Week 7. 7th Heaven Moves to Sunday Night

On a drive home from the ‘burbs Sunday night we discuss the many potential Halloween costumes available. We have an overflowing bucket of costumes in our playroom, yet for one reason or another (too small, has a mask….) Mac has deemed each and every one of them inappropriate for the upcoming festivities. We mull over ideas. I am thinking “inexpensive” and “easy to put together.” And, with the wacky winter-like weather we’ve been having, “warm.” I am hopeful to resurrect the Santa costume Mac wore when he was three. But most of my suggestions are met with, “Eeeew, gross,” which doesn’t even make that much sense (ok, for my suggestion that they go as girls it does make sense). Finally Mac hits upon a creative idea (as I have already told him he should be something fun and unexpected). “I want to be a popsicle.” Right. We kept thinking. Finally, “Ok, I want to be a blender.” And before I can wrap my head around how on earth I could create a kitchen appliance costume using hot glue and strong will he continues, “I could dress in lots of different colors and then whatever I am near I will blend with.”

Monday morning. This afternoon is Mac’s first kindergarten class field trip. To the local fire station. I let Miss H know in no uncertain but very polite terms that I will chaperone the five block walk. Because I hate field trip. And no child of mine will go on one unaccompanied by me. Ever. (Until maybe college. Though those field trips are usually to Europe. So maybe even then.) Last week I was informed by the room mother that I was not needed on this field trip. That there will be plenty of other volunteer ops this year. I informed the room mother that if I don’t go Mac doesn’t go. She tells me I would be most welcome to join the group. Mac is very excited to go to the fire station. So am I. There may be good looking, single fire fighters there. Like maybe that one I saw on a Thursday night in August….
But first we must take out the trash, drop surplus baby clothes and baby gear for donation at the home for unwed teen moms at the corner, drive by Salvation Army to drop off a bag of I-can’t-remember-what, swing by the art studio to leave a couple of bags of clothes for Anna’s friend’s little boy, and then get to gym class by 9:15. First things first. The field trip isn’t til 1pm. We have a lot to accomplish today. I have written “find a date” on our list of things to do.

I am one of six parents assembled for the class trip. Mac is very excited to have me there. I am excited to be on his first field trip. He is one of four children assigned to me. The others are a French girl (who speaks English but who also has a hard time paying attention and spends most of the time somewhere in her head and certainly not paying attention to the hot firefighter), and two girls with the same name: Ema and Emma. Both have somewhat long last names. I ask for middle names. Ema is reluctant to reveal hers as she doesn’t want anyone to know it (in kindergarten!) and Emma thinks it might be Susan, but then remembers it’s Claire. I call her Emma Claire for the rest of the trip. We hold hands in a chain and I am pleased at how well the children are able to follow directions and to keep up during the long walk. With the exception of my French girl, the children stand and watch the firefighter. They are enraptured. He is a cutie. They try to ask questions, but the firefighter puts them off, “Wait til the end.” But he never gives their questions another moment’s thought. The kids don’t seem to mind, however. Engine 22 is out on a run, for which Smokin’ Joe (I think his name was actually Greg) apologizes profusely. So he talks. We listen. A call comes in. We watch the EMT guys run back to their ambulance and take off to parts unknown. We get to see the kitchen. It smells like a cafeteria and looks like something I remember from a fraternity house. It could not have been a more unattractive room. We get to see the bedroom. A stark room lined with 12 unmade beds. The kids want to sit, bounce, jump, and, in the case of my French girl, “I am tired. I want to take a nap.” We thank the firefighter and head back. On the walk the children are expected to collect 10 leaves apiece. Except it’s raining. The parents each have a bag to hold their group’s leaves. Except I forgot mine at the fire station. I am distracted trying to keep an eye on my four. The French girl wears a bright green hat with a pompom, and Emma Claire is wearing a pink coat. That helps. But they run in four different directions, nonetheless, and the French girl lags way behind. This is why I don’t have four children, or more precisely, quadruplets! We make it back to school by 2:15. School doesn’t get out til 3:15. The German mom and a mom I just met suggest we go for coffee. Twist my arm. We bustle over to a trendy little coffee shop (not Starbucks) and I try a decaf Jamaican latte. It tastes like tea. It’s good. We’re tired and it’s warm. We contemplate naps before returning for our respective boys. Mac and I walk home and I provide him with the granola bar I was saving for myself. He’s extra hungry these days, finally. We mess around at home until it’s time for tap class. Mac’s teacher says he really needs to practice at home. She expects me to remember the combination she quotes me. I ask her to write it down. I take the slip of paper home and tape it to my calendar. Maybe we’ll practice once this week.

Dinner: vegetarian refried beans topped with fried tofu and taco blend cheese. No one will ever accuse me of a lack of creativity in the kitchen. Mac asks for seconds. Sailor won’t even sit down. We make it to bed by 8:00 and I fall asleep at 9:30. I forgot to unplug the dishwasher, turn out the playroom light and pee. I’m tired. Sailor has been crying for chocolate cake and a snack for over an hour. I am adamant: “Your dinner is in the fridge.”

Tuesday. Sailor cries all morning for a cookie. Which I don’t need. The crying I mean, not he cookie. Sailor is the one who does not need the cookie. Though he thinks he does. The kids were up early and my extra five minutes of sleep left me with a wake-up time of 8:00 a.m. Preschool starts at 9:00 and we have to be there by 8:50 so I can acclimate Sailor for a few minutes. We’ll make it! Even tho the boys need baths.


Wednesday morning. The boys are playing with their pirate ships. “Superman comes in the middle of winter eating cake,” says Sailor. That has got to be his most imaginative sentence ever.

Sailor screams through ice skating this morning at the indignity of Mommy making him skate on his own. Miss Kim more or less asks us not to come back next week. Not in so many words. But she suggests I tell the boys they could not come back until they can skate on their own and also that there is no screaming on the ice. I think that was their plan all along. Sailor’s anyway!

He has become quite the pill as of late. Just as Mac is regrouping and becoming a welcome child again, Sailor’s behaviour just begs for me to leave him behind (with a willing caregiver, of course).

We have been very bad about homework this week. Really, the novelty has just SO worn off. On Tuesday Mac forgot the backpack with the one folder holding the one piece of paper. I excused him to Miss H. He brought home loose papers. This morning he writes half a sheet of Ee’s while I put Sailor’s shoes on. It’s 12:15 when he starts the homework. We are usually walking out the door at 12:15. Still, Miss H gives him a :-). Tonight the homework remains in the folder. I looked at it earlier but can’t even remember what he is meant to do. We just don’t have enough time in our schedule to fit in this daily work. I know it’s good practice for Mac to do his homework, but really, if it’s rushed….?

Better time was spent yesterday afternoon playing at the home of one of the French families. We all practiced our French and by the time we left my children were saying a few spontaneous words in French and I am truly inspired to…. I don’t know what. Re-enroll the children inn French class? Write an email to the mom telling her how comfortable I am trying my French with her? Speak French to the children all the way home to the point that their dad thinks we’re nuts (and is irritated because he doesn’t understand a word) when he met up with us for dinner. Well, we have definitely caught the French bug and I like this family quiet a bit, so perhaps by the end of the year we will all be speaking much more fluently.

A great deal of time was spent over the past weekend giving our home a mini-facelift. Photographs were re-framed and re-hung, an unsightly wardrobe was hacked to pieces and carted to the alley leaving us almost an entire new room; light fixtures believed (by the former man of the house) to be broken almost two years ago had their light bulbs replaced. But here we are, mid-week. And I don’t care if I leave a cup of coffee in the bathroom, or a pile of laundry on the dining room table. It’s Wednesday. I am tired. We are busy. I will care again on Saturday morning. For now I will just have to take a hot bath, leave the soggy parenting magazine on the floor afterwards and go to bed early enough to see what’s showing on The Learning Channel.

Thursday morning. Last night did not end as well as it began. Mac wandered in around 11:00. Sailor just before midnight. Mac said his cough hurt his throat, but refused cough medicine. Then his butt hurt, so we went for a wiping. Then his butt still hurt and I suggested he fall asleep where he wouldn’t be able to feel anything. Sailor lay quietly for a few minutes and then asked for a snack. A few minutes before midnight. No way! And he’s thirsty too. Of course. I direct him to the fridge but he throws a fit. The child almost doesn’t see Thursday morning!

Mac makes breakfast. I oversleep. I have 45 minutes to shower, get dressed, put on make-up (yes, I am one of those moms who wears make-up on a daily basis. I even shave my legs every day too!), dry my hair, remind Mac to pack up his not-yet-done homework, fill my bag with bills to be paid and all the accoutrements for this project (oops! Almost forgot the check book!), and alas, it’s Thursday morning, which means the garbage cans have to go out.

We get it all done. And we get to preschool pretty much on time. But Sailor is reluctant today. Mac waits in the car (preschool is on the only street in the entire universe that I – or any other conscientious mom – would leave a child moderately unattended in the car during drop off). I finally release Sailor’s iron grasp and Mac and I are off to see his talking doctor. From there we head to a very early lunch, where Mac does his homework at the table, and then to an 11:30 haircut with the Lithuanian Hottie. Mac and Sailor both love this guy and I make it a general practice to look nice when we go to the overpriced kiddie hair salon for the boys’ quarterly trims. Today I ask him, just to hear him say, “No, I’m not married,” whether or not he has kids (well you certainly can’t just ask a guy if he’s single now can you?). He admits to a 13-year-old son, a 2 ½ -year-old daughter and a stay-at-home wife in the same suburb where my best friend lives. Well I’ll be darned. He promises to keep an eye out for a sale on new husbands for me. I promise myself to stop looking at his butt.

We are late picking Sailor up from preschool and so we are running late when we stop at Trader Joe’s for meatballs. Meatballs? Sailor requested meatballs along with his usual request that I bring him chocolate milk after school. So, meatballs. Which cost $20 because we also buy two boxes of organic whole wheat waffles and a tall bottle of grade A real maple syrup and a tub of organic vanilla yogurt and … no, I think that’s it. It fills just about the bottom of the grocery bag.

We are late for kindergarten.

The novelty of everything has absolutely worn off at this point.

Sailor falls asleep in the car and sleeps until just about the time when I am wondering how the heck I am going to make it to the big school in less than 10 minutes to pick up Mac. The kids are already being released when we arrive. I speak briefly en anglais and en fraçais with my favorite French mom and invite her and les enfants for dinner on Monday night. She asks what she can bring and I tell her nothing because I won’t want to bring anything when she hosts dinner at her house.

What did you do at school today? I read recently that boys require a great deal of prompting to answer these sort of questions. “Which center did you go to today?”
“Math. I mean, science,” Mac tells me.
Funny, witty, my-father’s-daughter Mama asks, “Did you dissect a frog?”
“No! We didn’t have to dress like a frog!” Like, duh, Mom!

I’m laughing so hard I can’t even re-ask the question.

The boys are cold and I make hot chocolate. They are mostly interested in the whipped cream. We set about making soup. I guardedly entrust Mac with a vegetable peeler and Sailor with a serrated knife. Mac peels zucchini, yellow squash and a turnip. Sailor cuts the zucchini and yellow squash and a cucumber for a snack. Every once in awhile I hear a very quiet, “ouch” from Sailor and then as he smooches his tiny finger, “I’m ok, I kissed it.” It is somewhere before the cucumber but after everything else that I ask the boys when they last washed their hands. I think most germs would be cooked off in the soup, right?

At dinner Sailor asks me, “Mommy, please you buy me handcuffs?” I calmly and quietly inquire, “Why?”
“Because Mac want dem.”
That’s logical thinking.
The boys then discuss in earnest which will be the good guy and which will be the bad guy. Barbies, anyone?

The mother of one of Sailor’s classmates calls to RSVP to Sailor’s Halloween party next Friday. In the background I hear the little girl: “I want to talk! I want to talk!” I hand the phone to Sailor, “It’s your friend Lauren from preschool” (who, until 3 minutes ago I didn’t know existed as we have not been given a class list as of yet).

Sailor eagerly takes the phone. Just to clarify he asks, “She a boy?”
They discuss his upcoming party. “Mommy, she coming my party!” and what costumes they’ll wear. “I don’t know what she saying! What dumbo means?” and what they are doing at this exact moment. The conversation is utterly precious and I am pleased with that Sailor was so chatty and capable of holding up his end. A skill he will undoubtedly lose by the time he is 21.

I am not pleased at bedtime however, as both boys decide to become screaming, wholloping, animalistic monsters who must run circles around their mother’s legs while she is on the phone. And to make matters worse, the phone call is from the owner of the dance school where Mac took tap lessons over the summer. “The check you paid for classes with came back to us,” she informs me. “As in ‘bounced’?” I must clarify. “Yes, bounced.”
Fantastic. I give her my ex-husband’s phone number, his cell phone number and his address, which she realizes is on the check. That he wrote to pay for the lessons. For Mac’s birthday. That has now bounced. I am the responsible parent, I tell the poor woman, but I am not responsible for this check. But, I tell her, please let me know if she has any problems. Not that I have a spare $123 lying around or anything.

I send both boys to their rooms for the yelling. Mac goes quietly. Sailor puts up a fuss and now I am yelling. I hate this part of parenting. He cries in his bed until he says he has to go pee and I have to let him. Uuurrgghh!

Why is it that even when I yell at him, he still calls for me for comfort? Oh, well, it just makes it that much easier to love him like crazy!

Friday morning we have nothing to do. Except run about a million errands. We have a long list and I am hell bent on accomplishing it before 12:35 drop-off. We start by returning those darned garbage cans to the neighbors’ yard. I tell ya’, there is nothing cuter than my tiny little guys hauling garbage cans taller than they are down the alley. And boy do they love this work. And I feel absolutely zero guilt in letting them help out, as the payment for this task makes the monthly tuition at preschool.

We head to Old Navy to return a pair of black leggings, which, I have decided I am too old for. The probable rule of fashion thumb is that if you took part in the fashion the 1st time around, chances are you are too old for its reprise. The salesgirl tried to convince me otherwise, however, especially when I exchanged the leggings for a green sweatshirt miniskirt for next summer (on sale for 47 cents! Who could resist?!).

Next stop, Target. I am returning one item. I have to buy a bleach pen and some of those do-it-yourself business cards. The kids have to look at Star Wars stuff. This is actually an activity to them. As in, “What would you like to do today?” “Go to Target and look at Star Wars stuff.” We discuss at length whether or not Sailor should spend the last of his Target gift card on more Star Wars guys. He finally decides on a two-pack of Luke Skywalker and R2-D2. Mac wants one too and I explain that he and Sailor can share. He gets mad and cries. In the middle of the aisle at Target. Which I won’t have. I grab Mac by the hood of his sweatshirt and explain in no uncertain terms that it is fair, that I am not buying Sailor the toy and that Sailor is buying the toy with his BIRTHDAY STORE CREDIT! Yes, I am loud. Yes, people are staring. I ignore them as I snatch the toys from each boy’s hands. Mac gets it and quiets down immediately. Sailor loses it altogether. For the next ten minutes he cries, “I want it now.” Not, I want it NOW, but I WANT it now. He stops finally after we check out and slide into – you guessed it – Starbucks. He orders two chocolate milks and I patiently but pointedly remark that if they can’t fill the cups up all the way with milk then could they at least put some ice in it to make me think I’m getting full cups. As we are leaving Sailor quietly says, “Thank you for trying, Mommy.” "Trying what?"I ask. “Thank you for trying to buy me the Star Wars toy.” Wondering whether or not I caved and headed back into the store for Star Wars toys? You betcha!

“You’re the best mommy.”

It’s all worth it in the end.

A couple more boring stops and we have just 30 minutes til school. In which time we must find and eat lunch. I pull into Burger King. Mac reminds me of the excuse I gave as to why we couldn’t eat there last week, “But this is crap, Mom.” And so it is. But it’s fast crap and it’s available crap and so we park and head in. I send Mac and Sailor to a table where I can keep an eye on them. Mac still has his homework page to do. But instead of doing it, he drops and retrieves his penny loafers, plays with a BK crown someone has left on the table, messes around with Sailor, and plays with the pen I gave him, despite the fact that I have called his name and given him “the look” at least three times. TEN MINUTES LATER ("What part of this is supposed to be fast?" I ask another guy waiting in line with me for our food. To which he replies, “The time it takes for the money to go from your pocket to theirs.” He smiles a self-conscious smile. He knows he’s made a good one.) Our food is up and Mac has only just begun his homework. “How do you spell ‘elephant’?” he shouts to me as he hold up his drawing of an elephant. Lord help me!

We have about 6 ½ minutes to eat.

I am not a happy mom. Did I mention here that I have arrived at a full-blown cold? Or that when I put my left contact lens in this morning I nearly burned my eyeball out of my head? Seems I accidentally filled the little lens cup with cleaning solution rather than conditioning/soaking solution last night. I soaked my eyeball in cold water. Still it turned red and started to swell shut. I am wearing my glasses today. Which is fine until the clouds dissipate and the sun comes out. I can’t see a thing without sunglasses! So instead of going with my gut and ripping up Mac’s homework in frustration, I scribble a hasty note on the top corner:

“Sorry Miss H, We’re having a very hard time finding time for all this homework. SingleMommy”

I also draw a line pointing to the elephant, an oblong thing with an eyeball, a trunk with an erection, and four stick legs all placed just under the chin area. Though I am totally pissed at this point I can’t help but be impressed with the drawing, which he did without help. Drawing is not Mac’s strong suit.

It’s 12:25. School starts in 10 minutes. We don’t make it. But Clyde’s dad is late too. And so I throw out an, “I’ll watch the little ones if you’ll take the big ones into school.” This is the best idea he’s heard all day. I supervise his 16-month-old and Sailor while he drops the big boys inside. And we’re off for a few more errands. There’s no parking outside our house anyway, so we might as well press on.

We have a little time at home, Sailor and I. While I get a bit of work done, he meticulously wraps one Spiderman bandage around each of his fingers. And then he has to go potty, which means he has to wash his hands. Which means the bandaids fall off. He is in the midst of re-applying the overpriced character strips when it’s time to leave. I have to stop by the bank. The cookie bank. This should provide motivation but it does not and I have to put up with his fuss. Once at the back he is a happy little boy dancing around eating his Oreo. Until I tell him he cannot have a second one. He fusses most of the way to school as I patiently and repeatedly explain that if he doesn’t stop the fussing he will not get a cookie the next time we go to the bank.

As we walk home from school 2 ½ hours later, Sailor has trouble keeping the tray on his stroller engaged. It keeps popping off. Until finally, just outside our house, the tray flies open, Sailor falls out and one of the front wheels falls off. I’ll have to remember to find a new stroller this weekend. It’ll be our 10th in half as many years.

It’s the end of the school week. I have big plans to attend the birthday party of one of my close friends tonight. The kids get to spend a few hours with their dad, who is due to arrive at 5:30.

My parents invited us to see a play Saturday morning, downtown. You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. Which I was in 16 years ago. I know the kids would love it but after saying yes I change my mind and explain to my mom that Saturday is an official “day off.” A whole day with no plans. Nowhere we have to be at any particular time. And I would be grateful to keep it that way. Our next day off isn’t until November 4th. My entire family wishes me a restful day off. Put your feet up, relax, says my dad. I spend a while (too long) deleting the 2000+ unread messages in my email inbox, and I have whittled the read messages down to 1500. Mac does his homework and I reply to Miss H’s message about how important the 10-15 minutes of homework each night is. I suggest, on three small pink post-its, that for explanation as to why we don’t have time for this, that she check out my blog. The kids and I wash their little wooden table and chairs and completely rearrange the playroom to fit them in. We empty out a bin of my college stuff to make a place to store their dress-up costumes. I take out the garbage. Bring 5 baskets of laundry down two flights to the basement. I start the laundry. I bring up and fold and put away some laundry. We drop by the bank. Sailor wants a cookie. Remember yesterday? He does. I am patient. I remind him. He fusses and cries. I am still patient as I explain that if he continues to fuss today he won’t get a cookie next time either. “But I will! Because I didn’t fuss!” Mac rubs this in. Outside the bank Mac is thirsty. “You told me you didn’t need me to bring a drink for you,” I remind him. I suggest, “Why don’t you ask Sailor for a sip of his milk?” “Because he probably won’t give me one.”
“I might,” says Sailor quietly, no longer fussing about the cookie, “because you are my brother.”

We head to the farmers’ market for pumpkins. I let them each chose one from the $3 pile. They are good-sized and rather heavy. Each boy holds a pumpkin in his lap in the double jogger. And I have just missed a Kodak moment. I have perhaps even missed the perfect Christmas card photo.

“Read this sign,” I prompt Mac. With a little help he manages to read “Pancake Breakfast.” For five bucks the kids and I have pancakes, sausages and orange juice at the local high school, from which, it pains me to admit, I graduated 20 years ago. And yes, it does actually seem as long ago as it sounds.

Our pumpkins are still tucked nicely into our stroller when we emerge, full and happy from the all-you-can-eat, at which one hand painted poster declares, “all benefits proceed UNICEF.”

Around 3:00 I come to the realization that it’s much too nice out to be inside rearranging furniture. We head to Starbucks and the playground. We are really, truly at the playground only five minutes this time before Mac’s, “I have to go to the bathroom.” On the way to the Cultural Center to poop I inquire as to the whereabouts of his chocolate milk. “In the playground. I left it behind on the cement.”

When he needs help I find myself in the men’s room wondering why I didn’t just accompany him into the ladies’ as I would normally do. We return to the playground and the milk, which is still where he left it. It’s getting colder and greyer. We head home to carve the pumpkins with Nana and GrandDad.

After I have put the kids to bed I head Sailor rustling in the bathroom and ask what he is doing. “I have go potty,” he says. But I still hear rustling, which doesn’t sound like potty. As I am writing about his Spiderman bandaids of yesterday he is adorning his fingers with Madagascar bandaids. That’s the last straw. Off to bed with you! He is crying, which puts him to sleep immediately and I am free to enjoy my day off. It’s 9:00 p.m. There are no sheets on my bed because someone (aka Mac) peed this morning. Oh, well, I can’t breathe enough to sleep anyway.

10:44 p.m. There are NO MESSAGES in my inbox. I haven’t seen that message in literally years! I feel triumphant!