Milk Cartons

It doesn't matter how many birthdays I have lived through. It is still a thrill to see my birthday as the expiration date on our milk carton.

The world knows! The world celebrates me! The world promises not to spoil, in my honor!

Total and Complete Mess Denial

So I'm trying to fall asleep last night, and it hit me.

In my attempt to capture the reality of my home yesterday, with a dash of, "Ha ha, take that" and that whole thing about winning pro-wrestlings of mess, I realized that the room that is

*the horror*

did not even cross my mind. That door stays shut literally, and mentally too I just proved.

That room, that black hole, that eighth-circle-of-hell, is our playroom. We have all three kids sleeping in one bedroom, and so alllllll of their stuff is in the other bedroom, which also has a full sized loft so that it can be used as a (hang head in shame and disbelief) guest room.

Without further ado,

Note the one spot of floor that is clear, which mysteriously corresponds with the surface area required to SHUT THE DOOR properly.


Look! The closet/board book basket/toy bin area has the flu and is vomiting uncontrollably!





So there you have it. Now you have seen the real me.

Next Installment: The Pantry of Many Horrors

What A Difference A Day Makes

I was reading a mom's blog where she was requesting to see real live pictures of people's houses, and I thought that sounded like a barrel of messy monkies. Especially since yesterday I posted a photo of my kitchen at its spit-shined best. So here it is, fourteen hours later....here is the world's first viewing of the kitchen island from hell...



Note the following:

***Blue gel-filled ant farm with 24 dead ants and one very sad, slow, old ant that reminds me of me.

***little planters with plants that are ACTUALLY ALIVE! Poor things will be dead in a week given our track record.

***kitchen drawer ajar because our 1906 house's kitchen slopes and it won't stay shut

***burgundy paper coffee cup. This is here because we ran out of coffee yesterday and rather than going into full withdrawal this morning (because I still haven't shopped) I shoved our baby in a stroller and walked down the block to the local coffee shop for two double lattes. At 6:15am. Thank god we are in San Francisco and have sixteen coffee shops on every city block.

***milk and cream cheese nearly at room temperature

***Dead roses in vase

***at least four boxes of nearly-gone cereal

***bananas on the counter = 7. Bananas that my kids will eat = 0. Bananas that should be made into banana bread = 7. Bananas that will be composted, uneaten = 7.

Bonus Points for me! You can't see the dishes in the sink. You can't see the sticky kitchen floor. You can't see the mold on the tortillas on the wooden chopping block. And, the most amazing, the orchid I was given in early March is still alive.



And here is the front hallway...not too bad! Note lonely pencil in the shiny reflection on the floor waiting to slip someone in a scene right out of the Three Stooges.



Mount Laundry waiting to be folded. They are sooooo excited to finally be rescued from the garage, where they waited for 48 hours in the dryer.





Our filing system, which hides behind our couch...




So there you have it. These pictures don't really do my house justice. In that, they look pretty clean...I actually worked on it all yesterday. We can do way worse. We can put you to shame. If there was a Pro Wrestling of messy houses, we would soooooo kick your butts.

Pleased as Punch

Sometimes, I have to be a bad bad girl and rejoice over material things.

Like my new placemats from Kumquat on Clement Street. Love them!

Under Lock and Key

When I was in college, I was one of those people that could not wake up. Ever. An 8:00am class was such a tragedy in my life that I was lucky to make it to class in my pajamas, if at all. I would literally roll out of my bed ten minutes before class, throw on a sweatshirt, and RUN, pillow lines still on my face.

So in order to help myself, I would hide my alarm clock. It wasn't enough to just turn it off (although it would turn into a nice dream about church bells and such as I slept on for another two hours), or heaven forbid I would use the snooze button and waste an entire hour in annoying 8 minute intervals. With the clock hidden, I would have to jump down from my loft bed, and run around trying to figure out which drawer I had stowed in in *this* time. The aerobic activity of leaping from the bed and dashing between piles of books and clothes was juuuuuuussssttttt enough to get me out bed for good.

I thought about this today, as I decided to hide my laptop from myself.

I have never had an addiction to anything other than coffee and my children, but I'm beginning to understand what they feel like.

When faced with a sink of dishes, two loads of laundry that have been sitting wet for long enough to require a new washing, sticky floors, and a fine layer of chaos spread over everything, it is sooooo easy to just tune it out and get on the laptop. It's a fun world on my laptop! There are grown ups there! People don't whine and tug on my pajamas there! It doesn't smell like poop or rotten food!

So when I woke up this morning, I stuck that laptop (after a quick quick micro-check on the email, for my brother-in-law's sake you know) in our office armoire and SHUT IT GOOD. I decided that I would be very productive this morning and if I was very good I could take the laptop out of bondage at 2:00pm while Lola takes her afternoon nap.

Well, Lola is napping, and here I am.

But it is 11:00am.

And it is her first nap, not her second.

It's amazing when you are used to hopping in and out of the computer how it becomes a part of the flow of your day. I *almost* got on this computer more times than I care to admit this morning. So I guess I am taking it one morning at a time, trying to be a present mom, trying to be a better housekeeper, trying not to cry that I just typed "trying to be a better housekeeper."

See you at 2:00pm!

Those Suckers

I spent my Sunday reading personal ads for women seeking men, trying to help my relationshipless brother-in-law identify some possibilities from the hordes. And I was a bit curious about the process...being a high-school sweetheart type, I am absolutely clueless about the adult dating world.

I was looking at 28-34 year old women, seeking men, seeking the life that I have (marrried, settled, kids, etc). And all I could think was, "SUCKERS!!!!"

When writing about the weekend lives they had, they mentioned sleeping in, red wine, rainy days, walks in the park, brunch with friends. It was like reading Mommy Porn...the sunday living we dream of.

And they wrote about how their life needed the *more* that a man and family would provide.

My Sunday spent with the forementioned "man and family" was finding baby poo on my arm (when the last diaper change was too long ago to remember the details of), going to a preschool art fair to watch kids fight over the Cheetos hidden in a spread of healthy hummuscarrotmuffin options, dropping child off at umpteenth kids' birthday party, chipping cemented cheerios off of the wood floors, clearing questionable food out of the fridge and contemplating the purchase of a home sized carbon-dating machine to determine the birthdays of said food, mediating about 200 arguments. I wonder what these women would feel like if dropped into my life for a day, while I borrow their cute matchy matchy handbags for a brunch with their girlfriends. Maybe they would be like, "Yes! This is what I yearn for!" and maybe they would be like, "umm, could I have my iPod back?"

But. And there is always a but.

My Saturday was spent watching my sweet sweet four year old in a dance performance, and theirs was spent on craigslist looking for a connection. I wouldn't trade.



Good luck ladies. I'm rooting for you, and when you are a mommy come to my house and I'll give you lessons on how to make your way through the long hard lovely days you yearned for...if I have figured it out by then.

Not liking what we get when we ask for it

So Lola spent her fourth night out of our bedroom, in the "kid room". Why am I so sad? I actually got to sleep almost through the night. For the first time in her 12 months of life. I shouldn't be complaining.

But she was born in that bedroom (OK not really, she actually dropped onto our living room carpet after a whopping 21 minutes of labor) and has spent nights in our bed and nights in our overpriced crib we bought after we chucked the last one thinking "Two's enough kids for us!" and nursed through the nights there and was rocked to sleep there and I'M DONE WITH BABIES WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH.

But maybe I'm sad because I'm not sad, and I feel like I should be, and I feel like sharing our room should have been something I never wanted to give up but really I just desperately wanted to have sex without holding by breath for fear of waking her.

Sometimes I feel paralyzed by the feelings I should have and feeling guilty over the feelings I am not having. Right now, life is hard. Three kids is not the problem, it is managing five lives that hard. I am clawing my way to the end of school.

I must go wake up Lola from her morning nap (early) to put her and Zada in the car to drive to Isaac's school to stand for two hours to see ten minutes of dancing from the first grade. If only the kindergarten, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth grades would mysteriously forego their turns. Then I must come home. Then I must take preschooler to 1:00pm preschool drop off. Then I must pick up first grader at 1:45pm. Then I must scurry home for baby's nap. Then I must cook dinner. Then I must pick up preschooler at 5pm. Did I mention that I took first grader to school at 7:45am and went to the grocery store and was home by 8:30am?

There are good days and bad days, and good bad days and bad good days. The jury is still out on this one.

Hrumpfff.

Trader Joe's

There is something odd looking about seeing your one year old in a shopping cart baby seat surrounded by six bottles of red wine. But really! What was I to do? They were under a sign called "Captain's Choice" and cost $3.49.

Arrrr! A baby wino pirate!

Lola, the Destroyer of All

Yesterday the UPS man brought us a new kid trampoline. To replace the ankle-biter skin stripping Urban Rebounder I got off of craigslist that was soooooo not meant for children. (And that is my purpose...to give the kids something with which to expend energy in our small flat when the weather is grey. As in, "Get off of our sister and go bounce!")

I had read that these bungee-based kid versions were bitches to put together, but had some optimism that either I would do fine or I could make Aaron-the-Putter-Together-of-All-Things do it. So this morning, Lola and Zada and I dumped the pieces into a pile and got to work. Or. Zada watched while Lola licked and I sorted. I know enough to take stock of the parts before starting, so I counted the bolts and tubes and bars and bungees and it all was A-OK.

I did it! I assembled! I stretched bungee! I felt so smug!

And then, I got to the part where the bungee has been properly stretched all around and you get to the part where you attach the two ends and....wait a minute....there isn't enough slack. (Of course, because this is a trampoline, dumb Ellen, that relies on taut and slackless bungees). I tugged and pulled and ooooounched the bits of bungee slack all around by pinching it down with one monkey foot while tugging the bungee end like a very hungry crow pulling a worm out of the ground.

Did I mention that Lola is not helpful? That she wants to apply her 13 month old experience to every screw, allen wrench grasped oh so tightly in her fist, convinced that mommy need not help her? That she screams when said Allen Wrench is removed from her paw? That she HAD to sit in the middle of the trampoline fabric even though I was still trying to attach it?

Well, back to the trampoline. I could not for the life of me muster the strength to attach the end of the bungee to the beginning of the bungee. My hands were cramping, I was sweaty, I was frustrated. I was very very very close to using language that would have added a few choice phrases to Zada's four year old vocab. So I tied a knot (VERY not uber mommy safe and NOT according to the directions and POSSIBLY dangerous short cut but WHO CARES) and called it a day. I moved on to the part where you attach the handle bar that helps your little jumpers propel themselves to the heavens.

But...where were those two bar attacher pieces? I had two ready, counted them, now can't find them, and I needed two. OK, so things aren't so clean in the living room. I sort though the heap of pajamas, the box for the trampoline, the baby toys, the endlessly growing paper pile, the box of strange Aaron objects waiting to be sorted by their master. On my tummy, I find one rolled waaaaaay under the couch. Great! The other must be nearby.

I looked and looked until my patience was oh so gone and I am yelling at poor Zada who seemed to be exactly where I needed to be everytime I turned around and Lola who is smiling at me oooooohhhhhh so smugly from her almost completed, just-one-step-missing, trampoline perch. It's like she enjoyed this or something.

I moved the couches. Uck...San Francisco mold. Dust. Toys and deflated balloons. A cheerio (fancy that). But alas, no part. Under the tv cabinet, loveseat, etc? No part.

But then I looked at my daughter. Little Lola. Just-turned-one Lola. And I remembered something I saw. Little "Bob the Builder" Lola. Putting small things in large things. Putting screws and allen wrenches in holes. And I knew. My missing part was IN the trampoline.

I picked the Destroyer of All Good and Productive Mornings up and put her to the side. I tipped the trampoline over.

Clink.

It was inside the hollow bars of the trampoline. Shoved in while mommy was busy with something else. Sealed in by mommy and Zada and their blasted screws.

So, off comes the bungee. I'm nearly crying as I loosen the very bungee that took me thirty minutes, fifty mental swear words, shaky palms and sweat to put there. I unscrew the whole thing, and then the shiny missing part drops out and just laughs at me. Lola was like, "Oh! There's my toy!" and happily picked it up and sat on the floppy pile of trampoline parts.

I need a double latte.

My very very very own blog.

The kids are in bed. Aaron is on the headphones listening to Sufjan Stevens. I am ashamed to be waiting for American Idol to come on in ten minutes to I can shiver my way through the fluff to find out who is going home. I'm not proud of this moment.

Lola is on night three of sleeping in the "kid room" which means that for the first time in thirteen months we can undress without fear of our zipper sounds waking her up. We can read in bed. We can talk. It is soooooooo lovely.

Isaac still has an orange and green striped scalp, because I haven't gotten my mommy eagle claw fingernails in there with some shampoo to remove the last traces of his carnival hairspraydo. Zada got her fuscia scalp clawed at yesterday and only has remnants of punk left. Ah, 4 year old punk. Smells like pre pre pre teen spirit.