My view of life from the linoleum.

We took Fiddledaddy out for a pre-Father’s Day dinner on Saturday night.  Our favorite pizza place has some fantastic gluten free dishes.  Fiddledaddy’s new favorite is a pizza made with a portobella mushroom cap.  I’ve tried to re-create this at home and have come somewhat close, but I may have to get a job there to take notes as to how it’s actually made.

The owners know me, so I’ll have to go through the hiring process incognito.

Because no one in their right mind would hire me as a waitress.  Or a hostess.  Or even a janitor.

I may or may not have hormonal issues brewing just under the surface which could hinder my ability to serve the general public.  My husband has used the term “ticking time bomb” with increasing frequency.  He has also linked Calamity Jane to my name as well.

And speaking of which.  Fiddledaddy breathed a sigh of relief early this year when I began traversing the road to menopause because he thought AT LONG LAST!  SHE’LL STOP TALKING ABOUT HER MENSES IN A PUBLIC FORUM!

His celebratory dance came to a screeching halt over the weekend.

Alas, menopause eludes me.  Proving once again that God has a sense of humor.  NOT FUNNY.

So it’s business as usual.

Where was I?

Yes.  Saturday night.  Father’s Day celebration.

After dinner, we wandered over to our local Mac store wherein we drooled over various Apple products.  For Emme, it was the newest iPod.  Jensen coveted the new mini pad (don’t get me started).  Fiddledaddy was all involved in techno-speak with an employee about routers and boosting stuff and who knows what else before my eyes glazed over.  Cailey drooled on the iPad.  And I laid myself across the table hugging the new MacBook Pro laptop13 inch.  IT’S SO THIN AND LIGHT.

Then we all went our separate ways.  Emme and I headed to Charlotte Russe and the rest wandered into the bookstore.  Eventually they all came in search of those of us who were clothes shopping.  And for the record, Charlotte Russe is not my style.  Or size.  And yet I still found myself lowering my standards by trying on an X-large top that I thought might look cute with my new collection of colorful stretchy pants by Faded Glory obtained from Wal-Mart. (I’m really closer to a medium large, but do enjoy a little extra wiggle room…you know, in case it shrinks…or whatever.)

It did not look cute.  In fact, Charlotte Russe HAS NO IDEA what they are doing with anything past Medium.  From now on I will be content to stand on the sidelines and cheer my size 1 and size 2 daughters on as they shop Charlotte Russe.  Pinky swear.

As Emme was checking out, clutching her zip lock snack baggy which housed her Christmas money (she has a wallet which I bought her at Christmas, but I pick my battles) I looked over at my son who had entered the store and crawled into the display window.

And yes, I did yell across the store for him to get out of the window.  I feared for the well being of the mannequins, after all.

What I found out later was that he was posing for his father on the other side of the glass.

(If you look closely, one sister is checking out, and the other is admonishing him publicly.  I’m still oblivious.)

This could be the start of a whole new marketing campaign for Charlotte Russe.  One that really ought to include sensible shoes and proportionately correct X-large.

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UPDATED AT END:

One of the tasks I was able to accomplish last week when I had Jensen safely occupied at VBS was the CLEANING OUT of his room.  The child is a notorious packrat.  With a helping of slob on the side.  Yet, like his slightly older sister, he cannot bear to part with anything.  He keeps broken parts of long since played with toys, scribbled pieces of paper (entire forests have been felled to keep up with his vast array of art work), and markers which contain no ink whatsoever.

So with glee I pounced upon his room with a large black trash bag.  And since the child is allergic to dust, I took the opportunity to move and rearrange his furniture so as to thoroughly vacuum and mop his floor.  (This cannot be accomplished when he is at home because of the allergies, so as you might imagine, a thorough cleaning is a tricky business.)

I was giddy.

I gathered all his many many dinosaurs into one large bin, plus a couple of small tubs on his toy chest shelf.  Life was good.

When he got home he squealed with delight when he noticed how much FLOOR SPACE he now had.  I also hung a light above his shelf (it had been removed when he was a baby because of, you know, his fixation with licking anything electric) creating a space to display some of his favorite dinosaurs.  He asked me if he could be in charge of decorating the space, plus additional chest tops.

I gave him creative license.

And this is what he came up with.

Honestly, I don’t know how he sleeps in there.

It should be noted that his sister has hidden all of her dolls, lest they become part of the scenery.

I spoke too soon.  This is what greeted me this morning after Jensen’s bath:

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My husband had an interesting revelation this morning.  In the last couple of weeks he’s seen me through another round of Lyme treatment, a bad reaction to one of my antibiotics, the onset of Plantar Fasciitis, depression, WRITER’S BLOCK (I’m pretty sure that after nearly 7 years of blogging I AM OUT OF WORDS), and a new Gluten Free diet.  He likens our life to the WHACK A MOLE game.  Just when you pop one on the head another one appears.

It’s simply my attempt to keep him alert and youngish.

After this moment of clarity, his younger sister (Trish) called to talk to me.  “Oh thank goodness, she’s in a funk, you are just the person she needs to talk to.”  And with that he handed me the phone.

Generally Trish is the perfect person to drag me out of the doldrums, as she usually has an exciting tale of carnage and destruction at her house, thereby making me feel a little bit better about my own position as a parent.

And trust me, it works both ways.

We talked a bit about our pending meeting with our sweet homeschool evaluator scheduled for tomorrow, and then we discussed our morning.  She confided in me that she was sitting down at the kitchen table with her husband clutching her first morning cup of coffee.  Her eyes wandered over to a pair of goofy glasses sitting on the counter.  They belonged to her son, and were the kind of glasses which have the eyeballs on springs.  She began crying.  Her husband was all WHY ARE YOU CRYING?  “Because those glasses remind me of my mom.  I miss her.”

We lost our precious Natalie in January very unexpectedly.  We’re all still in deep denial.

Her husband was understandably perplexed, because like my own husband, there is a lot of mole whacking going on when you live with a homeschooling mom.

In short order I was crying as well.  I could totally see Natalie wearing the goofy glasses.  I sniffed, “YOU ARE NOT HELPING ME AT ALL!”  My husband was all WHAT THE HECK?

And yet, in the end we had to giggle.  Thinking of Natalie wearing the glasses.

Later I drug all of my children over to my dear friend Jenny’s house so the children could frolic and we could catch up on girl talk.  We laughed.  We cried.  We commiserated.  It was just what the doctor ordered.

Girlfriends are certainly the cure for most any ill.  And I’m pretty sure my own husband is eternally grateful that I am blessed with a gaggle of really awesome girlfriends.

On an extra light note, I wanted to share the following conversation that I had with my son today prior to leaving the house:

“Jensen, go brush your hair.”

Jensen, not even trying to hide the exasperation, “Mom, why do you want girls to be attracted to me.  Who cares how I look?”

“I do.  Because it reflects badly on me.”

Signed me,
Mother of the Year

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