Moving Day

We met four years ago. On an afternoon when I had just locked my 6 month old baby girl inside our Lincoln Park apartment. And I’m pretty sure I lied to her face about why I was so late to my first infant massage class where we met. I was certain she would think I was nuts if I told her the truth. I was right. But she loves me for it now. And for my life, this is the perfect kind of friend.

My name changed from the Girl on Bissell to Kim and we met at parks with the kids. We celebrated birthdays. We celebrated kids birthdays. We laughed at the antics we’ve gotten ourselves into – ones she blames on me but I know the truth. We’ve showed up to the airport to pick up Ben wearing matching Chick-Fil-A shirts. Pushed our BOBs through many feet of snow just to get out of the house in the dead of winter. Met for impromptu dinners to escape our lives for a moment. Watched other moms who had it together when we clearly didn’t. Shared dinners while our husbands traveled. Watched our kids turn into little people. Cried over what we would have wanted them to be. Laughed over what they’ve become. We’ve done life together. When it’s been pretty. When it’s been messy.

We’re so much the same. And yet we’re so different. She doesn’t like too much attention on her. I would have loved to be an act at a circus, although not sure what the act would be. She can get easily embarrassed. I’m not even sure what that would look like. She’s an early to bed, early to rise. I’m a late nighter and forced to be an early riser.

We both speak our minds. Our opinions. Our passions. We love shopping. Love fashion. Love a good deal. The latter three are why our husbands discourage our spending too much time together…

But she’s braver than I am. A different kind of brave I’ve never known. A mature brave. One that raises a special needs child with relentless patience, unconditional love, steadfast perseverance. One that challenges doctors in their beliefs. One that ignores judgments. A kind that redefines what “typical” is without apology. And she’s braver than even she knows. That’s what makes her so disarming. So authentic. So charming. She walks through life in a way I know I’ll never fully understand. And yet so desperately want to. I’m sure she doesn’t know I felt the closest to understanding when sitting next to her at church. Knowing the depravity that exists in all of us and the mercy extended to us.

She moves away in just 13 days. Out of state. And it’s this really great God is at work and in control kind of move. So it’s the right thing. The perfect thing really. And yet it’s not. It’s the worst, most horrible thing I can think of. For me.
I don’t understand it.
I don’t like it.
I don’t want it.
And yet that’s really what makes God so wonderfully powerful and present isn’t it. It’s in the moments of “this doesn’t make sense but I know it’s your plan,” that really challenges our faith. My faith.

I am a lucky girl surrounded by amazing women. But I’m going to miss this one. To the core miss her. Can’t imagine doing life without her. I’ve been living in this place of denial. I have to walk through this moment though too. The one I wish would go away. And it’s gonna be one snot running, mascara dripping, snorting moment.

But I’m so glad I still decided to show up late…and without being arrested.

Plumbers’ Hours

Well I realize this won’t come as a surprise to anyone who has ever had to meet me anywhere.  Ever.  In my entire 22 years of life.  But here it is…

I’m never on time.  (And sometimes I lie.) 

Like never ever.

It’s a problem.  I didn’t even have to go to therapy to get to this place of acceptance.  People try to make jokes like “you were probably late for your own birth.”  A month early actually so there goes that extensively researched scientific theory we’ve all been clinging to.

When I was growing up, for as long as I can remember, my mom struggled with this same misunderstanding of time and how people adhere to it.  To the point that she would change every clock in our house to a different time in an effort to help herself be early.  Yes, every clock.  And I grew up in Texas so we’re not talking a 2 bedroom, 1 bath condo in Wrigleyville.  We’re talking about a Texas sized house with space for a formal dining room, informal dining room, family room, a bonus room (still confused by what that means because anything in Chicago that has more than two rooms is a bonus room).

In other words, a lot of rooms for a lot of clocks.

And here is how messed up this makes you.  You’d wake up at 7:10 for school, rush downstairs thinking you were already 10 minutes late only to discover that a time warp happened in the last 30 seconds on your way to the kitchen because that clock now says 7:30.  Realizing there definitely now wasn’t time for breakfast or a shower, you’d race back upstairs to the bathroom having just enough time to brush your teeth and discover that you somehow now gained back 45 minutes.  I showed up to school sweaty and stressed out and wondering why I was the last one to arrive.  That guy who drags himself into last place in a 5K walk/run knows exactly the humiliation I’m talking about.

Maybe that’s why I was never asked to Homecoming?  Still need some serious psychiatry for those lovely high school memories.

Fast forward—for a solid year, I was in the clear after I had Emilyn.  All my friends were late because they now had their first munchkin they had to take with them because of laws saying you can’t leave them home alone.  But those late arrivals were short lived.   Then they all had their seconds, thirds, fourths —how are you not alcoholics sobbing in a corner— and they’re still on time! 

But here’s the other problem.  I HATE structure, rules, suggested rules, even Do Not Enter signs beckon me to drive down just to see what exactly it is they’re trying to keep me away from.  So you’re looking at a girl who rebels against structure, rules and isn’t on time.  How in the world did I work for an attorney for 7 years.

Here’s the real truth behind those of us who are always late.  We’re not trying to make a fashionable appearance but we did take the time to put on mascara which is part of why we’re late.  We really did try to be on time.  In fact, we’re super obsessed with checking the time because we think a time warp could happen at any moment gaining us another 30 minutes and this is why we think we have time to shower 10 minutes before having to leave.  No, we don’t think our time is more important than yours.  It probably is but we’d have to do a real comparison to confirm or deny that and who has time for that.

And as if I don’t have enough trouble getting anywhere on time, I decided to give up Coke starting last week.  Just the caffeine form so we’re not talking major kudos here because I kicked any real drug addiction cold turkey, but still the kind of caffeine that makes you run in circles to make things happen when you’re already late.  That’s what I gave up out of stupidity.  So now I’ve transformed into a narcoleptic Eeyore.

And then there’s this girl who runs around here nonstop all day.  And she hates structure.  And she hates rules.  And she rebels against order.  And she has a mom whose never on time.  We have nothing in common.

So help me, that girl will wear the biggest mum for Homecoming covered with obnoxious teddy bears, cowbells, ribbons, bows, rare diamonds, every stinkin’ year of high school.  It’ll save her some money in therapy.

Let the Pus Flow

It’s been so long since I’ve posted something that it took several tries to even remember my username and password to log on to this thing.  I thought I was going to have to start a new blog called House of the Imaginary Farting Dog.  But then what if someone already had that blog name and then WHAT WOULD I DO?

A good friend of mine gave me the wise words to never post anything about work on here.  I suppose in case some weird *co-worker goes surfing for blogs with the key words “pus,” “fart” and “poop.”  Yeah.

Why did I not see her point before?

So instead let’s call this blog’s subject “dermatology”… or elective surgery, as ridiculous insurance likes to call anything you have removed that isn’t life threatening.  I think if anyone went and rubbed their skin flap in an insurance reps face, they would happily change that categorization and demand all skin flaps to be removed immediately before the upcoming summer.  Consider that a service announcement.  Please people – go get your skin flaps removed.

But I digress.

You know when you get an ingrown hair on your arm and it becomes infected.  And sometimes it buddies up right next to something you’ve had since birth like a mole or a freckle and you think why is that mole driving me bananas?  Because you think it’s just something that’s always been there, a part of you forever and somehow you didn’t notice that bulging pussy thing before.  Until the very moment you realize that the irritated mole is in fact a horrible pimple and now you’re just waiting for the right moment to pop it.  Yeah.  I get to pop that pimple in exactly 23 days – and get my own skin back.

Great, now my audience just went from the crazed mom to the pubescent pimply girl who thinks I really am writing about how horrible it is to get pimples.

*Nothing to read here weirdos.  Just keep on surfing to the next 13 year old boy’s blog.

Birth Order

One of my favorite ways to decorate is buying cool sheets of wrapping paper from Paper Source and framing it as artwork. These are supposed to be on the walls of Greyson’s room (which are instead sitting in our dining room for this picture) but we have yet to complete a thought and finish putting his room together. He’s the second kid?! I’m afraid to even tell you that he’s sleeping on a purple crib sheet right now. I don’t even know when I last fed him because he’s just so laid back and rarely cries. I keep telling him to speak up if he doesn’t want to get left in the car at Dunkin’ Donuts again but he just grins, gurgles, coos and falls back asleep. His only goal in life is to make me copy noises back to him that sound like I’m choking on a chicken bone.

If you’re still slow to catch on, nothing stresses this kid out. Which is why I won’t be able to fault him when he’s still living at home at the age of 40. After coming home from meeting with his therapist at that point, no doubt he’s going to look at me and shout

“HELLO! YOU ONLY USED CHEAP WRAPPING PAPER TO DECORATE MY ROOM.”

Geez. OK, I’ll go buy some paint. I don’t know why this had to turn so ugly so fast.

Rucksacks

Sounds like a dirty word I know, but they are in fact the cutest miniature backpacks you’ll find.  My best friend Julie brought them back for me from her hometown in Ireland but you can go online and get them from Cath Kidston.  If you ever meet her, make sure you ask her if she celebrates St. Patrick’s Day.  I know she keeps leprechauns in her basement.

Shoe Wars

Emilyn started preschool today at that “crazy diverse” place which of course meant oversleeping and hitting snooze inadvertently 30 minutes too long. 

There were threats of starvation during the day if she didn’t finish her breakfast. 

Fights over whether or not it’s cool to wear socks with crocs. 

It’s not by the way, unless you’re getting senior discounts.  Then do whatever you want.  You can say whatever you want at that point too like my MeeMaw. “Does she think she has a gold plated twat?” (in thick Southern accent)      

In this first day of school pic, you can see the evidence of her bashing her head this past Sunday while at Target shopping for that school supply list we didn’t need.  In case I never get around to writing about it, the highlights of that event include me channeling Kate Gosselin on the way to the hospital – still apologizing to Ben for that nasty episode – losing a quarter in the ER bringing our hospital total to $75.25, and a desperate search online for a toddler size inflatable rubber ball that she can now fit inside.

Back to present day. 

I spent my day doing exciting things like coming home to do office work while Greyson took a 3-1/2 hour nap.  I think that kid has been sleeping through his growth spurt since the day he came home.  If I got that much sleep, I feel confident I would be completely boring.

I should have just taken Emilyn’s cue to simply go back inside this morning and ditch this whole school thing.

I excitedly drove over there this afternoon to pick her up because I really missed having an audience for my sarcasm today.  I’m waiting in cue at the door for the dismissal bell.  Kids are coming out excitedly running into their parents’ arms.  Teachers are saying with a smile “see you tomorrow!”  Bluejays are lining up whistling.  A rainbow is appearing in the clouds.  Everyone is living happily ever after.  And then I see Emi standing there before me in a different pair of pants than what I dropped her off in and hear “Can you step inside for a minute so we can talk?”  After talking myself out of pretending I didn’t understand English, I’m thinking where is the closest bathroom I can go and hide in.  I can’t ask Emilyn because apparently she doesn’t know either. 

I was told that she pooped in the potty this morning but then peed her pants after lunch.  I know.  I know.  More information than you would ever care to know about, but that’s exactly how I felt!  Just because I’m the mom doesn’t mean I care to have a play by play of her bowel movements.  I just thought they should be thankful it wasn’t the other way around.  This whole peeing in the potty thing being THE mark of intelligence….  I’m just flat out a stupid moron then when I’m pregnant. 

But there’s more.

Just to clarify, apparently the Catholic Church does NOT consider crocs to be gym shoes.  I wanted to argue the point that Jesus’ sandals were closer to resembling crocs than gym shoes, but I did kind of enjoy being down to one kiddo today.  So I have now been on the phone all afternoon trying to track down these stupid shoes I have become obsessed with her needing because they are in fact the cutest gym shoes for girls I have found.  Turns out either every girl in the state of Illinois attends Catholic school and is a size 7 or little girls don’t wear gym shoes so they keep small quantities of them because there about 5 million cuter shoes to buy.

Well, that search led me to see the most adorable black patent toddler tap shoes and I’m like oh, she NEEDS those.  No, but seriously, NEEDS them.  In fact, no little girl should be without these cute things.  So there I am on ebay bidding on these tap shoes.  Then I remember oh yeah, I actually did just enroll her in tap and ballet classes for the fall so it really is a justified purchase.  I realize you’re thinking there is no way her brain is that spastic that she is about to buy the tap shoes before she even remembers she enrolled her in tap class. 

Oh, but trust me, IT IS! 

Horrifying I know!  People are either medicated for this or call themselves “artists.” 

I realized later that she came home with her bow missing and nowhere to be found in her bag.  Clearly they really want this to be an all boys school.  So before next week, I’m shaving her head, dressing her in stained muddy clothes and sending her in combat boots. They’ll either mistake her for a boy or pray over her.

But the one side effect of school is that she is completely wiped out.  She passed out asleep on the couch at 6:00 having no dinner, which means when she wakes up starving at 3:00 in the morning I can only hope I’m awake enough not to walk in ready to feed her mistaking her for Greyson.  I always wanted to get on Oprah…

This is how I found her.

 

She looks like she had one drink too many, slammed her head on a glass door because she mistook it for an open door and then “won” a bracelet out of a vending machine.  Rebellion will do a number on you.  If I find someone’s phone number written on the palm of her hand, we’re gonna have a little chat – right after I call it to find out the genius 3 year old that knew his own phone number.  So when I carried her upstairs and she woke up, she was utterly pissed off to be awake and incoherent enough to mutter “mommy, you’re shiny.”  You know what sweet thang.  You’re shiny too. 

I realize there are a list of other 5 letter words she’ll be calling me as an angry 13 year old girl who hates her mother, so for now, shiny it shall be.

Father, Son, Holy Spirit and Popsicles

I am so behind on work at the moment which is why you haven’t heard from me in a week.  But this non-paying job of writing is what keeps me sane and from taking those leftover pills of Vicodin from my root canal.  So I’m back at it because Ben doesn’t want to be left alone with the kids while I recover.

Tonight we had Emilyn’s orientation meeting for preschool at a Catholic school that she starts later this week.   Are we Catholic?  No.  Is it cheaper?  Yes.  Do I have a chance of getting her there between 5-30 minutes late rather than an hour late because I can walk there?  Yes.   I really hope winning the Perfect Attendance award isn’t on her lifelong list of achievements.  Hoping she’s just shooting for mediocrity like the rest of us.

And this is how the night got kicked off…  I should have known it would be an event when I rode home on the train tonight from work sitting in front of a fully dressed nun who I swear was smirking at me…  As we’re unloading out of the car for the meeting tonight, along with everyone else just arriving, a guy drives by with a loud bass, playing music that will not be playing inside the Church, and Emilyn says “I YIKE dat music.”  I keep forgetting she knows how to talk.

Then as I’m walking in alone to this thing, I realize how it totally looks like I’m a single mom with two kids and we’re at a Catholic church so I’ve already lost another ten points for appearing to be divorced.  Oh, did I mention that I just threw clothes on after work without really looking in the mirror and ended up with a shirt slightly too big so my sleeve would not stay on my shoulder, showing off my mismatched bra strap and making me feel like I was walking in shouting Howdy everybody.  Anyone here believe in celibacy?

Inside, Emilyn pees in her pants.  Cripes.  Supposed to be potty trained for school in two days.  At this point, I’m waiting for her to walk up to the priest and kick him in his tender bits while asking “Are you gay?” just to finish off our first impression.

Now let me say a few words about this whole orientation.  First, the orientation was specifically meant for preschool and kindergarten kids.  They don’t need to hear from the priest for an HOUR about his commitment to the school.  Who exactly are you trying to convince?  Emilyn had the same opinion because I had bribed her with a popsicle if she sat nicely for the whole meeting so when the priest was finally going to wrap things up in prayer and said Dear Heavenly Father, Emilyn shouts out “I NEED POPSICLES.”   Yep, full on, shouts it out to the point that people lifted their heads and turned around to look at us on the back row in disgust.  I explained they were popsicles in the shape of Jesus.

Nor did I need to hear from the dude that is so committed to this school that he drove all the way from the south side to be here tonight.  Don’t care.  I drove 5 minutes from my house but guess what, I started an hour ago when you were leaving your house in order to get my kids fed, plus six blow up dinosaurs who are also very picky about what they eat, dressed her in something that isn’t a t-shirt two sizes too small, stepped over two actively thrown tantrums, loaded them in the car with seatbelts on (hey, if you spend a day with me, that’s worth noting), drove the wrong way down a one way street while hoping no one else on their way to the meeting saw me, so that I could find parking and get inside 5 minutes early.  I win.

Also, don’t say you can bring your kids and then make it two hours long.  Hellooooo??  Does anyone here teach 3 year olds??  Oh, maybe that’s why this thing is so cheap.  Her attention span ended an hour and 45 minutes ago.  Hence the full blown demon possessed tantrum she is throwing on the floor in front of you because she doesn’t want to leave these plastic horses behind that she has twenty of back at home.

In the meeting, they go into great detail about how they cannot assist at all with the kids going to the bathroom.  And if they have an accident, no problem.  They just have to change their clothes by themselves.  I refrained from raising my hand and asking if it would be a problem that my child strips naked every. time. to use the bathroom and can’t get herself redressed so she’ll be re-joining story time in the nude.

Their supposed to wear “play” clothes and gym shoes.  Please don’t put your girls in cute dresses that you don’t want getting dirty she says…  As Emilyn is running around the classroom in sandals, a bow (I don’t know how.  It was a weak moment for her) and a Matilda Jane dress.

Based on how things were going at this point, I looked down to make sure I wasn’t wearing a big “S” on my shirt and there was no burning stake outside waiting for me.

And the one thing, the one thing that I was so proud of myself for having together in advance and led to Emilyn’s ER visit, which I’ll post about tomorrow,  is the very thing you don’t have to have on the first day of school.   The school supply list.  Hold on just a second now.  So the school supply list, the things you said they needed for school, she doesn’t have to have.  But now I have to go buy gym shoes, “play” clothes and a new backpack because it has to be able to fit a 9×12 folder inside of it for announcement sheets like “Did you know you can be a lunch volunteer?”  Is this why some people just say forget it and homeschool?  Even so, unless homeschool means someone is coming to my home to take my kids to school, I’ll have none of that.

The questions parents ask are classic too.

What are they going to be learning in Spanish?  They’ll be taking an international trip to Spain to practice their phrases they’ve learned at the end of the year.  What do you think?  They’ll be saying things like I have to do a number dos.

My child isn’t here on gym days.  Will they be missing out?  Do you keep them locked in a cage?  It’s gym for 3 year olds.  They’ll be running in circles pushing each other.  That’s just our bedtime routine.

How often is science taught?  Ummm, how about more than you’re teaching at home.

I mean, isn’t it a bit obnoxious.  My only goal is just to have Emilyn hold her numero dos all day until she gets home.

Where are the real questions like Where will my child be held when I’m late to pick her up?

So tonight I tried looking online about tips for starting preschool and here is an excerpt from the first article that pops up:

“First, habits are formed early in life. We don’t wait until children are in elementary school to teach them to brush their teeth, bathe or eat the right foods.”

Ohhhhhhh.  Who is this collective “we?”

Hair Affair

Since there are enough illegal addictions to get us through the day, I thought I would use this to showcase some of my favorite ones that won’t end up with you having to make time for any weekly meetings. Just maybe going broke.

ONESTA CONDITIONER

Not only will this conditioner leave your hair smelling like it’s actually been washed for several days without having washed it, it’s organic. Because I might not love my kids enough to buy them organic food, but I do love my hair enough.

A Little Remodeling.

Emilyn hasn’t taken a nap in probably six months, but in order for me to have time to eat my Bon Bons and watch soap operas, she still has a “quiet time” in the afternoon which is inappropriately named because it’s anything but quiet time.  There’s furniture dragged around and rearranged, artwork ripped from the walls, pages in books torn out, clothes taken off, and I’m pretty sure hair grows on her face and arms and a tail protrudes.  There’s no real rules about this in any parenting books I don’t read (clearly!), so Ben and I talked and decided it would be unfair to give any time outs until the exorcism occurs.

Spay and Neuter Your Pets.

This has been a long decision making process, but last weekend our camera started having a blank screen when you took pictures, leaving you with snotty thoughts like, how am I supposed to take pictures without seeing how my hair turned out.  So tonight we decided to dodge Obama’s motorcade downtown, along with the millions of people who hated him yesterday but loved the thought of telling their friends they caught a glimpse of him tonight, to buy a new camera since that was the only Best Buy in the city that had the one Ben lusted over.  I have no idea about its model name, number, astrological sign, turn ons.  I know it’s a Canon and it has so many features on it that I’m pretty sure it can give you an instant boob and butt cheek lift and even make you a different race.

SIDENOTE: Ben says I use the words boobs and butt in every post, but when you’re married to a guy and potty training a toddler, those are at the top of the list. Boobs. Butt. That’ll help the average out.

So of course, on the way to spend money on a new camera, my iPhone decided to stop making and receiving phone calls which reminded me that earlier today Emilyn walked up to me outside saying “Here mommy, your phone is wet.”  Hmmmm.  I can still make and receive calls but only on speaker phone, eliminating about half of my contacts whom I will now be able to carry on a conversation with in public.

Ben asks if we should get me a new phone instead and I’m like no, we are losing the window of opportunity to take pictures of our children that we can one day bribe them with. We’re buying this camera and I can email pictures of me holding up handwritten posters with what I need to call people about.

Back at the store, camera is in hand to purchase and Emilyn starts losing it, crying and shouting “I’m hungry.  I’m hungry,” as they’re trying to talk us into the overpriced protection plan.  Genius timing on their part.  We bought the plan.  I swear Emilyn got some sort of commission for that sale because right afterwards she stopped crying, leaving us wondering what exactly we just agreed to.  I’m taking that camera and bashing it against a tree the first time we go to a park just to feel like I got my money’s worth out of this protection plan coverage, right after I plunge our car into a pothole to feel like we’re getting something out of our auto insurance.

Alright, so one expensive camera, with extra memory and a protection plan later, and still with a broken iPhone, we head to McDonald’s because the girl is hungry.  Emilyn is an extremely picky eater and more than anything else in my day, I dread meal times because it’s a daily game of bartering and manipulation.  We’re taking her to Vegas as soon as she’s of gambling age.  So about every three days when her blood sugar level has dropped, her speech is slurred and she starts looking anemic, we drive through McDonalds for her weekly caloric intake, and a toy of course.  To the point that when she catches a glimpse of those fatty golden arches, she shouts from the backseat with joy, “All I need is nuggets, fries, and milk.  That’s all I need. And a toy. That’s all I need.”  leaving you with visions for the rest of the day of Steve Martin carrying his ashtray and lamp. 

So tonight, Ben is driving and therefore ordering the food but not knowing the most important thing to the child is the toy.  If you drive away from that window and don’t have the appropriate toy, you should lock your bedroom door for the night.  Right now at McDonald’s (for those of you who are reading this and pretending as though you never take your kids for fast food), they have toys from The Littlest Pet Shop, but all you really need to know is that it’s these cheap plastic dogs that sit inside boats or purses or something.  It’s a penny’s worth of plastic for $5 a/k/a 300 Chuck E. Cheese tickets that you spent $50 to get, but not so for Emilyn.  It’s a treasure. 

So from the backseat, she’s shouting, “I NEED MY DOG TOY.”  Ben gives me a puzzled look and I say, “Just make sure they put the dog toy in her happy meal.”  So we pull up to the window and Ben says “We need the dog toy.” Annoyed woman behind window, “Which one?”  Ben turns and looks at me not having an answer. “Umm, the spayed one.”  To which Ben says to the lady with smugness, “If I don’t get one, she’s gonna beat me later.”  And friends, those are the moments that I realize we have really bonded as a family.  The special times.  The woman then gives all of us a long look, probably making sure Emilyn doesn’t look like a kid she saw on the side of a milk carton this morning.

I wanted to show you the upside of having beef jerky for dinner, but Ben just informed me that the camera has to charge overnight before I can take a picture with it to post.   When we can’t pay our mortgage this month because of it, at least we’ll be able to document our time as a family living together behind the local McDonald’s with little plastic dogs and our pet squirrel named Roger.