So Much

The number of proverbial balls in the air increased exponentially in the past week, and I have to say, I couldn't be happier about it. I'm making the switch from SAHM (stay-at-home mom) to WAHM (work-at-home mom), and while I anticipate a massive learning curve, there's this excited burn in my belly, and I am loving the feeling. And, while I'm selling advertising, I have also been included in the writers' spool and am writing articles for the mag. Seriously? Can I be happier?

We also got super-exciting news on Friday and really I'm still bursting about it: We are going to Disney for 6 days in October! Here was the scene - Friday morning, we went to the New Jersey Motor Vehicle Hell Hole to finally get my plates and registration. The peeps there said that both Pete and I had to be present in order to accomplish this task, and when I went the first time he wasn't there and I didn't have the right documents, so it was a big fail. Friday morning was our attempt...and they only needed to physically see his driver's license and his person, so I realized that I could have swiped his license out of his wallet and grabbed some poor shlub from line and said, "Stand here" and that would have sufficed for the MVC's purposes. Pete, in the meantime, is stuck with Captain Insane-o (Our latest nickname for Liz. Busy Lizzy is no longer an accurate description.) She's screaming, trying to climb out of the stroller, and Erin and Meghan are like crack addicts, and Pete's trying to wrangle the three of them in while his Blackberry is buzzing and ringing, literally, every 22 seconds. Stress. Ugh.

So we leave, he gets back to the safe haven of his dungeon-office, and Insane-o is shot. Nap time. I put her down, and Erin and Meghan join me in the quest for groceries. (I hate shopping with kids. I would rather go through labor without anesthesia every day for the rest of my life than EVER go grocery shopping with any of my kids. Seriously.) So we're negotiating our way through the store, and they continue to appear to the outside world that they are either addicts of some sort or afflicted by some strange condition that makes them run within the inch of an oncoming cart's wheels with their toes and heels and then pick each other up and run up and down the aisles, carrying each other and then wiping out on that dirty-ass linoleum.

I audibly threatened to either leave them in the store or outside on the curb. The kids didn't give a shit, and the eavesdropping adults would have done the same damn thing. No DYFS worries that day.

My phone rings. They are running up and down the aisles, still, and I've given up all hope of controlling them. It's Pete. Smile. He says, "When you get home, I need you to do something."
I say, "Really? Can you tell me when I get home because I'm trying not to kill people at the moment." Pete: "That's fine, I just need you to book that trip to Disney so we lock in our quote."

Shock. Astonishment. The urge to respond with, "Do we have to take the kids?"

So I call Erin and Meghan back from their latest seizure of insanity in the canned goods aisle, and put Pete on speakerphone. Pete says, "Girls, what could be the best news that I could tell you?"

Meghan: "That we are going to Disney!"

He confirms and a screaming, joyous fit breaks out between the three of us, and while we managed NOT to upset any displays, we won't be asked back to Shop Rite anytime soon. That much is a definite.

Final bit: All That Mama Drama! is finding a new home. Details to come...

Did I Ever Tell You About the Time...

When I was pregnant with Lizzy, I was sick. And I do mean SICK. So when I started preterm labor six weeks before my due date, I was scared but not surprised. I knew something was wrong the entire time. I just knew it. [My lame medical care will be the topic of blogs to come, as will Lizzy's negligent medical care (can't call hers lame, they almost killed her, for Christ's sake.)] So I went to the hospital six weeks before my due date in full-blown labor and was given a series of Terbutaline shots and sent home on strict bedrest, with instructions to take that evil Terbutaline shit every four hours. Holy hell, if that isn't Satan in pill form then I don't know what is. Bedrest lasted a week, until I was up every hour or so one Wednesday night into Thursday morning with a sick, but not sure what was wrong with her, Meghan and noticed that every time I got out of bed, I was considerably "leakier" than usual. But at eight months pregnant, you really have no standards left, particularly if you are eight months pregnant for the third time. Nothing works like it's supposed to. So when the leakiness kept up into Thursday morning, I called my girlfriends, because God knows you call your girlfriends about this kind of stuff first. Not the doctor.

Needless to say, after finally submitting to girlfriend advice that I seek medical advice, I went to the hospital on Thursday, December 20, 2007. I told Pete (who was working full-time, taking care of me on bedrest and playing Mr. Mom - hence my constant "He's a Prince" characterizations) that I'd drive myself to the hospital to see if my water had broken. I was certain it had not, so I would just come home afterward and everything would go back to normal. He could take the girls to school for their holiday parties, I'd be fine, yadda yadda yadda. He told me to put down the crack pipe and all of us piled into the minivan. Off we went, all of us, to Labor & Delivery, because remember we were in Maryland and didn't really have anyone with whom we could leave the girls. Plus we really thought we would be in and out. So there we are, and they do the whole ferning test and the doctor comes back in and says, "Yep, your water broke. You're stayin' here 'til the baby comes. We won't help things along because you're not 36 weeks yet, but we won't stop things either."

May I please remind you of the date: December 20th. 5 days until Christmas. This was not part of the plan. The nurses then started my IV, complete with fluids and antibiotics because of my broken water, and while they are putting the IV in, my Erin is there and she starts bawling, saying, "Mommy's dying! Mommy's dying!" She was totally traumatized, and by then my last pill of Terbutaline is wearing off and here come the contractions. Lordy. I'm panting and grunting and starting to call in the reinforcements from New Jersey to get their asses in their cars and get down here because we have a situation. It was sometime around now in the story that I look over at my two children and realize that they are totally glassy-eyed, flushed and really messed-up looking. I happened to have a "kid bag" with me that had a digital thermometer in it. Don't ask. I don't know why. So I asked Meg to come over to me and I took her temperature and then I took Erin's temperature and there we were, lo and behold, in L&D with two children who had 102 degree fevers. Yep. We were THOSE people.

So obviously they needed to go to the doctor because what the hell is wrong with them? But Pete had never been to the pediatrician in Maryland, he had no idea where it was, and in his (at that time) 5+ years of fatherhood he had NEVER taken two children to the doctor alone. So I'm on the cell, in labor mind you, making appointments for him to take them to the peds and then writing directions to the doctor on the back of a Color Wonder coloring book so he can try to find it. (Before our purchase of a GPS. How we lived without that thing I'll never know.)

They leave and I'm in L&D and I'm a mess. I'm one of those idiots who knows I'm going to get an epidural at some point but I like to wait as long as possible as to not "slow down" the natural labor process. Plus, they didn't know how quickly I would progress because I was preterm, and it's not like they can hook me up to an epi for a week. And that's what the doctor was predicting - that it could take a week to have her. Yeah, lame.

So I was panting and crying and all alone and my cell phone rang and it was Pete. He was finishing up at the doctor with the kids. And guess what? They had strep throat. Both of them. Strep. Freaking. Throat.

My mind immediately starts reeling because OH. MY.GOD. They were in Labor and Delivery and touched God knows what and they had strep throat. But then I had to switch gears to start directing Pete through Frederick, Maryland, to get to the pharmacy, to take the kids home, to feed them (because the day was shot by then), to put them back in the car to pick up their antibiotics, to take them back home to wait for the grandparents to arrive to come back to the hospital to be with me because we were having a baby. Remember?

Good times.

Next installment...lame medical care. Buckle up...

Feeble-Minded

So remember last Friday when my mom and I took three cracked-out kids to Wegmans? We went and it was like the Mothership from the planet 'Free Samples' had landed in the middle of the store with people literally stuffing their faces every five feet with some other fabulous offering, seducing each of us suckers to believe that we suddenly needed to add that extra $20 worth of "so easy to prepare" food to our already astronomical food bill. Oh, the crack in that store. It's everywhere.

I'm in the door two minutes and the crowd and sampling opportunities, to which my children are succumbing, are so overwhelming, I'm ready to turn tail and leave. With that, I hear a kind woman telling Erin, "They're giving out free slices of pizza! Over there! Whole slices!" She has her own slice folded in on itself and she's delighting in its cheese and free-ness.

So I say, "Oh that's great! Thanks!"
Erin says, "Thanks, Ms. Kathy!"

Puzzled, I quietly ask Erin as we are walking toward the free-pizza bounty, "Does she work at your school?"

To which my six-year-old responds, with a look of disgust and disdain reserved only for children to give to their idiot parents, "No, Mom. She's our neighbor. She lives across the street from us."

Feeble. Freakin' feeble.

Improvements and Ironies

Yesterday did improve a bit. No, I mean, it improved a lot, and my mental state did, too. I got the job that I interviewed for last week and am elated and excited and ecstatic and all of those 'e' adjectives. I think I am going to be much happier having a professional life to juggle. Not that I'm not happy now...but obviously, something feels lacking or open if I went to the interview and got my hopes up the way that I did. So I'm going to do it.

I went to Boot Camp last night, too, and that was an awesome frustration-blaster. I was struck by something ironic, or something, though, when I pulled into the gym parking lot. It's a parking lot jointly shared between the gym and Fuddruckers. While I'm not a huge fan of Fuddruckers, there's something absolutely torturous about getting out of my car to go inflict pain upon my body while smelling greasy burger smell wafting through the humid summer air. It pissed me off and made me think of french fries and that kind of motivation just doesn't help.

I came out of Boot Camp totally burned, having kicked the classes ass, only to set my eyes upon the Fuddruckers and it's little cutesy outdoor cabana-bar area. And what do my eyes behold? Three guys, wearing black tee-shirts claiming "TRAINER" on their backs, pounding beers and feasting on Fuddrucker grub.

Really?? Couldn't they have at least changed shirts? What are their clients, for whom they are a source of motivation and models of behavior, to think? I mean, it's the same parking lot! We fitness-wannabies ARE RIGHT HERE! I'M RIGHT HERE!

Anyway, my new job begins Thursday and I'm looking forward to it. Starting to think "Back to School" and crayons and folders and new shoes and clothes, and then thinking it's a good thing I have a new job to pay for all that stuff. The girls want to do dance lessons and gymnastics and piano and violin...the list goes on and on. It's terrible to be listening to the creative interests blossoming from your children's cores only to be thinking, "Who the hell is gonna pay for that?" So Mommy is gonna pay for it. And that is so fab.

Never, in the history of mankind, has a couple sucked at weekends worse than me and Pete. Every few months we have to have a Call to Jesus meeting of sorts where we fight, then talk, then revamp our plan of attack on life. This weekend, our time was up and it was time for the fight. Only we didn't start the week on a high note the way we usually do when the meeting is over. Instead, I am relieved that he's back to work and frankly, am dreading another weekend at the end of this week.

Here's the fundamental problem: He wants weekends to be time where he does what he needs/wants to do with no notice. He wants to be able to just pick up and go without a care or a thought or a plan. I, on the other hand, need to have things somewhat planned. Not scheduled to a tee, not pinned down hour by bloody hour. But I need to have a general sense of what is going on and what's coming next. Because if I don't, I lose my mind, and therefore, so do the kids.

So that's what the fight was about this weekend. Him being generally dissatisfied with how imprisoned he feels and me simply wanting to have a five-minute conversation on Friday night loosely planning what's to come for the weekend. He refuses to talk, I get bent and pissy, and we get nowhere. Fast.

Here's the glitch (I've pinpointed it, which is helpful now that it's Monday and he's in Long Island and I'm here, back to the grind): He schedules his work days and tasks with great organization and rigid planning. He "doesn't feel like it" on Saturday and Sunday, because those aren't work days. Therefore, he just resists or altogether skips any conversations involving planning.

I, on the other hand, am still in the throes of my work week. All seven days, I need to know what's doing because it is up to me to keep everyone on schedule and on task when we go places, need meals, arrange outings, etc. It never ends. So if I have a slight clue about what he needs to do, I can add that to my agenda and form a plan.

No dice. He won't do it.

Am I alone? Is it my anal-retention that is bringing us here? Am I really asking for too much? Because if I am, I just want to know so that my expectations can be adjusted and we can begin to have happier times on the weekends.

I'm completely, utterly mentally exhausted by all of this today, so much so that I'm cranky and irritable, I have no patience with the kids, and I still feel that I want to beat him. Ugh. Must snap out of it. Thank God Bootcamp is tonight and I can go and beat his phantom ass with my little 2-lb. dumbbells in my hot little hands. Great frustration buster!

South Jersey Pediatric Dentist Makes Cleanings a Breeze

South Jersey Pediatric Dentist Makes Cleanings a Breeze

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All in a year...

Well the proverbial band-aid has been ripped and Jaclyn is officially Florida-bound. We all got together for one last sushi and sake dinner on Thursday night and video-taped all the kids bouncing around, for posterity's sake, of course. Saying farewell was difficult, but lucky for me, my oldest is more dramatic than I could ever hope to be, so her sobbing and carrying on was a wonderful distraction from my own heartbreak.

I was in such a funk yesterday knowing that it was all coming to a close, and realized something in the midst of my funk: it was exactly one year ago, yesterday, that we closed on the sale of our house in Maryland. We were at Jac's house during the actual settlement so we could use Brian's fax machine to finalize the HUD sheets, and then we grilled and boozed and celebrated that we were all back together again.

How much things can change in a year.

On happier notes, I was contacted by the potential employer with whom I interviewed on Thursday for work references. I am hopeful that this means something good and that I didn't sound like a total idiot when we spoke. I thought the interview went well and I know that I really, really want the job. Fingers crossed. And it was my fab mom's birthday yesterday and the girls and I were able to spend the afternoon with her. It was primarily spent trying to navigate our way through Wegmans with three cracked-out kids who love samples, but it was spent together, nonetheless.

I drove home from her house, realizing that it had been exactly a year since we moved back, since we were staying in Pete's parents' house for the week between selling and buying, since Lizzy was teeny-tiny, sleeping in a pack -n- play and eating only from baby bottles and jars of food and baby cereal. A year since Erin and Meghan had felt settled, since none of their earlobes were jeweled and they both had training wheels on their bikes. A year since Pete had started his new job, and since I was able to really put the pieces together to start building a professional life of my own. During my drive, I was feeling sadness and a sense of loss, but did feel a slight perk upon feeling all this other stuff. My family is settled here, my kids are thriving and growing and we are exactly where we want to be. It's so hard to say good-bye. But who knows where we'll be this time next year. They could be back. We could be gone. You just never know where it's all gonna take you.

Today will begin with a run (if I could find my freaking iPod. And I'm sure that when I do, the battery will be dead and that will suck.) But yes, it will start with a run. Then weights, abs, legs. And then I will hope that all that sweating and endorphin-boosting will shake these friggin' grumpies out once and for all so I can be the young, fun, (1-lb. lighter! the scale finally moved!) mom I know I am.

This Weekend: Family Fun In and Around South Jersey

This Weekend: Family Fun In and Around South Jersey

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My Day Friday, Part II

My Day Friday, Part II
Take some time today to let the people you love and value know just how much you do. No regrets.

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The Shift

I have not made much of a mention about this, because it's so roller-coaster of me that I've almost been rolling my own eyes at myself. But if I take the time to lay my thoughts out, it just might make some sense.

A few weeks back, I sent my resume and writing samples to a local magazine in the hopes of getting a shot to freelance for them. I got an interview, instead, to be an account executive, i.e., sell advertising, for them. I responded with appreciation for the opportunity, and accepted the interview, although I was a little confused. But I came to find out the following about the opportunity: It is very flexible, can be done while the kids are in school, mostly work from home, and I'm able to work out a babysitting exchange, much like I recently suggested for my Examiner column, with a friend of mine. So I decided to take the interview and give it all I've got. It's something that could earn us money, pad our savings, give the kids gymnastics or dance lessons and allow us to pay for Christmas without putting it on a credit card. In these times, being so tight, I can't turn down the chance to be able to do these things for my family. And it's still a connection to a local magazine. The opportunity for networking and learning could prove to be invaluable.

Plus, I might need to finally upgrade my phone to an iPhone for this. OOOOOOOOOH! I absolutely love the thought of an iPhone!

I found a professional-looking black dress. "Where?" you may be asking. "Hanging in my closet!" I respond with glee. I have shoes (remember my jaunt to DSW last fall?), understated jewelry, and tweezers to pluck my brows into shape. I have lots of questions about how the job works and decent answers about why I want to do it. I have directions, a car with a GPS and gas in the tank.

I don't have panty hose. I hate panty hose. I probably need to stop and grab a cheap pair on my way.

Other than that, I think I'm ready.

It has been a long time since I went on an interview. A really long time. I've been shuffling around in jeans and sweatpants for almost seven years, and sometimes I get angry at my choice. As the time is coming for me to return, no, enter, the work force, I have to ask my Facebook friends what to wear to an interview. I don't have answers to these very basic questions because it has not been my life. But then I look at the faces of my kids. And I realize that my choice to stay home was made out of love and I am blessed to have had the option. Truly blessed. My days of being home with them are far from over. But my days of having some room to incorporate a job that will make their lives better are beginning. And I'm still writing, to boot, which is in me. It's just a part of me. It's kind of fun to have stayed on this crazy path and actually be able to see why I've gone where I have and enjoy where I am at this moment.

It really is the journey, isn't it?