Week of Suck - Monday

So it started on Monday. Mondays are notorious for sucking, because you are emerging from the warm, safe cocoon of the weekend into the harsh blinding light of the work/school week. Except that having kids isn't a Monday-Friday gig, so the transition from weekend-caterpillar to weekday-butterfly isn't so jarring and painful, and sweet hell, this metaphor sucks. Forget all that nonsense. I don't hate Mondays, okay?

So it started on Monday, which was a perfectly typical day. Filled with petty annoyances, yes, as all days spent with small children are, but one can't let that get to one, lest one end up barricading oneself in one's bathroom, dialing 911 and whispering, "They've taken the house. Send in the SWAT guys, tell them there's a hostage."

And there's no way that ends well, right?

I was preparing chicken-and-cheese enchiladas for dinner when from outside I heard a sickening thud and then screaming. Screaming that could easily have drowned out a tornado siren. I bolted into the backyard straight for the T-Rex, who was standing next to the tallest, most solid tree on the property, an oak. By the time I reached him I realized he was not the the problem, though he was shrieking in terror, because I saw Kraken curled on the ground, howling, with his arm at an unnatural angle.

I didn't ask what happened. It was perfectly clear, Kraken had been climbing the tree and fell out. We allowed him to do this, so long as he was supervised. Mistake? I don't know.

Anyway, I wanted badly to freak the fuck out, but that wasn't a luxury I had. I dropped down to examine Kraken while telling T-Rex to run for Daddy. Unnecessary, since Daddy came rushing to us right then. He picked Kraken up, frantic conversation ensued, he packed the kid into That Goddamn Truck and drove off to the ER.

The whole thing took less than five minutes. I was left standing in the backyard, with an incoherent cacophony of upset going on around me. Next to me T-Rex was hysterical, the dogs were barking in confusion, from where I stood I could see Doodle pressed up against the back door screaming, and beyond her I heard Fiona start to wail.

So I comforted and soothed, hugged and wiped away snot and tears, assured that yes, Kraken hurt his arm, but Daddy was taking him to the doctor, they'll fix it and he'll be just fine, don't be scared, cooked the enchiladas, bathed the kids and settled them in bed (surprisingly easy, I suppose they were worn out with emotion), cleaned up the kitchen, nursed the baby, texted back-and-forth with my husband, all with a knot the  size of a grapefruit in my stomach.

Kraken returned with a bright green cast, a chocolate-rimmed mouth from his supper of ice cream on the way home, and sleepy eyes. He went to bed without a murmur, nodded contritely when we pointed out that, you know, this is why you only climb trees when an adult is there to watch you, and fell asleep.

Then we cracked open a bottle of wine.

A Call From Gramma Monster

So I'm preparing a post about this past Week of Suck which should be up sometime this weekend (Hopefully. The Week of Suck might get ambitious and become the Fortnight of Suck and cause my laptop to burst into flames or some such.), but tonight I wanted to share this phone call I just got from my mother.

ME: Hi, Mom.

MOM: Who is this?

ME: Uh, it's me, Mom. Your daughter. You called me? (Internal Voice: Who else calls her 'Mom' except my brother? Do I have a bizarrely androgynous voice?*)

MOM: Oh! I thought I was calling your daddy. Do you know what he's done now?

ME: Dad? No-

MOM: He mowed the yard today. Wearing his NEW SHOES.

ME: New shoes? Like tennis shoes?

 MOM: YES, tennis shoes. What, do you think he mows the grass in his dress shoes?

ME: I don't see the big deal-

MOM: They're all stained. They're GREEN!

ME: I don't think Daddy cares if his shoes are gree-

MOM: I CARE!

ME: So you were calling him to yell at him about staining his shoes? Don't you think that's crazy? And isn't he asleep now, anyway?

MOM: No, he's over at Galen's. And there is nothing crazy about it. Those shoes were brand-new and now they're RUINED!

ME: Please, I know him. Those shoes are 'brand-new' from Wal-Mart and probably cost $12.

MOM: That's not the point!

ME: And his toes were sticking out of his old ones and the soles were coming off. I think green is still an improvement over that. Being green hasn't effected their performance as shoes, has it?

MOM: Very funny. You're a smartass, you know that?

ME: I do know that, thank you.

MOM: How are the kids?

ME: Fine. Kraken gnawed his cast half off and started shitting green plaster, and T-Rex really loves playing with matches, but the open wounds on Doodle's face where the dogs mauled her are starting to scab over, so that's a plus. And putting tequila in the baby's bottle makes her sleep like a log.

MOM: *Groans* I don't know why I bother calling you.

ME: You didn't call me. You were calling Dad, remember?

MOM: Oh, right! I should probably do that now. Goodnight, honey. I love you.

ME: I love you, too.

I feel like this post probably illuminates something about my mom and my relationship with her, but I'm not sure what. But I do know it cracked me up, so maybe it'll do the same for you.

*Ten million bonus points for you if you catch this reference!

Don't Take This As A Challenge, Universe, But It Could Be Worse

What's next, I asked. And then the Universe took its cue and spat right in my face. A blackout and the dryer quit working, that's what was next.

The blackout wasn't so bad, once we stopped tripping over furniture, children, pets and toys to find the flashlights and get the candles lit. But the dryer? Complete disaster.

Internet, I have four children. One is a newborn. Yet another is nowhere close to toilet-training. Only one can really claim total master of eating utensils and he broke his arm this week. It's been raining, so there is mud. I do laundry every single day. The dryer CANNOT quit working, but is has. Oddly, kicking it and swearing eternal vengeance did not motivate the wretched thing to return to its duties. You'd think it was inanimate or something!

All this makes for good blog fodder, and I expect to expound further (read: bitch and moan) sometime this weekend, but now all I can really think about is this.

I don't know Amy, not even through the Internet. Or rather, she doesn't know me, but I love reading her blog (hence it being in my blogroll), so it seems presumptuous to take this tragedy in her life and think about it terms of a reality check for myself. Appallingly self-centered, certainly. Reading that her father is ill, likely terminally ill, and thinking, well, at least I don't have to deal with something like right now, makes me want to punch myself in the face. But it's a human impulse, I think. So while I am genuinely sympathetic to Amalah, I still feel grateful and relieved that I'm not in her shoes, even while I know that someday, in some way, I will be.

It could be worse.

And It's Only Wednesday

These things have happened this week:

1. Kraken fell out of a tree and broke his arm.
2. All the monsters got jabbed with needles, causing much distress and maternal guilt.
3. Also slight fevers and the complete destruction of nap and sleeping schedules
4. The basement flooded.
5. T-Rex, after adjusting well, had a crying breakdown at having to go to preschool
6. My shoes started to leak.
7. I lost a diamond earring stud.
8. We've run out of wine. (Though certainly not out of whine.)

What could be next?

CHEEF!

That has been what's ringing off the walls here at Chez Monster. My sweet Doodle, having caused hours of consternation with her insistence on only eating select fruits, has discovered the wonder and glory of cheese. I've never felt closer to her. This is an important milestone, we can all agree, when one's child realizes cheese is awesome.

So awesome, in fact, that it has to be shouted at top volume, many times a day. Perhaps we're bad parents for encouraging this. But, come on, she's got the right idea. Yelling "CHEEF!" is a lot of fun. And if she was hollering "QUESO" she'd be considered a little bilingual genius baby. And, I, of course would be the mother of a genius baby, and thus would totally win at motherhood.

Um, excuse me. I have to go do something.

In other news, tomorrow both girls are going in for some vaccinations, and since I figured that wasn't quite enough misery, the boys are going to get their flu shots, too. Pray for me, please. Or send me tequila. Whatever.

Perspective

Just when I'm driven to the brink, wondering why she refuses to sleep at night and searching for Gypsies...

...she slays me.

This Is Why I'm Not A Lawyer

So this morning (no, yesterday morning, this middle-of-the-night post is brought to you by my baby, who loves herself a midnight meal) was perfectly typical: Kraken slooowly ate his Cocoa Puffs, Doodle ran naked and squealing around the room, Burrito chilled out in her swing, and one dog dug through the trash while the other tried to sneak onto the table.

T-Rex? Well, he and I were engaged in an epic battle of wills over his footwear. Meaning, I wanted him to wear something on his feet, while he would prefer to be barefoot and fancy-free. I mean, Mother, really. Shoes are utterly unnecessary and you should be grateful I've consented to wear clothing, unlike that feral creature over there banging her head into the wall. Perhaps you should consider taking her to some sort of specialist.

Or at least that's what he was trying to say. It mostly came out as "NOOO!" and "I DON'T WANT TO!" and "NO FAIR!" And I'm all, dude, take it up with the school, they have the "no shoes, no shirt, no education" policy. And also my eardrums are bleeding, so put on the fucking shoes and shut up.

Not in those exact words. I don't think. Sometimes the seventeen minutes of sleep I get a night can make reality seem a little fuzzy.

So I try to calmly explain, through gritted teeth and throbbing eyeballs, that the wearing of shoes is going to happen, that is the reality in which you live. And he's all UNACCEPTABLE!

And it happened. I snapped out, "You know what? There are kids in this world who DON'T HAVE ANY SHOES! You are LUCKY! I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT!"

I mean, what? Does any kid, after hearing about poor unfortunate children who don't have whatever they're pitching a fit about, suddenly become overcome with gratitude? Has that happened, in the history of ever? It certainly didn't happen with T-Rex, whose feet had to forcibly inserted into his shoes. And wasn't that a party and a half.