The price of beauty (Part 2: emergency room edition)

I have always had big feet. By the time I was through puberty, I was basically wearing a size 10 (though I still claimed a 9). In hindsight, this is a completely respectable shoe size for a girl nearly 6 feet tall. It is not as freakish as I thought then. 10 is perfect, right? 10 is tiny. And, most importantly, 10 is available at every major retailer in the country.

Then I had babies. Thankfully, I did not grow a shoe size with every pregnancy. Just every 2. So, there you have it. I now wear a delicate size 12. And I have a 36 inch inseam (which most stores don't even stock for men). So shopping is a nightmare for me. I've always hated it. I remember the nightmare that shopping for my first communion dress was. We went to every department store and every bridal shop in a 100 mile radius and spent a half dozen weekends to finally find a white dress speckled with purple flowers that both my mom and I agreed was perfectly acceptable. You know, as opposed to the alternative which would have probably been my school uniform skirt. When I shopped for my wedding dress one clerk helpfully informed me that wedding dresses were designed for women who were 5'9. This was very useful for me, though as I didn't get married in 6th grade I wasn't quite sure what to do with the information. I ended up having to add trim to the bottom of my dress so it would reach the floor as it was supposed to. Lucky for me, in that instance, it turned out okay as my mom's brilliant seamstress friend added fur for my February wedding, and people still talk about it (in a good way).

So finding cute, stylish clothes that fit is my constant Waterloo. I am infinitely grateful for the internet as it has opened the option of women's clothes to me for the first time in my life. I admit that I wore men's pants until I was about 30. What choice did I have? Many have suggested plus sizes as an option, but they really aren't. I'm certainly not fit nor especially skinny, but I have a tiny bust and long, skinny arms and (in the distant past) legs. I'm not plus size, I'm freakishly long. I'm not claiming it is any more attractive, just that they are different fit challenges (ask me sometime about my adventure in shopping in Madrid when my luggage had been lost).

So, imagine my utter delight to discover Zappos. They don't just have cute shoes for us ski feet. They offer free overnight shipping--BOTH WAYS! Finally, finally, a retailer that doesn't grudgingly offer a few styles in the giant sizes (most of them looking best suited for nurses or nuns), but instead features a dazzling array of styles, colors, shapes. It is a dream. I think I missed the opportunity to be counted among the true shoe fanatics--what a life of frustration and misery that would have been for me--but it is nice to not have to settle for the one style that meets the color and occasion and size in every shoe buying opportunity.

So I bought these. I felt so fabulous in them. I love red. They are a bit pricey, especially for someone who has been marooned at Payless for the last 3 decades, but I didn't care. I wore them with a black and white outfit on Wednesday.

They were a little snug in the heel--I ended up with blisters on both heels. But it was nothing a couple of bandaids couldn't fix. So I thought.

On Thursday the blister on my left leg still hurt. A lot. I wore sandals to work and didn't worry too much about it. Ditto Friday. I briefly considered canceling my scheduled pedicure for that afternoon, but it was long overdue and nearly impossible to schedule (due to my availability, not the nail shop's). I hated to give up my time, so I went through with it.

I was delighted with the result. See? Big feet can be beautiful. (When I tell my girls the story of Cinderella, I tell them that the glass slipper was too BIG for everyone in the kingdom EXCEPT Cinderella. Take that, you big feet bigots!).

By Friday night, however, I realized there was a problem. My whole ankle around the blister was sore and turning hot and red. I was starting to feel achy and shivery. I called my mom who said I should probably get checked out. I called Ask-A-Nurse and she said it could wait until regular doctor's office hours. I asked my husband and he looked at me like I was utterly insane. I decided not to go. After supper Friday night, my Mom and Dad stopped by to check on me. Mom looked concerned, and she is not the overprotective-get-your-butt-to-the-doctor-every-time-you-sniffle type mom. To the contrary. When I needed emergency surgery in college, she made me wait to go to the hospital until she had picked the boys up from karate. I mean, she's no overprotective wimp.

So I went to the emergency room. And now I am on antibiotics and trapped in my house with my leg elevated. They diagnosed me with cellulitis and gave me a prescription for tylenol with codeine. The ER doctor gave me a note excusing me from work for the next two days (which, my luck, happen to be Saturday and Sunday--she couldn't give me an excuse to give up cooking, cleaning, and taking care of my kids).

This is what it looks like. The black ink is where they drew around the red, inflamed area, and by this morning, you can see that it had overrun those boundaries. I'm 3 doses into my antibiotics and hopeful that by tomorrow it will look better. I'm supposed to go back to my regular doctor on Monday. (But aren't my toes pretty?)

See what happens when we of the giant feet try to be cool? It puts us in the hospital.

I'm going back to my nun shoes.

The price of beauty

It has taken me three daughters, but I have finally surrendered to the overwhelming motherly instinct to dress up little girls like frilly little dolls. I never used to bother much with hair bows or flowers, especially since Grace didn’t have hair until well past age 1 and screamed bloody murder whenever I approached her head with a comb or brush. Claire always had lots of hair and has the highest pain tolerance I’ve ever witnessed on a child. She succumbed fairly readily to my attempts at primping, though her tomboy tendencies and high activity level made overalls my go to outfit of choice for her. But for some reason, on my third daughter, I have become enamored of the big hair flowers and bows. Part of my hesitation with Grace, was that I temporarily succumbed to all the popular wisdom that says children should be allowed to like what they like independent of their gender. I even went so far with Grace to insist that anytime someone called her pretty, they also call her smart (and she is, most certainly, both. But I don’t know about you, but, shallow as I am, I’d always rather be called pretty than smart. What was I thinking?) But, two very memorable trips through the princess phase (Grace would ONLY wear pink for an entire year) has completely won me over to its charms---girls will be girls, end of story. (And I once read that if the daughter is the princess, that makes the mom the queen! I can definitely handle that, although I doubt that writer ever met my baby queen for whom I will always be a lowly, occasionally annoying and usually incompetent, servant). When we were at Disneyworld in February I bought myself a coffee mug that said “Once a princess always a princess,” because I can be a girly girl deep down, too. (For Chad I bought a mug with the picture of “Grumpy” dwarf on it that said, “Beneath this grumpy exterior beats the heart of a dashing hero” I digress, but I still love that for him).

But, back to my story. True to her nature, ever since Lucy has figured out how her hands work, she has diligently pulled every hair bow and ponytail out within minutes of my wrestling it onto her adorable dark head. After her baths at night, when I comb her hair, she generally sits calmly while I comb it out, then looks right at me with a defiant twinkle in her eye, and deliberately rubs her hand across her head to muss it. Stinker. See, here’s another thing I’ve learned. The princess phase sets in much, much later. Tiny girls (say, the queen’s age) HATE dresses and frills and bows. There is a brief window after they are first born and before they turn mobile during which the queen mother might attempt to indulge her appetite for princess pink and lace. But at around 9 months until about 2 ½, girls have no interest in looking pretty or playing dress up. They want to be moving and, preferably, messy. Stuff on the head is just an annoyance and dresses slow a girl way, way down.

So, as happens in every little girl’s life (at least in every one of my little girls), it came time for bangs. Lucy’s hair had gotten long enough to interfere with her vision, and she absolutely refuses to leave a barrette or rubber band within 5 feet of her head. Enter Grandma Marilyn. Marilyn has done all of our haircuts from my first through the first of my firstborn, to now, the first of my last born. Some have been more memorable than others (Gracie cried so hard and refused to visit Grandma Marilyn afterward to the point where both Marilyn and I nearly gave up and let her grow shaggy and unkempt. But, like a true daughter of mine, ice cream was a great soother and negotiating strategy. Claire’s was uneventful except we all were a bit taken aback by just how BLUE her pretty eyes looked when we could see them again.)
I will let the pictures tell the queen’s story. She was not happy to be getting bangs, though she was distracted by perusing through a hair style magazine.

Eventually, she selected a style (midway through the haircut):

In general, she was not happy with us:

And I know the final picture is supposed to be an adorable, smiling, coiffed little princess. But this is the queen we are talking about (and, in fairness to her royal highness, she has been battling a bug for the last few days, so her general outlook on life has been especially sour the last few days). But you can see her cuteness in spite of her crabbiness, can't you?

Just call me Cathy

I just received what could possibly be the most generous, memorable compliment of my life. By someone I work with whom I would never say I have really "clicked." We have disagreed quite vehemently on a number of topics and, in general, though I think we both respect the other's abilities and intellect, we certainly don't see things in very similar ways. Except I can maybe make an exception (at least I WANT to) in this instance.

He told me he was watching the Tony awards the other night and as the camera panned the audience and skimmed past Catherine Zeta-Jones, he thought she looked "just like" me. What? Even in my vainest moments, I still think that is generous to the point of insanity. I mean, okay. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Big boobs (oops, the comparison fell apart there). But he was serious. And sincere. At least I think he was. And he's never, ever sucked up to me or been inclined to try and boost my ego before.

And here is the other irony (as if that weren't thick enough). When he told me this I had just returned from a lunchtime walk outside. Many of us sneak a few minutes away from our desks around noon every day to get a little fresh air and exercise. And, as my fellow Dubuquers know, that "fresh air" right now is more like warm water. So, as I'm being compared to an insanely beautiful movie star, I am also dripping with sweat with what little make-up I have left streaking under my eyes and down my neck. It was not my most glamorous moment, I can assure you.

Have I mentioned that I love this guy?

Things I never imagined I would say (Spring 2010)

1. "Claire, come here and clean up your worm water before your sister falls in it" (April 8).


2. In reference to yogurt discovered unrefrigerated in the garage one week after our trip to the grocery store, "No, Claire. You can't eat that. Um. It has worms in it." (April 9: Claire's response, "oh. I squish them up?" Me: "You're going to eat them?" Claire: "Yeah. I'm a boy?" Me: "Boys eat worms?" Claire (emphatically): "Yeah!!")


3. "No, Sammy. You cannot do an explosion. We are going to Grandma's house for supper and we are leaving right now." (Note to reader: I do not know what "do an explosion" means either). (April 11).


4. "Do NOT put your sister in the patio cushion storage bin. I don't CARE if she likes it!" (April 11).


5. "No, Grace, Sister Marilyn is not a 'num'--it's 'nun'" (Note to reader: either the shortage of religious in our Church is really getting serious, or our family catechesis needs a little work) (April 14).


6. "Claire, what happened to your ponytail? Oh, you dropped it?" (April 15).


7. "Sam, did you say Lucy put her hands or her pants in the toilet? Was there poop or pee in it? Oh, ok then." (Sam's answers: hands, no) (April 15).


8. "Guys! You can't play with those and you have to wear clothes!" (April 15).


9. "Sammy, are you okay? Did you burn your wenis?" (April 17: Note: wenis is Sammy's word, not mine).

10. "Claire, put down the gun and then you can give Carrie a hug" (April 30).


11. "Sammy, if you don't be quiet right now you are getting a spanking. Now what did you need? Oh. Yes, I will pray with you."

Adventuresome

This weekend, Chad and I took the kids for a mini-getaway in Des Moines. We traveled down on Sunday morning (planning to leave at 8, making it out in record time--by 8:40!) and drove through a torrential downpour during which we debated the merits of just turning around and trying another weekend. Given our insane schedule, we knew the next weekend we could conceivably work it in we would also be working around Gracie's high school graduation, we soldiered on. We were glad we did.


We had a wonderful time--complete with all the adventures only 2 slightly insane adults and 4 sweet children under the age of 8 can pack into less than 48 hours.


We stayed with my cousin, Kristie. There is another post altogether contrasting the differences in our lives, but suffice it to say that for 2 women who grew up as close as sisters and as similar in early experiences as two people could be, our lives have certainly arrived at dramatically different places. Kiki is single and lives in a fabulous, stylish old house with her sweet puppy Paisley. I live, in a 12 year old, haphazardly decorated house busting at the seams with children, toys, and general chaos. Professionally, I think our careers are similar enough, but what we come home to each evening couldn't be more different. I wonder if she has yet recovered from the noise (shrieking! crashing!) and constant hubbub that hovers around us like the dustcloud around Charlie Brown's friend Pigpen. But, like I said. Another post.


I want to describe our day at Adventureland via the awards we decided to bestow upon each other on the drive home.


Sammy wins the Silly Silo award. Thanks to the unpredictable weather and the weekday, we were blessed with a perfect, nearly line-less day at the park. (After this and our rainy experience at Disneyworld, I think the best way to do an amusement park is in the rain. I'd rather be wet than wait in line). By some miracle of genetics, Sam escaped both my queasy, motion sick-prone tummy, and Chad's tendency toward headaches on wild rides. Sam was fearless and tireless. On one stretch, while we waited for Chad and Grace to finish their turn on the space shot, he did the silly silo (which is the one where you enter a huge, barrell shaped structure and get spun around faster and faster and faster until eventually you are stuck to the wall and the floor drops out from under you. You know the one). This ride is the ultimate puke machine--the one that brings even the steel stomached to the verge of vomit city. Not Sammy. He didn't even LEAVE the ride (you know how sometimes they make you exit and then you dash around to try and get right back on? Monday we didn't even always have to leave!) And so Sammy didn't. 6 times in a row. He finished the day with a grand total of nine spins on the silly silo. I couldn't even watch him (there is an observation deck overlooking it) because it made me sick just to see it. Chad took a few pictures, though. When we asked Sam if he felt sick he looked at us with utter confusion.

Claire gets the nine second nudie award. Adventureland has added a water park section this summer and after several hours of roller coasters and carnival rides, Claire was ready for something different. "Mom," she said, as we sat at some picnic tables near a food court type area. "I'm ready for the pool."

"Okay," I said, and turned, (literally, just that quickly) to dig out her swimsuit to head for the locker rooms. I turned back and Claire was buck naked. When she said ready she meant READY!

We decided to award Grace the "spirit award." On all of the family vacations we have taken with the Luekens, Grandma Lueken awards a "spirit" prize to the person (grown up or child) who demonstrates the best attitude--no whiners or complainers need apply. Grace shows remarkable patience and kindness in all circumstances--especially given the fact that she is only 7. She is a great role model--especially for her prone to whining mom and dad! Even when she had to share an icee with her brother, sister, and dad (the last being the worst sharer of all--at least when it comes to his beloved icees) and wait for Sammy to take his 6th trip on the silly silo, she never complained.

Chad gets the kid at heart award. It has taken 10 years and countless trips to amusement parks to really internalize just how much days like this bring out my adorable husband's inner 12 year old. The guy is tireless, full of enthusiasm and who needs the sun when we can bask in a smile like that all day long? Aside from his annoyance at the cost of everything inside the park walls, he really is at his very best in big amusement parks--so long as we can keep up with him (no small feat since I am usually pushing a double stroller and trying to herd "spacey Gracie" away from the junk vendors everywhere and Sammy from the sugar sellers). It helps that the big kids are getting big enough (and are 110% fearless enough) to do almost every ride. We don't have to hang out in the kiddie section the whole time anymore, which is a vast relief to their daddy. Claire, Lucy and I still spend some time there (and seeing Claire's face light up on the ladybugs and frog hopper is worth the price of admission in itself), but Chad, Grace, and Sam can dart from giant roller coaster to giant roller coaster without even a glance back at the pathetic baby rides. And can I just say, thank God we live in this era of cell phones. If not, and short of park security intervention, there is a chance I would not see my husband or two firstborn until park closing time on days like these.

We didn't come up with a name for Lucy's award, though this and Disneyworld are beginning to make me think that amusement parks are her kind of place. My unpredictable, grumpy little queen is a dream at these long park days. I don't know what it is--the junkfood, the constant flow of colors and sounds and smells and crazy people, the constant motion, the attention I pay her while we wait for the big kids (all 4 of them) to finish ride after ride after ride. Whatever it is, she is a delightful little stroller riding doll on days like this. She snoozes when she's tired, and demands a reprieve from the stroller every now and then, but is essentially effortless to care for.

I don't think we came up with an award for me, which is just fine. It has taken me four kids and nearly 8 years to figure out that these trips go best when I tend to everyone else first. Believe me when I say this does not come naturally for me. I have wrestled myself into some semblance of selflessness, but it doesn't run very deep. I love roller coasters and kettle corn and the space shot. It kills me to sit off the log ride and the raging river to tend to the baby while everyone else emerges, soaked and laughing, a half hour later. But I am getting better at it. And Chad takes his share of turns (well, maybe not completely his fair share--but we are both getting older and more willing to sit out more often than we once might have been. And after 12 months of morning sickness over the 4 pregnancies, I'm not willing to suffer that awful queasy churning stomach for the temporary thrill of very many rides anymore--though I do still love the roller coasters).

All in all, we had a great time, and can't wait to plan the next weekend getaway. We left the park when it closed on Monday night, and didn't get home to our beds until after midnight. It's been a long week already as our schedule picked right up where it left off when we returned. But we'll do it again. Soon.

Smug

Yesterday, I finally did it. I have been trying for years to trick myself into being on time. But I am always smarter than myself. I know my clock is set 6 minutes early (and my non-math oriented brain can ALWAYS add those minutes back in my lead time with no thought whatsoever). I know the party really doesn't start on the quarter hour. But yesterday, I did it. And, true to form, both Sam and I were bewildered and uncertain at our uncommon status--EARLY!

My blackberry said Sammy's team soccer pictures started at 6:30 between fields 6 & 7 at the soccer complex. So, as always, we dashed out the door at 6:18 for a 15 minute trek across town which we (also as always) managed to do (accompanied by much swearing, sweating, and the occasional daring traffic maneuver) in just under 12 minutes. We dashed to the picture area to find--nothing. Not a single shark (Sammy's team). What?

My heart fell. I was convinced, of course, that pictures were in fact at 5:30. Or at the Washington Junior High practice field (on the other end of town). Something that explained the inexplicable absence of the rest of Sammy's team.

Then we saw a little boy in the same team colors. "Did you do pictures, yet?" I asked.

"Yeah. A long time ago," he said, with that sort of pitying sneer of the ne'er screw upper.

Sam burst into tears and I started the mental math on what I could do to make up my most recent mommy failure (new legos? happy meals? ice cream after the game?).

But I was still confused. Where was the coach? Where were the rest of the sharks? Something just didn't smell right. And, although perpetually just late (like 5 minutes or less, every time), I am really pretty darn organized. I mean, teachers and coaches know they can count on me. I won't walk in 20 minutes early with freshly painted nails and extra wet wipes. But we'll be there and we'll have what we promised to bring.

So we made our way back to the car to check the copy of the schedule I keep in my van (see? organized). And it said pictures "immediately preceding" the 7p game.

So I was, in a word, stunned. And in another word. Sort of thrilled. So I walked back to the picture area feeling a bit smug and at peace with the world.

We sat on the hillside to wait for our turn before the cameras. And Sam got all confused. "Did we miss it?" he asked, his tear streaked face just too adorable for words.

"No, honey, we're EARLY," I said.

His eyebrows knitted together. "What?" he asked, completely confused. "Where is everybody else?" he asked, now suspicious.

"They're coming," I promised. And we sat and waited. And waited. And waited.

So here is something I would have no reason to really know. Being early kind of sucks. It is boring and it made me all annoyed with the parents dashing in late. So I got a good perspective on me from the other's point of view.

In my constant haste, I always think that early people seem kind of smug, all cool and glancing over their shoulders as you dash in dropping crap and dragging unwilling preschoolers and toddlers with your hair all askew and your eyes wild and darting around apologetically.

And you know what? I sort of felt that way. Smug, I mean. Although I realize that people who are normally on time might not have the same perspective on it that I did--sort of this anthropological analysis of "the other side". But I did feel a little annoyed. I mean, like I didn't have anything better to do than wait for them to show up?

But, of course, being perpetually a member of that "team," I contained my annoyance and smiled my understanding. I get it that the expectations of modern motherhood are completely unrealistic, and that these poor moms have probably just finished ballet, piano and karate, have baked three dozen gluten free cupcakes with team colored frosting, run 15 miles and finished a conference call with India for the multi-million dollar company that they run. So, you know, being late is the least of their problems. Me too.

And for those of you who are normally on time--forgive me. I want to make it there exactly, precisely at the moment these events begin. I don't want to waste your time. I truly don't. But even more I don't want to waste MY time. I left my house in shambles when I left it--my dishes undone (though Chad was there and diligently working to complete them--my hero), my lunch unpacked, my next morning's coffee unmade. And that just KILLS me. I am perpetually haunted by the phrase in scripture that says, "be perfect like your Father in heaven is perfect" (though even I realize that Jesus surely didn't mean an immaculate house, a high paying rock star career and perfect children--at least every day). But my time is my most valuable commodity--the thing of which there is never, ever enough. The thing I crave like a drug. The thing I long for like a lover. So squeezing every teeny second out of every precious day is just my way. It generally puts me just this side of on time to virtually every event I attend. And I am enough of an optimist to assume that every light will always be green, every detail will be remembered, and every child will listen to my every command in record time in the 5 minutes before we leave the house (and, you know, will always be wearing shoes and pants when they climb in the car). So nights like last night will be the exception. And I'll remain apologetic and not smug. Unless I outsmart myself again. And I'm not all that bright, so the odds are good. But I wouldn't hold my breath, either. Someday, I'll be organized and thoughtful enough to be on time every time. How old is Lucy now? So, plan on it in, give or take, about 17 years.

Validated

On my usual mad dash to school pick ups this afternoon, my phone rang and revealed an unknown Moline number. I normally would (should!) have avoided this call, especially in this season of political primaries. But for some reason (and illegally as I was driving in Dubuque), I answered.

"Hello, Dawn," came a posh, deep voice. "This is B." Factory manager. The head of the whole dang Dubuque factory. He proceeded to explain a request he had received from the Senior VP of the division (his boss) regarding a recent project I had been involved with. He explained what he needed while I broke all the school's rules about how to pull into pick ups and took notes frantically on the back of an envelope I found on the floor of my van. "Can you pull this together for me?" What to say? I'm about to pick up (count 'em) 4 kids. My laptop is securely locked up in my cubicle at work. It is Friday afternoon. Only one response came to mind. "I'm sorry, B. I've left the office for the day and this time is now for my children. You'll have to find someone else."

Yeah right. "Of course!" I chirped (perhaps I should have said how high?). So I pick up the kids, all hopped up about their recently completed "fitness fun day" and called Theresa to see if Lucy could stay the extra 20 minutes it would take for me to race back to work and grab my laptop. I turned on the movie for the kids in the van on the drive back to the factory, promised them ice cream if they would be quiet and stay in the vehicle while I dashed in to grab my computer (and said a quick prayer that security didn't show up in those 2 minutes to write me up for what was certainly some violation of company policy--3 unattended children on work property during business hours? That can't be legal).

The computer retrieval proceeded without incident, and I got to Theresa's to grab Lucy, only to realize as I arrived that I had no checkbook and not nearly enough cash to cover Lucy's week of care. Theresa, sweet as always, told me not to worry about it, but since I've done this to her about once a month since we switched over there and I knew they were about to head out on vacation, I assured her I could run home, get the checkbook, come back and pay her with no problem. Here's the thing. Those senior guys work around the clock anyway, right? As long as I had the stuff to them by, say, 5p, they probably won't even be looking at it until Saturday night or something, right?

Then I remembered my ice cream promise. On the trip home and back, Claire had fallen fast asleep in her booster seat, so I pulled in at McDonalds, ordered just 3 cones and a gigantor latte (you see where this is headed?) I scarfed down the top of the cone for Lucy, handed the others to the kids in the back seat, and we roared off again.

We got home, and Claire awoke and started howling about the ice cream she never got, and Lucy made a beeline for the street. Keep in mind I haven't even OPENED my computer yet, much less completed my assignment from the factory manager. By some miracle, I got everyone settled in my immaculate kitchen (Darlene came today) with suckers and ice cream and started to log on. By this point, I am literally dripping sweat and tapping my foot waiting for everything to fire up.

And the phone rings. "Hi, Dawn. Byron. Say, have you had a chance to...?" I glanced at the clock--crap, how has an hour and a half passed ALREADY? I immediately interrupted him with babbling about how "a few things came up" (paying the babysitter, ice cream conflict resolution) and how I would "have something to him in 15 minutes."

"No problem," he said kindly. "Randy (senior VP) just got back from Finland so he is a little punchy." How does that translate in corporate politico-speak? "You pissed off the senior VP and made me look bad you slow moron?"

So I pulled the information (truly, it was not complicated, but one does tend to triple check calculations and formatting when sending it to people so far up the ladder you can't even reach their butts to kiss them) and sent it.

I was just about to open a bottle of wine when the phone rang again. Same Moline number. And then the baby starts crying. This is the part I'm not proud of (as though the rest of this story has been so flattering). I literally ran--RAN!--away from my baby queen, cutting around the corner and then back and all the way down stairs while she toddled around looking for me. I answered in my most professional voice (i.e., not panting).

"Yes, Dawn. B here. I'm reading this on my blackberry, did you..." which I had done. Everything he asked. "Looks perfect," he said. "Thank you so much. Now, do you know from our most recent business analysis what level we assumed in market share? I think it was .. points, does that sound right?' Huh? I've seen those numbers. I have. But I neither calculate nor ever get asked them. I buy parts. I mean, there is more to my job than that, but pretty much I buy parts. And work on cost reduction. Market share is interesting to me and impacts our business financials certainly. But I am responsible for the other end of the financial equation. So I deal almost exclusively there. And, between you and me--I'm an English major. I'm a words person. Numbers don't really stick with me very well. I need a spreadsheet to count my kids. I fumbled an answer. Something to the effect of, "That sounds right, but I'd have to double check to tell you conclusively. If you want I can..."

"That's fine," he said, "I'll call E. Thank you so much. Have a wonderful weekend. Did you ever get to go home?"

"Um, yeah," I admitted (and now I'm hiding in my basement so you can't hear my children while they fling ice cream around the kitchen I just had cleaned this morning).

"Well good," he said. Truly, I think he was grateful and trying to be kind. But, again, I'm not great at senior leaderese, so he might have been implying he knew I was galavanting around town and not getting right down to his business.

So, what this long story is meant to illustrate is simply this: I shouldn't try to move up in the company any time soon. Remember my rantings in the "dazzled" post a few days ago? So, had I said yes to that opportunity and actually landed that job, B would have been my boss. I would have been the E he called on any part of the business financials he was about to send on to the senior vice president. I'm pretty sure I couldn't hide in my basement long enough to cover that.

Dear Teachers of the World

Well, okay, dear teachers of my children and teacher friends on facebook. Look, I get it. You are fired up about being done with work for a few months in a few days. But enough already. Some of us still have to go to work. The day after my birthday every year I get a huge bonus that makes this job worthwhile. But I do not count down to it on facebook. I do not require you to come in to my office to prepare for its coming 3-6 times per child. It is every bit a reward for my hard work as your summers are for you. But it would be tasteless to gloat endlessly about it.

And yes, I will admit, you most certainly hear jealousy seeping into my tone. I am jealous. I want to sleep in for a couple of months and watch 90210 reruns for hours at a time. I want to work out without one eye on the clock the whole time and not fret about the late soccer game because I have to get home, pack my lunch for the next day, hustle wired kids to bed and be back in the office at the butt crack of dawn the next day. I want to take my kids to the park or the pool with a novel and a couple of juice boxes and waste away an afternoon. Me too. I’m in. But that ain’t my lot in life. Again, my choices. But, again, my job has enough advantages to keep me here month after month. I don’t rub that in your face a certain month every year.

In addition, what is with the bajillion “end of year” celebrations? I realize I have more than the average number of kids, but I was up until 11 last night making sure I met every requirement you set forth (water bottles—labeled!, other healthy drink--no pop!, hats, sunscreen—not to be shared with friends!-- (what else?), lunches (just peanut butter for Gracie, extra jelly for Sammy, carrot sticks for Claire), fitness clothes—no spaghetti straps!, tennis shoes…). Last week it was Grace’s class Mass and Claire’s “water day”, the week before Sam’s Mass and Claire’s “special person tea” (to which she thankfully invited Papa and Bridget to instead of Mom or Dad), the week before muffins with mom for Claire. This week was the author tea party for Grace, and next week is Sam’s end of year “accomplishments” celebration and Claire’s “walk to the park day”. It really has been about 3 events per child. (Except for Lucy—bless you, Theresa—for that small relief). Have mercy, teachers. I read every note you send home. I sign every permission slip. I participate in every silly sock day and dio de los muertos. I send them to school in the color you designate by class in the required shoes and head accoutrement (even when they require late night Wal-Mart runs and an insane level of artistic creativity). And I read to my kids and I pray with them every day. I bathe them and I feed them. I read every online newsletter and link to the school calendar on my blackberry. I pass up career opportunities to (try my darndest to) be a good mom. I’m no deadbeat. But I have to WORK. I have to work. An hour here or there may not be that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things. But how many times must I sit in a little plastic chair and try not to look at my watch to listen to songs I’ve learned by heart due to their frequent repetition (at top volume, usually when the baby is sleeping). How many cookies must I eat? (Well, okay. That part isn’t all bad).

I adore my babies. I love seeing what they are working on and visiting their classrooms. I want to support you and I want my kids to know that they mean infinitely more to me than any job ever will. But I do have to work! And I am not the only working parent in the school with more than one child to try desperately not to disappoint. And I have a boss I need to keep happy, too. So, can we spread it out a bit? I’m just as interested and adoring in October and March and every other month as I am in May and June.

And I am tired. And a little annoyed. And I have to work. My family (and, consequently, the tuition and tax dollars that fund YOUR salary) depend upon my income. I would LOVE to be a stay at home mom who spends hours licking envelopes and baking cookies for the benefit of my children’s education and self esteem. I really, really would. But I can’t. I could also have been a teacher, though my interests and talents did not lead me in that direction back when such choices were much more simple. So I get up and come here every day. June, July, and August, too. I realize this little push gets you over the hump to some well deserved R&R. But for the rest of us working moms, summer just adds one more layer of complication to our already very complex lives—how do we get kids rides to and from daytime camps? How do we plan meals and snacks for 3-4 picky, unpredictable little eaters for the 8 to 9 hours a day we aren’t with them? What state is our house (reasonably clean when we left it) going to be in when we return? Depending on the sitter, I have been known to return to 8-9 HOURS worth of messes, dirty dishes, and general chaos. Believe me, there is nothing remotely restful about catching up with 4 children who are capable of an exponential level of mess and clearing away breakfast and lunch clutter before even thinking about dinner.

So give us a break, huh? Believe me when I say my kids are already counting down the days to summer vacation. I am every bit as aware of the minutes between you and your freedom as you are. But I have to go to work on June 10. And every day until the snow flies. And then again every day until you’re counting down your days to next year’s summer vacation.

**Reader note: if you are wondering why you haven’t heard much from me in the past few weeks, please see paragraph 3.