God Help Me

Not for the weak stomached.

So I'm preparing to pour myself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. Ruthie has been in the bathroom refusing to poop for some time. I go in and make some threats (no more Life cereal...not enough fiber), I leave, she cries. It's a rather pathetic cry as she has lost her voice due to the cold or whatever it is that Benny kindly brought home from work (really dear, just your paycheck would do) The pathetic cry forces me back into the bathroom where I find Ruthie perched on the potty is that ass-hanging-almost-all-the-way- into-the-bowl kind of way that little kids have, and on the verge of spewing phlegmy vomit from her mouth. At first I think it's merely phlegm. As I turn back from reaching for a tissue, I realize it's not. It's the whole shebang. I attempt to lift Ruthie off the potty, pants at her ankles and turn her so she can release this spew into the toilet. But she's done for th moment. I have caught a fair amount in toilet paper and tissues, but a visual sweep indicates that it is on the toilet seat, the lid, the floor, Ruthie's pajamas, top and bottom, and she is stepping in some. Sigh. When will this end? We have spent over $100 this past week on copays for doctor visits. We have spent $30 on prescriptions (thank you insurance) and the pharmacy lady knows me by name. Where am I going with this? I am about to make a desperate plea.
Please kind people of the world, if you are sick, stay home. If your kids are sick, keep them home. Not just from school. From everywhere. I know it sucks staying home. I hate it. I hate being cooped up with small children. I do. But if we all just stayed home when we were sick and didn't lug ourselves and our germs all over, we'd all be less sick. So we wouldn't have to stay home that much. We wouldn't have to waste so much time being sick, because the people with the germs would be considerate enough to keep them to themselves. I know this isn't a fool-proof theory, but it would help. And even one less illness would make me happier. I don't know exactly that Benny brought this home from work. It's my assumption since he got it first. He could have truly picked it up anywhere. So that is why I am making this plea to everyone...everywhere...all the time. Unless you would like to volunteer to care for my sick children, pay their copays, blah bah blah, please stay away if you are sick. From anyone. Stay home. It's the best place for you...and me...and my kids. Please pass this on to all the sick people everywhere.
Thank you in advance for your cooperation.

My blessed morning alone

Yes, this morning I had about 2 hours to myself. Two blissful, precious hours. And what did I do? Did I have a nice hot cup of coffee while I read a book? Did I soak in a tub full of fragrant bubbles? Did I nap? Give myself a pedicure? Have an early lunch with a friend? Take a leisurely shopping trip? Nope. I had a mole check at the dermatologist. Why was it so great? How could I possibly enjoy sitting in a gown in a doctor's office while they perused my body for suspicious moles and commented on the mild acne on my back? Well, for starters, I got to watch my husband rush out of the house on the way to the pediatrician, accompanied by a sick 4 year old and a screaming toddler in the midst of a full-blown tantrum. I got to picture him checking my note to be sure all of the doctor's questions were answered, while children whined and hung from his leg. I got to visualize him prying the children off the doctor's rolling stool before they slammed it into a wall with their little fingers sandwiched in between. And I got to know it wasn't me. I got to arrive at my doctor's office a couple of minutes early and only have one puffy winter coat to drag around. I got to bring in just my wallet and checkbook...no diaper bag..no sippy cups..no bribery snacks..no coloring books. I got to read a magazine in her waiting room. And I got to ride there and back in total silence. Heaven.

Tune in tomorrow for 10 reasons why you should not have a geriatric do your taxes, no matter how cheap he is.

The Golden Ticket

It's been a while. Really, truly, to all three of you, I am sorry. Sometimes, I can;t find it in me to write about the minutiae of my life and nothing all that exciting is going on. We've had two birthdays, and about six illnesses, in the last month. Not what I had imagined you'd all want to read about. And anything else exciting usually happened in the midst of one of those illnesses when a limp whining, feverish child was occupying all of my personal space and preventing me from typing. On top of that, I had to get the girls' outgrown clothing and toys and prepare them for the local consignment sale. A task both frustrating, as I pin yet another diaper cover to yet another tiny dress, and melancholy, as my eyes well up over the same tiny dress that both Ruthie and Helen wore, once upon a time.
But today is a momentous occasion, folks. I have finally learned to do something I have been wanting to learn for years. And years. And years. This past Sunday was Palm Sunday...Sunday before Easter...loooong mass due to reading of the passion, palms are handed out to each attendee at Palm Sunday Mass. Ruthie and I each took a palm when we arrived at church. Ruthie went to the children's liturgy (a.k.a. church school) I told her to listen hard to her church scho teacher to fund out why we get palms. This was completely self-serving becasue I can't ever remember. (Carly...why do we get palms...don't they teach you that in choir?) Anyway, Ruthie came back with three more palms. And a little book about Easter and Jesus rising from the dead. No stories of why we have palms. But she came back with something better. So much better. Something I never dreamed they'd give her, because I thought it was illegal according to church rules. She came back with directions for turning her palms into a palm cross. Indeed folks, for years ands years, since I was a small child, I have seen people's palms miraculously turn into crosses. I never knew hoe they did this. I wold bring my palm home and try, but without the help of duct tape and staples, mine would unravel, and the duct tape really did add an element of modern crudeness to the whole thing. I gave up. I convinced myself that the church didn't want us decimating our palms. They were supposed to be treated with a certain respect. They were to be left on the kitchen table until they disappeared or turned into a pile of dust. Then they were to be swept into Daddy's ash tray. But here we were, being given the instructions. So it must be okay to make a cross form your palms. It must! I scanned the directions, and, realizing my husband's engineering degree might come in handy, packed them into out bag before we left for home. The consignment sale and some of the aforementioned illness kept me from attempting the crosses until this morning. But as I cleaned off the table, I realized U must do this before the directions, the palms, or both, got lost. So I sat down with all five palms, perhaps a bit drier than is ideal for palm making, and I began meticulously bending, folding and tucking. And I now have five beautiful palm crosses on the kitchen table. Don't ask me what I'm going to do with them. I don't know. Perhaps later I will take a picture, but I can't find my camera's USB cable, so even if I did I cannot currently post a picture. So just imagine how beautiful my crosses are. They are. So beautiful.