Today I am a Hooker

I got your attention with that title, didn't I?

I do love my kids. I love being a mom. I love my husband. I have terrific friends and family. I have so many good things going on in my life that I often forget to tell/share/blog about them. Why would I? That isn't any fun. I'd rather be living and enjoying them than blogging about them. :) But today decided to make a happy post.

Today we played hooky (which is why I am a "hooker" today). Please don't call the truant officer on me or report me to the police as a prostitute. The kids were still sleeping and my alarm went off and I turned it off all the way instead of just hitting snooze. The birds chirped as I lay in bed (Mr. Momicidal leaves for work early) and I honestly thought, for a second, that it was Saturday. I should've known that it wasn't because the house is never that quiet on an actual sleep-in day.

As I disappointedly got up from the bed and thought about what I had on hand for breakfast (not much--I'm headed to the store later) and how we'd have to hurry to get everyone out the door and then how I had so much to do around the house and how my day would be fractured into 20-minute pockets of productivity, sprinkled in among two round-trip school runs (drop off then home, pick up then home) and other errands and I felt physically sick.

I went upstairs to wake my younger son, since my older son had snuck down into our bed sometime in the wee hours of the morning and was sleeping like an angel (Isn't it amazing how peaceful and cute they look when they're asleep? Much like a sweetly sleeping tiger who will eat your face off Siegfried-and-Roy-style when they're awake?) in our bed. I tripped on a wooden train. I impaled the arch of my foot on a Lego. The dog barked at me. I pressed on. I realized that my legs are starting to resemble a cactus and that I really need to vacuum the stairs. Again, I perservered. Even when I opened the door to their room, which irritatingly mocked me with the endless sound of the "doot doot" [A kid's sleep sound machine/projector that screeches out "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" and other songs on repeat all night long. My kids love that thing and, even though my relationship with the manufacturer's returns department documents that the lifespan of the unit is only about as long as that of a tissue paper lifeboat, they have affectionately dubbed it the "doot doot" because it sounds like--to the tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle" remember--"Doot, doot, doot, doot, doot, doot, doooot..."] and smelled something horrible, I went in.

Let me back up a bit and explain that way too much of my time as a parent has been spent worrying about, dealing with, coaxing, and seeking professional help regarding my childrens' poop. My older son is what my husband calls the "poop Johnny Appleseed" and holds it in until he cannot hold it any more and then, little by little, has accidents and/or goes on the toilet JUST A LITTLE. Everywhere. I always say that ANY poop on clothes or your body or an item other than in a toilet or diaper is too much poop. So this behavior drives me crazy. I constantly think that I'm smelling or seeing poop somewhere. As part of his autistic and sensory issues he just doesn't want to poop. At all. He thinks that he can just stop doing it. As you and I both know, he can't.  Things are much better for him now, but I still buy enemas in bulk and I still keep extra underwear with me. My younger son has gut issues as well. His are more "free flowing" than his brother's, however. They are both potty trained during the day, but my younger son still wears a pull-up or something at night. He usually just pees in it a little bit overnight, but today he was an overacheiver.  So yet *again* my day was beginning with a poop situation and I hadn't even had my coffee.

I opened the door and he greets me with a huge hug and a sweet smile and announces,  "I'm very disgusting on my bottom!" Sigh. At that moment, any thoughts that I had entertained about playing hooky were cemented. We were staying home to clean the house (and my son's derriere) and to have a stress-free day. I know that they *should* have gone to school. I know that there will be days in the not-so-distant future that I will be pleading to send them to school. But I also missed my sweet (albeit stinky) boys.

We are reading books and we made homemade macaroni and cheese for lunch (my older son said wasn't nearly as good as Kraft Mac from a box). I am cleaning things only to have them uncleaned and possibly even become messier than they were 5 minutes ago. I have not even brushed my teeth yet (I will, I will) and I still have cactus legs but I'm loving my guys. I feel like I'm always nagging them (and myself) to "hurry up" or "do this" and "don't do that" and today I'd had enough. I'm learning about whether or not bats breastfeed their babies (Yes, even some kids of male bats) and how many licks it "really, not with that cartoon owl" takes to get to the center of a (mini) Tootsie Pop (More than 50 plus a few bites).

I know that later this weekend I will probably regret not cleaning this house more today and that I should be sending in job resumes [Backstory: I am an adjunct instructor of sociology--which I love--and, as such, am subject to horrendously low compensation and an unpredictable work schedule that often includes last-minute course cancellations. I can't work a typical 9-to-5'er because of my kids' school transportstion needs, but need more money and a steady paycheck.] but I'm enjoying this right now. Everyone should be a hooker sometimes.

The Bitching Hour, Zombie Tapeworms, and Buddhist Cow Tomfoolery

First off, I'm sorry if the word "bitching" offends anyone. Wait. No, I'm not. I mean, my goal is not to be unnecessarily vulgar or anything but this is my blog and I can say "bitching" if I want to. Besides, that's what this post is.

You've heard mention of the "witching hour" before, right? Well from about 3 pm to 6 pm is the bitching (or bitchy) hour around my house. At 3 pm I'm just getting home with my kids (for those who don't know, I have to transport them myself to and from school which is about 25 minutes away) who begin to mimic broken-record-zombie-dictators with tapeworms.

Concurrent with their unfortunate daily transformation is my own personal mood crash. I'm sure that THEIR mood crash doesn't do anything special for MY mood crash, but I'd probably have mine anyway.  My ADHD meds (Vyvanse) wear off around that time, plus I've usually been gone most of the day and I'm coming home to finish "work" work, "house" work and dinner making plus setting up the house of cards for the next day. I probably need a snack and a power nap by that time also. I've usually got to pee with a vengeance (and my poor bladder has been through two babies stomping on it internally like they're those Italian women stomping grapes for wine) as I'm trying to open the door and carry in backpacks, lunch boxes, various cups, sundry household goods/groceries and my own bags. The dog has been crated and needs to go out. The kids want to play this or that or go outside and they're hungry. Not just somewhat peckish. I mean STARVED. But then they refuse to eat anything that I offer them.

I try to plan ahead and cut the zombie-dictators off in the car on the way home. I have granola bars, fruit snacks, saltines, water, apples, and rasins. Do they eat any of those? No way, Jose. Even when I ask them ahead of time what snacks they might like? Nope. Why? Simple. The zombie tapeworms don't emerge from hypersleep until we set foot in the house and my bladder is suddenly jiggly with neglect. Add in the reliable, yet ill-timed phone call or a visit from a Jehovah's Witness or neighborhood child or something and I swear that you can see smoke coming out of my ears like Yosemite Sam (but I wax my upper lip so I'm not quite as hairy). That chunk of time seems to D-R-A-G on forever until my husband gets home, despite my best efforts to prevent it which only further upsets me.

I took a class in Buddhism in undergrad and learned a very interesting concept. I'm sure I won't capture all of the subtle nuances of it, or even the right name, but it was something along the lines of the Large Pastures Theory.

The idea goes like this: If you have a cow (which I clearly don't, and I know nothing about cowing) and you want to keep it under control and in one place, the best way to do so is to let the cow be a cow and give it lots of space and don't restrain it. By letting it have lots of space and allowing it to do cowish things, you are actually more successful at controlling it. This seems slightly counterproductive to a type-A-er like me. Or it seems like you're living in denial--"Oh, that cow? Wandering all over engaging in cow tomfoolery?  Yeah, I wanted her to do that. I'm good with it. I really am. Yeppers." 

But then I thought about it. The more time and energy and cow restraint building that you invest in cow taming or whatever, the more upsetting it is when your cow misbehaves. I'm not sure how a cow misbehaves, exactly, but my guess is smoking "grass" and making cow pies everywhere.  Sounds like trouble to me. Anyway, if you let the cow be a cow and you allow it to behave as it does then YOU ARE LETTING the cow do its thing.  You're the cow boss. You are in control.  No denial. You can't half-ass it. You have to truly let go and allow the cow to be a cow. You can't control the cow (or it would be difficult and upsetting to try and do this) so you control yourself and allow the cow to be.

So to come full circle, let those zombie-dictator-tapeworm-having-snack snobs be who they are from 3-5:30 pm with some basic restrictions.  The Buddhists didn't say to let your cows run amok everywhere, they said "wide pastures" and that implies some type of limits. I will give my zombie cows snack options. I will have said snacks at the ready. Just because you're giving your cows a wide pasture doesn't mean that you get rid of your pitchfork. (Wait, do cow farmers use pitchforks? Or just vegetable farmers? Whatever. You catch my drift.) I also know that you can lead a cow to granola bars but you can't make them eat. I will try to pee BEFORE I get the kids. I will allow them to decompress when they get home with a video while I decompress with a Diet Coke (and rum?). I will know that they're going to turn into crazy repetitive beasts ("Can I play with Play-Doh right now in the living room?" x 100) and I will let them BE beasts but I will also only let them be beasts while they're in the pasture that I set up. And my pasture has no Play-Doh in it. I won't make them talk about their days or do homework or eat macrobiotic foodstuffs or clean the hardwood with their toothbrushes or anything else...from 3:00-5:30. They can be wild (sort of) zombie-cow-dictators because I'm letting them be that way. I'm the head farmer on this zombie plantation and I'm saying that it's OK. Just as long as they don't make cow pies in my living room.

Here Goes Something...

Ha! Me? Have time to blog? Absolutely not. But I also feel that I owe it to myself, my husband, my two boys (7 and 5), and other moms (or not moms) out there who feel like they're alone in feeling overwhelmed and inadequate--to record what I'm going through and how I try to make it through without going (too) crazy.

I'm not an parenting expert, or a chef, or a doctor or anything special but I am a woman with adult-diagnosed ADHD who has a marriage and children (both high-functioning autistic) and a job to look after and I struggle to do all of those things AND keep my sanity.

I need to laugh more than I cry. I want smile lines instead of worry lines. I want a calm head more than a clean house. I plan to document the good days so that I can read about them on the bad ones and I plan to write about the bad ones to purge them from myself as well as learn from them. I love to cook, craft, learn to fix things in my 113-year-old house, take pictures, go thrifting,  collect Fiestaware, read, and drink coffee.  I have fantastic friends and an amazing family.  I have a crazy rescue mutt who is probably the best thing to happen to our house since the DVR.  I talk too much and too fast. I'm always late (but actively trying not to be--with some success!). I'm a lefty and I make the best apple pie you ever had. I have panic attacks almost daily. I believe in God but not in ideologies that encourage hate, exclusion, elitism, or make anyone feel like they have to believe the exact same thing as me or else they're wrong. I'm afraid of birds and I love to go through car washes. I love snow and I'd love to enjoy running someday, but today is definitely not that day. I'm 34 and live in Cleveland, Ohio. I've been married for 9 years. I own and use a Snoopy Snow Cone Machine.  I'm a total sociology nerd and get super excited about old sewing machines. I joke that I have a Ph. but no D in sociology.  I have my master's and one year of doctoral coursework, plus a ramshackle skeleton of writings and notes that will someday transform into my dissertation.  I chose my children, my marriage, and myself over the Ph.D. right now. I teach sociology at three (yes, three!) Cleveland-area institutions and I absolutely love it. What I don't love is the life of an adjunct instructor.  Low pay. Gaps in pay. Unpredictable schedule.  No job security. But I need the flexibility in order to be the best mom that I can be. *Sigh* I'm applying for something more permanent and more profitable, however.

I have no idea if this blog will actually work for me or not. I might keep up with it regularly and I might not. Who knows. But here it goes... :)