Make 'Em Laugh

In the midst of the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln is quoted as saying, "With the fearful strain that is on me night and day, if I did not laugh I should die." 

Most mothers live in the midst of their own civil wars.  The impetus can vary: clothes, choice of television viewing, friend selection, homework, piano practice and even menu options.  Children will continue to rise up and wage battle with their moms over the ridiculous as long as we continue to try to set the parameters.  As a mother, I can wholly appreciate Lincoln's need for the occasional chuckle.  Although I have never thought of Honest Abe as being a particularly blithe fellow, you must figure with that countenance and characteristic ten gallon top hat, he most certainly valued the absurd. 

You got to hand it to a guy with a sense of humor. This quality is perhaps made even more noble when it is built on the alter of self-sacrifice and true to the philosophy of anything for a laugh.

Joe's in-law Steve is just that sort of rare breed. Several years ago, he  asked a dear friend what he wanted for his 40th birthday. The friend had one request: a picture of Steve in a Mt. Carmel high school wrestling unitard (or rather "singlet" as Steve gently corrected me). Steve carefully set up a lovely backdrop for his "gift" and went all-out in delivering on his promise to a friend:  

If I was Steve's mom, this would have been my Christmas card.

Not willing to waste this exercise in abject self-degradation for a mere solo laugh, our philanthropic friend promptly loaded the image into his Facebook account and clicked "insert new profile picture."

I applaud our unitard singlet-wearing Steve. Too many people are quite incapable of laughing at themselves out of fear the world will not respect or admire them. Yet the people whom I respect and admire most in my life have all found their inner funny.

Steve shows us that sometimes, the best laugh out there is right in the mirror. Or perhaps posing seductively across the fireplace next to a Beethoven bust.  Either way, Abe Lincoln would be proud.

Jack in the Box

Joey likes to sit on my lap when I blog.  If you find any horrible grammatical errors or typos, I'm pinning it on the 3-year-old.

Yet when I wrote the blog that included a video of Jack playing the piano, Joey kept insisting I play it over and over. Each time, Joey cried out for his brother to acknowledge him and became increasingly agitated by Jack's non-response:

I of course found it hilarious. Until I shut down the computer and Joey became hysterical, convinced his mother had forever banished his big brother to the Dell monitor.  He was edgy for hours and was only soothed when we picked up Jack from camp. 

I don't know who he thinks I am. 

Casey Anthony?

Did I Forget to Mention?

I won't lie to you, loyal reader. It's been a long week.  So in the midst of it all, I omitted a few noteworthy items:

Item #1:  I did not win the Porn basket at the Christmas without Cancer fundraiser.   I told my sister-in-law to put $50 in raffle tickets towards various gift baskets.  Originally, I swore I'd kill her if she put them all in the Porn basket ("Marianne...you are the winner of the PORN BASKET....come collect your PORN BASKET, Marianne").  Then I started to appreciate the humor in winning such a prize.  Alas, they did not call my name.  But I did win another basket.  Wouldn't you know?  After all my blogging about the ridiculous cost of a visit to the Shedd Aquarium, I won admission for 4.   Oh and Mary - I finally got around to dropping that check in the mail. Actually, Joey dropped it in the mail.  Or maybe in the sewer.  Let me know if it doesn't arrive in the standard Chicago delivery time of 4-6 weeks.  You are over a mile away after all.

Admission for 4 but we're a family of 5.  Who to leave behind?  Oh!  Pick me!  Pick ME!

Item #2:  Daniel and I went 10 rounds over bedtime.  He kept insisting he wasn't tired and I kept insisting he was.  At 9:30 pm, I threatened that if he came downstairs just one more time and said even one more word about not being able to sleep, I was going to call his father. When I went upstairs several hours later, I discovered my son made absolutely certain he got the the last word on the matter:   

Item #3:  And what's a Friday night without the emergency visit to Prompt Care?  Of course it was already 6 pm when I realized Jack was sporting a goose egg.  I assumed he hurt himself at camp, but upon further inspection, I realized it was a mosquito bite.  With a history of cellulitis courtesy of such bites, I scoured the internet to find an open Prompt Care before infection damaged my baby's brain.  Thank you, Orland Park for offering the only location that stays open until 8 pm on a Friday.

"Will I need a shot?" followed by "Can I get a Captain America drink at Baskin Robbins?"

God bless you Physicians ImmediateCare of Orland Park.

Now that you're up-do-date, here's to a great weekend and I hope to see none of you at Prompt Care of Orland Park or any Emergency Room in the entire tri-state area.

You Just Can't Be That Tired

It is official:  I am no longer a morning person. Somewhere between midnight feedings and crack o' dawn carpools, I lost my affinity for the A.M. This was not always the case. Before kids, I cherished mornings. I would bounce out of bed, shun coffee, and start my day excited about the world of opportunity that lie ahead.

If only I knew then what I know now.  The boys have systematically eliminated the slow dawning of consciousness. Before I even open my eyes each morning, I know there is a 3-year old perched on my head. Yes. My head.

"Are you awake now, Mommy? It's good morning time!  Good morning, Mommy!  It's me...JOEY"  (said as he attempts to pry my eyelids open with his sticky fingers which just leaves me to wonder...why are his fingers so sticky?).

I tiptoe downstairs where I know the other two have been eagerly anticipating my descent.   They begin the barrage of questions and demands before I can even reach the coffee maker:

Can I have another bowl of cereal?

Daniel hit me and didn't say 'sorry.'

Can we go to Great America??

I want to quit piano.

Do we have to take baths today?

Just so you know, I don't think I actually peed in my bed...I think it's just sweat.

Can you hold me?

Can you please not breathe on me so much?  You kind of stink.

Do you know where I put my cup of lightning bugs?

So it begins.  After embarking on the inaugural load of laundry, we commence piano practice (c'mon... you knew I had to insert one video of my 5-year old playing the piano eventually):

I was unable to video Dan's session because when an immovable object meets an unstoppable force, the results are not fit for video.  Daniel will play the piano until he's 18.  Or I will die trying.

After lessons, I dig around for some allergy medication.  The evening before included the dreaded soccer league that has been my albatross this summer.  Wednesday night, I was in charge of putting together the net.  My husband had assured me this would be easy.  I rammed together giant rods with little comprehension of how a soccer net is actually supposed to look.  To help matters, I arrived there extra early to allot myself time to figure it all out.  This plan backfired as there were no examples of an actual assembled net with which to compare.  Finally, I managed to put it together with a special caveat to our team to not actually touch the net, or even try to score for that matter. 

Seriously, kids...don't even breathe on it.

Thankfully, I brought along my father to keep the kids occupied while I swore at the net.  He disappeared with Joey for most of the game, which did a lot to preserve my faltering sanity.

So back to yesterday morning. After a stressful two hour practice session, we initiated bath and shower protocol. Sometime during the 4 minutes it took me to run downstairs and perform a laundry transfer, the boys managed to completely flood the bathroom and discharge the entire contents of a brand new tube of Crest into the sink.

Short on time, I slapped together some PB&J, packed camp bags and drove my lot to Kennedy Park.  After depositing the older boys, Joey insisted on going to the playground.  He immediately soaked himself in the park sprinkler and ran around laughing and giggling at the good time he had found.  As much as I wanted to share in this moment, I had only one thought...more wash.

We headed home and continued our laundry and housekeeping.  A repair quote came in one and a half times higher than expected.  CPS (Chicago Public Schools) still hadn't contacted me about Joey's placement, so I put in a call there.  I realized I forgot to pay a credit card bill.  I had Joey run it to the mailbox on the corner, but he quickly became distracted and decided instead to try to shove the bill down the sewer. 

Before I could even think about sitting down, it was time to pick the kids up at camp and run them to violin.  During my hour "break" while the boys learned a new string, I pumped gas, bought GoodNights, finally grabbed a coffee, and called my husband.

I told him there was a Chicago Park District outdoor movie that night.  After going the rounds with Daniel over his music and battling Joey over his refusal to nap, I figured nobody had "earned" the right to this treat. 

Joe disagreed.  He decided that between his after-work volleyball game and his buddy's 40th birthday party, he could most certainly take the kids to the movies.  He asked if I had gotten a sitter so I could accompany him.

I told him I was spent. 

There was a long pause on the end of the line.  He seemed to think I was secretly avoiding him.  After a few moments of uncomfortable silence followed by his reminder that he, too, had worked all day, my volleyball-playing birthday reveler shared his final thoughts on the matter:

You just can't be that tired.

Have I Mentioned the New Driveway?

If men are allowed to go on and on about their cars and golf handicaps, I feel that dedicating a certain portion of my blog to the new driveway is quite rationale and to be expected. 

It completes me.

As has been established, the boys were mesmerized by the entire installation process.  So much in fact, that they really took to heart the installer's instructions to "water" the driveway as often as possible.  We are now more than a week out from pouring concrete, and my trio of free laborers has diligently followed these directives to the letter:

Well, Jack started out watering the driveway, but noticed a few flowers looked a bit withered....

Daniel of course took complete control of the hose and dolled out water to Joey in tiny plastic cups

Joey was assigned to monitor and point out any dry spots his brother may have missed.

If you knew how much I hated my old driveway, how many skinned knees I had to repair due to its cracks, and the amount of profanity that dripped from my husband's mouth each time he had to shovel snow, you would understand my singular obsession.

Part 15 of "My New Driveway: A Love Story" coming soon to a blog near you.  Do you suppose this is where "We Band of Mothers" jumps the shark?  I can hear the critics now:  It was like....could she just stop with the driveway already?  I got so sick and tired of  hearing about this flippin' driveway.  Who cares about an ugly old driveway anyway?  Couldn't she just give it up?

Did Fonzie stop once he put those jet skis on?

Doctors' Wives Should Have Known Better

I'm on Day 4 of post-wedding recovery.

Things are not going well. My husband refused to believe me when I tried to convince him I was actually ill. He walked around muttering "self-induced" and "alcohol-related" as the likely causes. Being a paramedic, he felt confident in his medical assessments. Being a wife, I went to Prompt Care.

Fairly certain I was on my ninth case of strep(t) for the year, I opened wide and waited for the big giant gag-inciting Q-Tip to find its way into my mouth.  For once, it came back negative.  I was still given a prescription for a sinus infection and upper respiratory something or another.  

I spent much of the day yelling at the children to be quiet.  Jack actually got reprimanded for sighing too loudly.  Danny got a time-out for throwing himself down after 3 hours of swimming and playing at camp to announce that his parents never let him have any fun.   Joey whined and whined and whined until I tossed him down for a nap with the ominous threat of, "take one step out of that bed, and I will give all your toys to poor kids."

Joey, being Joey, appeared to have fallen asleep thumbing his nose at his mother with two steps on the ground and his beloved army of vintage Little People at his side.  Only children are capable of sleeping like this:

So I had a good laugh and spent the rest of the day resisting the urge to abandon the children at a Chicago Safe Harbour location...namely their father's fire station.