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.

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.

Kind of.

I had fully intended to drop the littles off at trampoline camp for the day while I did the 4,000 medical/dental things that I need to squeeze in, anticipating being without the great insurance we have had access to these past many years.  Of course, when I called trampoline camp regarding this years rates blah blah blah, they forgot to tell me that it didn’t start until next week.  To be fair, I didn’t ask, I just assumed that it was open because school was closed.  So, I got everyone all “excited” for nothing.  So, we ran over there, ran back.  But to make up for their “disappointment” they got to eat their packed lunches.

I did all of this before repeating my yesterday.  I went to the eye doc.  And instead of spending two hours not being seen, I spent three hours not seeing.  Because I’m getting LASIK next week they had to do all sorts of eye torture to me and had to super dilate my eyes.  And it’s super bright here in the City by the Sea.  Radical needs glasses, he found a pair he liked, but they didn’t have lenses so he picked another pair.  (aaaaahhhh how cute) And Big Boy has been sleeping in his contacts, the contact lens lady, who apparently doesn’t have a 16 year old boy, wanted me to make him stop.  Wish me luck on that.

Then, in an effort to boost our triglycerides, I happened upon a McDonald’s in my blindish state and reupped everyone.

After a short attempt at making the littles nap, I had to leave again to go to the dentist.  My last dentist sucked, but even more so than I was aware of.  Today’s little visit was for me to get a crown on a tooth that she broke.  My new dentist has super mad skilz and for the first time ever, I didn’t need 13 shots to be comfortable during my dental work.  Also, he has a super tooth making machine in the back, where after lots of pictures, it made a tooth to match my tooth directly opposite it and that fit neatly in with the tooth above it.  And I got to watch it being made.  Super cool.

As I was leaving he cautioned me that my drugs were going to wear off in about half an hour, there were three possibilities.

1. No pain
2. Slight pain
3. Fetal position crying for your mommy pain

Yes, that’s right, another blog contest where you win nothing.  Guess what actuality I experienced?  At the grocery at 5:00 at night, on a Friday.  (Hey, I’d planned to do this while the kids were at camp)

But when I got home with half a dinner, hubby was peeling potatoes (dang you Dan Quayle, I will always question myself on that one).  The self same hubby who, with less complaint than me, arranged his schedule for the unexpected addition of three littles. The self same hubby who stayed up past 1:30 removing virus’ from this little laptop of mine, the hubby who does so many wonderful things for to me.  The same hubby who despite this horrible economy, cannot pull off being unemployed.  That’s right, a deal has been tentatively struck that will not only give everybody most of what they want, but will also enable us to keep on our goal of paying off this durn house before 40.  Do I get a Woot!?

So, after many drugs, and drooling through dinner.  I had the pleasure of dealing with a barfer.  Mmmmm.

While cleaning up that little fun admiring myself in the mirror I noticed that my arms are getting all muscularly after the tens of pushups I’ve been doing.  I am also sad to report, that once again, after starting to exercise, I am not only getting a cold/ear infection, but am gaining weight.  To which I say We Throw Frisbees?  If I wanted to gain weight I would eat chocolate and NOT exercise.  Instead I am NOT eating chocolate and exercising….. The world is a mysterious place.

Speaking of throwing frisbees?  My friend Kelli is having a little unexpected drama.  Her son, who recently had a kidney transplant, has tested positive for H1N1 – so send some happy thoughts and maybe do a dance and say a prayer for her and her family.

Now, I am off to Google what is wrong with Rachel it’s ok, she not only knows that I’m Googling her abnormalities, but she is making me, and by making, I mean suggesting I do so….. if it’s really jacked up, I’ll share.

Have a happy day, and cover your mouth when you cough.

I’m just saying.

I got my hair cut today, I took the Princess.  I went to a slightly fru fru salonish thing.  I don’t spend a ton on my hair, but enough.  Princess was very jealous of my shampoo – so I inquired if someone might shampoo her, you know to keep her occupied.  When the shampoo girl told me that it would be more than my whole shampoo, cut and style, I fuhreaked.  Point taken fru fru salon, my Princess is not welcome.

Need a new hair girl.

I will miss my hair girl.  She did a great job.  Princess was oohing and aahing and telling me how much “Daddy’s going to love it.”  Who could not want her in their salon?

I took Radical to the eye doctor.  Two hours later we had not been seen.  Ironic?  I think so.

But….

True story.  Someone stopped me in the hall and asked me where they could find my blog.  I swear.

We went door shopping.  Went to two places, one local, one national.  Neither had doors we wanted.  Nothing fancy, just a solid core interior door to reduce the noise level in Hubby’s office.

I could not get the grill going tonight, but had fun playing with fire.  I may need an intervention.

Boog informed me that he “can’t like hot marshmallows”.  I am a failure as a parent.  Who can’t like hot marshmallows?

Felpsy spent the whole day in time out.  But don’t worry, it was properly administered in five minute intervals.  ALL DAY LONG.

I’m going to bed, ‘night.

I figured our house was chalk full of science geeks, we’d probably be able to handle dissecting a squid, so I did what I always do, I Googled.

Found out that you don’t really need to dissect things anymore, they have computer models you can point and click on to simulate dissection.  Really?  Watch this and you don’t have to do that.

Today, I’m watching a cooking show.  I bet it will smell really good, and taste phenomenal, and best of all, no dishes.  I also bet we lose a lot of weight.

But since then, he’s been such a joy.  He was the reason that I decided parenting might not completely suck.

I had the privilege of not working while he was young.  We got to do all of the fun things like Kindermusik and Swim & Gym.

His poor teachers were so in love with him they could barely get through a parent teacher conference without crying.  He is so completely low maintenance, he does almost everything the first time he’s asked or before.  Except the “stop fighting with the babies” but he puts up with a lot there.

Now, he’s out there riding his bike and hanging with his buds.  You know what that’s going to lead to, right?  Driving his car and hanging out with girls.

It won’t be long before he’s old enough to understand the consequences of his extremely large head.  It might be time to have him work off that anesthesiologist’s bill.   Until then, he’ll tell me all about Poke’mon and listen to dad read all of the Harry Potter books.

Happy Durpay Radical.  I assume we’re eating at Whataburger?

It might have turned out differently for him, had I gotten him used to thousand dollar parties in pre-school.  Around here it’s a cake and $20.  And we’re so horrible, that makes them happy.  Radical wants 1 thing.  ONE, UNO.  A DS game.  Even if I wanted to get him something more, it would be murder getting that info out of him.  He’s content.

When I feel bad about my parenting of the pre-k’s I watch Supernanny.  When I feel bad about my teens, I watch MTV.  Actually, the teens have really never given us much of a hassle.  And no universe, that is not a challenge.  We have great kids.  And we still have 8 years to fine tune Mr. Felpsy.  But man, those kids on MTV.  Where the heck are your parents?  Oh yes, I know, indulging your every whim.  Guess what, the world doesn’t work like that.  Better hope Daddy never dies.  But if he does, you can get your own reality show about how Daddy only left you a couple million and now you have to work.  Dang.  That really sucks for you.

Know what the other thing Big Boy asked for for his birthday?  A ride over to thus and such so he can apply for a job.  That’s right.  He wants a J-O-B for his birthday.  (Hubby and I rock as parents, please alert the authorities)  Don’t ask what we did, I don’t know.  Prayer.  Boundaries.  Not worshiping them.  I’m not sorry to say that kids in this house come third.  God, spouse, kid.  Of course that’s not pc.

I guess I should just now be getting home from all of their activities.  Dinner at a drive-thru and get the heck to bed, I’m tired.  We do stuff.  We went swimming for 2 hours today after school. Came home, had a home cooked meal together, kids played in the yard with Dad and the neighbors.    They are playing quietly in their room as I type this.

I guess we are all content.  I am happy about that.  We realize that we have far exceeded anything we ever dreamed for ourselves, the rest is gravy.  We’ve been parenting for so dang long, we don’t fret over every little thing.  If we don’t fix break them today, we’ll work on it again tomorrow.  We want them to have it all, but not at the expense of it all.  I guess that’s where I’m at now.  My basket was only so big, I had to leave some things out of it, in order to get the things that I really wanted.  I could have had a career, but it didn’t fit in there with all these kids.  I could have had the bigger house and the nicer car, but that was an accessory to the career.  I am content.  I am blessed.  Even with CPS investigating us.  Even with lame appropriate birthday gifts for kids.

Good night.

Weird.

For example, Dagan, given the choice would choose veggies over candy any day.  Yup, weird.  I would say there is some sort of switched at birth mix up that happened, but for the fact that she is my twin.  Except for the choosing veggies over candy part.

Big Boy.  Also weird.  He walked his nine year old brother to school today.  He’s moments away from turning 16.  16 year old boys don’t typically walk their little brothers to school.  Well, maybe as soon as they get around the corner he pushes his little brother into the street and runs off.  Maybe, but I doubt it.

Radical, is normal in the sense that he would chose candy over veggies any day.  What is weird about him?  Every morning, he gets up, and immediately does his chore of emptying the dishwasher.  Every morning.  In the year it has been since he’s been assigned that chore, we’ve maybe had to remind him 20 times.  Which was the number of times a day we had to remind his predecessor.  Not only that, but immediately upon returning from school, he does his homework.  If he has a lot of homework, he’ll work for one hour, take a snack break and then return to his homework.

They come by all of this naturally, I don’t think that I taught them any of that.  I am a candy loving, late sleeping, chore and homework avoider who hates kids.  Well, I used to be.

All three of them were great at getting up and getting ready by themselves.  We must have trained them to do so.  Which is odd, because until the caffeine kicks in, talking is not allowed here.  OK, again, that’s the way it used to be.

“yes, a blog about tattoos would be fun.”

I really should use pictures in this post.

I might.

We’ll see.

Tattoo #1

I got it in the early ’90s.  I was with my “we can either pay the rent or get a tattoo” husband.  Although I don’t recall if we were living together at the time.  I don’t think so, but cannot actually remember.  We were either together or he was trying to convince me that this time he really had changed.  This tattoo is not about him.  Other than our son, I really want no reminder of him.  Now that my credit is cleared of our liason, and subsequent horrible marriage.

So, I got a tattoo that I had wanted since I was 14 and my mom said,

“You are 14, you can’t get a tattoo!”

Bitch! Is what my 14 year old self said, but not to her.

It is a bunch of hearts around my left ankle.  12 red, 1 dark blue, 1 light blue, and 1 purple.  The oddly colored ones are for myself and the two kids I had at the time.   I like it, but it might be a bit 14 year old girlish.  I also did not take into account my Greekish Birkenstocks that I wore everywhere at that time.  Until I got the tattoo, and those darn things covered it up perfectly.  So the Greekish were banished to the winter wardrobe when I could wear socks.  I did live in Hippyville USA, socks with sandals were required.

Tattoo #2

This one is a “scrapbook tattoo” I got it to commemorate my other marriage.  My current one.  Someone I could imagine spending the rest of my life with, or at least not totally regretting getting  marked for life.  I think it looks super cool, and I can lie if anyone asks what it means, assuming that hubby runs off or something.  He won’t.  I know these things.  He’s darn lucky to have found me.  Anyway, shortly after we returned from our honeymoon in Hawaii, we got tatted up with the same tat.
It’s this

Although it’s not in a frame, it’s on my back. I have found it quite difficult to take a picture of my own back.  I could ask hubby, but it would require me taking off my shirt, and then yada yada yada, this post would not be getting written. And I only have a cell phone, and I’m not quite sure which body parts have made the approved list of pics you can have on your cell phone.

Interesting aside.  While I was removing my micro SD from my phone to put it into my adapter to put it into the computer it flew across the room.  This is the kind of work and dedication I put into this blog.  Blind ol’ me had to find a micro SD card across the room.  You’re welcome.

So, what does it mean.  Well, the card says it means “The one who knows my heart” so that’s what it means to us.  For all we know it could really mean something else, but to us it means exactly what the card says.

Tattoo #3

This one is fun for me, it has more purple.  I love purple.  Also, Dagan designed it from what I told her I wanted.  I drew something and it was ugly, so she pertied it up.  This was when it was brand new.

It’s two hearts, connected together to make a butterfly.  Also a scrap tat, as I am better at getting tatted than I am sitting around scrap booking.  I really would like to want to scrap book, but I can’t, so sue me.  It’s for the twins.  One heart is purple, one heart is blue.  Kind of symbolic that they are two different things but connected in some sort of way.  I love it. It was my Mother’s Day present a couple of years ago.

Future tats

You’ll notice I have a tat for Hubby, Dagan, Big Boy, Princess and Boog, but not for Radical or Felpsy.

They are planned.  I just have been busy and lazy maybe, but they are planned.

Radical is getting a frog.  A super cute frog. Cuz he is so super cute, also it’s therapy as I really hate frogs. He was my therapy because I used to not want more than two kids, ever, until I met him.

Felpsy is getting a cross made of fire.  Because he is totally into God.  He’s totally on fire.  He’s been through the fire.  And it’s a membership requirement at our church that you get some sort of Jesus tat.  Well, not officially or anything.

So, that’s it, my tats, and their stories. All because someone made an ask of themself. So, if you want a custom written blog for you, let me know.  I’ll come up with something.

“Mom, what are you doing?”

I would assign them a task.  The longer I cleaned the less interruptions I had.  Note, to self  ‘me time is best accomplished by cleaning…’

Other questions I endured answered throughout the course of the day.

“Who’s coming over?

CPS “No one, can’t a person just want to clean?”

Both are true.  I never clean for CPS. Really? What are they going to do? Cite me?  They are always here.  Last week, I had the agency worker, the new psychologist, the therapist.   This week, we look forward to entertaining, CPS and the therapist. If they spent this time on the actual parents…well, I don’t know what good it would do, maybe they could spend their time building a case against said parents.

“Can we go somewhere fun?”

“No.”

They also wanted food. Petulant.

So, we cleaned and purged.  I was ruthless.  Barbie didn’t have a leg? Trashed.  24 piece puzzle with 23 pieces?  Buh bye.  But wait, we could find that piece under the bed.  Too bad.  So sad.

I’m also purging the closet of pants too small and shirts too ugly.  Anyone in need of clothes for preschoolers?  I got both sides.  I know Once Upon a Child won’t take them.  They aren’t faded enough.

I can be brutal in all areas, except the blankies.  I can’t get rid of the blankies.  My bear blankie?  Been with me since at least high school, maybe earlier.  It is my longest friend.  I have the blankie my mommy made Big Boy.  The one an aunt made for Radical.  I even have one that bought so that Felpsy could have a baby blankie.  He didn’t.  We had to fabricate his babyhood.  I am currently covered in a cow blankie.  A gift from a time where people bought me cow things.

Why did people buy me cow things? I once found a coffee mug with a cute little cow on it, I bought two, and suddenly I collect cows.   I still have the coffee mugs, the blankie and a mixing bowl.  It’s not a collection, do not send me any cows.

Tomorrow?  I tackle my room.  This will be tough.  I have cute clothes.  I have many blankies.  I need to find out what is under that bed.  I know the things in the third drawer of the dresser haven’t fit been worn in years.  But I can’t bear to part with them.  That dress I want to turn into a skirt?  When am I going to get to that?  Really?  No, you’re right, probably not.

I know I haven’t needed a jacket this year, much.  But when we move to Timbuktu and it’s chilly, I want options.  Sure, I’ll be 75 and hot pink trench coats may not be in style then, but I LOVE it.

Well, there is still sweeping and dishes and many other boring tasks at hand.  The computer is about to spontaneously combust and there is a little red light blinking that looks like a battery…..