilated and contracting every hour, but we closed and moved and I lasted a whole week longer until my doctor decided I live too far from a hospital to be so dilated and contracting with a toddler while my husband worked 45 minutes away.  The morning I went in to be induced was heart wrenching, I felt this was the day my little girl's world changes forever and it's all my fault. It was hard to be excited for a new baby when I was sure I'd condemned my daughter to a life of "just a minute!", which translates to "I don't have time for you, I'm too busy with this noisy poop machine."

Bringing our new son home didn't really help my feelings.  Everyone was fine with our new dynamic but me.  My daughter was instantly the "Best Sister Ever".  A little mommy if there ever was one.  She was 18 months old and ready for independence, so having mommy occupied was a welcome reprieve from singing Old MacDonald for the 200th time.

She found all sorts of fun while I was glued to the couch with my shirt half off feeding her brother.  One day she made an indoor sandbox out of her brother's baby rice cereal. (Tip: Don't ever try to vacuum that stuff.)

I held on to the guilt for a few months, I clearly remember the day it went away.  It was a really hot day, the baby was in his little chair and I was snapping the day's obligatory new baby photos when my daughter came over, the breeze from the fan blowing her wispy hair back.  She smooched her brother as I snapped away.  It wasn't until that night, as I was clicking through the pictures that this shot stopped me and I finally understood.  As I looked at these tiny people interacting I finally saw what she had, instead of what she lost. She had a brother who, seven years later, is her best friend (most days) and her back-up whenever she needs it.  She gained someone to love and be loved by, and she has someone to turn to if she can't turn to Mom and Dad.  You would think as someone who has three younger siblings herself that I would have known this from the start (hormone clouded judgement?).

I also realized that trying to be the best mom for one kid is very different than trying to be the best mom for two or more kids.  With one kid you are 50% of their everything.  With more kids you're only 33%, 25% or less.  You still give all the love, but you don't have to be the entertainment, shoulder, snuggler, teacher, playmate all the time... sometimes to your dismay. Siblings are happy to jump into those roles, and others... antagonist, irritater, toy breaker.

I'd like to say I scraped the rest of that side of guilt into the garbage and was done with it, but I managed to store some to reheat with the births of brothers #2 and #3. With the younger brothers it was more of an appetizer than a side dish, easily forgotten once the meal arrived.

Even now I find a crumb or two of guilt laying around, especially when I realize how little one-on-one time I get with the kids.  But as I listen to them playing some made up game down the hall I think, maybe that's just me missing it, they are too busy having fun with each other.

The Sound of Quiet

In my house quiet is hard to come by.  With young kids (three quarters of them boys) and a dog, the volume of our house regularly reaches unsafe levels.  I often threaten to wear ear plugs, but as most moms know, hearing (or not hearing anything) is part of a mom's anti-danger awareness system which goes on high-alert when your eyes are otherwise occupied, and I can't safely turn that off.

Last week, my parents, bless their angelic souls, had all four of the kids to their house for a week (a whole week!!).  They've had two or three of them in the years past, but this year, the youngest is potty trained and they all got to go.  It was the first time in 8.5 years I had no children at home with me.  And, it was quiet.

There were no truck noises, no fighting, no "Mom! So-and-so won't let me blah-blah-blah".  There was no me yelling for them to be quiet only to hear "What?! We can't hear you! We're being to loud!", followed by sounds of my head banging off the wall. Of course there were none of the good noises either: the giggles, silly sayings and sweet "Mom, I love you"s. But... there was quiet.

I almost forgot it existed during the daylight hours.

When it was quiet, I heard the wind in the trees, the birds chirping away, the laundry thumping in the dryer downstairs, and  I heard myself think!  I went hours without having to speak.  No twenty questions to answer, no over dramatic punishments to threaten - "No dessert for a year!".  I didn't have to hold a press conference to announce the evenings menu, so I wasn't asked 5 separate times while I was preparing it:

"Thank you for attending this evening's dinner press conference.  The menu tonight will be a Roasted Red Pepper Pasta with Chicken, salad and garlic bread. Any questions? --- Yes, you four in the front row."
In unison: "Are there onions in it?"
"No, there are no onions in it."  "Yay!"
"Any more questions?  Tall guy, that just walked in."
"Pasta, again?!"  "Would you like to rephrase that?".

While I was hearing "quiet", I realized I no longer had to listen.  As a parent your eyes and ears and nose never turn off.  You could be reading a book and still hear the little feet sneaking into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and then smell the pickles as they are being stealthily snatched from their jar.  Moms can even wake from the deepest slumber when they hear the flick of the bathroom light switch at 4:18 AM.

Being able to power down from Mom-mode was almost like a vacation for my brain, even if I was still at my desk working.  Last week was a gift for me more than it was for the kiddos. Sure, I missed them (less than I thought) and I worried (even more less than I thought -- but my parents are pros at managing kids, they had four of their own not that long ago). We all survived, though the grand-angels halos maybe be a tad tarnished, it's hard to be on your best behavior for a full day, let alone a whole week.

They're home now.  The noise has returned.  All Mom-systems are "GO".  I can only hope that for my parents, the memory of the chaos, exhaustion and overwhelming energy of 4 grandkids will fade like the pain of childbirth over the next few months and they will want the kids to come visit again next summer, for, maybe.... two weeks?

Home Alone

Before you become a mom, you imagine that motherhood is filled with a pretty balanced mix of hugs and cuddles to tantrums and poop up the back diapers.  You think you have a good idea of the work involved and you probably think it's life just like the child-free days, but with little stinky noise-makers.  But what you probably didn't notice - and no one took the time to tell you - is that you are never alone, ever. Ever.

Sometimes you may look alone -- for example, it's 9PM and my 4 little turds are tucked into their beds, I'm tapping away on my laptop down the hall from their rooms and from the outside looking in, I appear, alone.  But I'm not. You're never alone if your children are within shouting distance - even when they are asleep.  You're always waiting, listening, and waiting and listening and turning down the volume on the TV and listening harder and tiptoeing down the hall to take a peek because it sounded like someone got up, or coughed or talked or moved.   From the moment that first head pops out of your hooha you're on Red Alert.

Recently when my three older kids were at school and my husband was home from work, he took our youngest to town with him because I had a meeting to go to, but they left about an hour and half before I had to.  And as I saw his truck bounce down the driveway I realized - I'm home alone!  There was no listening, hollering, checking to see who was where or what was happening.  It was just me - I was what's happening and man was it was weird and amazing and a bit disorienting.  I quickly calculated how much time I had... just over an hour - and then I proceeded to waste about 5 minutes trying to figure out what to do with my time. Then I spent another two minutes complaining to myself about wasting 5 minutes.  But I was confused - what should I do?  Do I clean, make myself lunch, do I watch trashy TV, where should I sit - all the furniture is available!!  I was totally unprepared for being home alone -- and I pretty much squandered the most precious gift of the last 8 years.

I turned on trashy TV, made lunch and did my make up in the living room, but I felt alive! I could hear myself think.  I got to eat all my lunch without anyone asking for some. It was amazing, but next time will be better - now I know to prepare.  I've started a list in my Google Keep, so the next time I'm unexpectedly home alone I'll have a plan.  Each minute will be used to the fullest and it will be mind-blowing.

Our youngest is 3.5 and in a couple years will be in school all day.  Soon I'll be "home alone" everyday, which bodes well for my business, the tidiness of our house and my temperament.  I asked my youngest what I will do all day when he's at school too - he said I would probably drink coffee, and he's 100% right.  I'm sure the novelty of an empty house will wear off then and I'll be waiting at the door for the bus to come and the noise to re-enter the house each day, but for now I'm going to make sure I take advantage of every free second I get.

Symptoms, Diagnosis and Treatment of Cabin Fever

Escaping the fever for little bit...

In snow-bound neighborhoods throughout the country you can walk down the street and hear shouts and screams that can't even be contained by walls around where they originate. Frantic mom's with messy hair and mis-buttoned shirts press against their windows wondering if they'll ever find a way out, wondering if any of them will survive... Cabin Fever.  

SYMPTOMS
Cabin Fever is a seasonal disease, like the flu - but even the most celebrated scientists have yet to discover a vaccine to prevent the wide range of effects the fever has on the whole family.  The symptoms are easily mistaken for other common diseases - often, moms themselves are left wondering if they are losing their minds or perhaps have gone bat-shit crazy.  As anxiety ramps up, the caged animal feeling starts to creep in, women become a bit wild-eyed and snappish. Dinner becomes F'n Dinner and laundry -- F'n laundry.  Bedtimes for the offspring get earlier each night and outrageous punishments are threatened for the simplest mistakes. 

The male head of household is more immune to cabin fever than the others, especially if he works out of the house.  He may try his best to avoid the home during the term of the illness as a means of self-preservation and in all honestly a means of protecting his manhood.  Typically older males avoid the fever by finding urgent work to do in the garage/basement or at a friends house.  If a male contracts cabin fever you may find them doing death defying feats on the roof removing snow or tempting fate with stunts in pick-up trucks or snowmobiles.   If they are unable to leave the home though, the prognosis is dire.  They typically display the same symptoms as the mom of the house, but with a more annoying tone and actions.  They often overstep their bounds by commenting on how things are done in the household, which in turn severely increases the Cabin Fever behaviors of the mother.

The affected children often appear blurry - mostly because they are bouncing around so much it's hard to focus on them. The fever makes it impossible for them to control the volume of their voice and in boys increases the instances of sound effects exponentially.  Fast paced movements are common, when at the peak of the fever many children find it hard to just sit or walk. Running, jumping and flailing are commonly seen.  Children become territorial and commonly argue with siblings over established space and toys.  The longer the children are in a Cabin Fever inducing environment the more likely it is that the mother will threaten to pack them up and send them to a grandparent.

DIAGNOSIS
Diagnosing Cabin Fever is relatively simple and a trip to the clinic is usually not needed.  To see if you or your family have the disease do the following: 
1. Look out the window, is everything white?
2. Look at the thermometer, is it below 10 degrees?
3. Look at your children, do you feel the urge to run away?

If you answered yes to 2 or more of the above questions it is 100% certain that you are suffering from cabin fever.  

TREATMENT
While the only effective treatment for Cabin Fever is time+sun+warmer temps.  There are ways that you can cope with the symptoms. Many recommend charming family projects or arts and crafts, fun-ish sounding contests that end up being a mountain of work for a minute of enjoyment before the full force fallout of the child that didn't win and/or get what the other child got.  While these ideas sound delightful and the pictures of them in magazines and in pinterest are just too cute to ignore, you need to realize that you are not some adorable 50's housewife that lives and breathes for her child's happiness.  When the scissors and glue come out, you don't see potential, priceless treasures about to be made around the kitchen table.  You see weapons of mass destruction and no "FE" to go with the "MA" that has to clean it all up.   So try these instead:
1. If you can not escape the household, remove the male from the household.  Send him off for death defying feats with this friends or describe a strange sound coming from your vehicle, that should keep him busy in the garage for awhile.
2. Buy loads of clearance Christmas and Valentines candy.  If the rabid children start getting too close to you throw some toward a far away corner, that should keep them away for a bit. It won't necessarily help them, but at least you won't have to deal with them for a few minutes.
3. DVR all the children's favorite shows, when they start to burn out on candy put their shows on sneak down to the bathroom, quietly close and lock door.  Sit on edge of tub hugging yourself and rocking back and forth. 
4. Do not calculate the hours until bedtime until after 3PM.  After 3PM remind yourself how close you're getting frequently.   
5. Start the bedtime routine a few minutes earlier each night to speed up the countdown to bedtime process. If your the kids are old enough to tell time, just speed up the clocks, they probably aren't smart enough to figure that out.
6. Most Important - stay well stocked with wine and chocolate.  After the last little turd is tucked in for the night it's go time.  Just flop on the couch and breathe.

 As far as I know the world is still turning, so eventually it'll warm up and cabin fever will subside for a few months. Until then amuse yourself by making your hair crazy and pretending to claw your way out the windows when the neighbors walk by.