15 Minutes Behind Schedule

This morning was definitely a Monday.

Scott came home yesterday after a successful hunt -- he and his brothers, father, nephews, and a few old coots party hunt in the southern part of the state.  I think maybe 10 people go?  Something like that.  Anyway, the first night down there they eat at some restaurant where prime rib is served and every year he ends up in digestive distress from it.  Poor guy!  They brought home four deer, so it wasn't a great hunt.  Unless you are Scott and got two of the deer, one while borrowing your brother's shotgun because the firing pin in yours wasn't working.

The kids and I were very glad to have him home, yay!  He missed the first snowfall -- about 2 inches of soft, white snow.  Pregnant mama decided she wasn't interested in shoveling the walk, so that didn't get done.  Oh, well...

Pregnant mama also has a cold.  It's not a very bad one, mostly some out-of-control nasal congestion.  But when all you can do for that is drink a bunch of water and wear Vicks Vapo-rub to bed, you don't get very restful sleep.  The last three nights, I'll sleep soundly until the first bathroom break, then I toss and turn and wake with my mouth all dry and fuzzy and my nose completely plugged shut.  So I drink water, which makes me have to pee again and the cycle repeats for five hours until the alarm goes off.  Sigh...  I finally got a little rest sleeping sitting up, propped by five pillows.  Maybe if I start the night that way I won't end up with a mouth so dry my tongue sticks to my teeth.

After that wonderful night's sleep, I creak down the stairs slowly to discover that one dog has pooped on the floor and the other has puked on the floor.  I lit a bunch of candles and chose to clean up the puke as it was mostly phlegm and not nearly as stinky as the poop.  Milo comes down the stairs, cute as can be in his waaaay too big snowman pajamas.  "Mom!  Don't you know what size I wear??"  Well, yes, dear. The problem is you wear a size 6, which is almost always paired with a 7 and NOT a 5.  So your size 6 pajamas are closer to a size 7.  Just pull them up to your armpits -- no one can see because she shirt comes down to your knees.

Scott finally comes down and cleans up the dog poo while I make my cereal (15 minutes late) and the get the kids' milk.  I eat as quickly as one can when trying to eat shredded wheat on a sore throat and hop into the shower as Scott heads upstairs to wake Princess Sleepyhead.  I get out of the shower and stick my head out of the bathroom because one of the kids is yelling something to Scott.  I figure when I don't hear an adult male voice, he's going outside to start the car or let the chickens out.  But nope.  Apparently he was still having digestive distress from the prime rib or something, because he was in the other bathroom.  And Milo was dressed, but Violet was not.  And we're 15 minutes behind schedule by this point.  D'oh!

I dash upstairs to get dressed, thinking, "I'd better wear my snowboots."

Wait a minute -- so should Milo.  And he should pack his snowpants.  Neither of which have been labeled yet.  Neither of which have had the tags cut off yet.  And we're 15 minutes behind schedule.  Thank goodness Scott had the same idea because when I cam flying down the stairs, he was holding Milo's boots and a Sharpie, trying to figure out where to put his name.  I hand him the snowpants, too and order the kids into their coats.

Naturally, as soon as Violet sees the snowpants, she needs hers, too.  Fortunately, Scott is able to distract her with a handful of trail mix.  One of his hands full, which means both of her hands are full of trail mix and she's not in her coat, but demanding to wear her mittens.  So we scrape the trail mix off of her little hands and get her into her coat.  I hand her the mittens as I hear Milo head out of the house.  Then I hear her following me as I run for my coat in the opposite direction of out of the house.  "No!  Other way, Violet!"

"But my mittens!  I'm cold!"

"Daddy -- have daddy help you with your mittens, mommy doesn't even have her coat on!"

She sighs audibly (when did I start raising a pint-sized Marge Simpson?) and trudges to the door, where daddy is waiting and helps her with her purple mittens.  Kids are in the car and somehow we've made up five minutes, so we're only ten minutes late at this point.

Thankfully, the roads aren't bad and I get into town about as fast as normal.  Drop Violet off and pick up the sitter's youngest, get to school where we're late enough that the crossing guard has abandoned her post, but the drop-off line is still almost a block long.  Usher the boys across the street and into the school where I help Milo out of his new boots and into his shoes and leave before the bell rings.  That was about as close as we've ever been to being late, but we made it, whew!

This was so NOT the way I wanted to start this work week.  Really, it wasn't.  Deep breaths, mama...

Plantin' in the Dark

So this is how my blog is described over at Scholastic: A dose of Midwestern scarcasm from a mom trying to get healthy while raising two children

Didja notice the typo?  Or maybe it's not a typo...  Maybe I am super-scary.  My kids DO look at me like I have three heads sometimes.  And, for some reason, I intimidate a couple of my hubby's cousins so much that they won't talk to me.   Right now, my fingernails are kinda long, so they could be mistaken for talons.  And my hair is normally VERY scary -- wavy and windblown on the mildest of days.

It's OK, though.  I won't let the notoriety go to my head.  You ain't gonna change me, maaaan!

I am admitting to checking out the competition.  And following them.  Some competitor I am...
Dadcentric is huge.  And male.  And it might be hairier than I am.  Maybe.
The Adventures of Bean and Goobs reads like my bloggy twin.  Except that her kids are a smidge younger than mine and they're both boys.

To turn back towards me (hello, spotlight!) for a moment I'm going to share some of the misadventures of the last 10 hours:
Scott and I split a bottle of wine and watched the Lost series finale.  You may have caught my mid-broadcast tweets.  Though I wanted to, I did not chuck a shoe at the screen.  We did, however, grab a couple of lanterns and head out into the dark of the back yard to plant our blue spruce fingerlings. 

"You and me goin' plantin' in the dark..."  Hey!  I'm not using that as a euphemism -- still mid-miscarriage here, OK?  But yeah, there we were, stumbling around the yard, inhaling far too many gnats to consider it a coincidence, planting the 9 free trees my mother got from the Arbor Day Foundation.  Don't worry, I did clip the baby monitor to the front of the wheelbarrow, so if the kids needed us, we could have rushed back into the house, leaving a trail of topsoil behind us. 

This morning, I discovered that the crazy mutts have perfected a new trick:  one poops on the floor, the other eats it to clean up the evidence.  Might have worked had the snacker not stepped in it before dining.  I can just picture the two of them pulling off this caper.  No, on second thought, I don't want to picture that. 

Don't say I didn't warn you -- there is a disclaimer right there under my picture that says I might be talking about poop.  It's not even in fine print...