radiomama

Mommies and monster trucks

2006-02-24T09:34:00.000-08:00

It's been weeks since I posted, but life has been just sort of sweeping me along (is that "going with the flow"?). Sapphire, the Peke who maimed me, went back to the animal shelter because I couldn't give her her medicine without being snapped at, plus she was growling at the boys when they tried to pet her. The story has a happy ending, though. A nice lady in her late 50's fell in love with the grumpy little bitch and adopted her, despite being warned about her tendency to bite. She had had a dog that looked and acted just like Sapphire, so she wasn't bothered by her ungrateful attitude.

We've gotten the boys pre-enrolled to the private preschool/kindergarten we wanted for them. Felix is 2nd on the waiting list and Oscar is 4th. This is good, because lots of people drop out and the odds of their getting in are very high. It's just SUCH a good school and I know it's what will be best for them. The public Pre-K and Kindergarten is just not an option - it's huge, with 28 to 30 kids per class. How can anyone learn anything with that many crammed into a room? The public school looks like a prison and so many of the kids who attend have parents who could care less about their children's education.

The Chef is off today and we're taking the kids to OKC tonight to check out the U.S. Hot Rod Association MONSTER JAM. We have reached the "monster truck" segment of the parenting experience, whereby we are required to know the names of the trucks and be able to replicate the sound and volume of monster trucks while playing with "Gravedigger" and "El Toro Loco" in the floor with Felix and Oscar. Actually, I'm looking forward to it as much as they are. What's not to love about enormous, roaring trucks, exhaust fumes and splashing through mud? The grandparentals and nephew are going, too, so it'll be a big family monster truckapalooza.

When I left the house this morning, the Chef had Billy Idol blasting on the upstairs stereo and both boys were jumping on our bed wearing nothing but socks to "Dancing With Myself." Oscar seems to sincerely loathe clothing. He gets naked quicker than a pole dancer at a bachelor party, and it's WINTER. I hope he never, ever, ever learns about Chippendales or his career path will be set.

I have gained five pounds and it's all because of mocha lattes. I've tried the "breve" and "skinny" lattes, but it's just not the same. I have absolutely no desire to go to the gym. My workload is increasing, it seems I'm always tired and grumpy at the end of the day and I feel selfish taking the time to go work out when I could be taking the kids to the park or library.

Hmmm...it just occurred to me that perhaps if I worked out I'd be in a better mood and less likely to feel tired and grumpy at the end of the day. Now I just need the push to get my jiggly butt to the gym. In my mind, it's hopeless. I've never stuck to a diet, never stuck to a workout plan, never really stuck with anything that took a long-term commitment. Except parenthood. And sometimes I want out of that.

All this and a tetanus shot, too

2006-01-24T09:21:00.000-08:00

After several hours of throbbing pain and discovering my puncture wounds were still bleeding, I called our family doctor. And by family, I mean actual family - my brother is one of the doctors in the practice. He doesn't treat me, but the entire staff treats us like family - the nurses, our nurse practitioner, everyone had to have a look at my vicious attack wound. So, a tetanus shot, antibiotics for 10 days and a really cool bandage that protects my poor, bruised and gnawed middle finger.

And then I had to go pick up the damn dog at the vet. She had an appointment to de-goop her eyes and ears. I now have TWO kinds of eyedrops to put in her bulging eyeballs every day, drops for her gunked-up ears and antibiotic pills that have to be hidden in something yummy twice a day. Turns out you can't muzzle a Pekenese because of their extremely flat faces - nothing to attach the muzzle to. But if she takes another chunk out of me while I'm doctoring her, I'm getting the duct tape.

Serves me right

2006-01-23T08:48:00.000-08:00

Monday morning, missing the tip end of my right middle finger (which makes it exceptionally hard to type). It's not actually gone, just BITTEN THROUGH by the crotchety Pekenese I "adopted" from the animal shelter. Her eyes are constantly glued shut with goop, so I frequently attempt to restore her sight with warm washcloths and just plain picking the gunk off. My husband told me to cut it out, she was getting testy, she preferred blindness to my ministrations. My husband is a good, good man. After the little bitch bit me (and I use the term "bitch" in the correct vernacular), he cleaned up the massive amounts of blood spilled, bandaged my mangled finger and NEVER ONCE said "I told you so."

I ate WAY too much this weekend. And I know it's psychological, or comfort-eating or whatever. But I don't know how to control it, to stop stuffing my face when I'm not hungry. And the reason I haven't been to the gym is because I feel like "why go do all that sweating when I'm only going to go home and head for the chocolate?" I really would like to stop it. I've read all kinds of articles on how I'm "eating my pain" and staying fat is some kind of protection from some imagined threat. There are lots of theories, that I have mother-issues and mothers are the original source of love/food/comfort, that I make myself feel unattractive by staying fat so sex won't be an issue...etc. But I really, really, really hate being fat. HATE it. I want to be thinner, healthy, to like my body. To enjoy dressing. To wear jeans with a flat stomach. These are the things I dream about, if given a wish, being thin would be it. Not Nicole Ritchie or Paris Hilton sick-skinny. Just normal woman, healthy, lean. I can't do it by myself. I have zero control over my purposeless eating.

Who has days like these?

2006-01-19T08:56:00.000-08:00

If I thought there was any reason Ashton Kutcher might be interested in having me Punk'd, that might explain today so far. We woke up late. That seldom bothers me, I don't get in a hurry in the morning regardless of my late status. But when I tried to leave the house I couldn't find our elderly black Peke, Sapphire. She's old, grumpy, arthritic, one eye is gooped shut from some kind of infection and she bites me when I try to clean it, but I adopted her from the animal shelter because nobody else was going to adopt a 12-year-old crotchety Pekenese, and I couldn't just leave her there. I open the back door and there she is. My husband had let her out at some point this morning and never let her back in.

Unfortunately, our Shih-Tzu, Chuckie bolted out the back door causing Sapphire to follow. In my attempt to catch Sapphire, the damn cat got out. The one who's in heat and due for a spaying on Monday. The one who's been rolling around, yowling and slinking all over us, the furniture, the dogs and any 90-year-old billionaires who happen to stop by (the cat's name is Anna Nicole, for many, many reasons). It's like a domesticated animal rodeo roundup in the backyard - Anna shoots under the deck, Sapphire stumbles blindly into a bag of leaves, Chuckie bolts for the fence and commences telling the neighbor's dog what he thinks of him. In the melee, I lost an earring, dumped my purse, stepped on a sharp rock and yet, DID NOT CURSE. This is an amazing achievement for me, and I do give myself props for not losing it at the furry creatures trying to drive me insane. I grabbed Sapphy, tossed her in the house, left the dratted cat under the deck and shoved Chuckie into the car (he goes to work with me every day - he's the station mascot).

Twenty minutes late for work, minus an earring, squeezing the life out of a stressball and doing my yoga breathing, but NOT defeated. Now, if the cat gets knocked up before we get her to the vet on Monday, I might allow myself one or two four-letter words, but whispered into a clenched fist.

I would so love a mocha latte right now. I wish I had never tried one of the damn things. My weight loss goals have not budged an inch since October, partially because of the mocha lattes and largely because I haven't been to the gym in two weeks. Or is it three? It just seems that there is so little time in the day - when I'm done at work there are always errands to run before I pick up the kids. It's really hard for me to justify spending an hour and a half at the gym, even though I know a thinner, healthier me is far more important than most of the errands on my list.

Right now I am working on kindergarten options for Felix. He turns five in February and is amazing me with his desire to learn. He can write his name, he ASKS me for homework - he really loves to learn. I don't think our public Pre-K/Kindergarten is the greatest option. Every four and five-year-old in town is in this one location (which looks like a detention facility), class sizes are large and I'm afraid he won't get much individual attention, especially in class with children who have behavior issues, parents who aren't involved, etc. The Methodist church has a fabulous program and it costs about the same as the day care center we use now. There's a private school that goes through the 8th grade, but unless we qualified for a scholarship there's no way we could afford it. Financially, I know we wouldn't qualify, but the school's director said we should apply anyway, because it isn't entirely based upon financial need. I wonder what other criteria they use? It's not like Felix has a resume chock full of community service projects.

And the fires just keep on burning. Over half a million acres in Oklahoma and Texas, and more everyday. I'm so naive, I thought these fires were mostly just starting accidently because we haven't had any rain in months, the weather conditions being so warm and dry and high winds. One of the volunteer fire fighters that I've been talking to on the radio disabused me of that notion yesterday. People are actually STARTING these fires ON PURPOSE. He said that they listen to the scanner and it's like a game to them. When they get one fire beaten down, boom - here's another one on the other side of the county. I got on my soapbox on the air yesterday about what kind of jackass would set these fires on purpose and said that their mothers would be ashamed of them. Like pyromaniac sociopaths give a crap what their mothers think about them.

Shedding chenille

2006-01-18T10:03:00.000-08:00

My birthday weekend was great - Keri and I took the kids to OKC to a bullriding event that we thought would have them riveted. They were far more riveted by the pool at our hotel, even though I had gone all out with cowboy boots, size 4 Wranglers, cowboy belts AND hats. Although they looked just like miniature George Straits, it didn't take long for their shirts to come untucked, the cowboy hats were trampled, wadded and flung into the bleachers. Instead of watching the bucking bulls tossing cowboys left and right, they did their absolute best to fling themselves over the wall separating the bleachers into the arena where the horses were tethered. Keri and I just sat and watched. Although it would have been about a seven foot fall, the dirt's soft.

Her daughter, the Tiny Tornado, is the group's ringleader with my boys following willingly and loyally behind in every escapade. Unfortunately, a very cute young blonde about the same age as our three, tried to join in the racing back and forth, swinging on metal bars dividing the sections and clambering on the folding seats. It was inevitable. The darling little girl with the blue bow in her hair did a header into one of the bars and broke a tooth, blood everywhere, screaming, security people running to the scene. Our three just looked at her blankly for half a second and commenced the running, shrieking, climbing and doing their usual kamikaze best to kill or maim each other.

We finally gave up and took them back to the hotel, where the nice night manager kindly opened the pool room for us and let the little demons swim themselves into exhaustion. What is it with kids and hotels? Mine ADORE them - we could stay in a hotel room here in town and they would be just as delighted as if we'd gone to Disneyland. I guess we should take advantage of this phenomenon while it lasts, and save the vacation money for the whiny years.

Our husbands arrived Sunday morning around 10:30 and Keri and I abandoned them to the offspring and swimming while we each did our own thing. For me, it was having two hours to browse leisurely through the Dollar Tree and Target without ANYONE. Best birthday present of all. And this was a goooooood Target, one with a Starbucks. Browsing with a skinny mocha latte and nobody making me go to the toy department - priceless.

We all loaded up and went to Bricktown to Spaghetti Warehouse for my official birthday lunch, then walked to the Ford Center for a Blazers hockey game. Our friends left early to go check out the Bass Pro Shop and we left soon after, to hit Old Navy before the mall closed.

All in all, it was a good birthday, despite the fact that I'm this much closer to forty. I don't feel old or wise or adult. I feel like we're still struggling newlyweds, with bad financial judgement and questionable taste in music (the Chef, not me - it bugs me when three-year-old Oscar gets buckled into his car seat and demands that we play Godsmack).

I've got to learn more about the technical side of blogging. Adding to my blogroll, Flickr, etc. Right now, I'm the only person on earth who reads this, and that's okay with me. It's not as if I have anything eye-opening or earth-shattering to share. I'm not funny like finslippy or verymom or dooce. I'm very vanilla.

Oh, and the chenille shedding? Bought a gorgeous hot pink sweater ON SALE and am wearing it today with black pants. Somehow the pink chenille is migrating downward and dusting my black pants with hot pink fuzz, like parmesan on pizza.

Snotstock

2006-01-06T09:59:00.000-08:00

Okay, Snotapalooza/Snotfest/Snotstock - needs to stop. I sort of remember asking God if it would be okay if the kids stayed healthy and I would do all the being sick. I guess it was okay by Him, because for the second month in a row, I be illin'. My nose is sore from blowing, and frankly, I'm impressed with the quantity and vivid hues produced.

How do you go about telling your boss that this isn't the job you agreed to, especially when he isn't the one who hired you. I'm not going to lie about what I agreed to last year when taking over this Promotions job, but all my current boss has to go on is my word. The current regime wants me to handle ALL trades. That is a massive lot of work, so much that I couldn't possibly do a good job of it and do my radio show, production, public service coordination, etc. And, it's not what I agreed to. I agreed to do Promotions - obtaining event tickets and things to give away on the air, for contests, etc. I did not agree to handle accounts, make meeting and hotel arrangements, handle every single trade agreement. I have been picking up the boys later and later - and it's not acceptable to me. I'm not doing it any more. My boys will not be at daycare until closing time just so I can squeeze in one more unimportant (in the greater scheme of things) job.

I am a "team player." I NEVER say "that's not my job." I help anyone in the building with anything in my power. But it's time to discuss "boundaries" and it's a first for me. Before, I would never have had the confidence to tell my supervisors that they're loading me with too much and I intend to cut back dramatically. I've been short-tempered with my boys lately, we're getting home too late, I never fix dinner - our evenings feel out of control. I need more time at home to get control of things. I feel like I'm not doing a good job at work OR at home, and it's because I'm being asked to handle too many things at work.

Enough grizzling. To everything there is a season. We'll see how the meeting goes and take it from there.

The NATIONAL news?

2005-12-29T11:39:00.000-08:00

It's hard to believe that Oklahoma and Texas are making the national news with the grass fires we've been having the past few days. Some apparently are due to carelessness, some to sheer stupidity, but there have been a few arsonists. Who does this? "Hey, I got me a idea - let's go set fahr to the pasture and watch the cows run." So far they have four of these morons in custody and I really think we should go back to using public stocks - you know, lock them in head and hands, and let people throw rotten vegetables at them and jeer. A bit more public humiliation would really cut down on the crime rate. Child abusers, thieves, arsonists - expose their sneaky, hurtful crimes for everyone in town to shame them. It's pretty 18th century of me, but making someone wear an orange jumpsuit and rake leaves isn't having much of an impact.

Felix and Oscar are thoroughly enjoying the Santa-loot they received. They each got a battery powered vehicle - a Kawasaki four-wheeler for Oscar and a John Deere tractor WITH a dirt dumper for Felix. Those things go faster than I realized.

The Big Hotdog

2005-12-27T11:24:00.000-08:00

I really am a glutton for punishment. Completely not in the mood for after-Christmas shopping, but had promised to drive Nanny, Felix and Oscar up north yesterday to meet up with Aunt Bee. We're browsing the miscellaneous Christmas merchandise "prices slashed" aisle when Oscar discovers a Hickory Farms Summer Sausage. He holds it up and shouts "Look! Look at my big hotdog!" And not just to me...to everyone he encountered in Target. Most people humored him - "Wow, that is a really big hotdog you've got there." One old lady looked at him askance (whereby I 'accidently' rolled my cart over her foot). Oscar was thrilled - he truly believed he'd discovered the world's largest hot dog. He carried all over Target, even finding a perfectly sized green sparkly plastic basket with a handle to carry it in. He's sort of taking care of it like a baby. I warned the Chef when we got home that it's not for consumption.

2005-12-19T11:15:00.000-08:00

Wow. What a weekend. I was all hopped up last Friday afternoon with the enormous list of things to do and places to go. After the kids' Christmas party (where they had NO IDEA that their FATHER was Santa), our first stop was Toys for Tots, to drop off a box of toys that people had donated at the radio station. The boys helped me to haul the ginormous box inside, where there were two (2) people trying to fill toy sacks for 1300 children. It was obvious that they were in the weeds, so we dropped our coats, rolled up our sleeves and went to work. Felix and Oscar went to work with black magic markers, scribbling our bar codes and price tags (to prevent meth-head parents from returning the toys for cash to buy pseudoephidrine and Drano).

It's a pretty simple process - there's a paper bag with the child's first name, age and boy or girl. Each child gets a "big" toy (usually nothing more than $15), a dollar toy (crayons, dinosaurs, balls, etc.) and a stuffed animal. Each family has a number, and we fill sacks for all the children in the family grouped by that number. Then we line them up in order, leaving aisles so we can retrieve the toys on distribution day - which is today.

The boys and I worked from 4 until about 8, picnicking on the floor on grilled cheese sandwiches from the Sonic. Saturday, my MIL and stepdaughter came to visit from Waco and they were all for going to help. SO...we worked Saturday from 1 til 8, then again Sunday from 1-8. We finally got all the names taken care of, and it was a great feeling.

I was so proud of Felix and my stepdaughter, (we'll call her Lizzie, for her love of Lizzie MacGuire). They worked harder than a lot of the adults on Saturday, filling sacks with toys. Now Oscar, Oscar does his own thing. This involved pulling all the candy canes off the tree, pretending to drive the defunct golf cars parked in the service department of the car dealership we were using as the Toys For Tots staging area, building forts with the empty Toys for Tots boxes - but on the whole, he was very well behaved and only tore into a couple of toys.

Toys for Tots is exhausting and frustrating (sometimes you're helping load toys into nice vehicles with expensive rims, full of expensive stereo equipment). But Toys for Tots is addictive. It is extremely satisfying. It feels so good to know that many kids will have presents to open Christmas morning, no matter what their parents' circumstances. Some kids are in foster care, some being raised by a grandparent, some are simply families who have had a hard year and the money doesn't stretch for extras like toys at Christmas. Some of the parents are criminals, drug dealers, horrible parents - but that I can't fix. I CAN help fix Christmas morning, with God's help, and the help of generous people who can't stand the thought of a child on Christmas morning with nothing.

2005-12-16T11:04:00.000-08:00

There's this great Christmas song by a group called The Geezinslaws, "Lighten Up, It's Christmas." I've been playing it like a mantra in the car to try to slow down and chill out. Today, for example, is my son's Christmas party at school. This involved making Christmas gift baskets for each of their teachers, and naturally, I left one out. The one who cries. I feel like such a terrible person, but I didn't KNOW she was in either of the boys' rooms. In fifteen minutes I have to drive like the wind to Tractor Supply to buy the last available in town John Deere battery powered lawn tractor WITH trailer. Then I dash to the kids' school for the sugar-fueled frolic (by the way, the Chef is playing Santa and is as excited as a little kid about it. He's going to have to grab at least two of our sofa pillows to be at all realistic, but he's got the "ho ho ho" down.) Then force two sugar-hopped preschoolers into the car to go to a mitten party at a downtown bank for MORE sugar, then to our "historic downtown" to roam from merchant to merchant ingesting yet more sugar, mingling with clients of the radio station and using my darling offspring as excuses not to linger....

Gotta run....

2005-12-15T10:00:00.000-08:00

I KNOW all children are different. You won't get two in a family who act the same, learn in the same way, like the same foods, toys, condiments or cartoons. Oscar, however, is a law unto himself. There has never been a more unreasonable three-year-old on the planet. (That's not true, I know, but who knows what Liberace or Hitler were like as preschoolers?)

The pressure is getting to the Chef. He's had two days off this week and he and both boys were sick with snotty coughs. He doesn't spend nearly as much time as I do with them, and his negotiation tactics suck, so he spends all his time with Oscar pissed off because Oscar isn't behaving the way the Chef thinks he should. The Chef believes (and not entirely wrongly) that he tells Oscar to do something and Oscar should hop to it. Instead, Oscar is likely to wander off, swinging his broken-tipped pirate sword, knocking off the odd Christmas ornament from the tree, singing "honky tonk, badonkadonk," and terrorizing the cat. The child WILL NOT LISTEN. DOES NOT CARE WHAT YOU DO TO HIM. Is completely unfazed by time outs, having toy taken away, being restricted from television. He lives in his own little universe, cheerfully destroying and creating havoc wherever he goes.

I made it a point to get home early yesterday (skipping the gym). Felix opened the front door for me, shushing me with his finger to his lips. "Daddy and Oscar are sleeping upstairs." Felix's first request of me? "Mommy, can we make brownies?" My sweet, thoughtful, way-too-mature four, almost five-year-old - I wanted to squeeze him till he squeaked. Instead, I dropped my armload of bags, coat, scarf, etc., and headed straight to the kitchen. I let Felix crack the eggs, pour the oil and water and do the stirring and he did a fantastic job of it. By then the Chef and Oscar were up, Oscar blearily wanting to help make "bwownies." We let him sprinkle the mini M&M's on top, so everyone was happy. A lovely start to the evening. After a haphazard dinner of leftover chicken and dumplings, corndogs, and mac n cheese, we all piled into the destroyed living room and watched "A Christmas Story," my all-time second favorite Christmas movie.

Although this is another post entirely, I woke this morning from a dream, thinking that I will never again feel sexy. Or want sex. Or have that feeling that someone thinks I'm sexy. Where did that go? Did I trade that in with motherhood? Did I neglect it, like a plant, and it withered and died? I feel like a robot, an irritable, sinus-headachy robot. Maybe this is the tradeoff I made with Zoloft - so that I don't feel hopeless and unable to get out of bed, I don't feel anything GOOD either.

I do lots of good things - fundraisers for the American Diabetes Association, Toys for Tots, Shop With a Biker Day, Mitten Tree Party for the Children's Shelter - these things are all important to me. I hope I'm not doing so much for "the community," that I'm neglecting my own family (read: husband). He literally works 14 hours a day, 5 days a week. His days off are during the workweek, while mine are on weekends. Our marriage is not bad, it's not as if we're fighting and angry at each other. I'm just sort of worried that it might wither away (like my sex drive.)

I hate the world today (isn't that the first line of a song by some sullen artist like Avril or someone?). I hate that families have no time together, that dinner together is an occasion, rather than the norm. I hate that I have to raise our children, that they miss their Daddy, that when he IS with them he's grouchy and doesn't know what to do with them. I hate that our house is constantly cluttered, making me feel like it's my fault that I can't keep on top of things. That our bills are stacked six inches deep and there's no more money to stretch to cover them. That my job has grown too much in the past year, and I don't want it. I want the flexibility back that I had before I accepted this Promotions gig. This is turning into more of a prayer than a blog entry, and Lord, You can take it as such. You know how overwhelmed and stressed and out of ideas I am. I know that You have it all under control, and I need to hand it over to You to deal with.

SO. I guess it's a good thing that no one reads this blog but me.

2005-11-22T11:34:00.000-08:00

Oscar broke his nose on the school playground yesterday. He and his buddy Colby were "putting each other in jail," and apparently Colby shoved Oscar into a wall. When I picked him up, (v.v. late as I had spent over an hour at the gym - guilty much?) his left nostril was clogged with blood, but it was still bleeding. He wouldn't let me anywhere near it. Called Uncle Doctor for advice, he said to have him tilt his head forward and for me to sort of pinch the bridge of his nose to help stop the bleeding. HA. If I even tried to look at it, he become the Ninja Toddler of Death, kicking and screeching, "NOOOOOOOOO." He did consent to a warm bath and dabbing at the poor little schnoz with a baby washcloth. Blood poured forth. After bath he let me use a q-tip and Vaseline to try to clear a little breathing room. After decongestant and ibuprofen he slept fine, but woke this morning to blood sort of pooled around the creases of his nose. More Vaseline and q-tips and he looked a little less like Rocky after Apollo. I'm pretty sure it's broken - very swollen across the bridge. We applied a Batman Bandaid and he doesn't seem bothered by it. I did give both Oscar and Colby a strict talking-to about roughhousing, pushing and toning it down in general, much to the consternation of the teacher. It's not really my place to verbally discipline the other kids, but I wasn't being mean - just letting them both know to cool it. But they're three. It's inevitable.

Then I come to work and am bombarded with asinine e-mails from all my bosses. All who are named David. So at this point, I just want to leave and go shopping or to the gym or just stick something sharp in my eye.

2005-11-15T09:48:00.000-08:00

Some days I think, "I totally ROCK at this mom thing." And then there are those weekend afternoons that drag on for.ev.er. The boys are jumping from the coffee table to the sofa, over and over and over and over until I bellow at them to stop. And they stop. For about 15 seconds. Then they resume the coffee table to sofa jumping, but add an additional trick - balancing on the rickety arms of an antique chair, bouncing from the seat TO the coffee table TO the sofa. And instead of calmly redirecting them to a safer, quieter activity, or taking them outside to play, I scream like a banshee (to no effect). On these days I totally SUCK at this mom thing.

I so want to remember to enjoy this time, these years when they are small. I don't want to do daily battle with Oscar over his bizarre quirks and insistences. Oscar who adamantly wants Froot Loops AND a waffle for breakfast, then proceeds to eat neither but will scarf up my eggs. Oscar who LOOOOVES gloves. All kinds. The latex kind at the day care that the teachers use for diaper changes, dishwashing gloves, gardening gloves, a pair of skeleton-hand gloves I bought on a Halloween clearance rack, his brother's Spiderman gloves. Oscar is my costume child, who needs frequent wardrobe changes - hats, aprons, capes, masks, and his "stomping boots," a pair of knee-high rubber boots that he would wear everywhere like Gloucester fisherman if we would let him. This is my three-year-old boy who has acting skills infinitely better than Leo DiCaprio. It seems impossible that a child of three could possibly have learned the art of manipulation - the big eyes that blink sadly, the chin tipped down, the earnest voice, "Mommy, I just want to say...I'm really sorry." (After slinging the cat across the kitchen floor by the back legs, or coloring in red marker all over the white woodwork all.over.the.house.) The head tipped to the side, finger tapping his tiny, adorable chin, "Ackshully, Mommy, I'd like fish sticks for breakfast."

My youngest, my last, my sweet baby with the angel face who roars through the house like a tornado, demolishing everything in his path and who will NOT pick up toys. There is no threat scary enough, no punishment (that I'm willing to issue) severe enough to get him to pick up toys. My boy who has been potty-trained for at least six months who still insists that he needs help when going to the bathroom, but in reality just wants company. My snuggler, my tormenter, my tantrum-thrower, my teaser - that's Oscar. Somedays I Google military preschools; some days I just want to eat him, his sweetness is so tempting.

And my firstborn, my Felix, who seems so mature for his four and a half years. I worry sometimes that he's TOO mature, that he worries too much, that he's going to be like me, struggling with depression and finding happiness a challenge. He's small for his age, thin and tall, like stretched bubblegum. He is definitely his mommy's boy, with a vocabulary that astonishes other adults and an affinity for climbing EVERYTHING. He seems to have an aversion to the floor, trying to get to his destination via THIS kitchen chair to THIS barstool, across THIS counter and voila! The pantry! Where the Gummi Bears reside on a top shelf, which is mere childs play to Felix the Mountain Goat. After his broken leg this summer, I do a lot of cringing when he's leaping from the play structure at the park. And when I watch him running with this little limp/hop on the right side, my heart hurts and my eyes feel hot with tears I can't let him see. He thinks he's Spiderman, Batman, running like the wind, proud of how fast he's going.

He's so smart and kind to his friends. I worry that the rougher boys in his class will make fun of him or turn him to the dark side. Just yesterday, three of the boys in his class had cornered a little girl and were telling her they were going to pee on her. Felix wasn't in on it, thank God. We had a discussion about how that was wrong, mean and not something we do to ANYBODY. That we treat our friends and family the way we want to be treated.

I love them so much my heart hurts when I think about it. And still, there are times I want to pack a bag and check into a motel for the night.

2005-11-11T10:33:00.000-08:00

I raised the most money for the American Diabetes Association fundraiser. And yes, I kissed a pig. And yes, because I live in a small town it was front-page, full-color news. And it was not a cute, pink, CLEAN piglet. It was a 40-pound, hairy, already living in a pigpen PIG. The stench was close to overwhelming. I had to kiss the damn thing FOUR times, so the various photographers could get the shot. I heard the other contestants muttering behind me, "Let's let her win again next year." Cynics.

I'm proud of the accomplishment, even if it did involve close contact with livestock. Besides the money, awareness of the risks of diabetes was raised, how it's on the rise, and kids are being diagnosed more frequently and younger.

Now, on to Toys For Tots...

2005-10-20T10:39:00.000-07:00

I love my job, but lately am feeling overwhelmed and resentful. The company I work for tries to get the maximum amount of work out of the minimum amount of people, and it leaves me with much left undone at the end of the day. My first priority is my family - spending time with my sons, not "quality" time, but "quantity" time. I believe that you can't schedule meaningful moments, so I need to be there as much as possible. I told the GM who hired me that family is my first priority - flexibility of my schedule is non-negotiable. I'll be here to do my four-hour show each day, but all the other stuff - producing commercials, writing public service announcements, working on promotions - that will be done on an as-needed and flex-time basis. Now, three GM's later, I don't know how to readdress my original agreement. It hasn't really been a problem yet, but each day I feel more weighted down with responsibilities I don't want.

Still, my life is good. I love what I do, love being able to make a difference in our community, to help people in an immediate way. I have listeners who listen to me every day, who consider me a friend, who tell me what's going on in their lives.

It's the same working mommy guilt that everyone experiences. Even though my boys LOVE their school (what we call day care). The teachers are loving, teach them new things each day, and I know they have fun when they're there. They have friends and are developing interests of their own. I have no qualms about our day care choice.

I compare my life with my grandmother's. How much more physical work she had to do to keep the family running. Laundry was more complicated - she ironed SHEETS and UNDERWEAR for heaven's sake. She cooked everything from scratch (and she hated cooking - something we never knew until we were grown). She had bridge club and coffee with friends, canasta nights with their couple friends. When she wanted something extra, like new furniture for the living room or a trip to Florida to see my grandfather's family, she would go out and get a job until she'd made enough money to do it. I was always so happy and secure at her house. She made everything seem so easy, she never complained, she kept the radio going in the kitchen all day while she did housework. She made everything FUN. She is the woman I want to be. Not this woman who spends so much time stressed out about finances, the lack of time we spend together as a family, the woman on antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds. The woman who screeches at the kids as they fly through the house on their trikes, nearly killing the small animals in their paths and slamming into the dishwasher door.

I don't do it with the style my grandmother did. Of course, she got to smoke, so maybe that helped with the nerves, but she never seemed unsure of herself. She liked herself, she loved me and never told me she didn't have time for me to crawl up in her lap. I remember the rocker she held me in - it had the most distinctive, hypnotic creak. I remember the exact color of her eyes - hazel with brown flecks. I remember her smell - Halston cologne, Jergen's and cigarette smoke. She was never angry, not that I saw, anyway.

Now she's in an assisted living facility which is like a nice hotel. They help her with dressing, bathing, medication, eating, housework. Sound like a pretty nice deal, but it's not her home and I know she feels cut off from her life, her home. I wish I could make the effects of the stroke go away, make her able to live on her own again, but that's not going to happen. I know she wants to travel, to go to Vegas, to Biloxi, and I would take her if I could. But I have two preschoolers and a husband who works 70 hours a week. I don't have time for anything resembling recreation, vacation or "me time."

I'm not complaining. I just wish I had more time to spend with my grandmother. To do special things with her. To make the life she has enjoyable, with things to look forward to.

2005-10-12T10:15:00.000-07:00

I have gotten myself into a fundraiser for the American Diabetes Association - I raise $5,000 as a "celebrity candidate" and get the honor of kissing a pig. I live in a small town and am a "radio personality," so that qualifies me somewhat dubiously as a celebrity. There just aren't that many to call upon, you see. So I am using my daily show to berate, coax, wheedle and threaten my listeners to bring me a dollar. I know I have at least 5,000 listeners, so if each one pays a dollar - bada-bing - time to kiss a pig. Before being educated by the ADA, I had no idea why kissing a pig would be something that had anything to do with diabetes. NOW I get it. Insulin comes from pigs, or some part of a pig. It's an honor to kiss the pig, and I am very anal about reaching goals that I've made public. So it's raise $5,000 by November 10th or I write an extremely hot check.

I was going to hit up local businesses - the big ones that do charitable donations, but it would mean more if it were an entirely grassroots thing. Diabetes is a serious illness, especially where we live. It affects a lot of the population, and I just want to see if I can do it. Get 5,000 people to donate a dollar because I asked them to do it for the ADA.

2005-10-06T09:45:00.000-07:00

Finally, the long-promised cold front has arrived, with gusty north wind and temps in the 50's. I get a power surge when the cool weather of fall arrives. I want to start extensive remodeling, yoga, actual cooking that doesn't mean taking brown things out of boxes and heating them up, learning to knit, yada, yada, yada. It happens to me every fall. My poor husband just sighs and treks out to the garage to find the table saw, the leaf blower, the sander or whatever my latest project requires.

This year it's the old garden shed in our backyard. It's so storybookish - made of red shingles with small eight-paned windows on all sides. It's got a Dutch door and about 20 years worth of dirt, spiders and other creepy-crawlies inhabiting it. Also, it leans a little. My grand plan is to take it apart, saving all the large pieces, power-cleaning all the bugs out, nailing it back together on a level surface, adding a couple of window boxes and turning it into a playhouse for the boys. Something tells me there will be more to it than my simplistic plans, and I'm sure the Chef will roll his eyes when I explain my theory and then bore me to tears talking about leveling, trusses, and two by whatevers.

I always wanted a playhouse when I was a kid. A real one, an actual house with a door that locked and was too small for adult access. Curtains in the windows, a small bed for me, cabinets to store my plastic tea set and chocolate chip cookies. A shelf for books, my dolls. I remember wanting this playhouse well into my teens, although the dolls were less of an issue. A place of my own was a primal need for me, someplace where I could be alone and no one would simply walk in. My parents weren't big believers in allowing privacy. My mom rarely knocked before coming into my room, and by the time I was in sixth grade she read my diary and confronted me with things I'd written regularly.

You know, I don't want to think about these things right now. It still has the power to make me feel sick to my stomach, ashamed and helpless.

2005-10-05T09:42:00.000-07:00

Funeral and waffles. That's how today began. We have been fostering kittens for the local animal shelter and started out with three. The tiniest, itsiest, bitsiest smidgen of gray fluff we called Mary-Kate, her slightly bigger sister is Ashley and then the third kitten, not related to the Olsen waifs, we call Anna-Nicole. She is big, sassy, flirty, blue-eyed and has definite badonkadonk. She will tolerate no nonsense and has expressed this to our hyperactive pervert of a chihuahua in no uncertain terms.

Sad to say, Mary-Kate didn't make it the first night. Four year old Felix went downstairs to check on the kittens and came back up carrying a limp, head-lolled Mary-Kate. "Mommy, kitty is sleeping and won't wake up." The Chef and I looked at each other in horror, our fastidious Felix cuddling the dead kitten. "Sweetheart, give Mommy the kitty." I felt for a pulse, checked her eyes, realized that her tiny paws were like ice. We wrapped her in one of our hand towels and placed her in the shoebox that had contained my wedding shoes.

We got the boys dressed, the Chef took a shovel out to a little stand of Christmas trees in our backyard and dug a grave. Felix and Oscar held hands and bowed their heads and I said a prayer for poor Mary-Kate. After the "amen," Oscar said "I'm going to miss Mary-Kate SO MUCH." After shoveling in the dirt and stamping it down, placing a cairn of rocks and headstone, we all headed in for homemade waffles.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, funerals to waffles.

2005-08-04T09:36:00.000-07:00

Whoever said that if money would solve your problems you don't have any problems should be kicked in the philosophical nuts. My life is great - I love the Chef, our marriage is solid, our kids are great, we're all reasonably healthy, we live in an historic Colonial two-story in my hometown, great neighbors, I love my job - we are truly blessed.

The problem? We're drowning in debt. Mostly medical bills. The Chef and I are sooo alike when it comes to money, and neither of us are any good at managing it. He makes a good living, but is required to work 14 hour days and we would both like it if he could work somewhere else and spend more time with the family. I love my job and have lots of flexibility, but it pays peanuts. Looking at our tax return, we should be financially comfortable, and yet, we're not. My brain locks up when I look at the untidy stacks of bills, Bills, BILLS - increasingly threatening and demanding. I have been terribly unfair to the Chef, making him handle our financial crap and pay our monthly bills. It has him completely stressed out and I have to do something. Like, step up to the plate and do my share of the stressing over money. That we don't seem to have.

Every time this situation comes up I feel guilty, as if it's entirely my fault. I feel guilty that Felix and Oscar don't have financial wizards for parents, that we don't have a comfortable savings account AND college fund for our preschoolers. One major thing and we're sunk.

I've been praying about it, along the lines of "Please, God...please...I don't know how to do this. Help us." He always has. I know He always will, but I feel like it's my fault. Why should He keep digging us out?

2005-08-02T11:27:00.000-07:00

My grandmother, the most incredible woman I have ever known, is in the hospital recovering from a stroke. She's doing better every day, but we're not sure she'll be able to live on her own when she's released from rehab. She's like a mother to me and we've always been very close...I know she's afraid of being put in a nursing home. I can't stand the thought of her in a nursing home - it would be an insult to her senses. She always has scented candles burning in her house, crystal lamps, soft carpets and things that are lovely to look at. The smell in a nursing home would send her into a depression.

I know thousands of people deal with this daily. It's heartbreaking and I hate it.

2005-07-28T10:31:00.000-07:00

Sweet, sweet sleep was had last night and it was gooooood. Thank you, Tylenol with codeine (not for me, for the kid with the broken leg). Felix is getting pretty zippy with the wheelchair - I wonder if there is a Murderball Preschool League? Oscar now has an official job - Message Bearer and Toy Fetcher for He Whose Leg is Broken. I'm afraid there is a monster being created. Being carried everywhere, ordering family members to do your bidding, not having to bathe each day and not going to school are pretty sweet compensation for an immobile leg. Yesterday the teachers from day care sent an enormous gift bag full of snacks, crayons, coloring books and games to Our Little Invalid. He was so thrilled - he even voluntarily shared his giant bag of Skittles with Oscar.

It seems like The Broken Leg has consumed our normal daily lives. My husband, the one who works way too much, has taken off for a couple of weeks to stay home with Felix. (Can you hear it? The Hallelujah Chorus?) He would be such a great at-home parent. Too bad he earns the vast majority of our living.

Sheryl summed it up for me today - even though I spend the most time with the kids, I feel like I do a bad job of it. The constant guilt that I should be completely focused on them, playing educational games, making flashcards and cooking Food Pyramid perfect meals- it gnaws. I love to read, really love burying my face in a good book. Sometimes I'll be deep into whatever I'm currently reading and Felix and Oscar simply cannot allow Mommy to Not Pay Attention to the Greatest Lego Tower Ever Built! And I'll yell, and they'll look hurt and I'll feel like crap. But sheesh...it's not like I'm smoking crack in the laundry room and forgetting to feed them. I'm READING A BOOK.

2005-07-27T13:15:00.000-07:00

Having never broken a major bone in my life, I can only imagine how irritating a cast must be, especially a full leg cast. (I don't count the time I broke my right middle finger in 6th grade - it was just a splint and a convenient way to flip my teachers the bird without getting in trouble). Felix hasn't slept more than 30 minutes at a time the past three nights...thus, I haven't slept more than 30 minutes at a time the past three nights. The Chef and I are becoming grumpy zombies trying to outdo each other in the sleep deprivation sweepstakes.

Last night we fumbled our way through bathing Felix for the first time in three days. We don't have a regular sized bathtub - it's one of those damn deep, jetted garden tubs. Normally this is a tub that I have nice things to say about, but when trying to bathe a kid in a cast that MUST STAY DRY, it's a pain in the ass. We wrapped the cast in a garbage bag and propped it up on one of the bins from his toy sorter. Then I climbed into the tub, fully clothed, to be sort of a human backrest. Using an inch of warm water and a washcloth we were able to get him reasonably clean, but the experience was enough to drive me to the internet for a better solution. And of course, there is one: http://xerosox.com/ . I haven't received it yet, but if the testimonials are true this is the best invention since birth control and more effective.

Poor Oscar. I picked him up at day nursery yesterday and he was his usual bubbly, positive self. "Hi, Mommy! I had a good day today - I didn't hit!" "That's GREAT, baby! Good for you!" When we got home he hugged his daddy and said, "Thanks for bringing me home, mommy!" Like I don't bring him home everyday. Like he has to be The Perfect Preschooler so we'll notice him, the kid without a cast on his leg.

2005-07-26T11:12:00.000-07:00

If I were going to bet which of my boys would be the first to break a bone, it definitely would have been Oscar, my sweet, chubby-cheeked tornado who has no idea what trash cans are for and has only two speeds - fast and faster. Late in my pregnancy with Oscar, my husband and I would watch in fascination as various limbs appeared and my belly went from round to rectangle in a non-stop effort by the child within to find a comfortable position. I sometimes thought he would skip the normal method of exit and simply tear a hole next to my navel and climb out.

But no, my first child with a broken limb is Felix...Felix the cautious, the careful, the 4-year-old who checks to make sure I have my sunglasses and keys before we go to the grocery store. It happened in the classic way - two little preschoolers jumping on the bed...one fell off and bumped his head....mama called the doctor, the doctor said...no more preschoolers jumping on the bed! But instead of a head bump, it's a leg break, a fib-tib. Fortunately, the growth plate isn't affected and he'll be fine after doing time in a cast - no surgery or setting required. But to my fastidious little boy who really doesn't care for Bandaids, two medical assistants encasing his leg in gauze and plaster up to the hip was a majorly traumatic experience. He spat the worst insults he could think of at the two amused women - "I'm going to put you in the Dumpster," and "I don't LOVE either of you." Fierce glare and much muttering of oaths.

If he's healing well by next week they can cut the cast to below the knee. In the meantime, it's like having a long, gangly infant again. He can't walk, can't sit on the potty without help or feed himself for some mysterious reason. Anything we ask him to do (hand me the remote, pick up the napkin from his lap) he says, "I can't. My leg is broken." I rented a pediatric wheelchair from a medical supply house and he's zooming along pretty well on our hardwoods downstairs.

More later...

2005-07-22T13:22:00.000-07:00

Wow. My very own blog. Now if I could just learn how to text message... Nah. I'm pretty sure I already have arthritis in my right thumb.

In the past few months I've gotten addicted to http://perspectacles.blogspot.com/ , http://finslippy.typepad.com/finslippy/ , http://verymom.com/ , http://papernapkin.typepad.com/ , http://www.dooce.com/ , http://www.mommyneedscoffee.com/ , http://mydogharriet.blogspot.com/ - and several others. I' a lurker, I'll admit it. I've never commented but I read them daily and feel like I know these talented, funny moms. I like them. Reading them makes the world feel smaller and populated by women like me - who love being a mom but would kill for just a little bit of quiet, who feel better after writing it down and probably overshare on occasion.

I'll also freely admit that I know nothing, zip, nada about html, banners, templates and other techy doohickies that make a blog function smoothly. So for right now, this is probably just for me...a place to vent, ramble, observe and record the HI-larious adventures of life with two preschoolers, a lovely husband who works too hard, a chihuahua with low self-esteem and a job in radio. As an "on-air personality." When people ask what I do that is the technical answer, but it sounds so pretentious. I usually mumble it and then say, "you know...a DJ." It's like saying administrative assistant or domestic engineer - like I'm trying to sound more important than I really am.

Last night the Chef (my husband) and I took Felix (4 1/2 year old son) and Oscar (3 year old son) to Fort Worth for the Ringling Bros. & Barnum & Bailey extravaganza. It was completely spur of the moment, but I had free tickets and didn't want them to go to waste. Downtown Fort Worth is a great place to hang out and my small-town boys loved looking up at the skyscrapers and pressing the crosswalk buttons to get across the busy streets. On the sidewalks outside the Convention Center PETA demonstrators strolled with signs and pamphlets trying to convince us that the circus is evil. Most were young women, but one young guy had on a baby backpack with a little blonde toddler on board. I appreciate their efforts on behalf of a cause they feel strongly about, even though the animals in the Ringling Bros. show probably have a better diet, more exercise and definitely more time spent on grooming than I do. I just felt kind of sorry for that little girl half-hidden by a PETA picket sign. She'll probably never get to see the gaudy spectacle of sequinned acrobats, corny clowns and amazingly trained animals firsthand unless a grandparent sneaks her in. And then there will probably be guilt if she enjoys it.

Even though the tickets were free, we easily spent $50 on souvenirs and ridiculously overpriced popcorn. Cotton candy - ten bucks. TEN BUCKS. It came with a souvenir clown hat, but still. The Chef refused. He has a thing about cotton candy, bordering on loathing. The boys loved the circus. They clapped for everything (Oscar more than Felix). When the show was over and we had made our sweaty way back to the car, I asked them what their favorite part had been. Felix said, "The elephants were the best part...but I don't like clowns. Can we kill one and eat it?" The Chef and I howled with laughter...apparently our 4 year old doesn't realize that clowns are actually people. Or maybe he does and I've been letting him listen to too much Rob Zombie...