sister love part 2

This morning Lucy woke up early and angry. She was inconsolable. She threw the sippy cup of milk I offered her. She spit out her binky. She even rejected her beloved lamby. She shrieked when Chad tried to hold her and clung briefly to me, then started arching her back and demanding to be put down. As she neared the floor, she held her legs up so I couldn't stand her up. She was the living illustration of the song "Tantrum" from the Dogtrain soundtrack.

"Leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone"
bom bom bom
"don't leave me alone don't leave me alone"

She quickly woke up both of her sisters (Sam, in keeping with his gender, didn't seem to hear anything). Claire wandered in in her jammies and curled up on my bed, offering advice from her pillow. "Lucy tired." "Lucy need her binky?". A short time later Grace came in. By this time, I was growing increasingly frustrated. I had sent Chad out for a morning run since the queen was clearly not going to let him do much for her (nor was she letting me, but no point in both of us missing our morning workout). I put Lucy in her crib so I could go to the bathroom and turn on the shower. Let me be clear: I don't believe in "crying it out", but when a child is every bit as miserable in my arms as out of them, I'm not as likely as I once was to keep trying. Sometimes, especially these last 2 babies, I've learned the best medicine is no human contact. Especially Lucy--she really seems to prefer not being held when she's in one of her fits. Or so I thought.

Enter Grace--sweet, sunny Grace. When I returned from the bathroom, Lucy was lying calmly in her bed gazing up at Grace adoringly while her big sister stroked her belly and cooed in a high, sweet voice. Next thing I knew, all three girls were crammed into the crib, giggling and chatting.

Last night at bedtime, Grace and Chad had the unfortunate timing of coming into our room just as I about had the queen to sleep. She turned her head at the sound of their entering, and immediately wriggled out of my arms and toddled over to Grace. She lifted her arms to her and Grace immediately swept her up to her hip. Grace is delighted by Lucy's obvious affection for her, and Lucy clearly adores her biggest sister. It's a beautiful thing to see.

Next time the queen wakes up in one of her moods, I'm calling Grace and heading for the treadmill. Looks to me like everyone would prefer that anyway.

Dazzled

On my way out of work today, my friend/pseudo-boss/co-worker/important guy at work called me into his office. Before I reached his office, I had seen that his door was closed and, being already late to leave for school pick ups, began coaching myself immediately "just keep walking. just keep walking." Of course I didn't, and ended up having a conversation that, well, sort of dazzled me.

He asked me if I would be interested in his job. Let me be clear--he is not the hiring manager. He will not decide who ultimately takes his position when he moves on to his recently announced promotion. But he will have a voice. And he proceeded to tell me how highly regarded I am, and how I shouldn't tell him I was interested unless I really was because I would have a shot if I said I wanted it. Let me also say that he happens to be my biggest fan. He has always been completely supportive of my work; he likes me and wants to see me succeed. I'm not certain he is altogether objective in his assessment of me and my capabilities.

Nevertheless, he is highly regarded within the company and recently received a promotion to a level within the company that I would say less than 5% of people within our company ever achieve. He isn't nobody and he isn't a sucker who thinks everybody is good at what they do. Even with his recommendation there would be no guarantee I would get the job. But it sure wouldn't hurt.

When he first asked if I would be interested, I said no. I don't want it. I've seen the hours he puts in. I've seen how stressed out he gets and how difficult and unrewarding the work can be. But woah.

When I started with this company this was the job I thought to myself "maybe someday". It looks interesting. Challenging. Full of opportunities for visibility. And the pay and prestige aren't bad either.

So, tonight, I'm allowing myself a moment of "what if... maybe..." even as I know that my initial instinct was correct.

Case in point. Tonight as we had this conversation, I had one nervous eye on the clock. I should have left before I even stepped into his office, but he started stroking my ego almost immediately and I'm a sucker for a compliment. So I stayed and the precious minutes ticked by--minutes when I should have been racing to school pick ups where my precious little ducks were waiting. But I didn't, and I ended up in the "third wave" at school. The first wave is for the stay at home moms and nannies and more organized working moms and dads. The second wave is for those of us who are a tad overscheduled, a bit scatterbrained, and just don't quite have it all together. The third wave is for the real losers. The ones who fall asleep or pass out when pick up time comes, the ones who are so obssessed by their careers they can't be bothered to make it to pick ups even close to on time. If I were to take this job that moment of needing to leave and being tied up and unable to would be repeated day after day. I would travel more and be pulled into late afternoon discussions and crack of dawn meetings. I would be needed far more and in dramatically higher demand than I am today.

This afternoon, the kids (forgiving, generous as all kids are) started laying it on the moment I was within earshot "Mo-om. Did you forget about us? Where WERE you?" I admitted to them what I was doing and why. "How would you feel about extended care every day?" I asked. "YEAH!" Sammy exclaimed. "No-o," Grace sighed. Claire had already been delivered to extended care since her loser mom failed to show up in the first 2 respectable pick up waves so wasn't available for comment. So the score stands at 1-1. Since Lucy cries and runs away as soon as I arrive to pick her up every day I can guess where her sentiments lie. (I'd pick Theresa over me as my mom any day, too. I'm not judging). And Chad is dazzled by the prospect of so much more money.

But I already know what I'll decide. My little ducks are growing so fast and as flattered as I am by his suggestion, I know I would be miserable. So, okay, I'm 80% sure. My ego is pitching a screaming fit worthy of the queen at her most irrational even as I type the words. So I'll need to let my inner queen duck have her say. But, in the end, I'm certain cooler voices will prevail. Is it a bit troubling that I describe the "sides" in this argument so convincingly as separate people? They are both me. Completely me. Therein lies the rub. Motherhood forces me continually to deny one part of myself. I know that I am choosing correctly, it's just that the career duck is so polished, so professional, so damn convincing. The mama duck is so simpering and inarticulate, muttering about big blue eyes and time racing by. Her arguments are so pale by the world's standards. I walked away from my best career prospects when Grace was an infant and I've never regretted the decision. I cried for the first and only time in a professional setting when I made my decision known, but it was unquestionably the right one.

Oh, sure, my pride throws her little tantrums now and then, especially on nights like tonight when I have to decide which path I'll choose yet again. She will thrash and shriek and dance dozens of scenarios before my eyes. I've learned to ride out these outbursts the same way I do toddler furies. I make sure she can't hurt herself with the flailing and writhing, and I stand calmly aside until she's finished. I've chosen my path and the promotions can wait. This isn't the right opportunity and I (am pretty sure I) know it. Before long these precious ducklings will need me so much less. They will all consistently sleep through the night and wipe their own butts. When that time comes I can look for more opportunities again. My career is bound to last another 30 or so years. My babies will be small for far less than that.

Still, I am completely flattered. And dazzled. And that keeps me just this side of certain what I'll decide.

Proof

I found this tiny little fork in my dryer yesterday. Seriously. I photographed it next to my Blackberry for perspective. It really is tiny. And I really found it in my dryer--in the lint tray, to be exact.

So what I think I can submit as irrefutable evidence, at this point, is that my dryer really DOES shrink things. My ass (hips, thighs, lower half) is not getting any bigger. My pants are getting smaller. At long last, I have proof.

Not yet

I could easily replace my full time job by being Gracie's social and events coordinator. I doubt it would pay as well, but it would certainly fill up my time and, while not likely professionally very rewarding, it would certainly be challenging. The girl has turned into Polly Popular overnight. Her calendar overflows and I've found myself in more than one awkward situation trying to navigate overlapping obligations on her behalf.

Tonight her girl scout leader called and asked if she could come over for dinner at her house before swim team. Grace has fulfilled her swim team obligations for the week, but I understood the dynamic immediately. 4 or 5 little teeny boppers giggling and planning in the backseat while accomo-mom calls parent after parent making arrangements. I did the math in my head quick and decided we could make it work. 20 minutes ago, Grace and her friend breezed through the house, changed clothes, stomped back downstairs and dashed out the door. She was home for a grand total of 15 seconds.

I'm not ready for this yet. I'm not ready to lose her to the world. I know I'm being dramatic, but it was an odd afternoon around here--the queen took a long afternoon nap, and the middle twosome played quietly within view of my kitchen window with a neighbor. I was alone in my house (I mean, as alone as I get these days--baby asleep upstairs, and 2 kids in the backyard). I know I should celebrate these rare moments of peace and accomplishment, but I found myself imagining a lot of years away to when I can keep my house clean and my meals can be prepared two handed night after night. I found another reason to be grateful for my paid job--I'll have something to fill my days when those pounding feet and shrieking fights are replaced by silence.

I'm also not ready to deal with the new maze of mommy social implications. I understand that everyone loves Grace. She is kind and smart and sweet as the day is long. She is the kind of kid all parents want their kids to hang out with (me included). But she also seems to have struck the remarkable balance of also being the kind of kid all other kids want to hang out with. (My theory is that all people are drawn to hearts that pure). I, on the other hand, find myself in the odd position of being a bit, how should I put it, sucked up to? Mom of the cool kid? What? Having never been the cool kid myself, I just don't get it. What is expected of me here?

Take swim team, for example. I had set up a good arrangement with another mom last season. We live just 2 blocks apart and the obligation for the girls was 2 practices a week. So we would talk each Sunday and we would agree on what nights worked for both families; she would drive one night and I would drive the other. It worked. She also happens to work full time (and could possibly be the only other person I know on the planet who is more overscheduled than me) so she understood my perpetual lateness and general aura of constant chaos. The girls were late, say, 50% of the time (and not ALWAYS in my half!) but we were all cool.

This season, 3 other girls have joined the team. These three girls all love Grace and so I find myself the constant recipient of invitations for carpooling and before/after adventures, sleepovers, meals out etc. I know the simple answer is to just say no and stick with Plan A, but I'm not there yet. (Isn't it funny--yesterday I gladly told off two grown men who outrank me at work over a subject I care far less about than my oldest child--but when it comes to this new maze of mommy obligations I turn into a quivering, timid mess?) It doesn't help that one of the moms is my cool friend Char (who told me this weekend, "I'm not saying I have to be drunk to have a good time. I'm just saying it usually works out that way" see? Love her). The other is possibly the most accomodating, helpful, friendly mom I've met (well, maybe second) who also has brought Gracie home from every girl scout meeting since girl scouts began 2 years ago. And I have a variety of feelings for each of their respective daughters.

So, long story short, is, I'm not ready for this yet! I want to come home at night and nurse a baby and read books with the others. I want to do laundry and make supper and then cuddle up in front of the TV for a little bit. I DON'T want to race from soccer field to swimming pool to school yard without a breath in between. And I KNOW I am the one writing the checks and scheduling the calendar. So I'm sure I'll strike some sort of balance eventually. It's just that old system (the one where my babies all went to one place every day and we came home for good all together afternoon) is one that I've mastered. This new one with all these 'tween social dynamics and updated mom responsibilities is foreign to me. I'm sure in a few years I'll have this down and stroll cooly through these issues the way I handle all of the queen's infant and toddler drama without breaking a sweat (you know, theoretically). But I sure don't right now. Not yet.

The daughter I don't deserve

My love letter from my daughter yesterday. How did I get a child with such a huge heart?

Dear mom thank you for letting me live with you. Some moms doenenet whnt to have a baby so they kill it. Thank you for caring respecting loving and shareing like when you tell me a story abuet the smerfs, how ts was in the past and when you were groweing and when I do mistague you allways for give me and thank you for loving me and kiss me at the end of the day. And were I was groing up youda allwayas say that evry momy showed diserve a Grace. I think that was very noice it makes me want to do something for you and also youed loved me evry sekent Mom we will never seperate thank you for feeding me talking to me that would make me happy leke when I’m bord you would ask me would you like to cook with me and ov-corse I yes Love grace. THANK YOU!

Busy

I stumbled across this poem that I think I need to memorize. My precious little ducks: I'm hanging this up over my wash machine, my desk at work, and my kitchen sink. I promise I will keep trying....

My hands were busy through the day.
I didn't have much time to play
The little games you asked me to,
I didn't have much time for you.
I'd wash your clothes.
I'd sew and cook,
But when you'd bring your picture book
And asked me please to share your fun,
I'd say, "A little later son."
I'd tuck you in all safe at night
And hear your prayers, turn out the light,
Then tiptoe softly to the door...
I wish I'd stayed a minute more.
For life is short, the years rush past.
A little boy grows up so fast.
No longer is he at your side,
His precious secrets to confide.
The picture books are put away,
There are no longer games to play.
No good-night kisses, no prayers to hear,
That all belongs to yesteryear.
My hands once busy now are still
The days are long and hard to fill.
I wish I could go back and do
The little things you asked me to.
Author Unknown

The Greatest Love Story

Is your own.

So goes the trailer for the new movie “Letters to Juliet.”

I went to see it Saturday night with some girlfriends (my wise friend Char noted that most of our husbands would not be good dates for this particular “date movie” having universally moved past the “pretending to enjoy those destiny soaked romance movies for the sake of getting lucky” stage of our relationships).

So we had a fantastic girls night—drinks at Marios, dinner at L May, lots of wine, lots of laughing. And then, the movie. I’m a sucker for sweeping love stories like this. I started out intending to be all cynical and smart (terrible character development, altogether too predictable), but I got pulled in. I always do.

So the premise of the movie is this: a young girl on a trip to Verona with her fiancé stumbles on a local tradition whereby lovesick women of all ages write letters to Shakespeare’s Juliet seeking all manner of romantic advice (though I was struck by the irony that this particular “love expert” ended up dead beside her beloved before their romance even got off the ground). Letters are taped to a stone wall at the storied heroine’s home and retrieved, night after night, by the self proclaimed “secretaries of Juliet”. The young girl (Sophie) follows the secretaries and ends up joining them in drafting replies. Her first response is destined for a woman who penned her plea more than 50 years ago. Long story short, this aging beauty (Claire) ends up coming to Verona with her grandson (Charlie) and meeting up with Sophie. The three then set off on a quest across the Italian countryside for Claire’s long lost love (Lorenzo). You can guess how it ends (though I won’t spoil it just in case).

I had stormed out of the house 5 hours before following a bloody brawl with my own beloved. We are both strong minded, strong willed, sharp tongued individuals and when we get into it, bar the door. Neither of us is inclined to back down, back off, or shut up when we get mad. And, of course, we get mad at each other fairly regularly. The topic of the argument is mundane and not worth mentioning. I’m certain it is an argument echoed day after day but husbands and wives across the globe.

5 hours, 5 glasses of wine and one sappy love story later, I had a different perspective on the whole thing. The thing is, in 50 years, I’ll have no one to chase (or be chased by) around the world. There will be no long lost love trotting up on a white horse in the mellow light of a setting sun. Is it naïve or self important to imagine that I am waking up every day beside the hero of my destiny? My knight in shining armor leaves his dirty socks beside the laundry basket in my closet and takes my turn at swim team carpool. He mows my lawn and teases me about my more creative cooking “experiments”. I don’t have any romantic regrets, no love adventure left un-pursued. I cuddle the perfect babies of the only man I’ve ever loved every night. I cook his dinner and fold his underwear. He changes my oil and shovels my driveway. It ain’t epic. But I’m glad that the only person in my mind is my husband when I hear great love stories. I still sometimes think (albeit generally after a few drinks) that our love just might be one of those great ones. Our story isn’t dramatic (though the fights sometimes are). I sure don’t like him every day (nor, I’m completely certain, does he me). I still entertain the occasional fantasy about running away, free and alone (as, I'm sure, does he). But we’re in this for the long haul—for better or worse. And I’m pretty sure, when all is said and done, this just might be what happens in happily ever after. Maybe less the dirty socks.

Who have I become?

3 weeks ago I got new running shoes. I broke down and went to the fancy, expensive shoe shack here in town where they analyze your walk, your stance, your exercise habits, and even do an imprint of your foot to understand your arches. I spent more than $100 on new running shoes.

Let me just say that I am not a huge runner. I like the idea of running. I like the idea of having a runner’s body even more. But, let’s be real. I’m not built to be a runner. When you see some people run, you can tell they were born for it. There is a certain grace and effortlessness to born runners. I am not one of those people. When you see me lumbering down the road, more generous observers think “good for her—she needs it,” less generous observers think “good Lord, woman, what kind of masochist are you?” My running form is painful. People look away and gratefully take a bite of their jelly donut when they see me run. People would rather stay fat and happy than subject themselves to the misery they perceive in my jiggly jogging.

That is not to say, however, that I am altogether non-athletic. To the contrary, I spent all of my academic life competing in volleyball and basketball, and I’ve earned enough varsity letters and playing time to demonstrate that I am not a complete clod. At 6 feet tall, I was hard for most coaches to overlook to be sure. But for me, running has always been a means to an end. Pre-season conditioning was endured for the promise of playing the games I loved. I was generally the big, slow girl featured on every team. I could never run very far and certainly not very fast.

In addition, due to my long athletic career, I endured injury after injury, particularly to my ankles, but my knees, back, arches, and hips have all suffered their share of strains and sprains. After four pregnancies, and the subsequent ligament stretching and straining and overall weight gain (up 75+ pounds and most of the way back down each time), my poor feet and ankles are just about shot. You can imagine my surprise, then, to discover that I have begun to (gasp!) actually enjoy running. I’ve been getting up early to hit the gym in the mornings, or sneaking away over my lunch hours to climb on the treadmill. I’ve even taken the kids to the park and run the track around the play area, pushing a gleeful queen in the stroller as I trot. I end up looking over my shoulder a lot, making sure Claire isn’t hanging by one foot from the top of the monkey bars and Sam isn’t taking candy from strangers or random babies. And I don’t have a jogging stroller because I could never justify the expense for my sporadic running habits. So I am quite the sight. But my mantra as I run is “at least I’m doing it. At least I’m doing it.” And I do have those cool new shoes.

I am legitimately surprised to find this new enjoyment in jogging. I am even more surprised to find that my expensive new shoes have eliminated all of my pervasive foot pain. Could they actually have been worth it? As far as I’m concerned, shoes that make me WANT to run might just be worth a thousand dollars (don’t tell the retailers). Running has started to feel like an inner cleanse to me. To be honest, I still prefer a nice glass of wine or three to exercise as a stress reliever, but I am altogether delighted to be back in the gym. (Especially since alcohol is not an approved stress reliever in the middle (or beginning) of my work day). And, let’s be honest, regular exercise is the holy grail of working motherhood (along with a regular date night and flossing). But I’m trying. It feels amazing to be back in the gym, where I spent so many gajillions of hours as a teenager and young adult. When I’m there I can kind of imagine away my long list of responsibilities and obligations and just sweat and reconnect with the duck I once was before the Mama part came to pass. Not that I’d trade the little ducks for the body of a gladiator and all the time in the world to maintain it. I’m happy to squeeze in 30 minutes here and there, and then miss weeks at a time when someone gets sick or work gets crazy. But, if I could only somehow master this sweet tooth I just might emerge from this flabby, stretchmarked body as the sleek, streamlined woman I was always meant to be. After all, hot mama sounds pretty good. Hot duck just sounds like a Chinese menu item.

Confession Time

Last night, Lucy spent her second night in as long as I can remember, on freshly laundered sheets. I am ashamed to admit that I cannot remember the last time I changed her bedding. I have lots of excuses as to why this isn't quite as unforgiveable as it might otherwise seem. The first, of course, is that in the event of any major biological crises (puking, diaper failures, incessant drooling), I would certainly have made clean sheets a priority. I would never have just switched her head to the other side of the bed and called it a night, for instance. The second is that I am always diligent about bathing my babies before bed (I mean while they are still babies). I can count on one hand the number of times that Lucy has not been bathed before going to sleep. So, I ask you, how dirty can the sheets of a tiny queen get, in the absence of major biological events, when the bed's only occupant is completely clean herself before being placed in it?

My other excuse is that I have never worked changing crib sheets into my chore routine very effectively. Namely because I've never had a child spend very many nights in a crib before now. I've admitted before that I was a co-sleeping parent for many ducklings before this one. So much so that Lucy's preference for sleeping alone seems completely foreign to me. Case in point, as I type this, my Claire refuses to stay in her own bed and instead insists that I hold her head on my lap and loop my arms around to reach the keyboard. Lucy, on the other hand, is snoring peacefully alone in her crib on clean sheets. I keep thinking about that new movie Babies and how on the trailer that one baby is plonked in a tub in a doorway whereby she finds herself nuzzled by a persistent goat. I mean, really, in other parts of the world would sporadic sheet cleaning be considered a problem? I swear I am completely diligent about keeping farm animals away from my children's bathing and sleeping places. You see? By world standards, I am practically a clean freak.

I hate Mother's Day

Of all the Hallmark holidays, Mother's Day is the worst. This is not because I hate my own mother or being a mother. To the contrary, these are two of the greatest blessings of my life, possibly the two greatest blessings of my life--bar none.

I hate Mother's Day because of my own cursed expectations. I have this image of me in a flowered dress with perfect hair and gentle eyes, kneeling in a breezy, sunshine filled meadow as smiling, immaculate children bring me flowers and hand made cards and macaroni creations. Meanwhile my bemused husband grins in the background, waiting to present me with jewelry and devotion as birds sing and "Wind Beneath My Wings" plays quietly in the background. You may laugh, but I am the ultimate optimist, and I never cease believing in such visions, no matter how unrealistic and unrelated to my reality they may be.

The thing is, the kind of mama I want to be would never expect such things. She would be selfless and generous and never count the cost of motherhood--the hours, the ugly moments, the lack of sleep and the sacrifice of youth and what little beauty she might once have claimed. But the mama I am does. I want to be recognized and adored for these sacrifices. But just on this one day of the year (well, okay--I'd really like the whole weekend--i.e. notice that it is the day BEFORE Mother's Day that I am writing this--but I would settle for the day). Truly. That would be enough. And it never works out that way and I always end up disappointed. And, hello? Self-centered, spoiled brat that I am--four healthy kids who also happen to be smart, good looking, talented, and endearing (really--I have report cards and certificates to prove it) just aren't enough? A husband who loves me in spite of all my craziness and selfishness just doesn't do it? I want also for them to bow down and recognize my tiny part in their greatness? Um, I am just the bumpers in this life game of bumper bowling. They are making their way brilliantly in spite of my bumbling attempts at loving and mothering them. But somehow I forget that when this blasted weekend comes around every year.

Life is so funny. As I type this, intending to be all melancholy and introspective--critical of my selfishness and pride, I look up to see 3 naked, giggling ducklings. What? What are they doing? Why? If that isn't the perfect metaphor for this crazy, mixed up experience I don't know what is. Chad is calling me to supper (yes, he cooked. See? I'm a brat) and I must go deal with the nudity. Happy Mother's Day, all of you. I'm sure you all deserve it more than me.

I know better

(WARNING, dear readers, this one gets a little graphic)

When leaving the house with a child in diapers, never, ever, never leave without a diaper and wipes, and, unless there is a dire emergency (house on fire, stitches required, late for swimming lessons) a change of clothes. Don't be fooled if she has already filled her pants in the last 30 minutes and has never in her short 14 month life filled her pants more than one time in 24 hours. Don't be fooled if she hasn't had a blow out in six months. Don't be fooled if 90% of her poopy diapers are as firm as a grown ups. Don't be fooled because you are only planning to be gone an hour and will only be 15 minutes from home. Always remember that time at the movies when she was 6 weeks old (and it was the dead of winter) and you had to drag this same naked baby swaddled in paper towels and a snowsuit home before the final scene (hypothetically speaking, of course). Don't leave home without diapers, wipes, and a change of clothes. Ever.

Lucy had the worst blow out of her 14 month life tonight. Up the back, out the side, through every layer of clothing, chunky and creamy at the same time. In a word, repulsive. Of course, as the seasoned and savvy mother of four, I had a change of clothes and a fresh diaper. Of course.

*Sigh*

Sam, Lucy and I went to the downtown grocery store tonight after dropping Claire at Grandma's and Grace at swim team. On our way down Loras boulevard, I glanced to my right to see 3 college age boys in workout attire lugging 3 12-packs of beer and a pizza towards a row of ratty townhouses. For a moment, I was filled with a longing so great it nearly brought a tear to my eye (for the beer and pizza, not the boys--I couldn't pick a single one of them out of a line up. But the beer was Bud Light).

I remember those days so vividly--when my entire Friday night to do list consisted of meeting friends at the Drite for happy hour and trying to make it back to the Pub before the 7 o'clock cut off for the meal plan. (And yes, we actually had to meet--a concept quite foreign to my 23 year old brother who can't quite fathom a college social life without a cell phone). I remember scarfing down pizza (Paul Revere's if I recall) with only a tiny spasm of guilt quickly silenced with a self-promise of a long jog followed by an hour in the weight room.

So here I sit, sipping a glass of red wine and refusing to insist that my putz-y family load up for our family dinner at a local hamburger joint. Maybe I'll order a beer with my dinner in solidarity with my old Friday night self. Somehow I'm guessing that old carefree feeling won't quite be the same with 4 wild ducklings in tow. Not that I'd trade places with that drunk girl in the jeans and flannel (that's what we ALL wore!). Well, not permanently anyway...

Let Down

My sister Carrie and my two nephews Nico and Eli went home today. I have loads of posts (all in my head just now) about the fabulous week we've had--the birthday party, the baptism, the First Communion, the almost frog catching extravaganza. But I'm afraid I won't be able to write much until all the crap I've put off the last week is done. I literally had to dig my computer out from under a mountain of unwritten thank you notes and unopened mail just to type this. Not to mention the fact that my ebb and flow job is ebbing like crazy right now (enough in depth cost analysis to make someone far more mathy than me start to see double), my kids need a complete detox to come down from the permanent sugar high of cake-and-ice-cream events back to back to back, we all need to catch up on a dozen or so lost hours of sleep, and we may be eating leftovers for the next 6 months (due to a slight miscalculation on ham and white buns).

But for now, I'm tired. Lucy and Claire have been whining since Chad walked in the door (no judgement on him, just the inevitable awful timing of a punchy pre-schooler and a tired toddler), and I've been negotiating jolly ranchers vs. chicken as supper since Sam woke up from his dreaded late afternoon nap (will the boy ever go to sleep tonight?) Chad is coughing and cranky and I have little reserve to nurture much more than a nice glass of red wine right now (as if!) I'm feeling the inevitable and predictable let down I feel every time my beloved sister and her boys heads home to Texas. I know living the permanent vacation isn't reality, but it is so fun while it lasts, and so not fun to wrestle my way back into our hectic reality, especially when I let myself get behind like this.

Fear not, however. Mama Duck will return--maybe about the time we eat up the last of that ham. Fourth of July sounds about right...