The Crud

As you all know, school is back. And with that comes The Crud. You all know The Crud. The runny nose, sneezing, post-nasal drip that makes your throat hurt and you spend 20 minutes hacking/choking as you furiously rummage through your purse for a cough drop... while you're in a room full of people... who are all trying to listen to a speaker.

Oh, is that just me? Yesterday?

Anyway, The Crud first started with the 12-year-old within the first week of school. Typically, it takes about a month or so for The Crud to enter our house, so it was a little surprising to see that little bastard so fast.

I blame middle school.

His runny nose/cough lasted only a few days and then we were in the clear... until last weekend when I got it and the 9-year-old got it. And, somehow, my mother.

That's a wicked Crud.

So, since Saturday, we've been weathering the storm. Most of my colds start and end the same way. I spend the first day sneezing my life away (did you know your heart stops every time you sneeze? I could be dead by now!). I've been "bless you"ed enough times this week that I'm a sure thing for heaven. The rest of the days alternate between runny/stuffy nose and sore throat. It ends within a week or so and then we go about our lives.

Can I admit that, when I was young, I actually enjoyed the occasional cold? I'd gather a box of tissues, a glass of orange juice and a blanket and veg in front of the TV. It was kinda nice to pamper myself while I practically sneezed up a lung.

But, nowadays, ain't nobody got time to be sick. I have to manage the lives of little people. And work. And, you know, life. And, for whatever reason, illnesses take longer now that I'm old. The 9-year-old got through it in 2-3 days while I'm still sneezing. I mean, what the? Sneezing is only supposed to be day 1! I'm supposed be done by now! I shouldn't have gone through an entire box of Kleenex 5 days in!

But, I suppose I can look on the bright side. To quote the great "Sixteen Candles":

"They'll feel some massive guilt. It could be highly profitable."

It's not working yet, but I'll hold my breath... it might stop the sneezing.

Ugh. Middle School.

Today's the first day of school in our district. Normally, I'm ready for the boys to go back to school, if only to get them out of the house for the day so I can watch bad TV for 8 hours straight (Grey's Anatomy binge-fest? Why, don't mind if I do!).

But, this year, I'm just not feelin' it. It could be because we didn't do much this summer. We renovated our kitchen and played on 3 baseball teams that, while fun, pretty much sucked the life out of us for 2 whole months. The 12-year-old got to go to camp, the husband and I took a trip to Napa and the 9-year-old spent a week with grandma, which, let's face it, is better than any stinkin' vacation.

So, they should be ready to go back. However, I don't know if time speeds up because I'm old, or if, in some alternate universe, a month or so was taken away from us without our knowledge because? It just seemed to have gone by way too fast.

Or my reluctance to accept the beginning of the school year could be that the 12-year-old started middle school.

Do you guys remember middle school? Do you look back and wonder how we survived? Because, dang. Those were some awful years.

For me, those were the years I got braces and glasses, and, if that weren't tragic enough, a series of terrible haircuts. The boys started noticing the girls (not me, of course, because of the aforementioned braces-glasses-haircut combo), the girls started kissing the boys (again, see above)...

I'm sure it wasn't awful for everyone. My girlfriends certainly had a fine time kissing all those boys. But, for an introverted, slightly awkward, slightly emotional girl like myself, it was pretty bad. And I just don't want my son to go through it.

I'm hoping because he's a boy, he won't have to deal with the stupidity I did.

Story time... when I was in 7th grade, pegged jeans, matching socks and loafers were all the rage. My mom wasn't a big fan of, you know, "style" or "being cool" or "just trying to survive middle school", so buying me clothes from the Gap wasn't at the top of her list. But, every once in a while (read: a birthday or holiday), I would get something cool to wear to school.

I had these gray pin-striped pants, paired with a peach (oh yes, peach) top and peach socks (of course). I wore this outfit pretty regularly, which meant the outfit was washed.  A lot.

My mother, bless her, was (and still is) a big fan of bleach. She bleached everything, from bathrooms to kitchens to, you guessed it, our clothes. And because I am was the awkward person I am was, I wore whatever was mine without protest, including my now-yellow peach socks.

(In an alternate life, I would've just asked for new socks or begged my mother to not bleach the socks I had, but, of course, hindsight and all that.)

One day, I was in choir, wearing my peach outfit and the mean girl who lived across the street from me said, "Lea, why are you wearing yellow socks?"

Me: Well, this is my peach outfit and these socks were once peach, so...
Her: Well, they're not now.

It's funny the things you remember, isn't it?

She also asked the choir teacher if she was pregnant (she wasn't), so she was just being a bitch to be a bitch, but still. My middle school existence can be summed up in that conversation.

You're not cool. You won't be cool. Wear white socks.

High school brought contact lenses, a perm (which was cool back then) and no braces, so life significantly improved.

Good luck in middle school, kid. I promise I won't bleach your socks.

Life is better with a cat?

You guys all know I have a cat. I’ve talked about her here and here. And, despite all those stories, I love her. Like lurrrrve her love her. Like hate her lurrrve her love her.

But, she’s not without her issues. We “joke” all the time that we’re going to get rid of her whenever she pulls her shenanigans (aka peeing on the floor, peeing on the carpet, peeing on the wall, pooping on the carpet [right next to the litter box, btw], vomiting on the floor, vomiting on the carpet, hissing or swatting at every single person who walks in our door). In a nutshell, being a cat.

But, as I said, we love her. She’s been with us for 14 years now and we’re beginning to wonder how much longer she’ll be with us. We recently renovated our kitchen, so you can imagine how that might have gone over with our anxiety-ridden kitty.

Read: not well.

She’s been acting kind of funny lately. Cries a lot, not really eating much and basically being a real pain in the ass with the pooping and peeing.

So, we took her to the vet yesterday. Because she’s anxious, it never goes well. So, they thought they’d sedate her to examine her.

The vet: How far are you willing to take this?

Me [to myself]: Is she really asking me if I want to treat the cat? Isn’t that why I came?

Me [out loud]: Well, I want to know what’s wrong with her.

Vet: OK, great. We’ll get started then.

That made me wonder. Do most owners come in and say, “I only want to treat if it’s the $20 special”?

I get it. Treatment can be expensive. Especially for a furry friend who may or may not have spent years trying to kill you by sleeping around your neck.

But, I like to pretend think that she does it because she loves me, so we went ahead with the sedation.

After her exam, the vet told me she looks good, but that she is constipated.

Constipated, really?

We know constipation in our house. My son has spent years suffering from it; I, myself, have had these issues. It now makes me wonder if she’s trying too hard to be a part of this family or if maybe we need to check our water.

Anyway, the treatment for constipation in cats is… Miralax. Just like with humans. She gave us some Miralax to take home (which, no need, I get the industrial-sized bottles, but hey, free Miralax!). She sent us on our way, with the warning that Zoe would be a little woozy for a while, so don’t let her play on the steps.

Noted.

For the rest of the day/evening, I watched her like a hawk. She definitely was out of it, almost comically so. Her eyes were glazed, she couldn’t close her mouth, and when she wasn’t walking sideways, she was staring at the walls for hours on end. Funny not funny.

This morning, her meows are back. She’s no longer walking sideways, but she’s certainly not very forgiving. She would walk towards me, but then remember she was comatose yesterday because of me and give me the cold shoulder.

I suppose the cold shoulder is better than the furry neck. At least I’m alive.

Work/Life Balance Does Not Exist

I have always marveled at how lucky I've been to work part-time.  I get time at home with my boys and I get time outside the home with adults.  The perfect combination.  No one suffers because I give equal attention to both.

What a bunch of horseshit.

My boss once told me there is no such thing as work/life balance.  Something always suffers.  At the time, I was all, oh, sure, maybe for others.  But, it turns out he's right.  Something always suffers.

It sucks.

A couple weeks ago, we had our work holiday party.  Because I'm part-time (and old...with children), I don't get to hang out much socially with my co-workers.  But, they spend a lot of time together outside the office and know each other pretty well.  Even their significant others know each other.  So, there we were, my husband and I, kinda watching everyone else know each other.

Okay, so it made me sad for my youth.  My first job out of college was at an ad agency.  We wore jeans, drank beer at lunch (only once), happy houred every Friday... it was the best time of my life (well, a different "best time of my life" anyway).  My current co-workers, while a bit older than I was then, do this a lot.  At that moment, I wished I worked full-time with them and was able to hang out with them socially whenever the mood struck.  But, as it is, I have to plan weeks in advance for the stars to align in order for me to work a full day, go to happy hour, and still make it home in time to put the boys to bed.

Alternately, because my job is demanding, I don't get to enjoy my home life much.  I love what I do and don't really want to not work, but sometimes, I just want to say, "Fuck this shit."  How many times have you ever pictured yourself throwing important papers in the air and saying, "Fuck this shit, I'm out!"?

I have friends who don't work.  If I didn't work, I'd be able to see them more often.  We could lunch.  I could spend my summers at the neighborhood pool with the boys.  We could take excursions.  But, because my work schedule changes all the time, I constantly make-and-break plans with pretty much everyone I know.  And, don't get me started on volunteering at the kids' school.  I don't even offer anymore because I know you can't count on me.

The other irritating part is you can't complain about this situation.  I have the best of both worlds.  I can't whine to my working mom friends because they never get to spend time with their children.  And I can't bitch to my stay-at-home mom friends because they're so bored to tears and up to their armpits in dirty diapers, they dream about throwing those diapers in the air saying, "Fuck this shit, I'm getting a job."

So, where is the balance?  Does it ever get easier?  I guess I'll just have to drink a little more wine every night and hope that losing my balance will help me find it again.

  

  

It's That Time Again!

It's the holiday season, which means I'm covered head to toe in glitter and glass shards and at a complete and total loss what to get anyone for Christmas this year.  Welcome to Christmas 2015!

As in typical fashion at my house, we came late to the holiday party.  While everyone else had their tree up the day after Thanksgiving, we finally decorated this past weekend.  Which means, of course, James the Elf is back.

I'm not against the elf.  When we're being creative, he's actually a lot of fun.  But, if you don't already know, we are procrastinators.  Which makes us forgetters.  Which makes us next-morning panickers and rushers.  Which makes us failures.

The 11-year-old doesn't believe anymore (heart. breaking.), but the 8-year-old does.  And, for weeks now, he's been asking after James.  Unfortunately, James had a wee bit of an accident last year.  He was left somewhere a little too close to my sister's dog and... ended up headless.  Somehow, we were able to put him together again, but he's looking pretty beat up.  He's fraying at the neckline, I didn't do a very good job removing the black eye he got from the Nutcracker last year, his smile is just a little less bright.

I'm hoping no one looks too closely.

So, we're on Day 2 of Elf Watch.  Yesterday, he was in the Christmas tree and was thoughtful enough to leave a note, explaining his absence.  (Basically, he thanked us for finally decorating so he could come back.  Yeah, thanks for pointing our our failures, James.)  Today he moved to another Christmas decoration.

We're awesome at this thing.

I'm hoping we'll get a little more creative.  Last year, the husband created a zip line for James to hang from, we've had him have some "fun" (not fun for me) with toothpaste, and there's always Pinterest for inspiration... or to make us look worse.

Can't.  Wait.

I Saw You Before You Got Up This Morning

Here's the thing about kids:  they have needs.  And you, as the parent, have to fulfill every. single. one. of those needs. Until they're old enough to be kicked out fulfill those needs themselves.

Most of the time, it's a joy to help my boys.  They are good boys (bless them) and I am glad to be there for them.  Although, I recently read an article about what my 11-year-old should be doing by this age and am failing.  Miserably.  I actually noticed it the other day when I was cutting up his meat.  I mean, really?  He's 11.  Pick up a damknife and do it yourself already.

Anyway, my 8-year-old hasn't been feeling well.  He has had a cough for what seems like months and came home from school yesterday complaining of ear pain.  We know where this is going.  Luckily, I had enough time to call the pediatrician and secure an appointment for 8:00 this morning.

Btw, if you ever are ever offered the first appointment of the day?  Take. It.  It's amazing.

Most days, I try to be awake and ready to go before the children get up.  This allows me to focus on them, ensuring we don't forget anything.  Like homework.  And lunches.  And, on the rare occasion, the child himself.  There have been mornings when I'm running around like crazy and my oldest son has to remind me (5 minutes before we're ready to leave), "Lunch?"  Crap!

This morning, we left the house at 7:30.  I have to give myself props for getting out of the house on time.  Because?  I'm Greek.  "On time" means "at least 15 minutes late" in our world.  Our pediatrician is about 15 miles away.  She made sense when we lived in the same city, but, now that it's a good 30 minutes to get to her, I wonder if we should switch.  But, I love her and switching requires work, so... 30 minutes it is.

We got to the doctor at 8 on the dot (woo!), saw her for about 5 minutes, got our script and left.  Best appointment ever.  There's vindication when you get a prescription, isn't there?  Like you didn't just spend 60 minutes in the car, another 30 minutes in the waiting room, and 5 minutes with the doctor for nothing.  Somehow, I was able to get my 8-year-old to school on time, too (double woo!), and me to work at a reasonable time (well, we can't have everything).

However well this morning went, I can't help but fondly remember what it was like before kids.  When I used to get up in the morning and only have to get myself ready.  There was no yelling, no rushing (well, maybe there was rushing [Greek]), and no stress.  While I may have been a rock star this morning, this is not typical.  Which is why I had to write about it.  For posterity.

See, kids?  Mommy was on time!

So, Your Kid is Taking Sex Ed? Mine, Too.

My 11-year-old is in the 5th grade.  5th grade in our school district means APL, or Art of Personal Living.  Let's just call it what it is, OK?  It's sex ed.  With a tiny focus on,"Clean yourselves, yo.  You will stink more as you age."

I took APL in 5th grade, too.  It was all thrillingly awkward.  I wanted to know, but, also, didn't want to know.  You know?  Lord knows my parents weren't going to tell me a damthing.  And I was right. When I asked my mother about it later, she just said, "I figured school would take care of it."  The only advice I got from my mom in that area was, "God doesn't want you to do it until marriage."

Aaaaand, end scene.

Anyway, my experience wasn't traumatic.  They glossed over anything remotely interesting.  You know, what to actually DO when you do it.  And, in hindsight, I'm perfectly fine with that.  A) I was eleven and shouldn't know anyway and B) it means my children won't know either.

They had a parent meeting before our children's class began.  I was unable to make it, but my brother went (his daughter is also taking the class).

Sidenote:  Can I just say, once again, how entertaining it is (for me) that my brother got the girls?  As awful as he was to girls growing up, including me, I find it deeply satisfying that he now has to worry about boys like him hurting his beautiful, beautiful daughters.  Not that I want them to hurt either.  I just kinda wish he could go back in time and be this guy instead of that guy.  But, I digress.

So, the class.  With bleeding ears, he listened to them talk about periods and acne and various other horrifyingly hormonal happenings.  It all seemed very vanilla to me.  I mean, yes, periods are uncomfortable to talk about, but, well, whatever.

Fast forward to the afternoon of the first class.  All day, I knew my son had this class.  I had learned my lesson about oversharing, so I had decided that I would play it cool and not ask a damthing.

Turns out, I didn't have to.

He came right home and said, "So, we had our first APL class."

Me (side-eyed, pretending to be doing something else):  Oh?
Him:  Yeah.  She gave us a pretest to find out what we knew.  We had to answer, 'yes', 'no', 'not sure'. I said 'not sure' to a lot.
Me:  Like what?
Him:  I don't remember all of the questions, but one was (small, embarrassed smile), 'Do you know what a penis is?'
Me (to myself):  OK, a necessary evil.
Him (continuing):  Semen...
Me (again, to myself):  Oh, God.
Him:  Wet dream...

I blink.
He blinks.

Me:  Oookaaaayyy... do you want to know what these things are?
Him:  NO!  I'm going out to play!
Me (to myself):  Oh, thank God.

I'm not sure if I should be horrified or proud that he doesn't know these things yet.

I'm going with proud.