A Neverending Winter

I remember a time in my life when I actually looked forward to the month of February. Coincidentally, this was also about the time that I didn't have my own driveway to shovel during a what-the-fuck-how-much-snow-can-possibly-fall winter, didn't mind having birthdays and definitely didn't have other people's illnesses creep up just in time to destroy happy hour plans.

February is only 28 days long, and February of 2011 will officially go down in the record books as the month known as Sucktastic Cough Cough Cough Science Project Plowhump. Seriously, it was that bad.

When I say that Zoe has been coughing for 30 days straight, I am not exaggerating. I swear the girl has coughed up her entire body weight X 3 in phlegm, has mastered the turn-and-hack-into-elbow maneuver as to not freak out other individuals, and has even been spotted carrying around an item that has been labeled Coughing Towel.

In addition to her having pneumonia the first week of the month, she has managed to wake up with a short-lived low-grade fever every Saturday morning (which, as a result, obliterated every Saturday night happy hour), I managed to acquire two colds within three weeks and Charlie got strep throat for the first time in his life (which, contrary to what he believed would be the outcome, he managed to survive). Our evenings, in addition to the usual yelling and shouting and assorted sounds of chaos, now include the appetizing sounds of sniffling and coughing and gag-reflex-triggering. It's all a little much, and pretty fucking gross.

Since those who know me well know that my house isn't exactly at risk for being featured on Hoarders and that I've been known to smell of a perfume best described as a combination of Clorox and Pledge, it makes me wonder where all this illness is coming from. I know there is a lot of shit going around and everyone knows someone that is or has been sick recently, but come on! This family does NOT get sick!

I knew that Zach wasn't the carrier, since he has actually managed to dodge the phlegm/strep-fest. It couldn't possibly be Doug because considering how much time he has spent at the office or quarantined in his office at home work work working, he isn't around any of us long enough to actually breathe the same air or lick any doorknobs. My colds always appeared after Zoe had them first and Charlie had strep throat after me, so this narrowed it down to the shortest member of our family. But seriously, the girl's hands are cracking because she washes them so often, so how much could she possibly be bringing into the house?

A couple weeks ago, during a brief time when the temperature crept above 45 degrees and some of this 627 feet of accumulated snow was forced into melting, I took our dog on a walk. It was a slushy, gross, stinky, sometimes slippery walk but still, it was exercise performed outdoors.

Without intending to, I ended up near the elementary school at the exact time that Zoe would be outside at recess. Since she had declared the day before as The Worse Day of Recess in the History of Recess, I decided to stop by with the dog and surprise her, hopefully turning that day into the Best Day of Recess EVER! Sure enough, as soon as I walked up with the dog, she threw her arms into the air with joy and was so excited that I was there. And I brought THE DOG! And all of the other snowpantsed, mittened, booted kids were excited to see THE DOG!

That was when THE DOG noticed all these children stumbling toward him and he started to feel fear. And let me tell you, he wasn't the only one.

The kids moved in a sort of skitterish, slow-mo, twitchy manner that was completely unpredictable. They formed a little mob scene around my poor dog, scaring the piss out of the poor thing, literally. I reached down and picked him up so that he was above most of the kids, but then they just closed in a little tighter and made noises similar to "Oooooh, a dawwwwwg, can I pet your dawwwwggg?"

The worst part about it is that they were all coughing. And I mean all of them were coughing. One boy said something like "Oh, that's (cough) a cute (coughity cough) dog I wish (hack hackity sneeze sputter) I had a dog like (cough) that (cough sniff cough) can I come over (cough hack) and play with Zoe's dog sometime? (cough cough)" Me: NO. And now I know why I'm sick. It's because of walking petri dishes like YOU!

But here's the best part...I don't know what the hell they served at lunch that day because my February lunch menu went into the recycling bin exactly five days ago, but I'm 99.9% sure it was stewed brains. It was clear that none of these kids know how to use a napkin, and that all of them (except Zoe, who had dined on a mom-made ham sandwich) had eaten this conglomeration of brains for lunch. I know this because the evidence was all over their faces, dried in a crusty red glaze around their mouths. Some of them even had a chunk or two up around their eyebrows, which made it really difficult to look them in the eye. So here I was, holding this cold, muddy, terrified white dog while a hoard of coughing, brain-dining children hovered around, all maneuvering in such a way that they could get close enough to me so that they could use their germ-covered hands to pet THE DOG!

And that was when I felt like Wichita in "Zombieland," being attacked by really short brain-eating zombies and just trying to make sure that me and my little dog got out of their alive and without any other diseases. And Zoe? Well, she would be one of the kids from a painting that hangs in her brother's bedroom because after all, she did have a pink shirt on that day:

Sometimes, I Trip

I am going to take this opportunity to say that this past weekend, I was not the nicest person in the world. I tried, really I did. But due to circumstances that were a little bit out of my control, the niceness success rate was not quite 100%. It wasn't that I didn't try to suck it up and put on a smile, it's just that it all seemed so, well, pointless and unpleasant. Like trying to convince yourself that eating the fat free salad dressing isn't really that bad and that the bitter metallic taste isn't really that noticeable even though you know damn well that the full fat salad dressing isn't going to kill you, so what's the point of pretending that you like the fat free kind?

Okay, that was random.

So like I said, there isn't just one reason for my edginess, but rather a combination, an amalgamation if you will, of many different types of sticks to my eye.

Maybe it's because my week started out with a sick kid. Like, a freakishly-high-fever-three-nights-in-a-row, oh-look-she-has-pneumonia, now-she's-home-from-school-for-4 1/2-days sick kid.

Maybe it's because after being loyal to the same piano teacher for the past nine years and always delivering her check at the first lesson of the month, she was unwilling to compromise with me regarding her cancellation policy, even though I had a kid at home with a 104 fever.

Maybe it's because Doug got a chest cold and I ended up with the same chest cold and strep throat, just in time for the weekend.

Maybe it's because throughout the entire weekend, people still wanted me to make food for them (without touching it too much or coughing on it) and the only meal that was considered take-out was the single-serving cheese pizza that I bought for Zoe while we waited for my prescription at Target.

Maybe it's because my attempt at taking a ten-minute nap on Saturday before I drove Zoe to a birthday party was interrupted by a boy saying "Hey there's something wrong with my Xbox Live account, can you come fix it before you leave?"

After quickly glancing at the back of my throat while sitting at a stoplight and seeing what appeared to be a couple red ping pong balls with white polka dots, I decided that a visit to urgent care on my way home from the birthday party would be a good idea. Zoe thought that this was the perfect time to embark on a pain-in-the-ass marathon, touching everything in sight, failing to follow even the simplest directions, begging for 22,000 items in Target, and giving me a look that says "I'm going to do whatever the hell I want to do because you probably won't beat me in public." This super-pleasant two hours, followed up with a difficult bedtime, might have had something to do with my mood on Saturday evening.

It could even be that after waking up with a fever on Sunday morning, I fed the dog, got the paper, emptied the dishwasher, started laundry and made chili...while the rest of my family slept in.

Maybe it's because there's an elaborate board game that's been sitting out, taking up the entire surface of our wet bar, since November, and even though I've asked, on numerous occasions, that it be picked up and put away, it has continued to sit there. So when the oldest kid finds me coughing and sprawled out on my bed and says "Hey, should I pick that game up today?" and I say something like well, gee, I've only been asking for it to be picked up for the last month or so, so yes, picking it up today might be a good idea and then he says "Wow, sorry I asked. What's the big deal," it may not put me in the best frame of mind and/or make me leap around the room in jubilation.

Or maybe it's because when I quietly snuck upstairs in an attempt to take a nap on Sunday afternoon (between loads of laundry), I was immediately woke up with the pressing question of "Hey mom, can I have a juice box?"

So like I said before, I know there were times this weekend that I wasn't the nicest person and honestly, all I can say is...oops.

Married to the Mean Mom Has a Birthday

Yay for today being my husband's birthday! Ideally, I would have loved to have been the kind of wonderful wife who plans an entire weekend of festivities based on birthday based fun fun fun, but since we live in reality and have these things called 'kids', not only did that not happen, but it's not going to happen today, either.

Good news: He had a lot of time to himself over the weekend to sleep in, read, play Xbox, workout and watch the Australian Open.

Bad news: He had a lot of time to himself because the kids and I were at a tennis tournament, which means that he had to play with the 24-hour play machine, also known as the puppy. Also, all time spent reading or playing a game was constantly interrupted by texts from me saying things like "Up 3-2, playing great, missing some forehands" or "please bail me out of jail after I kill a few of these moms." In addition, the kids and I knew the results of the men's and women's Australian Open finals, but because he managed to resist the urge to check the results, we couldn't even talk about the match while he watched it by himself. And sleeping in didn't really happen either because even though I tried to be quiet at 6:45 in the morning, I'm sure he heard me whispering "We are leaving in five minutes! Get your teeth brushed and your tennis bag packed NOW!"

Good news: He had Zoe home on Sunday to play with the dog and keep him company while I took the boys to their matches.

Bad news: Zoe woke up with a cough and a low fever, which meant that she spent the day on the couch, coughing and moaning about her low fever, but not really playing with the dog very much.

Good news: Zoe was feeling better last night so we went out to dinner to celebrate.

Bad news: Zoe felt better for the length of the car ride, after which she promptly declared herself as 'freezing to death' before her fever instantly spiked to 102. Mozzarella sticks eaten = one, which coincidentally is also the number of beers that each of us had.

Worse news: Like I said before, we each only had one beer! And he had to drive home so that I could hold fever girl in the car.

Good news: He had the whole bed to himself last night, with the door completely shut, and was able to get an uninterrupted night of sleep.

Bad news: He had the whole bed to himself last night because I was sleeping in Zoe's room, waking up every half-hour or so to hear her either cough coughity cough or talk in her sleep saying "sorry I'm really sorry oops did I do that I didn't mean to sorry." And it wasn't the fact that she was talking in her sleep that was freaking me out, it was that I didn't really know she was capable of saying the word 'sorry'. Anyway, since I managed to get about 2.6 hours of sleep last night, Doug may want to think twice before he opens that bedroom door and tries to communicate with me.

Good news: He took today off so that we could sleep in a little and we could see a Coen brothers movie.

Bad news: Zach managed to suffer from alarm clock user error AGAIN so I was whispering AGAIN, something like "oh my god I'm going to put that phone somewhere that you will never be able to not notice that alarm going off." Also, the boys don't have the motor skills necessary to shut the bathroom door without anything less than a sharp thunking sound. And even though Zoe took a break from the fever for a few hours last night, it has returned just in time for Monday morning. Which means that a bloody, obscenity-filled movie and fatty popcorn has now morphed into girl on couch, Buzz & Woody and Orville Redenbacher.

Good news: I'm going to make him something great for dinner today.

Bad news: I have no idea what that great thing is because since I was home for exactly 10 hours this weekend, we have nothing in the house that screams "the preparation and sauteeing of me will result in a delectable birthday dinner." We do, however, have something that says "Look at me, I'm a frozen pizza."

Worse news: Whatever I do end up whipping together will have to be eaten early, because the boys have a piano lesson tonight.

Good news: Like I said before, he took the day off from work and coincidentally, it snowed last night. Yay for not having to celebrate a birthday by sitting in two hours of morning traffic on a Monday morning!

Better news: I shoveled the driveway this morning.

Bad news: I now smell like I shoveled the driveway this morning, and for all of you that live in a cold, snowy climate and have spent any amount of time outdoors doing something besides standing still, you know what smell I'm talking about. And since Zoe is sick and will be expecting me to be her beck-and-call girl, who knows when I'll be able to find time for a shower.

Good news: I wrote a birthday blog for Doug last year, and hopefully if he reads it again, it'll make him feel happy enough to be able to forget about how potentially crappy this year's birthday could turn out to be.

In So Many Words

Much to the dismay and occasional embarrassment of my boys, I enjoy spending time with, and talking to, the teenage girls that they play tennis with. It's interesting to hear what they're up to, find out what they've been shopping for and also be accessible to them in case they want to spill something to me that they don't necessarily want to discuss with their own mom. In addition, these ultra-competitive and athletic girls have been nothing but a great influence on Zoe and they're always excited to see her. So when I see them, we end up talking. And laughing. And talking some more. And all the while we try to ignore the groans and eye rolls that are always shot in our direction from the boys sitting nearby.

My boys cannot even begin to understand how I can tolerate the incessant yackity-yack-yack that comes out of these girls' mouths and I say hey, it's easy. After all, I once was -- and kind of still am -- one of those girls that goes on and on and on, explaining things in way too much detail than is necessary, driving Doug to insanity and making him wish that there was a different model number of me. One that came with a mute button. And skinnier calves. And better baking skills.

One of these chatter sessions occurred about a week ago and after this girl and I said our goodbye's and see-ya-later's and gave each other a goodbye hug, I got in the car to drive my boys home. This is when my oldest kid said something like "God, I didn't think you guys would ever stop talking! By the way, did ya know that someone proved that girls talk way more than boys but don't say anything interesting? Boys can say the same thing, using only a tenth of the words that a girl does!" I said yes, I know, and that's because boys talk like cavemen and girls know how to use adjectives. He just rolled his eyes at me, looked out the window and grunted something that sounded like "uuurrrggha."

Since then, I've tried to pay a little more attention to the differences between boy and girl conversations and the more I listened, the more I realized that my kid is right: boys are cavemen. For example:

Boy: (While pointing at friend) T-shirt.

Girl: Ooooh, I love that shirt! The fabric is sooo soft and I love the color! I love that there is a flower on the front and that there are sequins on the flower, too! Where did you get it? Do you think there are any left? I love shopping there they have, like, the cutest clothes! Cool t-shirt!

Boy: Hungry.

Girl: I'm, like, starving to death but I don't want to eat anything sticky or loaded with grease. I wish there was a Panera nearby so I could get a bagel. Oh, they have the best bagels ever. To die for, really. And the veggie cream cheese is my fave. What? You've never had it? You really need to go. So I don't know what I should eat right now. Maybe a piece of pizza would be okay.

Boy: Lotsa homework.

Girl: I cannot believe how much homework I have. Like, don't these teachers know that I have a life?! And that I don't want to spend, like, eight gazillion hours studying the countries of Africa!? Seriously, what do they think Google is for! At least I got these new pencils. Aren't they like the cutest thing ever? I just love them. Oh, and you won't believe what happened in Algebra today, it was the funniest thing ever!

Boy: Ugggh, brrrr.

Girl: It's soooo cold outside! And my lips are so chapped they're about to fall off of my face! And could my hair be more staticy? Seriously, oh my god! I don't think my fingers are ever going to be warm again! But look at these Ugg boots I just bought at Nordstrom! Aren't they, like, the cutest thing you've ever seen? And they were only, like, $200. I know, right? I should tell my mom I need them in another color, too, because they're just soooo cute!

Boy: Hey, I think I'm sick. My throat hurts when I swallow like this, and I feel cold, and my knees hurt but it's mostly my right knee, and sometimes my neck hurts when I turn my head like this, and my nose feels like it's getting stuffy but it's mostly my left nostril, and my head hurts right where my eyeballs are, and I'm hungry but I don't know what I should eat because chewing might hurt, and it hurts to swallow like this, and I'm pretty sure I'm getting a fever because my armpits feel warmer than usual, and (cough, cough) did you just hear that cough? Holy phlegmy! Oh god, I don't feel good.

Girl: Hi, I have a little bit of a cold, but I'll be okay. So do you want to go shopping?

Okay, so they're not always cavemen. Sometimes, like when they're sick, they're wusses too.

FYI: I HATE BARF!

I always love it when I wake up on Monday morning, reflect back on the last couple days and think "Wow. That was a really great weekend. I was super productive, the kids played some tennis, I found time for a few cocktails and, for the real icing on the cake, no one barfed in my car." I was lucky enough to be able to think these wonderful thoughts today. Last week, however, not so much.

It started on a Tuesday night with Doug saying something about a stomach ache. And since I can't give him the same advice that I give the kids, which is "maybe you should try to go poop," I'm left with a limited assortment of sympathetic phrases, none of which sound very sympathetic. The poor guy gets a lot of "Uh huh, that's too bad, what did you eat for lunch, oh really wow" and eventually "____" as I stare intently at my iPad while pretending not to hear his most recent sigh/groan.

Then I woke up in the middle of the night to discover I had the whole bed to myself. Probably not a good sign.

Then I woke up at 6:00 to discover that I still had the whole bed to myself. Definitely not a good sign.

I went downstairs to discover what appeared to be my husband sitting on the couch, except this version had taken on a slightly pale greenish tint and had definitely moved past the sigh/groan stage and proceeded to the puke my guts out stage. This was definitely, definitely not a good sign, because I HATE BARF!

While he slowly crept up the stairs, I ran into our bedroom and quickly grabbed whatever I thought I would need for the next 36 hours and then shut the door tight. I briefly considered running out and picking up a 3M window insulator kit and installing it on the outside of our bedroom door to really seal those germs in tight, but then decided not to because I couldn't figure out how I would I seal it to the carpet. And besides, I was busy. I had a bathroom to burn down and doorknobs to disinfect. There is no way in hell I am allowing a stomach bug to take this family hostage just in time for the weekend to arrive.

The poor guy suffered through the majority of the day with an "I just got off of a roller coaster after eating four cans of Dinty Moore stew and drinking a 2-liter bottle of Sunny D" feeling, even though I know for a fact I did not feed him Dinty Moore Stew (he had several reminders about what he did eat: pulled pork and some coleslaw) and I don't even buy Sunny D (anymore). I spent the day running kids around, bringing the dog to a vet appointment, and trying to mentally block the fact that there was someone in my house that felt like, or was, puking. Because, I HATE BARF!

It's not like my hatred of barf completely inhibited my nurturing side and prevented me from showing any sympathy. I was more than willing to bring Doug cans of Sprite, saltines and the sports section -- and leave them outside the bedroom door. And I expressed how sorry I was that he felt crummy and told him about the crackers sitting outside the door -- via text message. In fact, I think once I even texted something like "I'm so sorry u feel crummy. Do u need anything, besides death?"

Maybe I should consider going into nursing...

In addition to the sick husband, I got a call from the school nurse on Wednesday afternoon, half-an-hour before the end of the school day, informing me that "Zoe has a low-grade fever and is coughing quite a bit. Please come pick her up." Oh goody, I thought. Two family members with two different illnesses at the same time! This is such a super day! At least I knew Zoe could be consoled in person since she was just coughing and not barfing, because I HATE BARF! And she doesn't have a SIM card in her cell phone, so I wouldn't be able to text her.

Doug felt better by Thursday and Zoe's fever was gone by Wednesday night, which should have made me happy, but instead I felt like I was surrounded by ticking bombs. Every time a kid coughed, sighed, moaned, went into the bathroom or said "uh, oh" I froze in my tracks, ready to switch off all of my senses in order to avoid the sight, smell and sound of the stomach bug hitting another family member. Because, as everyone knows, I HATE BARF!

Fortunately, the rest of the family seemed to be immune to the two diseases lurking in our home and since I had scoured all of the light switches and door knobs three times, I was pretty confident that the disease was gone. But just to be on the safe side, before we left for a tennis match that was about 45 minutes away, I folded up a bath towel and put it on the car floor in front of Zoe's booster seat. I figured in a best case scenario, it would be used for nothing more than a dirt catcher and in a worse case, well, we won't talk about that because I HATE BARF!

While we were at the tournament, Zoe passed the time playing her DS, grazing through the cooler I had packed and also taste testing most of the snacks found in my tote bag, which included a Fruit by the Foot, Nibs, granola bars, and Goldfish. And since the matches didn't end until about 9:00, she was tired by the time we left, and for some reason when the girl gets over-tired, her stomach is also over-tired which, as I soon discovered, creates nausea.

The majority of the drive home was uneventful because, as soon as her butt hit the booster seat and the seat belt clicked, she was asleep. And then when we were within 15 minutes of home, she woke up a little and made The Sound. The most dreaded, horrific, oh my fucking hell why did I ever agree to reproduce, disgusting sound.

Charlie, who was sitting in the seat next to her, said "Oh. Gross. Zoe just threw up. Oh gross. Oh gross. Oh gross..." and on and on and on as he fled to the back of my minivan.

I thought, well fuck me. She did contract the stomach fucked-upedness after all. How in the hell am I going to get Charlie to his match at 8am tomorrow morning? Or maybe she's not sick. Maybe that was just a little burp slosh because her stomach is so full of crap and she's tired. Maybe she's...

And then the gates of vomit hell opened and for a few brief seconds, I seriously considered steering the car to the right and just driving into a concrete barrier.

While Zoe continued to hurl what appeared to be at least two boxes of Wheat Thins, a gallon of lemonade, six apples, three pouches of fruit snacks and I have no idea when she found the time to eat those four Thanksgiving dinners, the boys passed the time by hanging their heads out of the car windows, gasping for air that wasn't tainted by the stench of the regurgitated contents of their sister's stomach. A couple times, Zach yelled out "Oh my god! I just about threw up! Oh my god! Gross! How's it goin' back there, Zoe?" and then "Um, mom, it's pretty much everywhere, just so you know what to expect when you get home."

Ooh, look. I managed to drive past another concrete barrier.

The last ten minutes of that drive home is kind of a haze and involves a lot of muttered and some not-so-muttered swearing, mouth breathing and the development of a fairly noticeable sweaty film on forehead. I did manage to call Doug at one point to let him know what was happening, to which he calmly responded "Oh that's just fucking great." He took the words right out of my mouth.

Miraculously, we made it home, the boys survived, I handled the barf cleanup much better than I ever thought I would have, and I repeatedly thanked the part of my brain that was responsible for coming up with the idea of putting a towel on the car floor, because as we all know, buying a new towel is a lot cheaper than buying a new car.

After she declared the whole experience as "really, really disgusting," Zoe sang songs while sitting in the tub and then danced down the hallway before jumping into bed. And this is when I realized that at no point during the beginning of Doug's illness did he ever barf and then break into song, and there certainly wasn't any dancing down the hallway. He barfed, and then continued to feel crummy before he barfed some more. This girl hurled once and was over it.

I, on the other hand, am not quite over it. It'll take me a couple months before I will be able to hear her cough and not feel a little bit of panic, and it'll be even longer before I'm able to get in the car without making a conscious effort to not breathe through my nose. I know that if I get so much as one little whiff of hurl, my mouth will start to water and I'll replay the entire horrific evening in my head, because nothing will ever change the fact that I HATE BARF!

The Mean Mom Goes to the Beach

Somehow, thanks to a few minor miracles and some quick thinking, we have managed to officially survive the last day of school, pack some luggage and get on a plane. After remembering to put the newspaper on hold, throwing away the bananas and arranging for a friend to watch the house and the smelly old dog, I am currently most likely either A) sleeping; B) sitting on the beach; C) sitting by the pool; D) trying to decide whether I'm going to go to the beach or the pool, or E) sitting on my balcony with a cocktail, staring at the Gulf of Mexico as it slowly fills up with oil.

Yes, Doug and I are on vacation with the kids and are determined to enjoy every possible minute. I booked this trip months ago and although everyone in the family has managed to stay healthy and injury free, the flight was on time and no hurricanes have been predicted, one thing I wasn't anticipating was an environmental catastrophe. Fortunately, we are staying at one of the few spots on the Gulf of Mexico that isn't experiencing mayhem, but honestly, if our trip ended up having to be rescheduled or altered, I would have just added it to the long list of our past vacation glitches, because no matter how well I plan, there's almost always a glitch.

San Diego. We took this trip in March, 2004 when Zach and Charlie were 7 and 5, and I was pregnant with Zoe. It was the first time the boys had flown, and we were all excited to head somewhere warm, swim and go to the zoo. Sure enough, though, Charlie (who rarely gets sick) developed a horrid chest cold a week before we were supposed to leave. I took him to the doctor the day before our vacation, and after a chest film it was determined that he had pneumonia. Fortunately, they didn't tell us to reschedule our trip and actually encouraged us to take him somewhere warm. So after shoving a nebulizer into Doug's carry-on bag and stocking up on antibiotics and prednisone, we boarded our plane, buckled our seat belts, and that's when the real coughing began. And let me tell you, people love to hear a coughing kid on an airplane. I tried to tell one particularly annoyed woman "Don't worry, it's not contagious, it's just pneumonia," but that just made the face she was making change from "Seriously, make your kid quit coughing" to "Holy shit you're the worst mother in the entire fucking world." Sorry lady, but no kid's faulty lungs are going to get between me and warm weather, so mind your own business and watch the movie.

Jamaica. We spent a week at a Beaches resort in Negril, Jamaica right before Zoe turned two. Our flight was at 6:00am, which meant that since it was an international flight, we were supposed to be at the airport at 4am, which meant that we had to get up around 2:30. Ay-Em. Needless to say, Zoe's day was thrown just a little bit off schedule and she ended up grazing on Goldfish and apple juice at 7:30 in the morning. We had quite a bit of turbulence during the last half of the flight, which made her stomach feel weird, which she registered as hunger, so she just kept chowing down on Goldfish. After we finally landed in the heat of Jamaica, dealt with the customs/immigration line and found baggage claim, Zoe's body realized that it wasn't hunger that it was feeling -- it was motion sickness, and Goldfish don't like to hang out in anybody that isn't feeling well. Apparently, the Goldfish prefer to make a projectile exodus from whoever is holding them captive, because no sooner had an airport employee walked by, pointed at Zoe and said "Your baby, mon" then she started barfing chunks of Goldfish all over herself, the floor, and me. The next two minutes is kind of a blur of fluids, chunks, the boys saying "Oh gross, Zoe! Ewwww!" and Doug and I alternately saying "Oh my god what the hell oh my god so gross oh my god." After she was done doing her best impression of Old Faithful, I picked her up and ran for the nearest bathroom. There, despite the fact that the hot water didn't work, the cold water only came out as a slow trickle and they were out of paper towels, I managed to clean her up using every wipe I had packed in my diaper bag, changed her clothes and she was good as new. As for myself, I was instantly grateful that I had dressed in light layers and wasn't emotionally attached to the top one.

Jamaica, Part 2. Everyone had been healthy all winter so I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when Zach got strept throat (and, by the way, that is the only time any of these kids has ever had strept throat) a week before we left. I made the mistake of getting him diagnosed at one of those quick clinics in the grocery store, which resulted in him getting an incorrect dosage for his drugs. In other words, he was only taking half of what he should have been. I only know this because after he finished his prescription and seemed well, the strept came back -- while we were in Jamaica. I don't know if it was the fear that one of the other kids might get sick while we were in a third world country, but I had packed a full prescription of antibiotic, just in case. So, after a quick phone call to our pediatrician, two correct doses and one dinner in bed, he was back to normal the following day.

Phoenix, AZ. In March, 2007, after surviving a long winter, we were all excited to spend a hot, sunny week in Phoenix. I found a resort where we could play tennis, hike in the Phoenix Mountain Preserve and have five different pools to pick from everyday. After a freakishly smooth day of travel, Doug and the boys grabbed their tennis racquets and headed to the courts while I unpacked (and drank a beer). Less than an hour later, though, they walked back in the door or, in Doug's case, he limped through the door. Somehow his shoe had come off, probably while trying to get to one of Zach's passing shots, and then not only did he miss the shot, but he also managed to step on the shoe and twist his ankle. When I looked at the thing, it was pretty swollen and he seemed to be in quite a bit of pain. So I did what any sympathetic, caring wife would do: I threw him an ice pack, put on my suit, grabbed the kids and went to the pool. Unfortunately for Doug, I kind of suck at the role of sympathetic wife.

Los Angeles: This wasn't really a vacation, but it does involve Charlie, Zoe and I flying to Los Angeles because Charlie was invited to a national tennis camp. I was kind of excited to travel with just two kids (shh...don't tell Doug and Zach) and spend a few November days in sunny California. Sure enough, though, a week and a half before we left, Zoe woke up in the middle of the night yelling "OWWWW! MY EAR IS ATTACKING ME! STOP IT EAR! STOP IT!" My supermom intuition kicked in and said hmmm, I'll bet she has her first ear infection, so the next day I hauled her into the doctor's office to get it checked out. The doctor said yes, it is pretty red but you know we're really trying to discourage parents from treating ear infections with antibiotics so if you don't mind I'd like to just suggest managing the pain for a few days with Motrin and then if it doesn't clear up you can come back for the antibiotic. I said um, yeah, well I do mind because she's four and this is her first ear infection and also her first antibiotic and we fly in exactly eleven days so write the goddamn prescription already. He said okay and then wrote the goddamn prescription, which she finished three hours before take-off.

We have managed to take other vacations that have been mostly drama-free, and even though I micromanage these trips right down to the smallest details, I always keep realistic expectations because no matter how many stars the resort has or what the weather forecast looks like, I've accepted the fact that there's always the chance that a toilet will run all night, rain will fall, and a kid will barf all over baggage claim. But no matter what happens, there has always been a solution (and depending on who you talk to, sometimes even a free meal) and it's amazing how quickly the problem is forgotten when that "Needs Service" flag goes up on the back of my pool chair.

Maintenance for Mom

I'm probably cursing myself for saying this but, except for the occasional self-inflicted Saturday morning headache and a sore throat that results from yelling at my kids, I rarely get sick. I can't remember the last time I've had the flu (stomach or influenza), strep throat, a sinus-jamming cold or a respiratory infection. I'm not sure why, because it's not like I'm a psycho health freak that eats vegan, sleeps on organic sheets, always remembers sunscreen and is manic about hand washing. Doug and the kids occasionally get sick (except for Charlie -- he never gets sick either), and even though I have no choice but to interact with them when they're feeling feverish, I somehow manage to avoid their diseases.

Recently, since Zoe was nice enough to point out the fact that I was old (or in her words, "Wow, you're a whole lot of years"), I figured that maybe I should stop taking my good health for granted and pay more attention to the choices that I make each day. So, I read an article that included some diet and lifestyle tips for keeping my blood pressure, blood sugar, cholesterol and BMI in healthy ranges and after I read the tips, I realized that I lead a healthier lifestyle than I thought.

Get 150 to 240 minutes of aerobic exercise a week. In addition to occasionally standing on the elliptical trainer, I meet this requirement by spending 75 minutes sprinting through grocery stores, 30 minutes dashing in and out of the aisles of Target and chasing after Zoe on her bike for 20 minutes each day.

Do strength training two or three times a week. Accomplished by hauling bags of groceries, cases of Gatorade and water, gallons of milk, and the occasional schlepping of a tennis bag. Also, 12-oz. curls are usually performed daily.

Consume five to nine servings of fruits and vegetables a day. In addition to eating a ginormous salad for lunch every day, I make sure to include plenty of lemon and lime wedges, salsa, lime juice, onion rings, green olives, pickles and bloody mary mix.

Eat a serving of fatty fish twice a week. I'm assuming this means fish 'n chips since it's pretty fatty, and even though I don't eat it twice a week (or even twice in a month), I make up for the shortfall by eating absurd amounts of it when it's available, sort of like a stock-up sale. As an added bonus, the lemon wedge and the pickles in the tartar sauce = fruits and vegetables!

Get 75 mg of vitamin c (6-oz. of orange juice) daily. Even though I'm not a big fan of brunch, I am a big fan of screwdrivers.

Get 1,200 mg of calcium and at least 1,000 IU of vitamin D a day. I won't lie here: I suck at the calcium thing, since that's what happens when a girl can't digest dairy. Besides yogurt and a daily vitamin, I don't get much calc...hey wait. There's calcium in the orange juice that I buy, which ends up in the screwdrivers that I make. Hell yeah! I won't snap in two after all! And since I can get my vitamin D from being in the sun, I'm probably at risk of an overdose.

Limit alcohol intake to one drink per day maximum. I assume they define "one drink" as one six-pack of beer, or one 64-oz. tumbler filled with a vodka tonic, or one round of 2-for-1's. If so then yes, absolutely, I only have one drink per day.

Don't smoke. I don't smoke. I used to smoke a little, I like the smell of cigars and I will intentionally sit really, really close to anyone smoking a pipe and inhale deeply, but I don't smoke.

Get seven to eight hours of sleep a night. Okay, seriously. Who in the hell does this? Are they talking about actual consecutive hours spent sleeping? What about the peeing, the coughing, the cramps in the arch of your foot, the unexplained sweating, the middle of the night thunderstorms, the barfing dogs and the noisy neighbors? I think that if I can remain in one room in a horizontal position in something that resembles a sleep-like state, for seven to eight hours in a row, I'm doing pretty good.

I've also read a little bit about the benefits of interval training and combining several different movements into one exercise. So when you see me running behind Zoe's bike while clutching a 64-oz screwdriver in one hand and a hunk of fried fish in the other, don't be alarmed. I'm just trying to improve my health.

Health Insurance? Oh, we have BCB-Ass.

I don't ask a lot, or expect much, from our health insurance provider. I mean, it's not like we're paying thousands of dollars each year in premiums for coverage that we rarely use. And I understand that expecting them to provide 100% coverage for medically necessary procedures is out of the question because after all, their CEO's, COO's and POS's have to make a living, too. Sometimes it helps me sleep at night if I think of the money we're spending on these premiums as a charitable contribution, except the homeless shelters I'm contributing to happen to be located in Cabo and are used by health insurance executives. Executives that will one day, hopefully, be eaten by sharks.

About five years ago, we discovered that Zach suffered from seasonal allergies. How did we come to this realization, you ask? Well, when the spring grass emerged and cottonwood fluff was blowing through the air, the non-stop sniffling and headaches started, he would rub his nose so hard I thought it was going to end up even flatter than mine and the French's mustard-colored crust gluing his eyes shut every morning were all pretty good indicators. I know, I'm a pretty perceptive person.

We tried to manage his allergies with something over-the-counter, but nothing worked for all of his symptoms. Claritin would help his snot issue, but his eyes still needed to be pried open in the morning. Benadryl helped his eyes, but only because it made him sleep for 23 out of 24 hours. Zyrtec made him groggy, which resulted in him acting like kind of an ass, with an itchy nose. Eventually we ended up getting a prescription for Allegra-D, and have been enjoying snot- and crust-free springs ever since.

A couple days ago, I called our pharmacy to have the prescription refilled and received some less-than-terrific news. Our insurance company was no longer covering Allegra-D, or it's generic equivalent, and was sure that Zach would be fine using something over-the-counter and cheaper for them, like Zyrtec or Claritin. I guess this makes sense to me, because clearly the only reason we have been filling this prescription for four months out of the year is to stick it to the insurance company and get our money's worth after paying our premiums. I mean, how did they find out that once we get the drugs home, we just flush them down the toilet and then watch Zach suffer from excessive snot production and crusty eyes?

Considering the tedious trial-and-error process I went through five years ago in order to find something that worked, it thrills me to know that some asshole at BCBS decided that since we pay bazillions of dollars in premiums and, on average, receive $300 in benefits each year, they should try to make even more money and discontinue coverage for this particular medication. I can see how we are a huge financial burden because, after all, they have to cover two prescriptions for our family: Zach's allergy pills, and that other drug that I take every day in order to prevent creating someone else that might need allergy medication.

I'm sure they'll never discontinue covering my drugs, though, because if they did then they might have to pay for maternity services, which can get kind of expensive. And it's been a few years since I've received benefits for labor and delivery, so I don't even know if they pay for a hospital room anymore. Those assholes at BCB-Ass probably think that I'd be fine giving birth using something else, like a barn floor, without hay. After all, they wouldn't want to make Zach's allergies flare up.

The Good and Bad of Kindergarten

When Zoe gets home from school each day I always get a pretty thorough report. Although I've noticed that she sometimes leaves out bits of information like "I yelled at Savannah" or "I ran in the hall and got busted," she's pretty good about remembering what song she sang in music, who (else) got in trouble, who picked their nose and if anyone brought in a birthday treat. Now that we are two-thirds of the way through the school year, I've realized that there are some things that I like hearing about more than others.

Things I like to hear about kindergarten:

Zoe brought home her "report card" for the second trimester and we reviewed it together. I congratulated her on the fact that her "grades" have improved and are really good for things like math and reading, but pointed out that she still seems to be having a little trouble when it comes to controlling herself physically and verbally, showing respect and working/playing well with others (stop getting confused, I'm still talking about Zoe). She stared down at the minus signs attached to the "S" marks and decided right then and there that she was going to make those minus signs disappear by the end of the school year. In fact, she said "I'm going to be a behaver from now on."

Thinking that the novelty of her new goal would last a day or two before she returned to her dominating ways, I was surprised when she came home on Thursday and said that "Michael finished a worksheet before me and said 'Ha ha. Nah nah' to me. That made me mad, so I told the teacher and the teacher got mad at him." While I'm glad that she didn't haul off and push Michael off of his chair or stab the back of his hand with her pencil for saying something so completely moronic, I'm not super thrilled that she could potentially be becoming a tattle-tale. I guess I'm going to have to work harder at teaching her the crucial skill of blowing boys off and ignoring them.

Things I don't like to hear about kindergarten:

In addition to the story about Michael being creatively challenged, she also said that "Zeke sits at the white table, and he threw up all over it and it was so gross (fortunately Zoe sits at the red table). So the teacher gave him a trash can and he walked down to the nurses office. It was so gross, so I looked away and pinched my nose." She told me this story while I was making her lunch and right before she plopped onto the couch, holding a book in her hands.

"That's a really gross story, Zoe. Hey, did you wash your hands with soap and water when you got home?" Please let her say yes, please let her say yes. Please let this not be the one day that she forgot...

"Ooops."

Sympathy? I Think I've Heard of That

When Zach came down the stairs for breakfast the other morning, he was taking the steps one at a time because his ankle was feeling a little stiff after playing tennis all weekend. In addition to the ankle injury, he also said: "I hope I'm not getting sick because I feel cold and my throat hurts a little bit when I swallow." And then just in case I didn't hear him he demonstrated his throat discomfort by wincing in pain as he swallowed.

Since I'm not exactly known for dishing out overwhelming amounts of sympathy, I decided to surprise him with a big dose of compassion by handing him an Advil while telling him that if he really started feeling crappy half-way through the school day that he could call me. And who knows, I might even scrape myself off of the couch and go pick him up.

He responded to this by grunting at me and then limped for the bus. Right after he left Charlie came down the stairs, taking the steps one at a time because his knee was feeling a little stiff after playing tennis all weekend. I asked him if he was going to survive or if we were going to have to amputate and he informed me that it wasn't just his knee, but that his whole body was sore. I guess playing four 2-hour tennis matches in one weekend will whip a boy into shape after all. I said hmmmm that's neat, handed him an Advil and gave him his bagel.

By the time both boys were home from school at the end of the day, I noticed that all traces of limping had disappeared. Miraculous joint healing had occurred without the assistance of ice packs, Ace wraps or orthopedic intervention. But I was still a little concerned about Zach's "illness."

Around 9:00, I suggested to him that he should maybe go to bed since he was fighting a sore throat and, as expected, mentioning something so absurd as going to bed early brought on an instant recovery and a crabby kid. "I'm not sick and I don't have a sore throat! What are you talking about? I never said anything about my throat! I said my ankle hurt."

Usually I'm pretty good about translating his teenage rants and less-than-desirable tone of voice into something that doesn't make me want to smack him, but on that particular night I wasn't really in the mood to be treated like shit on a shoe. After pointing out the fact that yes, he did in fact tell me that morning that he had a sore throat, because why else would I ask him how he's feeling. And hey by the way I am not a complete moron that just makes things up. And I'm pretty sure that this is the last time ever that I attempt to be sympathetic and concerned. And listen jerk, stop talking to me like that because I AM YOUR MOM!

After he realized that he was out of line and apologized I suggested that in the future, before he says something to me, he should consider saying whatever it is he's about to say to himself first, in his head. Because the problem is that since he doesn't even realize when he sounds like a creep, he doesn't believe me when I accuse him of snapping at me.

If this doesn't work and he continues to sound like an asshole when he talks to me, maybe I'll just do to him what I do to Zoe when she throws a tantrum: I'll video tape him so he can see and hear it for himself, and then I'll put him on the naughty step. Or maybe I'll just give him an Advil.

Who Delivered Me?

As I get older, I try to appreciate the small benefits that are only acquired with age: low car insurance rates, not having to freak out when I find a gray hair and, after years of practice, hard work and dedication, having a high tolerance to alcohol. I'm also appreciative of my health because I don't get sick very often. Even when Zach and Zoe had the flu in October and Doug had the flu in December, I somehow managed to escape it all and, unfortunately, was able to take care of everyone. As a result of my good health, I usually only have to go to the doctor once a year.

About a week ago, I managed to act like an adult and actually attend this once-a-year appointment with my OB/GYN. After peeing in the stupid cup (yes, I know I'm a little dehydrated), standing on a defective scale (I wish someone had told me that I was wearing an x-ray apron) and telling Zoe to sit quietly outside the exam room door (a Nintendo DS is great for times like this), I put on the super-stylish pink paper gown and waited.

I've been seeing the same doctor for 20 years and we've been through a lot together, so he is always genuinely interested in how my life is going. It may seem a little weird that we talk about the football season, recent vacations or his kids while I'm doing my best impersonation of a cowgirl, but what am I supposed to say: "How's the view from down there?"

The worst part of the OB/GYN experience is the week between when I write my address on the pink "your test results are negative" post card and when I receive it. There has only been one time that the postcard didn't arrive, and sure enough I received a call instead, notifying me that the tests came back with questionable results, so further testing would be necessary. The results of the additional testing necessitated an undesirable procedure which consisted of having a part of my body that is hidden from view converted into a chunk of ice. A lovely experience, really, and now I know how an ice machine at the Holiday Inn feels.

Ever since then, waiting for that damn post card to arrive is always a nerve wracking experience. I figure that since I tested positive for some fucked-upedness once it's bound to happen again, especially as I get older.

Fortunately, after a week went by, the coveted pink postcard arrived in the mail notifying me that I'm normal (stop laughing). While holding the piece of mail I let out a happy little "Woo hoo!" and Zoe asked me what was up.

"I'm happy because the doctor said I'm healthy, that's all. Remember when I went to the doctor last week and you saw me in that junky pink dress? Oh, and you got to meet the doctor that delivered* you?" As soon as I said this, I instantly knew that she would be confused.

"Delivered me? When was I delivered? I came in a box from that brown truck?" Oh, if only it could be so easy.

"No, Zoe. Before a baby lives in a house or rides in a stroller, it has to grow inside the mom. Then a doctor helps to get the baby out. That's called a delivery."

"That's crazy, and that makes no sense. You're wrong. A delivery comes to the front door, from that man wearing the brown clothes." There was no convincing her otherwise. The girl now thinks that she arrived via UPS.

*When Zach was three, he tried to convince me that I should get another baby. Not have a baby, but get one. In fact, he wanted two: one for him and one for Charlie. His suggestion was that I go to that "Babies R Us store and pick up two babies. Can we do that today?" I guess it's probably a good thing that I couldn't take that approach because considering how crazy Zoe makes her brothers some days, they'd probably be asking for the receipt.

Perfect Schmerfect

Christmas is over, the kids are a little over halfway through their two-week winter break from school, and although you may think I must have hit my head on something by admitting this, I have to be honest and say that it's been great. It's not only two weeks off from waking up early, nagging kids about homework and helping with projects, but a half-month break from running around to all of their horizon-expanding, brain-enriching, mom's insanity-inducing activities. I have slept in a few times, haven't had to put gas in my car, and everyone has been healthy. Yeah, there have been a few disagreements, a couple eye rolls, and there was that whole "Zoe choking Charlie because she was losing at basketball" episode, but that's because even though we may be more relaxed than usual, we still have a pulse.

Since December 25, I have been asked no fewer than 148 times: "So, how was your Christmas? Did you have a nice Christmas?" or "What did you do for the holidays?" Instead of being able to tell drama-filled tales of get-togethers with distant cousins, driving in bad weather, eating figgy pudding, or trying to be nice to people that I would rather see wipe out on an icy sidewalk, all I could honestly say is: "Christmas was fine, we didn't start the car for almost three consecutive days, we ate a lot of meat, vodka was consumed, gifts were opened, my wardrobe consisted of sweats and, umm... that's about it." As uneventful as my winter break is, I have no regrets or complaints that we aren't doing do more, seeing more people, or hosting an ugly sweater party.

While I was spending a couple days in my pj's over the holidays, a couple of my girlfriends probably could have used a sprinkling of boring, a dash of uneventful, and would have definitely welcomed a few swigs of booze.

My girlfriend, Theresa, is genuinely content with her gorgeous family, keeps realistic expectations for the holidays, is grateful for the simple pleasures in life, and has a great "if the kid's socks don't match, who gives a shit" attitude. Theresa's low-maintenance holiday enthusiasm was drenched two days before Christmas Eve by a three-year-old that welcomed the winter break by throwing up no fewer than 25 times within 12 hours, and then developed an ear infection on Xmas Eve. Her six-year-old, who had strep throat the week before Christmas, was lucky enough to wake up with another sore throat on the 24th. Because her in-laws are of the "more germs the merrier" mentality, they welcomed the kids with open arms for Christmas Eve dinner and went about things as usual. During dinner, her daughter's stomach issue hit Theresa and she spent the next couple hours in the bathroom alternating between hurling, sitting on the toilet, and lying on the floor, thanking the ceramic tile for it's cooling qualities. Somehow, her husband managed to eventually drive her home without getting a speeding ticket, and she collapsed into bed, where she remained through most of Christmas Day.

Another girlfriend, Marie, endured a three hour drive in a blizzard, with her kids, to spend the weekend with her homeschooling sister, a brother-in-law that doesn't drink, and her sister's homeschooled humorless kids that don't get to stay up late, even on holidays. While a holiday weekend at a cabin surrounded by snow, woods, and family sounds ideal and postcard-perfect, it was more like something out of a dark comedy written by the Coen's. The kids whined, no one wanted to get drunk with her, the brother-in-law fabricated a story in order to get his own bedroom (and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep), and she had to scrub lasagna throw up out of the carpet at 3AM. To top it off, Marie's adorable dog who has a tendency to eat some not-so-adorable objects got some mysterious bit of shrapnel lodged in it's throat, causing it to drool uncontrollably on Sunday morning. Knowing that there would inevitably be a bill for an emergency vet visit, stirred and shaken together with the fact that there were eight loads of laundry waiting for her at home, a tree that needed to be taken down, and a job that she needed to make an appearance at on Monday made her say: "Cheers! This cocktail tastes like shit, and what in the hell just happened to Christmas?"

Despite the fact that our weekends were so varied, they were all memorable, and even fun, in their own way. We all know people that are never content: things are either too boring, or hectic, or messy, or spontaneous. No matter what happens, they're never satisfied, they're always a little bit pissed off, and they're willing to tell anyone who will listen just how pissed off they really are. Theresa and Marie, though not jubilant with the outcome of their holidays, weren't angry about things either, and are actually able to laugh at the absurdity of how they managed to spend 48 hours. They probably would have been fine dealing with a little less pukeage, someone understanding their humor a little more, and a little less dog drool, but since Theresa's husband is willing to clean up barf, and Marie remembered to pack her own bottle and knows better than to be ashamed about drinking alone, it was definitely a Christmas to remember. For all of us.

Feel free to share your own tales of Christmas imperfection!

The Horses Song

I have a geriatric dog that throws up at precisely 3:30 PM most days. In contrast, I have a family that has never dealt with the stomach flu. This scenario is perfect for me because while dog barf is annoying, it's manageable. People vomit gives me nightmares.

Years ago there was a one-time solo shot of pukeage from the oldest and there have been random moments of fever-induced hurling from the five-year old. The 11-year-old, however, has never puked and has yet to be inducted into the religious experience of sitting in the bathroom moaning, "Oh God. Oh God."

I've actually handled these rare moments of regurgitation shockingly well. Since it usually happens when the kid already feels like crap, I figure it's not going to help matters much if I'm yelling, "Holy shit! That is the grossest thing I've ever seen! I need to get the hell out of here!" It's the moments when I'm not prepared and I see it, or hear it, or hear a song about it, that gets my mouth watering and gut churning. So you can imagine how excited I was when Zoe made up this song and belted it out at the top of her lungs. While I was driving.

Horses horses throwing up

clean it up with water

you're so gross, that's just so gross

clean it up with water

Horses horses in Texas, throwing up again

over here and over there

horses throwing up all over the place

cowboys should get the water

It's just so gross, where's the water

we need to clean it up right now

oh no oh no oh no oh no

horses throwing up all the time

Here they come and there they go

those horses horses in Texas

they throw up again and again and again

go get the water

It Came With What?

Over the last week, my family has been a cornucopia of coughing, sore throats, fevers, one episode of barfing, H1N1, sneezing, and general discomfort. Somehow, though, I have managed to stay completely healthy despite the fact that I am constantly showered in a fine, sometimes chunky, mist of germs. It's been seven days of living in a drug-induced fog, and two of the kids have been on Motrin pretty consistently.

Zoe decided to make her medical encore in the form of an ear infection, so yesterday we finally decided to throw caution to the wind and, after fastening all of the buckles on our Hazmat suits, headed to the doctor's office.

The doctor confirmed her ear infection, pulled enough wax out of her ear to make a pillar candle (Q-tips don't fit into her petite ears. I've tried.), called in her prescription and sent us on our way.

We headed to Target to wait for the antibiotics, and I figured since the poor girl just endured a week of feeling like shit and then hearing me say "Don't touch anything or I'll have to cut your hand off" no fewer than 83 times at the clinic, I probably owed her a toy. She skipped happily to the toy department and, with frightening efficiency, chose a Playmobil equestrian playset. Since her brothers had also been sick, she picked out toys for them, too: a keychain and a microscopic Super Mario action figure.

When Zach and Charlie got home from school, she gave them their presents and waited for the thank-you's. Zach asked me if she got to pick out anything for herself, and I gestured over to the new Playmobil's. The boys walked over, looked down, and then looked at each other and started laughing. Charlie reached into the pile of plastic horse legs and fences and said... "Holy crap. It came with a whip!"

4-Day Weekends

I remember looking forward to the MEA weekend with excitement; four days off, maybe a night or two at the Holiday Inn, a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, and no homework. Now, as an adult, I find myself stuck in a house with a "wintry mix" falling outside, one kid crashed on the couch with a fever and a barking cough, another kid bitching because I'm making him go to his tennis lesson early, and trying to help the moody oldest child with a diorama for his science class.

Let's just say that if I hate "helping" with science projects more than stepping in a pile of dog shit, then the diorama is for sure the Great Dane of projects. Trying to illustrate a scene from a book using plastic army men, fishing line, and a boot box just doesn't seem like a great way to spend a day off from school. Locking the threekids in the super secret soundproof room in the basement while I eat Cheetos and watch a South Park marathon? Now that's more like it.