MISSING: Maternal Brain Cells and More

ALERT!
Have you seen this shoe?
  • Appearance: Reebok, black, right shoe, baseball cleat, dusty, no laces.
  • Missing since: Fall 2005
  • Size: 3.5

    This black Reebok baseball cleat was last seen in the vicinity of the family room and the Nintendo GameCube. Owner’s mother offers a reward of $5.00. Foul play not suspected.

…………………………………………………………………..

Recovered earlier today in a frantic pre-P.E. search:

Brand new baseball glove owned by 12-year old son; located in underwear/socks drawer.

Brand new softball, necessary for P.E. at the YMCA; located under children’s desk, nestled in a nest of cat fur and dust.

It’s that time of year . . . when the seasons change and I suddenly have no idea where necessary accoutrement hides. I used to be the kind of person who could locate any item–no matter how obscure or tiny–in a matter of minutes. I had a brain that retained minute bits of information, little diagrams of the interiors of drawers and cupboards. I could remember.

Now, I am lucky to find my slippers. Oh, that’s right. They’re on my feet.

On my 8-year old’s feet? Yeah, red Chuck Taylors. He may not have any traction, but he sure will be stylin’.

Worse Than Interruptions: Pepperoni Pizza

What’s worse than being constantly interrupted? What’s worse than never being alone in the bathroom? What’s worse than constant noise when only silence will do? What’s worse than chatting on the phone while peering into the eyes of a 3-year old who chants, “I want to talk! I want to talk! I want to talk!”? What’s worse than reading the same sentence in a book three times, no four times–no, make that a half dozen times–because you’re being paged by the girl in the bathtub? What’s worse than walking into a room and forgetting what you’re doing because you were sidetracked by an “urgent” matter?

I’ll tell you. Pepperoni pizza.

That’s right. Pepperoni pizza. Had I known during those feverish days of baby-lust that the day would come when pepperoni pizza would trump my craving for black olives and mushrooms and onions and–oh, just give me everything on it, yes, even pineapple–I might have reconsidered. All I want now is a decent pizza, one loaded up with all the things my kids refuse to eat.

But I don’t order the pizza of my dreams because:

1) I don’t want to spend that much money on a pizza just for myself.
2) I don’t want to tempt myself to eat that much pizza myself.
3) Too many leftovers.
4) I’m ridiculous.

How many things have I sacrificed for my children? Long bubblebaths, nights of reading until the wee hours, days spent browsing in antique shops, the last cookie, watching a grown-up show at 8 p.m. downstairs in the comfortable recliner, sleeping in on Saturday mornings and sitting all through the service on Sunday . . . let me count the ways.

You see where this is leading, don’t you? Papa Murphy’s, of course. If I had a working vehicle and three fewer children in my house at this very moment, I would be in the car RIGHT NOW, heading for my beloved Papa Murphy’s franchise, coupon clutched in my sandpapery hand. I would throw all caution to the wind–to the wind, I tell you!–and order a combination pizza for me and a pepperoni for the picky kids.

A girl can dream.

(For the record, I’d pay the price over and over again, but first, I need sustenance. And a day off and a maid.)

Update: So, I called my husband and asked if he’d go pick up pizza from Papa Murphy’s for me. “Sure,” he said. I told him to let me know when he’d have time and I’d call the order in.

A few minutes ago, he called me. He was so pleased with himself. He reported that he happened to speak with a friend of ours who was shopping at Costco at that very minute and he’d asked her to bring home a pizza for us. Saves him time going to the pizza place and all. Cool, right?

Guess what kind of pizza she’s bringing?

Yeah.

Pepperoni.

Tomorrow? I will buy myself a combination pizza . . . or die trying!

Thinking Interrupted Thoughts

I used all my fingers and one toe (the pinky toe which turns sideways, much to my chagrin) to count the number of children in my house today. And yet, I managed a creative dinner (breakfast burritos) and kept everyone alive all day long. I had some thoughts in my head at some point today–I believe I was going to complain about my utter fatigue and about the depression that sometimes lurks in the shadows until I poke it with a stick–but that all seems a foggy dream now.

Sometimes, I’m here all day, routinely switching laundry from basket to washer to dryer to basket to folded on the back of the chair back to basket, changing diapers, fetching snacks, dragging the boys through their lessons (lately, the War of 1812 and the Monroe Doctrine), answering the phone (I need to get a cordless phone–what is this, 1974? I have to run into the kitchen to catch the phone before the fourth ring, which is clearly archaic) . . . and I feel so disconnected with what is happening in my household because my brain is churning and then–STOP–interrupted. Over and over and over again until I am positively strung out from the effort of thinking a coherent thought from beginning to end.

That has to be the worst part of motherhood–the elimination of meaningful thought. I used to have thoughts, ideas, actual beginnings, middles and ends to my daydreams. Or maybe it only seems that way. The constant interruptions drive me berserk. I did not know that becoming a mother would mean I would never have an uninterrupted thought again.

Except for short thoughts, thoughts like, “GET ME OUT OF HERE!” and “HEY, WHAT HAPPENED TO ALL THE COOKIES?” and “LET’S HAVE PIZZA FOR DINNER.”

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Blogger will not let me comment on any of my favorite reads . . . which I assume (giving you the benefit of the doubt!) is what is also happening on my blog. If you have a comment, please feel free to email me at Melodeee (at) gmail (dot) com.

Change: Not Just Under the Couch Cushions

So much has happened since I’ve been silent. For instance, winter ended and spring sprang. And I cooked two decent meals and one half-decent meal. The sun shone and the rain returned. Change, change, change–it’s not just floating in the recesses of your purse.

Rest assured, though. Some things remain the same. My desk still features a wide array of clutter: the yarn weavings the boys did for Art, my teacher’s guide (Spelling), five envelopes full of developed pictures, a small pile of used tissues, and a 24-pack of Crayola colored pencils. The problem with being healthy after a week (or more) of being sick is that the to-do list backs up and stacks up. And I’m still weary and my (spring) fever will not respond to treatment (la-la-la-la, I can’t hear you!).

I have to admit that I’m kind of bogged down in Jane Smiley’s 13 Ways of Looking at the Novel. Reading it makes me feel like I’m back in college, minus the broad back of the cute boy sitting in the front row. What’s hilarious to me now is that I thought I was so busy then, so stressed out, so living-the-life-of-drama.

Ha. Someone else cooked all the meals (thanks, Cafeteria Ladies!), I only did laundry for one (and I used the same towel for a week), and I could sleep all day on Saturday if the mood struck. Real stressful. However did I manage?

Wherein I Pout and Rant and Rave and Leave Home

Yesterday, my husband had to work. The funeral started at 2 p.m., so by noon, he was gone and I was still here. I admit that I was the tiniest bit pouty about the fact that I faced another Saturday at home with the children and the laundry and the dirty kitchen floor. He said, “You could at least have a good attitude,” and you know, that’s true. I could, but I didn’t. I don’t know . . . maybe six weeks of illness and too many weekends in a row at home have taken a toll. You think?

Anyway, then, of course, I felt remorse and shame at my petty pouty attitude. And so I gathered the children together (“Where are we going?” “I’m not telling.” “Why not?” “Because you’ll complain.” “Oh, Mom! That means it’s somewhere we’ll hate!”) and off we went in our 1987 Chevy Astro van.

First stop? Gas station.
Second stop? Bank.
Third stop? Wendy’s drive-through.
Fourth stop? Zoo.
Fifth stop? Dairy Queen.
Sixth stop? Side of the road so I could stop screaming and start wiping up the ice cream plastered all over my daughter’s fingers, dripping on the floor.
Seventh stop? Video game store.
Eighth stop? Parking lot of video game store where I completely blew a gasket and considered simply walking about from my family. Why? An entire spilled Cookie Dough Blizzard in the third row. Children clamped their mouths shut, quite wisely, so while I ranted and raved, it could have been worse. For instance, the Blizzard might have spilled on carpet rather than the plastic floor mat thingy.
Ninth stop? Back home.

My husband called a bit later to let me know the funeral had ended and that he’d be home and then I could leave if I wanted. I had been under the impression that I wouldn’t get a chance to get out of the house alone, so this was a delightful surprise. I practically sprinted out the front door when he arrived home.

I poked around in my favorite local discount stores and ended my evening using my lone remaining movie gift card. I saw “Failure to Launch,” the Matthew McConaughey and Sarah Jessica Parker movie. The reviews have been dismal, but I went anyway, figuring at the very least I’d just gaze at Matthew McConaughey, who is one fine looking man.

The question is . . . would he be as fine without that accent?

And about Sarah Jessica Parker . . . she is two months younger than me. She has a son the age of my daughter. Her hair, in its natural state, is the color my hair in its natural state. But that is all we have in common. She’s somehow managing to remain young and nubile, while I have two age spots on my hands. I hate her.

The Plague has passed and all that remains are random coughs and an occasional sneeze. I am thankful to be alive.

Really Random Notes

I noticed surefire, telltale signs that my children are ill.

My boys: Uncharacteristic silence, stillness, lack of noise. They don’t even fight.

My daughter: Remained in one outfit (her pajamas) all day. For two days, actually.

Also, if a drug company could figure out a way to mass produce a mother’s lap, they’d be rich. My daughter refuses ibuprofen and acetaminophen, but sitting in my lap seemed to soothe her pain. I am Human Pain Reliever, no danger of overdosing.

Finally, during this mornings’ three hour ordeal math semester assessment, I had to fight the powerful urge to hurl a grapefruit at my Reluctant Student’s head. He is lucky I possess so much self-control. And that I’m terrified by the thought of a women’s correctional facility.

Oh Look! I Just Coughed Up My Spleen.

I began to dream today. I imagined driving to Costco, alone. I saw myself leaving my three film canisters at the one-hour photo counter, shopping for an hour, and then picking up my pictures before returning home.

And my dream came true! I left home at 5:30 p.m., made a bank deposit, and drove straight to Costco. I dropped off my film and wandered up and down all the aisles at Costco, idling placing stuff in my cart: lightbulbs, swimming trunks, pot roast, printer paper, romaine lettuce, twenty-four packs of Maruchan Instant Lunch, the noodles of choice for 12-year old boys, three cans (19 oz each) of Lysol spray. I shopped and shopped and shopped, surprising myself with the sheer number of essential items I picked up. Socks, batteries, cat food, corned beef . . .

Then, at 7:22 p.m., I headed to the photo counter, eager to see my pictures. I handed the man my Costco card and then opened my wallet to retrieve my debit card.

“Um, just a second,” I said to the man. “I never leave home without it!”

My initial purse-search revealed a huge wad of receipts, tissues, tickets from an arcade, coupons and no debit card.

“Ha ha! Let me look. It’s here somewhere.”

More frantic digging. Beads of sweat spring up on my forehead. I wonder why my fleece jacket makes me so hot.

“Well. I guess I’m going to have to look some more over there. Just, uh, put that back.”

Three times, I emptied out my purse, section by section. My debit card did not magically appear. I frisked myself, checking pockets.

Then I pushed my full cart around the corner and telephoned my husband and announced, “Would you like to hear about my nightmare?” Costco does not accept credit cards. I never carry a checkbook nor cash.

He suggested my mom could bring me his debit card. I said, “No, uh, wait. The last time I left the house was . . . Saturday when I went to that movie. Will you check my black jacket?” And that’s where I’d left my debit card, safely zipped into the pocket of my black jacket.

The photo guy let me leave my stuff tucked into the corner of the photo station. I drove twenty minutes home, picked up my card, drove twenty minutes back to Costco and arrived in time for the door-guy to say, “You have seven minutes.” Plenty of time!

The moral of this story: Never leave your debit card in your coat pocket, even if it seems like the best solution to the hands-full-of-popcorn-and-medium-Diet-Coke-at-the-movies dilemma. And yes, I did enjoy “16 Blocks” and no, I’ve never done this before and yes, we are feeling better, but no, I haven’t stopped coughing, but yes, my daughter is giggling again and no, not on the brink of death.

Now, excuse me while I tuck my spleen back into place.

The end.

Untitled Due to Lack of Interest

When I woke up at 7:10 a.m., I thought perhaps I’d slept right through her crying. Or maybe she was dead. I jump to conclusions like that. (Do you, too?) She fell asleep in my arms last night at around 6:30 p.m. and roused a few times until finally, I put her to bed at 8 p.m. She woke up once at about 9 p.m. and while I fully expected her to wake up in the night, she did not.

She slept until 7:30 a.m.

But she woke up still complaining about her tummy ache. (No mention of ear pain.) I started to wonder when the last time was she’d . . . well, you know. Then I thought maybe she has a bowel obstruction and needed x-rays and surgery, stat! But, as the morning wore on, she padded upstairs to the bathroom and took care of business.

Later, she coughed once and winced, so her ear hurts a little, but not enough to wake her in the night.

I daresay we are going to live through the Great Plague of 2006.

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