Sing On

     In the book of Genesis, chapter 1, the Bible says that God created the Heavens and the Earth and that the Earth was covered with seas and oceans and that theses seas and oceans were formed by the collection of tears harvested by all the babies that were still to come. The tears of needed naptimes, the tears of naptimes being fought. The tears of hunger, and the tears of still being hungry due to having thrown your grapes on the floor for the 12th time in 2 minutes. The tears of needing a clean diaper,and the tears of that new diaper being put on. The tears of missing Mommy and then, upon getting Mommy, realizing that it was, in fact, Daddy who was the one being missed, adding to the seas and oceans of tears that were spoken of in The Beginning. **
     Today, and the entire last week, my child has been adding to the seas and oceans with flood-worthy tears. We are ALL losing our minds. Captain Cranky-Pants is unleashing his emotional fury during homework time and meal time and bed time and all the times in between, making it impossible to focus on another task and creating a great deal of tension as we attempt to talk over the wailing.
     Honest Moment approaching: Yes. I have screamed this week. Into my pillow, out of my pillow, and directly at my baby. Shut up! Just..... oh my gosh, SHUT UP!!! Thankfully, my little man thinks this is hysterical and doesn't seem to be scarred too deeply by my momentary disdain. Nevertheless, my screaming because of his screaming leaves me feeling deflated and weak and tearful myself.
     On the flip side, I have found that singing through his tears puts me and my other children in a much more pleasant state of mind. Not that it changes the screaming being done by the wee one (of course not), but it does improve my own demeanor considerably. For example, this morning, Wyatt took the opportunity to ferociously wail and attempt to climb my legs the entire time I was getting ready for our afternoon of running errands. After jabbing myself in the eye with my mascara wand and burning myself with the curling iron, I kinda wanted to exile him to his crib (and then exile his crib to Antarctica!). Instead, I chose to sing a song, more for myself than for him, in an attempt to fend off the crazed panic that was threatening to overtake me. To the tune of Row, Row, Row Your Boat, I sang:
     Drive, Drive, Drive your car, to the grocery store. Buy some ice cream, eat it all, and then go back for more.
     I sang it at least 10 times before I supplemented a few variations of what I would buy at the store, adding some musical runs and vibrato to the mix, and trying my vocal chords at Twinkle Twinkle. Keep in mind, the baby was still screaming, but I was not. The singing did nothing to change my circumstance but did everything to change my ability to deal with it.
     A similar occurrence happened yesterday on our way to swim lessons. Wyatt was exhausted and ready for a short nap, but he just did not want to give it up and rest in the car. My normally travel-happy camper had a whiney case of the "Hold Me's" and was unwilling to sleep until he got his cuddles in. The kids were in the back and grumbling with one another, not that I could hear the specifics over the crying baby. I was almost to my breaking point and ready to holler when I chose to turn on the radio to K-Love. Fighting the tears that threatened to spill down my own cheeks, I let the music wash over me. My voice sang even when my heart didn't want to as I began to focus my attention less on what was going on behind me and more on what was going on inside of me. At some point during our journey, the baby gave in to rest and the bigger kids had traded in their bickering for unison as they sang along with the tunes echoing through the van.
     This reminded me of an actual Scripture verse in Psalms 59. Verses 16 and 17 read like this:
     But I will sing of your strength, in the morning I will sing of your love; for you are my fortress, my refuge in times of trouble. O my Strength, I sing praise to you; you, O God, are my fortress, my loving God.
     Singing through the tears has been a tried and true theme throughout centuries of crying babies, lost jobs, devastating diagnoses, and failed relationships. There are definitive moments in life that scream for our attention and wail to be picked up. They tug and pull and distract and cause us to stab ourselves in the eye with a proverbial mascara wand.
     Sometimes, these moments warrant our attention. And sometimes these moments are nothing more than weighted neck-ties trying to pull us down into a sea of tears as we fight and scream and forget that we have a Strength and a Fortress that has called us to sing through our current circumstance.
     There is a popular phrase among Christians that says, "If He brings you to it, He'll bring you through it". Another Honest Moment approaching: I'm just not a huge fan of that phrase. Now, before you scream blasphemy and call for a lynching, let's remember that this common phrase is found no where in the actual Bible (nor is it in the good book of Mommy's Losing Her Mind). In fact, I believe that God brings us to situations, not for us to sit there white-knuckling our faith with clenched teeth and closed eyes, wishing and praying and hoping for the moment to come when God will rush in and chase away the clouds, restoring our previously sunny life.
     I believe that God calls us to a much more active role in times of tears. Just as the slaves chose to write songs to tell their stories and lift their spirits in the midst of great suffering, God also calls us to sing through the tears. Each battle is an opportunity to tell your story through song. Each tear is filled with words and feelings and melodies just waiting to be unleashed. God brings us to these moments not to passively wait for a savior to come but, instead, to sing your heart out in the midst of it all. Maybe God isn't looking for us to beg and plead for a change in our circumstances as much as He's challenging us to find a way to praise Him for the opportunity to tell our story in the middle of the circumstance.
     When Wyatt cries incessantly, I sing nonsensical songs to silly tunes. He continues to cry, but my mood improves exponentially. I am able to smile while I pull my hair out, in a sense! When Cameron and Taylor are flipping their lids at one another and battling their own demons that they came to us with, I can put on K-Love. They may continue to squawk, but a silent story is being told as they see me praising through it instead of screaming the infamous Shut up!!! at them. And when another Mama comes to me in tears because she's lost a child and is facing heartache of the worst kind, I can sing along with her a mournful, holy roar of solidarity because I, too, have felt that very heartache.
     Our stories are in our songs and our songs are in the tears. It is your song that will be the story to heal hearts and elicit praise in the middle of it all. Even if the tears continue and the circumstances don't change, Sing On, Sisters.



**The book of Genesis, paraphrased in the book of Mommy's Losing Her Mind

Scrub-A-Tub-Dub

     Earlier this week I posted a very, very serious question regarding bathtubs. I wanted answers. Legitimate answers from honest moms willing to make me feel less guilty about my own flaws. The question was this: Exactly how long is it socially and hygenically acceptable to go without scrubbing your bathtub?
     I was secretly hoping and praying with fervent pleas that at least 100 ladies would tell me that it was OK to never wash my tub. Ever. These ladies would become my people and I would become theirs. We would be one against the world of anal-retentive tub-scrubbers we've heard tell of. And following up those faithful hundred, maybe there would be a handful (a large handful) of people who would've told me that yearly tub-scrubs would suffice. Those people would receive an affectionate Christmas card from me and my ladies, along with a condolence card to help them through their Dark Day of scrubbing. And then there would hopefully be even another handful (small.... Very small) of women willing to put me in my place and tell me that I have to clean at least twice yearly.
     People, I wasn't thrilled with the response. SOMEONE made me realize that I am failing and that it can no longer be ignored. I am a dirty, dirty woman and probably destined to an eternity cleaning Heaven's bathtubs. But then I realized something.... I think that, A) my ladies have yet to find the courage to out themselves as unclean, or B) it's because I didn't set the stage adequately enough in my original Facebook post. So allow me to digress....
     I originally failed to mention that I have chronic back pain (whine) and that I have a 10-month-old baby who lets me accomplish literally NOTHING during my day (sob). But most importantly, cleaning the bathtub is the worst. The absolute pits! It's stupid and gross and I'll hate it always and forever. After all, if it were just my germs, I probably wouldn't even bother washing it ever... until I saw mold. Then maybe I'd put on my big girl panties and bite the bullet... but only for mold. As for soap scum, I find this oxymoron to be utterly ridiculous. Soap's job is literally to wash away scum. So the utter idea that the two could marry and form an evil film around my shower is nonsense. I choose to ignore said film and pretend that it's just a line of memories from dirty days gone by.
     As for the rest of my family:
     My husband and all his manly dirtiness bathes in our downstairs shower. All wood chips, mud, and fireplace smoke have been banned from the rest of the house entirely, so the amount of grime build-up for our family has been reduced by at least 50% right there.
     Then there is Cameron. Honestly, I'm pretty sure he doesn't even bathe. I mean, I send him up to the bathroom and all, and he comes back wet most of the time, but because he still has mud coating his skin, I don't think he actually does anything other than stand in the water. He may even just shove his head under the faucet for a few seconds before he resumes playing with his toy cars on the bathroom floor until the appropriate amount of shower time has passed.
     Taylor is the size of a watermelon. How much soap scum could possibly be created by a watermelon??
     And Isaac, well, his version of taking a bath includes swishing and flopping and shimmying all over the tub... kind of like a human sponge, some may say. So in essence, the very nature of him bathing is the equivalent of me using a midget-sized sponge covered in Johnson & Johnson all over my shower. That should at least buy me a month of tub scrubs right there!
     Wyatt pooped once in the bath. I blame all tub grime on his teeny-tiny bottom.
     And finally, there's myself. In the off-chance that I get the time to shower, I spend equal time washing myself and scrubbing questionable looking patches off the tiles. I use Cameron's wash cloth (because I know he isn't using it anyway). After all, the tub's already wet, there's soap suds floating around, and I can rinse off quickly when the scrubbing-exertion makes me sweaty.
     So now you have all the facts. And knowing these facts, I ask the question again. Just how long can I go without officially scrubbing my tub? Come on, ladies, I'm looking for my faithful hundred!! ;)

Birthday Week

     It is Birthday Week in the Costa household!!! Note the exclamation points? That's because we are not celebrating any holidays nor are we hosting any children's parties. It is Birthday Week for just us big people, therefore we don't have to do ANYTHING we don't want to do (uh-hem baking cakes, cleaning the house "guest-style", blowing up balloons until we're dizzy, wrapping presents, or dealing with fall outs from disappointments and emotional "it's over"s). We will eat the good food and watch the good T.V. and NOT clean ANYTHING because we won't be inviting over the people who care if our house is guest-style clean, our-style clean, or just plain dirty! The benefit of adult birthdays is that we can do virtually nothing and it feel like all the somethings that we longed for as kids. It's wonderful and fabulous and perfect. This, my friends, is how we celebrate Birthday Week.
     But not this year. Apparently we've grown tired of celebrating the in wonderful, fabulous, perfect sort of way of which we are accustomed. Because this year, we are going away.
     I know. Hold the phone, right?
     We are actually leaving our dogs and leaving our kids and leaving our dirty house to go away. Could it be that perfect just got more perfect?? Folks, not only do I not have to clean for my Birthday Week, but I don't have to stay here and look at the filth either! It's so exciting that there may even be some tears shed as we walk out the door and prepare to spend 36 hours away from it all.
     However, as with most things, there is a catch. And it's name is Packing. You know what I never have to do for Birthday Week when we stay home? Pack. Even the word itself just sounds to harsh. Pack. P-ack. Ugh, why can't there be people in my life that will know what to pack for me and just come over and do it while I'm asleep? People that will plan for the unexpected, know which pants will cover my muffin top, and anticipate just which top will make me feel sensational and yet sexily understated at the same time. People that will drag the suitcase from the back of my closet and fold all the things so neatly and wrap my leakables in leak-proof containers and load my heavily-laden suitcase into the back of the car for me..... I need better friends, that's all I'm sayin'.
     My husband fails to see p-acking as an issue. Probably because his list includes these three things:
Phone charger, clean underwear, contact solution.
     Anytime we go ANYWHERE he acts like packing is just no big deal, and he proceeds to grab his few items and then make a sandwich while I run around like a mad woman, scrambling to get all the "what if" items accounted for, make the list of all things needed for my in-laws to care for our dogs and kids, make sure we've got enough money in the correct account for any unexpected purchases, etc., etc., etc.
     So, to make my life so much easier, I made a list of things that I absolutely must bring and I will simply wing the rest, just like the husband. Here is my list so far:

     1) Breast pump- even if I leave everything else, this is a must! There will be no relaxing or fun times to be had if I'm engorged and drenching the front of my shirt while in public. No one will know if I forget clean underwear, but everyone will know if I forget my pump!
     2) Mini cooler- to store the pumped milk. Wyatt has grown used to milk sans chunks.
     3) Extra breast pads- no sense risking it. They weigh like half an ounce and are worth their weight in gold.
     4) Condoms- oh my gosh, and birth control! I'm pretty sure Husband has birthday wishes that involve more than making good use of the hotel's gym accommodations, and we need another munchkin running around like we need a kick in the head.
     5) Caffeine- While the kids are away, the parents will play. But only until 8 p.m. if we forget to pack the caffeinated things.
     6) The real bra- no one wants the nursing bra uni-boob on date night. No one. It's time to suffer through and put on something with an underwire and some support. Hike 'em up, tie 'em up, whatever gets 'em UP and where they should be instead of keeping my abs warm where they usually reside. (Well, keeping the place where there used to be abs warm, anyway.)
     7) And while we're at it, let's pack some good underwear- (but also throw in a secret pair of granny panties for the actual sleeping part of the trip.... no one wants to sleep in the pretty stuff because it shifts around and creeps up and up and up and, well, it really ain't pretty any more at that point).
     8) Shoes with a heel- gasp!
     9) Skinny jeans- (or at least skinnier jeans) basically anything that makes me look like I did before all these little people is acceptable, skinny or not.
     10) Earrings- I haven't worn them for 2 1/2 years due to grabby hands and a few torn ear lobes. But for Birthday Week I will make an exception.
     11) Toiletries- all the things that it takes to make me look human.
     12) Medicines- all the things that it takes to make me feel human.
     13) And finally, The List......
   
     You couples know The List. Every time you manage to leave the house kid-free, what's the first thing you talk about? The kids. But not us! We are NOT talking about the kids at all during our time away, and to make sure we stick to our plan, I am creating a list of go-to topics that are sure to spark meaningful conversations, flirtations, and emotional intimacy. Things like......
     The Holocaust....
     Gas Prices.....
     Favorite Colors.....
     The Weather.
     Well, hopefully I'll win him over with my skinnier jeans and flashy earrings. If all else fails, we'll just make out in the corner booth and hope my breast pads hold out. Happy Birthday, Baby.
     

Working Mama: Superhero In Disguise

     Dear sweet Jesus, help me.

     This week was the week. It was inevitable and I'd put it off as long as I could, but after 10 months, it was time to return to the "working" world. (Let the record show that the "working" world is the one in which I will get paid for my efforts, as opposed to the world I've been living in that has consisted of 24/7 labor-intensive and mind-numbing tasks for which I have yet to be compensated.... and no, hugs do not count as compensation when you've changed 5 sets of urine-soaked sheets in a week.)
   
     Pre-pregnancy job outlook: I have the skills needed to do my job, not only adequately, but remarkably. My documentation is near flawless, my people skills are superb, I spend countless hours outside of the workforce practicing new skills and researching updated theories and techniques, and I am organized to a fault. Working keeps me sane and sanity keeps me working.

     During pregnancy job outlook: I have some skills, but I sometimes puke in front of my clients and have to use toilets that I would otherwise slit my wrist before using. I can do my job pretty well, when I'm not cringing with Braxton-Hicks contractions or fumbling in my purse for a much-needed snack.... how old are those Tic Tac's, I wonder? I spend some time thinking about my clients before I crash for the night, but I usually fall asleep before I can get through the newest psychology articles. I sometimes can't tie my shoes and my socks don't have to match, but I'm managing to keep my cases organized.... I think. Working keeps me sanish and the need for money keeps me working.

     Post-pregnancy with a 9-month-old, a toddler, and two nutty big kids job outlook: I have the skills to.... Wait, where the crap is my briefcase?!?! I can't even tell is that's dog poop, baby poop, or spit up on my one and only pair of fitting dress pants.... it kind of smells like all three.... I don't have time to wash them so I guess I'll Febreeze them and move on. Anyways, what was I saying again? Skills. Yes! Ok. I have some skills.... somewhere. They're either in the diaper bag or the lunch box.... Skills, not Skittles.... shoot. Um, I think I still know how to talk to people, but I've been told I lose my train of thought, but who knows, I can't remember. I spend countless hours trying to get everyone ready and out of the house for me to complete a two hour training, some of which I even retained. (Pat on back.) I have no idea where anything is or how I could ever possibly help another human being.... Ever again. Working causes insanity and money is working for nothing and sanity and....um.... crap.

     DO YOU SEE MY PROBLEM??? How in the world am I going to DO this, people? It took me longer to get me and munchkin ready to leave the house than it did to attend my first training, you guys. And then I had to go grocery shopping, pick the baby up, get the kids off the bus, help them with homework (another Dear sweet Jesus moment brought to you by the letter T and the word TAYLOR), get dinner made, lunches packed, the house kinda "cleaned", online paperwork completed for the new job, laundry put away, kids readied and put to bed, baby fed, dogs taken care of ,and finally, at 10:45 pm I was allowed to go to sleep. I was so busy I didn't even have time to cry over the panic I experienced leaving my little man for the first day! (Two hours... that's how long I worked... two. freaking. hours.)
     I remember a time when going to work was seriously my only obligation. And I loved it. Now it seems like work is that crappy errand I have to run that interrupts the real things I'm supposed to get done, like taking care of EVERYONE. Never did I feel that I encountered something in my career that was impossible to overcome.... I was certain that there was a solution and that my 100% effort would payoff.
     But as a mother, I rarely feel that kind of confidence, and that's with giving it 1,000,000% effort!! It seems that no matter how hard I try, I'll probably not succeed, but that it won't matter too much because there's not enough time in a day to focus on each little failure before the next one is there to present itself with a new way to screw up. Who knows, maybe going to work will reboost my confidence, reminding me that I.Can.Do.Some.Things! But in a schedule that already felt overwhelming between therapy sessions, swim lessons, gymnastics classes, and church or school obligations, where is a gal supposed to allow time to go to work? I suppose my luxurious 3-5 hours of sleep per night could be cut back.... but I don't know that I should drive under those circumstances.
     I, for one, am looking forward to seeing how all this unfolds. (Well, looking forward to it or not, it's gonna unfold, people... be sure to stand at least 6 feet from me at all times, just in case my brain explodes from all the "unfolding".) After all, there are all these other heroic women out there, earning the bacon and cooking it too, so why can't I? (Because my brain is mushy? Because I only have one pair of pants? Because I never did find that brief case? Because I found crusty boogers in my hair upon returning home from the first day of training.... and I don't know how long they had been there???)
     So, what do I need from you, Mamas? TIPS! Help me, please! Tell me what you have found that works for you. How do you manage time? Family? A changing schedule? Homework? How do you just not drop all the balls and sit on the floor and cry??? Okay.... Go!

Perspective - Feeling The Hard Feelings

     Tonight my husband took the kids. I think he knew that I needed a break. I think he knew this because when he came home last night, I handed him the crying baby and yelled, "I NEED A BREAK!" A clever man, my husband.
     In the first thirty minutes of my freedom, I ran around and flitted from chore to chore. I washed the lid to the garbage can. I cleaned a spot on the carpet. I dusted the stairs. Feeling rather unfulfilled, I quickly gave up on my "cleaning spree". I had put off the sad things long enough. It was time to work on the music for my grandpa's memorial service. Rather, it was time to finally take the quiet moments alone I've needed for over a week to grieve his passing. That's the thing with having children. There's usually not time to do the healthy things, like grieve. Or exercise. Or sleep.
     It struck me as odd that I had to schedule in my tears. But then again, I have to schedule in bathroom breaks and boom boom time with Hubby, so I suppose scheduling in tears is inevitable. So, I sat at my piano, staring blankly at the words I'm supposed to sing, the notes I'm supposed to play. I allowed sadness to sit next to me as we sang a mournful duet. I felt the hard feelings and then left them on the piano keys.
     Allowing myself to feel things for more than a few minutes always brings my heart back to Isaac. Sometimes it seems that all things bring my heart back to my little boy. And when I look at my wall of pictures, I feel all the hard feelings all over again. Every day. And it makes me think to myself, Will there ever be a day when I don't have to be so brave, when loss isn't part of my every breath? 
     I was talking to my mom on the phone earlier this afternoon. We were talking about the memorial service and how my aunt was traveling all the way from Florida to be there to remember her father. My mom was telling me how excited my aunt is to see her daughter. In fact, my aunt said that she missed her daughter so much that she actually craved the times her daughter woke her up in the middle of the night, just to talk.
     At this, I guffawed out loud. Because in my life right now, sleep is more precious than food, and it's darn near close to water! If someone wakes me up, there better be severed limbs and blood. In fact, my big kids know better than to knock on my door in the middle of the night unless things are coming out of them. That's why I go straight for the bucket and mop each time I hear the faint tap! tap! on my door. If it's not puke, pee, or blood, it'll wait until the sun is up above the trees. Sure, I'll listen to your dream.... if you can remember it 6 hours from now. And feel free to tell me that the train woke you up last night. As long as you're not waking me up to tell me. And God help the child that shuts the bathroom door too loudly at 2 a.m. and wakes up a baby! (Or if your husband farts a fart that feels like an earthquake and wakes the baby through two closed doors..... Seriously, change your diet or move out. I don't care which, but ain't nobody got time for that!)
     After hearing my hearty laughter, my mom went on to explain that it was all about perspective. She said that as children grow and get closer to leaving the nest, a mother's perspective changes. She's long past the days of midnight feedings and changing wet sheets. She's almost hoping that her babies still need her enough, want her enough, to knock on her door in the dark hours. Sleep is no longer the biggest need, as it is replaced by the need to still be needed.
     I thought about this perspective change long after our conversation had ended. I thought about it as I stared at my wall of pictures and as I snuggled my sad self up against Isaac's pillow. Will there ever be a day when I don't feel this pain in my heart? Probably not. I can't imagine ever going a day without missing the loved ones I've lost. But perhaps, in this too, there will be a change in perspective some day. Maybe just as a mother's need for sleep changes, perhaps my need to have my little boy in my arms will change. Not go away. Never go away. But change. Somehow.
     In losing my grandpa, I'm able to see the end. He needed to pass on, to leave his illness behind and to meet up with his true love in heaven. It's a loss that I can feel painfully, but one that I can understand. However, Isaac's loss is still a mystery and is, therefore, still so hard to accept. I don't see the end. I don't know the whys and the why nots. My perspective is still so limited - so circumstantial.
     One day.... one day I'll know the answers and see the end. It'll all make sense and I'll be able to breathe a big breath that doesn't require an ounce of courage. Until then, I plan to keep feeling the hard feelings. After all, I'm not the only one. God feels them, Hubby feels them, my family feels them, my friends feel them, and you other Mamas and Dads out there feel them. We all have loss and need to be brave. Thank you for feeling with me and reminding me that I'm not alone.
     

Murphy's Law

     It's been a Murphy's Law kind of day. Quite literally, everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. I should've recognized the day for what it was early on when I awoke with a twitch above my eye and a pounding headache. That should have tipped me off. Maybe it's my eternally optimistic outlook that kept me holding out hope that the day was still salvagable (giggling with sarcastic derision over here).
     Senor Cranky-Pants began his pitiful whimpers early this morning. Although fine while I was holding him or giving him my undivided attention, the little bugger felt it best to use his independent time devoted to the fine art of screeching. He did this all morning, all afternoon, and all evening... that is, until my husband came home. Then the mischievous diaper-wearer put on his sweetest face and cutest grin to lure Daddy in, making him think that Mommy had made it all up. And that's fine.... just fine. I'll give him peas for dinner. That'll show him.
     For those of you that follow me on Facebook, you got the gist of my day (again, I apologize for my rantings). But for the rest of you, allow me to elaborate. It was a day of errands. My son is having a sleep-over on Friday.... that means I will have starving 8-10 year-old-boys running around my house, scavenging for chips and pop and birthday cake.... birthday cake that is John Deere themed.... that I have to figure out how to make in my non-pinterest fashion. Therefore, I needed supplies and lots of them! I was also in desperate need of an oil change (or so the screen on my van kept screaming at me each time I put the vehicle into park), and I have been using old make-up that was giving me an orange glow (foretelling of the afternoon's hair drama, to be sure) so I wanted to make a quick stop at Rite Aid to get new foundation. Easy peasy.
     Because I am sleep-deprived and utterly brainless, naturally, I locked my keys in the van during our very first stop. The sweet elderly woman watched patiently as I went through the phases of panic and realization while I stood in line at the cash register, ripping my purse apart in search of the missing keys. In the meantime, my baby sat on the rug in front of me, trying to shop-lift every candy bar in arm's reach. I put his lootings back and we sprinted to the van. Sure enough, there were my keys, sitting neatly in my cup holder. I had obviously taken the time to remove them from the ignition and then must have decided that they were too heavy? Too jingly? Too bulky? Why I placed them in the cup holder, I will never know. But there they sat.
     I snuggled my little one against the cold as we made our way back into Rite Aid to formulate a plan. Thankfully, my father-in-law was able to save us by bringing me Pat's spare keys from our home. That left us stranded for less than an hour and without having to pay a hefty locksmith's fee. So, we took the opportunity to browse the over-priced shelves of the store (and spend more money than we'd intended). Luckily, we ran into one of my old clients. Not only was I able to expose my small child to the poor man's halitosis, he was also given the opportunity to be fondled by tobacco-stained hands. Wyatt didn't seem to mind, though. (I think he was just excited to see someone with even fewer teeth than himself.)
     It was after this rather germy encounter that I decided a bathroom break was in order. I pushed little Wyatt in the cart to the restroom, only to find that the cart wouldn't fit through the doorway. Hmmmm. I assessed the Ladie's room and found no baby seat, nor was there a changing table to strap him to. Crap. (Literally, there was crap on the floor.) The only thing left to do was to hold him while I peed. Shoving my scarf, purse, and purchases into basin of the pedestal sink, I proceeded to single-handedly line the toilet with paper and undo my pants. Feeling proud of my accomplishments thus far, I did my deed and went to reach for the paper. It then hit me that the rest of what needed to take place was darn near impossible with just one hand. Wyatt, deciding to take some time practicing another fine art known as smacking me in the face, made this balancing act all the more precarious. I wiped (sort of) and pulled up my pants (mostly). But the button proved to be too much for me. I was just gonna have to leave my pants undone until I got back to the shopping cart outside. I was also going to have to douse me and the little one with hand-sanitizer because I wasn't even about to drench us both with a hand-washing fiasco.
     Luckily, there was another woman outside the door waiting to use the restroom, so my undone pants didn't have to go unnoticed.
     My father-in-law arrived and the day was saved (except you and I both know that's not true of a Murphy's Law kind of day). Nevertheless, we were off to the dealership. Baby and I were nestled into a comfy waiting room chair, just getting engrossed in a rousing game of Candy Crush, a much-needed break from this hectic day. And that's when I heard the familiar grunts and smelled the familiar aroma. I looked at Wyatt and he looked at me. He grunted again. I felt suddenly warm.
     Sweet Jesus. The diaper bag!
     Obviously, I had left the bag in the van because who knew that my baby was going to explode in the 20 minutes it was going to take to change my oil?? I ran quickly through the garage, frantically looking for my van. Of course, it was the one up in the air on the lift. I explained the situation to the young kid backing away from my smelly baby and he more than readily agreed to fetch my bag for us. I hustled back to the service lounge and straight to the bathroom.... where there was no changing table to be found.
     Seriously?!?
     The warm, wetness was creeping up my little guy's back as he cooed happily, seeming to enjoy my frantic dilemma. As I barged back into the lounge, an employee asked if there was something he could do to help me. Was there? I don't even know.... did he have a shower or a washing machine, perhaps? No. But he did offer to clear out the employee lounge so that I could change Wyatt's diaper on their couch instead of on the dirty bathroom floor.
     What a sweet man. Although, I fear he now regrets his offer, as Wyatt has recently found his penis. And, as all boys do, they can't resist the urge to give it a lil squeeze and tug each time it's exposed.... even if it's covered in green poo. I tried to grab his poop-glazed fingers, I really did. But I just couldn't get them in time. He had already finger-painted the back of the couch a lovely shade of olive.
     Crap.
     I changed his clothes, his diaper, and scrubbed the couch as best I could. All I kept thinking was that I was skipping the rest of the errands and going home. This baby needed his nap and this mama needed some alone time! And that's what we did.
     Upon our arrival, I put a sleepy Wyatt into his crib. I needed to unwind and prepare for my job interview the next day. So, noticing my ever-graying temples, I decided that some much-needed primping was in order. I opened up my box of Warm Chocolate colored hair dye and began methodically applying it to my head. And that's just about the time that the screaming began. I carefully removed my stained gloves and clipped my hair back before retrieving Sir ScreamsALot from his crib, plunking him on the bathroom floor with some of his best friends (Alligator, Singing Dog, and Froggy). I reapplied my gloves and got back to the task at hand. That's when I noticed that Wyatt had made a few new friends... he had his hand and face in the potty chair, played with a dead ladybug, and full-on licked the base of the toilet all while I was trying to get those dang gloves back off.
     For the love!!!!
     Knowing that part of my hair had already had dye on it for at least ten minutes, I recognized the urgent need to quickly apply the dye to the rest of my hair before there was a serious problem! I flushed the bug and removed all movable toilets from Wyatt's reach before reapplying the now sticky gloves to my hands. I had lost track of where I was on my hair-dying journey so just started straight up dumping dye onto my head and massaging it all around, silently cursing the fact that Wyatt learned how to army crawl this week and was currently wriggling around between my feet and pulling himself up on my legs as he screeched.
     I didn't mean to step on his fingers, but there was seriously no where to move and hair dye was dripping everywhere! My baby looked at me with large eyes before he took one huge breath and screamed with all his might. I had to blow in his face to get him to breathe while I removed those dang gloves yet again and scooped him up. I sang some songs, ticked some toes, and kissed some fingers. Finally, all was right with the world.
     But only for the baby. Because in all the chaos, I realized that I had forgotten to look at the clock. How long had the dye been on my head? Shoot! I had no idea. We rushed back to the bathroom and I hurriedly shoved my head under the bathtub faucet. Wyatt chewed on my big toe and attempted to pull off my sock as I scrubbed my head clean and prayed that I didn't develop any chemical burns. Dripping and exhausted, I surveyed the damage. Hair dye had stained the counter and the sink. My shirt was basically ruined. Wyatt had ingested more foreign germs today than I ever thought possible. And my hair..... oh, my hair.
     Even before I dried it, I just knew. Ten minutes later, my fears were confirmed. My scalp was orange... even more orange than my old make-up. But that wasn't the only problem. I had apparently missed an entire section of hair during baby commotion, because what I now have is an orange scalp, followed by very dark brown layers on the right side, light brown layers on the left side, and light brown tips all around the bottom. It's as if Helen Keller herself had done my hair.
     I tried moving my part over to the other side, hoping no one would notice. Just then, the kids arrived home from school. Taylor took one look at me and said, "Hey, Mom? Why is your hair really light on that side and really dark black on the other side?"
     If the 7-year-old notices it, surely the woman interviewing me tomorrow will, too.
     But there was nothing to be done about it now, was there? The directions say that it is imperative to refrain from re-dying one's hair for 24-48 hours. I would just have to smile and wear a fancy hat tomorrow. Or hope that my interviewer is Ray Charles.
     So, we did homework, ate dinner, and managed to all stay alive until the husband arrived home. Despite Wyatt's previous chucking of his juice and flinging of his food, he greeted his Daddy with an innocent smile. Husband, seeing my crazy hair and even crazier expression, took the kids away from the house for several hours to let me finish my errands in peace.
     I put on my pajamas and then went to the store to get the rest of the birthday party supplies. Why, you may ask, did I put my pajamas on before going to the store? Because I have an orange head, that's why. I can't think of a better day to shop in my pajamas than a day when I have an orange head. Graciously, the kind people of Giant Eagle didn't seem to judge me for my appearance. They must have children, too, I decided.
     And you know what else I decided? I decided that I needed to press my face against the cool glass of the bakery window, that's what. Each delectable item seemed to be begging me for a home, so how could I, as an adoptive mother, resist giving a lost creation a home? I just couldn't do it. So, I chose a beautiful little thing to be mine. Picture it.... creamy chocolate fudge, topped with chocolate mousse, topped with whipped cream, topped with shaved chocolate and a cherry, all sweetly tucked into a dark chocolate bowl that was shaped like a large, delicious egg. It was breathtaking. A little piece of Heaven to save me from this Hellish day.
     The bakery boy knew it had been a Murphy's Law kind of day. That's why he gave me the spoon. He knew I wasn't going to be able to wait until I got home to eat my special treat. He knew I was going to run through the parking lot like a woman on speed and sit in my cold car in the dimness of the parking lot lights, eating my chocolate egg. And he was right.
     I carefully removed the egg from it's to-go tub and savored the first bite. And Friends, I just can't even tell you how amazing it was. There are no words. It was the only way to end this day. The only thing that could possibly right all the wrongs that had happened. With each bite, I could feel myself giving in to the idea that orange is actually an awesome color. I could also feel the chocolate egg shell start melting on my hands......
     I tried to savor less and shovel more, attempting to beat the melting-chocolate-clock. I don't know if I squeezed too hard in my attempts to switch hands, but my egg shell cracked. Shattered, is a better word for it. And the remainder of my gooey, creamy, fudgey goodness dumped all over the front of me.
     It's not like I was surprised. I should've seen it coming, just like the eye-twitch from that morning warned. So, I did the only thing left to do.
     I licked my shirt clean in the parking lot of Giant Eagle.
     I could tell you about falling with my groceries in our mudslide of a driveway, and then dropping the bag with my eggs once I finally made it inside. But what's the point? I have an orange head, my baby licked a toilet, and I sucked on my shirt today. Really, what else could go wrong?

A Pinterest Mom, I Am Not

     A Pinterist Mom, I am not. Sometimes this bothers me. When I see pictures of children that have combed hair, for instance, I wish that maybe, just maybe, I put a little more effort into my mothering. My kids notice, too. Just yesterday, my soon-to-be 9-year-old came home elated (yes, elated) and raving over the lunch that I'd packed him. "Mom! Seriously, that stuff you made me was sooo much better than what you usually pack for us!" Oh, you mean when I mixed a can of fish product with mayo and mixed it (haphazardly) then slapped it between two slices of your $0.88 white bread? I didn't even cut these sandwiches in half (nevermind the fancy diagonal way, but I didn't even cut it down the center, THAT'S how little effort I put into this "fantastic" lunch). A kid who likes this sandwich is a kid that's tired of the orange marmalade that was on sale and is still sitting in our fridge.
     And Facebook is the absolute worst place to peruse when feeling like a non-crafty, PB and J-packing, patched-clothing parent. This morning, I saw a picture of a stunning solar system created by a girl in Cameron's grade.... hand-crafted and complete with all the planets in their rightful places around the sun. It was beautiful. You wanna know what we turned in this morning? A blue ball. We found it in our yard. We named it Neptune. We taped a string on it so it could be hung up in all it's blue glory. And it was less than stunning... that is why I'm not a Pinterest Mom.
     I like to blame my lack of creativity on the 9-month-old that insists on being held, and on the dogs that need to be taken care of, and on the dishes (oh, the never-ending pile of dishes) and laundry (oh, oh, OH the never-ending pile of laundry), and even on the bigger kids' regular homework that takes some children 20 minutes to complete but seems to take mine 10 times that long. (This time is usually filled with tears and tantrums and missing assignments and flashcards and arguing.) I also like to think that the great Unpredictables of life play a HUGE role in my lack of ingenuity.
     Like lice. Yes, lice. When your daughter gets lice, even tuna sandwiches get put on the back burner. Or when your dog (or dogs) need to go to the vet repeatedly (and for lots and lots of the dollars you should be using to buy stock in canned fish products). And when your toilets stop flushing because your septic tank is inevitably full when it's -15 degrees outside and you have a house full of guests coming in two days. These Unpredictables get in the way! They stifle my ability to Pinterest in such a real and annoying way!! But in all honesty, even before all these silly excuses (you know, pets and children and husbands and such), I knew deep down that I was never going to be a Pinterest Mom.... I just don't have it in me.
     That's why I make cookies from a package. And they're super delicious! (Why do you creative people even bother with homemade baked goods when there are literally bags and bags of deliciousness being sold at your local grocer for $1.59 and all you have to do is add water and an egg? I mean, think of the number of bird houses that could be built and dresses that could be sewn if you stopped baking all these crazy cookies from scratch?) That's also why my kid's birthday present looks like it was wrapped by a 6-year-old. A Pinterest Mom would've known how to gingerly wrap a soccer ball without tearing the paper or going for the obvious gift bag cop out. This is also why half of his presents are wrapped in Happy Birthday paper, whereas the other half are donned with left over Christmas wrap. And why my children have hat hair, even when they haven't worn any hats that day. And why my son saves his shower gel for "special occasions" instead of deciding that every day is a day to be clean.
     So, with one final nod of admiration to all of you Pinterest Moms out there, I relinquish my maternal merit badges. You are the rightful wearers of the badges, the amazing beings that deserve the trophies, the impeccably-dressed, hair and make-up ready women that I wish I could be but know I will never become. Thank you for showing my children that there is another way... that they can be more and do more, if they so choose. But for the time being, I'm going to put on my yoga pants, enjoy me some pre-packaged cookies, and hope that Neptune's string stays attached.