Watch this, Mommy!!

You know it's going to be a great Saturday when it starts out with one of the kids yelling, "Mommy, watch this!!"

I don't know why they keep telling me to watch things. I mean, I watch twelve or twenty things, and then I stop. I mumble, "Oh, good job," or something like it a beat or two after they tell me to watch them. Not sure why they haven't caught on yet.

And most of the time, it's weird stuff they ask me to watch. Like dangerous stuff. Jumping off the couch. Jumping off the couch onto the coffee table. Jumping over their sister from the couch to the coffee table. You know, things they should do when I'm not looking. (And for those of you thinking, why doesn't she make them stop when they do that? then you obviously need to go back and reread my blog posts. I can't control these crazy forces of nature I live with. I can only keep them from killing themselves or each other. Barely.)

Sometimes it's totally odd what they want me to watch. Story holds her hands out and turns around. Ivy makes a silly face using fingers up her nose. Story blinks her eyes twice. Ivy puts five chips in her mouth at once. Story takes a drink of juice. Ivy hangs upside down from the back of the couch. I mean, why these things?

Why don't they say, "Watch this!" and then put their toys away? I'd really enjoy watching that. Or, "Hey, Mommy, watch this!" which is followed by them cleaning the toilet. "Mommy, watch us!" and they perform a scene from Twilight. Those are things I'd love to watch.

I could probably explain to them what I actually want to see them do, but I think, like everything else, they might listen and then do what they want. Oh, well. There's no use complaining, I have a lot to do....like watch them pretend to fly off the kitchen counters.

The Story of Tracee and the Really Bad Week

It's been a bad week (you probably didn't get that from the title, did ya?).

On Sunday morning, there were lice crawling in my kids' hair. (You can read my previous post about that drama). I also woke up with a slightly sore throat.

On Monday, I had to take the day off of work for scalding clothes (if only the big bathtub had a "boil" setting!!!) and combing hair.

On Tuesday, I woke up with a downright nasty cold/allergy thingy. I took a Tinkerbell blanket to work with me and taught kids from ages 6-14 wrapped up in a pink and purple cocoon. I ate a lot of cough drops. I swallowed a lot of chloraseptic. I felt like crud. My neighbor and bestie got really sick. I worried about her non-stop.

On Wednesday, I woke up feeling a little bit better, but the house around me was a mess. It had never been cleaned up from the Lice emergency, and a night of laying on the couch didn't improve it one bit. I spent the whole evening doing more laundry and cleaning. Story cried pitifully when I dropped her off for daycare. And for some reason, I couldn't sleep.

Yesterday, I was incredibly cranky when I woke up. Story cried again when I dropped her off. I kept falling asleep all day. I took a short nap when I got home and.....then I couldn't. I was up until 12:30.

EARLY this morning, Ivy came in our room. Story started crying at 3:30 AM.....and then she stayed up, bugging me about every ten minutes until 5 AM when I gave up and got up. Then, I found out that my husband wasn't getting his last paycheck from his old job. I know he should have another one.....and that's a large chunk to depend on and not have.

So, I'm hoping not to have another week like this one until at least the third week in December 2012. You know, the week in which the Mayan calendar suggests the world will end or at least flip on its axis.

Throwing out a hairbrush

If you're my friend on Facebook, you've probably read my umpteen million freak-out posts about how my children have recently acquired head lice after one week of public school.

On Sunday morning, as I was nursing a slightly sore throat and waiting for a friend to show up to attend Mass with us, I brushed Ivy's hair, looking closely at her scalp (something I just do out of habit anymore). And I saw what I had always been dreading- white eggy things attached to her hair.

I ran to the phone and immediately dialed my mom, who is part counselor and part dramatic inciter in these occasions. She confirmed what I was seeing must be true- my darling had lice.

Normally, I would get on top of things, make lists, take action. For some reason, I was so unnerved, I just sat on the porch and drank three cups of coffee. Three. As if the infestation wasn't leaping off of Ivy's head onto every piece of fabric in the house as I sipped. After about thirty minutes, I decided maybe I was wrong. I called Ivy over to the kitchen and took the flashlight. The eggs were still there and then something crawled and I threw the flashlight and screamed. Okay, no denying it now, I told myself. Time to move.

I packed my squirrely kids in the car with a vague thought about how the car was probably infested, too. We struggled through the door at Rite Aid, and I unceremoniously dumped both girls into a shopping cart and avoided anything close to their heads. I also threatened their very existence if they so much as touched anything with their pinkie finger. I pushed the buggy mercilessly forward in order to stop any silly questions about which fingers they could use to touch things.

When I got home, I dumped the goods on the kitchen table, known as Lice Ground Zero from that point on. I went crazy, ripping all the sheets off the beds. Anything fabric and washable was immediately thrown in a big heap in the dining room. I rubbed the kids furiously with the shampoo, rinsed, and spent 2 hours combing them out. I sprayed down the entire guest room to make a Lice-Free Zone (that I promptly locked the offspring out of) for the clean laundry. My washer and dryer went non-stop on the hottest settings for 24 hours.

Exhausted, I reached in my bathroom drawer for my hairbrush. I brought it closer to my hair, looking in the mirror, and stopped. Time was frozen. I was sure thousands of lice were bungee jumping from my brush to my hair. Finally, I threw the panic aside and launched the brush at the floor.

In my family, we have four combs and three brushes (Daddy gets by with just a comb). However, these brushes are not assigned to any one person. They're passed freely from family member to family member.....kind of like the hippie ideals of free love, just with hair care. In a panic, positive that lice were breeding and spilling out of both bathrooms, I snatched up all of the skanky, dirty brushes and threw them in the kitchen sink. I ran hot water over them, filled up a pan of water, boiled it, added bleach, and dunked them in. I kept them in there for several hours.

I emptied the pot and set them out to dry. Then, I needed a hairbrush. I picked one up, turned it over, and promptly put it back down. What if the bleach hadn't killed them? Would I infect my clean head?

I bagged all the brushes in a Ziploc. I finger combed my hair. I grabbed the keys and the kids and took off for the dollar store. I bought three brushes and three combs. (I can't help it, I like sharing a comb with my husband...Rob loads the comb down with hairspray, and when I use it on my wet hair, it somehow evenly distributes the leftover product into my hair.)

When we got back to the house, I opened all the new brushes and combs. I made sure they were all different so we'd never share again. Then, I looked at the sad and lonely plastic bag of our old brushes. I gently laid it on the table now known as Lice Ground Zero, not able to part with them just yet.

You never know just how attached to your hairbrush you will become. It sticks around longer than a toothbrush. Sometimes longer than a friend. A good hairbrush will grant you endless good hair days, and the karma that flows between you is like magic....okay, that's a little strong, but seriously? It broke my heart to throw them away. The girls had two brushes, one perfect for ponytails, the other great for pigtails. One of them had a mirror on the back that the girls liked to look in when I was done fixing their hair. I had a comb that I've had for a very long time- at least college. I stole it from my mom's bathroom when I was home for the weekend.

And normally, I am the opposite of pack rat. I throw everything out! I don't even print out my pictures anymore because they add to the junk in the house.....but my hairbrush? It's too personal, too much a friend at this point.

But today I took down "Lice Ground Zero," since I think the immediate threat is gone and I no longer need immediate access to lice shampoo and nit combs. I took the 30 gallon trash bags to the garage (guess I didn't need 40 of them after all). I put the Ziploc in the drawer (funny how I only used five out of the economy pack). The last thing to leave he table was my Ziploc of hairbrushes. I cried a little inside as I dropped it in the trash can.   

Lice is the cause of many casualties in this house. Rest in Peace, hairbrush.                        

One Shoe

I hate finding one shoe.

In my house, many things can happen when you find just one shoe. If you find it in the living room floor, it's possible that the mate is on the other side of the coffee table. Maybe under the couch, or behind the wicker basket in the corner. Or, up in the playroom. Behind Ivy's bed. The possibilities are endless.

Of course, it's also possible that the mate might never be seen again.

The girls love to empty their closets one pair at a time, wearing them around the house for about 4.3 seconds before discarding them and going for another pair. They, of course, rarely take off both shoes in the same place. You can imagine that after 10 hours of being in the house, 32 pairs of Mommy, Ivy, and Story shoes are scattered intermittently throughout the house. (They never attempt to steal Daddy's shoes......wonder why? HAHA!)

At the end of the day, I gather up the ones I can find, sort through whose is who's, pair them up, and place them lovingly back in the closets. Okay, "lovingly" might be a stretch.

But often, I'm left with that rogue shoe who's partner cannot be found. If I'm lucky, in a couple of days it'll pop up as the girls range around and find new places to drag crap out of.

Several times, I do not find the missing shoe for about 6 months. Of course, as I pick out clothes in the coming days and weeks after its disappearance, it's apparent to me that the pair of shoes is the only pair that matches anything that kid has to wear. And if it belongs to one of them, it usually doesn't fit by the time I have it in hand.

Sometimes, I don't find the shoe at all.....this one time, Ivy had the cutest pair of tan leather sandals. Ivy wore them once, and then suddenly one of them was missing. I held onto that sandal for two years....even until Story was too big to wear it. I just never gave up hope that it's mate would turn up one day.

They say once you lose hope, you've lost everything.

Practical Advice for My Daughter

So, Ivy is starting Kindergarten.....and as her mother, I'll be called upon often to give her advice on socializing. And I've decided to be truthful with it, rather than that PC garbage everyone tells you. I remember the social hierarchy of grade school, and I see it every day. I plan on giving her real and practical advice. And if there is one thing I am, it's realistic.

"Be Yourself!"

• Everyone tells you to be yourself. "People will like you if you just be yourself!" I say this is stupid, Ivy. People might not like you if you are yourself. I've encountered that several times, just as I've encountered people I've never liked because they are themselves. So, my advice to you is this: You can try to be yourself, but if you find that after a couple of weeks no one likes the real you, then alter it a little. You can always change back into yourself after you have your friends hooked.

"Be nice to everybody!"

• This one's all right up to a point. You can be nice to everybody, Ivy, but you can never trust everybody. Every best friend I ever had in grade school told a secret, blabbed to the boy I liked, sold me out to the popular-girl-torturers, etc. I say, yes, pretend to be nice to everyone, but don't trust everyone with your stuff. Especially the girls.

"Dress in your own style!"

• This is absolutely wrong, Ivy. You can do your own style in high school. I am definitely going to be honest on this- Ivy, you can't wear tutus. Or princess dresses. Or those T-shirts you love that are stained and holey. Trust Mommy.

"Just because everyone else is jumping off a bridge doesn't mean you should."

• Okay, Ivy, don't jump off a bridge. But sometimes I know you have to play the game. Everyone does. Don't go along when they're being mean to someone....but I understand the playing of the game. It's a lifetime skill.

"Be proud if you can answer all the questions."

• Sure, you can be that kid with their hand always up in the air, stretching as high as they can, waving at the teacher wildly. But, if you are always that kid, the other kids will smell it. It's okay to be smart, but not to be annoying with it. Don't lord it over the whole classroom.

"Just learn at your own pace."

• But don't be the opposite, either, Ivy. Try. As long as you're in the middle of the pack I'm good. :)

"It's great to be a leader!"

• But nobody, and I repeat nobody wants to play with the bossy kid. Life is all about compromise and give-and-take. Don't make everyone do what you say, do not refuse to play with others just because you didn't get your way...on the flip side, don't let everybody else tell you what to do all the time (except your teacher!). I know, it's a tightrope. But learning to walk it early will mean great things.

"Think outside the box!"

• No. Don't. Stay in line. Do not cut line, or skip line. Don't take "fronts" or "backs" unless it's okay with all parties. (Fronts are much better than backs, true friends will give you fronts!)

And, of course like every daughter in the history of mothers and daughters, she won't listen to me until she's thirty. but, at least no one can say I didn't try.

To work out or sit out, that is the question...

Every morning, I face a difficult decision....do I work out?

After I pour my cup of coffee and sip it quietly while reading my book for approximately five minutes....and then the most pivotal point of my morning arrives.

On one hand, if I work out, then I will have a much better day. I'll have more energy, a better attitude, and I'll be less likely to eat my young in a fit of rage.

On the other hand, my workout clothes are all the way in my closet....and working out takes almost an hour. This hour could be much better spent sitting on the couch with my coffee and reading. Or doing dishes. Or watching whatever's on USA.

When I decide not to exercise, I end up being a total slacker. (Anyone who knows me also knows how I abhor not doing anything). I sit on the couch, I watch TV, I am a total bump on a log. The children stay in their pajamas until we have to go somewhere, or it's time to put on new pajamas. We almost don't eat breakfast or lunch because I can't hardly get up the energy to make either one.

However, if I exercise, I zip through the house cleaning up things as I go. I make breakfast before the kids are awake, lunch is already planned, and every bed gets made, every kid is clothed, every tooth is brushed. If we have to go anywhere, we end up being early.

So, why wouldn't I suck it up and exercise everyday? I do most days....but sometimes I need a break. And didn't you hear me? My workout clothes are all the way in my closet!!!

The difference between #1 and #2

Ivy was my first, and Story was my second. Even though they are only 2 years apart, their early days were totally different.

IVY- in the hospital, I was not going to let Ivy have one single drop of formula, no matter how much those nurses pushed it.
STORY- in the hospital, on the first night when Story cried and the nursing wasn't cutting it, I called for formula.

IVY- she wore Pampers and Huggies in cute designs.
STORY- Since Ivy was still in diapers, Story wore generic...didn't really matter where they were from, but they were the cheapest diaper in the store.

IVY- I knew the exact second when she was going to grow up a size in clothes, and the next size was already washed and hanging in the closet.
STORY- I would be buttoning something, and it wouldn't close! I'd look at the tag and realize I was trying to stuff my 9 month old baby into a 0-3 month onesie. And then I'd still wait a week to get the old baby clothes in the next size out of the attic. I think we skipped 12 month-sized clothes entirely because I kept forgetting to bring them down.

IVY- I could recite how many months, weeks, and days (and sometimes hours!) she had been alive.
STORY- I continued to tell everyone she was six months old until she was 10 months old. I just couldn't remember. One day a woman said, "But I thought you said she was born in March?" I responded, "She was." "But it's January," she said. Oops.

IVY- By the time she could put her feet down and stand on her legs with help, we were holding her hands and letting her pretend to walk. She never crawled, just started walking at 9 months.
STORY- As a result of our previous success with Ivy, I threatened the lives of anyone who tried to help Story walk. She didn't walk until she was 15 months old.

IVY- Every second of Ivy's day was planned. We had playtime, nap time, I did visually stimulating things with toys.....TV watching happened not very often, if at all.
STORY- She was watching TV at 2 weeks, and her "visual stimulation" was watching Ivy play with blocks and me cook.

IVY- rarely sat in a bouncy seat.
STORY- lived in a bouncy seat.

IVY- The doctor was called if her temperature went up to 99.1. Or if she sneezed. Or if I thought she has a tummy ache or an ear infection.
STORY- got Tylenol. I already knew the dosages. :)

IVY- I sang ABC's, kid songs, and lullabies.
STORY- I sang songs by Maroon 5, the Beatles, and Dave Matthews Band.

IVY- when she'd fall, we'd cry with her and wrap her up in band-aids.
STORY- when she fell, we'd say, "Come on, girl, shake it off!"

It's not that we were excellent parents to Ivy and bad parents to Story....it's just the second time around, you know what to expect. Of course, I can see the differences in their personalities- Ivy cries if she stubs her toe and Story would jump off the kitchen counters if allowed......but it's possible that has nothing to do with me, right? :)