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.