Dagan.

It is barely 8:00 a.m. on Day 1 when she asks “So, after (2/4) of the small kids are in school, that’s about all?”

Yeah, even with the half assed job I do, you still got about 12-14 hours left in your day.  Welcome to my world.

It’s been a while, but I think the scorn means she’s not too happy.

Luckily, Tech Support has left the building.

He’s not a fan of the scowl.

So, I’m off to train the 19 yodd (year old darling daughter) how to be a mom to four small children and a teenager.  I think we’ll start by tossing the 17 yods room for contraband.

If nothing else, this will serve as a reminder that sex has consequences.

Have I mentioned how much I love the class bear?

No?

I love the class bear.

Having three competitive children that are all the same age and expect life to be fair makes me love it even more.

They do not care that ONE child has been assigned to care for the damn bear for the weekend.  No, they all want equal time with the bear.

Also, I diagnosed them on the internet with ADHD.  They can’t remember what a spoon is used for let alone where they left the bear.

At one point today, “Buddy” had been AWOL for an hour or so.  Princess had kidnapped him and hidden him but had forgotten where, although she wouldn’t admit to the federal crime and blamed it all on Felpsy.  Boog who was in charge of the bear could care less.  He was still upset that Daddy didn’t want Buddy to go to McDonald’s – because the bear has to go with us EVER Y WHERE.

So, eventually the bear was spotted in the closet.  Hiding behind all the clothes.

He winked at me when I quietly closed the door on him and told my kids that THEY would forever be remember at the “Save us Jesus Preschool” as the kids who lost the bear.

(unfortunately, I stole the name of the preschool from her, but damn, it’s funny, right?   AND how bad ass does Boog look, if you take out the bear?)

Several hours pass and we hit up the party store.  Greeted of course by the (why the hell are you bothering my txting with showing up at my job) employee mumbling something about “welcome to Party Universe blah blah blah”  Boog of course tells her we are here to get decorations for his brother’s birthday, that he was five yesterday just like us and now he’s not, asks her if she likes Sushi and then asks her if she has kids.

Yes.  He.  Did.

No.  She didn’t.

“Well then why couldn’t she get to work on time?”  he asked me.

Crap.

“Oh look, streamers.”

We got our Star Wars paraphernalia and headed to Target.

Boog shot off in the direction of the toys at 100 mph while Little Miss Sunshine strolled at the breakneck speed of a Hoveround.  We past the make up aisle and the girl asked me why they didn’t make a lipstick that lasted longer than a “Spongebob” (our standard measure of time for 15 minutes) while commiserating with her I heard the walkies  going on about a lost boy and “does he know his mommy’s name”.  Urging the girl to walk a little faster, figuring I was said mommy, we round the corner to find Boog standing in a hazmat zone having puked the length of the Lego aisle.

“He’s mine, thanks.” (you totally know that puke is not my domain inside a Target store right?  I am the mayor after all.)  And I hurried out of there with my ill child, at the breakneck speed of a Hoveround.  All while dodging two calls from CPS and the therapist, plus the knowing eyes of those with walkies judging me for not being more active in vomit clean up.

“Hey, I saw that look.  I’m the mayor around these parts, I totally have no power over you.”

Other than that it was a gorgeous day here in north Mexico.  Mid 70s and if Tech Support had the time to windsurf anymore, it would have been a great day to do so.  I feel the outdoor pool is within our grasp here shortly, (pending results of the skin cancer biopsy and a ton of SPF).

We ate cupcakes decorated like dogs and petit fours.   After of course a dinner of pork tenderloin and spinach.  (Felpsy’s choice)

Then we hunted for presents.  I would excuse my not wrapping birthday gifts as the “green” alternative buy you know that’s a bunch of bull.  But I don’t wrap birthday presents.  We scavenger hunt for them.  This year I let the twins give their own clues as to where they had hidden their gifts.  There was wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Finally it was revealed that they were “on my bed”.   When it got to be my turn I told him mine was hidden “not on top of my bed” to which a major fit was thrown.   “Fine it’s under my bed.”  Happiness.

Then a big fight where someone may or may not have ended up with a gaping head wound.

Blood.  Tears.  Timeouts. Chocolate.  Awesomeness.

Felpsy missed being a Leap Day baby by moments, or so I’m told since I have no official record of his birth.

Here he is showing off his killer smile.

I hope it wasn’t really the worst birthday ever.

love you baby doll.

Medusa was modeled after my Princess.

It’s snakes with a rats nest or twelve weaved in.

So, we shower in the morning to try to mitigate some of that.

Somewhere in between the wash cycle and the condition cycle she screamed at me….

“You got me wet with water.”

Well, baby, you can’t argue with that.

It’s about five year old boys and walkie talkies.

Hilarity.

Boog received a pair of walkies for his birthday.  So excited was he that he threw me one and ran off.

“Mom can you hear me?”  He yelled from the bedroom.

Pressing my button, I instructed him to “push the button and then talk.”

He squawked it and again yelled, “Mom, can you hear me?”

“You have to HOLD the button down.”

I heard him open his channel but he didn’t say anything.

“Now say something.”  I yelled back to him.

He released his button and yelled back something to me.

“Press the button, hold it down, and talk, then let go of the button.”

He brought me his walkie, said “These aren’t any fun,” and walked away.

Today we turn five YEARS.

The Princess

The Booger

Happy Durpay babies.

Your Mommy loves you!

Your Daddy loves you!

Your Mama loves you!

(Yes I know I showed pictures. But Boog is cleverly disguised.  Feel free to report me for showing their pictures so that I CAN SEE A JUDGE)

Also keep us in your prayers that this is the last birthday they celebrate in foster care.

On Thursday the twins had their Christmas program.  They are the oldest kids in the preschool, and you guessed it, they came almost last.  OK yawning.  I know, I love kids, mine.  Yours?  Not so much.  Ironic, I know, half of my children were once someone elses.

So, our morning started out with the Princess wanting to wear her program outfit.  Which was “Sunday best”, not suitable for a day at school with arts and crafts, so “no”.  Well, you’d think I’d told Paris her purse-a-poodle had to stay outside.  DRAMA.

She got to school where her teacher explained the same thing I had, that the program was not until night time.  Which appeased her two hour fit.  Why do kids believe anything that their teachers say?  I used to drive my mom crazy with “Mr. Martin said….”

Speaking of “Sunday best” we attend a church where the dress code is “dressed”.  Anything goes.  Really.  So, how much time and energy do you think I’ve put into dressing up the boys?  Less time than it took me to write this sentence.  So…..

I had to go shopping, and boy did Mommy score on some “Sunday best” ness for Boog.  I will be taking applications for his future wife.  Just email me.

Buying cuteness, was not enough, I would also wash it, and as button ups tend to do, the button holed side of the shirt got all wrinkly.  Meaning I had to iron.  I don’t.  But since The teacher thinks I’m a horrible foster parent, I decided to prove her wrong.  I might even use starch.  Nothing motivates me more than spite.  Boog was going to look good, because looking good is proof positive of good parenting.  I don’t care how many times the f-word was used in the process of getting him so darned handsome.

Of course the whole ironing process brought about many questions.  “what’s that? What’s it  do?  Why are you doing that?”  Blah blah blah, leave me alone, I’m trying to prove that I can fake it with the best of them.  Felpsy questioned as to it’s particular brand of hotness.  I said. VERY, don’t touch.  After completing the ironing, I unplugged the iron, wrapped the cord around it and set it on the counter.  Not a nanosecond after turning my back, Felpsy was headed straight for it.  That boy cannot fight the impulse to do the exact opposite of what he is told.

“Suit up babies.”

And we were off.  Everyone looking all Sunday best and what not.

Radical asked if he could play his DS during the program.  No, but Mommy can text.  (He has much better parents than I did.)

Turned out that DS playing would have been less rude.

Shortly after sitting down, I thought we had made a huge mistake.  Like sitting directly on top of a dead body type of mistake.  There was a foul and unpleasant odor.

Turns out the boys were having a farting contest.

I LOVE boys.

Kids did their cute thing.  Princess asked us about 10,000 times “Did you LOVE it?”  Yes, baby we loved it.

We were instructed to gather our kids after their performance and have them sit with us until the end of the program.  There were two classes after the twins’.  We made it through one.  Because upon hearing about the awesome farting contest he’d missed, Boog decided he wanted in.  But having been warned to NOT have a farting contest, Felpsy had to make up new rules that resembled nothing like a farting contest.  It involved sitting on each others hands so that noise would be unnecessary.  Did I mention how much I LOVE boys.

Despite their behavior we had to eat, and since it was the twins’ celebration they got to choose.  We went to “Pa Playa”  which is not the name of the restaurant.  But my Hispanic kids have been living with us too long.  Proven later when Felpys got a smidge of jalepeno juice in his mouth.  He thinks Medium Pace is too spicy.  This was about to kill him, until he found a new obsession.  I pointed out the jalepenos and told him that was the source of his discomfort.  He then touched it.  I then told him not to touch his eyes or nose or mouth until he washed his hands.  Guess who went straight for his eyeball?

We had a fine dinner.  And neither of twins ate theirs.  We then waited for the check.  And waited.  And waited.    I hate waiting.  I then sent Tech Support and the kids out to the car hoping that they would see an empty table and come running.  Before he left me he said “You will be paying right?”  Like suddenly I became a check skipper after 13 years.  Then I realized that he was probably verbally reinforcing to both of us that it was my responsibility to make sure it was taken care of .  Because as I mentioned earlier, I am easily distracted.

I paid.  I tipped.  I left.  Finally.

We drove around looking at Christmas lights, and came home and fought about going to bed.  I’m ready to just pile them three deep and hope for the best.  It’s exhausting.  I eventually win, but only until I go to sleep, they then quickly get themselves into the positions that they were fighting for all along.  So is it really a win?

The one advantage of not putting them into a pile is that when I put them in their own bed they feel they have to sneak to a community sleeping arrangement, therefore they are quiet.  If they start in a pile, there is usually a farting contest or an “I can say ‘weiner’ more times than you can say it before Mom comes in here and shows us her crazy face.”

One of these days I will feel nostalgic for this time,

and this is just a guess, but bail money will probably be involved somehow.

I hate the time change.

For that and there is always a clock that gets left out, and you spend way too much time wondering if it is really that time, before deciding to go check another clock only to get distracted by something shiny or whiny and another day passes and it never gets changed.

That and

are you supposed to change your smoke detector batteries on fall back or spring forward?  I forget so I do it on both, yet the time between fall and spring has gotten significantly shorter so it seems a waste, but if I don’t do it both I will never do it.

Speaking of which, I think it’s time for a fire inspection.

Which means it’s time for a health inspection, which means I have to buy outlet covers, yes my kids are beyond the need for outlet covers, but golly, they cannot be taught not to touch them.  As we know kids cannot override those tricky outlet covers.   Once again gov’ment knows best.

Speaking of which, I heard today on the radio, which is a reliable source of news, that California is dealing with their illegal immigrant problem by busing their “detainees” to Texas to a town of 4200.  Every day they bring 94 detainees and deposit them in said town until their hearing on whether or not they can stay in the U.S. even though they entered illegally.  So, where does a town of 4200 house said detainees until their hearing, they can’t.  So, they have to release them with a citation and hearing date, any wagers on how many of them show up for their hearing?  So instead of busing them across the border where they entered, they put them on a bus, travel out of California, through Arizona, through New Mexico and dump them here.  Now they are a bazillion miles from their family in Mexico, in a town that has not the resources to house or feed them.  Welcome to Texas.

While listening to that I saw a guy walking down the street openly carrying a fire arm.  Which is super sexy to someone whose favorite Amendment is the 2nd.  I pondered on FB which was sexier.  Concealed or open carry.  But that’s like asking what’s sexier, a man in uniform, or out of one.  Completely redundant.

I had my first opportunity to assess our winter clothing needs.  We are covered in 17 of 49 categories.  Probably more I need to go through a few closets yet.  Unfortunately I do not need a new coat.  I mean I so rarely get to buy one.   Truth time.  We once discussed my desire to buy a coat in counseling.  Yes, can you tell Tech Support and I have been through rough times?  Fighting over whether or not I should buy a $79 coat.  So trivial.  We don’t fight about things like that anymore,  most of our fights are about who’s a dork and who isn’t.  Nobody wins that fight.

The twins decided today that they wanted to go on vacation and ride a donkey.  Better yet a donkey/dragon hybrid like in Shrek.  Yeah, that would be awesome.

I went to Chic-fil-A for lunch.  Ours has a very jacked up lunch time mess.  They have people in the parking lot who take your order and call it in on their cell phone.  That and their parking lot was designed by a monkey.  So, that aside, I was placing my order and reading blogs on my cell phone and the order taker said she had the same phone as I did.  Cool.  And as if to prove it to me, I guess I looked shocked that SHE would have a phone like mine.  She dug through her pockets to show it to me.  OKaaaay.

Tech Support went to school today to volunteer for the whole day.  I did not kill his dog.  Yes I’m the very model of self control.  He left 15 minutes ago for a meeting and the dog is already barking non-stop and will continue to do so until the man returns.  He may not be so lucky tonight.

I feel it is time to feed myself.  I, contrary to the prevailing thought of child educators, must take care of myself.  I know, I should be a martyr and kill not only myself but my marriage to make sure the littles and the bigs have only the best of everything.   Sorry, not buying it.

Big Boy is mooing.  I should really go check that out.

You can imagine me hyperventilating when I heard mom A tell mom B that her little princess had 66 Barbies.

Sixty six.

Let’s just average out the $15 version with the $5 version and settle on an average price of $10/Barbie – THAT’S $660 (plus tax) worth of Barbie dolls.

I’m going to need a minute.

And you know Barbie needs a car, a kitchen, a retail shop, an outfit for every occasion…

hee hee hee hee hooooooooo. (remembering my Lamaze)

hee hee hee hee hooooooooo.

When mom B scoffed at the loserishness of 66 Barbies I had to step away.

Although I wanted to say, “well I still have $700.”

I am missing the DNA marker that makes me want to run out and get my hands on every Barbie known to man, I mean poor Princess couldn’t tell the difference between Veterinarian Barbie and Zoologist Barbie.  If Knock Off Barbie still has all her hair, it’s a happy day in the Awesome household.

But, I still feel the need to make amends for my depriving the Princess of the whole Barbie experience, so I am chucking the mis-self-diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder and turning my multiple personalities into Barbie variants.

Of course there is Barbie’s friend Junie who comes with the Purple Dyson vaccuum,  a puppy in a pouch, and apron and strand of pearls, ahem.  She cleans while looking so fab, and can keep her man happy in the kitchen and the bedroom.

There’s  Sorta Had a Party Barbie.  With the accessories of a bottle of Malibu rum, pineapple juice, the micro mini skirt and coordinating cell phone for drunk Twittering.  Feel free to muss up her hair.  Unlike her alter Celebration Barbie, she is not to be kept on a shelf.

There’s Mom to Many Small Children Barbie, she has a mini van with automatic doors and a hidden pack of smokes in the glove box.  Although the only key she can find is the valet key and she can’t get them out.  She’s a bit jealous of her friends who have kids with a diagnosis of ADHD and the Adderall it comes with.

Crunchy Barbie has had her feet altered to fit into Berkenstock’s, and despite the strict vegan diet she still has a huge chest.   She helps out CPA Barbie by composting all of the old bank statements in her Mio Vermicomposter.

In Denial Barbie has not yet come to terms with the fact that her hair needs professional help.  She’s in denial that she can cut her own bangs and that she has “highlights” – honey, they ain’t highlights, you haven’t had your hair colored in 10 years.

As Running for President Barbie I deny that any of the other Barbies exist.