Tippy Toes and Tantrums

Sick and Tired with the Sick and Tired

Early this morning I headed out to the grocery store to get Saltines and 7-Up, because while we're very lucky that our kids rarely get sick, when it does happen, we are never prepared. I hurried to the store before Kevin left for work, throwing on dirty jeans and putting my hair back in a pony tail. Mascara was smeared under my eyes and I had blue paint on my hands and arms after a long weekend of home improvement here and at my sister's new house. I looked like hell, but I was just happy that I remembered to put on a bra before rushing out the door. The grocery clerk looked at me with a smile and asked if I was on my way to work. I wanted to take a step back, let her really take me in, then ask her where she thought I worked, where looking like this would be acceptable. A windowless call center? Prison?

My sister and her husband got their first house last week, and we spent the weekend taping, sanding, painting, and inhaling the Simple Green that my sister was spraying liberally everywhere, with one day off to work on my own house, which needs to be packed up and emptied before the remodel begins. We have so much stuff, and in the end, this will have been a great exercise in downsizing, but in the meantime: boxes everywhere. My new hobby is panic attacks.

In the last week:

I helped drive my daughter and classmates on a camping trip that was later cut short by one day to high wind. Clover came home upset that the trip ended early, and this was somehow my fault based on how angry she was with me. In grade school, I loved books with obvious foreshadowing, but as an adult, experiencing the foreshadowing for the teenage years isn't fun. I'd rather it come on as a sneak attack.

I drove to five stores in order to find name brand Wiffle bat sets and Nerf footballs. Last summer, Cape Cod was lousy with Wiffle balls and bats, but here, all I could find is branded, thick bats that look more like something from the Flinstones than a baseball bat. What's up with that, California? But success happened! We are ready for a summer of Wiffle ball and touch football. 

Softball ended, Girl Scouts is wrapping up today, and there are only three more weeks of baseball. I love this time of year.

I cannot get any work done today with the incessant sounds of Cartoon Network blaring for the sick kid's entertainment. I'm consoling myself with 7-Up and crackers. 

Planning a Retreat for Lost Marbles

The other day I decided that I need to go on a personal retreat. It feels like there's a ton of exterior noise preventing me from becoming my best self, which is a phrase that must be trademarked by Oprah. There's so much to do, so much noise, and so much measuring up that everything feels chaotic, complicated, and pretty defeating. This list doesn't include pop up ads or Twitter parties, both of which are pushing me over the edge. It's times like these when I want to give almost everyone the bird.

Today is the first day in forever that I've been able to stay home, without appointments, errands or kids' activities calling me away, so I optimistically thought this was my day, but I forgot to clear that with the dog, who went crazy. She barked at the wind all morning, she wanted out, she wanted in, again and again, she was caught off guard by the gardener, so then she overcompensated by barking at everything, for hours, despite my reassurance, yelling, and use of a Nerf gun. Much like when my kids were babies, just when I thought I'd snap, the dog finally took a nap and let me have a little bit of the day/sanity back.

There are frequent mountain lion sightings in our area, but none of them ever come into our yard hungry.

But back to the retreat...I told this idea to a friend last week and she responded that she has a friend who does this quarterly. Four times a year, she heads to the Ritz or other nice destinations by herself. This week, I told another friend, and she too knows someone who does the same thing. Clearly these people are onto something. I quickly started looking at Groupon for nearby vacation deals that I could use toward a retreat, but everything either looked like it would be fun for the kids, or was a place I'd rather go with Kevin. Not to mention, the next two months are totally slammed, which is why I need a retreat, but the stress of trying to get away alone would only make things worse. I should have come up with idea a month ago. I need to write myself a note so that I don't forget it.

The barking is back. Serenity now!

Rock 'n Roll Tweendom

There was a lot of screaming and yelling at our house last night, probably (hopefully!) due to some serious nervous energy before the school Rock Concert today. Our performer wasn't happy with anything, including how I tried to ruin her life by washing the jeans she intended to wear for the school show today (families and community concert is tomorrow). I washed her pants because they were balled up on her bedroom floor, which I was told does not indicate they are dirty. Lesson learned! All those pairs of underwear tossed about her room must be clean too. The jeans were in the dryer, so our diva was able to wear them today, but possibly missing the grunge feel she was going for. Gymboree jeans with embroidered flowers are the new punk.

After observing the girl tornado, Rocket said to me, "Mom, I know when the teenage years begin."

Me: When?

Him: 10.

This is when our nine year screamed at him that it begins at 13, "duh!" I think he was being polite and meant to say nine because, oh my god, sometimes I cannot imagine how it can get worse. 

Occupy My House

Every day, a new fort goes up in the family room. The fort building generally produces a turf war, first between siblings fighting over territory rights and right of way access (even imaginary properties have easement and setback issues), then later with me, the landlord who comes to evict the squatters. 

I hate these forts. I know they are a traditional part of childhood, but I think they are a mess, and I hate listening to the squabbling over space and noise when both kids have their own rooms with four walls and a door made out of material stronger than pillows. Rocket is the loud neighbor, while Clover would be the one calling the cops or yelling at kids to get off her lawn. And this gets played out every afternoon in our family room. 

These forts are the only thing being constructed at our house. People keep asking about our remodel and if it's almost finished, which would make me laugh if I wasn't trying not to cry. Nothing is new here. We aren't even at the building permits stage and sadly the hold ups have nothing to do with us, our architect, our builder, or even our neighbors. The plans were set in December, but it's been months and months of very expensive negotiations with county over our small addition. Bureaucracy is real and it sucks. I have this optimistic fantasy that we'll suddenly get a call saying it's all approved and we can move forward, but really, I feel like we're going to be stuck in this place forever.

We took down our back pergola this weekend to pass it along to my parents. It was a great addition and gave us some much needed shade, which means I'm not used to all of the bright light now that it's gone. Our backyard looks naked and sad without it, but hopefully (this year? some day?) there will be a kitchen going into the spot previous occupied by the pergola. My optimism is melting. 

Cell Phones, Ollies, and Diego

I had the unfortunate experience of having to attend two funerals within a week. Here is what I learned from being surrounded many older people: they have cell phones; they turn up the volume on their cell phones so they can hear the ringer; they do not turn off cell phones or ringers, even in churches; when their cell phones ring in church, they either can't hear their cranked up ring or they believe that if they ignore it, it will end. Two funerals, three cell phones ringing, all belonging to old people. Not one was answered.

In other news, determined by what's on my iPhone:


My kids started skateboard camp. First, it was only Rocket, but when Clover saw his cute new skateboard, she developed a desire to ollie. This is the girl who is still scared of ice skating and bikes over 12 inches high, but we sighed, told her she'd have to stand on the skateboard not lie down, then forked over the money to add her to camp. Giant surprise: she loves it. She's no threat to Tony Hawk, but she's conquered a fear, which is especially awesome considering she is the only girl in a camp full of boys.

Kevin and I spent the day in San Francisco this weekend, walking around the Mission, stopping at Renegade Craft Fair, and loading up on pirate supplies. It was awesome.

Now I am experiencing the joy of listening to a nine year old dissect the intellectual gaps in Go Diego, Go! Clover: This is obvious! Duh! Did they have too little money for special effects? This is horrible! Obviously ice is slippery! Those bobos aren't really sorry, they just said they were sorry. First the blanket was on the llama's neck, then on her back, then on her neck. A llama can't move her own blanket, so how did it move? Are we supposed to believe this is magic? This is weird and stupid. Rocket (to everything said by his sister): Yeah! Oh holiday vacation, you test my patience.

Five

Today marked the end of Clover's soccer season, for which I am grateful. Sadly, it may be the end of her soccer career too. She's liked soccer, but never loved it, and a losing season (one win, countless losses) hasn't helped. One person noted on Facebook that it's not whether you win or lose, but whether you have fun. It turns out, having your ass handed to you each week is no fun.

The same fun matters most sentiment was said by a dad on Rocket's team at the start of the season, after about only their third loss. If this were a sitcom, we'd flash ahead to a game about two weeks ago where, judging by his sideline coaching, the dad did not appear to be having any fun watching yet another loss. Rocket's team has yet to win a game, and with next week's game the last of the season, they are likely to have a 0-10 (? I've lost count) season. If this were the NFL, we'd be thrilled because they'd be first in line to draft Andrew Luck. But this isn't the NFL, so what you have instead is a group of beleaguered boys, including my son, who flipped the double bird a few weeks ago when an opponent scored yet another goal. Thankfully there are no penalties for poor sportsmanship in U6 soccer.

The upside is that Rocket scored a goal this week and headed two balls, which wowed the crowd. The best news of the day is that after next Saturday, the weekends are once again mine.

Beat Up By a Kindergartner and Other Mishaps

My favorite photo from the pumpkin patch: he claimed Clover pushed him, but evidence shows he tripped on his own.

Transitioning into kindergarten is killing me, and I'm not the one at school. Rocket is much like a crazy person off his meds, cycling through malaise, anger, crying, spazing out, and faking illness. He is totally unpredictable when he used to be very predictable. I've talked to his teachers and to his preschool teacher and all have assured me that this is a normal part of the process, and that it takes some kids until late November to adjust, but in the meantime, I'm over it. I want my happy-go-lucky, confident, sound-sleeping kid back. I'm optimistic my sanity will return with the old Rocket. One can dream.

The other day he said he was too sick to go to school, and that instead, he wanted to stay home to draw. I felt his head, which was normal, but he told me to touch his tummy because his tummy was warm, and that meant he was sick. I told him that meant he needed to dress in fewer layers, but I still offered him a mental health day, yet when his sister reminded him of what he'd miss at school, he jumped up, full of life, ready to go. Soon after he left, I found a pink ribbon and a cellophane bag in his room and noticed a cake pop was missing. If you sneak a cake pop at 6:30 a.m., it turns out either your tummy - or the guilt - will get you. All I really need to know, I learned in kindergarten, right?

I feel like I am failing life on all fronts right now. Everything is being done half-assed and I am easily distracted by shiny things. Oh, look! Glitter!

Yesterday I rushed off in such a hurry for the gym that I forgot to pack underwear. I wear my swimsuit there (under my clothes, of course, I am not nearly confident enough to march in with only my suit on) on my pool days, and it wasn't until after I showered and was getting dressed that I realized I would have to go home commando. I felt like notifying all of the people around me. "I forgot my underwear! This isn't my thing...going commando and all. I love granny panties! Normally I am all covered up. But I forgot! Tomorrow I will wear two pairs!" I made it home before a lunch meeting to put on some underwear, making myself all proper, but then I showed up at the meeting without business cards. When I realized I forgot my cards in another bag (the cards I bought specifically to keep in my car for moments like this), I wanted to assure everyone at the lunch that I was wearing underwear, and really, that alone was a huge victory for me. Cards be damned, I would have been remembered as the uptight underwear lady.

It went better this morning because I only forgot shower shoes for the gym. I may die from gangrene picked up while barefoot in the shower, but I will be wearing underwear when wheeled into the ER.

Now, just like when he was a baby, if Rocket and I could take a long afternoon nap, things would get better.

File it Under Miscellaneous

Hey - today I wrote a post about hiking around the Marin Headlands with NatureBridge. You're not missing it, it's over at Silicon Valley Mamas. It was great fun and now I want to go back for a bonfire and s'mores.

So, yeah, just hiking around, talking to architects, stalking UPS, crashing my car into the garage door frame, and getting depressed about molested birds. That's been my week.

Today I'm at Yahoo! learning to be a good digital citizen, then on Sunday, I leave for camp. The kind of camping that is indoors, with wine, and hopefully a bonfire and s'mores. I can't wait.

This Old House, My Version

 

We need to decide - like now - whether to move or remodel. I don't want to move, partially because I'm lazy and when moving, people would expect me to carry things, but also because of this one amazing feature that our current home has: a view. During the past seven years in this house, I've grown quite fond of looking out over a hill instead of another house. There are many downsides to living on a hill, including no sidewalks or space for kids to play in the street (or, if you're my mother, the terrorizing fear of knowing my kids will one day be teenagers driving up and down our curvy roads), but it has an expansive view with a value that is hard to quantify. Actually, it's probably easy to quantify from a real estate stand point, but that doesn't say what it has done for me, sitting outside under the wide open sky, entertaining friends on our front deck, looking out to see giant rainbows after a storm, watching the fog roll in or just staring out at something beautiful when my day most needs it. This view has ruined traditional neighborhoods for me.

I miss trick-or-treating on our street, block parties, comparing Christmas lights, and all the neighborly fun that comes from a traditional street, according to the soup parties and other get togethers highlighted in Sunset Magazine, but without a view, it feels claustrophobic to me. Or maybe that's because in our last neighborhood, the unofficial neighborhood watch was a little intense. I'd walk in the door and the phone would ring immediately with the neighbor across the street wanting to chat after seeing me return home, no matter about the groceries I was holding. Another across the street neighbor in our old 'hood never watered his yard, ever, so it was always brown, which clashed against his black house that needed to be repainted a decade before. It looked haunted. This is one of the reasons why I appreciate my view. Or there was the family behind us who would unabashedly watch us from their second story window, as though we were putting on a play for them in our kitchen. Now, I have to climb a hill and walk 50 yards to see our back neighbor. I cannot risk going back to our old neighborhood lifestyle. They are what drove us uphill, after all.

Still, we looked online at houses. No house is perfect, and even with significantly more money, factoring in the amount we'd spend renovating this one, the houses I saw still needed an upgraded kitchen, significant landscaping or other work, which would not be in the budget. While we could afford to move to more affluent towns nearby, I don't want to. I like our little community and the friends we've made here.

The pros on staying and renovating are winning.

Living with a Five Year Old Con Man

The phone rang after Rocket was asleep and Clover's bedtime was near. Kevin saw from the caller ID that the call was coming from his cell phone. He answered to the sound of muffles. It was like during a horror movie when it's clear the call is coming from inside the house. He ran into Rocket's room, where he was supposed to be sleeping, but instead Rocket was in bed, playing with kevins iPhone under the covers. Busted.

The next day, minutes after he got home from school, Rocket was suspiciously trying to get under one of the ottomans in our family room. [Ed. note: it should really be ottomen, right? But I looked it up and the correct plural is ottomans, which sounds so wrong.] As I walked quickly toward him, he assured me he was "doing nothing." I found a pack of Raisels that he'd nabbed from the kitchen. "I would have given you a pack, had you asked," I told him as I walked the box back into the kitchen.

When I went to the kitchen, he went toward the front of the house, and after what we'd been through, I quickly checked on him. "Just going to the bathroom, mom," he said, super depressed sounding from behind the closed bathroom door. It was silent, not like when he uses the hand soap to coat the entire bathroom as part of his helpful "cleaning." I walked away, worried he was coming down with something.

I got played. I got played by a five year old. This kid gets me time and time again.

Within minutes, I got an email from a friend that said, "oh?" It was in response to an email from my account that was pure gibberish. For a split second it thought I'd been hacked, but then I remembered the boy in the bathroom. Also, it helped that at the end of the gibberish, it said, Sent from my iPod.

I ran to the bathroom, and pushed the door open, to see him sitting on the toilet with my iPod. He quickly put it low behind his back. I had to walk in slowly, like I was talking someone off the ledge because if he dropped the iPod into the toilet, it would be done. I don't care if the iPod could be saved or how many bleach wipes scrubbed it, it would be unusuable to me. I wouldn't even be able to fish it out without our long barbeque tongs. Calmly I asked for him to hand me the iPod, and he did. Then he screamed from his perceived injustice of it all while he moved to a new seat for a time out.

I'm starting to feel like a prison warden.