What I Wouldn't Give For An Instant Teleportation Device

We're almost there. Tomorrow we leave on what will be the longest leg of our journey, but it will be the one that brings us home. We've had such a wonderful time, but I can barely contain myself. My own bed is calling, and I can't wait to get the children back into the completely dark room that keeps them sleeping beyond 6 am.

The trip home tomorrow should be interesting. I'm knee deep in a fantastic book, which likely means that I will ignore the pleadings of my children for something to drink, and when are we going to get there, until they are so loudly high-pitched that dogs 10 miles away are cringing.

We'll probably be leaving at around 4 am, which means I get to drive the first shift. I love that time. The car is (usually) quiet, and then I can turn on NPR at 5. I should get an hour or two of Morning Edition in before my husband wakes up and starts muttering about bias in the media and the kids come out of their early-morning stupor and start demanding, not requesting, liquids. I'm really tempted to put tin foil up over the kids' windows to keep them quiet a little longer. And what is it about road trips that encourages my children to drink as much as possible? I don't serve salty snacks. Really, I'm just trying to avoid stopping at every nasty gas station between New Jersey and Atlanta. You'd think they were camels and this is their only opportunity to drink for the next 30 days.

We'll stop for breakfast, and people will stare at me a little funny because Good Lord, it's 9 am and those children are out in public, but still not out of their jammies. What kind of mother am I? And then I'll be able to relinquish the driver's seat which means I'll finally be able to get back to the book that I haven't been able to put down for the last 2 days.

The rest of the day will be spent fending off requests for drinks, begging the girls to keep their feet to themselves, passing out gummy bears to stave off grumpy attitudes, and trying furtively to sneak looks at my book while my husband looks at me out of the corner of his eye, wishing I would put it down and keep him company. And yes, the book really is that good. There will also be a very healthy smattering of Ladybug singing I like to move it, move it. Because we were smart enough (?) to rent Madagascar 2 for the trip from VA to CT.

With luck we should be home by bedtime. Just in time to attempt to convince the girls that it is indeed time to go to bed. Any bets on how likely that scenario looks?

We're leaving (not) On a Jet Plane

Oh my G-d.  I am packing for a trip with four different destinations and I think my head may just explode from the logistical nightmare of it.  Snacks to pack.  Toys to pack.  Things for the beach.  Things for a garden party.  And how many pairs of shoes do I need?  The entire summer contents of my shoe wardrobe?  Sure.  Why not?  Because hey, we're not flying on an airplane.  But we are driving in a car 36 freakin' hours.  Not all at once, of course.  But I don't think that matters to the kids.  One hour in the car is just the same as the next.  And I think I may need to relax my 2 movies/10 hours driving time rule because I just don't think I can handle the whining.  Red Box, anyone?  

Sigh.  Breathe.  

Repeating slowly to myself.  There are stores where we are going.  If there's anything we need, we can pick it up.  There are stores where we are going.  If there's anything we need, we can pick it up.  

I will inevitably spend the first part of the trip worrying.  Did we actually set the alarm?  We didn't leave any of the windows unlocked, did we?  We did let the cats out of the bathroom that we stuck them in while we packed the car, right?  They didn't get outside, did they?  And the lights.  We turned them all off, right?  And shut the curtains.  Did we leave the water running? 'Cause hey, we left at 4 am.  Who the hell knows what the house looked like?  

And then 8 am will roll around, and I'll be able to call our lovely neighbor.  And she will assure me that everything is in perfect working order.  And I will be amazed, because hey, we left at 4 am.  And of course we had to watch True Blood the night before so we didn't actually get to bed until 11 pm.  

And I think this is where anti-anxiety meds just might come in handy.  

Back to packing and that mental list that I'm making that just keeps getting longer and longer.  Underwear, nighttime diapers, pull-ups, swim diapers, bathing suits, dresses, laptop, charger, phone charger, makeup (Although why this?  Because I never use it...), pictures, presents, alcohol (not to be used while driving, yes, I know), blankets, pillows, ...., ...., ...., 

I feel pretty, oh so pretty...

Lately I've been getting too many peeks at my daughter's rapidly approaching adolescence.  I'm mean she's four, almost five, with the attitude of a 13 year old.  This should be the fun, inquisitive stage.  Not the moody, emotional stage where she'll stamp her foot, growl (yes, this kid growls), and slam her toys down at the smallest perceived slight.  She's a tiny little emotional roller coaster, bursting into tears if her favorite skirt isn't ready to wear when she wants it because, and I quote, "she wants to be pretty, not messy pretty."  

It occurred to me today that we could probably use some serious mother-daughter bonding time.  So we set off on an adventure.  An adventure that took us to a place filled with medieval torture devices, otherwise known as a nail salon.  Now I am sadly the sort of person who just doesn't take care of herself.  I go too long between visits to the hair dresser.  I don't wear makeup.  And I just don't get pedicures all that often.  But I don't want Sunshine to be like me.  At least not in that respect.  

I should have said stop the moment I heard the lady say something about an ingrown toenail.  But I didn't.  And then my big toe was attacked with a long, skinny, stabbing instrument and something that looked and felt a little like a pair of pliers, and it felt like she was actually trying to rip my toenail off.  And all the while I'm trying to sit there and smile and politely answer my daughter when she asks me why I'm gritting my teeth and making that weird noise.  And when the nail tech had finally removed the offending portion of my toenail, she put it on my toe and laughed at how big it was.  She left it there to mock me and my lack of foot hygiene.  Then she discovered three more, and I'm trying desperately to forget that portion of this afternoon's events.  

Sunshine loved her mani/pedi.  She decided that purple, with a top coat of purple sparkles would be perfect for her feet, while her fingers were just screaming for blue, with a top coat of blue sparkles.  And while I think that we bonded a bit during the time we sat next to each other in those comfy chairs, I can't really remember talking much.  At least her choice of colors reminds me of the child I think she should act like.  Gives me hope that we're just in the middle of some funky transitional stage.  That I'll get my non-snarky kiddo back.  The one who doesn't roll her eyes at every one of my suggestions.  I mean she's only four, right?

Breakfast: The Most Important Meal of the Day

Important?  Definitely.  I mean the USDA wouldn't steer us wrong.  But breakfast here drives me nothing short of nuts.    These girls will beg and plead for what it is they decide they want for breakfast.  I'll painstakingly prepare what it is that they request and place it lovingly in front of them only to have them eat two bites.  And then declare themselves done.  And honestly that wouldn't bother me.  I mean, I don't like the wasted food, but I won't force them to eat anything.   It's the constant requests/demands/whining for snacks that starts about an hour after they've turned their noses up at whatever was placed on the breakfast table.  

I really don't think the issue is that they're not hungry in the morning.  I think that they just like the idea of snacks.  I have been trying, with lousy results, to get them to understand that our day is not just an uninterrupted stream of snacks.  I know they're hungry.  They have to be.  They only ate 2 bites for breakfast.  But I'm done.  I'm done with snacks.  You don't finish breakfast, you don't get snacks.  

This morning though? Almost broke me.  It was almost comical.  Well, maybe only in hindsight.  I had both girls following me around the house, begging for food for almost 30 minutes.  Literally 2 steps from my ankles.  Almost whining in unison.  While I was on the phone.  I almost dug their eggs out of the trash and served them on a platter.  

Family Date Nights. Hot or not?

Ladies and Gentlemen, I think we've hit an all time low.  The last time Todd and I had a date night might have been way back in February when we went to San Francisco.  We were a bit desperate for one.  So on Saturday night, we packed the girls up and took them with us.  Yeah.  I know.  Totally defeats the purpose.  But desperate times call for desperate measures.  

All in all, the drive-in isn't a bad place for a date night that you have to drag children too.  We saw the new Harry Potter.  And aside from the slightly-more-than-sporadic interruptions from the peanut gallery requesting more popcorn, it was fairly successful.  There was only a 10 minute screaming fit, complements of Ladybug, that required the rolling up of windows.  Both girls did even fall asleep, eventually.   Although Sunshine has recounted for me the entire scene where the Weasley's house burns.  Oops.  

I would love the chance to actually go out.  With my husband.  Without my children.  But frankly, neither of us can stand to shell out $15/hour for a sitter.  We'd rather pack them up and pray they fall asleep before the movie starts and save the sitter money to pay for things like food and electricity.  

I've tried to float the idea of a co-op with the other parents in our neighborhood.  Nobody really seems interested.  Of course they don't know what Sunshine can do with a bottle of diluted vinegar.  Perhaps that might sweeten the deal.  Watch my kids for a few hours, and she'll clean every mirror, window, and baseboard in your house.  That wouldn't violate child labor laws.  Would it? 

Off the Beaten Path

We love hiking.  Ever since college really.  I remember my first time visiting the Devil's Marbleyard in Virginia.  Gosh, that was years ago.  I actually think that was also the site of my first anxiety attack.  Halfway up, and all I could picture was us falling to the bottom.  But that didn't stop us.  Well, we did start choosing hikes with lower elevations.  

We found Edwin Warner in Nashville.  It was only 3 minutes from our apartment, and it was perfect.  First it was just the two of us.  And truthfully, now I can't even remember what it was like when it was just the two of us.  We added our dog, Macy, in short order.  This tiny puppy who wouldn't come near us at the SPCA, wouldn't stray farther away then the back of our heels at Edwin Warner.  Well, at least for the first six months.  After that we barely saw her on our hikes.  Every now and again we'd see a black streak fly across the ridge in search of squirrels.  

After the arrival of our oldest daughter, our hiking stopped.  Just didn't seem feasible to carry everything that was required to sustain our tiny daughter, our dog, and ourselves.  Now that Ladybug is capable of doing a nice 2-2.5 mile hike, we've started back up again.  

And let me tell you, we've learned a lot since we've started hiking with the girls.  First? Grunters.  You know those people at the gym who grunt impossibly loudly when lifting weights or hitting a squash ball?  Well, they're born that way.  And we know that because Ladybug is a grunter.  Every rock or step that she climbs is accompanied by the loudest grunt.  She just can't help it.  And I feel for her a little, she'll probably be glared at by tons of gym goers when she's grown up.  Second? I squeal like a little girl when bugs fly into my ear.  Yes, that's right.  And then the girls will spend the next hour repeating it, and any chance we have of spotting wildlife is gone.  But when they're super quiet, and they certainly were today, we catch glimpses like this... 

By the way, nursing mothers are everywhere!

Third?  We move at two different speeds, the girls and I.  Especially when hiking.  The girls?  They meander.  Every ant, rock, grain of sand, and leaf is worthy of their undivided attention.  And truly?  That's the way it should be.  I have to fight my inner need to walk at warp speed like I'm shopping on Black Friday.  And anyone who knows my mother and Black Friday knows what I'm talking about.  

Our hikes are different now.  Less hand holding with my husband.  More hand holding with our children.  Less talk about our future.  More talk about peeing in the woods, and why it's only done in an absolute emergency.  Ladybug has this strange idea that it's the absolute best place to pee.  Although Sunshine did steer the conversation today towards her fervent desire for a baby brother.  Ha!  Not exactly something you put on a birthday list, kid.  

525,600 Minutes

We moved back to Atlanta just a little over a year ago.  And since then, I've been thinking a lot about this past year.  I know I keep harping on it.  Maybe I just don't know how to let go.  Tumultuous.  I guess that's my best description for it.  We've been though so many changes.  So how exactly do I measure this year?

In the miles traveled to reach home? 

In the number of phone calls to my sisters? (Thank God we have the same cell phone provider.)

In the number of friends we made and reconnected with?

In the number of times I've yelled at my girls?  (Far too many.)

In the number of times those girls have made my heart melt?  

In the phone calls to my husband, praying that his day was going well?

In the smiles that I now see on his face since leaving that hell hole of a law firm?

In the number of tomato plants I have killed this year? (Just too damn hot on that porch.)

In the number of tantrums my kids have thrown in public?

In pots of tea?  (Hot Cinnamon Spice only, please.)

In the number of books I've read?

In the number of times I've reread my favorites?

In blog entries?  (Ha.  Not these last few months.)

Perhaps the better question would be how does this last year measure me?  I'm a little scared to ask that question.  Part of me thinks that I've spent quite a bit of time pretending to be a zombie.  I'm not sure anyone would notice.  I think I fake it quite well.  Maybe not these last few months though.  

But I swear.  This is the end.  I'm done taking stock of this past year.  This is the last whining post I'll write.  At least for a while.