Happy birthday to meeeee, happy birthday to meeeee, happy birthday dear mooo'ooom, now where's the suppository? And many mooooore....

"Happy birthday, Mom!"

The tired, somewhat haggard mother looks lovingly at her children, who are aglow in the soft, warm, yellow light of her birthday candles. It's been a long month, but it's her birthday. It's finally her turn to celebrate. She's got big plans. A new bottle of wine. Fuzzy slippers. The promise of a movie that she likes instead of that damn curious monkey or that creepy blue engine again. She opens her mouth, makes a wish and starts to blow out her candles. She stops. Freezes is more like it. Something catches her eye. What is it? The shiny glow of a new birthday car parked in the driveway? A roomful of presents? An envelope containing a one-way ticket to Paris—her Golden Ticket out of town!?

No, it is a child clutching his stomach, whimpering, "I'm going to be sick."

Suddenly there is vomit everywhere. Not on her cake—whew!—but on the floor, the chair and the sibling next to him. Even the dog is covered in it.

She stands up, sighs and says to her husband, "Every year. On my birthday. There is puke."

She is right.* 

January 2009: My first birthday as a new mother "blew serious chunks."

January 2010: Junior's stomach bug came on "like a mini storm front"—hah!

January 2011: I may or may not have drank too much vodka.

January 2012: I may or may not have drank too much vodka.

January 2013: There was so much vomit, I mused about my family's puke personalities.

January 2014: I may or may not have drank too much vodka.

January 2015: I may or may not have drank too much vodka.

* Kind of right. But wtf.

Thank you Mr. Heckenspeck for infecting the damn town

The month of December was challenging, which is why I've been MIA.

Actually, MIA sounds way too exciting for where I've been. MIA makes it sound as if someone kidnapped me and took me to a secluded island and made me change my name and live a childless life of pina coladas, tanned cabana boys and afternoon naps when really, I've been living a childful life of kid puke, snotty noses and no naps because EVERYONE in the house has been sick.

See, the town of Mulletville Lite is on the small side so when you hear someone coughing at the grocery store, you know it's just a matter of time before everyone in the town gets it. And that's what happened: I saw Mr. Heckenspeck hacking up a lung by the frozen meats on Dec. 1 and sure enough, Junior soon had it. Next was my husband Chuck. Then our middle child, Everett. Then my poor mother. Then toddler Cam. 

Cam got it the worst. By the time he caught the bug, we were three weeks into December and I had accepted the fact that I wouldn't leave the house for the month, so I had stopped performing those basic and normal human tasks of, say, getting dressed and combing my hair. I was actually entering that sticky area known as crazy-sick-but-not-sick mom, where I knew I looked off but was coming to embrace it and maybe even enjoy it.

(Insert evil cackle.) 

Along with Cam's cough came a fever and stomach bug. He was a trooper of a puker, but I'd forgotten the very terrible part of puking toddlerhood, which is that the kid wants to be held as he or she pukes and so you end up getting slimed.

So that's where I was the Wednesday afternoon before Christmas: Standing in the living room in my rattiest pajamas (I'd run out of decent clean ones) holding Cam as he puked down the front of both of us. Hair clipped up in a rat's nest/beehive thing. Holey socks. No bra. Dark circles. Etc. Etc.

Over the sound of Cam's wails I heard the bus.

The town's policy is that a bus driver won't let your kid off without seeing some form of parental life, so I opened the front door, stuck out my arm and waved. Of course--of course--as Everett was crossing the street he slid on a patch of ice, face planted in the road and started screaming.

I stuck my head out the door and called. "Are you okay? Can you get up?"

"Screeeeaaaammmm. Screeeaaammmmm."

Junior, who's on the same bus, stood over Everett like a scientist who had just discovered a new, digusting bug. He yelled to me, "Mom, you should come out here. I think he's unconscious."

"Screeeeaaaammmm. Screeeaaammmmm." Was it Cam or Everrett? I couldn't even tell.

"He's not unconscious! He just needs help getting up!" I called. "Help him!"

The busdriver sat there watching. The kids on the bus sat there watching. I know I looked like an asshole--my kid was lying in the road crying--but I was covered in a screaming toddler and vomit. I was shoeless. Braless. I was trying to maintain a modicum of decorum but that's the hardest part of parenting, isn't it? We find ourselves grasping for the right way to be in the most uncomfortable and challenging scenarios. We find ourselves looking like an asshole when really, we've been living in a hovel of illness and puke for way too long and don't even recognize ourselves in the mirror, and what we need instead of judgment is a kind word or two.

I waved for the bus to leave but like a good bus driver she sat there.  

"Junior!" I shouted. "Pick up your brother! Please!"

Junior must have heard the desperation in my voice because he leaned down, grabbed Everett by the arm and gently brought him to his feet. Everett was whimpering but unscathed. They made their way to the front door and came inside. When the bus finally drove away I put Cam down and assessed the situation:

Pukey kid
Pukey parent
Pukey rug
Crying kindergartner
Small man-child of a fourth grader why wanted to know why I didn't come outside

"Look at me," I said to them. "I'm doing the best that I can." Hearing those words made it worse for a minute: I was doing the best I could but it still wasn't good enough. There was still more that was needed of me. I went into the bathroom and started to cry. Then I laughed. Then I cried. Then I laughed again.

It's all okay though. I'm doing the best that I can. And for 2017 that will be just fine.

When your neighbor makes you the worst smelling turkey ever

Last week I changed my blog header to the snowy frog scene and bam, it snowed.

Curious, ey?

If you're like me, you're spending this week in a pre-Thanksgiving frenzy. I don't cook, but Chuck and I do go away with the kids, which means packing and wrangling, driving and bickering.

For the last five years we've shared a timeshare condo on the ocean with my parents and Chuck's. It's right in Connecticut, so the drive isn't more than an hour and I swear I'm not complaining—ocean view for the holidays? Yes, please—but the condo is one story so we sleep in close proximity (all 10 of us). We have snorers. We have sleep talkers.

We have a toddler.

Toddlers have the propensity for destroying rooms, meals, and lives.

Think I'm being dramatic? I bet you $100,000,000 you've never had a toddler.

I'm hoping this year will be less stressful than last. Cam had just started crawling and the condo we were staying in was dressed in industrial style, uber modernistic furniture. Steel legs on chairs, dagger edges to the coffee tables, pointy sides to the beds, you get the idea. Add a few Matchbox cars to the floor and suddenly the place is a rollerskating arena of death, especially for senior-aged family members who've had a few too many cocktails.

Oops! Did Grammie just plummet face-first into the steel bolts of the fireplace?

Cam slept well in the Pack 'N Play the first night. (Why the hell do they call it that anyway? It should be called the Please Sleep in Me. Please.) Lulled into a false sense of well-being by Cam's feat, Chuck and I drank and ate way too much at Thanksgiving dinner the second night* and of course, Cam woke up screaming every 30 minutes after we put him to bed.

Around 11 p.m. we decided we couldn't spend the whole night like that. Despite the 15 fans we'd brought for white noise no one was getting any shut-eye. Chuck and I packed up Cam and all of our stuff and started for home. On the way, I called our next door neighbors who were dog-sitting and let them know we'd be home.

"We let her sleep at our house and we know you've missed her," they said, "so we'll bring her back home."

I told them that wasn't necessary. We were straddled with a baby who wouldn't stop screaming. We'd be okay without the dog, but they insisted.

An hour later we pulled into the driveway and found our neighbor Bob standing in our driveway, holding our dog. We stepped out of the car with a still screaming Cam and smelled...

...skunk.

"I'm sorry," Bob said. "When I opened my door your damn dog ran into your yard after a skunk. I chased her into the woods. We both got sprayed. I opened your door to see if I could find a towel and she ran inside. So yeh, it reeks!"

Bob had been drinking. Or he was high on skunk fumes. It was hard to tell. If you've never smelled skunk spray right after it happens, it has a sweet onion pungency to it that makes your throat burn and your eyes water. When we went inside it was even worse—but I had to put our screaming monster-child to bed.

"I'll open the windows and crank the heat," Chuck said, "if you deal with the kid." He winced—from the skunk or our child, I didn't know.

Bob followed us inside and apologized. Chuck put the dog on our screened-in porch and started to wipe her down. Thankfully she'd only been sprayed on her snout. I put Cam in his crib. He immediately stopped crying.

"Little fucker," I said as I shut his door. The upstairs was safe from the smell but it was brutal downstairs, where Bob had parked himself on the couch. He was examining his shoes.

"The thing is," he told me, "when I ran out the door to bring your dog home I grabbed the first pair of shoes I found. These aren't mine, and they stink. I'm scared to go home. I think they belong to my uncle."

Chuck returned from the porch. "I got most of it. She's fine."

"I feel terrible," Bob said. He rubbed his shoes.

"It's fine!" I lied. "We'll probably just go to bed now. The upstairs isn't bad."

"Let's get the air moving. Where are the fans?" Chuck asked. "Oh right, they're all at the condo."

Bob wasn't moving. "Let's just go to bed," I urged Chuck.

"Right!" Bob said, standing up.

"No," said Chuck. "I need a drink."

"Yes!" Bob said.

And that is how Thanksgiving ended. With watery eyes and burning throats, we tied one on with Bob. Eventually he got over his shoe worries. Eventually Chuck and I went to bed. And the best part—the part I am most thankful for—is that Cam slept until 9 a.m.

In EPT (Exhausted Parent Time) that's fucking noon. 

Happy holidays to you and your family. Like myself, I hope you have a skunkless, toddlerless time!

For more holiday merriment, check out these Thanksgiving posts from years past:

• I have no idea what day it is. Plus, quit bitching about your gift cards 

• Happy Thanksgiving, Buttfart Face! 

 • If you were in line tonight at a liquor store, I am thankful for you
 
• Anyone wanna trade grannies?

• Because a frozen turkey is riding shotgun, that's why  

• Is that a drumstick in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

* Slight exaggeration for dramatic effect. In other words: We were okay to drive. I don't take drinking and driving lightly.

I wonder if all those years of karate will actually pay off

When you're a parent (heck, even before you actually become a parent), you live in a constant state of wonder:

I wonder how the hell I'm going to get this baby out of me.

I wonder when he will sleep for longer than an hour.

I wonder when he'll stop being so fussy.

I wonder if my mother will always criticize my parenting.

Etc.

Etc.

(The joys of parenting!)

Most of the time, you wonder about the firsts: first tooth, first step, first solid food. They're exciting, yes, but there are a whole slew of firsts that never make the baby book.

For me, I couldn't help but marvel at this bodily first with Junior. Also, the first time I had food poisoning and had to tend to two children. And the first time my kid said a bad word, even though it wasn't intentional. So many exciting firsts.

Just last night, when I was home alone with the three boys and Chuck was still at work, this first happened:

We were all upstairs when we heard a strange noise from the kitchen. Junior—who always has been my code-red child, the one who screams "RUN" and then totally books off, the one who shouts "Call 9-1-1!" even though it's not really a crisis—turned to me calmly and said, "Stay here, Mom." As he went downstairs, he put his arms into his karate stance. He came back a few seconds later and said, "All clear. It was the cat."

It all happened so fast, and yet so slowly. I stood there for a moment and stared at him. At nine, he's a solid guy. I can wear his shoes. I mistake his shirts for Chuck's in the laundry. He's as tall as my shoulders and yet, he's been my Junior, my first, for so many years I didn't recognize the "stay here, Mom" voice or the calm young man who confidently stepped down the stairs.

He saw me watching him and asked what was up. I didn't tell him what I was thinking. I ruffled his hair and told him to brush his teeth. That's the thing about children: They're so much more than that first tooth. They keep changing and surprising you and some days, you find yourself wondering who the heck this new little person is.

See? I told you it was all about the wondering.

Cranky ass Tuesday. Sorry, Parents magazine. But hey you? You're awesome

I'm going to start this post off in an unruffled way by saying—calmly—that I am a lover of magazines. If I had to assign a level of love to my well, love, I'd say I'm borderline freaky (yes, flasher at the bus stop) about them.

Every once in awhile I treat myself to Bella Grace—which is a beautifully designed, stunning magazine full of gorgeous photos—and the usual smattering of homey-cozy magazines, but I don't have 88 billion subscriptions.

If I had 88 billion subscriptions, like I'd really want to have, my husband Chuck would leave me. Because I don't read a magazine and get rid of it. I keep it forever.

FOREVER.

Seriously, we trip over small stacks of magazines in our home all the time. Surprisingly, no one gets upset. Probably because for every magazine my son trips over, I trip over a train for him. The other son? Legos. Chuck? AV cords and cables. I guess you could say we are a home of happy trippers.

(With achy feet and bruises.)

Anyway. Because I love magazines, I usually grab the free copy of Parents magazine from the pediatrician's office. I want to like the magazine, I really do. Before I even had kids I would stare at the magazine cover at the grocery store check-out and think, Someday I'll buy this. But no, even though they ditched that absurd column, I still have anger issues with the publication.

In fact, just the other day I raced into the bathroom, where Chuck was trying to poop in peace, and shouted, "WHO MAKES LUNCHES LIKE THIS FOR THEIR KIDS?" I shook the page in front of him:

(He's so sweet. He actually agreed with me before asking me to leave him alone.) 

That's a photo from Parents' September 2016 issue, called "Simply your lunch strategy." Simplify, ey? By hollowing out a few small tomatoes and stuffing them with chopped veggies? As if. The tomatoes are for Wednesday's suggested lunch. The next week's menu calls for Cobb Salad and homemade egg drop soup.

What the fuck? I ate half a granola bar that was stuck to my kid's shirt yesterday for lunch because, with three children and three different jobs, I don't have time to breathe—never mind stuff small tomatoes so my well-fed, coddled children can stick up their noses at them in the school cafeteria. And egg drop soup? Sure, I'll make it. Then I'll feed it to the garbage disposal, which is the best eater in my house when I try to introduce "new and healthy" dishes to my children.

I know what they'll eat, and I make it. That's where I'm at.

The picture below pisses me off too.

I know I'm projecting, but that woman looks miserable. She can't even keep her eyes open! She's holding that heavy ass toddler. The kid next to her is sitting on the counter, which, in this age of helicopter/velcro parenting is a big safety no-no (even though he's probably eight). She probably has had to pee since noon but can't catch a bathroom break. And she's being asked to "be silly" by wearing a fake mustache.

The poor woman probably has 30 loads of laundry to sort, tubs to scrub, a marketing campaign to finish—oh, and small tomatoes to stuff for lunch (!!) and yet, we want more of her.

We want her to laugh and play and be silly so she can "Spread the love."

She probably doesn't have enough energy to spread her butter on her own toast!

I've had it. When is enough enough? When have we crafted, given, prepped, smiled, encouraged, fed, bathed and clothed them enough? When did this sacrifice-everything-for-children-movement start? When did peanut butter and jelly, an apple and carton of milk (all organic, of course) stop being enough? Why must we origami their miniature vegetables too?

More importantly, if I'm not eating well because I'm too busy making sure they're eating well, when did that become okay and/or expected? How about an article about a mother (or father) who makes herself a delicious omelette for breakfast, then sits down and eats it—this is a big deal if you have a toddler—and then chucks cereal and milk in a bowl for her kids after she's done? Icing on the cake: She feels full, content and not at all guilty.

Right?

I'm not all piss and vinegar today. I promise. Even though I'm never reading Parents magazine again, I want to commend them on their article (also in the September issue) on balancing work and life, because it had this line:

If you're reading this post and you also want to hug the woman wearing the fake mustache because you give until you bleed, I want you to write down this line and tape it to your fridge. You don't even have to be American. You can be from outer space for all I care. Just know that you should be basking.

BUT NOT WHILE WEARING A FAKE MUSTACHE.

Yes, you can bring your toddler to the woods, but Malloy will probably tax him

I'm sorry I was gone for so long. Summer disappeared in a blink. There was nothing lazy about it, which makes me a little sad, but we did manage to log many hours outside. Except for the few weeks in August when Connecticut turned into a rainforest of humidity, heat and grossness. If there was ever a time I thought of taking the scissors to my hair and chopping it all off, that would have been it.

At 19 months, our third child, Cam, is more work than I remember his older brothers being. He scales walls, rides the dog, leaps off couches and levels rooms in two seconds flat. He's hot tempered and impatient. I've picked him up and carried him (screaming) out of places more in the last month than I ever did with either of his brothers...combined. I've never felt more of a "geriatric mother" than now.

The toddler years are exhausting.

Of course, there's a silver lining. Because he's my third child, I know this won't last forever. I know I need to take a lot of deep breaths and schedule time for myself. I know I need to walk away if I get into the red zone with my patience. I know I need to stock the cabinet with vodka. I also don't care if he doesn't eat all of his vegetables.

The best part is I could care less what people think. I wish I'd know that with my first. I would have saved myself a lot of unnecessary stress.

Speaking of stress, the picture above was taken while on a family hike. While I stood off to the side and soaked my toes, Chuck showed Junior and Everett how to skip stones. Cam sat next to me in a shallow pool and threw rocks. He was ecstatic.

It sounds idyllic, but we'd bickered in the car on the drive to the river. Chuck didn't think we should take Cam to the river. Everett had wanted to bring his Nerf gun. Junior didn't feel like hiking. I wanted us all to get some fresh air as a family. Etc., etc.

As it happens though, everything fell into place once we got into the woods. The sounds of traffic grew more faint. Fishermen scattered when they heard us approaching. The kids stopped bickering and instead noticed the leaves changing.

That's why I took that picture. Not for stupid Facebook or social media. But for myself. So I could remember that there are moments of peace and harmony. That we should spend time together as a family. That even if we still live in this ugly, overpriced state, we can still find tranquil places of beauty. And yes, that if I find a wading hole far enough into the woods, no one will hear my toddler screaming when it's time to go.

Not that I'd care anyway. 

Off the clock

I'm so full of it.

Right after I wrote my last post about children clutter and how someday when it's all gone I'll "probably hate the hell out of it" I went nuts clearing off every tabletop in the house. I donated or threw away toys. I put things in their rightful place. I dusted.

It's wonderful.

So that's where I've been. Working, tidying up, sneaking in trips to the park and splash pads. Letting the kids stay up late and eat ice cream. 

And now that it's August 1 and school is only weeks away, I'm going to be away more. From the computer, I mean. I'm glued to it way too much for work and now that middle-age is officially settling in, I can't ask my eyes to squint any more than they have to.

So enjoy the rest of your summer and I'll see you in September.