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.

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.

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.

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.

Today it was the aquarium.

Not by my choice.

Several weeks ago, the twins and I were at the grocery store.  The greeter handed them a coloring contest sheet and told them if they won the contest they’d get tickets to the aquarium.  Princess immediately declared herself the winner, even though she never actually entered the contest.

And for weeks has been asking when she got to go to the aquarium.

Because she won that contest.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her.  Turns out taking her to the aquarium is easier than breaking her heart.

So, off we went.

We bought a season pass.  It was double the price of today’s admission.  So I figure the three of us will want to go sometime in the next year.

Maybe.

We saw dolphins.  We saw an alligator.  We saw a shark.  After that we just ran through the place going

“ooooh”

and

“aaaah”

and it didn’t matter, because we have a pass and can come back anytime we want to, and get free parking.  For a whole year.  (Plus it’s more like 13 months because it expires the last day of the month a year after we buy it and I bought it at the beginning of the month)

We saw otters.  We saw turtles.

We touched many sting ray.  We let the sting ray swim over our hands.  We used a two finger touch to touch their backs as they swam by.  We spent way too much time at the touch pool.

We saw the wild bird recovery program.

We saw a weird cat thing, and an ant eater.

And bought really expensive water.

We had fun.

Tomorrow.

She would have a home.

Tomorrow.

She would have a family.

Tomorrow.

She would have the life that she dreamed of.

This Annie gets it.

Tomorrow.

I will get MY dreams.

Tomorrow.

These kids will be gone.

Tomorrow.

I won’t have to…

Tomorrow.

I will be Annie.

I love you tomorrow.  Where are you?

In the end, the lyrics change.

Tomorrow is only a day away.

Tomorrow.

Dagan turns nineteen.

Tomorrow.

Big Boy will drive himself to school.

Tomorrow.

Radical will enter his final year of elementary school.

Tomorrow.

Felpsy will enter Kindergarten.

Tomorrow.

The twins will begin their final year as babies.

Tomorrow.

Where did you come from?  I knew you were coming, I just wasn’t expecting you.

I have a child who isn’t.  I actually have two.  By this time next year, my role as the primary parent for Radical will have been filled by Daddy Awesome.  Radical will no longer need a Mommy.  He’s looking more to his father to teach him how to be a man.  Those babies they brought in the middle of the night are riding bikes.  Felpsy has made incredible progress from the wild child that they brought us.

It’s all going as it should.

I just wasn’t expecting it.

Tomorrow

they will not need me.

Yet

this morning as another tomorrow arrived, Hubby and I all cuddled up in bed, willing the world to wait awhile longer, I knew this story needed me.  That I needed it.

I am that I am because of this story.

They are that they are.

Tomorrow can wait.

Tomorrow is here.

And they did.

And they do it well.

And I spend a lot of time sunning myself in a chair.

Working on my tan lines.

The pool we go to employs about 47 life guards. And there is only one entrance that is guarded.  I could literally take a nap and not worry.  I haven’t.  But I could.

This week we have an extra little friend over to play with us every day.  He too is four.  So, off I go with three kids who are four and a five year old.

It should also be noted that I do not tolerate small children hanging on me in the pool.  I don’t like it.

Well, having a non-swimmer forced me to be a little more pro-active in my pool going.  The first day he clung to me like a spider monkey, had me in a death grip until he fell asleep…in the pool.  We did not go the second day.  By day three I knew I had created a monster.  He was going up and down slides.  Climbing on toys, and I was two steps behind him the whole way.

Well, Princess was none too happy about that.  Even though I was playing with all four of them, I didn’t have to hold on to her.

So, the kids were jumping off the sides.  I’d high five mine, and would catch our friend.  This turned the Princess into Her Royal Pain in the Ass.  She started screeching and whining and finally went well out of reach, jumped in and started screaming

“Help!  Help! I can’t swim! I can’t swim! I can’t swim!”

This got the attention of about 30 of the 47 lifeguards who started to descend on ground zero like a swarm.  Unfortunately for her, I got to her first.  I drug her out of the pool, plopped her on the deck and told her in my sternest Super Nanny voice.

“YOU WILL SIT HERE UNTIL  YOU LEARN HOW!”

I then walked away and ignored her.  Women started grabbing their children and pulling them close, pretty much leaving about half the pool for our  exclusive use.

Princess sniffled and sobbed for a bit, then got up and walked to the edge, and with the whole park looking on, jumped in and swam off.

Sunday, Daddy Awesome took the boys to the water park for a Vacation Bible School kick off party.  Fun times had by all.  Except for the fact that I told him the wrong time and he got there waaaay early, but never fear, Daddy Awesome took the boys to “ride the tooth fairy” as was reported by Booger.  Yes, it might be a questionable choice for boys aged four, five and ten, if it were in fact the tooth fairy and not the ferry.   After the ferry boat ride it was back to the waterpark where the Awesome children wowed and amazed everyone with their high diving skills and their basic water awesomeness.

Meanwhile, back in the City by the Sea.  Myself and the Princess went on a girl date.  Where as I explained here that my daughter found out about my “stripper money” anyway, I’ll spare you the repeat.

Monday began our week of VBS, Hubby and I celebrated by going to a Deli and renting a movie. Boring old married couple, I think not. I’ll save that for a later post. Tuesday it was steak, Wednesday it was my meltdown. Thursday we saw Up, and Friday, with the roofing project complete just laid around and listened to the quiet.

Speaking of the roofing project.  The roofers called me out.  Wondering why us Gringo’s have children who aren’t.  Dang, and I thought I’d put one past Hubby for the past 4.5 years.  Although maybe he put one past me, because Boog and him are quite similar….just saying.   Let me just say, the roofers?  those guys worked their tails off.  And seem to have done a super job.

Were you standing in the wake of awesomeness this week, it might have been profitable for you.  Blogher contacted me about placing ads on the blog, which you will notice by looking to your left.  We also, paid off our car, paid cash for our new roof, in addition to the LASIK we paid for last week, just being around us you might have been able to pick up some of the money flying around.   We also emptied the piggy bank and the littles are the proud recipients of $45 worth of toys the next time we go shopping.

So, I must do it…..

WE’RE DEBT FREEEEEEEEE!!!!!

and we are well on our way to killing our mortgage.  Now that we have the other “little things out of the way”.  It wasn’t too long ago that we were uncertain if Hubby, aka Awesome Daddy, aka The Resident Geek, would be employed this week.  He is, and we are thankful for that.  So thankful we’re committed to doing only the best of the best with the money we earn.

Obama has had this brilliant plan that is trying to get everyone to have a mortgage no higher than 40% of their monthly income.  FOR FORTY YEARS.  Yikes, I freaked at the prospect of how much freakin money that would be.  Then I figured if we paid 40% of our mortgage we’d be done with the damn thing no time, but could not bring myself to pay that much every month.  So, I decided on 33% roughly and we’ll be done with the durn thing in 24 months give or take because you know that bonus’ and tax refunds will also be applied.  By the way, from the calls Dave Ramsey is allowing on his radio show, it doesn’t sound like Obama’s plan is helping.  They seem frustrated with the bureaucracy (which I just Freudanly spelled buraucrazy(Welcome to a new awesome word)).  I need a whole dictionary page to explain my awesome words.  I’ll work on that.

So, me and my many personalities bid you adieu and wish you all well for your Father’s day weekend.  (I bought Kobe steaks and cannot wait to eat them celebrate Daddy Awesome!)

How so?

Then I wasn’t funny.  Now I am.

Then I was blind.  Now I’m not.

Then I showered regularly.  Now I don’t.

So, that funny thing.  Doing well, last I checked I was the 29th funniest nominated blog and if you take out the guys who somehow have snuck in to the blogHER thing, then I’m much funnier.

Got the LASIK.  Loving it!  I can see.  Mostly.  Every once in awhile I feel like I need to take out the contacts, which aren’t there, so I put in very expensive eye drops and all is well.  Except for that I’ve become the girl who puts eye drops in all the time.

I was not able to shower for 36 hours after surgery.  It’s a long time for me.

Also found out at church that my marriage is doomed.

It’s built on a foundation of lust.  Twelve wonderfully lusty years.  Oh well, tick tock, time’s a wasting.

Had a girl date with the youngest annieologist.   When I say youngest, I mean technically, she is so the dominant twin, she can’t help that she was pulled out last.  Anyway….several issues there.

We went and got our nails done.  Due to a language barrier and my regular nail person not being there, they did not turn on the colored lights in her royal highness’ water.   They kept yelling at the little Princess to stop moving her hands, messing up her mani – I kept trying to explain that her nails won’t last the evening no matter what we do, so chill the heck out.

The Princess then informed me that she couldn’t wait to have a baby in her tummy.  She’s four.  It’s going to be a very long 14 years.

Then, we went out to eat.  Since it was special, we went to the uber classy Olive Garden.  It’s even more uber classy here in the City by the Sea.  More than one group of diners were still in their swim wear from the beach.  Classy bunch we are here.

Well, not to be out did by the bikini wearers…..

• The back story:  I purchase everything using cash.  The by product of that is an inordinate amount of $1 bills.  Which I lovingly refer to as my “stripper money”.  Always careful to do it out of ear shot of small children, or so I thought.  Now, back to the story of our classy Olive Garden meal.

When we were paying, her royal highness asks in her most not so subtle voice.

“Mom are you using ALL your stripper money?”

“No, baby not all of it.”