Saturday, October 15, 2011

Kicking ass and taking names

I watch a lot of TV. Probably too much. My excuse, for what it is worth goes something like this. I used to spend too much time out and having drinks. Or seeing bands. Or having drinks and seeing bands. Now, not so much. So the void had to be filled with something. And no, laundry doesn't count as an acceptable alternative. Back to the TV. We have a pretty heavy rotation of reality programming in our house, but with the dawn of the fall season, there are a few sitcoms that have wiggled their way into regular viewing. One new one, Up All Night, hits a pretty good nerve for all the reasons I just mentioned above. In this weeks episode, Christian Applegates's character made some comment early in about "kicking motherhoods ass". You see why I am a fan. And she had rattled off like, 10 things she had done, along with looking fabulous and having a high-profile, cool job. Now, I don't fancy myself that glamorous. I mean, come on -- Christina Applegate is pretty damn funny, looks awesome AND told cancer to suck it. So, I sorta love her for a lot of reasons.I don't however, think I am quite to that level of cool -- close, but not there yet. But the kicking motherhoods ass comment sorta stuck in my brain. And yes, I understand that this is a TV show, but come on, tell me you haven't had the uber-confident moment, you look around and you just ooze confidence, mom-ness and coolness all in one fell swoop. And so, yeah. Meghan: 1, Motherhood: 0 (for that round anyway, the real score is more like, Meghan: 2, Motherhood: 324,874)As I have thought about this, and then had this thought cemented in for me today, I tend to be in a motherhood ass-kicking mode on a Saturday morning. Joe works on Saturdays, so at no point do I really get the luxury of just running errands by myself or spending 2 hours trying to get the guest room aka the shit landing zone organized without constantly having the need to police two toddlers. And I am not complaining about that, knew that was going to be the case when we got together and I imagine at some point when we are dominating the pizza world, lording over it like the King & Queen we shall become, it will be a different story -- but for now, Saturdays = me, the kids and at 8 AM, an ass-kicking attitude.
My internal monologue goes something like this,

"Knock off breakfast, play for a bit, then we are going to get dressed, hit the bookstore, the mall, maybe Target and time permitting ...some other store that will suck up my money."

And surprisingly, my ass-kicking, motherhood self reassures me that THIS is a good plan. And we will all be in great moods and it will go off without a hitch.
And off we go -- with the foreshadowing starting with getting the kids in the car and the mini-fit thrown about which fruit snacks we take with us. I should have taken heed and that point, but dammit, I was KICKING ASS, motherhood style.
First stop: bookstore. Getting some new stuff for the kids, Keeping reading FUN. Which we did a pretty good job of until....The bookstore has also turned into a toy store. And all the toys are placed right at eye level of say, 1 and 2 year olds. So, battled with the 1 year old about not taking the stuffed doggie that she insisted on having. By insisting, I mean shouting "mine, mine, mine" with all her 16 month old might. Then the 2 year old found the Thomas the Train set they had set up in the kids area. If you have been under a rock for the last 12 months, let me refresh your memory. My kid digs trains. I mean, DIGS trains. So between thumbing through my new read ( the cool parents tutorial on potty training -- yeah, that's what my nightstand reading looks like) and reminding the kids to play nicely with the other kids milling around, things were actually pretty calm. Until I said the most horrendous, the most appalling thing anyone in the history of the world has ever said..."Its time to go".
Queue the full blown, old-school, throw-yourself-on-the-floor tantrum from the 2 year old. Now to recap, its me, solo. The 83 lb mom-bag, the one year old and a small handful of books. All of that is nestled in the crook of my left arm. So not much I can do about the fit-throwing 2 year old. My only saving grace was that it was in the kids section, so in theory, everyone there could relate. At least that is what I told myself. Finally, we get over the tantrum. Getting over it is defined as giving in to said two year old and buying the $6 book on fire trucks because that was going to get us out the door.
And we made it. One would think at this point, that I would acquiesce to my ass-kicking mentality and call it in.
oooooh, how wrong  you are. Reminder; Meghan is Irish. Meghan is stubborn. Meghan is going to do what she wants.
So off to the next store we went. That was fairly uneventful Other than the ludicrous amount of money I spent - Target OWNS me. However, towards the end of our check out, both kiddos started pushing the limits.
Clearly, now I went home.
OH, NO.
No, we were going to get lunch. See part of kicking motherhoods ass, means that I am reclaiming my body that mother hood stomped on, beat up, stretched out and loaded up with extra weight. Thus, I started WeightWatchers this week. Caveat: I have no grandiose ideas of like, Giselle's or Heidi's body or anything. All I know is that I am about 15 lbs shy of my max PREGNANCY weight and something has to give. Plus, I am not willing to buy clothes in larger sizes, so we called in the pros. What this means is that the current pantry at my house isn't very conducive to the new eating. So we were going to go somewhere I could eat and get the kids some chow as well. The meal began with both kids squirting about 1/3rd of their juice boxes all over themselves before sip one. Faolan is in a high chair, so I can keep her in check. Finn however, is in a chair. A chair that he decides he does not want to sit in. He in running everywhere. And all I want to do is eat my meal. So again, in my weakness, I just let him hang off the back of the baby's high chair. Seems a good compromise. Then we start throwing things. And of course, whatever her brother does, little McDiva must follow, so yeah - juice boxes, spoons and the piece de la resistance -- the food. At that point, we are done. So corral everyone, try to clean up our mess and get out the door, but not before Finn takes off like shot, I go running after him, dodging some teenagers and barely holding on to Faolan and my purse at the same time. I find him down the hall, climbing on the high chairs.
Motherhood has now kicked my ass.
Officially.
And I don't think I will be taking my kids out to dine in public for like, 15 years given the current state of their table manners.
I can report that we made it home in one piece. A little worse for the wear, and just when I thought - a little peace and quite awaits me on the other side of putting them down for naps, Finn freaks out when I put him in his room and take off his shoes. Why is he freaking you ask? Because I took off his shoes. For naptime. Shoes. Yeah, I don't get it either. Oh, and his tantrum woke up the 1 year old who had fallen asleep on the ride home.
Ass kicked.
2
I think what I am getting at in this VERY long winded post - see, this is what happens when I don't post for like, a month -- is that I AM (bolded and underlined by me)  kicking motherhoods ass. Every day. My kids are happy. They are also 2.5 and 16 months, so that means that the world is always a little more challenging. My marriage is great, our house is a total wreck, and professionally - we are owning it. But some days, the ass kicking is an hour by hour give and take. Motherhood is out there to remind you what is at stake with these little people and not let you get too comfortable, less you let your guard down. Because the stakes don't get any higher than forming and shaping the lives of your kids.
Now, if only I could get my hair to look as great as Christina Applegates, then I would REALLY  own it.

Now Listening: the neighbors leaf blower - a stark reminder that somewhere in my schedule, the yard needs some love.

Thursday, September 08, 2011

Another Year Passes

Four years ago today my mother passed away. It seems so weird to write that … for many, many reasons. I still remember every facet of that day in seemingly oddly crisp detail. Not sure that time will diminish that memory in any way, shape or form. But I would be kidding you all if I didn’t say that not a day goes by that I don’t miss the hell out of my mom. And I don’t think that I have some idealized version of her memory that I am clinging to… My mom was a great woman, but man could we go rounds on some of the most petty stuff. She could push your buttons with the best of them. I think what I miss most is the relationship we were suppose to have at this point in our lives. I have so many questions that I didn’t even know needed to be asked. I think about my sisters and brother that said good bye to their mother before their adult lives had really started to take shape. My dad losing his wife of 34 years right as they were at that point in their lives where they were free to pick up all the things they loved to do but that with a family, aren’t the priority of the day. The mantra of “its unfair” seems to resonate the most. And it sounds petty, and selfish and bitter to say that, but quite frankly – it is unfair. Death, while inevitable, is unfair to those that are left in its wake.


In the last four years I have gotten married and had two children (ok, you got me, not in THAT order and believe me, she would have had plenty to say about that) But, these life events, THOSE were the things that my mother was waiting for. That was the joy she was waiting to experience. Seeing us grow into the people we were supposed to be. Playing with her grand kids. Reveling in the challenges of watching me parent and wanting equally to help out and just sit back and giggle with the been-there-done-that-got-a-dozen-tshirts grin on her face. I don’t think that she thought our lives were incomplete at the time, but she had the life experience behind her to know that there was SO much more waiting for us down whatever path we chose to follow.

I am not as sad today as I have been in the past. There is some truth to the adage that time heals wounds. I am not healed, as much as it has dulled a little bit. Part of it is you steel yourself against days like today, birthdays, holidays… you mentally prepare yourself for the inevitable sense of loss that hits you. And when you are prepared for it, its not as overwhelming. But then it sneaks up on you on average days, where nothing special is being celebrated or commemorated. When you are walking down the steps in your house and your 2 ½ year old passes a picture of your mom that has been hanging there since you moved in and he looks at you and says “That’s Grandma” – and keeps walking with a little toddler grin, so proud that he can not only identify the faces in pictures, but tell you who they are. Not really knowing who that is, other than the fact that his mom reminds him every day of this person who isn’t in his life, but is everywhere in his life.

In an attempt not to be Debbie Downer (too late probably), I did want to share some things about my mom that made me laugh. Two things that for whatever reason stick with me…

Cursing like a sailor. I don’t remember the first time I heard my mom curse. And I mean really curse. Not the errant God Dammits or Jesus Christ that slip from our lips when our kids are around. And they do, at an alarming rate. No, I was easily in my teens, maybe even late teens, before I heard my mom cuss for realz. And yes, with a “z” for real. And I soon learned that my mother put your average sailor to shame. My favorite of hers, alternately directed at my father and Richard (the bestest neighbor), was “eat shit and die.” It resonates, doesn’t it? Concise, to the point, and elicits a nice mental picture. Yeah. Its a good one and she was quite fond of it.

The other thing that still brings a smile to my face is an odd one. My mother couldn’t curl her tongue. You have seen dozens times dozens of people do it. From a toddler to a grandparent. Apparently, it’s a genetic thing. So somewhere in the Phillips line is a whole segment of my family that can’t curl their tongue. And. It. Drove.Her.Crazy. She would sit there and try and try. She would wrap her tongue around her finger and through all of that say “See, I can do it”. Except it sounded more like, “Bee, I stand loo it” because she had her hand in her mouth.

Those are the things I acutely remember. Along with a million other things that make a person who they are. And for the record, no, I don’t remember her ever swearing while trying to curl her tongue. Now THAT would be a memory.

Now Listening: For Emma, Forever Ago by Bon Iver

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Monday Round II

I am not a morning person. Never have been. I have distinct memories of my mom and dad spending hours (or so it seemed) trying to get me out of bed for whatever event it was that I was supposed to be attending (school or church probably). I never took 8 AM classes in college, and still roll into work around 8:30, even though I swear I am coming in earlier to get work done. My kids haven’t changed this either. Oh – I get up with them. You sorta have to. But the first 30-45 minutes entails me laying on the floor in the family room, snoozing and letting them play on and over me. Then we get coffee and slowly, our day begins. And for all of you making disapproving clicking noises or shaking your head, its not like my kids get up at 8 AM. No, her highness is a 6 AM baby – so cut me some slack. And no offense to my husband, but he doesn’t get up with them that early, at least not on a regular basis.

And even though I roll into work between 8:15 & 8:30, I still need a few minutes to read the news, check email/schedule for the day and have my coffee. This morning, for whatever reason, it was an extra battle to get out of bed. I am sure there are a million reasons for why that is, but it was a cosmic showdown kind of morning. Final score was easily 3-1, in favor of the cosmos, but the real tally didn’t come until after I was out the door.

But here I was, getting out the door a little later than I like (Cosmos: 1, Meghan: 0), running the mental checklist – cell phone; check, computer; check, coffee; check, lunch; check… by all rights good to go. Pull into the parking lot and go digging for my ass-pass/id badge that I have to have to get around the office, and can’t find it in my purse. This in and of itself, not a surprise. I have chronicled the interworking of the Mombag before. It’s a dangerous place. A forlorn place of many twists and turns that will trick and cajole the average user. Joe won’t go near it with a ten foot pole. But, I am not the average user. So I dive in deeper, looking for said id badge. When pretty much all of the contents of the mom bag were covering the front seat and dash of my car, I realized the obvious… for what is probably only the 4th time in 4 ½ years, I left my badge at home. Now, in a normal world, I would just walk in with someone and deal with the inconvenience of a lack of badge. But we have loco security policies, so I had no sooner turned off the car, than was turning it back on go home and get my badge (Cosmos: 2, Meghan: 0). The only saving grace at this point, is because I was running late, the traffic was not an issue (Cosmos; 2, Meghan: 0.5). Get home and sure enough, there it is sitting on the kitchen counter where I put it last night. And I distinctly remember saying to myself, “Self, put that in your purse so you don’t forget it tomorrow.” Further proof that I need to listen to myself more often. So get back into car and head back towards work. Again. Contemplated swinging through the coffee shop for another cup, as it was shaping up to be that kind of morning, but decided that I should probably just get my butt to work and deal with the caffeine issue later. So heading back to work and notice that the clouds that were decidedly dark on my first run to work are getting darker. And for those of you that don’t follow the meteorological trends of Des Moines, all of our weather comes in from the West. Thank you Colorado. And this time of year, storms move fast. And after unloading the contents of the Mombag only 20 minutes ago, I am fairly confident at this point, that the umbrella is NOT in my bag. Or car. Get to work and my parking space is still open, (Cosmos: 2, Meghan:1) but it has started raining. And I have no umbrella. (Cosmos:3, Meghan: 1).

Long story short – made it to work, 30 minutes later than I should have, a little wet and needing more coffee as the annoyance factor to my day was more at end of day levels than beginning of day levels. And its only Tuesday.



Now Listening: The Rhumb Line by Ra Ra Riot.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Yee-haw

I have never lived on a farm. Never lived near one. Never owned livestock. Closest I think I can claim is horseback riding lessons that I took when I was in elementary school. I think that is an important fact to start with. In fact, I could probably count on one hand the number of friends that I have that grew up in a considerably rural surrounding. I say this now because even though it’s the 8th month of 2011, election season is upon us. Not the 2011 election for planning commissions, local state representation, maybe a school board or two – nope, we are entering the fray of the big dogs. 14 months from now, give or take a week or two, we will go to the polls (HOPEFULLY) and vote for our President.

What this means is that Iowa has now been thrust to the forefront of the political race and with that, the stereo typical representations of what we Iowans stand for. Case in point, this one right here that I saw today on CNN.com

Iowa greets you honestly.As you fly into Des Moines, the state confronts you, flat and blunt, green fields disciplined by straightforward grids. The people are direct, too. Soaring rhetoric and urban glitz not only fail to impress, they seem ridiculously out of place here. Iowans dress to work, not to affect. Rhinestones are reserved for Friday night at the state fair, on women's jeans.

Now, I fully understand that the press works in generalities. They create identities, feed a ravenous public what they want to hear and generally rely more on tweets, cell phone videos and speculation when reporting than actually doing their job. This saddens me at many levels and is a whole other post. So it doesn’t surprise me that this type of editorlization of my state is happening. So queue the footage of cows, tractors and grain silos. I would be willing to bet that this person flew into Des Moines, spent maybe a few hours in town, before heading up to Ames for the Straw Poll and turned around and left. Maybe he checked out the State Fair. And don’t get me wrong, I love the Fair. I do. But my reasons for loving the Fair are its novelty. Not that its representative of the entirety of this state. But without fail, we will be depicted as old school, blunt, bedazzled, overall-wearing, yahoo’s who spend more time speculating on hog futures than if Kim Kardashian will wear Vera Wang or Monique Lhuiller for her wedding dress. Because THAT is important and indicative of a level of sophistication that clearly we are not capable of. Bottom line, it just bugs. I am not saying that I am above or superior to the rural inhabitants of this state. Far from it, the rural life can be tough, demanding and never ending in its demands on your time. But to fixate on it as it’s the only thing going around here grates on my nerves some times. And by some times, I mean roughly every 4 years when the election cycle comes around to caring about us again. Plus, if you look at the actual stats, we are not as rural as some would have you believe. According to our good friends at Wikipedia,

Iowa's population is more urban than rural, with 61 percent living in urban areas in 2000, a trend that began in the early 20th century.[55] Urban counties in Iowa grew 8.5% from 2000 to 2008, while rural counties declined by 4.2%.[65] The shift from rural to urban has caused population increases in more urbanized counties such as Dallas, Johnson, Linn, and Polk, at the expense of more rural counties
So, while this doesn’t bode well for the future of the farmer, the idea of Iowa as this bastion of farm country is a changing one. Obvious to everyone, save the press. I guess what I am saying, is that while you will watch the news over the next months, please be sure to take the depiction of all things Iowa with a grain of salt. Because if nothing else is true, this is… no one, and I mean NO ONE should wear rhinestones – state fair or otherwise, not even Kim Kardashian.

Now Listening: The Shepards Dog by Iron & Wine

Thursday, August 04, 2011

I Feel Pretty

I know that I often (ok, practically daily) bitch about my body. Too fat, too short, too…whatever. Mostly fat, but that is besides the point. The point is that I have no qualms about bitching and moaning about a few things I dislike about my body that are ENTIRELY in my control to change. I am just lazy. And I like sleep. But that doesn’t stop the complaining.

Fairly certain that I have mentioned before that I am prone to cold sores. And no, don’t let your gutter-trap minds run amok. This isn’t some slutty side effect of college experimentation or anything like that. I get em’. My mom used to get them. Fairly sure that is where they come from. Never actually had one until my freshman year at college. At the time, didn’t know what it was. But yeah – I got me some herpes and its nasty. The one thing about my body that I can’t control.

And not like you see on those commercials, where the cute little woman talks about the uncomfortable red speck on her lip. Where in 3 short days she is off to whatever it was that was so pressing. No I get the drop-down, drag-out, see em’ from a mile away kind. The kind that don’t really respond to medicine. It may shorten it down a day or so, but pretty much from that first slight tingle, its about 10 days before they say adieu until next time. I would wear a burqa right now because that’s about how pretty I feel.

And here is the lousy part … aside from the itching and pain that they cause –which is very real. For the record.

• I can’t kiss my husband. At all.

• Can’t kiss my kids. At all.

• Can’t share anything .

• Will have to buy a separate chap stick to apply to the non-impacted portion of my mouth and then throw away as not to spread.

• Have to cut up my meals into smaller than usual bites as opening my mouth can be painful. So a big-ass burger or the like? Out of the equation until I heal up.



And trust me, I get that in the grand scheme of things – this is minutiae that is like, so inconsequential its not funny. But for right now, YUCK with a capital Y.

A small Google search on ways to prevent tell me things like: make sure you get good, regular sleep; try yoga; avoid stress; exercise. Basically this is medical code for we can’t cure it, don’t know how – so just sit and spend most of your time meditating. That should keep you stress free and therefore , cold sore free. Yeah, check my life for about 10 minutes and tell me how to keep stress out of my world.

Yep. All I got today.



Now Listening: Crystal Castles by Crystal Castles

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

My Love Letter

The Gaggle.


That is the moniker that Joe has given to my group of girlfriends. Honestly, it could be worse. I am sure. And I know there is part of him that just cringes every time I go off for a get together with the girls, because save a pillow fight in our underwear (which for the record, NEVER happens boys) he knows that most of my time will be spent taking his name in vain, along with all the other significants , somewhere in the neighborhood of 1,874,243 times in a 4-5 hour span.

But the Gaggle is something I have come to love more than I can really explain. Keep in mind, I was a military brat growing up (no comment on the brat portion of that experience) and therefore had friends come and go on about a 4 year cycle. That is not to say that there are not a handful of people from my childhood that I still email occasionally and follow on Facebook, but they are the rare, rare exception. And even into high school, I tended to be more of one of the guys than the girls. Again, with a small exception – and those girls I *wish* lived in Des Moines and were part of the more regular gaggle. Nope, it wasn’t until college and post that I started to get why girlfriends are so important. This was something my mother knew very well. Her girlfriends were and ARE still a very real part of our lives.

It starts with the dynamic of the gaggle. We are all fairly similar in age – plus or minus like 5 years. We cross the spectrum of married, single, dating, living together, kids, no-kids, careers, stay-at-home, liberal, conservative, all body types, vegetarian, total meat eaters, long hair, short hair – I think its fair to say that you get the idea. Not sure what it is that ties us together, but its something. That we see bits of ourselves in each other, that we see what we want to be in each other, that we can be honest about what is really going on in our lives, cry, laugh, snort, or just hug it out bitch– all in the name of girlfriends. Because we don’t judge. Or least we try not to judge. Because as honest as we are, we can still be snarky, judgmental, bratty and sometimes just not nice. But hey, we are women, not saints. Far from it.

Prime example was last night – we managed to get a date on the calendar that at least 3 people could confirm. That’s the down side of the gaggle, scheduling is a bitch. If we get together every 2 months, we are doing great. So last night, here I was getting emotional about PUTTING MY KIDS TO BED. I am sure the wine didn’t help, but come on…

In all fairness, our bedtime ritual is pretty cute. I get a few minutes of downtime with each of the kids, one on one. And Finn always does this thing when I tuck him in, he takes his chubby little hands, puts them on either one of my cheeks and says “Hi Mama, Good night Mama” and then kisses me goodnight. And my heart pretty much melts each time.

Point being, I got a little blubbery about bedtime and they just smiled, handed me a Kleenex and probably poured me another glass of wine. After that, we headed to the living room for a dance party. See, that’s how we roll. Emotional highs and lows and a dance party. On a school night. We so crazy.

I guess what this really is, is a love letter to my gaggle. They have seen me at my worst, my most questionable and my highs. And they are always there in any of those situations with a Kleenex, a laugh and lets not kid ourselves, probably a glass of wine. And I hearts them lots for that.

Now Listening: Rolling in the Deep by Adele

Friday, July 15, 2011

The Rules

I know everyone wants to work someplace “cool”. My experience has led me to believe that there is a disproportionate amount of not-cool places to work, which means that most of us will end up in a job at a place that may have shades of cool, but probably isn’t you know, Google or Pixar.


I work at one of those places – the disproportionately not cool ones. Not for trying, I made it through 4 rounds of phone interviews at Google at one point way back when. Ah, to think…..

Must. Stop. Digressing.

But, I enjoy my work (most days) and the people I work with. In a company of a little over 500 people, there are enough people that I still don’t know to keep things fresh. But regardless of the company, the people, the place, the work… there are a few rules that I have in the office that I feel shouldn’t be broken. I consider them understood, unspoken rules. It would seem that maybe, I am alone in my belief of the rules, so I offer them to you to judge.

1. In a bathroom full of 8 stalls, there is no reason to take the stall right next to someone if there are others available.

2. You should never, and I mean NEVER, conduct a phone call while in a stall.

3. Ongoing group conversations are awkward with bathroom doors dividing you – wait till you all get done to continue discussing your recipe for Jello-fluff or whatever casserole you LOVED at the last Pampered Chef party you went to.

4. I am fully aware of the nature of the events that take place in a bathroom, I don’t need a dialogue providing MORE detail about what you are doing.

Now, allow me to explain why I feel its necessary to share the rules. We have a Wellness Committee at work. As a health care company, wellness should be part of what we do. One of the ways said committee has decided to communicate to us masses is through a program called, and I am NOT joking, Toilet Talk. Trust me, I couldn’t make that one up. And I am really good at stretching the truth a little bit. So this Toilet Talk program consists of monthly updates placed on the insides of the toilet stalls. The theory, I’m guessing, goes something like this: everyone will use the toilet at some point, and guessing they won’t have much else to do, so make them read about being healthy!! Pretty much a guaranteed audience. So the current installation of TT is concerning dehydration. Specifically, it talks about the color of your pee to gauge your hydration levels. Important information, I will grant you. However, the TMI levels on this one… pretty high. This coming from a woman who has no problem discuss her sex life, weight and anything else that you can read about in ELLE or Glamour

But I was going into the bathroom the other day with a gaggle of women from another department. So, automatically rule #1 was out the window. And they were fully engaged in some conversation that kept going once they all chose their respective stalls – total violation of #3. After a minute or two, the worst thing.. a combination of #3 & #4. One woman says to the group “ok, check your color”. Commence cackling and a chorus of people describing theirs.

Unnecessary. Totally. At so many levels.

All that needed to happen at that point was for one of them to call another on their cell and discuss it that way. I mean really, is nothing sacred any more?? And sure, you can argue that my even blogging about it is just as gross, but really --- I am not your kid, your spouse, your doctor. Therefore I have NO interest at all in what just happened. Save it for your annual physical.

So I implore of you, no matter where you work – even in Ally McBeal’s (and totally just dated myself) co-ed bathroom, the rules matter.

Ok, I feel much better having gotten that off my chest. Off to try and figure out why, when you have pictures scheduled for your family you get a call that your daughter now has a goose-egg on her forehead. Oh, and your son is still healing from the Wolverine-like scratches he got on his face earlier in the week. Daycare or Cellblock E, you make the call.



Now Listening: My Passion Pit Pandora station

Friday, July 01, 2011

The mother road....

I’m not sure what would be easier, killing a bear or stealing a cowboy’s spurs.

-Joe McConville, roughly 11:30 PM, June 27th, 2011 as we are driving into the Gusto parking lot from Colorado.
And that is how we ended our trip. So now that I have your attention, let me set the stage for the last few days of my life. Us Iowans are always coming up with new things to do in the winter. And trust me, you have to get creative. You can’t ski, snowboard or any of the usual winter playtime activities. And you have to do something less a raging case of cabin fever kicks in ….
Our answer: bacon.
I will grant you its, not a conventional choice. But allow me to explain. And most of this will be my version of the story that is captured here: http://www.blueribbonbaconfestival.com/ A while back a few crazy Iowa boys decided that they wanted to get together and honor/celebrate all things bacon. And they did. And then they did it another year, and it got a little bigger. And so on, until this year when it grew to an event of about 1800 people at the end of February and the hottest ticket in town. Sorta saying something as its pretty damn cold in Iowa in the winter. And this year, it just so happened that Gusto threw their hat in the bacon ring and decided to be a food vendor at Bacon Fest – that’s what us kids in the know call it. And, we rocked it. Two different types of bacon inspired za’ – and we couldn’t keep samples on the table fast enough. Hell, I am guessing Liz still doesn’t have feeling in her hand from slicing all those pies.
I should caveat, that while it is a celebration of bacon, complete with lectures, corporate sponsors and an attempt at educating people on bacon and its many, many nuances, it is at its core, a chance for a bunch of grown ups to eat a TON of bacon and drink a lot of beer on a cold winter Saturday. Pre-festival cholesterol checks should be mandatory. And all the vendors go crazy, our offerings …. The Elvis and the BLT pizza. The Elvis – peanut butter, applewood smoked bacon, sliced bananas, provolone cheese and then gets a little honey drizzle when it comes out of the oven. The BLT – lemon aioli, smoked bacon topped with fresh lettuce and tomato. So people get creative. Bottom line, had a hell of a good time this year at the local fest and called it a day. A sodium-beer-filled day, but a day.
Until about St Patrick’s day, when Joe says to me, they are taking Bacon Fest on the road and want us to go with them. Us = Gusto. Sounds awesome, I say, and then I follow it up with “the wives get to go” when I found out that Keystone was the proposed destination. Say what you want, but there are very few perks to being a restaurateur’s wife. At least in start-up stage. I fully expect to be making millions from pizza at some point and able to quit my job and live a lifestyle that I can grow accustomed to. But that is the future. Today’s perks include eating a lot of pizza whenever I want, but that is about where it ends. So trips like this…. automatic in my mind. And the husbands were very smart in not disagreeing. Plus, we were going to have to “work”.
So they set about trying to figure out how we take that which is amazing here in Des Moines and ensuring that it is equally amazing at 2 miles high. Solution; mobile kitchen. It only made sense. Some phone calls, Internet searches and one failed trip to somewhere east of here Iowa, and they settled on a custom trailer with all the bells and whistles that would be ready in “3 weeks”.
My definition of 3 weeks is something like this:
  • 21 days
  • 504 hours
  • 30,240 minutes

You get the idea. By all rights, the trailer should have been done sometime in early June. Please note the use of the word “should”. Much like everything with this business, it wasn’t done on time. Not even close. So while we were optimistically running under the impression that it would all work out on time, we went about planning the trip.

Let me ‘splain something. I am a planner. Its what I do for a living. And while there is a time and place to toss the agenda and just run with it –something I am totally capable of, regardless of what anyone tells you – planning a trip for 6 grown ups and a 20-ft mobile kitchen is not the time to just wing it. And I know there was some planning going on (thanks, Josh) but from my point of view, the details were a little sketchy. Which. Drove.Me.Nuts. So I went about controlling what I could. Arrangements with Grandma & Grandpa to watch the kids, the list of to-dos in advance of our departure, laundry – more laundry than I really care to think about. Like, the Everest of laundry – these sort of mundane, very house-wifey things that I could do.

So the night before we are supposed to leave the following facts where what I knew:

• The trailer still wasn’t done.

• I didn’t know which car we were taking out (advance party was taking a separate car)

• What time I was leaving

• Where we were staying.

Let me re-iterate my previous point, I am a planner. So my stress levels were over the top. Some of that was taken care of with a few calls to get the departure time and car situation resolved. Not to mention I still needed to run to the grocery store to get food for the house so Grandma and Grandpa would have something to feed my hellions. I text Joe around 10 PM, what time you gonna be home. The reply, honestly, probably 4 AM.

Awesome, methinks.

New plan, going to bed, set alarm for ass-crack of dawn and I will do a run to Wal-Mart to get food in the early am. At some point Joe did in fact come home. He stripped down in the guest room and says, I am taking a shower, I reek of bacon. From across the room, I couldn’t disagree. Few minutes later, he gets into bed and says two things to me:

I don’t think I want to go to Bacon Fest anymore.

I just cooked my body weight in bacon.

And then promptly fell fast asleep. I think this was around 3 AM. I am not sure, as I didn’t look at the clock and turned over and went back to bed myself.

So we FINALLY got on the road on Thursday morning with printed out directions (with an address!!!) to the condo and a bag full of cash. Felt pretty pimp, let me tell you. I don’t normally run with 100 dollar bills on my person, so it was a small taste of the good life. The drive out was as good as a drive through western Nebraska can be. Flat. With more flat, and sloping into flat.

At some point during the drive, we received confirmation from the guys that in fact, the trailer had been picked up and they had hit the road. At like, 3 PM. We left at 10 AM. Yeah, do the math, arrival time equals suckage for those boys. So the big, bad elephant in the room was conquered. We had a trailer and it was on its way.

So while they were getting their trip started, we were wrapping ours up. Got into Keystone and headed to our condo, which we **thought** was going to be a 3 bedroom condo for 6 people. Turns out the one that we had directions to slept 6 (and I think that was an aggressive estimate) but was a one bedroom with one bathroom. Let me repeat, 2 married couples and two 6ft plus guys in tow, and we had 1) queen size bed, 1) full size futon and 1) fold out couch.

We looked at each other and tried really hard to fake it “well, its cozy”. Uh yeah, and so is the pseudo-Mork from Ork pods that you ride up the St. Louis Arch in, but I don’t recommend 6 full grown adults in there. A few phone calls, one email later, and viola’ we had plan B. The ACTUAL 3 bedroom condo that we were expecting. And this is when the fun really started. So here we are, 3 incredibly fun peeps in Keystone without any of our collective 5 kids…. Its drink time folks. And we found them. We found them in spades thanks to the director of the festival who we found in one of the like, 4 bars in town, tending bar to a chorus of “shots, shots, shots, shots” – so yeah. We did some shots.
 Note to self, I am not 21 anymore. Hell, I am not 30 anymore. Momma is getting too old for that nonsense. But a few round of shots and beers later, it was time to go home. Keep in mind, boys still on the road. We were supposed to wait up for them. Please see previous note on the alcohol consumption. So good old dear Tim says, I will stay up. Ding, Ding…sold to the highest bidder. Off to bed I went. You could possibly offer up; off  to pass out I went, but details. And I was quite happy sleeping it off, until I was woken up at some point by Joe walking into the room and saying “I’m not very happy with you right now”. Huh, what? Turns out that when they got into town, they called Tim to let them into the condo. Small detail, he grabbed the wrong key when he went to let them in and locked all 4 of them out. At 3 AM. And normally, I keep my phone by the bed, but not that night. So when I came to the following morning, I had the following:

18 missed calls from Joe

3 text messages from Joe – sample: “Answrr the god damn phone” (typo deliberate)

And 3 voice mails that just don’t bear repeating.

Ooops. So we were off to a good start.

So how does one bounce back from a late night/early morning of lack of access?? With a oven on your brand-spankin’ new trailer that doesn’t work.


D’oh.

Yeah, we (that is the royal we) had hauled that mother 750 miles, through mountains in all hours of the night to its final resting spot (moved 3 times) in the courtyard of the River Run Resort (say that 3x fast) in Keystone and the MF’er didn’t work. Thus commenced a flurry of theories, phone calls, shrugged shoulders and a general sense of WTF? I won’t bore you with all the details, but we worked it out – a few Target runs, 12 dozen phone calls, Tony having a heart attack, stroke and aneurysm all at the same time,  some raging hangovers and one very generous local restaurant later, we had a big ass gas grill. And it worked. Thanks god. Not sure what we would have done.

OOOOHHH BACON!!

Our offerings for this foray into all this porcine, The Elvis and the 6º of Kevin Bacon. And they were dee-lish. The Kevin Bacon was just that… Bacon. In 6 different ways. With onions and cheese.

Although I am not sure all of our fellow foodies got the entire intent of the festival. One other pizza joint there was offering slices of Pepperoni and Bacon. Really?!?! You think long and hard on that one Gordon Ramsey? It obviously it wasn’t Gordon Ramsey, but had he been there, I believe he would have unleashed a well-accented, profanity laced tirade about their lack of creativity and how his 6 year old could come up with something more inventive than bacon and pepperoni.

I had one guest ask me if we had any vegetarian pizza. Listen here my Colorado hippie, you clearly smoked too much weed if you sincerely thought that at a BACON FESTIVAL we would offer a vegetarian offering. May I suggest you hit the Oxygen Bar across the street to clear your cannabis-addled brain and start over. No, we didn’t have a vegetarian option. But we had a heck of a good time. And we won the first place award in the savory category, so we now have a title to defend.

I will say that some of our party struggled a little with the altitude. Yes, the air is thinner, the sun shinier, and if you are out of shape, you are going to notice. It was gorgeous though. The last night found us with a few cocktails and my husband discussing with our waitress the locations of bears in the neighborhood as he wanted to wrestle one. And erect a statue of him beating down said bear in the main courtyard of the resort. He even tried calling for the bear as we walked from bar to bar. It was a sight. And luckily for all of us, and most of the EMT professionals in the area, we did NOT find said bear.

And then, before it was even really started, it was done. And we were packing up to go home. Minus one small detour through parts of Eastern Colorado and its effervescent feed lots, it was an uneventful trip. And then there were those darn spurs. Somewhere in the aforementioned smelly Eastern part of Colorado we stopped at a Mickey D’s for lunch. As we are sitting there eating, I hear this odd, jangling sound behind us. In had walked a gang of cowboys… all rocking spurs. Not sure if those were what separated them from the other cowboy gangs in town, but they were hard to miss. Joe looked longingly at said spurs, but wisely chose to not find himself hog-tied in the parking lot and not jump them for said footwear. But I mean come on, it wasn’t a saloon, high-noon or anything else sufficiently cowboy cliché. It was McDonalds’ for petes sake. I mean, I spent a few years in Kansas and can honestly say I never saw anyone rocking spurs. But hey, that‘s just me.


So that kids, in a nutshell, is our great trip West. I think its fair to say that we learned a lot. When in the mountains, always bring chap stick and always run the humidifier. Oh, and make sure your oven works before you drive 700 miles for a food festival.
Now Listening: The Blueprint by Jay-z

Friday, June 10, 2011

Perspective

My blog on a regular basis does not deal with serious topics. At least not seriously. But today was one of those gut-check moments for me. So if you are here in search of the usual snark and blather, might want to check back another day. Today is a little more from the heart than usual.
People are fond of saying that parenting is the hardest job on the planet. And then couching it in terms of whatever agenda they are trying to forward. I am not here to talk about the traditional roles of women, working moms vs. stay-at-home moms, or any other cause of the week.
Being a parent is the hardest thing you will ever do because it makes you vulnerable. And no one ever wants to be vulnerable. I have a quote on the wall of Finn’s room that goes something like this “Having a child is liking walking around with a little piece of your heart out in the world” We guard ourselves against it. We insulate ourselves from situations where that might be a possibility. But as a parent, you cannot escape it. This person, this little child is now out in the world and you will defend and protect them with every ounce of your being, with a fierceness you didn’t imagine yourself capable of.  You will keep them safe. It’s a silent vow you make to yourself from the moment they enter the world. But the boogey man of every parent, the one fear that we all have that keeps you up nights, the most horrible thing that you can imagine is to lose a child. The natural order of the world is counter to the very idea. Youth, innocence, promise… those things shouldn’t be quelled before they have a chance to even be understood and developed.
Today a friend lost her baby. A very young baby. I have never met this little boy. I have seen pictures on Facebook, probably even ‘liked” a few of them. But I know his parents. They are young, vibrant, intelligent, giving people to whom this shouldn’t happen. I have cried for this little boy because I cannot imagine how else to process this information. As a mother, I cannot even begin to fathom how you begin to even breathe after something like this. My heart aches for this family. I have dealt with loss in my life. I don’t know a single person who hasn’t. Yet pretending to understand what any person is going through is futile.  All I know is that this throws into very quick perspective so much of the junk that circulates and positions itself as “important” in our lives. Its not. Your family is important. Your health is important. Having a group of friends that may not know exactly what to do, but will be there no matter what is important. And yes, we will always continue to stress over money, the world that we live in, wars on distant shores,  and just making it day to day. Those things have a place in the important category. But today, for this moment, I am just going to be very thankful and more than a little sad. And I plan on hugging my kids a little tighter tonight.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Road Trippin'

Joe has this little term he likes to use when we are in one of those “dear God, I might just lose my mind if I have to do ____(insert parental chore here) any more with these screaming kids”


Making memories Meghan, making memories.

Like somehow I will look back on this moment in the distant future with a halcyon haze and think to myself “those were the BEST days of my life”. Although the idea of both kids crying, a husband who is long past his personal limits for patience and another 1 ½ in the car as the golden standard for “good times” doesn’t quite resonate with me. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The “Making Memories” phrase normally gets muttered more than one (two dozen plus) times on any sort of road trip. It almost becomes our mantra. And I should explain our road trips rarely take in excess of 3-4 hours as that is as far as we have dared go with both kids in tow.

Until this weekend.

Understand that this weekend should NOT have broken the 4 hour rule. Should not have. Famous last words.

But it was Memorial Day.

It was a LONG weekend.

It was a chance to get out of town and do something different.

In a nutshell, we were invited down to Joe’s best friends family weekend celebration. We were going to camp. And no, the camping isn’t what makes this story. THAT part, went pretty well. This coming from a girl whose idea of camping is renting a cabin. That is rustic to me. But I went along with it. Joe doesn’t get to see Jesse very often and frankly, we needed a change of pace, even a 48 hour one. So we headed south. To the town where Joe went to college. Somewhere in small town Missouri. And we had a great weekend. All things considered, the kids were great. We drank too much, there were bonfires, sprinklers, frogs, bugs, bare feet and kids running totally amok and falling asleep in a tangle of arms and legs because they had run themselves to exhausted. Basically, some sort of all-American camping weekend. At least what I would imagine that to be.

So we said our goodbyes and got into the stuffed car – whole other post on traveling with 2 small kids in a sedan – to head north. I should explain first and foremost, the trip down was uneventful. 2 lane state highway all the way. Actually a nice drive. So we get on the road and as we are headed out of town, Joe says we should swing through this little town, Lexington. There was a Civil War battle there and you can still see the cannonballs in the county courthouse in the town square.

See, wasn’t joking about small town Missouri. Town squares. Civil War. And we passed through like 3 dozen of them like that on the way down. And the populations on any one of them was never more than like, 1500 people.

So being a history dork, I think sure… we have no agenda. The kids had already fallen asleep and it was only going to add like 30 minutes to our drive. As we were right at about 3.5 hours for the drive home, seemed like a nice way to end the weekend.

So we made the turn. And took the short detour. And we made it to Lexington. And low and behold, there they were, 150 year old cannon balls still in the courthouse columns. Drove along the town main road that looks over the Missouri river. Actually, quite nice. And then we missed the other turn we needed to make.

Now for those of you that have spent any time driving state highways, there is always a town every 20 miles or so, tons of signs telling you what road you are on. And normally, taking one in the direction you are heading will result in you finding your way back to the route you had wanted. These were all facts that we were banking on. So it was novel at first. Sorta scenic and the kids were still asleep. And then we started seeing signs for Kansas City. And Joe didn’t want to mess with traffic around KC. And he says “we will go this way, I will just head north and we will figure it out”. And took a right onto some road.

Making memories.

Keep in mind one small, teeny little detail that we had overlooked in our we-will-just-head-north idea. We didn’t have a map in the car. So the well marked 2 lane highway soon turns into a road. Dangerously close to a dirt road but still paved. We are on the GPS on our phones, but it keeps jumping all over the place. My sense of novelty is starting to wear off. With that is a growing sense that we have entered Deliverance country and at any time this whole thing is going to go HORRIBLY south. Figuratively that is, not literally. Not that we would have known if we were going south. This is made all the worse when after rounding another corner of deep foliage and not a sign of humanity, Joe says to be “are you starting to wonder if at some point some militia is going to stop us and demand to know what us ‘northerners’ are doing in some goddamn foreign car driving around their land”. The answer to that was a nervous laugh and us ending up at an intersection where 3 of the options were met with a “Dead End” sign. The ONLY signs we had seen for about 20 minutes. It is at this point that Joe effectively looses it. Now, I married my husband for a number of reasons. He makes me laugh, is a great dad, has a kind heart and a devil may care smile that will charm your pants off (see my two kids) – one of the reasons that I did NOT marry my husband was for his patience. Or decided lack thereof. So between me trying to get a read on the GPS while he keeps making twists and turns, rather than just stopping to get our bearings, the string of expletives starts. Along with the throwing of the cell phone (his not mine), and a rather abrupt stop in the middle of nowhere but close to somewhere. After a rant of a few minutes in which Finn woke up – learning some new words I am sure – we got back on the road. Started seeing signs of civilization and a sign for Sugar Creek, MO. And through nothing short of total and pure luck, found our way to a marked highway that had us in North KC and looking for I-35. And another 2.5 hours to get home.

Making memories.

So in short (and according to Google maps and a rough guess of where we actually were…)

Marshall, MO to Lexington, MO – roughly 40 miles

Lexington, MO to Sugar Creek, MO – roughly 35 miles

Sugar Creek, MO to Liberty, MO - roughly 20 miles.

Making memories.

And one would think that would be the end to the drama. But no. At this point, we get gas – I was getting nervous that not only would we be stuck on the two lane back road hell forever, but at some point we would run out of gas and we would have to use some moonshine from some home still to get the car moving. So gas up. Kids awake. Turn on a DVD for Finn and I take over driving. Joe is thinking that he will get some sleep. Kids it seemed had another idea. Faolan isn’t one to be shy when it comes to letting you know what she thinks. And keep in mind, at 11 months there are only so many ways to communicate. Key among them ….crying. So about an hour into our now interstate drive, she starts getting fussy. Joe is annoyed. Fuse is all but gone at this point. Trys to calm her down. Works a few times for about 10 minutes each. But nothing is really making her happy. Pull over once and change her. Pull over again and get a bottle for her. Both times it creates a temporary reprieve. And of course, the whole time Finn is watching his movie and alternately providing a soundtrack of “Oh NO…what happen Mama??” and “LIGHTENING MCQUEEN” at the top of his voice. Add to that cacophony of toddler narration, a cranky crying 11 month old, the radio that I was trying to listen to and patience levels left somewhere with the Civil War cannonballs and you see how darn enjoyable the car ride was at this point. So Joe decides he has had it. He looks at me and says “We are not stopping this car until we get home” and then proceeds to squeeze his 300 plus pound frame into the seat –and I use that term very loosely – between the two car seats in the back of the car to keep Faolan entertained for the rest of the ride. His feet sticking out on the arm rest between the front seats.

Making memories.

I am pleased to let you know that we did in fact, make it home. In one piece. No one that much worse for the wear. And hell, we may even go camping again. But we put the kids to bed, had a drink (or two) and promptly fell asleep on the couch without saying much of anything to each other.

Making.

Memories.



Now Listening: God Willing And The Creek Don’t Rise by Ray LaMontagne and the Pariah Dogs

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

A day in the life...

I had one of those nights last night, where I was left with a small shard of sanity. And it is that very shard, that I felt the need to share.


Background. Last few weeks have been nutso. Family stuff, birthdays, Easter, more family stuff, work, oh- and two kids that are conspiring to not sleep through the night. I mean, why should they? They both knock out 2-2.5 hours naps each day, so what’s a little overhead time at say, 3 AM?

Add to that, they are both battling ear infections, last one confirmed yesterday at a noon time Dr’s. appointment. And McGirl is cutting teeth. In short, my kids are snotty, crabby, non-sleeping, drooling little beasts that while I love them more than I can express, I have wanted to turf out to the curb on a fairly regular basis lately.

So queue up the reel from last night’s installment of “The McConville’s” and it would look something like this:

Get home from daycare. 2 year old FREAKING out because he can’t have his “binky” – keeping in mind that he has a binky in his mouth. So, unless he is planning on using it to plug some other orifice (decidedly unadvisable) there is not really a reason for drama. But it was non-stop.

10 month old decides to chime in and throw a screaming fit… because I had the nerve to set. Her. Down. On. The. Family Room. Floor. With. Toys.

There is knock on the door. Its my mother in law grabbing some stuff that she left on Easter Sunday. So both kids crying, I still have my jacket on and oh, the kitchen is still in some assorted state of total chaos from the hosting of said Easter dinner. I mean, like my floors looked like a movie theatre floor after a midnight preview of the newest Twilight movie – gross.

So Grandma gets her stuff and says bye. I am trying to get the kids calmed down for 2 seconds so I can think about getting dinner ready. Finn then moves his hysteria from his ever present need for his binky to an absolute and pressing desire to be “outside, OUTSIDE MAMA!!!!!” And pressing his snotty, drooling face against the sliding glass door.

Finally get a healthy, well-balanced meal on the table – Mac N’ Cheese with some left over Easter ham thrown in for protein (beats the hot dog alternative), a dinner roll and carrots. See, carrots. I told you it was well-balanced. Both kids hork down the food. But not before getting it down shirts, in hair and basically setting the stage for bath night. And let’s not fool ourselves, I don’t have a regular “bath night” routine. I give them a bath when they are gross. Not just sorta gross – that you can fix with a wet wipe, we are talking toddler GROSS.

In an effort to keep things moving at a decent pace and prevent any further meltdowns from either front, it was bath time for both of them. This was both genius and my ultimate downfall. Get both kids in the tub – not before there was a pseudo-breakdown about how many toys are needed in the tub. Manage to get them clean, while somewhat managing to keep them both from drinking the bath water. I mean, soap in the water is one thing, but I think Finn **might** have peed in it. And while most of you would have drained the water and restarted, I couldn’t confirm so we went about our business. Go ahead, call DHS now. But the ratio of possible pee to the total water volume of the tub made it so small, it just wasn’t worth the battle.

And this is when my good idea starts to go wrong… ever try and get a 2 year old and 10 month old dried, diapered and into PJ’s at the same time? Exactly.

Get Finn wrapped in his towel, tell him to go into his room and I will be there in a minute. Take the baby and get her dried off and try to get her dressed. Which shouldn’t be a big deal, except she was playing game of “wriggle-baby” made more difficult by the lotion I had just slathered all over her.

Meanwhile, Mr. Pants-off-Dance-off is running around the upstairs buck-ass naked and shutting all the bedrooms doors, ending with him shutting himself into his room.

Get baby dressed (finally) go and open the door to Finn’s room and discover that he has now peed on his carpet.

This is about when my eye starts twitching uncontrollably.

So, go to get him diapered before something **really** nasty happens, and dressed and realize I have no diapers. Grab the baby so she won’t take a header down the stairs (see, not a totally horrible parent), pull Finn off the changing table and tell him to stay put (still naked). Get downstairs as fast as I can, dig through the Mom bag (challenge in and of itself) to find a diaper, heave my totally overweight self back up the stairs as fast as I can, baby still in crook of the arm, and get back to his room.

He peed on the carpet…. AGAIN. And I know what you are thinking, why oh, why would you leave him naked? That is just silly. Game time decision folks. Sometimes in the spur of the moment, you just don’t have time to really think.

I get him diapered, dressed, trying the whole time to keep the baby from crawling all over said pee spots on the carpet. Drop her in her crib (she starts wailing), tell Finn to keep her company – he walks out of her room and slams the door. And I go find the Resolve to get the floors cleaned up.

After all this, I get the 10 month old down. Get Finn downstairs with plenty of binky’s in tow, as I gave up on the “why on earth do you need more than one binky” argument roughly around the time of the second carpet pee and turn on whatever cartoon is readily available that guarantees’ that he will get that zombie-stoner look and sit in front of the TV for a good 30 minutes without questions. I take one look at my train-wreck of a kitchen (and the supporting movie theatre like floors) and promptly go get a beer before I do one more thing.

In short, last night was a bit of a bitch. But I did survive. I always seem to survive. More importantly, the kids survived. Hell, I even got the kitchen cleaned up. Made Joe bring me dinner as I wasn’t going to do a single thing that would potentially mess up the kitchen given that I had finally gotten it clean. Those floors, well that is another matter for tonight.



Now Listening: My “Passion Pit” radio station on Pandora.

Friday, February 04, 2011

Martyr 101

Been a bit since we have chatted. Hope all is well. Here in the snowy-wonderfullness of Jan/Feb in Iowa, the weather continues to be a hot (pun intended) topic.


It’s the STORM OF THE CENTURTY

SNOW-POCOLYPSE

SNOW-MAGEDDON

You get the picture. The weather people in this area should get Emmy’s for hyperbole. They could give Stephen Colbert a run for his money in that arena. Regardless, in my mind while snow does in fact suck, its Iowa. Its February. Its sorta expected, so deal.

One mild venting and then on to the topic of the day. And I will caution as I prepare to unleash this. I don’t mean to sound less than grateful, and understand that there are probably only a handful of people other than me that are hoping as hard as I am to see this new business be as successful as it can, oh – and I really do understand that my husband is working his ass off right now. All those things aside…

For those of you that weren’t aware, Joe has been working on getting a restaurant open for going on a year now. Well on top of buying a new house and moving this month (or I guess technically in January) all of that finally came to a head and we are open for business as of Monday.

Check out the website here: http://www.gustopizzaco.com/ or better yet, stop in for a bite.

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So what this means is that for the last 3 or 4 weeks, I have hardly seen my husband. My kids have hardly seen their dad except on their morning drive to daycare. We have conversations via text. We bump into each other in the hallways in the mornings. You get the picture. So this means I have been playing single mom to a certain degree. And by the way – mad, HUGE, GI-NORMOUS shout out to single moms/dads. I only play one on TV on occasion. I don’t know how you do it. Yikes. So while I am still working my full time (and highly stressful) job, I get the joy of coming home every night and being mom. Not that it isn’t great. Don’t mis-understand. I love my kids. More than I can explain in years and years of posts. Its just that after a long day at work, some nights you just want to be a lazy bum, and you can’t. So I am trying to keep our house together – and that’s a challenge as we still have boxes to unpack from the aforementioned move. But after working a day, spending a few hours with el-kiddos and getting them to bed, the idea of spending a couple of hours sorting and unpacking boxes pretty much blows. So if I get through 2 of them in a night, it’s a victory. So this morning, after the usual cosmic battle with the alarm clock, I am getting ready. McGirl is her usual cheering, CHATTY self. Talking to whomever will listen – and most mornings, it’s the cat. Finn is running around the upstairs, dragging his monster truck blanket (a new fav) and shouting “NEMO’s” and “TRACTORS” at the top of his voice. Which is 2-year old speak for “Mom, I would like a pack of Nemo Fruit Snacks and John Deere Tractor Fruit Snacks that I plan on shoving in my mouth and eating in one fell swoop”

Joe is getting ready and in the course of a few minutes asks me 1) where is my clean underwear 2) do I have any clean work shirts? My first response, was did you look where they are supposed to be? No. Ok, start there, otherwise, check the laundry basket. Next question, as I am frantically blowing my hair into a static-y, frizzy mess in my hurry to get out the door, is “Does Finn have any clean clothes? You didn’t do his laundry last night?” This last question had me ready to scream. No, I didn’t do his laundry, I thought he was ok. But more importantly, after dashing out the door from a hellacious day at work, barely making it to daycare before they turfed the kids to the curb, taking both kids into the grocery store for some essentials, getting them both fed, playing, putting them both to bed, taking the garbage out, emptying the dishwasher and then getting myself some dinner, I must have just OVERLOOKED the laundry situation. In short, my kid went to school today wearing jeans that he might have worn yesterday, socks that will probably make his feet stink even more than usual and a shirt that is 2 sizes to big (but is clean) and I left the house less than pleased at my husband. Yarg. I try not to play the martyr card – which is hard, as I come from a long line of accomplished martyrs. But can a girl get a break?

DEEP BREATH

Moving on….

I know that I devote way too much content here to motherhood. What can I say, it has replaced the rockstar single life I used to live as the topic du jour….Mostly, because I no longer have a rockstar single life to talk about. Oh, I am probably up at 4 AM, but for VERY different reasons. A crying baby, as opposed to a crying, drunk girlfriend or ex-boyfriend as the case may be. I used to cut off my shot intake in a night at 3 or 4 – depending on the hour and if we were going to hit an after-hours party. Now my shot discussions are around whether you should get your toddler a flu shot. So as you can see, perspective has shifted a smidge.

Thus bringing us to our ramble of the day….And today, its not so much a ramble, but a blatant self-realizing moment that needed to be shared. This morning, I was digging through my purse for my iPod. Needed some tunage (as outdated as my music collection is these days) to get through my morning. The white noise at the office is just a bit too much for me to process. So pulling things out of my purse in an attempt to find said iPod. And this dear reader is the exact inventory of my purse as of 9:07 this AM:

• Umbrella

• Package of gum

• Book of Target coupons

• An empty sunglasses case

• Wallet

• Case for digital camera – no camera, just the case.

• Case of baby wipes

• Contact solution – I don’t wear contacts.

• Broken cell phone – doubles as a toddler toy.

• 2 matchbook cars

• 2 stuffed baby rattles

• Container with baby formula – enough for two 6 oz bottles if you are curious

• Sippy cup – CARS themed

• Pair of Finn’s socks

• 4 diapers – 3 for Faolan, 1 for Finn

• 1 oversized crayon in RED.

• Chapstick

• And roughly $0.83 in change in the bottom along with a small bowl of Cheerios crumbs.

You will notice the glaring omission of the iPod.

Now, a little history as you process the above contents and mentally create a picture of how big said bag must be to hold all that….crap. My mother always carried HUGE purses. In fact, at one point, she had a purse within her purse. And I swore, that I wouldn’t go down that path. And for years, was quite successful. As the Rubbermaid bin in my closet will attest, I had purses for every occasion, style and color. But the one caveat, was that they couldn’t be big. And they weren’t. Compact, cute and stylish. Enough room for a wallet, cell phone, some make-up essentials and occasionally a camera or sunglasses. Fast forward to about two years ago (if that is possible within the time/space continuum)… and BABY. So now, you have a diaper bag for the litany of baby shit that you cart around and a purse. And for awhile, I did both.

DUMB.

So then, I moved key purse content into diaper bag. But that was short lived as inevitably, I would move stuff to diaper bag, and then promptly realize at about 11:53 AM on a Monday that my wallet wasn’t with me at work and I was going to have eat the stale granola bars in my desk drawer for lunch as I had no money with me. So what is a sorta-hip, self proclaimed small purse girl to do?

Answer: and this is one of those, unfortunate mom-moments, suck it up and accept that this, like many things you SWORE you were never going to do, is something you have to do. You get the big purse and rationalize it that carrying one big bag makes more sense than one diaper bag and a purse. And you hate it, but you do it. And then you realize why you hate it. You can NEVER, and I mean never find what you are looking for in the damn thing. I think that the dryer-gnomes that eat the one sock all the time have cousins that live in my purse and hide things that you know are supposed to be there. Yet, all I ever manage to find when I am rustling through the damn thing is receipts of stuff I bought 2 months ago, wrappers to gum and the aforementioned Cheerios crumbs. At some point, this should all get better. I mean, it has to get better. I can’t keep lugging all this crud around. Otherwise, I will end up with a left shoulder that is decidedly larger than the right.

Now Listening: The Blueprint 3 by Jay-Z