Dear Elizabeth,

I think about my grandparents very often.  I think about them because I want to preserve their spirits; I want to extract the very best from my 27 years of experience with them.  I want to learn from their mistakes, I want to continue their legacies: their individual legacies and their legacy as a married unit.

After my Pop died I was helping my Nanny go through his stuff.  I found an envelope addressed to her in my Pop's handwriting.  Inside was a letter, a love letter of sorts.  I wanted to keep the note, obviously I didn't because it was my Nanny's.  When she died I figured someone else would want it... no one has it... including me... and that makes me sad... but I'm so grateful that I saw it.  I remember exactly what it looked like... and I remember exactly what it said... and not because it was particularly profound or that I have an extraordinary memory, but because it was short.  So short that when I first read it I was slightly offended, but it was lovely none-the-less.  It read:

"Dear Elizabeth,

I love you.

Mike"


I've written before about what this woman meant to this man.  I've thought about how I want to be that woman for the man I chose to marry.  It was no secret that he took her for granted... and yet I know that if she could have, she would have killed him for dying right before their 50th wedding anniversary... and sometimes I'd wonder why... but after disecting this letter, I know. 

One of the things I got when Nanny passed was a gold ring, a simple band 3mm wide.  It was a little big on me and I don't know if she had ever even worn it, but I liked knowing it was hers.  Recently I've been taking my engagement ring off a lot, to wash dishes or change the baby's clothes.  It's a beautiful ring, and I know Dave gets slightly offended when I don't have it on.  And truth be told, I don't like walking around without something on.

So I had Nanny's ring sized so that I could keep something on all the time, something that could get wet and something that wouldn't get caught on everything.  I wore it for about an hour and my finger turned green.  It was gold-filled.  I was mildly heartbroken.  So for Christmas this year I bought an exact copy of the ring, but real gold, and I had it inscribed...

My grandfather was.... somethin' else... a real piece of work.  How Nanny lived with him, let alone stay married to him baffled me... and sometimes I wonder if I could do the same thing... and when I start to wonder that... I know I can, because despite what a ridiculous, silly, stubborn, a-hole my husband can be, I love him.. undeniably, unconditionally, and even when I hate his guts... I love him with a love that could only be divine in origination.  And when he leaves his shoes under the dining room table for the 90834650792835 time, takes his shirt off in the dining room and leaves it there for the 54754765 day in a row, doesn't take all the trash out, doesn't flush the toilet, turns on or creates every single form of noise available to him while I am in desperate need of peace, lets the children eat on my white couch even though it's against the rules, or asks me at noon what we're having for dinner... even when he does these among other things that he knows drive me bat-shit-crazy.... I know he loves me the same way...

And sometimes, that's all you need to know.

I've always cherished a hand-written note.  And the notes Dave has written me or texted me are lovely and I've saved every one...but I chose the inscription on my new ring purposefully...

I gave the jeweler two options; one of which was "Proverbs 31:10-31"... The first of those verses is "When one finds a good wife he has found treasure more valuable than pearls."  That was the first reading, the reading I had to read, at my Nanny's funeral... the reading that was ingrained in my head from the first time I read it because no words were ever so perfect or appropriate.  This is who she was, it was her legacy... and it's who I strive to be. 

The other option I gave is the one which they used.  When I picked up the ring I didn't know which inscription had been used and when I read it, I cried.  In front of the girl, in the middle of the store.  I couldn't help it.  The ring reads "Dear Elizabeth, I love you. Mike"

When it started, he proposed and she said no.  It took a number of times before she finally agreed and even at that her parents were pissed.  He was complicated, her life was hard at times.  Like mine.  I'm blessed, truly truly blessed, but this is hard sometimes.  Sometimes... it's hard.  And marriage is hard... but their love story... the "till death do us part" story.... is a simple story... and that's their legacy...

 

Knowing that my husband's letter would say what a great mom and wife I am, that we're soulmates, that he's so lucky to have me... maybe my grandfather couldn't say that... maybe he just figured he'd cut to the chase and just throw it out there...

"I love you." 

Because sometimes, even on the hardest day, or in the middle of a blow-out fight where you throw a paper plate at your husband's head as if it were a very sharp stainless steel disc and scream profanities at him in front of all the neighbors on the busiest Saturday afternoon there ever ever was.... perhaps... in order to move forward together.... perhaps that's all you need to know.

I bought myself a piece of jewelry for Christmas.  I can't call it a "wedding ring", but it's a "marriage ring".  I'll have it blessed and I'll wear it ... because I need people to know that in it's simplest form, I'm working hard at this.  When it's easy, when it's hard, when it's nearly impossible....

I'm a complex woman.  emotional.  outspoken.  I'm a piece of work.  I knew someone else like that... and if I had to write one last letter to my husband....

Dear David Lars, I love you. Jaclyn

p.s. if you die on me right before our 50th wedding anniversary, I will kill you.

...and it breaks my heart a little every morning...

I get approximately 6 hours a week, two hours three mornings a week, that my older children are in school.  It's nice not having to worry about them and knowing that they're more than likely having fun. 

Every morning I drop David off and every other morning after I drop him off I take Fiona to school.  I'm usually late dropping David off, and this is partially intentional so that I don't have to park, take the girls out of the car and wait for the teacher to come.  Usually by the time we get there the teacher is already there or she's just taken the children in.  Regardless of what time we get there, there are always a slew of the pre-k parents still standing around chatting.  But I won't do that.  There are a couple of reasons why I don't: 1. I will not lose sleep so that I can shower, dress, and put makeup on to show my face in public when it's not necessary. 2. I do not have the time, patience, or stamina, to stand there with my two younger children just to watch David stand in line. 3. Lastly, when David started the 3-year old program at preschool he cried every morning, hysterically.  I always walked away knowing that he would be better once I left.  By the time he started the 4-year old program he cried one day and the next day he said: "Mom, if you walk me in I'm going to miss you and cry, if you don't walk me in, I won't cry." So I made arrangements with the teacher to say "Hi, David!" loud enough that I would here her from the door and know that he got to the classroom... and I never walked in with him again.  And he never cried again.  So when it came time for him to start at a new school, he was totally fine with going by himself.  And it kills me. 

So every morning I pull up to the curb as close as I can get, I open the door, he jumps out, I put his school bag on him, tie his shoes and he runs all the way down the sidewalk, through the pack of parents and either gets in line or walks into the school.  His schoolbag bounces as he runs and I can see his red shoes through any crowd as I stand by the car... I always wait...just in case he looks back.... and he never does... and as proud as I am that he is so smart, and independent, and confident...it breaks my heart a little every morning.

Remembering how much I loved staying home as opposed to going to school, I'd think that Fiona would be thrilled to come home with me... but no.  She cries when she doesn't have school.  Every time we pull up to the house she asks me to take her to her school now... "dough my dool now mom?" 

When David went to preschool, I dressed him like a little model most days, I'd layer him and he'd wear his button down with a nice sweater and his chukka boots... I loved dressing him like a little man.  As he got older, I let him dress so that he could be comfortable, but the teachers always noticed and commented on how nicely he was dressed; it just validated my belief that well-dressed children are better-liked and treated more kindly.  (I also believe that a polite, well-behaved child is liked best, but well-dressed and well-groomed are a very close second). 

In Fiona's case, being that she's still very difficult to understand, I always dress her in little women clothes, because the teachers respond well to it.  I've confirmed with some teacher friends that it is easier to be patient with a well-dressed child.  Think about it... When a well-dressed child approaches you, don't you first smile?! 

So every morning I walk her up to the line of aids waiting to escort their assigned children to their classrooms... and all the aids start smiling and commenting when they see her... so she looks at everyone and says hi and she's immediately distracted from the fact that I even exist.  Once I pass her hand to the aid, I start walking backwards towards my car... because I don't want to turn away from her.  She's always big smiles when she's walking into school and waving to the other aids.  And she says "bye, mom!" without even looking back... her school bag is as big as her body, she's holding someone else's hand... and she's excited to be going towards the day ahead, it doesn't even phase her that she's walking away from me.  I'm so proud of her... she's so social and resilient and persistent in trying to work with the limitations she's been dealt, she's outgoing and confident and communicative despite everything.... and the fact that she knows her limitations and seeks help to overcome them... I'm so proud of her.... and watching her accomplish these things and walk into school... it breaks my heart a little every morning.

My mother is not an outwardly emotional personal.   I cried every morning of first grade, and always wished she would come back for me... I didn't understand why it was so easy for her to leave.  As I got older I walked to school and I'd think "couldn't she just drive me?" Or when we went wedding dress shopping, we never had that moment when she saw me and cried.  I never understood why my mother was like that, except that I knew her mother, with whom I was very close, was the same way.  It took me a long time to accept my mother for who she is and not dwell on or resent her for who she isn't... I still struggle with it sometimes... but lately, she gets mad when people refer to her as "cold" and she tells me "I am emotional"....

Well, I am emotional.  People know this about me.. sometimes I'm a little too quick to share my emotions and most times I'm too quick to embrace my emotions... but when it comes to my children, masking my own emotions, encourages them to determine their own.  I'm glad they don't turn around, if they did they'd see how much I miss them already.  If they only knew how much I missed them before they were even out of my sight... if they really knew how I feel... what a drag that would be for them, to concern themselves with my feelings would only hold them back... so naturally, I have to walk in faith and be proud that they feel so loved and confident in themselves... that they don't have to look back... that they can smile as they walk into a different territory... a territory they've established without me... and it breaks my heart a little every day. 

You're invited!

Loaves and fishes. Matthew 14:13-33

I've heard this reading time and time again.  Despite the fact that my attendance to mass has not been consistent over these past 10 years or so, it seems I'm always there for this gospel message.  I've taken a lot of lessons from this particular message and perhaps I'll get back to them later... for now... this time, the pastor talked about family dinner and everyone celebrating.  (Naturally I felt like this was my grandfather's way of telling me to stop fighting with my husband about dinner and just cook it) but that wasn't the point this time.  What strikes me and really draws me to my church community is the Pastor: he knows me.  He knows the congregation.  He remembers names, stories, family members, milestones; it's fascinating and refreshing and fosters an environment where one feels like they belong.  Father also notices who comes to church and how often... he's not judgmental about it, but in his homily he mentioned that in the parish community there are some parishioners who do not attend church at all, some who come for the major holidays, some who come here and there and some who come every week.  What I took from Father's message is that it's not necessarily our job to bring people to church or guilt them into it, but to invite them, just ask.  That's what I keep hearing over and over again and I can't stop thinking about it.

I hate getting invitations.  I immediately think: what else do I have to do, what will I have to do to get the kids there, will I have the money for a gift, do I have time to get a gift, etc.  But there's always a feeling like... if they care enough to invite me, of course I'm going to at least try to get there.  There's an honor bestowed upon you to know that this person cares enough to request your presence.  It feels good to be invited.  Sometimes it feels bad not to be invited. 

I think about children on a playground.  There's always the kid sitting by himself.  But were they asked to play?  Did you ask them to play?  If you were the child how did it feel to be asked to play?

We all have talents... sometimes we're embarrassed or shy to display our talents, but doesn't it always feel good to be asked?  My house is a mess and I know you're good at organizing.. would you help me?  UM.. YES! 

It's a struggle to get out of the house for me sometimes... and many times it's either because I'm either exhausted or just simply lack the motivation, but the other day my cousin sent me a text... she was overwhelmed with her house (she just moved and she's 9 months pregnant... yikes).  A couple of days later she said she might need my help.. she implied that "eventually" and at my leisure she could use my help.  I packed my kids up so fast, rushed over there, moved things, painted, fed my children... I felt accomplished in some kind of way... but that's my thing!  I love helping and I love organizing and being able to see the difference.  I was invited and I benefitted!  She kept thanking me for my help, but I was grateful she invited me to help her!

A girlfriend of mine lost her dad a couple of years ago; he was really young and it was very sudden and... tragic really.  She just had her first baby and before she went in, I asked her if she wanted to come to church.  She didn't... but I wish she had because the gospel was about Jesus walking on water and inviting Peter to do the same.  When Peter began to doubt him, he started to fall and the Lord said "Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid."  The pastor asked us to remember that line... "Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid."  My favorite song of all time is "You are mine" .... love that song... I've heard that song throughout my entire life and I've always loved it.  I very distinctly remember where I was sitting in St. Laurence Church when the lyrics resonated with me when I was seven years old.  I remember where I was sitting at my Nanny's funeral twenty years later... I remember being suddenly overwhelmed with sadness wondering and worrying about the fate of my family now that our leading lady has left us and then I heard "Do not be afraid, I am with you...."  and suddenly I knew, that she hadn't left us, because she was there.  My girlfriend about to deliver her baby may have already believed that her father was with her in spirit, but to hear it out loud, to feel the music through your body, you can't help but to KNOW you're not alone. 

I'm a spiritual person, but I especially appreciate the silence because of this song...

"I will come to you in the silence..."

I believe in the silence I can be in my grandparents' presence again.  I can talk to them.... and they are with me.  I believe in the silence I am in God's presence. 

"I will lift you from all your fear..."

and I find strength... in the silence... in their presence...

"You will hear my voice, I claim you as my choice, be still and know I am here...."

To be silent, is sometimes a choice.... to actively seek out silence.... but it is an invitation.... it is an invitation for the Lord, it's an invitation for whomever you need, it's an invitation for strength and peace...it's an invitation for prayer, reflection, gratitude... be silent, feel blessed, do not be afraid... you're inviting home... you're invited home. 

"Do not be afraid, I am with you.  I have called you each by name.  Come and follow me, I will bring you home; I love you and you are mine."

I don't sing to my children often, but often when I sing to them, I just sing that line... so that they always know how to find home... so that they always know they're loved... and that they're mine.... forever... and it is divine.

So in case my children need the invitation one day, I will pass on this faith tradition and in case they get lost, perhaps the invitation will come full circle and they'll find their way home.... or maybe it'll be your children... or you.  You're all invited!  I'm inviting you...

Throwback Thursday

You know the feeling right before you cry?  Like you can feel your heart breaking, your chest is heavy and the feeling moves to your throat.  Sometimes you can calm yourself down but if you think more about it the feeling moves from your throat to your nose, your eyes start to water and it's over. 

Last week was Fiona's follow up with Neurology.  Her MRI was normal a couple years ago and she's made so much progress since then that I wanted to give her a little break from all the appointments.  It had been a year since she was last there so I just wanted to check in.  I really love her neurologist; he's amazing... and somehow, I think he may even remember us; if he doesn't, he's an amazing liar, but he remembers her.  He's part of the neuromuscular clinic at CHOP; I feel so lucky to have found him because he takes time to get to know Fiona and to really evaluate her and I respect his opinions and recommendations. 

The last time we saw him he couldn't believe how far she had come.  I was hoping that last week's appointment would be the same.  But it wasn't.  It's heartbreaking to learn that your child is struggling, but when they start to make progress you just want to hear that they're getting better.  Her brain was normal, we have come so far... and at the very end of the meeting he tells me he hears a murmur.  He wants a consult with cardiology, ophthalmology, a sleep study and a repeat MRI. 

I'm sick of hurdles.  I don't want to face any more hurdles with this little girl.  I wish it was me instead.  I wish it was me who needed all these tests done.  I wish my eyes crossed instead of hers.  I wish I had to crawl up the steps. 

She is resilient.  Some have tried to comfort me saying "she's perfect"... she's perfect alright: she's perfectly stubborn, she has perfect selective hearing, she has a perfect outdoor voice that mostly gets used indoors, I know she doesn't understand what she's going through and I know she probably doesn't care.  More than anything I think she loves all the individualized attention she gets at therapy.  But when we've worked so hard, I want the doctor to say: She looks good. Keep doing what you're doing. 

So this morning was our ophthalmology appointment.  We were there for four hours.  I scheduled it for 7:30 a.m. thinking we'd be the first in... it's hit or miss... it was a miss this time.  I was so worried about waking up and getting there on time that it wasn't until we were on time and on our way that it dawned on me: I don't know if I can hear that something else is wrong.  My chest got heavy and the tears started to well... but wait! Wired 96.5 is having Throwback Thursday... and I'll be damned.. Backstreet's back alright!  Thank God I just went back to high school.  I can still see Gina Peracchia and Kristin Mangam in the halls with their headphones listening to BSB... I cannot believe that anyone ever put these lyrics together and seriously thought "this is a hit!"...

I turn onto Chestnut and yes, that's right I'm a "Ghetto Supastar, that is what you are, come away with me, to a better place we can rely on each otha unh hunh"  I am a ghetto supastar, as I roll down the streets of west philly... yeah girl... Fiona and I are dancin'... I still got it... look at me driving with one hand, damn I'm good. 

About to turn onto 34th street... "last song of Throwback Thursday, maybe this is what you need on your way into camp or work or wherever you're going this morning: N'Sync" ... YES!  "God must've spent a little more time on you" ...NO!  PLEASE NO!  This was going so well...

"Can this be true, tell me can this be real"... God, I love this little girl...
"How can I put into words what I feel"... she'll never know how much I love her....
"My life was complete, I thought I was whole, Why do I feel like I'm losing control"... I wish I could take this from her...

"I never thought that love could feel like this
Then you changed my world with just one kiss
How can it be that right here with me
There's an angel, it's a miracle"... she is my little angel baby... she was my baby girl dream come true... a little mini-me with spunk and attitude and work-ethic... she's a fighter, this little baby girl... she's better than I was... and I'm better because of her... and we'll get better together, whether she wears glasses or crawls up the steps or whatever...

"... Your soul is like a secret that I never could keep"... I hope everyone you meet knows how special you are... and if they don't, be sure to tell them...
"When I look in your eyes I know that it's true: God must have spent a little more time on you." ... I don't know why I got her, and I don't know why she came like this, but if I couldn't have bared the burden myself, I can at least try to take her load off... 

 

I know there are children worse-off and I'm grateful that Fiona's condition is manageable, as far as we know, but every appointment we go to, whether it's therapy or a specialist... or even a trip to the grocery store or a play-date or a family party, I'm holding my breath: How is this gonna go?   And I think that about her life: How's it gonna go?  She has special needs, so did God spend a little more time on her?  He sure as hell did, because this baby was born a champion, she's a supastar,, ghetto or not... and she's gonna dance... and she'll probably drive with one hand... so I guess I got my answer... it's gonna be fine. 

 

Wired 96.5.... you brought me up, you brought me down, you brought me center... but it's gonna be fine. 

 

The new three

Whenever I am faced with someone in need, I always try to help.  I can't help but to help; I can't resist.  I feel blessed to be a fighter.  I feel blessed. period.  I am so fortunate and to be in the presence of someone less fortunate, I can't resist the desire to help.

Dave came home a couple of weeks ago telling me that he wants to help his friend from work.  I only half listen to his work stories because a lot of the time it's all gossip and hear-say and it gets on my nerves.  What Dave wanted to get out of the conversation was my approval to spend time at his friend's house helping him refinish the basement for his teenage niece/nephew whose parents were screwed up and this kid is now staying with Dave's buddy.  Fine.  Of course, he can help his friend, especially for a good cause.  What I took from the conversation is that this teenager also has three siblings who are in foster care and if they don't find a permanent home by October, they will probably be split up. 

I can't let that happen.  I don't know all the details, but I can't walk away without getting the details and at least trying to help.  I responded to Dave's story saying "of course we can help!  We'll take them!"  Since then I have made comments here and there to Dave about how "Mary Elizabeth can't wait to meet her new brothers and sister" or "We'll have to get the basement ready for our new three."  Dave told me he'd get to that right after the divorce and he'll take the original three (over my dead body) but you should all know by now that that's how Dave and I communicate.

Anyway, so I haven't really stopped thinking about these kids... I can't. 

The first time I felt responsible for other people's children was after Hurricane Ike in 2008.  On the news they were showing people from Philadelphia bringing Haitian orphans to America.  After watching it I said to Dave "Should we take one?"  At the time it was more like a whisper.

When I was pregnant with Fiona, after I found out she was a girl, I was inspired to give her the best little girl room.  So I learned to sew and I made almost everything in her room.  I made it because we didn't have any money and it dawned on me that every kid deserves a cool room.  Some parents aren't crafty or may not have the resources (financial or otherwise) but there was no reason that any kid couldn't have a great space.  So I started thinking about wanting to help children by creating beautiful spaces for them... where they could become positive products of their environment.  Dave and I started running through ideas and building a business plan.  But I couldn't do it for profit and a non-profit costs money to start, so I put it on the back burner... it's now a little bit louder than a whisper...

I started to blog shortly after the "birth" of Products of Environment and I mentioned in a previous post that I wanted to help less fortunate children.  Lately it's been bugging me that my children have SO MANY TOYS... it's disgusting... I don't think they appreciate them, they don't even play with them properly... most of the time the just take them out, throw the pieces around and then call it a mess for mommy to clean up.  I make them clean it up when I have the time and energy and patience, but most of the time, I end up cleaning it up.  I've threatened David that I would throw away the broken toys and give the rest to the poor kids.  I want my children to value their belongings and take care of them.  But I also don't want to use generosity as a punishment... I want them to realize how fortunate they are and be willing to sacrifice something for someone else.  I want them to understand that the greater gift is the opportunity to give.  How do I teach that to a 3 and 4 year old?! 

So now back to these three siblings.... Dave is like my father: anything I say his initial response is always "No."  But having grown up with my father, I'm practically a master litigator.  I've said "what if these were our children, I wouldn't want them split up."  That wasn't enough.  I started to look up fostering children in Pennsylvania and I'll be damned, don't they have a waiting children list?! As I'm going through this list, I'm just thinking that these kids don't need toys, they need love.  And the system needs salesmen to help find these kids homes.  I've seen on the news "Wednesday's child", which is an amazing program, but besides trying to sell the kids, someone needs to sell the idea of loving these children; to whatever capacity one is able. 

So should I foster these children?  Is adopting them the right thing?  I don't know!  Dave worries about affording it, but we've always worked it out.  And how will it affect our children?  Our children will be better for it.  What if the kids are sick?  Would we turn away a sick child!?!  What if they find out we're crazy.  Well, if we can't do it, then we won't.... but this is one of those cases where I truly believe "God's will be done".  I said to Dave, "we are so blessed, we have this beautiful house and family and we have a great support system of family and friends... I can't know about something like this and turn my back to it, I can't knowingly walk away without at least trying to help."

Whether or not we end up adopting these children or fostering them or hopefully their mother will be able to take them back or maybe someone else might read this and be in an even better position than I to help these kids.  Maybe the best way I can help is to spread awareness about this situation.  I recently watched Our America with Lisa Ling about the foster children in LA; in the beginning they showed an older sister saying goodbye to her younger brother who was placed somewhere and she was left behind... these kids don't know their fates, and not only are they worried about their own fates, but the fates of their siblings.  They don't need a designer home, designer clothes, shiny toys or perfect families.... they need each other, they need us... you and me and all the regular people who know other regular people who might be able to find them a room. 

The Holy Family is knocking on your door... which inn keeper are you?
 

the doc is IN

The most amazing thing just happened...

My husband is an amazing story teller.  He could climb a small mole hill and suddenly he's seen Everest... he uses very dramatic language... if he hasn't eaten in a short while he's "starving"... who cares about starving children in Africa when this overweight man is hungry?!?! 

One of the things I love about him is that he is my partner... he's with me every step of the way experiencing all the same problems and most of the time they're WORSE!  Poor guy. I felt terrible for him when I was pregnant, he had terrible reflux, he was nauseous and he was exhausted!!  I know I'm exhausted after running around after my kids all day, but that's not the actual cause of my exhaustion... no! it's the bed, the mattress, the pillow, the lack of nutrition or fluids, etcetera and so forth... I don't even bother calling a doctor or giving medical history to anyone anymore... I just simply say "I have a headache" and BAM!  My husband telekinetically syncs with my being and yes folks, he not only feels my pain, but it's usually worse and he knows why!  He's like a magician!   My husband is brilliant, he can self-diagnose and self-medicate instantly.  Many doctors have told him that perhaps stress causes some of his ailments, but NO!  DON'T YOU TALK NON-SENSE TO MY HUSBAND, you lowly-but-highly-educated-and-experienced.. DOCTORS... FOOLS!  YOU ARE ALL FOOLS... my husband will show you!  You haven't done HALF THE READING AND RESEARCH THAT MY HUSBAND HAS DONE.. UPENN SHMUPENN, DR OZ!  MY HUSBAND COMES FROM THE SCHOOL OF GOOGLE!!!  Do not discredit the power of MAYOCLINIC OR ASK.COM!!!!

Today we have finally found a possible cause of a terrible plague my husband has been hit with.  My husand can not figure out why he is not losing and in fact, possible gaining weight.. The numbers may or may not be accurate because we have only utilized three tools of measurement (scales, if you will) and only two of them are reporting the same results.  WHYYYYY?!?! WHHHYYY does this beautiful man have to be faced with such challenges?!?!  It MUST BE MUSCLE MASS!!!!  Yes, muscle mass... based on the journal entries recorded in my mind-files, there have been at least two reports of working out "everyday"... of course that doesn't mean every day of the calendar week, it's every day of the work week... we're talking WORK week people.. Who uses the term EVERY DAY when referencing a calendar week.. you imbeciles!

In further developments, over the course of REAL time, there have been further entries contradicting the measure of time, and so perhaps every work day is not 5 days a week, after all, not everyone WORKS 5 DAYS IN A WEEK... Some full-time students can only work part-time, so maybe four days in a calendar week, and some nurses only work three 12-hour shifts! 

Last night a variable and possible ground-breaking resource came to my attention... with all of the advances in technology, there must be a way that the gym would have a record of the actual number of times this muscle-massive man has been to the gym.  I briskly went inside to page through the Google medical journal and found the phone number... even in the midst of all this turmoil, my diligent husband is still reporting journal entries.... "TWO DAYS"  yes, perhaps on an "average" basis it could be TWO DAYS... I FEEL THERE IS A LIGHT AT THE END OF THIS TUNNEL... but we must wait... "Yes, I'm calling on behalf of my husband, we're looking for a record of his visits for medical..."  "Yes, maam, medical reimbursement from your insurance company?"  YES!  FINALLY A SIGN OF INTELLIGENT LIFE ON THIS PLANET!  "Yes, human resources needs it for reimbursement".... but these long term findings and records must be sent by a certified gym management professional and he is on his break.... so today, in all of it's glorious sunlight, an email is received and a smile is brought to my face.... THERE IS HOPE AFTER ALL, PEOPLE!!!  Maury!!! The results are in!!  Dave, in fact you ARE A LOSER.... but not of weight!!!!  ONE DAY.  ON AVERAGE.  To be most accurate: in 174 days of this calendar year (24.857142 weeks to date), the "member#75432" , has been to the gym 30 days... so without exaggeration 1.206 times per week.  Is that different than every day? every work day? YES! yes it is and I feel like the U.S. JUST WON THE WORLD CUP!!!  WE HAVE ARRIVED FOLKS! 

Now I'm having trouble breathing... perhaps it is the laughter I cannot resist... I may need a doctor... JACLYN: 1, DAVE: 0.

the missing piece

 

I. LOVE. THIS. BABY.

I send texts to Dave randomly and often just saying "I LOVE THIS BABY".  I don't usually tell him which of my babies I'm referring to, sometimes I'm referring to one, some or all, but I LOVE THEM.  I tell them and I don't know if they hear me.  I feel like expressing my emotions with words, even pleasant words, sometimes degrades the magnitude of the emotion I'm trying to express. 

Dave and I very consciously chose to have each of our children.  With David we didn't think it would happen.... with Fiona we figured we'd "see what happened"... but with Mary Elizabeth we felt like there was a person missing... so we tried and a week later she was on her way.  We initially thought we were missing John Henry, but that became a really weird name when we realized he didn't have a weiner... but she is the sweetest little baby.

My girlfriend has a daughter, almost 2 years old, and she's thinking of trying for another baby.  Somehow it came up in conversation (and I think it's a concern that all mothers of a first child struggle with), how can you love a child as much or more than your first?!  I could never put it into words until I said it out loud... "It's amazing, but you love each one individually as if they're your only one."  One of the things I loved/love about Fiona was that she brought out the sweetest things in David which made me love him more.  And before Dave and I thought a third baby was an option, I really thought I did not like having an infant.  When David was an infant I was pregnant and when Fiona was an infant I had a toddler; it was hard and overwhelming and I shed a lot of tears while taking care of infants.

While I was pregnant with Mary Elizabeth I would openly tell people how much I was dreading having an infant (just to clarify: I did not dread having a baby, I dreading having a helpless new infant).  David and Fiona became much easier when they became a little more independent.  With an infant, you are their everything; you are their every body part, every movement, every everything.  But Mary Elizabeth helps me remember the best things about David and Fiona as infants. 

David was premature, so he was so little, we brought him home at 5 lbs 3 oz.  We had to watch his bilirubin, so I'd lay him naked in front of a window on my bed to get the sunlight.  He was SO SMALL.  The saying is true: you forget how small they are.  I loved that his whole leg fit in my hand.  David was the last baby my PopPop held and I remember him laughing saying how his whole body fit in the palm of his hand. ... See where this baby takes me?!  She's small, she's now in the 6% for weight, but I love that she's small because it makes me feel like I have more time with her and it gives me a minute with David again.  Not that I want her to be unhealthy, but she's just a small baby and I love her, all the little itty bitty parts of her.  Dave and I always tell her how big she's getting and now David does too.  This morning David said "look at those big legs!"  Her legs are like bones with a little bit of chicken fat wrapped around them... She's four months and weighs in at almost 11 lbs now... she's huge :)


She has this smell about her.  She drools a lot, but not as much as Fiona did, which I totally forgot about until M.E. woke up one day smelling like my first baby girl... it's like smelly feet and milk... not sour milk, but maybe sourdough bread or something, with a splash of something sweet.... I know that's the worst description ever, which is why it's about damn time someone invented some kind of smell-ivision... I guess it would be telesmell... but it reminds me of Fiona.  The first time I smelled it on M.E. it reminded me that I had nicknamed Fiona "Stink" when she was an infant.  She had this crazy little stink about her and I loved it.  Smelling it again on M.E. was like smelling crayons...suddenly it teleports you right back to your first day of school... it was as if I had gone back and had a few more seconds with Fiona as an infant.

Even though it's the same little stink Fiona had, it feels like the smell is distinctly hers.... I just want to remember it... I feel like I should keep some formula on hand for the rest of my life and when necessary just swoosh it around in my mouth and spit it out on a onesie and see if it has the same effect. 

Sometimes I just sit and smell her... she's so cute.  When I kiss her little cheeks she tries to eat my face like a tiny attack dog in slow motion.  She looks at David and Fiona like she's known them forever... as if to say "Hey guys!  Do you believe I'm finally here?! Isn't this great!  Let's play!"  Her expression when either one of my other kids starts talking to her reminds me of Olaf from Frozen... she's just so excited to be near them... The way she and Fiona interact amazes me.  I don't have a sister, but it's like they understand each other and have this life-long bond... like they're soulmates.  The first time the baby "talked" it was because Fiona told her to.. "Tah, Beh bee, tah". 

After a lot of body awareness talk with Fiona, I put together that the baby would stop crying during diaper changes if I held her hands and feet together.. helping her to feel safe in fetal position.  The kids would help me hold her hands while I changed her diaper.... they just love her... like they'd do anything for her... and she loves them!  David says hello to her and her face lights up like he just told her the most exciting story ever... if she could speak it'd be like she was saying "Wow, David, that's amaaaaazing!"  There's this amazing and undeniable bond between them... She makes them feel so happy and so confident and so important... and all she's really done so far is exist! haha.  omg, I LOVE THIS BABY.  I prayed that she'd breathe and I prayed that she'd move, I knew she'd be a great addition... but she's so much more ... she was the missing piece. 

Lucky in love.

My girlfriend asked me to be a guest blogger on her blog: bizzymamas.   I was HONORED!  Similarly, after Mind Reading, a childhood friend shared my post on facebook.... WOW!  THANK YOU! 

I started journaling when I was 7... and in college I lost it a little bit, but writing has always been a very rewarding experience for me.  I always wanted to write a book, but I never had a specific story line or genre in mind and never thought I could come up with enough material... but in the way of this blog there are so many things I want to accomplish with this.  I don't know how to organize the material, I know it'll figure itself out.

I originally started journaling on the computer because it was faster for me to type than hand-write everything.  (Even though I think anything hand-written is far more personal).  But then I started losing everything every time a computer died... so when I had Fiona I figured blogging and posting something to the internet might be the one way my kids might be able to find me.  So I started blogging for my kids, that was the intention anyway.  To deny that it's helped me would be a such a blatant lie and one cannot overlook the benefits of self-expression. 

When Stephanie asked me to be a guest blogger, I thought: but my blog doesn't really have an identity and how can I benefit your blog... besides its identity, I have ONE follower (thank you, cousin Ashley... there's a reason she's the favorite cousin in the family and we'll gladly give her that)... But I don't want to pigeon hole this blog because there are too many things I want to accomplish here:

I've always wanted to have a collection of my favorite things and be able to offer them to others... like Oprah at Christmastime... in case they might also become some of their favorite things... or in case they need to find a nice gift idea for me (hint hint Lars...jk)

I want to record things my children do so that they will have memories and I can live with them forever :)

I want to record things that I do so that my children will know the right thing to do and I want to record things my husband does so they know what not to do... and so that I can fill my arsenal of black mail... don't we all wish we had one of those typer-ladies from the courtrooms... hey honey, the records indicate very clearly right... here... in fact, yes you did say that. But seriously, I want my marriage to be remembered... so that when it's over... possibly before we die or in the event that one of us should kill each other, there will be witnesses.... and in case it sounds like a fairy-tale in 20 years, I'll know the truth... and who knows?! it could very well be!

I want to leave my babies lessons.. and this comes from the mom with cancer and another blog I've read that inspired me to do this.... I can't think of it right now, but I'm gonna post it on here in a hot flash... I'll also get back to the mom with cancer. 

I want to serve underprivileged children... I tried to do that in another way, but I think this is my outlet... because it's not just about the kids, it's about the parents... obviously there's a special place in my heart for moms. 

I want to spread God's word... I want to spread his Love... I want to give hope to whoever may need it and whoever may find it here.  I want to spread laughter... I want to spread a message: that I'm so grateful.  In the hardest of times... I'm still grateful.  I want to spread the word that happiness isn't about perfect children, perfect marriages, perfect houses, perfect lives, perfect days.. it's not about perfection at all...it's about gratitude.  A high school friend, Gina, once posted somewhere.... and I think of it often..."Happiness is not about having what you want, but wanting what you have."

To be clear, I do not think I am a professional advisor of any kind nor do I find myself qualified to tell others how to live their lives... I want to spread the message of Love to me, I want to spread it to the day that I can't finish my coffee and to the day when I'm sitting home by myself drinking my third cup of coffee because my children don't need me to pour their milk.  And if someone else should find it... and if we can share the message.. then we'll know we have company... and we'll be reminded that we're the  lucky ones.  Yeah, we're the lucky ones.

Blessed, not broken.

I am a stickler for calling a spade a spade.  My husband and I often get into arguments because I say something like "no" and he hears "maybe".  What I say is exactly what I mean and what I mean to say is exactly what you just heard.  Perfection is an unrealistic expectation in this life, but efficiency is not.  I strive to be efficient and direct in my home, in my words, in my spending, in every conversation and every chore.  It has come to my attention that perhaps my last post was misinterpreted or misdirected and so here we go:

Last week, the dreamy relationship "expert" on KL&Hoda started out his "Nice guys should finish last" segment saying (paraphrasing) "Sometimes the nice guys end up hurting those they intend to help."  KL and Hoda were not having it, they insisted that "nice" guys are nice... poor nice guys always finishing last and now someone's confirming that they SHOULD.  KL saying "oh I got the perfect mix of a nice guy."  Great KL (love you, but) I too married the nice guy, and ya know what else he can be?! A DICK!  (That's ok, hun, it's just an example, love you still... and you're kind too...sometimes, often, mostly). 

Anyway, despite how painful it was to watch this segment, "nice guys should finish last" is in fact a true story in my eyes and here's the argument that won the case: NICE and KIND are two different things!  "Nice" by definition is "Pleasing and agreeable in nature".  "Kind" by definition is "friendly, generous, or warm-hearted nature; Showing sympathy or understanding; charitable."  Matt uses the example of a lunch date: you order a turkey sandwich and the nice guy agrees to also have a turkey sandwich, but what if he actually prefers bologna?  Hoda said "Who cares? It's a sandwich!"  The girl he's agreeing with will care when her father at Thanksgiving says "I hate turkey" and the agreeable nice guy says "me too, yuck!"  Ok, great that you and my dad are really getting along, but how about the turkey sandwiches that I've been making for you for the last two months?!  SO DO YOU LIKE TURKEY OR DON'T YOU.... if you do, you lied to my dad, if you don't, you lied to me... so who did you lie to NICE GUY!?!?!  We're over, Liar!  Hey Kind guy, what'll it be: turkey?  Oh no? You prefer bologna?!  So does my dad... but I don't have that on hand, so let's make it official and have a date at the corner deli. 

 

I don't mind an argument, in fact, I prefer it, because it encourages me to evaluate, analyze, and be confident in my own convictions.  So here's the real reason behind this rant:

 

My little brother is a soon-to-be-famous-or-maybe-not recent college graduate/squatter at my parents' house who does not pay for his cell phone, car insurance, car payment, clothes, or food (except for the takeout he may get when he goes on break at his minimum wage bull shit job that hardly pays the minimum amount due on his credit cards that he's used to buy guitars and concert tickets).  --How's that for a run-on sentence?!--  Anyway.  As his 7-year older sister, I watched over him throughout his childhood and adolescence.  In retrospect, I thought it was expected of me to do so, but perhaps that was a volunteer position I assumed.  Regardless, when he had a hard time in school his freshman year of college, my mom called me and asked me to help.  So I jumped in and figured out the financing and helped him get a different major so he could continue on his path to get a degree.  I encouraged him to "master his craft", he chose music as his craft.  My parents have continuously bailed him out and made excuses for him and perhaps I too enabled him.  I helped him get an internship at a music studio and encouraged him to explore the business side of music, his passion.  I strongly believe that exploring our passions, and understanding them inside and out to their deepest, most inner parts will create happiness and success simultaneously.  Despite whatever he thinks, he has approached his goal as a hobby and so it is as successful as one, yet the rest of his life is a mess, and he thinks it's "all working out".  My parents have asked me to help again, but this time I have to say no.  He's an adult and if he needs help he needs to seek it out.  As far as he's concerned it's all working out, so who am I to tell him it's not and swoop in to possibly misguide him?! 

 

He asked me if I wanted to speak for him at his graduation party.  I couldn't say no; I still look at him like the 3-year-old who was the cutest, sweetest little boy... in his speech he said "I wouldn't be here without my sister...thank you" Gee, thanks, bro, blame it on me why don't you... ugh.  Anyway, so I took the mic and despite usually being a woman of many words... I was speechless.  I didn't know what to say.  I wanted him to know that I was proud that he finished, despite the fact that he may have barely finished.  I wanted him to know that I admire him, but loving him is the most I can admit to and not because his passion isn't admirable, but heavy metal music isn't my thing and he hasn't applied his education to it at all, so in this particular context, I'm left with nothing.  So I told him I was proud and then I spoke about how admirable it was that he has managed to find a stable home rent free, free clothes, free food, etc.  It's amazing when my husband and I are busting our balls to buy food and pay a mortgage that he's 24 years old getting it all for free!  Everyone was laughing and it was lighthearted, but then a heckler in the crowd (my dad, of all people) yells "this coming from the most spoiled one of all!"  Errrrrr!  Pump the breaks, big guy, and let's review:

 

My parents gave me a choice when I was 13 to go to private school and get a job to pay for my own clothes and spending money, or go to the local high school.  So I got, not one, two jobs, and have not stopped working since.  In high school, I was extremely active and stressed out and still maintained two to three jobs at all times; in my senior year I was voted by my classmates as one of four "leaders" of the student body.  My dad especially always said "be a leader, not a follower"... here I am, the "leader" you always wanted me to be, but somehow I'm "spoiled". 

 

I had a car when I turned 16.... my parents gave me some money towards my first car, but the rest was on me. I paid my car insurance (although they choose to forget that) and I paid for maintenance and gas.  I got great scholarship money in college and student loans to cover most of my tuition, continued to be very active in college as president of my sorority among other things and RA to pay for room and board, while still maintaining a number of jobs and internships (unpaid by the way).  I worked my ass off, and I'm proud to say I never asked my parents for money.  Making me work was the best thing my parents ever did for me.  I graduated college, got a job where I was interning, never went back to my parents' house, bought a new car, paid my own rent and bills and struggled.  But it was worth it!  By the time I was 22 I had a six-figure sales job, drove a new Lexus, had a personal shopper at Bloomingdales, and was totally independent.  I was challenged at 24 when I met my husband and shortly after realized I was faced with another decision: I had a choice to have a career or a family, and so I chose a family.  My husband and I got married when I was 25 and in the last 5 years I've had 3 children.  There have been sacrifices and it has been hard, but we are blessed and we know it and we are grateful for it. 

 

To spoil (by its true definition) is "to impair the value or quality of; to damage irreparably; ruin; to impair the completeness, perfection, or unity of".

 

So let's review again:

My parents had me somewhere around the age of 12.  (I tease, they were actually 18 and 19).  They both came from families of 5 children, so I had 7 aunts and one uncle.  I was THE ONLY GRANDCHILD in this huge family of young people with disposable income!  So naturally, they bought me mostly everything I wanted.  I was so blessed... and it was lucky because my parents were broker than broke!  Were there times I acted like a spoiled brat?  OF COURSE!  Show me one child who doesn't act like a complete asshole every once in a while!  My mom, who is usually very short on compliments, especially for me and to me, reminded me that at Christmas time I would take whatever money I had, usually less than $5, and I would buy little gifts for all of my aunts.  She said she didn't like that I was spending all my money, but she thought that was really nice... thanks, 23 years later.  Anyway, at least she acknowledged that I was GRATEFUL and thoughtful and appreciative!  I was blessed and I knew it and I was grateful for it.  My quality was not impaired because my aunts bought me things; I am not damaged, ruined or incomplete.  I will not admit to perfection, but the point is, the material things my aunts bought me taught me generosity and gratitude and giving. 

 

As I got into high school, they continued to give, but I NEVER asked for anything.  If I wanted something, and still to this day, I first work for it.  I do not expect others to provide for me (with the exception of my husband which is based on a mutual agreement and partnership), but I do not feel entitled to anything and I take nothing for granted. 

 

That being said, it is hurtful when my parents (especially) call me spoiled and it is hurtful when everyone else laughs to support that disgusting accusation.  My mother informed me after reading my last post that I shouldn't complain because she would have loved a "back room" and "most people don't have double beds"... from everything I wrote, my mother heard me complaining about having to take care of my children and she heard that I was ungrateful and blind to my blessings.  It is imperative to me, for the sake of my character, that anyone reading this understands that my husband and I work hard, we make sacrifices and we struggle to have and maintain the contents of our life and the life we are providing for our children.  We are grateful and we are blessed.  I love my children and I know this time with them is short, but it is dense with hard work.  It requires all of me and writing about it is not a cry for help, a babysitter, a bigger house, or anything else.  Motherhood is overwhelming and I'm allowed to get overwhelmed and I'm allowed to talk about it and my point is: SO ARE YOU!  Don't let anyone tell you you are spoiled, broken, or incomplete because you have more or less than the next guy.  Especially you, parents: we are all in this together and despite the fact that it can become a shit show, it's a beautiful and blessed life and if nothing else, I am grateful. 

 

To my aunts: rest assured that I remember every gift you gave me: Alora when I was 4, the journal with the polar bears when I was 7, the pink Old Navy fleece when I was 10, the tie-died neon bikini when I was 11, the gift certificate to help me get my hair done for prom, the bedspread, towels and office supplies when I went off to college, and all the flowers for all the dance recitals, shows, competitions, and championships you attended.  I was grateful for it, it registered in my brain, it is on the list of things for which I am grateful, and neither you nor your gifts have ruined me. 

 

So in the light of calling a spade a spade... call me a spade before you call me spoiled, because I'm really over it and it's offensive.  I am blessed, not broken.

mind reading

The other day someone had "shared" an article on facebook.  It was about what really goes on in a mother's mind and throughout the article I thought, I don't even have time to think about that.  Today is a typical "day off" for me.  A "day off" is a day that I don't have to take anyone to therapy, school, the doctor, the dentist, or any other mandatory obligation requiring me to leave the house, and naturally a "mandatory obligation" is only inclusive of appointments in which someone else is expecting me/us to arrive; it does not include the empty carton of formula that needs to be replaced by tomorrow before my infant child will be hungry or the empty milk container in my refrigerator that requires replacement before my toddlers will be crying.  So besides the obligation to nourish my children, I have a "day off" today... no dots are present on this day in my iphone calendar.  So here's how my "day off" is going so far:

02:12 David wakes up screaming "Mommmyyy!!!" --bad dream, thought a bat was in his closet (traumatized from the previous family of bats that were occupying our attic when we moved in and when the exterminator prematurely locked up their entryway, they exited through our vents via Fiona's bedroom and our living room...more on that later)

Pick David up out of his bed and make a quick exit before determining it actually was just a bad dream.  Daddy confirms that there are no bats.  Fiona is now crying "..mommy, 'care".  Fiona's now also scared.  I take David into Fiona's room and we all go to sleep together in Fiona's double bed.  I start drifting off, "mommy?" "Yes, David?" "I need my pillow and I can't go back into my room, but I really like my pillow."  Out of bed, get the pillow, at least now I can actually get a pillow to use myself, back in bed.  Somehow, despite their small figures, I am forced to sleep on the very tippy edge of the bed and wake up when I cannot feel my hands.   Despite tingling hands, I manage to push myself up from the bed and attempt to retreat.  "Mommy, where are you going?" oh my god, why isn't he asleep? "David, I have to go in my bed; there's not enough room for all of us here and I need to get some sleep."  He's getting upset, "But I'm going to have another bad dream!"  Fiona's awake... here we go again.  "David, go in my bed and sleep with Daddy, I'll stay here.  Runs through the hall.  "Fiona, go to sleep." She starts her Doc McStuffins check up which of course calls for her sticking her finger in my eye "uh hunh!"... and then up my nose "uh hunh!"... in my mouth, "Fiona, stop it." never listens. Now she's trying to move my head to get to my ears "Fiona! Go to sleep!" I'm forced to turn the other way, despite my body desperately wanting to sleep on my right side, sorry Body, it's either 5 hours of a check up and intermittent conversation or sleep... left side it is. 

The sun is up, I almost forgot where I was but the blunt force trauma I just got to the back reminds me that I'm in Fiona's room.  I turn around and David is staring at me with his cup hanging out of his mouth and rubbing his taggie on his face.  Through his cup "Mom, ob nod afway ...." Hardly awake enough to speak I struggle to get it out "David, get the cup out of your mouth when you're talking to me" "Mom, I'm not afraid of the bats anymore."  Great.  I start drifting off again.  The gate is up at the door so Fiona can't escape and somehow the baby is still sleeping... thank god for that baby... such a good baby... I'm not a terrible mom if I surrender to my need to get a little more sleep.    Fiona is now climbing over me. The kids start playing with the dollhouse in Fiona's room.  The phone rings, it must be Michele, it's definitely not a collector of any kind because I've paid all of my bills to date, which reminds me, this potty training thing better start being more consistent because I seriously don't want to put out more money for Fiona's diapers and maybe I'll have to put Mary Elizabeth (M.E.) in cloth diapers until the next paycheck.  They feel better anyway, so I'll have to do laundry more often.  Will that even be possible?  As Tim Gunn would say, "make it work." Cloth diapers it is... but I can't avoid formula. $50 for 2 weeks of formula at BJs, can I go to BJs and only spend $50? I do need papertowels, that's $24... so $74 on formula and papertowels, oh my god, this is ridiculous. Whatever. "David, go get the phone" yep, it's Michele.  "Hello?" "Are you alright?" "Are YOU alright?!" She laughs which wakes me up a little.  The baby's awake. "What time is it?" "9:35" What a great little baby.  Get the baby, change the baby, put her in the boppy.  Getting out the formula. "Mommy, Muh" "I'll get you milk, Fiona. Give me a sec." "Mommy, can you get me some milk, too?" "Yes, David, please go in the other room and give me a minute. As soon as I'm done getting the baby her bottle, I will bring you in some milk." Baby's now screaming, Fiona's crying, David's running, Molly (our dog) is crying...chaos... who would have thought that chaos could ensue before one could pour 3 drinks?!  Let the dog out, get the bottle, got the milk, wash fruit, deliver fruit for breakfast.  made a cup of coffee, I ran out of coffee and haven't had it in a few days. I didn't want to spend the money on coffee, but after not having it, I realized how much I like it, this was a good investment after all.  Ok, I will indulge in a cup of coffee.  Get some morsels, got my coffee, sit down. Hang up with Michele.  The kids need baths, I need a shower, but I'm staying in this robe and I'm watching Kathie Lee and Hoda; I record it every day and rarely get to watch it.  It's 11:05. Play. "It's Friday, try-day here.." "Mom, can you get me some hot chocolate?" Pause. No. I just got this kid milk. "can you put a movie on for us?"  I usually don't let them watch TV during the day, but today is an exception, I want to watch Kathie Lee and Hoda.  Shrek WILL see the daylight today.  Set down my coffee, the baby is fine in her boppy, she's burped and done eating.  Go in the other room, can't turn the movie on until I find the remote and naturally that is somewhere under the 24 puzzle pieces Fiona dumped out before dumping out two bins-worth of jewelry and hair accessories.  "David, we can't turn the movie on until we clean this up and find the remote." I'm too exhausted to even get upset over the fact that I clean the same mess up 800 times a day or have to put my husband's shoes on the steps because despite asking him 9 million times to take his shoes upstairs at night, daddy's shoes are on the floor...naturally, that makes it ok for David to leave his "work boots" on the floor... I hate those boots, he looks like a little punk in those boots.  "David, go put your boots on the steps." Fiona goes potty "GOOD GIRL!!!" Clean out the potty, back to cleaning up. Find the remote; thank God because if I had to listen to the same song one more time I was going to throw the tv off the shelf.  Play.  Put up the gate hoping to restrain "the animals."  Go back to KL & Hoda, now it's a screen-saver, play.  "FIONA! LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO!"  water.  all over the floor. David was pretending the gate was a lemonade stand and go figure, Fiona spilled the "lemonade" he had resting on the "counter" aka the top of the gate, which is only 1" wide.  papertowels.  last roll of paper towels. yep, thank you for the reminder that I need to get paper towels, and formula... hopefully BJs will have coupons.  gate down, clean up the water.  KL & Hoda. Rewind. Play.  Coffee.  "Mom, can you button this for me?" He's in his spiderman costume. coffee down. "sure."  Now he wants to talk to the baby. "David, I can't hear this. Can I please watch my show today? Please?  If you watch your movie at the same time I watch my show, it won't take too long and then we can play." Fiona came in, she found a pair of David's sunglasses sitting on the ottoman, glasses get caught on the handle of my coffee mug...you all know where this is going... but you may not realize that the boppy holding the baby is  next to the ottoman, so of course the baby gets covered in the coffee... David is worried the baby is hurt and panics... oh, don't worry David, despite the fact that the mug was mostly full, the coffee was not hot... it hasn't been hot for about an hour now!  The time on the Today show is 10:04, the actual time is now 11:34.  Clean up the coffee, change the baby, baby projectile vomits on the floor, exactly where I just cleaned up the coffee. Clean up the throw up, clean up the baby, lay the baby down, come downstairs and put the animals back in front of their tv. Speaking of animals, Molly starts crying, I forgot her outside. But I've had to go to the bathroom, and now I'm seriously about to pee my pants. I open the door and of course Molly is trapped around the damn bush Dave just planted in front of the house, DAMN BUSH.  I can't go out there, I'm in my robe that shrunk in the wash, if I unclip Molly, the neighborhood will know I wear men's boxerbriefs.  UGH.  "David, can you please go outside and get Molly, I have to go to the bathroom!"  "But I don't have shoes on!" "I'll get you shoes" Go to David's room.  Where are his damn flip flops?! Throw down an old pair of crocs from last year. "These don't fit!" Like I'm stupid, and didn't know.  "David, just slip them on for a second to let Molly in" "But will they hurt my feet?" I'm now on the toilet. Exasperated, "David, forget it. Just forget it. I'll get her."  Down the steps, the door is open, David is outside trying to guide Molly around the bush like a circus animal and its trainer.  "David, just take her off the lead and then untangle the lead. Molly, in.  Get in your crate." Otherwise her dirty paws will be wiped on my white couch... yes it's white... thank you Ikea for providing a young family with an affordable couch, but why does white have to be your most attractive option?... white it is and clean it will be.  Dog is in, David is in.  Make a new cup of coffee. "Fiona!  You did it!"  I go into the back room to find that Fiona has peed on the potty again.  I wipe Fiona, we wash our hands and I forgot to empty the potty.  Go back to get my coffee.  Sit down, rewind, play. Today show time 10:06, actual time 12:04.  Take a sip of my coffee. "Mom, guess what!  Fiona dumped out her pee pee!"  She had done this once before, but dumped it on the floor directly next to the potty, so naturally I stand up to go back to investigate.  Fiona is standing in the kitchen wearing the potty on her head, yes that's right, the potty that my 3-year-old apparently just "cleaned out" is on top of her head.  But she actually dumped the pee pee from the potty into the toilet... am I proud as David thinks I should be?  I don't know.  Should I be?  After all her occupational therapy and sensory stimulation and physical therapy, she peed and then she manipulated her fingers, grasped the bowl, dumped it accurately into the toilet and still remained stable enough to raise her arms holding the potty and placed it on her head.  Which reminds me, the potty. is on. her. head.  oh my god.  KL & Hoda, I wish we could be friends, but I give up.  Suddenly, I wish someone had school or therapy or a doctor's appointment or SOMETHING, ANYTHING! 

My husband often tells me he's not a mind reader, well here's some mind-reading material for you, dear.  By the time you get to this point, you should know that by the time you get home from the vacation you call "work" I'm not talking to you because I'm too exhausted and emotionally drained to muster up a single original thought.  So no, it actually has nothing to do with you... or me for that matter... because the second cup of coffee I boldly decided to make myself is still full.  There is no need to argue over whether the glass is half empty or half full in this house, because the cup is always full... not half-way full, whole-way full, because as much as my day has nothing to do with you, Dear, it has nothing to do with me either. 

Forgive me, Kathie Lee and Hoda... hopefully we will spend time together before one of you retires.