Locomotion
I had dreams last night of the children as babies again; at the same time. Granted, they are only 20 months apart, but there’s a huge difference between a 2-year-old and an infant. Regardless, in my dream, they were both fuzzy-headed, gurgling babies.
As the no-real-plot saga unfolded in my sleeping mind, I was faced with trying to attend to them both, and figure out which one needed my attention more. Although I was undisturbed by their sudden reversion in age, I was overcome with panic about keeping them safe. It was a constant battle to determine which one was more in need of my rescue.
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Mission accomplished
We came, we saw, we sledded.
I am old, and therefore I broke my butt. Monkey would only go down the (rather steep) hill if I went with him. I make a lot of jokes about how big my butt is, but I am evidentally a lot bonier than I thought, because having nothing but a plastic disc between me and the hill meant that my coccyx made contact with my brain several times on the way down. Ow.
Eventually I was able to talk him into going down with his sister, but then I still had to get to the bottom of the hill to help him back up. About three trips down and up the hill and I was ready to go home. Or maybe pass out. Either way.
Meanwhile, our little friend who’d been the impetus for this trip–the one who laughs in the face of danger and loves rollercoasters–decided she doesn’t like sledding. She took exactly one trip down the hill and declared it No Fun and her mother spent the rest of the trip trying to convince her to go down again. She begged and pleaded and wheedled and I guess I understand, but there is only so much I can take, normally, and with a fever, even less so. So I told the little girl she didn’t have to sled if she didn’t want to and then I stapled her mother’s mouth shut and threw her down the hill.
Our other friend took some coaxing, and finally went down once with his mom. Then he and Monkey stomped around on the plateau and had a grand time escaping from the MamaMonster. (This was much less work for me than sledding. All I had to do was raise my arms and roar every now and then.)
Chickadee took her cues from the teenagers flinging themselves down the hill and took about thirty runs in varying positions at ever-increasing speeds. She had a blast and it really made the trip worth it, for me. It’s rare and very gratifying to see her enjoying herself with such abandon. On one of her last runs she hit a bump at the bottom and did a backwards-somersault off her sled. I watched it in horrifying Protective Mama Super Slo-Mo thinking, first, that she must’ve snapped her little neck. On the heels of that thought came one even more terrifying: which was of course that she must’ve broken her glasses. I hollered down the hill to ask if she was okay and she staggered to her feet, so dizzy that she lurched a little, and beamed up a gigantic grin. “Wasn’t that COOL, Mama???”
So it only bothered me a little when I stopped on the way home to buy cider and got the kids home and stripped down and into dry clothes and shovelled the driveway and made hot cider for them and they told me “it tastes like puke.”
Now I need someone to make the kids some dinner and maybe heat up some soup for me and then after the kids are in bed tuck me in with you on the couch for a while. I’m sure that would make me feel better. Hello? Hello?? Oh well. It was half a perfect day.
Priorities
I should be at church right now, at pre-service choir rehearsal. Obviously, I am not. After going to bed at 10:00 last night and sleeping until 8:00 this morning, I woke up experiencing The Return Of Mysterious Fever And Also Feeling Like Ass. I stumbled downstairs and croaked to the children that we needed to get ready for church… then noted that my voice was shot and said nevermind, we’re staying home. (Someday we can delve into why I feel more of a commitment to show up and sing than I do to just show up and worship, but not today.)
Should I be worried about the little impromptu victory dance the children did while chanting, “We’re not going to chuuu-uurch! We’re staying hoooo-oome!”?
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Party stats
Number of children invited: 8.
Number of children expected: 7.
Inches of snow that had fallen by half an hour prior to partytime: 3.
Inches of snow that fell during the party: 3.
Number of times the plows had been by: 0.
Number of cancellations: 2.
Number of mysterious no-shows: 1.
Number of puddles in my mudroom: 7.
Total party meltdowns: 0.
Number of times I found myself wishing I’d just planned for only six kids: A billion.
Number of times I kicked myself for stressing out so badly over what ended up basically being a playdate: A trillion.
Number of candles Monkey blew out: 2.
Number of candles Chickadee blew out when Monkey’s first try was unsuccessful: The rest of them.
Extra juice boxes: 12.
Number of children who cared that the cake was lopsided: 0.
Number of parents who teased me for caring that the cake was lopsided: 2.
Bouquets brought to me by friend who was supposed to be helping with the capes last night: 1.
Where there’s a will, there’s a party pooper
It went like this: a friend informed me that she was having an informal cocktail hour type thing today, and suggested that if I needed help finishing up party stuff, we could work on it afterwards. Come mingle and have some fun. I checked in with another friend, verified that she would attend and stay to help me, and agreed.
I got there around 6:00, expecting we’d get to work on my Big Bag O’ Cape Stuff by 8:00. I did pull aside my craft consultant as soon as she arrived to confer on cutting the material. This was a calculated move: I feared once she had a few drinks her measurements might be off. I then took some time to cut out the materials and then joined the party and was Social.
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Only a flesh wound
So, yesterday, I valiantly braved the storm. No, not the storm outside. The storm inside. The storm of Two Children Who Are Bored. They really needed to go outside and run off some of their energy, but given the whole icy pellets causing bleeding eyelids thing, I decided to keep them in. They bounced off the walls and they bounced off the ceiling and they bounced off each other and then screamed that they’d been TOUCHED and I should make the offender DIE FOR THEIR SINS and being the fabulous mother than I am, I turned up the volume on the television.
I tried to start getting ready for tomorrow’s party, but it was pointless. I’d clear off the table, say, and then head upstairs for something. By the time I came back? An entirely new Very Important Project would be spread from end to end where there had once been a clean surface. So I gave up. I would have plenty of time today while the kids were out to get things ready. Right? Ha. Ha ha ha.
So instead of cleaning and baking and stuffing party bags, I played with the kids and blogged and looked for a job and blogged and cleared the driveway and blogged. And also, sliced my thumb off.
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Just like the frontier settlers
So you know that scene, in The Long Winter, where Laura and Carrie are at school when a blizzard comes up, and everyone leaves the schoolhouse in a pack and tries to find their way back to Main Street and they narrowly miss it but in the end everyone gets home safe thanks to Cap Garland but by the time Laura and Carrie get back to the house their eyelids are actually scratched and bleeding from the driving ice pellets of the storm?
I just had that exact same experience. Well, sort of. My vision was mostly blind white due to my brilliant idea to leave my glasses inside. Instead of a pack of smaller schoolkids I was shepharding the snowblower I told my ex he could remove from the garage over my dead body, you selfish jackass. And I was less afraid of wandering out to the neverending prairie than I was that it would take me so long to clear the driveway, “Shrek” would end and the children would kill each other before I came back inside.
But, um, my eyelids did bleed a little. Ow.
Trivia no one should know
Question: How many times can a little girl sing “Away in a Manger” with great depth of feeling but using complete gibberish aside from the phrase “Little Lord Jesus?” (To wit: “I bee-dee, fron lowla gin cry wah dee day! The li-ttle lord Jesus gree fon doo be bay!”)
Answer: Eleventy trillion. Over and over. For. Ever.
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Question: Thusly serenaded, where did I leave the box of macaroni I took out for lunch?
Answer: On top of the washing machine. Naturally.
Hold me.
Teacher hit me with a ruler…
There was some snow. Then there was a little more snow. Followed by some sleet. And so for some reason the Powers That Be figured that it was more important to keep our children off the slippery roads than to afford me an entire day to get my crap together, unencumbered.
Is the entire universe conspiring against me?? It’s just a little precipitation, people! The children need some learnin’ and I need some peace and quiet!
I’m kidding. Mostly. Honest. Um… hey! Look over there! It’s a kid covered in Crisco!!
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Northern fried Chickadee
There are so many jokes that spring to mind, here, but none is as funny as the straight-up truth: The pediatrician’s recommended remedy for Chickadee’s eczema is to coat her liberally in Crisco after each shower. Crisco. I just did it, for the first time, and it wasn’t as gross as I’d imagined. In fact, her parched skin drank it right up. But, still. Ewwww. Although, I am enjoying the ability to threaten to dust her in cornmeal and dunk her in boiling oil if she doesn’t behave.
In other news, the De-Lurking Day is enjoying huge success, both here and at other blogs. Thanks to everyone who came forth to be counted, today! And keep it going (the day’s not over yet)! I particularly needed the warm-fuzzies this evening, as I had this actual unretouched conversation in the car on the way home today:
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