Finnegan

My daughter desperately wants a pet.

We have a cat but he is not enough. She never got to experience him as a kitten and now he is just a grumpy old man who hates kids and sleeps all day.

Her ideal pet would be a puppy but I have enough small bodies to clean up after and a puppy is not in the cards. If we get a pet, it needs to be a practical pet. A pet that gives back.

Like a chicken.

Anyway, she wants a pet so badly that at the beginning of the year she instigated a request for a pet in her fourth grade classroom. After much coercion, the teacher agreed to a fish. She brought in a bright blue Beta. They named it Finnegan.

I’m not sure how the other fourth graders feel about Finnegan but my daughter loves him. She feeds him most days and occasionally stays in at recess to clean out his tank. Because of her deep affection for Finnegan and her commitment to his care, her teacher allowed her to bring this class fish home for the Thanksgiving holiday.

Finnegan survived our house for three days and now the guy is belly up in his Tupperware travel tank.

Ding, dong the fish is dead, people!

Of course the fish is dead. Because that’s the kind of ridiculous crap that always happens here, just west of Wacky. The fish should have known better. The teacher should have known better. I should have known better.

That little blue back-stroker was cursed from the get go.

And now he's Finne-gone.

My daughter is wandering the house in her dirty pajamas quietly crying over the loss of her dear BFF (Blue Fish Finnegan).

I just sighed the “Mom Sigh”.

So, what do I do now?

Do I send the fish to school in a little cotton ball padded box so that her classmates can say good-bye?

Flush, cremate or bury?

Do I buy a new fish?

Do I buy the same color to help them forget or a new color to distinguish between the old fish and the new fish?

And, most importantly…

Can I call the new fish “Finn-again”?

Washed Up and Washed Out

My washing machine took a dump this morning.

It hit the spin cycle with my husband’s hockey gear tucked inside and then stopped. And then started. And then stopped. It sounded like “The Little Engine That Could” except it was more like, “Chug, chug, chug…Hell, no! Chug, chug, chug…No way! Chug, chug, chug…Give it up!”

Plus, I smelled something that reeked a teensy bit of melted rubber and that is never good.

I am not sure that this family of five can survive without a washing machine. Props to the pioneers for handling it old school with lye soap and washboards but the only kind of “mettle” in this 21st century gal is in one of my teeth. Which is obviously not going to get the laundry done.

Honestly, if I were my washing machine, I would have quit way before now. I mean, just last weekend I loaded up that guy with the fiesta of puke and poo left over from a six-year-old boy’s bout with the stomach flu. Not to mention my husband’s hockey and workout gear. No amount of spinning and rinsing can get the stink off that stuff.

To the machine’s credit, it lasted three years longer than its partner, the dryer. Both were replaced 12 years ago and the dryer pooped out first. We found out that the repair would cost nearly as much as a new dryer, and factoring in advancements in energy saving made a new one the more cost effective choice. Plus, the nice men at the store agreed to deliver it right to my house and carry the old one out and they didn’t even laugh at me when they got the old one in the truck and discovered it was still full of our undies.

Props to those guys, too.

But really, my friend the washing machine…did you have to die just before the holidays? In the season when the kids are wearing layers of clothes? Now that my husband is playing hockey twice a week and hunting? This is just cruel timing. It’s inconvenient. And, frankly, I would rather go without my right pinkie finger than my bestie, The Washer.

I’m serious. I haven’t used that thing since I gave up piano 20-something years ago and I almost never drink tea.

So, pinkies?

Whatev…

What I need is a washing machine.

I called my husband with the sad news and he told me to call a professional. That’s when I really lost it. I started to wail about scheduling those awful appointments where they tell you that they will be there sometime between 7:18am and 6:27pm. Then you have to wait while they order the backordered part and then they have to get you back on the appointment schedule (because they are only in your neck of the woods every other Tuesday in months that have an “r”) and then the part is the wrong one so the whole cycle starts all over again and it is NOT the washing machine cycle which is the only cycle that I am really interested in…

And when I paused to take a breath my husband said, “You can at least call and find out when they can look it over. And if that doesn’t work, maybe your dad can take a look at it”.

Is he the voice of reason in this relationship, or what?

My dad. That guy is all kinds of great things. Like handy, retired, local, and he doesn’t mind being paid with leftover Halloween candy. Plus, I am pretty sure that he remembers lye soap and washboards and I know that he wouldn’t want me to suffer those indignities.

Anyway, I called the 1-800 number and turns out they can put me on the schedule for tomorrow. Sometime between the hours of 1pm and 5pm. The visit will only cost me $69.95 plus parts and labor.

$69.95 plus parts and labor.

Sorta makes pinkies and Halloween candy look viable…

Lost, But Not Forgotten

There is a black hole of toys somewhere in my house.

If it’s not a black hole than its Casper the Toy Hiding Ghost. Or maybe there is an alternate plane of reality in the basement of which I am unaware. Or one of those secret cupboards hidden in the back of the closet. I’m leaning toward the paranormal because I’ve seen the blueprints for our house but I suppose one can never be certain…

In any case, there is some sort of top secret “Area 52” in my home where all good toys go to die. I know that I am not the only one who has one. In fact, at a recent wedding shower with friends, another gal mentioned cleaning out a game cupboard and finding three INCOMPLETE Scrabble games. Honestly, People. Does the “Z” chip really just get up and traipse across the “Double Word Score” to freedom?

I don’t think so.

Before children, these things rarely (if ever) came up missing. Now, a pair of matching Barbie shoes is a miracle worthy of papal attention.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I’ve been doing some fall cleaning now that the kids are back in school. I have already made two trips to the local Goodwill and now I am left with the stuff that I can’t figure out how to dump.

It causes me too much guilt.

I just can’t leave games with missing pieces at the VOA Store. It seems like a mean trick to dupe a fellow bargain seeker into buying a Disney Princess game that simply cannot be played properly without the totally unique eight-sided glass slipper die.

You have GOT to have the glass slipper die. Things wouldn’t be right without it.

I can’t throw these things away, either. I actually have nightmares about all of those bright little plastic bits languishing in a dump for all eternity. It’s like Wall-E in my head but without the cute soundtrack and happy ending.

I could just buy another game and merge the two but then I would still have an incomplete set and you can see what sort of an Idiot Circle that could quickly turn into.

I could also probably order just the pieces that I need on-line. And then pay $5 in shipping for a .25 part.

Sorry, but I am just too cheap for that kind of crazy behavior.

So, I did the only thing that I could reasonably do. I set out in search of the…

TOY BLACK HOLE (insert ominous piano chord series here).

This was a quest worthy of Frodo Baggins and his crew of weirdoes (except for the elf - who I still have a teeny crush on). And, boy, did I need me a magic wizard in the lead.

I don’t know if our house will ever be the same.

In case you are thinking of repeating the same mindless search in your house, here a few of the places I checked: pulled out all major appliances, looked inside the heat vents, poked through the contents of the vacuum, raked the sandbox, lifted all of the mattresses, and completed 47 puzzles in search of one missing piece.

To no avail.

I did find an unsuspected cache, albeit an obvious one. While vacuuming under the couch, I bumped my hand against the fabric base of the furniture and heard a little jingle. I reached in from the top and found all the pieces and parts I was missing the LAST time that I went on this rampage - I mean, cleaning binge – as well as a set of Pampered Chef bamboo tongs that I am pretty sure have been missing since New Year’s 2007. Upon hearing this good news, my husband (in a fit of genius) took his pocket knife to the fabric covering the bottom of the couch so that future bits and parts lost in this manner would fall directly to the floor. Not normal. Just necessary. In fact, one would think that furniture manufacturers would have discovered this faulty engineering decades ago.

Seriously, Peeps. It takes a mom.

So, absent any other options, I’ll just throw this out to all my readers…

Anyone need four red “Battleship” pins and a 150 piece dog puzzle that’s missing one corner?

Yeah. I didn’t think so…

Lice Are Not Nice

The boys have been Kindergarteners for exactly three weeks now. Every day at noon I pick them up from school. Every day at noon I ask them to tell me about their day. When I ask them about their day, I sincerely want to know every detail. They tell me nothing. NOTHING. I ask very specific questions that they answer in a very vague manner. They got that from their father (who, nevertheless, is a Cutie Pants whom I adore unconditionally) .

Yesterday, however, was different.

They came running out of the front doors of the elementary waving these bright little booklets and yelling, “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom! You are not going to believe this but our school has LICE!”

Yes, indeed. The school has lice. Well, except for the Computer Lab and the Gym/Cafeteria. And, if you are wondering (as I did), how these two areas managed to remain louse-free you should know that it’s because they have no carpet. According to the boys, carpet is the thing that moves lice from one Kindergarten scalp to another. Evidently, Commercial Use Berber is a veritable Mackinac Bridge for head lice. And there ain’t no toll to cross.

So, on this particular day, rather than my asking questions for the entirety of our six minute commute, they filled my head (which was actually starting to itch due to the ultimate power of suggestion) with random information about lice.

The short version as told by two barely six-year-old boys? Lice are like fleas except they can’t jump. They can only crawl across the carpet from one child to another and then climb onto your head. They are nearly as fast as The Flash because they can move up to 12 inches per minute. They are also almost as strong as Superman because they can hold onto a hair so tightly that you won’t be able to get them off.

Basically, Head Lice are like the superheroes of the bug world. Except they don’t save other bugs from certain doom and they’re really more like bad guys to people.

Those two adorable little boys sat in the backseat flipping through their booklets and filling me in on the ups and downs of lice. They were excited! They had learned something new! Lice are, like, totally cool bugs, man – I mean, Mom!

At some point, it crossed my mind that they actually wanted lice. No lie. They were flipping through that lice flier with the same look that they get when perusing their big sister’s American Girl Doll catalog. They pretend they are only looking at the stuffed dog or cat or horse, but you can tell they secretly want an AGD to hug and love and call their own. And that’s OK. But lice? Not cool.

Well, as soon as we got home - before I let them in the house - I snagged one of the lice booklets. Now, I don’t know how Nix, maker of all things that destroy head lice, could have made those sticky little buggers any MORE appealing. Seriously, people, I almost wanted lice. Their marketing guy is a genius. No wonder my boys were hooked.

Right on the cover of this 12-page pamphlet were two adorable, smiling little girls. And the exclamation points! There were at least 17 on the cover alone!

“Heads Up!”

“Get Out of My Hair!”

“Valuable Coupons Inside!”

And my personal favorite, “The Facts Of Lice!”

Now, like me, all of you will spend the rest of your day trying to get this out of your head: “You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have…The Facts of Lice…The Facts of Lice…”

In fact, this little gem of an advertisement (available in English and Spanish) is so slick I can imagine kindergarteners everywhere trading hats just to experience the joy of plastic shower caps and fine-tooth combs.

You’ll be relieved to know that after a thorough perusal of both scalps, the boys appeared to be nit free. I think that they were a bit dismayed to discover that they weren’t carriers of such a cool bug but I assured them that it was not because there’s anything wrong with them. There just isn’t anything for the little guys to cling to when Mom buzzes your head with a “number one” guard on the clippers.

You heard me, Nix…Number. One. Guard. Your measly little lice are no match for my buzz cuts. I’ve seen your type before and I’m on to you.

Exclamation points and all…

144 Pounds of Yuck

This is the first morning of the school year that I have put all three kids on the bus without having to be somewhere else five minutes later.

So, I decided to do a walk-through of the house and figure out how I wanted to tackle my fall cleaning. For obvious reasons, this is much easier to do when the kids are not following me around leaving a trail of destruction in my wake of cleanliness.

When I flipped on the light in the children's bathroom to survey the damage there, I immediately decided that this would be my starting point. Frankly, following the “Summer of the Five-Year-Old Boys”, it was a bit worse for the wear.

By “a bit worse for the wear” I actually mean, “O.M.G! How could three adorable children with a combined total weight of 144 pounds create this kind of filth in less than ten weeks?!”

I peeked in the tub and the voice in my head cackled, “Mr. T called and he wants his rings back!”

I looked behind the toilet and the voice in my head shouted, “Holy toxic waste, Batman! What sort of Super Criminal could have left behind this mass of destruction?”

I checked out the sink and the voice in my head whispered, “Run, Forrest…Run…”

I actually backed out of that place. I am pretty sure I saw something moving in there and it was definitely not those cute little scrubbing bubble guys.

Now, I am a clean person. My family and friends would probably tell you that my house is usually fairly neat and tidy. This bathroom that I refer to is primarily used by the kids and a random guest. It is wiped down at least once a day but it never stays clean for more than a minute so I don’t know if the dirt is new or old. I wised up about three years ago and redecorated in shades of brown. Taupe walls, brown and taupe striped shower curtain, brown hand towels…all things brown. This morning I actually found a perfect tone-on-tone imprint of a dirty hand on the wall just below the towel rack. My kids will never be able to get away with murder because they leave their fingerprints all over the stinkin’ place. There was more DNA in that tiny 8x8 bathroom than the CSI team finds in an hour (minus commercials).

I re-entered the bathroom armed with several gallons of bathroom-type chemicals, a pair of rubber gloves, an old toothbrush and a shot of vodka. The vodka was for me - not the bathroom - in case some of you were wondering about this new “green” cleaning element…

I came out a half hour later feeling just a little bit woozy – from the chemicals, not the vodka - but incredibly proud. That place had a shine on it that I haven’t seen since I started potty training the boys four years ago. I basked in its beautiful glow and inhaled its lemony fresh scent.

Then, I looked at the clock and realized that there was only one hour and fifty four minutes remaining before the boys would arrive home from school. I would ask them to wash their hands before lunch and at least one of them would have to take care of some immediate potty business.

The voice in my head muttered something about “hard work” and “down the drain” and then started to laugh hysterically.

Oh, well. At least the two of us are approaching this with a sense of humor…

Fool for School

This morning I put all three kids on the bus, together, for the first time.

All. Three. Kids.

I will admit to crying. There was actually a lot more crying than I thought there would be. No misty eyes - full on tears with the tiniest bit of snot. When I realized how momentous and melancholy and other "m" words this occasion was turning out to be for me, I seriously planned to take to my bed. For at least a day or two.

Then, through bright red eyes, I reviewed my "To Do" list for the day. Item number one read, "Replace all four tires on the Acadia". I had an 8:30am appointment at the tire center.

In nine plus years of parenting, I have spent many an hour in the waiting section of various automobile maintenance establishments. Normally, I pack a bag with snacks and mentally prepare myself for multiple bathroom trips and decades old issues of "Highlights" magazine. This morning, I realized that I was going to spend at least an hour kicking back with a cup o' joe and a "People Magazine".

Miraculously, the tears dried up and I suddenly felt an uncontrollable urge to skip...

Close Enough

My children have become increasingly complicated.

AndIthinkitmightbemyfault.

Oops.

I grew up in a home that modeled ease and efficiency. My dad subscribed to the KISS Method (Keep It Simple Stupid). My mom was lovingly, and mostly behind her back, referred to as “Close Enough Cathie”. My parents didn’t just do things; they did them in the simplest way possible. If the instructions required ten steps, they could do it in six. Packing for college? No need to make two trips – Dad could fit more volume into a 1980’s Chevy Station Wagon than the actual cubic feet the model claimed to hold. Everything else got tied to the roof. Missing a key ingredient for your meal? No need to go to the grocery – Mom could figure out a ready substitution and, nine time out of ten, it involved water.

Things were so simple at our house that when I went away to college, I was shocked to discover that there were spices other than salt and pepper! My sister had a similar revelation about pudding – it doesn’t always come out of a box, some people actually cook it. WHAT?

Then I got cable television. Martha Stewart and HGTV changed me. I was swept off my feet by complication, excess and those fancy mops that you can use on floors AND your ceiling fan. I had to have a glue gun. I needed a blender. A spice rack was essential. (Are you kidding me? You need an entire RACK for those guys? Sign me up!)

I spent the next ten years making homemade Valentine cards and decorated cupcakes from scratch.

Yes, friends. I was “that” mom.

However, at some point I realized that it was all just too darn much. I couldn’t get three kids dressed for the party AND make a treat from scratch AND create a super cool homemade gift that was perfectly wrapped with coordinating ribbon without having an anxiety attack. Martha Stewart couldn’t do it either. She doesn’t have small children at home, she gets paid lots of money to be that crafty and she had to go under house arrest just so that she could get a break from all of the madness! So, I stopped reading “Martha Stewart” and started subscribing to “Real Simple”.

Well, unfortunately, this summer all of that early excess and complication has come back to bite me in the butt. Evidently, although I made the change, my children have already developed a taste for Martha’s high end ways.

My daughter would like to do a craft. Of course. Feel free to help yourself to the scissors, paper, crayons and glue sticks in the cabinet.

NO!

She wants to make a life-size carousel for the backyard using only the materials that she can find in the recycling bins and a roll of scotch tape. She is hoping that she and her brothers can actually ride on it and she would like Grandpa to make the motor using the little batteries from his workroom. Yeah, the KISS Grandpa. Good luck with that, Sweetie.

My son would like to play a game. Of course. The Uno cards are in the drawer. Would you like to deal first or shall I?

NO!

He wants to play the Game of Life. Not the 1970’s version that doesn’t even have an instruction page because the board tells you exactly what to do. Rather, the 2000’s version that has so many rules one needs a PhD and three days to play, especially when one is playing with a five-year-old who can’t read and doesn’t understand that “life” involves things other than eating and pretending.

My other son would like a snack. Of course. You know where to find the fruit snacks.

NO!

For his first snack, he would like a red apple cut into exactly eight slices and dipped in peanut butter. Please make sure that there is no trace of core on the apple slices and use a big spoon for the peanut butter. For his second snack, he would like square crackers (whole wheat but not whole grain) with five slices of cheese (the kind you cut, not the kind you unwrap). For his third snack, he will be happy to help himself to the afore mentioned fruit snacks.

Why does it all have to be this hard? Because I broke them. I should have been teaching them how to read and instead we were making homemade Halloween decorations with Styrofoam balls and tulle. Damn you, Martha Stewart. Damn you and your project guides that only need to be enlarged by 200% on a copy machine.

So, knowing all of this, you can imagine my surprise when all three children approached me about dinner the other night. What were we having? Homemade coleslaw with cabbage from our garden, marinated and grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, and rhubarb crisp for dessert.

NO!

My daughter would prefer hotdogs (boiled, not grilled, no buns, just dipped in ketchup) with a side of Ramen Noodles. One son agrees that I make the BEST Ramen Noodles. The other son would just like the noodles, no hot dog, and can he make them himself?

I sigh a sigh we moms sigh altogether too often and silently acknowledge that perhaps my children haven’t been entirely brain washed by my “Martha Phase”. But, please, can’t we find a happy medium between hot dogs and recyclable yard art?

And then I see my daughter duck out the back door with the empty Ramen Noodle carton and a roll of tape…

The Fridge Magnet

Apparently, I am often late.

Well, I am late more often than I am early or on time.

OK, so I am always late. I am late to the point that my family no longer just makes fun of me behind my back, they now make fun of me to my face and in front of other people. In fact, a friend who also knows my parents gifted me with a fridge magnet that says, “I consider on time to be when I get there”.

The problem is that I don’t see myself as a late person. I would love to be on time, all the time. I distinctly remember a day when the twins were 18-months old. We were all ready to go out the door 15 minutes early. The pride I felt was enormous! I was feeling so confident that I actually answered the phone with a cup of coffee in hand. As I was standing there, bragging to a friend about my earliness, I felt my daughter next to me as she stage whispered, "Mommy? The brothers are doing something very, very bad." CRAP! "Gotta go", I told my friend and followed the girl at warp speed. She led me to the bathroom and said, "Sorry, Mommy, but I forgot to close the door when I was done brushing my teeth". Terrified of what I was about to see, I peeked around the corner. One boy was sitting in the bathroom sink. The other boy was standing in the sink, straddling the first boy. They were both furiously brushing their teeth. You might think that sounds harmless, even healthy. I did, too, until I realized that they also had the WATER RUNNING! The sink was full because the drain was plugged by a boy’s chubby little bum-bum. The sitting boy was drenched to his waist, the standing boy to his knees. I am talking about soaked socks, jeans, onesies, diapers, and sweatshirts. Late again…

With that episode in mind, it became evident to me that I haven’t been on time in years! How could I, a prompt-type person, have let my life deteriorate into this mess of lateness?

This required action. I googled a few self-help articles and mentally prepared myself to take back the clock! I had a morning playdate on the schedule and I was determined to use any and all recommended strategies for being “On Time”.

The night before the playdate, I helped the kids pick out their clothes. I considered actually putting them to bed dressed but then realized it was far too hot to do that (however, I may employ that technique during the winter months). I also got out my own clothes and left a bag of snacks, sunblock and ball caps by the back door. It was only 8:00pm and I was already well on my way to being “On Time” the following day!

The next morning, I got up 20 minutes before the kids, took a quick shower and started my coffee. They staggered into the kitchen to eat just as I was filling the bowls with cereal. I presented them with breakfast and a list: 1) Eat, 2) Get Dressed, 3) Brush Your Teeth. How hard can that be? I ran upstairs to finish myself up while they were eating.

Midway through combing my hair I heard, “Mom, can you please get me another bowl of cereal”? I ran down the stairs, filled the bowl, and ran back up.

Thirty seconds later I heard, “Mom, can I please have another glass of juice”? I ran down the stairs, filled the glass, and ran back up.

I had just begun to put some makeup on when I heard fighting in the bathroom. You all know the “I was first! No, I was!” argument, I’m sure. If you haven’t heard it from your children, you’ve certainly tossed it around a time or two yourself. I know that my kids didn’t invent it, however they are experts at enacting it. I ran down the stairs, broke up the fight, and ran back up.

I was brushing my teeth when I heard wailing from the boys’ room. It sounded like someone had lost a limb so I dropped my brush in the sink and went racing down the stairs with toothpaste dripping down my face. Imagine my relief when I discovered not a bloody stump, but a boy who would not be wearing the shirt that he had picked out the night before because he HATED it! We chose a more acceptable shirt and I ran back up the stairs.

This time I checked the clock. We had exactly 2 minutes to leave the house before we would be leaning towards late. I put my hair in a ponytail, grabbed my bag and ran back down the stairs screaming, “FIND YOUR SHOES!” at the top of my lungs. I herded the three kids out the back door and sent them running for the car, shoes in hand. Halfway there, I realized that the boys’ booster chairs were in the garage because their last ride had been in my husband’s car. “GRAB YOUR SEATS”, I yelled! The boys backtracked for their chairs and the girl put both hands on her buttocks and started laughing hysterically (oh yeah, we are just that kind of funny).

Finally, we were all in the car, buckled up and tearing down the 700 foot dirt trail that we call a driveway. As I stopped at the end of the drive, before pulling onto the main road, I looked over my shoulder to confirm that I had, in fact, left the house with all three children.

There they were – one boy wearing a pair of my gym socks with his sandals, another boy with his shirt on backwards, and a girl whose hair looked like she’d given herself a swirly and then run laps around the house to dry out. On top of all that, my steaming fresh mug o’ coffee was still on the kitchen counter.

But none of that mattered because we were still within shouting distance of “On Time”!

Then, a small voice spoke up from the confines of the backseat. “Mom”, he said. “I have to go pee. And it’s a mergency!”

So, I watched “On Time” fly down the road past us and welcomed “Always Late” back into the car.

Guess I’m going to have to make peace with that fridge magnet…

The Shower

It’s been six years, three weeks and one day since my last Really Good Shower.

By good, I mean the kind of shower where you shave both legs (big toe to bikini line) AND wash your hair AND use the good facial scrub that makes your fine lines practically disappear. I know exactly how long its been because I was six months pregnant with twins and it was the day before Father’s Day, 2004. On that particular Sunday, I took my three-year-old daughter to church while her daddy golfed with a friend. Upon entering the vestibule, she announced to the 70-something greeter that I had showered in HER bathroom that morning because I was simply toooooo big to fit in the stall shower in the master bath. She was right. I could no longer reach my toes and my stomach was so huge that my bikini line was hovering somewhere around my knees. Not that I would be wearing a bikini anytime soon. Or ever again, for that matter…

So, I gave up the Really Good Showers and settled for cleanliness and long, tent-like dresses. And then the twins were born and I settled for occasional cleanliness and clothes that you couldn’t really smell if you were standing a foot or more away.

But the kids grew up and sometime in the fall of 2008 I tried again. The girl was safely at school for the day and the boys, recently turned four, were happily watching “Sesame Street” in their pajamas. I jumped on the opportunity, as any mom in my position certainly would have done.

(Un)fortunately, five minutes in, I got cold feet in my hot shower. I just didn’t trust those little buggers and so I shorted the shower and hopped out to check on things.

I found the first boy in his sister’s room. He had greased his entire head of hair with a whole tube of big sissies “Mary Kate and Ashley” pink-sparkle-bubble-gum-flavored lip gloss. I didn’t even bother asking “why”. There was obviously a reason and it obviously would have made no sense to me.

I found the second boy in front of the TV where I left him. However, he had opened the DVD player and was busy cramming multiple disks into the slot. Not one of his "Thomas the Train" movies or something else that we owned, rather the "Sex and the City - Season 3" that I had checked out of the library and would now have to pay for, in addition to a new DVD player to replace the one that ate Sarah Jessica Parker and her girlfriends.

At that point, I realized that the Really Good Showers were still a few years in my future and I reverted back to a grooming rotation that got me out of the bathroom in less than five minutes.

Now, an additional two years later, the kids are newly nine and nearly six. On a recent Sunday morning, my husband got out of bed at 7:30am to weed the garden in the cool early morning air. The kids woke up and asked to watch a toon or two so I handed them the remote and headed back to my room. I realized that everyone was under control, I had the space to myself and time before church for the Really Good Shower.

Let me hear you say, “AMEN”!

I gathered all my smelly potions and lotions, grabbed a brand new razor, hopped in the stall and sighed a happy sigh.

At exactly 37 seconds into my shower, I was lathering my hair when the bathroom door flew open. The first boy yelled, “Mom, I need my goggles really bad! Where are they?”

At approximately two minutes into my shower, I was scrubbing my face with the good cleanser when the bathroom door flew open. The second boy yelled, “Mom, there’s cat poop on the basement floor!”

At nearly three minutes into my shower, I was applying the cream rinse to my hair when the bathroom door flew open. The girl yelled, “Mom! You are not going to believe this but I’m playing NintenDogs on my DS and everyone is telling me what a great Dog Trainer I am!”

At less than five minutes into my shower, I had just finished shaving one leg when the bathroom door flew open. The husband said, “Hey Honey, wanna wash my back?”

I was pretty sure that was the last straw (it wasn’t). So, instead of being the kind of wife who is thrilled that after 13 years and three kids her husband doesn’t run screaming out of the bathroom when he catches her in the shower, I was the kind of wife that threw open the stall door and informed him that I was just getting out.

As I closed the proverbial curtain on the end of my five minute Really Not Good Shower, the unlatched bathroom door flew open yet again. The 15 pound long-haired Mane Coon cat sauntered in and, before I realized what he was up to, he purred and rubbed the entire length of his fuzzy self – nose to tail – against my one unshaved calf, leaving enough fur caught in the wet stubble on my leg to knit a child sized sweater. And THAT was the last straw.

Six years, three weeks, one day and counting…

The Phone Call

“I want your life”, she sighed.

I was speechless from the shock. It was a rare phone call from a friend. Rare because I was deep in the heart of stay-at-home-mommy hell and phone calls just to chat were a luxury I could no longer afford. The only reason I had even bothered to answer the phone on this particular morning was because I was stuck in a chair with a set of sick 13-month-old boys on my lap. I was in the chair because they had already thrown up on their beds, on the couch, and on the kitchen floor. There was no chance of my leaving the house anytime soon as I was wearing only a t-shirt and underpants - they had left their mark on all three pairs of sweats that still fit me, as well as a pair of my husbands that I had borrowed out of desperation. My four-year-old daughter was busy watching her fourth episode of “Dora” and eating her third pouch of fruit snacks. The boys were asleep, the girl was content, and the phone was sitting right next to me when it rang. I grabbed for the lifeline. At this point I would have chit chatted with a telemarketer, but I was absolutely thrilled to hear the voice of a good friend. Her “Hello…how are you?” brought tears to my eyes but I was not going to waste a minute of her call on my sorry situation so I sucked them back. I asked after her latest news and in the ensuing five minutes the cat yakked up a hairball on the rug, “Dora” ended, one boy woke up crying, the other jumped up and removed his diaper, and the Fed-Ex man rang the bell for a signature.

And THEN she said it.

OK, I get it that the “grass is always greener” and whatnot, but really?! I couldn’t even begin to fathom what sort of trauma she was going through if my life looked good to her. As far as I was concerned, I was operating just west of “Wacky” and trying to maintain control of the chaos was a farce worthy of a musical number and an address on Broadway. Had she asked even a little bit nicely, I probably would have pricked my finger and signed my life over in less time than it takes to say “Dora the Explorer”.

However, I didn’t (not that I actually think it is even possible). And, as it turns out, her life at the time actually did suck worse than mine…

To be completely fair, I had very little to complain about. I was laid off when the twins were six months old and quickly discovered that an entry-level salary at a new job would not cover daycare costs for three children. Fortunately, my husband’s job was secure, we were happily married and the kids were healthy. So I decided to try my hand at staying home with the kids. How hard could it be?

Well, it only took me about five minutes and one trip to the grocery store with three kids in tow to find out that parenting is a totally ridiculous experience and it’s the reason that perfectly normal grown-ups all over the world act like they have lost their minds. It’s because parenting causes you to lose your mind.

But not in a bad way…in a just west of Wacky, Broadway musical sort of way…