The Really Funny Story About The Time I Nearly Lost My Mind Taking Care of Five Kids Under Four For Ten Days

At least I'm hoping it's really funny, once it's over. Because right now I'm smack-dab in the middle of the story, approaching the peak of the narrative, which is probably where my brain explodes and my head shoots around the room like a loosed balloon slipping from your fingers before it's tied, or bounces off walls like a ping-pong ball in a greasy pizza arcade. Why? Because: BABIES!

Okay, perhaps I exaggerated. I blame: BABIES! I had five kids under four three days last week, and two days this week, and four under four today, and three under four the remaining of the ten days. But whatever. That's far more math than I'm currently capable of doing.

It's two: BABIES all ten days. An eleven month old (teething) baby, and a four month old (teething) baby, and for those of you who can't add, that's A WHOLE LOTTA MOTHERFUCKIN' BABIES!!!11!@#%! I warned you about math already. Brain no compute good. Because: BABIES. Need things. All time.

And the future love of my life, the cleaning lady, who is needed more than ever because: BABIES, has yet to start because I can't leave the house because: BABIES!

So all I'm saying is, there better be a really funny punch line coming up. Even if it's at my expense. Which I have a feeling it is. But I'm so tired I'll probably laugh really hard for a while before I even catch on.

BABIES!

*twitch*

Can't Stop! Don't Stop! Won't Stop!

Click-clack. Click-clack.

All the trains rush down the track. Where is Thomas going?

Wait! That's not where I meant for this to go.

It was supposed to be my heels. My high low (I'm clumsy, with weak ankles; I don't do high) heels click-clacking on the hallway floors as I rush back and forth, over and over again, every day, delivering reports and reminders, escorting students and staff to the Next Important Event that Simply Must be Completed Before the End of the Year, checking post-its for phone calls to return, and the copier for copies to collate, and the fax machine for faxes to file, and the supply room for posterboard for parenting projects (we're out, don't bother to dig, I already looked everywhere yesterday) and ... And ... ANd ... AND ... itNEVEReverEVEReverSTOPS!

Can't Stop! Don't Stop! Won't Stop! Get it! Get it!
Can't Stop! Don't Stop! Won't Stop! Get it! Get it!

Sorry, thought we could all use a dance party break there. What? That was just me? Oh.

I knew when I came back to work at the end of my maternity leave that I was looking at the toughest three four (?pleasedon'tbefiveorsixorseven!) months I've ever navigated in this job.

I was right! I was riiiiiggggghhhhht!

And never have I been so dissatisfied to be so dead on. Can I get a refund on my right-ness? I want my maternity leave back! I'd like to take a moment to mourn, just a little jiffy to cry like a baby here in my own special space. Boo-hoo-hoo. (Babies don't say boo-hoo-hoo! Who came up with that?) WAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH! There, that's better. Life is sooooo hard, and the world's tiniest violin is playing a special tune, just for me and my first world problems.

No, really. I hear it somewhere in the distance.

Oh, that's just my ringtone? Another phone call I'm ignoring? Another voice mail I will reluctantly retrieve later with another little job I will promptly forget to do after jotting it down on another little piece of paper which will vanish into the ether (or more likely the mountainous paper pile that feels like it follows me around at all times, invisible, but there. Can to-do lists come back to haunt you if you've killed them without actually completing all the items? If so, I am so fucked.).

Basically, I'm drowning here. But it's Friday and lack of sleep along with a serious case of weekend-itis, topped off with an over-consumption of caffeine, has made me a little loopy. So rather than focus on the drowning, I would like to throw on some of those little arm floaties (they should fit my wrists; my upper arms are looking a little linebacker-esque these days and have no desire to be squished into floaties, adding indignity to the drowning! Plus fat floats, so they should be fine!) and call it a pool party.

Wanna come? Thomas the Tank Engine will be there, click-clacking down the track! He's going to Knapford Station! We'll have a lil' hip-hop dance party (Can't stop! Don't stop! Won't stop! Get it! Get it!)! And all the while, the world's tiniest violin will be playing in the background.

Pour yourself a drink! Toss it back and think of me! Nah, none for me, thanks, I can't afford to be hungover; my to-do list is ten miles long. You're going to have to party for the both of us.

Are you up for this challenge? I'm thinking it might require shots (for you, of course. I hate shots, but these are desperate times, and desperate measures might be required. Again: for you. I have quite enough desperation already, thankyouverymuch).

I would love to say I'll be napping while you do your party duty, but I'm pretty sure that won't be happening. If there's one thing I know, it's that: Life?

Can't stop! Don't stop! Won't stop!

Get it! Get it!

In Praise of Procrastination

I suppose I should begin by admitting that I planned to write this post on Monday.  Or perhaps it was Sunday.  Either way, here we are on Wednesday, and I suppose we'll just see if we make it to completion.  If not, that's okay with me.  Whenever we finish, it will be fine.  What's more, the longer I wait, creating in my mind, putting off putting pen to paper (or fingers to keypad, but that lacks both rhythm and alliteration), the more fun it will be to finally finish.

I wish you could have seen me in action this weekend, y'all.  For a round-bellied slowpoke who spends most of her afternoons napping, I was in rare form.  I spent ten hours Saturday feverishly cleaning and organizing, and then eight hours on Sunday doing the same.  Monday I awoke and insisted that we drive nearly an hour to my favorite forest for a long morning hike.  Where did I get this burst of energy, you ask?  It's very simple.  All summer long, my house has been in dire need of reorganization.  This weekend was the very last one before my husband returned to work for the start of the school year.  Long story short, it was the last minute.

And my, how that last minute motivates!  I don't understand the stigma of waiting until the last minute, the cloud under which procrastinators hover, like smokers hiding outside in the cold, puffing away shamefacedly, like there's something inherently wrong with pushing up against a deadline, waiting for the rush, and then racing the clock, flying down that list sitting listless for ages, zooming through duties with the best buzz this side of an espresso!

And what's more?  If I hadn't procrastinated?  If I hadn't spent most of my summer in a dream state, floating through life like a starry-eyed stoner, licking popsicles lackadaisical on my deck, lacking a single care in the world outside of when and where I might next go swimming, napping as if my very life depended on it?  Well then, I submit to you that my dining room would not be the pinnacle of organizational accomplishment that it is, sporting separate shelves for wine and martini glasses, cookbooks sorted by type of cuisine and children's books grouped by size and interspersed with puzzle, art and alphabet areas.  My son's living room toy shelves would never be organized into perfectly put together truck and construction centers, running like the ever-so-efficient trains in the basket on the top shelf to the right of the toolbox-puzzle board book which now has its very own decorative box for storing those pesky pieces that have formerly ended up spread across the floor.  My maternity clothes would surely lack organization by type, season and degree of give in the waist relegating them to first, second or third trimester.  My hardwoods would hardly be sparkling to their present degree.

Procrastination makes possible these last minute feats of amazing accomplishment.  Lazy days add up, not only in the body, but in the psyche too.  They are deposits in the account of "someday I can...", and the more you've got saved up, well, the more you can eventually withdraw, and spend on the accomplishment equivalent of a boozy blowout weekend in Vegas.  Now, I'm not much for Vegas.  Been there a couple times, and it really isn't my scene.  But if I can bust out a hidden inner Martha Stewart, just a couple times a year, enough to inspire me to put the legos where they belong on the shelf after the toddler retires to bed, and stay on top of the paperwork that constantly piles up in my mailbox, well, let's just say I'll consider it my sacred duty to create those conditions.  My absolute imperative to spend as much time napping and daydreaming as it takes.

Now if you'll excuse me,  I think it's time to put my feet up on the sofa and gaze around my newly organized living space with spacey, scatterbrained satisfaction.  All in the interest of future accomplishment, of course.

Superwoman's Secret

I woke--45 minutes early--to the sound of a crying toddler, who was, himself, awake 90 minutes early.

I rescued him from the crib, and I cuddled and comforted.  I provided toys as distraction.  I escaped for a quick shower.  I provided crayons as distraction.  I switched a load of laundry and got dressed.  I provided food as distraction.  I packed breakfasts and lunches and drinks and snacks.  I lured our kitty cat from her haven in the backyard so as to provide one more foolproof distraction.  I switched and folded a final load of laundry, and packed the car.  I hurried to use the bathroom before we left, as this baby appears to favor my bladder as its most comfortable resting spot.  Miraculously, we made it out of the house on time, and completed the babysitter drop off and work commute without further complications.

I arrived at work to a mailbox full of new documents to peruse.  I booted up my computer.  I made a bagel.  I skimmed documents.  I attended an impromptu kitchen meeting while buttering my bagel.  I checked our program's database for updates.  I delivered necessary documents to the classroom, stopping quickly in the restroom on the way.  Our first student arrived early with her toddler, and our school day began.

I cuddled the toddler, because she is a marvelous cuddler, and because her greeting is a flying leap through midair, landing in my arms, limbs wrapping tightly around my waist and neck.  In the face of such a greeting, what choice does one have, really, other than to cuddle?  I took her to the classroom, and set her up with a big fat paintbrush, a fresh cup of water, and a brand new package of watercolor paints.  I sat across from her with the latest database printout, and my own records, to cross reference.  We worked hard together, comparing, contrasting and combining: her colors and my figures, while we waited for the other teachers and students to arrive.

I kept one eye on the classroom gate, awaiting the rest of our crew.  A rambunctious baby was carried in, attempting to escape her infant carseat, and clamoring for a bottle.  A tired toddler rolled in, running late, and needing a quiet space to sit and prepare for the busy morning ahead.  Two teachers appeared, bearing apple juice and cereal.  I held hands, guided children to chairs, poured cereal, laid out thick mats for almost-crawling babies to safely explore, took attendance, greeted and sent parents to various rooms for testing or tutoring.  Then I ran to use the bathroom, and retreated to my office to analyze data and write reports.

I cross-referenced the first report and discovered three errors that will take us from noncompliance to compliance for the month of May.  I added them to a master list of changes to send our data entry person.  I raced from my office to the classroom to teach a parenting class.  I took one look around at the particular group of parents present, tossed my lesson plan to the wind, and pulled a new, more appropriate plan out of thin air.  I assigned an exercise, sprinted back to my office, procured new supplies, stopped at the copier to make copies, ran back to the classroom.  I taught my new lesson.  Class dismissed!

I printed reports for an afternoon meeting.  I organized information.  I ate bites of lunch in between receiving and replying to text messages, photocopying papers for all parties expected, cross-referencing columns of data, taking notes, and discussing potential problems and possible solutions with a colleague.  I ran to the bathroom right before the start of the meeting and noticed a pair of baby pajamas, clean and unfolded, next to the changing table.  A new mom had been searching for a clean outfit for her daughter who had wet right through the diaper and soaked her clothes, and she'd left the extra, unchosen outfit out.  I stopped to touch the soft, white, fluffy fabric before folding it and putting it away in the extra clothing bin, where it will wait for another such accident, sure to occur before too long.  I daydreamed about my own sweet baby-to-be, and smiled at the thought of adorable brand-new baby pajamas, while I emptied my bladder for the umpteenth time.

I attended the meeting.  I presented the latest findings from our program data.  I fielded questions, and made notations, and helped to brainstorm, and when the meeting ended I sat alone with piles of paperwork, and tracked down answers, and recorded them, and finally I stacked the piles of paperwork, dropped them on my desk, made a pit stop at the restroom on the way out, and drove home.

I cooked lasagna.  While my husband cooked lasagna (even Superwoman has her kryptonite), I hugged and kissed my son, and switched and folded laundry, and changed into sweatpants, and read stories about pokey puppies and scrawny lions, and youtubed nursery rhymes, and sang along, and tidied the living room, and sent an e-mail, and checked a voice mail, and switched another load of laundry, and read another small stack of books.  Then I sat down with my family and we shared some delicious lasagna.

And then, at the very end of this long, productive day, I went into the bathroom one last time, sat down, suddenly noticed seams where there shouldn't be any seams, and realized ..... my underwear have been inside out.

All day long.  And this is the first time, in my many, many stops today, that I have noticed a single thing.

If today I am Superwoman, and cooking is my kryptonite, perhaps this is the source of my power?  I might just have to try it again tomorrow, in order to find out for sure.

The Terrible Tragedy of Broken Banana Skin

I'm not sure if you're aware of this sad fact, and if not, I hate to be the one to break your heart into a million tiny shards of sorrow, but the truth is: once you break the skin of a banana, it cannot be unbroken.

I know.  I know.  It's a tough world out there, and the first glimpse of heartbreak always happens in the home.

It's been a morning of sheer agony here at the LazyBones household, as my toddler has been slowly (and I mean s - l - o - w - l - y) working his way through the stages of grief (he seems to be stuck vacillating between anger and depression).  The break of day began with its typical beauty, but took a turn for the worse after slamming up against the hard, ugly fact that a banana skin broken can simply never be a whole banana again.  Time does not move back; what's done can never be undone.  If you think this is akin to breaking a toy, or losing a favorite storybook, I implore you:  Please.  Think.  Again.

It's more like God has died, and we have borne witness.  On top of which, knowing Satan and his minions will be here soon enough to take over the earth.  And in the meantime, there is nothing but misery.  Endless, bottomless mourning and misery.

But wait!  What about a new banana?  A brand new, unbroken banana?  With skin as smooth as baby's bottom, as blemish-free as the soft cheek of a prepubescent child?  Might a new banana stem the tidal wave of tears?

A new banana?  You may as well offer to replace a man's dying family with a posse of strangers!  A favorite pet fallen ill with a scruffy stuffed animal found on the street!  A new banana is but an insult to the toddler's anguish.  It does naught but drive the pain deeper, and begin the wailing anew, with a whole 'nother level of dedication.

And then, you might think peeling the banana and ..... er, not to be insensitive, but, um, ..... eating it? ..... would be another idea with a small spark of promise.  But NO!  And NOOOOOOO!!!  You would most certainly be wrong about that idea!  It surpasses insensitive, bordering on blasphemous!  HAVE YOU NO SOUL!?  This poor banana has BROKEN SKIN, and nothing can make it right again, short of the skin GROWING BACK TOGETHER!  Can you make that happen?  CAN YOU!?  Well then, you are useless, and you may as well leave the poor boy to his desolation and distress.

But DON'T LEEEAAAVE!!!  You may have nothing to offer in the way of comfort, but that's certainly no excuse for you to go on about your way, attempting to accomplish meager household tasks, as though you can remain untouched by the tragedy of a broken banana skin RIGHT HERE IN YOUR OWN HOME!  Taking heartlessness to a whole new dimension!

No, you must be present, and the child must abandon himself to the pain.  He must wallow in his woe, until comes the time when .....

Wait, is that toast?  With butter?  And juice?  With ice?

Not that it could possibly offer any consolation in such a dire circumstance; it has, in fact, been verbally rejected multiple times, but now that it is here ..... might he be permitted to enjoy it with Thomas the Tank Engine on in the background?  While clutching the injured banana so tight in one hand he calls to mind no one so much as Charlton Heston with a gun, matching both his deep dedication to his chosen cause and a somewhat baffling level of intensity?

Yes?  He will be allowed to eat his breakfast under these terms of agreement?  Well, then.

It appears that the world just might go on, after all.  And once everything else has been ingested, the boy might just glance down at the banana in his hand, as if surprised to see it there, and take a giant leap into acceptance, announcing:  Naynay a good!  And peeling and eating it as if a broken banana skin is no tragedy of epic proportions, just the first step in a series of events ending in breakfast.  Blood sugar levels return to a normal range and in the same instant, balance is restored to the universe.

At least for the moment.  We have a whole basket of bananas in the kitchen.  If ever I were tempted to bake banana bread, today would be the day.

My Tick-Free Travel Fantasy

Remember when I broke up with Road Tripp?  And you know how when you're a young girl, inexperienced in the ways of love, and you end a bad relationship, but then find yourself dreaming of that old, bad boyfriend and wanting nothing more than one more try?  One more chance to make it work?

*Sigh*  I guess I haven't grown up yet.

Let me tell you about my morning commute.

It all started so...reasonably.  So professionally, with such nose-to-the-grindstone spirit!  I had just dropped my son at the sitter, and was thinking about the fact that I need a new day planner, as mine is a school year model and ends at the end of June.  Because my office is in the building of the small non-profit our district collaborates with to run the program I coordinate, I have to make a special 20 minute trip to visit the district building itself, for meetings, supplies or anything else I might need.  I was very responsibly thinking about when and how to schedule that trip in order to procure a new day planner, so I could continue to plan and schedule work-related events without missing a beat as we move into June and then July.

And without warning, my mind meandered.  It took a quick detour from Responsibilityville, and swung suddenly left, down Memory Lane.  I remembered my very first major road trip, back in '97, and how I used a day planner as a diary.  I was too busy to keep a diary, what with all the traveling, and sight-seeing, and pitching of tents, and finally buying beer once I turned 21, waking that birthday morning beside an old stone bridge in Oklahoma and bedding down in a lakeside campground in Kansas.  So I used a little tiny day planner as a diary, recording only the name of each campground, friend or relative's house, hostel, hotel or motel where I found myself sleeping, and the name of the city or town, and the state where it was located.  I still have that day planner somewhere, probably in a box in my attic, where an embarrassing number of our belongings remain, so close to two years after we bought the place!

And then, since my mind was already coasting down Memory Lane, in no apparent hurry to return to Long List of Things To Do Boulevard, it pulled over and rested in Wisconsin.  In 2005, the hubby and I spent our summer on the road, and one of our first stops was a campground in Wisconsin.  It's funny that I should recall it so fondly, because now that I am thinking more critically, it occurs to me that the evening ended in the tent with my husband telling me to: bend and spread 'em, and while this might sound romantic to some of you pervs out there, when I explain that it followed a tick sighting that required full body examination to be sure we weren't sharing more bodily orifices with the ticks than we share with one another, you will surely understand that romance had exited the premises at this particular point.  In order to make room for the ticks, I suppose.

But I digress (and aren't you glad about that?).  Prior to the potential tick infestation (and the full body examination did prevent the terrible possibility of discovering a tick burrowed into one's nether regions in the early morning, I will give my husband that.  Growing up in the South, he learned to take such dangers very seriously.), we had a lovely evening.  We found a campground, pitched the tent, cooked our dinner over an open fire, and had time to take the dog for a walk in the woods before the sun set.  We walked through the trees, scrambled up rocks to enjoy the view from an overpass, and watched fireflies dance in the shadows of the forest as daylight began to dim.

Remembering this trip I was seized by a wave of longing, positively filled with a voracious hunger for travel.  I envisioned camping with my husband and our boy, racing through the woods chasing fireflies and k-yiming rocks, as my son likes to say.  I could hear the car wheels beginning to turn, and see the dust in the rearview mirror as we peeled out of this old town and hit the road, morning sun blazing overhead, my hands drawing lazy circles in the air outside the window as we picked up speed, our toddler content in his carseat to look out the window at the passing scenery.

There was no whining in this fantasy.  And needless to say, no ticks. 

Alas, this morning's trip ended in my office, where I organized the three month old pile of paperwork that has been vying for my attention, and losing out to more immediate concerns, for some time now.  It wasn't quite rock and roll and the open road, but it did offer its own brand of satisfaction.  I suppose I can be a grown-up when it suits me.

I don't think my not-quite two year old is ready for the adventure I envisioned.  Nor is my bank account, or my summer calendar, which is already scheduled full of work days and family trips.  My body probably wouldn't enjoy long hours in the seat of a car either, especially as the weather gets hotter, and I get bigger and rounder in the belly.

But someday, Road Tripp, someday, I swear, the stars will align for us again.  After all, my husband will have to teach our children that time honored Southern tradition of bend and spread 'em tick infestation avoidance at some point, right?  And I'll be damned if I don't get a road trip out of the deal.

Social Media and (Lazy) Introverts

I think I'm mostly an introvert, although not completely.  Being alone tends to energize me, whereas being with lots of people tires me out.  And I can go long periods with little social interaction and be fine, whereas I can't go long periods without alone time and still feel sane.

Currently, my social needs are met through family and coworkers, and I seldom to never hang out with actual friends.  I'm fine with this set-up for the time being, although I do miss my old friends from high school and college, and jump at the chance to spend time with them when I can, which usually necessitates travel.  Fortunately, I'm able to catch up with many of them via facebook.  And my introverted side thinks that social media, especially facebook, is perfect for the introvert!  Here's why:

• You're mostly friends with people you already know from previous points in your life, so you don't have to meet new people, which is (to me) one of the most exhausting parts of socializing.  Granted, there are those few "friends" who you only accepted because they clearly graduated from your high school, the year you graduated, and you felt bad enough for having no memory of them whatsoever, so you accepted their friend request, despite the fact that they're effectively total strangers.  But for the most part, you already know the people you're facebook friends with. 

• You don't have to get dressed up (or even dressed!), or leave the comfort of your living room to see what people are up to.    And, yes, I know, I know, it's probably good for me to get dressed in nice clothes once in a while for something other than work, but yoga pants?  Hoodies?  C'mon!  Am I the only one who walks in the door and beelines right to the soft cotton happiness that is loungewear?  Enough said.

• Everything happens on your schedule.  Nobody's late, and keeping you waiting.  You're not the late one, keeping everyone else waiting.  You're not going to miss the baby's "window" of hang out time and feel a crushing sense of disappointment that your only chance at social hour is ruined.  Better yet, when you've had enough of people, you can make everyone leave your house immediately with the push of a button.  No awkward scenes where you make up excuses explain why you need to leave the get together early, or sit glumly on your couch wondering when everyone else is finally going to leave.  I've spent years wishing I could make people disappear with the push of a button, and now I can! 

• If people are boring, you can simply ignore them.  Never comment on a single boring thing they say, and that's not considered rude.  If they're offensive, you can even block them from your entire existence and they'll never know.  Now, if only this option could somehow be expanded to apply to family reunions...?  I think I'm onto something good here!  Millions in the making! 

• You get to learn about the customs and holidays of other socio-cultural subgroups.  For example, I hadn't realized today was a special holiday to celebrate the pot-smoker.  But facebook knew!  And it told me all about it.  And then others, apparently suffering under the tyranny of a greater number of stoned and outspoken facebook smokers than I, jumped in to scold the 420ers for their sensimilla oversharing, admonishing them to shut up already, smoke in silence, or abandon the herb all together.  Now I can consider myself educated on this controversial new holiday, without having to share any of my snacks with in-person tokers seeking munchies.

I swear, despite my introversion and selfishness with snacks, I do like people.  Mainly from afar, but in theory, people are nice and awesome!  And especially when they come with on, off and mute!  Yay for social networking!  And happy 420 pot heads!  Although I'll not be joining your celebrations today, I've logged enough couch time in sweatsuits to feel a kindred spirit with your lackadaisical ways!  I raise two fingers to you, in the age old sign of peace.  And then, even better, I roll over and close my eyes, in the age old sign of nap.  No worries, I'm not missing a thing.  Facebook can catch me up whenever I awake.  As an introvert, all this talk of socialization requires me to recharge!

R.I.P. Road Tripp Luv

Road Tripp, honey, I'm sorry, but it's over.  We had a few good years, heck, we made it more than a decade, but I'm in love with someone else now.  It's my house, and I pretty much never want to leave it, so ... yeah, it's probably not going to work out between us anymore.  At least, not for now.  Call me a few years down the road and we'll see if I'm feeling a seven year itch or anything.  You never know.  But for the time being ... yeah, sorry ... um ... we're done.  It's not you, it's me.

Of course, baby, of course I remember when we first fell deeply in love.  It all started in March of '97.  I walked out of my morning lifeguarding shift, hopped into my high school boyfriend's Honda Civic, and hit the road.  We spent the next three months livin' it up, Road Tripp, just you and I, my sweet.  Well, and the high school boyfriend, but he was short-lived after that; we parted at the end of that very trip, whereas you and I came back together again and again as the years passed by in a blur like the view from the passenger side window.  I pored over road maps and atlases like a student with a textbook and a test the next day (oh, the heady romance of the days before mapquest!  Remember that time we traveled to the southernmost tip of New Jersey, driving all day through smokestacks and graffiti, only to find that the "bridge" to Delaware was built by my baby sister, and made entirely of magic marker on the map?  I knew that would be funny someday, and look!  Now it is!).

I ate road food until I gained 30 pounds and couldn't fit into any of the shorts I brought with me after March turned to April, May and then June.  It's okay, Road Tripp, I forgive you.  It was just another excuse to shop at thrift stores for bigger clothing, cuddlebug, and I needed to shop at thrift stores anyway, after spending all my money with you.  Well, on you.  You were never a cheap date, dear.

But then there was that time in Virginia, lost in the woods, when I happened upon a lake, and looking out over the glistening water, vowed to live the rest of my life in three month increments, never repeating what I had done the three months before.  It seemed like a good idea at the time, sweetpea, but such is the folly of youth, and the madness of amore.  I can't keep up with you any longer, love.  I'm getting older, and I guess it's true what they say: we settle.

Settle in, and settle down, and for some reason the backseat of the station wagon just wasn't as comfortable this last time, pulled off on the side of the road, somewhere in a rural Louisiana truckstop, infant nursing or sleeping on my exposed chest, feet resting on the carseat and husband passed out in the driver's seat, leeaanned back, with his mind on his money and his money on his mind.  Except I'm pretty sure a part of that money on his mind -- a subcategory, if you will -- was pondering both the price of gas and the state of the current economy; let's not underestimate the man's intelligence, he may well have entertained a fleeting analysis of peak oil; we'll never know.  The point is, Road Tripp, I could tell, even then, that things were beginning to go south between us.  And I'm so sorry, sweetheart, but I don't mean that literally.

Those last miserable hours driving home, between Buffalo and Syracuse, where I balanced my body weight on bags of luggage and attempted to twist my breasts into some brand new shape that allowed for backseat breastfeeding while keeping the child enclosed in the infant carseat?  Sugar, those were simply nails in the coffin of our long-dying relationship, at that point.  And then when the house began to demand those same dollars for basic maintenance that you would require for your own existence, well, there's only so much I can do with a dollar, and keeping my roof from leaking every day into the dining room simply must take precedence over our sweet celebration of the beauty of our nation.

Baby, it's me, not you.  But it's over.  I've got four walls, a good job, a toddler, and a comfortable bed.  Revel in your youth, Road Tripp.  Go on without me.  Perhaps we'll meet again someday, in a Winnebago somewhere, where knee braces are an everyday occurrence, and those day-of-the-week pill containers are a spot of poetry in an otherwise chaotic world.  I'll never forget you, try though I might sometimes, but my feet are planted firmly now, and we can't meet anymore in the middle of the night; truck stop coffee just ain't what it used to be.  Or maybe it's just me.  I'm old; I'm tired.  I'm happy where I am.  R.I.P. Road Tripp Luv.  You may be gone, darlin', but you'll never be forgotten.

A Metaphor for Winter

Scene:  My Inner Therapist's Office.  Winter's in one chair; I'm in another.  My Inner Therapist is gazing down her nose at us through cat frame eyeglasses.  We all look uncomfortable.

My Inner Therapist:  So we're here today because LazyBones wrote some things *shuffling through intake paperwork* on a blog?  Is that correct?  On the Internet?  And Winter, that made you feel.....well, why don't you tell us?  How did that make you feel?

Winter:  It made me feel terrible, just terrible.  *Sniff*  Can  I have a tissue?  I'm sorry, I just, this is very emotional for me.  The holidays always bring up a lot of emotions, and then this...this attack!  Out of nowhere!  I just...this is difficult.

MIT:  Take your time Winter, we're here.

Would you like to tell us more about these holiday emotions?

W:  Everyone wants me around for Christmas, and New Year's, but then it's just Poof!  Be Gone!  Like I'm not good for anything else!  It hurts!  Every year I give it my all, I give everything, and in the end I just...*whispers*...I just feel so used.

MIT:  LazyBones, how does it make you feel to hear what Winter is expressing here?

LazyBones:  Well damn, Winter, I wasn't trying to bring up all that.  I mean, it wasn't even personal!  It's like, you're just a metaphor, Winter.  A metaphor for the existential emptiness we all experience from time to time.  I was just using you as a metaphor...

W:  So you WERE using me!  I knew it.  I knew it.

LB:  Not like that!  I just wanted to express the melancholy and the rage I was feeling, and you seemed like a good symbol for that.  I'm sorry Winter.  I never meant to hurt you.

MIT:  This is good, this is good, we're airing our feelings here.  Winter, would you care to respond?

W:  It's hard for me to accept the apology after yesterday's post.  I was treated like a cheap floozy.  It's hard to come back from that.  LazyBones has proven that entertaining this...blog audience...comes before my feelings, and I don't think I'm ready to forgive that right now.  I'm more than a metaphor!  I am a season.  I deserve more.

LB:  More!?  More!?  You already get six months of the year, and Summer, Spring and Fall share the other six!  How is that fair?  When I lived in Arizona you barely got a month!  Now we're in upstate New York, you get six months and you deserve more!?  You take over half the year, and get all the major holidays and then you complain about being a metaphor?  Winter, I'm sorry, but when you take up six months worth of my psychic space, you end up as a metaphor.

And yesterday?  Okay, I came at you wrong.  You're not a cheap floozy; I'm just not ready to commit to you and--you're right--I shouldn't have tried sweet-talking you that way.  My Inner Playa came out as a metaphor for making up, and my metaphors got mixed.  I didn't meant to hurt you.

Besides, it's an honor to be a metaphor.  All the seasons have been metaphors for me.

W:  Really?  *dabs eyes*  Even Summer?

LB:  Yes, and I complain about Summer too.  She's stifling; she has a forced cheerfulness about her, and her expectations are always too high. 

MIT:  How does this change things for you, Winter?

W:  Well, I appreciate the apologies.  I do.  And now that I know Summer is a metaphor, I feel...better somehow.  Like it's not as personal as I thought before. I've been told I tend to make things all about me.

I guess I do need to learn to detach.  I've been working on that with my own therapist.

MIT:  Good Winter, good.  Keep that up.  And LazyBones, how are you feeling about our session today?

LB: I want to get along with Winter, I really do, but we've had issues all my life, and.....at this point, all I can say is I'll try. 

MIT:  Alright, good work you two, I feel like we really started a dialogue here.  We can continue this at our next session.  We'll leave it at that for today.

Wooing Winter

C' mon baby.  It don't have to be like that.  I know I said...some things...yesterday...that maybe I shouldn'ta said, but you know how I get sometimes.  It didn't mean nothin'.  I'm still here, you see me right here, don't you?  You really think I'd spend 6 months outta every year with you, right here in CNY baby,  if I didn't have feelings for you?  I was just bloggin', baby, I was just tryin'a entertain, you feel me?  You know how it gets out there. 

But I'm here with you now, ain't I?

What, you need proof?  Look around my house!!!  What do you see?  FLEECE!  How much fleece I got up in my house, and you're gonna question my feelings for you just causa some shit on the Internet!?  You know you ain't supposed to believe everything you read on the Internet, anyway.  I got, I got...LAYERS!  Look at this: non-cotton for next to the skin so I keep that heat in, I got blankets stacked up from ceilin' to floor, I got, I got...hoodies!  How many hoodies I got right here in this room!?  And these is just for inside the house!

Winter, I am HERE!  I am here with you baby, right here, and I don't know what I gotta do to make you see that.

Okay, winter.....it's like that, then?  It's like that?  Okay, then.  I'ma remember this.  I'ma remember this, though, winter.  This shit ain't over, winter.  This ain't over.  You'll be hearing from me again.

Keeping Up Appearances

It's important to keep up appearances after you become a mother.  The appearance that your life is smoothly held together rather than a motley piecemeal mess gathered by staples, safety pins, and the odd wad of duct tape, the appearance that you give a flying fig about fashion and do not choose attire based on waistband flexibility alone, the appearance that you still maintain the time and effort to attend to your own personal hygiene and beauty now that little junior is the recipient of those long, nourishing nightly baths and the bottle of bubbles that used to be reserved for your own relaxation.

Well, today you're in luck, because I am here to share with you my own personal beauty routine!  It's easy, quick, and affordable.  Those are the only promises I am willing to put into print.  Here's how it works:

When you wake up in the morning too late for a proper shower including shampoo and conditioner, go ahead and indulge in the five minute scrub up and rinse off.  Just ignore that mop on top of your head, the same way you've been ignoring it for the past three days.  It'll be fine.  Afterward, in the unnecessarily bright light of the bathroom mirror, when you notice the sheen of grease lightly coating your lovely hair, decide that a slicked back ponytail would be a great look for today.  A slicked back ponytail is a classic, timeless style appropriate for everything from a casual day at home to a professional setting to a formal affair.  It has the added benefit of being the only hairstyle where excessive hair grease is beneficial!  I consider it my signature look.  Comb hair back with a fine-toothed comb, wrap in a rubber band (I use two rubber bands for the so-tight-I'll have-a-headache-when-I-take-this-out look.  Very becoming.), and viola!  You're ready to go!

Go ahead and leave the house with no makeup on at all.  Don't worry ladies!  I've got this under control!  I highly recommend keeping an assortment of lipsticks in the bottom of your purse.  Why an assortment?  Well, when you're trying to dig into your purse for lipstick, maneuver your car through city traffic, check on your son in the rearview mirror to make sure he's not eating your cell phone, which you swore you would stop giving him to play with after your husband told you some horror story about saliva entering into phone crevices and causing irreversible damage to either the phone or the child but you can't remember which one right now, and find NPR on your radio dial so you can keep up with current socio-political-economic-local events, it really helps to have an assortment of lipsticks bumping around down there for your fingers to find.

But LazyBones!  You promised affordable!  Lipstick is expensive!  How will I ever accumulate an assortment?

Worry not, my lovelies.  I have the best piece of affordable beauty advice you will ever be privy to right here at my frugal little fingertips:  buy your makeup at the Dollar Store.  It's just as good as Sephora.  Well, I've never actually tried Sephora because they don't sell it at the Dollar Store.  But I've heard it's fabulous.  And who could deny that a dollar for lipstick is fabulous?  So go ahead and grab one of babies from the bottom of your pocketbook and let's get to beautifying!

Our next step is best undertaken at a stoplight, as it is iffy at best to ensure proper application while steering.  Luckily, applying cosmetics the LazyBones way is quicker than a red light in most major metropolises.  Apply a diagonal lipstick line from the inner corner of your eye to your jawbone, midway between the ear and chin.  Repeat on the other cheek.  Then apply a dot of lipstick to your forehead, nose, and chin.  What, you thought lipstick was just for lips?  Not these days, my darlings!  If the light turns green and you are forced to accelerate through an intersection at this point, it can offer a nice face-saving self-esteem boost when you wave coquettishly at a construction crew as you roll past and they studiously ignore you.  It's not that you're getting older sweetheart, it's just the warpaint on your face!  Oh, right!  Of course!

Wait for the next red light, and then take the palm of your hand, open wide, bring it to your face and rub vigorously.  In just two short steps you've eliminated that pale, pasty look from your complexion and replaced it with a dewey, dollar store glow!  If you suffer from exessive undereye bags, go ahead and rub some more lipstick on those bad boys.  It can't hurt, right?  Finish up with a coat on your lips.

Now thank your lucky stars that your cosmetic routine is so quick and easy.  After all, you'll still need time to eat breakfast and possibly make a few phone calls--all from the driver's seat of your vehicle--before your morning commute is complete!  When you arrive at your destination, I find it's best not to do any last minute checking of your look in the mirror.  You really don't want to know how this has turned out.  Just be confident!  Confidence is key!  And remember:  You're never fully dressed without a smile!

In Which I Solve the Mommy Wars

Original Title:  I Hate My Post from Yesterday, and I'm Not Sure Why.

Oh yeah, cause it's boring.  But I can't figure out what to do to make it any better.  It's a topic I'm interested in: work-life balance.  But reporting on it is just kind of...dry.  Like blogging about blogging.  Which, oh.  Yeah.  Boring.

So let me try a different tactic here, and do something I swore I'd never do as a parent:  Get up on my high horse and tell people they should be doin' what I'm doin'.  

But hear me out:  We should all be working part-time.  And I don't just mean moms.  I mean Dads.  Grandparents.  Single people.  Teenagers.  Those people who say bearing and raising children is a lifestyle choice similar to skydiving and so they need to leave work early to skydive.  Do those people really exist outside of the Internet?  Whoevs.  We should all be able to work part time, make enough money to live, and have enough time left each day to live and enjoy our lives.  The only people who oughta be working full time are people who really want to work full time.  And they can go on ahead and do what they feel, as far as I'm concerned.  Crazy workaholics.  LazyBones experiences involuntarily shudders at the mere thought of working 40 hours OR MORE per week.  *eye twitch*

I've been giving this topic a lot of thought, weighing fiscal and family policy options, brushing up on the latest scientific research in the field of work-life balance, discussing things with my girl, Michelle (Obama, of course).  And it's a little out of the box, but I think I've got this problem covered.  So here's my game plan:

•  Go back in time.

•  Gather all the second wave feminists, and a bunch of dudes too.

• Be like:  Hey, instead of having women join the work force full time, how bout' havin' 'em just join part time, and then all you dudes get to go home from work early?  And you chicks got extra time for like, meetin' up, bein' ambitious, and runnin' the world and stuff?
  

• What's not to like, eh? Right? RIGHT?  *Noddin' head*  *Big grin*  That's what I'm talking about.   
  

• BAM!  Mommy Wars Over!  Somebody pour me a drink.  And since we're still back in the old days, I want to drink it while at work.  Oh yeah.  Just cause I can.  Plus I work with toddlers, and that shit's stressful.  But somebody better stay sober and keep an eye on those crazy babies.  They're faster and smarter than me before I start hittin' the sauce.