I miss REM

No, no, not the band. (Although I miss them too.)  I miss sleep. I miss deep, blissful, rapid-eye-movement sleep.

About two months ago the bubbas took to coming into our bed at 2:00 am. I was beyond annoyed. I pee and shower in the constant presence of these two. Could they not afford me the decency of six hours of uninterrupted sleep?

The mister reminded me that Magnus did the exact same thing at their age and that I was pretty gracious about it. I have no memory of this. I think they are all conspiring against me. Goddamn them.

So, my point. I think something happens in the Mother Brain after you expel the placenta. The neurons fire in a weird, OCD-like way. Once I am awakened from sleep, I cannot return to it. I lay in bed in a weird state, like right before you undergo anesthesia. In this twilight I start to think about stuff. The List. The List of Stuff. It's important stuff. Thoughts march their way across the little gray cells and they look something like this:

- Did I unload the washing machine? How come no one unloads the washing machine?
- Is it a school day? It is. Magnus will expect breakfast.
- Is Logan gaining weight? He might be gaining weight.
- The pillow covers. Are they still at the dry cleaners?
- If I fall asleep now, how many hours will I get?
- The Roth IRA. Must contribute money. Soonest.
- Logan. Is he gaining weight?

I have no idea how I used to work in a high-pressure job and maintain nighttime unconsciousness. I was more talented than I gave myself credit for.

Must go. Time to brush the kiddos' teeth, read stories, lay down and pass out. Then wake up and wonder if we brushed teeth, are the stories really enriching....

i might be insensitive

And I might be unpopular. But I am conflicted over Bruce/Caitlyn Jenner issue, and perhaps a tad pissed. (Somewhat pissed).

It's great for Caitlyn because she has fame and money and Annie Lebovitz shot her for Vanity Fair's cover. But what about most trans people, who face challenges with health care, using certain bathrooms, employment, violence, etc.?

Also....when was the last time Vanity Fair put an older woman on its cover? I'm just a tad miffed that it's a man, transitioning to a woman, who gets that coveted spot. And by older of course we mean over 45.

Should I even bring up people of color who are actually mobilizing for social justice? Maybe not.

I can get tunnel vision about things so perhaps this is a good example.

Faithful readers, and anyone else, please sound off.

the curse of the vacation gods

Based on two recent attempts to flee suburbia and go on vacation, I realize the universe is telling me something.

Which is to park my ass at home until the offspring are in college.

It started in March. Spring break was calling. We made plans to see friends who are perfect in every way except where they live. Really, they could be more considerate and move closer. We packed up the brood and headed to Northern California to the most pleasant of locations, Pleasanton.

You can't NOT enjoy someplace called Pleasanton. It is like being transported back to the 1950s. The streets are tree-lined and teeming with smiling, disease-free people. The downtown street reminds me of Mayberry, complete with a drive-through dairy built in 1900 that features the best soft-serve around.

So I hear. I didn't actually have the soft-serve, walk around downtown or do anything remotely vacation-like. The first day of the trip was spent doling out Children's Advil to the eldest bubba, redecorating the hotel room so the twins couldn't break stuff, then playing musical beds until two am. The second day we were zombies and sat by the hotel pool all day to let housekeeping do their thing, including fix an overflowing toilet. The third day I spent in the ER with the eldest for a breathing treatment (but a nice, pleasant hospital, natch). The twins were good enough to save their colds for the drive back.

For Mother's Day I had the brilliant idea of going away for ONE NIGHT. I don't see my brother enough. My mother cobbled together a plan for us to all meet at his house in Santa Two Hours Away, cook, drink and then go home. The best part was no kids. Just me, my minivan and an air mattress.

Bliss! Just one night!

It started out really nice. We drank champagne, made bad jokes, ate delicious steak. I lay down on my air mattress in the guest room, raised my head once to make sure there really were no other humans with me, then fell into a blissful sleep.

For two hours. I was awakened by the sensation of being sliced in half. I sat up and felt a terrible sense of doom. I bolted for the bathroom and will spare you the details about what happened over the next four hours.

Somehow I made it home. The drive that was serene and peaceful heading north was now the bane of my miserable, gassy existence. But it was Mother's Day. I was allowed, no legally entitled?,  to rest and be pampered. As I headed into Ventura County I savored the fantasy of collapsing in my already-made bed, catching up on several hours of REM sleep, then being summoned for a fine French meal on nice china, seated next to my quiet and already-bathed children.

I am ridiculous.

The twins were experiencing a similar GI occurrence which meant the mister was doing loads of laundry. He also hadn't really slept. I know this because when I pulled into the driveway and was about to explain my terrible night parked in the bathroom, he handed me a child and said, "I am going to bed."

So there you have it, faithful readers. Through some curious wiring of the planets and stars, I am fated to remain at home. It's safer for me here.

Oh. But please be nice and send me a postcard from wherever you are. I'd love to here how your freaking get-away is going.

Just like starting over

Okay. I know. It has been months, MONTHS, since I have written. But going off to war is hard. I had to be focused, diligently working to achieve the goal I had worked months to prepare for.

You got me. I didn't go OFF to war. I remained at home, here, where life with three boys often resembles a war zone. Don't give me that look. These people are like insurgents. Unpredictable, obstinate. Almost impossible  to understand. Many a time I could have used an interpreter. They also like to lob things, and urinate outdoors.

I know life has been tough for you without this little ray of sunshine. I will do better. I have to! Our freedom and way of life depend on it!

19 kids and repressing

I refuse to watch the reality TV show about the 20+-member Duggar clan. I have 20+ reasons why. I think my head would spin to see what dinnertime looks like, or who folds the 200 loads of laundry that get churned out each week. I was chatting with someone recently who said I should tune in because the Duggar kids are cute. I didn't smack her but I wanted to. Bad.

I won't watch the show because it bugs me that the Duggar family's lifestyle, borne out of the conservative Quiverfull religion, is glossed over in favor of soft media stories about which daughter is getting engaged and how she is holding out for her wedding night. Quiverfull women, like many women who are part of fundamentalist Christian religious groups, have specific, submissive roles to fulfill; namely, they breed, feed, clean and follow what the male head of the household says. Unbelievable to me. Sad to me. Women are capable of so much more. I refute the notion that women are incapable of managing money or making significant decisions about their household and that their purpose is solely domestic. Come on. How unfun is that? It is also worrisome. When is that kind of male domination distinguishable from abuse, physical or emotional? There are countless stories of women escaping religious husbands and communities, like the fundamental Mormon branch who inflict damage on its most helpless members by exerting excessive control.

It's also irksome that we are being fed media stories about engagement rings, wedding registries and baby making. The human rights attorney Amal Alamuddin was far more interesting before she became reduced to a media story about "nabbing" George Clooney and who designed her wedding dress. But I digress.

No Duggar watching for me, faithful readers. If I want to go that far back in time, The Honeymooners is at least more entertaining.

Magnesiums #...oh, I can't keep track

Magnus: "Mommy, are you a young mom?"
Me: (deep breath) "Of course."

These things I don't get

Flag poles into people's front yards. Or bolted onto their driveway.
Throw back Thursday, complete with awful Facebook photos. Stop it right now.
Smoked almonds. Seriously, who eats this crap?
Small mesh nets, usually attached to a plastic fruit, for babies to suck their first fruit. Why can't we give the kid the fruit to suck?
Cool Whip. What IS it??

No Experience Needed

Faithful readers, I was surprised to get messages from so many of you wondering why I hadn't posted  in nearly a month.

Well, the one message, at least.

Which was more an offhand comment than a message. Potato, potah-to.

I have actually been busy considering my future, if you must know. I have taken long thoughtful walks and hosted deep inner conversations with myself to figure out...what the heck now?

The eldest bubba is in kindergarten and it appears all his neurons are firing, as he is doing almost second-grade work. The babies are big and healthy and thriving. They love books and walks around the neighborhood. They throw stuff at each other and occasionally a punch but overall are pretty damn sweet.

So how do I take care of these kiddos in a meaningful way beyond making their food from scratch and playing peek-a-boo? Specifically, how do I help build their college funds, set aside money for braces and their first cars, give them more opportunity? I get to freelance occasionally but work has slowed down, almost to the point where the money I earn buys one ticket to the movies (matinee).

I scouted some online sites for opportunities today. I want flexibility in my schedule and I don't want to return to the nonstop stress and headache of my previous job. Here is what was available, and what I am semi-qualify for:

- School crossing guard
- Pizza delivery driver
- Pilates instructor

Let's face it, the nail technician position is out of my league. And I am too dainty to clean up old people messes at the assisted living facility that is presently hiring. So I find myself here, longing for part-time work and horribly overqualified.

So what to do? Put in a few more hours at Magnus's school, where a fellow classmate routinely insults me, continue to look for opportunities to write and get paid, fold some shirts, read some books and trust the universe that it will all work out.

And blog, of course. I know you guys are counting on me.

Request - Please Read

Could all gays and lesbians please come out? I need to jump in the closet and hide from my children.

Kirk Cameron is freaking awesome

No, you don't need your eyes checked. Yes, I am posting after weeks of hectic schedules and vacation. And yes, I think Kirk Cameron is the bomb.

Now don't go to someone else's blog and forget about me. Let me 'splain. I like Kirk Cameron, and I check him out on Facebook, because of the sheer comedy that comes out of his Jesus-worshipping mouth. He tells gays they are going to hell. He stated that he doesn't think Stephen Hawking is that smart. Recently he defended Senator Akin, another Jesus-loving moron who attempted to differentiate between rape and "legitimate" rape.

The thing about Kirk Cameron is that he is convinced he is right despite tons of scientific evidence to the contrary. To me this makes him the ultimate court jester. He's almost arrogant if he weren't so freaking funny. Remember when he debated god and evolution? That the banana was an example of god's handiwork? Only Sarah Palin is funnier but by a hair.

Check him out on Facebook, crack open a beer and have yourself a good chuckle. Lord knows you deserve it. (Get it?)

Heed these words:

If one more short, self-entitled person steps on my foot or gives me attitude, there will be hell to pay.

I'm talking to you, offspring.

Knock knock jokes: epic fail

Magnus: "Knock knock!"
Me: "Who's there?"
Magnus: "Me! Ha ha!"

Magnus: "Knock knock!"
Me: "Who's there?"
Magnus: "Banana!"
Me: "Banana who?"
Magnus: "Banana banana banana banana! Ha ha! Banana banana! Knock knock!"

Magnus: "Knock knock!"
(Pause) Me: "Who's there?"
Magnus: "Magnus."
Me: "Magnus who?"
Magnus: "Open the door, it's me Magnus! Let me tell you another knock knock joke!"

Damn you offspring

I thought Magnus opening the bathroom door while I was in the shower was maddening. But he managed to top it. Last night after a long day I was finally able to drift into a blissful sleep. Which turned into dreamy sleep. Which turned into a dream of me and Ryan Gosling. And then me and Ryan Gosling going at it, Boogie Nights style. I had auburn hair and was about five pounds lighter in the dream. And he was really into me (no pun intended). We made deep eye contact and said amazing things to each other. It was life-altering.

And then....

"Mommy? It's MORNING TIME!"

I opened my eyes and instead of Ryan in bed next to me there was a five-year-old with bed head and a sweaty blanket sitting there. Sheesh, first-born! Have you no clue? I rarely get good night's sleep, and good sex sleep? With Ryan effing Gosling? And you woke me up and expect me to feed you??

I am officially protesting these working conditions.

It is starting already

Magnus: "Mommy I think I need to stay home from school today."
Me: "Why Magnus?"
Magnus: "My arm is really sick."

Eleventh Commandment: Thou Shall Not Solicit

"Knock knock."
"Who's there?"
"I am here to tell you about the Bible and god's word, ma'am."
"I am home schooling my son right now."
"When would be a good time to come back and share some passages with you, ma'am?"
"Probably never."
"Did you know god helps those who forsake him?"
"No. But I have to get back to science instruction with my five-year-old."
"Okay but I can see that you are lost and god can touch your life."
"Can you bring champagne with you next time and I will think about it?"
" I brought some with me, ma'am. The neighbors said it might make you more receptive to the good book. I actually am carrying a chilled bottle in this backpack."
"Well for Christ's sake, come IN!"

Confused

As a Facebook user, am I obligated to start using Twitter hash tags in my posts now? for several months I have observed said Twitter hash tags  in several of my friends' postings. Am I outdated or dumb because I can't figure out something short and witty to include? I freaking hate Twitter. Why are you doing this to me, social media deities?

Well, HA HA HA, guess what? I am not that outdated or dumb, faithful readers. When I put my mind to something, anything is possible, plus housework. Here is my FB post:

When did FB become Twitter? #cutthatshitout #now.

You like? It's brilliant. Please like.

tribute

To Seamus Heaney, transcendent, award-winning, beloved poet who died this week. Excerpt from "Sunlight":

Now she dusts the board
with a goose's wing
now sits, broad-lapped,
with whitened nails

and measling shins:
here is a space
again, the scone rising
to the tick of two clocks.

And here is love
like a tinsmith's scoop
sunk past its gleam
in the meal-bin.

What is sexy?

The mister breaking out the Dyson and vacuuming the kitchen floor after one of the bubbas tossed a handful of Cheerios at his brother.

So hot.

This week's obsession: serial killers

I can feel you stomping your foot in protest, faithful readers. Roya get a clue and lighten up, you shout. Stop obsessing about your existence and serial killers. Why are you such a downer?

I live in the sticks, do you not REMEMBER? I can't just dust and fold shirts ALL DAY! I am stomping my foot now, right back at you. Like these shoes? They hurt.

A loooong time ago I wrote a piece about motherhood equaling irrational fears. I was proud Magnus had the courage to go down a big slide at age two but silently held my breath each time, convinced he would hurtle his tiny body into a lump on the ground and never stand again.

So it should not surprise anyone that I have been wondering about serial killers and if bad parenting trumped the genetics card for some of the people sitting on death row. Not that I would be as bad as Charles Manson's mother, who gave birth to him and then did everything she could to never see him again. I saw an interview with Charles M and he said he attempted to return times to his mother numerous times after living with various relatives or staying in juvenile centers. She thwarted every attempt. Your own mother saying I am good on my own, thanks. That has got to fuck with you.

Okay, so I am not that bad. But do I leave Magnus on his own too much while I perform important tasks like write copy for clients? Or like right now, when I am blogging about how not being with him might increase his risk for anti-social behavior and perhaps homicide? And he's in his room quietly building a dull sword out of Lego?

A fellow mom friend shares my concern. Her two boys are older and lock themselves in their rooms for hours on end. She can only get them to come out if she yells "IN N' OUT!!" They are also surly at
dinner and want to be left alone right after. She says they have not harmed the family cat but she checks on it every night before she goes to bed.

Because I am cerebral and drawn to research and bad TV, I have been watching documentaries on You Tube about serial killers, paying close attention to their formative years. So far I have covered Richard Ramirez, Charles M, the Green River killer, Ed Gein and John Wayne Gacy. And there are some messed up childhoods there, friends. In most cases, there was probably also something awry with the individual's hard-wiring...Ramirez said from a young age he felt different, and after seeing terrible violence in his family, he became drawn to it. Did his mom maybe leave him alone too much while going to church or the grocery store? It's a toss up.

I see this post is running long so I will sign off and go see where that strange chainsaw sound is coming from. Hopefully the gardener.

School daze

Hey, did you miss me? A little? Ah, I love you. Here is a treat.

Today was the first day of school for Mags. I was mildly panicked given his peanut allergy. However, after a great meeting with the school principal, nurse and Mags' teacher I think we have reason to be cautiously hopeful that he will be safe. I almost did the happy dance when we arrived to school and were met with disclaimer signs indicating peanut free zones in his play area. Woot!

But that happiness was brutally destroyed because after fetching my firstborn from school he announced that he has a girlfriend. He felt the need to be reassuring, pointing out that he LIKES her but he LOVES me. It's like cheating in a weird kindergarten way. I felt used. I need a shower.

So we survived day one and next week the boy will undergo an academic assessment. I am fairly confident he will do well, as his new word this week is imperative. It is imperative that I wear those shoes. No, Mom, the other shoes. I said imperative.

This should be fun, right?

No?

Give me that treat back.