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…