More Grinchy than I thought?

‘Tis the season…

After my workout this morning, I decided to take advantage of my remaining 45 minutes of freedom before picking Andrew up at school.  I headed over to the mall to pick up my reserved copy of “Planes” at the Disney Store.  They’re tricky over there, those Disney people; they have coupon crazed shoppers, like me, figured out.  When you reserve a Disney movie in their store, you get coupons to use when you pick up your movie.  So, I was pretty excited to use my “$20 off a $40 purchase” coupon to finish up holiday gift shopping.

We saw “Planes” in the theater, and Andrew mentioned that he would like to have the toy version of “Bulldog”, the British plane in the movie.  Of course, the Disney Store has a huge display of all the die-cast planes, stacked up in such a way that you have to completely dismantle the display to find what you want.  I was attempting to do just this when a sales associate came over and asked if I was finding everything I needed.  I explained to her what I wanted, and she looked blankly at me and finally asked what the character looks like.  “I have no idea,” I answered, honestly, “but the character names are on the front of the boxes, and Bulldog is not out here.”

Despite my answer, she immediately began searching the shelves.  I impatiently raised an eyebrow, as I was supposed to be on my way to pick up Andrew soon.  Then, the store’s phone rang, and off she ran to answer it, without another word to me.  Eyebrow went up higher.

Working for so many years in customer service environments is definitely a blessing and a curse.  I expect high levels of service, wherever I go, and I (unfairly?) get frustrated when I don’t get that from those who are supposed to be helping me.  In this situation, I took a deep breath and decided to give her a few minutes; she would come back to help in a minute.

Only, she didn’t.

After helping the person on the phone, she started ringing up sales for other customers.  I decided that the universe just didn’t want Andrew to have Bulldog, and began wandering about the store in search of something else to purchase with my stupid coupon.

I stopped in front of a large display of ornaments, thinking that surely I could find a few cute ornaments for the kids.  As I was browsing, another sales associate came over and asked if I was finding what I needed.  I tried again.  I explained that I was looking for Bulldog, that it wasn’t on the shelf, and that someone had been helping me but bailed to answer the phone.  Contestant #2 looked at me, then said “Well, what does Bulldog look like?”  Perhaps my irritation with that question was evident, because she hurried over to the shelf to look.  “It’s not out there,” I called after her.  As she was walking back, saying “I’ll check in…” we heard a booming voice announce “Merrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry Christmas!!!”

Santa Claus had entered the store.

Instead of focusing on me, the customer needing help, the lady clapped her hands, squealed “It’s SANTA!!”, and went running up to him to collect a green lollipop.  For reals.  At this point, the eyebrow was completely off my head, and my mouth was hanging open.  It wasn’t like the store was full of kids and she was putting on a show for them.  It was mostly adults, or kids who were too young to care.

She came happily skipping back toward me, lollipop in hand, and informed me that she would go check in the back for the plane.  At that point, I didn’t freaking care about the plane anymore; I was too busy looking around for a camera crew and waiting for Ellen Degeneres to pop out of some display.  Surely, this was a set up.  Right?  Please?

Apparently, no.  The lady came back out and informed me that they did not have the plane, but advised me to check back later.  As I was trying to thank her and tell her I would be back, she noticed another store employee coming in for work, and cut me off to yell at that person “Santa is HERE!!”

I have never left the mall that fast, without making any purchases, in my whole life.

Am I just that cynical these days, or was that just ridiculous?  Good thing my holiday shopping is almost finished.

Oh Happy Day

Ever have a day when nothing particularly spectacular happens, but several very small things do happen, making it just the best day ever?  Welcome to my day today.

It’s Friday, which already gives it a boost up on the other days.  It started off similarly to all the others: struggle to tear myself out of bed, rush around like a madwoman to get everyone fed and ready for school, then finally breath a sigh of relief after the last kid is dropped off for the morning.  Usually, I take care of whatever errands are on my list, so I can do them by myself and not have to drag a kid or two along with me.

Today was no different, in terms of the errands.  I started off by marching into our vet’s office; I was frustrated because I thought the pup we just adopted was being over-vaccinated as a result of them misreading her medical records.  I was irritated by the thought of paying close to $200 for something I thought had been taken care of already by the rescue organization.  I was ready to (nicely) battle with them to correct the issue; but, to my pleasant surprise, they cheerfully offered to remedy the situation without me having to even raise an eyebrow.  Hooray!

I then moved on to grocery shopping.  Let’s face it, it’s a boring task, right?  It can also be stressful, wondering if you’re getting the best deal, worrying that you’re not buying the “best” products (in terms of nutrition).  I had barely walked into the store before I came across honeycrisp apples, one of the hub’s favorites.  As I stood there, selecting my apples, a manager came over to me and greeted me with a cheerful “Good morning!  You like honeycrisp apples?  Let me get you a Sweet Tango to try!  They are amazing!”  I was stunned, because beyond a “hello”, I rarely come across a talkative employee at our local grocery store.  The manager went on to bring out “fresher apples” (he wasn’t satisfied with what was left on the display), and then cut one up for me right then and there.  Shopping while munching on sweet, yummy apple slices?  Yes, please.  I’m not sure what got in to them over there at that store, but I definitely appreciate the elevated level of customer service!

At this point, I was already aware that I was having an extra good morning.  I decided to stop for a cup of coffee on my way to pick up the littlest kiddo from school.  Now, I’ve never come across a cranky barista at Starbucks, but today they were just super chipper!  AND…I was offered a sample of my favorite berry coffee cake.  Score!  It was just the perfect size to enjoy without feeling guilty because I have absolutely no business eating extra treats right now.

Driving to my son’s school, the cynic in me started to ponder all of these good things that happened to that point, and wondered when the other shoe would drop.  But, a string of awesome songs on the radio quickly squashed any pessimism that threatened to take away my happy morning.  Don’t you just love it when your radio station just synchs up with your mood?  Ah, music.

So, that was it.  The rest of the day, so far, has been uneventful, but no complaints.  Not sure why I was blessed with such a lovely morning, and day for that matter, but hey…I’ll gladly take it.

Happy Down Syndrome Awareness Month

It’s October already?  How did that happen?  As long as the days (weeks…months?) may feel at times, this year really is flying by.

October is a notable month for my family, as it is Down Syndrome Awareness Month.  For those who know my family, you are very aware of Down syndrome, and our mission to give Alex every opportunity that my other two children will have.  A lot of people, though, don’t have much information about Down syndrome; we certainly didn’t before Al was born!

So, in the spirit of Down Syndrome Awareness Month, I give you my list of DOs and DON’Ts for communicating with an individual with Down syndrome (and their family):

• DO be a supportive family member or friend.  Be a good listener while not feeling like you need to go out of your way to offer advice.  There is so much going on behind the scenes that I may or may not share with you: challenges (hello, potty training?!?), accomplishments, worries.  Just knowing that we have a terrific support system is so very helpful.
• DO treat Alex as you would any other nine year old boy.  He is more like a typically developing nine year old than he is different, and he wants to be treated as such (ie, DON’T talk to him like he’s a baby.  This happened just the other day; a very sweet lady started a conversation with him, but he looked at her like she had two heads).  
• DO use person-first language. My son has Down syndrome; he is NOT a “Down syndrome boy”.  He is a child with special needs; he is NOT a “special needs kid”.  (psst…this applies to way more than just Down syndrome…)
• DO know the proper terminology.  My son does not have “Down’s”.  He is not “downsy” (thank you, Hollywood, for bringing us that awful term).  He has Down syndrome.  There is no abbreviating it, sorry.
• DON’T use the r-word.  EVER.  Just don’t do it.  (Visit www.r-word.org for info on the Spread the Word to End the Word campaign.)  I don’t want to hear any excuses anymore.  I know you probably didn’t mean it; I know that at one time it was an acceptable clinical term.  Times are changing, though, so let’s keep up, shall we?
• DON’T feel sorry for him, or our family.  Even after nine years, so often when we meet someone new and tell them about Alex, we get the sympathetic head tilt & nod, which is sometimes accompanied by an “Oh, I’m so sorry”.  Really?  Why?  We’re not sorry about it, so you shouldn’t be, either.  Do we face extra challenges?  Sure.  Do we worry about our child?  Of course.  But, what family doesn’t deal with these issues?  We’ll be fine, but please refer back to the first “DO”.

Early Conversation with Al

We’ve had a busy schedule the last couple of weeks.  So busy, in fact, that not having any kids’ activities on the schedule today seems weird.  I have plenty of work today, as always, but that’s a given.

My sweet Alex just stumbled down the stairs, still half asleep, and found me in the kitchen.

“G’morning, Al,” I said, greeting him with a hug.

He looked up at me, and asked “Daddy?”

“No, Daddy is working today.  It’s Friday.”

He looked hopeful: “Camp?”

“No, buddy, camp is all done for the summer.”

He tried again: “School??”

“No, pal, no school on Fridays.”

Getting impatient, he asked “Soccer?!?”

“Soccer ended last night, dude.  Remember?”

“Oh,” he said, giving in.  “Staying?”

“Yes, Al, we’re staying home today,” I answered, realizing that I need to get this poor kid some kind of picture calendar so he can keep up with our crazy days.  I waited a moment to see what kind of requests would come shooting out: bowling, library, movies…

But no, he seems content with just hanging out at home today.  He found High School Musical 2 on the DVR (the version with the dance lessons between scenes), and he is happily busting a move in the living room.

Love.  This.  Kid.

The Death of the Kikies

I am heartbroken.

Before the birth of my youngest son (who is now 4 1/2), I purchased a set of Carter’s security blankets.  Knowing how attached my daughter was to her blankie, I thought I should plan ahead and I just marveled over how Carter’s knew to put two in a package.  It would be perfect: one for home, one to take with us.

And take it he did.

Those blankies (or as he called them, “kikies”) went everywhere.  They truly fit the job description of the security blanket.  They got dirty, and my son would cry as they “went for a ride in the washer and dryer” only to rejoice when they were ready again.  They got lost, and I would panic and desperately retrace my steps until they were once again tucked into his little hands.  Those kikies became inanimate members of our family.

Seeing as they were more well traveled than I am, losing them for good was inevitable.  Two weeks ago today, I took my oldest son to meet his summer school teachers.  My youngest tagged along, insisting to bring his kikies, and of course I warned him that they would get lost if he didn’t leave them at home.  This little guy, he’s a tricky one; until today I honestly thought that he did leave them behind.  He has been insisting, though, that he left them on a bench where we waited while my oldest son completed an assessment with his teachers.  The day after that meeting, I had called to ask if the kikies had been found, only because I had already ransacked the house and was just hoping that I could put my own mind at ease.  I left a voice mail message, but never heard back, so I just assumed that they had been swept up in some random mess in this house.  I’ve been hoping that they would just magically reappear, as items in our house so frequently do.

Then, for some reason, he asked me this morning if I would call again to see if we could go pick up his kikies.  That’s how determined he was that he left them there.  He wasn’t asking if I would check to see if they were there.  He was asking if we could go retrieve them.  I kind of dismissed his question, yet promised I would try to call them, and we went on with our morning.

We drove my oldest son to day camp (40 minutes away), and on my drive home the van was acting very strange so I took a detour to a local garage.  Soon after I learned that the van would need a $500 repair, making it the third time it has been serviced in the last three weeks (nothing like putting over $1000, in three weeks’ time, into a car that you hate).  Oh, the drama.  Fortunately, after some quick shuffling of the day’s schedule, I was back home while the kids went to spend the day with my parents.  (I will say that I feel stranded at home without the van.  I’m not used to staying at home.  We’re that busy, all the time.)

I found myself with a few spare moments, so I decided to make good on my promise to call and check on the possible whereabouts of the kikies.  Someone answered the phone this time, and after my rambling explanation as to why I was calling, the lady paused and said “I do remember seeing something like that…hang on, I’ll check.”

I had butterflies in my stomach as I imagined the look of pure bliss my son would have once he reunited with his beloved kikies.

Then, I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach when the lady came back and told me that “they were here, but now they’re not.  We don’t know what happened to them, but they’re gone.”

Cue the Mommy Guilt.

I ended the call, then dissolved into a blubbering mess at my dining room table.  Bawled like a baby.  If I had only listened to him insisting that he left them there, if I had been more persistent and made more than the one phone call, he would still have his precious kikies.

Then I spent the better part of an hour searching for identical replacements.  I succeeded in finding them, on eBay, for a mere $50 (unless I wanted a used one, for the bargain price of $20…does anyone else think that’s gross?  I know how dirty these things get, with the slobber, boogers, and dirt…and I only tolerated it because I knew where all that was coming from…).  People actually stock up on these things, which get discontinued, and then they try to rip off poor guilt-ridden moms like me.  Search “Carters Snuggle Me Green Brown Tan Cream Circles Dot Baby Security Blanket Lovey” and you’ll see what I mean.  

Knowing that spending $50 to perpetuate a habit he will need to break sooner than later would be ridiculous, I started thinking of other ways to soothe his little heart…or, perhaps, mine.  I called my mom, who sews, and asked if she would be willing to recreate the infamous blankies.  Of course she agreed, and my son will soon pick out material to have a new and improved, one of a kind kikie.

I think that the loss of kikies hit me hard because it forces me to realize that my baby boy will soon be too big to need a blankie.  He already runs around, yelling like a Jedi knight or his favorite super hero (which changes daily), doing things on his own without my help.  He’s growing up, like it or not.  Apparently, this makes me very sad.

So, it’s with a heavy heart that I bid farewell to the kikies.  You will be missed, you disgusting shreds of fabric.  Thanks for being my little guy’s very best friends for the last few years.

Every Point Matters…

I’m a stress eater.  I believe that has already been established, at least once, in earlier posts.  It must have been a super-stressful school year, because I have gained at least 10 pounds since last summer.

Wowza.

Dieting is tough for me.  I give in too easily.  I feel like I “deserve” to eat a large pizza, by myself, after looooong summer days when I spend more time acting more like a referee/waitress than a mother (although there is very little difference in those roles).  Add to that a dessert and a wine cooler or two (I’m such a lightweight, ha!), multiply it by a few nights a week, and BAM!  Pants no longer fit.  Uninvited extra chins start appearing.  Self-esteem plummets.

It’s not a good situation.  Not at all.

So, I decided to stop beating myself up over it.  No more making excuses for my poor food choices, and procrastinating over just one more issue. (I’m so good at procrastination, though, especially when it gets me out of addressing a difficult issue.  Like that one time, when I…just kidding.  Little humor there.) In a very courageous moment (those don’t typically pop up on Monday mornings, so I had to pounce!), I signed up for Weight Watchers…again.  I’ve done it before, a few years ago, and lost a good amount of weight.  I like this program because I can eat what my family is eating, and if I screw up and cheat a little bit every now and then, I feel like the program is more accepting of those faults.  I’m not sure why I ever quit, except that I probably felt like I could do it on my own.

My beer gut will tell you otherwise.

I need to have that visual counter of my “points” to keep me on track.  In just the first two days, I’ve realized that my poor diet is like that of a twelve year old boy: mostly junk, and mass quantities of it.  Goodness, what a rude awakening.  If nothing else, I need to change that and set a more positive example for my kids.  What sense does it make, for me to tell them no candy before dinner as I’m slurping down a grande iced coffee drink (with whip & chocolate drizzle, of course!)??  If the byproduct of being a strong role model is weight loss, then bring it on.

I do have to be careful about the way in which I present my “diet”.  I don’t like to use that word; I don’t want my kids to think that it only has a negative connotation.  Diets are typically only referred to by those who are overweight, and I don’t want them to believe that my motives are vain.  I absolutely want to look better, but it’s more important to feel better and be healthy.  I tell the kids that I need to make healthier choices, and they are good with that.  They hear it enough, along with “Have you eaten a rainbow today?” or “How much water have you had today?”  I realize now that I need to be asking these questions of myself, too.  That’s my goal.

We’ll see what happens.  I’m not going to deprive myself of “treats”; that is disastrous.  I know this from experience, as I’ve tried the different cleanses and super strict diet plans.  I end up sobbing about how hungry I am, my husband sends me to Chipotle, and it all ends right there at the bottom of a burrito wrapper. I’m confident that this time will be different; partly because I’m writing this, I’m going to post it all over the internet, and I will inevitably run in to someone who will ask me how WW is going.  Hopefully, I’ll be shopping for smaller-sized pants and not desperately digging my way through a banana split.

Banana splits have, like, twenty-some points in them.  I will not have a banana split.

Day Camp!

I just dropped my baby girl off for her first day of Day Camp.

Ok, yes, I realize she’s not a baby; far from it, in fact.  She’ll be seven next month!  But, this nervous mama admits to taking more than one look back after leaving her at the picnic shelter this morning.  Would she make new friends?  Would she be able to open all the things in her lunch bag?  Would she be ok in the pool later this afternoon without my direct supervision???

Deep breaths.  She’ll be fine.  But what if she’s not??  She’s painfully shy, especially in this type of situation.  She’s not a strong swimmer.  What if she gets teased for that?  I should have kept her in weekly swim lessons (insert Mommy Guilt *here*).

Ugh.  More deep breaths.  She is a good girl.  She makes friends easily because she doesn’t buy in to the clique nonsense.  The camp sold out its initial two week stint and added an extra week, so it obviously has a good reputation and is a good program.  She’ll love it.  If nothing else, she should sleep well this week.

Right?  Right.

My sweet girl puts up with a lot of crap.  Being the younger sister to a brother with special needs, and the older sister to a very rambunctious little brother, she has her fair share of drama at home.  She gets treated as the oldest child and is expected to set the example (yes, unfair, and unfortunately we never realize it until after the fact).  She deserves to have a week away and have loads of fun.  Exercise, fresh air, swimming time, new friends…I hope she gets it all and enjoys every second of it.  But I’ll still worry…every. single. second.

I keep flashing back to a few summers ago, when I took her to a local church for a week of Vacation Bible School.  We are not members of that church, but I thought it would be a fun activity for her.  Turns out, the poor thing sat in a little rocking chair every day, by herself, because she was so unhappy that I left her there. Of course, that’s her memory of it; I’m certain that the staff of that VBS at least tried to engage her in some activities.  At any rate, I now envision her sitting off by herself at this camp, waiting for 4pm to roll around so she can come home.

She’ll be fine.  What are the odds of that happening twice?

Bottom line: my little girlie is growing up, and fast.  I need to realize that she can’t always tag along at my side, nor will she want to.  She deserves a break from her brothers.  She’ll have a great time.

I can’t wait to hear her chatter on endlessly about her day…only 5 hours and 40 minutes to go…

Listen Up, Ladies…

Ok, ladies, let’s chat.  I know we all have experienced a very unpleasant phenomenon, at one time or another: pee on a public toilet seat.  So, so gross.  To be fair, I suppose men have experienced this, too, but I somehow don’t think that it’s as frequent an occurrence for them.

Just this past weekend, while at my kids’ dance recital, I took advantage of an intermission to visit the ladies’ room.  After waiting in line, I finally got a chance to duck into a stall, only to find it speckled with urine.  My eyes rolled back into my head, I grumbled for a few seconds, and I did what I normally do in this situation: made a heavy duty toilet paper mitt, wiped down the seat, then built a lovely tp nest on which to sit.  Had I taken my purse to the restroom, I probably would have wiped the seat down with a Clorox cloth as well; but  hey, desperate times call for desperate measures, as I only had five minutes.

After my very bird-like nest building urges subsided, I began to wonder, as I do every time: who on earth pees all over a toilet seat and thinks it’s ok to just stand up and leave?!?  Ew, ew, ew.  C’mon, ladies, you’ve all seen it.  Perhaps you’re guilty of it; it happens, whatever.  But the real crime is leaving your mess for someone else to potentially sit in.  (I’m dry heaving just thinking about it.)  Would it really kill you to take a moment to check to make sure you’re business actually made it to its intended destination?  It’s your urine.  Be a woman, make a tp mitt like I do, and clean it up!

My most recent experience with this has also made me realize why ladies’ rooms are constantly out of toilet paper.  Apparently, I’m not the only one cleaning up toilet seats and building nests to sit on.  If we would all agree to sit down when we visit the potty, as opposed to using the “hover technique” (which a lot of you need practice with, since you’re constantly soaking the seat), we wouldn’t need to fashion the tp mitt before sitting down.  I would totally still build my nest, though, as I will do everything in my power to avoid coming in contact with fecal matter.  (Dry heaving, again.  This is not the blog I planned to write today.)

That brings me to a lovely nest-building anecdote, one worthy of being reenacted by Liz Lemon or Christine Campbell (if we could still enjoy new episodes of 30 Rock or The New Adventures of Old Christine).  While I was pregnant with my third little duckling, I took the other two to our local water park for an afternoon of swimming.  Being pregnant, and having to pee every three minutes, I obviously visited the restroom right when we arrived, to avoid having to drag a two- and four-year-old out of the water too soon. Yes, I built my nest.  The restroom trip seemed pretty uneventful…until I got home.

Because the kids were so small, and we had season passes, we were only at the water park for a little over an hour.  When we arrived home, I went to change out of my wet bathing suit, and to my absolute horror, found that my tp nest was still stuck to my backside.  I had stood in the baby pool, for that long, with a giant wad of tp stuck to my ass and back of my legs…and nobody told me!!  The hot, sticky weather had caused the tp to stick when I sat down, and I just assumed it went down with the flush.  I could not have been more wrong.  It hung out for the whole time we were there that day.  Now, after almost five years, it’s hilarious, but I was so mortified after it happened, and I couldn’t believe that not one other mom in that pool had the nerve to tell me that I had toilet paper hanging out of my suit.  Fan-freaking-tastic.

Lesson learned: when you build a tp nest, make sure it gets flushed.  The next lesson learned: if you see a poor mom struggling with two small kids in a pool, and she has tp stuck to her ass, TELL HER.  Same goes for boogers hanging out of noses, but that’s another blog for another day.

Ladies, we need to look out for each other.  We’re all going through a lot of the same stuff, and if we can stop and help by (tactfully) pointing out something embarrassing that could be easily remedied, DO IT.  If you can save the next user of a public restroom some frustration by wiping your own urine of the toilet seat, DO IT.  It won’t make the kids stop screaming, or take away the piles of laundry, or make the bills go away, but you’ll be making someone else’s day just that much better.

Thanks, in advance.  xoxo

You Talk Too Much

**Please note: this is not the forum for a political debate.  Feel free to disagree with me, or take offense to my sarcastic spin on a current event, but keep your comments to yourself.  xoxo


So, with all the uproar over the NSA listening in to phone conversations, I find one thing very funny: people are STILL having conversations on their mobile phones, out in public, for the whole world to hear.  You would think that if a person had their undies in such a bunch over who could be listening in to their business, they wouldn’t continue to yammer on in front of anyone who crosses their path.  Seriously.  And it’s not just one-sided conversations.  For one thing, if you’re waiting in line somewhere, chances are you have your phone turned way up so everyone can hear your chat buddy, therefore putting your entire discussion in jeopardy.  I could be a spy, for all you know.  Of course I’m not; I’m not that cool.  But someone else could be.  Or you could be.  Wait, are you?  Doesn’t matter; I couldn’t care less if I wanted to.  If someone wants to listen to me bitch about the PTO or chatter on about my kids, fine by me.

Some people take it one (ridiculous) step further and put their phones on speaker, and then the whole freaking world can listen in to their phone calls.  How obnoxious is that?  If I’m out shopping, I certainly do not want to hear about whatever it is going on in your life.  Get over yourself.  That conversation is not so important that you can’t wait until you can dedicate the use of one arm just for holding the phone to your ear.  

I see post after post about the wire tapping incidents on Facebook, Twitter, in the newspaper; I hear about it on the radio.  People are concerned, and with every right.  I’m not denying that, or trying to make light of the issue at its core.  Yet their concerns still don’t stop people from blabbering on (and on and on…) in public forums, about every detail of their life.  Do they think they have total control over who may be hearing/seeing all of it?  I find the irony amusing.

When did the advancement of technology diminish the value of common courtesy?  It is rude to clamor on endlessly on your phone in public.  Am I wrong about that?  I’m not saying that I don’t do it, but I at least know that I’m at risk for being overheard.  Nobody wants to hear your conversations, but they’ll listen anyway (especially if it sounds like a juicy convo!), and then you’ll go online and complain or make fun of the fact that you have no privacy?  I don’t understand it.  So I’ll poke fun at it.

It’s what I do.

Whirlwind Weekend