Ode to My Car...More Heather Ramblings for No Good Reason...

I've talked about my car before... It's not brand new, it is only sort of shiny at this point (so badly in need of a bath it isn't funny) and no matter how many times I organize the back seat, it is always a pig sty.  But, I love it.  It's fast-- it's got this wonderful Turbo thing that makes me go nice and fast while allowing all of the gas I just put in to go bye bye..  the seats are comfortable, they hug you and they are heated too..  Nothing better than having warm, hugged buns...  Yes, I do love my car-- High mileage and silly quirks in all.

There is this "saab thing" I have learned about...  and like anything in my life, I made sure to learn about it in the hardest, most inconvenient way possible.

Before I share my life lesson, I need to give a fast back story--

When my Dad and Jeremy changed out my car door (remember Car Yoga?), we did not change out the door lock thingy in the door.  Basically that means that the key that starts my car does not open my door.  Saab also only equips ONE door with a key thingy, so that means you cannot gain entrance via other doors with your key.  The Saab people were also so worried about multiple key door usage issues, that they also did NOT put a key thing on the trunk either.  That day, back in early June I think it was, my father turned and looked at me and told me to A. NEVER run out of batteries on my key fob thing as it will be the only method to allow me to gain access to my car and B. consider NEVER locking my car ever.  ever.

So, that was months ago.  During this time, I locked my car doors.  I did.. alot..  I used my key fob like a wild woman: lock, unlock, and repeat..  

Then one day I turned off the car, took the key out of the ignition and the radio kept playing.  Hmmmm.. I put the key back in, back out, back in, back out and finally it turned off.   I figured it was an isolated incident and went on with life.  

Then it started doing it a bit more frequently and I discovered if I took the key out and then beat on the ignition, this little center circle thing pops up a bit.  Aha.. I am a genius, I have figured it all out!  Why is this happening, I have no clue, but I can make my radio go off, yay me.    I later learned via the Saab Guru's that this is a common issue.. even better, I stand in a group of ignition beating people that have bruised fists and look crazy when parking their cars.  

We got into a routine, my car and I.. Sometimes everything turned off ok, sometimes I had to inflict brut strength, but it worked well and I continued to lock my car.  

Until that day....  

I had a day off from work (was actually scheduled to get repairs done to said car but had to cancel at the last moment) and had decided to go out to the grocery store in the middle of cellular service nowhere.  I parked my car, turned it off successfully and locked the door.  Off I went--  

When I came out of the store, I popped the trunk using my key thing and put in the groceries and CLOSED my trunk as a normal person does.  I went to unlock my door: nothing.  I tried again: nothing..  I tried the trunk again thinking I could climb through: nothing.    At this point, I call my dad who tells me to go to the hardware store (conveniently located right next door in the same little mini mall) and try to get a new battery.   Hardware store doesn't have the right size (??? what???).. go back to Market Basket with my key fob taken apart and start analyzing batteries, candles, tea lights, anything that might take the right size--  No luck.  

Back to calling my dad.  He graciously agrees to drive out to rescue me and once he gets there, we decide to go down to the Walmart and get a battery there.  I buy the battery for about $10 and off we go to my now melting grocery laden locked up car.  Good news!  My other battery was NOT dead.. Bad news!  I now have $10 less, a battery I don't need and my car is still locked.  

My dad, oh so awesome dad, discusses my options: locksmith (left message), breaking the window and replacing it with the spare we have at home (remember the old door?), or trying to use some metal something to get into the car and pull up the lock...  We chose option C.  My dad did have help from some random guy that honestly looks like he might have jimmied a lock or two in his life..  Car is unlocked and I got to show my dad how my ignition beating up skills are put to use.  

A new layer to my car, sometimes the radio will go off, but that little metal circle in the center still doesn't pop up.  Good to know.. better to remember not to lock my car anymore.   I believe my father made himself clear this time.  I guess I should listen because I have a feeling that I might be spending more time waiting for rescue the next time.. 

So...any would be robbers, feel free to steal what you want, that's fine.. but do me a favor and clean up the back seat while you are in there and if you think of it, beat up the ignition for a moment or two just to make sure I'm not killing my battery, ok? 

Either Very Brave or Very Stupid....

Me (now).. age 39.8

My grandfather is moving up to my parents’ house to live and my mom has been on a tear trying to get my old bedroom ready for him.  That means she’s been discovering tons of old things that should have been thrown out (or burned) a long time ago.  One of these “precious” items was a plastic picture frame that held all of my school photos, from Nursery School up to 11^th Grade.  

 

My mother, being so resourceful and smart, stored all of the pictures in this frame, so they’d stay together and be available for enjoyment later on in life. A time capsule, if you will, of how I grew over the years.   And they are all there, save for 4^th grade when I apparently did not have school pictures done, or if I did, they are somewhere in the basement files of South Windsor Elementary School.  We had apparently moved in between the taking and delivery of the pictures (remember when they were on actual film, took a while to get back to you!)

The other day I decided to take the pictures out and walk down memory lane--   I ooh’ed and ahh’ed over my early years..  Proud of how cute I once was, how much my children resemble me and how much I actually resemble my mother--  Around 6^th grade, however, I started sweating a bit.  This was also around the time that I started wearing the largest glasses known to man.  By the time I hit 8^th grade, I’m in full hysterical giggling and absolute horror at the same time.  11^th grade, yah…  let’s just say I was in my I WON’T SMILE AT YOU phase..

I am tempted to submit a few of these pictures to Awkward Family Photos.. I believe they could be worthy.. I am all for making fun of myself in old pictures.. I line right up and tease myself, but 8^th grade and 11^th grade brought things to an all time low--  

I’m going to share some of these horror shows (I'm either very brave or very stupid, not sure which) , and then ask my mother to have her head examined for letting me walk out of the house looking like I did..   

And.. Remember, while you are laughing and enjoying making fun of me (and my mullet, oh yes, there was one)… I am brave enough to put them out there.. I challenge you to do the same..

Kindergarten---  total 70's clothes, but I have good hair and a geniune smile.  Hands clutching my clothing, but overall, I'd say this was worthy of being on wall for a year and sent out in Christmas Cards--  I have a few years of adorable, I won't post them all.. You get the point.

 So, this was 5th Grade.  I remember this year as this was the year we all got monogrammed sweaters-  I also remember this year clearly as my mother was horrified when she noticed how messy my hair was in the picture.  For a solid year, she shook her head at the messy braids and asked me if running a comb through my hair had ever crossed my mind.  Notice my glasses.  They will be a reoccurring theme for the next few pictures.. LITERALLY the same mondo glasses





We call this the Disembodied Head Year (6th Grade)--  This was the year that we finally got my mother to allow us to do a "funky" background.  This was wrong for so many reasons.  The first of which is of course the fact that we have a floating creepy head off to the right.  The second was that there were 3 of us in the family having pictures done by different photographers at different times.  The result was not  uniform.  I honestly can say that mine wasn't the worst.  My poor brother and sister have these massive heads, one of them is almost literally behind the front facing picture.  Bad idea.  Ugly year on the wall.

I put this one here mainly to show you that I am still in the huge glasses (7th grade)..  Overall, not horrid.  Feathered hair (it was the 80's, leave me alone) and horrible red earrings, but a huge improvement from the floating heads of the year before.








I honestly do not have words.  This was 8th Grade.  Between the ever present glasses (they went away in the next year) and the outfit, you might, might pull your eyes away from the hair.. No, you can't escape the hair-

It's like Flock of Seagulls meets Billy Ray Cyrus-
I have an aqua shirt on.  It has geometric patterns.
I am wearing plastic black beads with matching earrings

I am truly a sight to behold -  I do not know if this actually stayed on the wall all year.  I'll have to ask



I'll spare you 9th and 10th grade.. They aren't actually that bad... Not great, but honestly not blog worthy up against 8th and 11th Grade..

Pause a moment to flush your eyes with water, get another glass of wine, etc...


I give you 11th Grade..  Hair, crappy black shirt that I don't recall owning, massively large and ugly earrings and I'm Going To Beat The Shit Out of You Face.  Can you imagine that poor photographer who had to face my loveliness that beautiful September day? 








My last two photos are High School and College Graduation pictures-
While my hair was still large, I'm happy to report that I am smiling and not trying to beat up the photographer--  I only hope that the expression improving with age is true.. or else I am doomed

Waiting For The Time When I Can Finally Say...

....This has all been wonderful; but now I am on my way...

 (Phish; Down with Disease--I have borrowed this from them as this phrase has been roaming in my head for weeks)

I have writers’ block.  I have thoughts swirling around my poor brain and no way to organize them to put them forward in a linear, understandable thought.  I have so much to say, yet not enough to open my mouth and let it be heard.   I am introspective today and feel that before I can get back to writing inanities like my ice cream machine or the randomness that is my life, maybe I need to get this out of the way.

I have changes on the horizon.  I am moving away from the seacoast.  I am going back home to be closer to my family.  I have missed out on so much in my past few years living so far away and it is time for me to return for a while or maybe longer.  I have no plans other than to make some changes.   

It is good-  It feels weird to leave, but it feels good to go back.  

I left my home after college for the seacoast.  I was smarter than my parents of course and ready to strike off on my own.  I had a shiny new college degree and a head full of ideas and dreams.   And while I cannot say I fulfilled everything my 23 year old self intended to achieve, I can’t say I didn’t live out my dreams.   I had fun, so much fun.  I met people, I danced (and danced), I got into trouble (innocent trouble of course) and grew up.  I learned to accept things I cannot change nor control and how to move on when it is time to go.  

I found love, marriage, children and career.  I’ve struggled with big decisions, but I’ve had to release some things that are painful and wrong for me and remember when it is time to go.

And now;  It’s time to go.  My pull home is stronger than the glue I had holding me here.  I return back wiser than when I left as I know now that I still have much to learn.  My college degree is now dusty in a box holding my memories.  I’m ready to make some fresh memories.  New adventures, not as a shy girl in her early 20s, too afraid to truly put herself out there and let people enjoy the fun and silliness she is capable of; but as me.  

 The ME that I’ve become as I’ve become a grown up.  A confident me, a happy me, an amazing me. 

Car Yoga

I have a car.  It is my own car, not shiny or brand new, but it is all mine.  I like my car.  And because I like my car, I allow it to have little issues and I try to make excuses for why it’s little issues exist (sort of like “my child isn’t a brat, she’s just overtired”)

My driver side car door broke.  The hinge things that attach it to the car no longer wish to attach it to the car.  

 I feel that this could be a problem moving forward in life.

It happened gradually.  I had warning, but being the way I am, I figured that it was just something that would fix itself.  For a while I chalked it up to being too cold out and the door was stiff, so I had to lift it up a bit to get it to align.  I went with that idea until it started to not be cold out anymore.  I had to find a new excuse for why my door was not closing without manual effort. 

During this time, I managed to throw out my shoulder and my back trying to lift up the door to close it while being in the driver’s seat.  I think that is the point where I figured that I might need professional intervention.  I thought about it for a while, not making too many moves towards fixing it--  I think I was still holding out hope that my good thoughts and the Automobile Fairy would come down and sprinkle magic wd-40 and all would be as it should be. 

BAD-EVIL-DOOR

I was wrong.  The problem with being wrong is not the actual admittance of being wrong.  No..  The problem with being wrong is the absolutely unacceptable and inconvenient timing as to when you are proven to be wrong.

The day my car door stopped being a useful method of car entry happened at last call on a Saturday night.   As I opened my door the hinge laughed manically at me and said, HA, I hold your door up no more!  And my door did this wonderful dip to the ground thing, clinging to the one remaining hinge in vain.  My friend had already gotten into her car (hamster mobile) and sped off into the moonlight, so she did not see what had happened to me.  I stood there in the parking lot, searching around for a helpful person to help me.   There was a group of “gently” sauced women standing in a circle.  Unfortunately, either my little cries for help were drowned out by the haze of smoke around their circle or they saw me and decided that manual labor was going to be a sort of alcoholic buzz repellent, so they didn’t come and assist me.   

Now, I drive a Saab.  Saabs are heavy, very heavy.  Their doors are also heavy.  I am 5 ft and ½ inch.  I am barely taller than my car and I am lacking in extreme upper body strength.  Get the visual of me trying to lug this door back up to where it belonged, then try to get it back on it’s broken hinge bracket and then get it shut.  Trust me, I had to make a few tries to do this.. At this time I am panicking a bit as the parking lot is clearing out rapidly (it was a small parking lot, so I am exaggerating a bit here).. Smoking women have poured themselves into their cars with doors that work and left me there.  At one point I slipped on the dirt of the parking lot and found myself sliding to the ground.  Still clinging to the door, I am now worried that it was going to pin me to the ground and land on me and I will be unable to leave.  Unsavory thoughts started to enter my mind, alone and near a mini golf place, you never know what sort of evil lurks at the 7^th hole.. 

The Automobile Fairy finally answered my pleas and I managed to get the damn door up and closed.  Yay me!   I then had to crawl through my passenger side into the driver’s seat.  I now know to keep both the passenger and driver’s seats pushed all the way back so as to make this an easier task.  Not so that original night.  I climbed in the car, butt to the windshield, hunched over like Quasimodo.  I tried to do a turn once I was fully in, but the seat was too close and it wasn’t working the way it was supposed to.. Basically put it this way, if there was a twister game cloth in my car, my right hand would have been on red, left on green, right leg on blue, left leg on red..  I finally managed to get myself in my seat, knees under the steering wheel instead of parallel to it and drive the 1/8^th a mile home (yes, this was all for 1/8^th of a mile)

This happened about 3 months ago.  Yup, that is right.. I have been doing the Dukes of Hazzard (yes, I know that isn’t technically their move, I am not going through the window, but it makes me feel cooler to call it by a name that had Bo Duke associated) move for 3 months now.  I have it down to a science, but it isn’t any less embarrassing when I have to bring Gabe to school and we are late.  Nothing worse than climbing in and out of your car like a monkey next to a perfectly normal mother who is showing off to me in her ability to exit her vehicle normally.  I’ve decided that if anyone asks me about it (which thankfully no one actually has, thank god), I am going to tell them that I am trying to found a new Yoga Movement--  Too busy to go to yoga practice?  No problem, here are 10 useful poses to do in your car!  Say it with a smile and no one notices the beads of perspiration on your forehead or the horror in your child’s face.

I brought it out to my SAAB MECHANIC.  I give him all caps because he is a guru of all things SAAB.  Apparently this is a weird thing to happen and in all his days as a SAAB MECHANIC, he’s never seen this.  Even more crazy, Saab only has 2 of these little hinge thingys in their warehouse…period….   My guru says that this will cost me at least $300 in labor, from an early estimate, not counting parts or any other myriad of issues that occur once the door is off.    YIKES.. 

 So, I continued to climb, what is a little pride at the end of the day right? 

BUT, then the Automobile Fairy visited me again.  Stupidly, I forgot that I know people.  People who know how to fix things and because I am such a lovely person and kind to everyone around me (shush, don’t blow my cover), have offered to take care of it for me.  Maybe even this weekend!  Oh joy!!

And yah, once it is fixed I might still crawl through the passenger seat once in a while to stay humble….

No, no I won’t..

I am a Mother

I have been sick to my stomach for 5 days now.  On Friday I opened up my yahoo see what random news there was to read during lunch and was slammed in the face with the words that changed us all.  Images that we cannot erase from our minds no matter how hard we might scrub.  Cries and screams that we didn’t hear out loud, but sound repeatedly in our ears clearly. 

I close my eyes and pray to rewind time.  I wish I could have foresight to go back to 8am on Friday morning and stop it somehow.  Send a snowstorm to keep school closed, learn how to remove a battery to disable a car, will a police officer to have a random traffic stop so as to detain an evil doer from completing his journey. 

But I am not magic.  I don’t have those powers.  I am unable to rewrite history.  I am as human as we all are and I am grieving.  I am grieving for those that I have never met in life but look forward to having welcome me one day to a paradise they will be getting ready for me to join. 

To know me socially, you would probably not see me as a deeply spiritual person.  I am private about my faith; I don’t choose to define my heart publicly.  To know me personally, you’d understand that it is there, hidden and private, but strong and honest.   My convictions are sometimes muddled, confused and angry.  I do not profess to the notion of “God’s Will” when things that are so atrocious, so vile and so inhumane occur.  The God I pray to does not sacrifice to prove a point.  Some events defy reason, explanation. 

There is a blog going around from a woman who has a child that frightens her to her very core. She writes that she is the Mother of XXX.   She writes that she could be any of the sociopath’s mothers as her child could be capable of that same thing.  I can empathize with this woman’s struggle as she didn’t “ask” for this to be her life.  She fights to protect her other children from the emotional pendulum of her troubled child, while being torn as to how to care and nurture the all.  But as real as this problem is for her, it isn’t my focus right now.

My focus is that of a Mother of a 5 year boy.  A boy who still has his milk teeth, some loose, some firmly still rooted for months to come.  A boy who still sleeps with his stuffed animals and smells sweetly after getting out of his bubble bath.  A boy who is only about 3 years or so out of diapers.  A boy whose pants still carry the “T” label attached to the numerical size and still have adjustable waists. 

My boy, who grew up to be a big Kindergartener this year.  Who takes a big huge school bus each afternoon to his afterschool program and who comes home each day with his little tiny backpack stuffed with paper airplanes, homemade books and weird magic marker colored creations.

My child.  My little boy.  Who believes in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy.  My child who has learned all of the words to “Grand Old Flag” and somehow knows the “Jingle Bells, Batman Smells” song (how does this get passed down year to year I wonder?).  My son, who already knows how to read and could probably take apart a computer and troubleshoot why it wasn’t working.  My brilliant, sunny, happy and sweet 5 year old child. 

I watched him walk away from me this morning when I dropped him off at school.  My faith assures me that he will come home to me tonight, full of stories of what he did during his day and what new thing he wants for Christmas.  My world will be complete, it will continue, it will go on unscathed (at least on the surface)

I say this because underneath it all, I will find myself driven to my knees in gratitude that my child is coming home to me.  That I have more time to watch him grow. I have more time to put those teeth under his pillow as he loses them.  I get to watch him blow out that big number 6 on his cake in two weeks.  I get another Christmas, another birthday, Easter and beyond.  I am fortunate.

And as a Mother, my heart aches and yearns for those who were robbed of this future I can look forward to with my child.  I grieve for all that they have lost.  I cry, I scream, I want to understand why.  I don’t accept the answers given to me.  I become a 5 year old myself; “It’s NOT fair”.

It’s not fair.  It is NOT ok. It is not ok to feel that emptiness where once it was filled with laughter, trio blocks, leap frogs and kraft mac and cheese.  It is not fair to have to say goodbye yet.  It is not ok to go through this world missing a huge part of yourself for a reason such as this.

I am the Mother of a 5 year old boy, and it is in my child that 20 beautiful lights will continue to shine. 

Flunking Motherhood

I had written this last year and posted as a note on Facebook.. I was reminded of it today from a blog that was going around that a friend shared on her own timeline..  It is actually quite pertinent as last night I stood in my kitchen amidst the dishes in my sink and the random crayon parts all over my floor and said to myself that I can't do this..  I tried hard to click my heels to whisk myself away to my real home, but I didn't go anywhere.  Reading this today makes me smile as I have the wisdom of a new day and the memory of that this too shall pass (and come back and pass again and come back again and then pass yet one more time!)

Flunking Motherhood??
Let’s go over your grades, Ms. Hinkel…  I see from your profile that you did quite well in school, you seemed to excel academically throughout your early educational career in High School and College.  A few low marks in athletic ability, but we won’t hold that against you.

 Moving on, you’ve had a few bumps in the road (we question a few choices: How to Avoid a Cover Charge at Bananas, You Too Can Look Good in Baggy Clothing, and Gilley’s IS Health Food) , but it appears that you’ve brought up your grades quite a bit in Cooking 101, Advanced Job Longevity and How to Achieve Good Personal Hygiene.  We’d love to see a bit more effort in your electives;  Sewing III, The Basics of Sticking to your Diet, Exercise: It’s a Lifestyle, not a Choice, and Time Management for Dummies.

Now, our biggest area of concern seems to be your seminar: Motherhood.  Sadly, we’ve been worried about a few low test scores and fear that unless you work a little harder, you may be in danger of failing this course.   While we understand that you are trying hard, we know that you can always study harder and improve your performance…


…as I sit here and listen to alternating wailing coming from 2 different bedrooms, I feel that sometimes I AM in danger of failing my most important course of life: Motherhood.  Even the most seasoned mother would feel a bit inadequate (if not for a moment before they get real and wise up) when they listen to the cries of “no mommy  no” at bedtime.  I know that they will eventually fall asleep, that they are not injured, hungry, sick or being taped to wall by a closet monster, but it always makes me wonder if I could have done something just a bit better in order to keep this from being the outcome.    I watch these movies with angelic children who seem to be only able to listen and obey their parents’ wishes.   They eat the food that is prepared for them without whining, they go quietly to the bathroom to prepare for their nightly bath/shower without screaming or running around the kitchen cackling wildly, and the best of the best, they actually scamper off to bed without a word or want (I want a snack, I want something to drink, my belly is squishy and is still hungry, the room scares me, I need more time awake).  Who are those parents who lean into the room lovingly as they turn out the light saying “good night,  sleep tight, da da da…”, closing the door all the way and then slinking off to the living room for grownup time?  Who are they??   And if any of you are actually them, could I please come to your house and learn from you?

Deep down, of course, I know that I am a good mother.  I know that I am doing a good job, I am the best mother for my children, I know that.  It just takes that little extra effort sometimes to remember that when I am at the end of my rope, saying phrases my own mother has said to me her whole life (if I had a nickel, I am in here if you want me, I am not made of money and my most commonly used one, do I look like a short order cook/waitress/maid –you insert your proper noun as needed).  Not a dig on my mother as she will always be the best mother in the world, followed closely by my grandmothers, Grace and Ellie.  I just find myself uttering familiar things and I can truly recognize how she felt when we were at our worst.  As it is now 8:30pm, I am still fighting the fight with Gabe to get him down to sleep.  I’ve heard every excuse in the book why he cannot sleep in his room tonight, yet I am working hard toward that “good grade” in my mind, and am holding firm to not give in.

And once he’s finally out, I’ll sit back and relax like one of those movie parents.  I won’t have a glass of wine as it will be too late and I’ll essentially just be too tired to want one!  They can keep their wine and their movie, I will be just fine with my diet coke and Food TV.  And then I’ll review my night and put it into proper perspective.  Just like we got progress reports at school, I think sometimes you need to take a moment to take inventory of your pros and cons of your motherhood performance.  Award yourself for the “A” moments and work harder to bring up those “D-‘s”.   And remember in your children’s eyes, chances are you are already on the honor roll, you just need to maintain your GPA.

Tornado Ellie

My father used to have this alarm clock that chirped.  It didn’t buzz when it went off, just chirp chirp chirp.  I used to love that sound, I could hear it down the hall to my room and I just thought it was so cool.  I imagine my mother and father felt less excited about the alarm clock as it was pushing them awake at an hour they didn’t wish to be.  Now that I am an adult and a forced reason to get up in the morning, I have my own alarm clock.  It doesn’t buzz, it doesn’t chirp, it chants. 

It goes off every morning at about 5:30 am on its own.  It starts off as a low whine and pretty incoherent, but as it gets louder and the chanting begins in earnest, the words are clear.  As I try desperately to silence it, the sound takes on what can only be described as incessant and shrill.  It doesn’t run on batteries or electricity, so I can’t power it down.  The only way to get this thing to be quiet is to bring it milk, a yogurt stick or pouch and then free it from its slumber chamber. 

Life before Ellie was pretty quiet.  Gabe was definitely loud, absolutely, but in his own way.  Gabe thankfully always loved his sleep and I could normally get him to stay down until the sun had fully woken itself up, but his sister is another story all together.  She pops awake with full evil intent on hounding not only me and our household, but sadly, our entire building as well.  I am thankful for loud air conditioners as they are invaluable in drowning out the sound.  Run the dishwasher in the morning and I’ve got a buffer to make even the crabbiest neighbor unable to hear anything coming from my apartment. My only other worry is her thunderous footsteps, but thankfully the dear old lady downstairs is essentially deaf (and she started out that way, Ellie had nothing to do with it)

I used to be a morning person.. Before Children, or BC for short, I would bound out of bed, walk downtown Portsmouth to Me & Ollie’s for a treat and back home again before showering and beautifying myself for work (ok, fine.. I showered and threw on fairly unwrinkled clothing).. It was like the opening credits from Grease, I had birds all around, handing me things.. I was relaxed, my hair normally got brushed while I was still in my house and I left with more than enough time to get where I was going without panic.  I was always early (annoying, huh?) and even had time to take the long way to work so I could listen just a few more minutes to the Morning Buzz.

Even with Gabe, things were still slightly on track.. It wasn’t hard to get him and myself out the door.. I sacrificed my morning walks, although there were days that I had time to take him with me for a stroll.  I showered more at night so I could still beautify myself for work (leave me alone, I am not letting this go) and my "long way to work" was via Kindercare rather than casing the streets of Portsmouth.  But it was still pretty laid back. 

With Ellie, everything changed.  She makes herself known.  There is a Facebook cartoon thing going around that makes mention of a toddler being a little cute tornado.  It is almost like someone sat in my house on any given morning and designed this with Ellie in mind. A loud, chanting, incessant tornado. She is an adorable little thing, but holy cow, she is a terror.  My mother and father take great delight in letting me know that she is just like I was with a bit of my sister Gillian thrown in for good measure.. Apparently I was the tornado part of it and Gillian covered the chanting, loud and incessant part. 

 

My mornings now resemble this—

Chanted awake at 5:30; I try in vain to stretch it out to a more reasonable hour of 6am.  I fail as it just makes her louder, more adamant and normally this is the part where she rips off her diaper and informs me that she Pee Pee Pee Pee Peeeeee

I drag myself awake, haul her out of bed and give her something, anything to eat to make it stop.  I close Gabe’s bedroom door in the hopes that he is lucky enough to get just a little more sleep while I handle the beast pacing at my feet. 

I manage to get to the bathroom and almost out before she discovers I am gone and come looking for me (thud thud thud)

Around this time I attempt to make lunches for both children while throwing a few leftovers into a bag for myself. I have no clue what I am packing, but I hope that it’s at least fairly nutritious and somewhat goes with the other items.

Gabe normally comes out around this time and immediately is seen as easy prey by his sister.  She lunged towards him to get his attention as if she has been thoroughly and utterly ignored by me (yah, right)-  Gabe’s not having it and informs me quite emphatically that she is bothering him. 

We have a period of dialogue between the two of them.. It starts out nice and I am happy and smiling and then it turns ugly in an instant.  A toy is touched, food is taken, someone is looking at the other one.. My eye starts to twitch and I can feel the wrinkles creasing themselves into my forehead.  I deliberate how much to ignore and what to kibash.  I look at the clock and depending on how much time we have, I make my decision. 

At this point, I normally herd Gabe into his room to get dressed while having to proctor him the entire time to ensure he is truly understanding what that means.  This is the child that I have watched dress faster than a costume change backstage during a 1 minute set change, yet he is physically unable to do so at home.  While I am staring him down, I have the tornado, or better yet, the Tasmanian Devil (remember how he’d just twirl and spin and wrack havoc? I can still remember that sound effect), creating a wake of toys, babies, food and you name it in my bedroom. 

With Gabe safely dressed, I capture Ellie and try to get her ready.  The best part about this is that she is still little, I can pick her up easily and with the help of my forearm keeping her from springing back up at me like a little jumping spider I get her dressed.  I get them to brush their teeth.. They like this part.. They do fight over who gets to stand on the stool and who gets to stand on the toilet with the seat down.  They switch positions everyday so I let them hash it out until I hear it getting physical. 

In the attempts to just get out the door, I throw on whatever clothing item is closest to me, drag my own toothbrush across my teeth and we hit the door going full speed. 

I get us to the car in one piece.  None of us have our hair brushed and so I try my best to beautify all of us before driving away.. I rake the brush through their hair and scrub their darling faces with a baby wipe and off we go.  I attempt to listen to the Morning Buzz and am quickly shot down because they want to listen to their songs.  And I am not allowed to sing to them either, Momma, shush.. Momma, no..

I drive the shortest, most direct route I can to get them to their respected sitters and daycamps and then tear arse to work.. I make it on time with about 10 seconds to spare. I’m proud of myself that I made it on time until I realize that I left my lunch on the counter at home.  Staying positive, I decide that this is a good thing and one less thing that I need to do tomorrow morning.  I dash into my office and sink into my chair, knowing full well that anything I am faced with today at work is NOTHING compared to what I just went through--

And as I sit, I now understand why mothers of 2 more children have this glazed look on their faces every morning.  Their hair is in a rats nest and they have toothpaste on the front of their shirts.  They are lucky if they have two matching shoes on and have learned quickly to make sure their work fridge is always stocked with back up foods in case they forget theirs from home.  They profess to love their jobs and I understand why; it is the only place where they can enjoy a modicum of quiet and control. 

So until tomorrow morning when it starts all over again, I'm going to talk on my phone without being interrupted and I am going to listen to the music I want to listen to.

 I might even sing along with it.