Week 13: Mac is Not G-d! I Am!

Monday morning is the last day of gymnastics class. I hate the teacher, but if we don’t re-enroll we mess up our Monday morning routine, the kids won’t get enough exercise during the cold months, and we won’t have anyplace to take our recycling. A dilemma of modest proportions, I know. We are exhausted from four days of eating, shopping, missing bedtime routines, eating, shopping… I spent the whole time looking forward to the return of Monday morning and routine. What am I, nuts? Nonetheless, here we are back in the grind and I must say I am glad. Four days of Sailor not napping is enough to drive any mom to spend all her money on overpriced Christmas gifts!

Sailor starts the morning with his usual routine, a.k.a. a fuss. Today’s fuss is that he wants “macker cheese” for breakfast. I’ve already made oatmeal and if I bow down to his desires I will not have time to shower before gymnastics. Or rather, we will be extremely late to gymnastics. I do not give in. He cries about how hungry he is. I do not give in. Finally he does and eats most of his oatmeal. “I’m done!” he declares, a few bites left in the bowl. I dump the gruel into to the trash. “Now I have something else?” He may or may not live to be four.

Over the weekend Sailor sensed a yucky smell during one of the turkey leftovers dinners at my parents’ house. “I smell poop,” he said. And we all started sniffing around. It wasn’t until later when I was checking Mac’s pants to see if they’d be clean enough to be re-worn the next day that I discovered the odd source of the poop smell. Poop. On the outside of Mac’s army man pants. How did that get there? We wondered aloud as I called my parents and basically instructed them to fumigate everything Mac had sat on, including GrandDad. It wasn’t until the next morning when Mac dressed and put on his shoes, and walked from his room at one end of the house to Sailor’s room at the other that we discovered the true source of the poop smell. “It’s my shoes, Mom, see?!” he was so proud if himself for his discovery of the poop on his shoe. The dog variety. Ya’ gotta love city living. Where oh where is the cleaning crew with their mops?!

Mac wore his other gym shoes today. Even though they didn’t match his outfit.

Three boys have not yet RSVP’d to Mac and Sailor’s Boys Only Pajama Party this coming Friday. I catch one mom at school. She has no idea what I am referring to and then says, “Oh, we have family in town.” You were going to let me know when? I wanted to ask. The second enthusiastically tells me, “Oh yes! The invitation is on our fridge! We are still deciding which pajamas to wear!” You were going to tell me when? And the third emails me back in response to my request for RSVPs that her son won’t come without her. And you were going to tell me when? Etiquette, people! Anyone ever hear of it?

Late in the afternoon I am enjoying some quiet time, folding laundry and phone chatting with my college best friend. Sailor is asleep having first thrown down everything not nailed down in his room and screamed himself hoarse. This is one three-year-old who still needs his nap every few days! The second line rings and it is the company that makes the gumball vitamins I give my kids because they think it’s just gum and don’t recognize that weird smell as vitamin smell. They are returning my call from last Thursday (yes, I left a message on Thanksgiving morning), something about their vitamins causing cancer, the woman on the line says, confused. I explain that there are artificial colors in their vitamin gumballs. She says they are not made of chemicals. I don’t believe her. I read her an article about artificial colors and flavors causing cancer. She assures me that there have been no documented cases of cancer being caused in any children who have taken their vitamins. She says they need to use these artificials to make their vitamins look and taste good. I read her the non-artificial ingredients off the bottle of non-gum vitamins made by another company. She puts me on hold for a long time. She says that the amount of artificial colors (and, we notice, flavors), is FDA approved and so minuscule. She says it would take a lot more than one daily dose of vitamins to cause the kids to get cancer. I realize this, I tell her, but if I fed them ALL the foods that say this, they just might be ingesting enough of the artificials to cause a problem. She says she is sorry I am not happy with her product. I tell her I think her company is irresponsible and negligent. She apologizes. I demand a refund. She acquiesces. I am not satisfied, however. But I will follow her directions for that refund. I wonder if the homeless guy under the bridge would like some vitamin gumballs.

After school I pick up the Christmas foliage my mother has ordered to support the PTA. The mother in charge hands me a basket of evergreen sprigs and a saran-wrapped cardinal. “Are you sure?” I ask the volunteer mom, who, doing this job outside is probably thrilled at the 60 degree weather we are having. She shows me the original order form in my own mother’s handwriting. “Ok…” I say, “but my mother would never have ordered this.” It’s weird. And it smells. And, it turns out, is exactly what she ordered.

After dinner (more turkey) I remind Mac that he has a church question for Nana, the family Christian (though she prefers "Protestant." I don’t know the difference. She is Episcopalian but always says “we” when she refers to the Jews). Nana brings out the children’s Bible, which was mine as a child and has fabulous illustrations. She shows the boys Jesus. “I know all about Jesus,” says Mac. “He made the first Christmas.” Indeed. As my mom gets into the part about the three wise men, Mac interrupts politely to say that he has an Elmo video about this. Nana turns her head and covers her mouth. She wants to hear what Mac has to say but doesn’t want him to hear her stifled laughter. “There are three blue monsters,” he continues. “The Herry monster says, ‘GOLD!’ Then Grover says, ‘Frankincense,’ and then Cookie Monster says,” and Mac pauses for dramatic effect, and to get the voice right, “COOKIES!” my mom is about gone now and GrandDad and I have to laugh out loud. Both boys are quite rapt with Nana’s lesson, as GrandDad I retreat to the den to read the Sunday comics and circulars and talk about things other than religion, which I have very little tolerance for anyway.

Tuesday. Last night when I asked Sailor if he was excited to go to preschool in the morning, he defied the odds and nodded “yes.” “’Cept I don’t want ‘B’ to be in my preschool anymore. He is mean to me every day.” I have asked S about this but she has seen nothing amiss between Sailor and ‘B.’ It would be miraculously wonderful if after all these weeks Sailor could finally decide preschool was his bag. But lately he’s been telling everyone who asks, “I quit preschool. I am never going back.” He was under the impression that the Thanksgiving break marked the end of preschool. I am still on the fence about whether or not to have him return in January. I have tried the ultimatum of either you go to preschool or you go to French class, but he doesn’t understand the choice and says he doesn’t want to do either.

So this morning we try the drop & run approach because, surprise surprise, we are running late again. Sailor holds my leg like some poor, lost puppy. I try to gently shake him off while desperately searching the small room for assistance from one of the three teachers. Finally S sees us and lunges at Sailor. I depart.

Have I mentioned that I hate this?

Mac and I run errands. We pick up new shoes for Aunt M and Mommy, we look for red card stock at the fabric store, we pick up Nana’s beloved calendar chock full of adorable photos of my boys, and we look at computers for Aunt M, whose computer actually sputtered, snap, crackle, popped, and died over the weekend. No one will help us. So we leave. But not before I catch the eye of the well-dressed store manager. “It’s so great that your store is doing so well that you don’t have to actually assist your customers,” I toss over my shoulder on my way out.

“Oh, yes! Thank you!” he nods and beams at what he mistakenly perceives as a compliment.

“No, it wasn’t a compliment,” I correct him, “We just spent 20 minutes not being helped in your computer department.

“Oh, yes! Thank you!” he nods and beams at what he mistakenly perceives as a compliment.

Clearly not a store I want to buy electronic equipment from.

Mac has a bit of a meltdown in the parking lot when I explain that we haven’t enough time to get groceries if we are going to get a nice lunch. I don’t understand why he is crying about groceries. He wants to spend more time with me, he explains. We have an hour and a half, I explain back, and we will spend it together no matter what activity we decide on. We go to Cosi for lunch and I order my usual (can you have a usual when you’ve only been to a restaurant 4 times?) and Mac orders a pizza but only after I promise to share with him. He is truly delightful to spend time with and I wish I had more time to spend with him. I realize I will have less and less not more and more as the years go on. We have coupons again and since we picked up Mac’s chocolate milk at Starbucks on the way (for half the price of chocolate milk at Cosi) we get lunch and free coffee for under $8.

Sailor is happy to see us when we get him at school. But when we drop off Mac at kindergarten Sailor asks to go to Target for a Batman belt. I fib and tell him Target is closed. He suggests the toy store instead. He doesn’t believe me that the toy store is also closed. I suggest he ask Santa for this toy. He says it’s too hard to wait for Christmas. I explain the concept of the advent calendar that Nana will give him on Friday. He says chocolate is too boring. He screams and screams when I bring him in for a nap. He trashes his room. CDs, books, piggy banks, blankets, toys… they are everywhere. He continues to scream. I ignore him. I try to work. Eventually he is quiet. I check in on him. He is playing. “I’m playing,” he tells me. “I want come out my room now, ok?” I ok his request because clearly a nap is not on his agenda this afternoon. And… he has completely cleaned up his mess, without being asked!

It’s nice out so we meet Aunt M for a walk. Sailor goes only because he is promised that his favorite Aunt will buy him something. He is thinking StarWars stuff. She is thinking a cookie or chocolate milk. He falls asleep in the stroller and it’s a “moo” point (until he wakes up at home furious that he didn’t get to see Aunt M and get a treat – so he screams for another 20 minutes for a toy).

The boys get a very long bath while I chat on the phone to Lisa about all sorts of things. Sailor is washed and gets out and hangs around naked, playing from the edge of the tub.

Their dad comes for a visit when they are all clean, in their pj’s and sitting down to fish sticks, edamame and milk. I leave.

I chop off all my hair. Really. I don’t know what I was thinking. But suddenly I have a very short, very straight bob. What was I thinking?! It’s cute. I look taller. The hairdresser says I look ten years younger. I think it makes me look older. Sort of. What was I thinking?

I like how swingy my new hair is.

Despite an invitation to engage in a liason this evening with my summer lover from a year and a half ago, I opt to drop in on the ice rink. While there I find I am able to do all sorts of jumps I used to be able to do pre-Mac. So I advance myself to the highest level on the rink, Freestyle 3. Really, I am pretty amazed by my ability after all these years. The level is challenging but that’s ok. If it weren’t I’d have no where to go at this point. And then I fall and learn a very important lesson – don’t wear jeans with ripped knees to ice skating lessons. And wear mittens.

I do some Target shopping and buy Sailor the Batman utility belt he was begging for. I mean, Santa gets him the Batman utility belt he was begging for. And a latte. And gingerbread cake for Mac, which is his favorite, and which is seasonal and which he asks for all year. It’ll be a nice surprise for him in the morning, and yes, I will let him eat some cake in the morning. We can’t always follow the rules, you know.

It’s after 10:00 when I get home. The boys’ dad is watching tv. He likes my hair. We chat a bit while he edges down the stairs. The boys are asleep in Sailor’s bed. They are adorable. The sink is full of dishes. The dishwasher is still full. Sailor’s dinner sits on the table. Mac’s bedroom light is on.

A night like this a year ago caused their dad and me to have a prolonged fight that ended with the filing for our divorce. This year I know better than to say anything. I clean up. I check my swingy new hair. I go to bed and watch Oprah. I think about how much I love my cutey little boys.

Wednesday morning has been set aside as Laundromat day. We hustle out the door but since no one thought much about listening to me this morning, the house is a wreck when we leave. It’s 9:20 and we have much to do. I get two children and two comforters into the car. I forget the laundry soap. I go back for it. It starts to rain. It’s 60 degrees out and pouring rain. It’s November 29th. As I feed quarters into the washers I let the boys know that the next time anyone pees on my comforter he will be financially responsible for its cleaning.

While comforters are washing and drying we dash in and out of the rain to buy holiday art supplies at the fabric store, envelopes at Staples, a computer for my sister at Circuit City (almost, until they realize they are out of stock)…. While computer shopping Mac asks if there is an electronics class he can take!

Mac says, out of the blue, “I like your hair, Mommy.” I tell him I didn’t think he had noticed. “I saw it when you woke up this morning,” he tells me. I was sure he’d hate it. He likes my hair long.

“I love you cuz you let me have nem-nems,” Sailor pipes up.

Back and forth, feeding quarters, and trying to protect my glossy new hair from the downpour. We have enough time to get the groceries today. I notice while we shop that Mac’s jeans are wet practically to his knees. Today would have been an excellent day for the boys to don two of the 8 pairs of rain boots that clutter up our hallway. At 12:15 we dash into Old Navy. I grab a spiffy pair of dark jeans, size 6 slim, from the shelf and calling, “Hurry! Hurry!” to the boys, head for the dressing room. “Hi! He is going to put these on here and I am going to pay for them on the way out,” I tell the dressing room girl. She radios the cashier up front to let her know. “You have to pay for the jeans before you put them on,” the girl calls to us. Mac is already wearing the new jeans. “Tell her too late!” I call back. “I don’t have time! He is already wearing them.”
We exit and run to the cashier who does her best to take as long as she possibly can with the customer ahead of us. I remind the boys we have to be at school in 5 minutes. But this only slows cashier girl down even more.
I hand over the tag from the jeans and my store charge card. “Sorry,” I say, “I don’t have time to follow your rules today.”

Mac is ten minutes late for school. But better late than wet, I always say!

We meet my sister to help her buy her computer and Sailor says he is bored of this store and wants to go somewhere else. He is well-behaved so when he asks for a little “Cars” flashlight keychain, we add it to our tab. He chooses one for Mac too, and another for later when is bored of the first one and throws it away, he tells us.

My car is loaded with packages and laundry, I am starving, the boys have left heir Batman lunch bag in the cart at Dominick’s and I would love a nap, which Sailor says I can take! But alas, Mac has to be picked up from school. And walked to FTK. In the rain. I have to leave Sailor downstairs. I need a break. His screaming is rattling the neighborhood. I actually catch the next door neighbor looking around in search of the source of distress as she gets ready to enter her building. “It’s my kid,” I say.

Mac pees in his pants right before the end of class, making it unethical for me to ask the celebmom if she’d mind giving us a ride home. It’s pitch black, raining, cooling off, my bag is heavy, I am exhausted, and despite the fact that my feet are clad in $130 shoes, they are killing me.

No one wants the dinner Nana has sent up. Mac takes yesterday’s pizza from the fridge. Each boy gets a piece. Sailor hands me his crust and as I am finishing the last of it he returns and asks for “that part that you just ate.” Mac hands his crust over to his brother. He asks for toast. Neither boy seems very hungry, but when I pull out leftover pancakes they disappear like, well, hotcakes. And Sailor devours two scrambled eggs. Three pieces of toast disappear, as do a potato’s worth of hash browns, part of a cookie and the rest of the gingerbread cake slice. I guess they were hungry after all. We read two chapters of Geronimo Stilton, which Mac thinks should be called more appropriately Geronimouse Stilton. But before I begin Mac informs me, “Mom, did you know that a mosquito starts out as a pew-pee?” Where he got this info I have no idea.

Neither boy fusses about going to sleep.
It’s not until I have my own flannel pj’s on that I realize that I have left both comforters out in the trunk of my car. The temperature has dropped dramatically. And it’s still pouring rain.

Thursday. The day Sailor says he’s excited to go to school. I bring him inside and we realize we’ve left George in the car. I turn back for him. Sailor is displeased. I shake him off my leg and bolt to the car. When I return a moment later, I observe Sailor, no longer crying, walking to the solace of the beanbag. S gestures to me to leave the stuffed simian in the window and I wave and blow a kiss to Sailor. Whew! That was easy. For a change.

The daughter of the Sparklequeen is coming over for the rest of the morning. It’s lunch-with-GrandDad day so we bundle up against the sudden winter and walk a long block to a cozy lunch spot. The girl says she will eat whatever I choose, but just not eggs. Mac’s choice of “three little pigs in blankets with pillows” a.k.a. three pancakes, sausage and beignets, sounds good to her. But when it comes, she says it’s not what she is hungry for. The kind waitress brings out a complimentary plate of mac & cheese. She takes one forced bite, hops up from the table and follows Mac into the bar area for a basket of peanuts. My father comments that we should have ordered one meal for the two to share. He is not pleased. I am embarrassed. I assure him we will consume every last crumb of the leftovers at home (which, by Saturday morning, we do). I call the girl’s mom to see if this is normal. We debate whether or not she should go to school. Her mom decides that the absence of barf or fever indicates a sure day at school. The little girl eats a peanut butter and jelly sandwich back at the house. I don’t understand.

Sailor passes out at GrandDad’s house while I drive the two to school. She tells me she wishes her dad or mom were driving her because Sailor’s car seat is choking her. Better choked than dead in an accident I tell her. “My parents would have driven faster, too, so we wouldn’t have been late,” she tells me. Thanks. I run the two in and apologize to Miss H for being just the minute late. “I have run out of excuses,” I say, “I just get too caught up in my multitasking.”
She compliments my hair and I take off to run errands. A big snow storm is on for tomorrow and Mac has no snow pants. Neither do the GAP, Children’s Place or Old Navy. When it’s time to get Mac from school I run into a dilemma. The stroller is wet, so the only way to bring Sailor is to drive, which won’t work because Mac is planning to play at the home of one of the girls from last year’s preschool class. And if we drive there we won’t be able to park. But if I walk Mac I have to leave Sailor with my dad. He agrees to this plan on the condition that if my mom is not back by 4:20 we will come home. I hope no one is upset for a 50 minute play date! The mom offers to make coffee, open a bottle of wine or pour me a glass of water. By 4:20 p.m. when my dad calls we are both pretty tipsy. I suggest we “pack up the wine” and head back to my house. The mom has spent the time apologizing that her house is so messy and small (which it is neither messier nor smaller than mine) so I hope she finds my house as down-to-earth as her own. We head back. Mac manages to get underfoot at least twice. We are all practically running down the street trying to get back to Sailor before my dad leaves. We make it and start back into the wine. I have had enough, so I fake it and leave the rest of the glass for my mom, who has declared that I should make dinner tonight.

I tell the kids they have to go to sleep if they want to see the snow. Mac proclaims that he is scared. I give him magic kisses and he goes to sleep. ER starts and Sailor wanders in. I don’t have it in me to fight him so I let him stay but tell him he has to go get Mac, who really wants to be in my bed too. But Mac is asleep already, leaving me feeling quite guilty. “The snow will come in your bed, Mommy?” Sailor asks. I take this to mean, “Will it still snow if I am in your bed?” so I say, “Yes.” “But how the snow will get on your bed?” I guess he did mean it literally. Oops.

I wake up in the middle of the night from nightmares so real and so horrifying that I want to go downstairs and crawl into bed with my parents. I am terrified of the images of my sleep. I find Mac’s hand under the covers and snuggle closer to Sailor. So if my dream were to come true the boys and I would all go together. I am so terrorized I am tempted to turn on the tv just to make sure there is no confirming news. Two long drawn out rolls of thunder paralyze me with fear. I kiss both my babies and hope we wake together in a few hours. Which of course we do, but I am left with such a horrible “something bad happened” feeling all day Friday. I try to keep busy to fend it off. First thing, Mac sees the snow and he and Sailor go bounding through the house to see it from the back window, too. They want to go out and play right away! It’s a fabulous idea and I tell them they can if they eat their breakfast and get dressed. But Sailor won’t finish his bananas. So I go into the “if you don’t eat your bananas you can’t play outside” mode. Then he refuses to take off his snow pants and put jeans on underneath. The threat comes out again. I am full of threats and short on time. I have PTA meeting at 9:00. We bundle up and have 15 minutes of play time before I have to trudge through the snow to school for the first of 3 roundtrips for the day.

The snow comes down wet and heavy. My cute new hair cut goes limp under my hat. I am soaked when I get to school. I love snow. It’s pretty and fun and transforms the world into a different place. But it’s also tedious. And all that much worse when you have babies or small children. The amount of time it takes to get out the door multiplies fourfold in the winter. It’s an exhausting routine. Once I arrive anywhere I want to make it worth the effort to have gotten there, which will be evidenced by the result of our early morning departure tomorrow.

Meanwhile I haul Mac to school at 12:15 to be sure we have plenty of trudging time. I allow him to wear his snow play clothes to school as I am too weary to make him change plus he looks so cute in his red track pants and over-sized school sweatshirt (mine). Back at home, Sailor follows me around messing up each room as I tidy and clean it for their Boys Only Pajama Party tonight. Sailor falls deep asleep downstairs right after I leave to pick up Mac. At 5:00 their friends arrive. Mac has invited the boy part of the triplets, the two French boys and the German boy from his class, a boy from his tap class whose name goes from Jack to Big Jack at the party, and the radio celeb’s boy. Sailor has invited his friend Jack, who becomes out of necessity, Little Jack, a 2-1/2-year-old who is still in a diaper but whose mom swears he would never poop at this time of day, and one more boy who receives his phoned-in invitation at ten minutes til 3:00 when we are discussing his guest list and he assumes this boy is on it. Lesson learned here is not to let your three-year-old make out his own party list.

Sailor is still asleep when the guests arrive and has to be awakened, brought upstairs and put into pajamas. He is tired and not happy. He wants uppie. I am trying to move chairs and get things set out while toting a crabby 3-year-old on my hip. He won’t get down to play because, he says, he is afraid of the big boys. The age range here is 2 ½ to 6 years old. We paint Christmas tree ornaments, decorate lunch bags, which will later hold Pirates Booty (the kid-friendly version of popcorn), eat pizza, make silly videos, watch videos, and eat cupcakes. There is little boy pandemonium a few times and Mac is threatened with an evening in his room. But it’s so hard for him to calm down when his friends are around. And one of the boys in particular is being especially rowdy. The littlest boys are holding their own. They watch the big boys and imitate them. It’s cute and I am pleased to see how confident they are at such a young age. Overprotective mom that I am, I would never in a million years leave Sailor at a drop-off party, and as we already know, I won’t leave Mac at a house I haven’t been to, either. I don’t know if the moms are too trusting or I am too overprotective. I strongly suspect it’s the latter, though. Late in the party my sister walks through the playroom and smells a certain ripeness. The 2-1/2-year-old is in need of a diaper change! My first thought: I better call my mom! Wait! What am I thinking!? I crawl under Sailor’s bed and retrieve one of the few diapers I have decided to keep handy for just-in-case emergencies. Such as this one. The poor tiny boy has the kind of poop blow out that has leaked onto his thighs and has left his jammies smelling rather yucky. I replace his jammies with a pair of Sailor’s and give him an undershirt to borrow, as he is wearing none.

The party continues without a hitch and all the boys are tired and cute when their parents arrive on time to escort them home. The dad of the poopy baby calls his wife to be sure he is dressing his boy in the correct pair of boots. My favorite French mom tells me, in French, that I should have the parents all bring something to the next party because it’s too much for me that I have so many parties. I realize later that I have done this entire party for less than $25 (not including things I had around the house such as the milk, lemonade, and paper goods).

My boys are wired and it’s a while before they are in bed. As Sailor is messing around he comes out of his room for the umpteenth time to tell us, “My George b’loon is stuck hound my raider.” He points to the small space between the wall and the radiator in his room. “See?” I am pleased that he knows not to try to retrieve the balloon from behind the potentially hot radiator . I pull it out but he is unhappy when he sees its appearance. “It’s not working,” he tells us. “I don’t like it all crumply. It’s not a b’loon anymore.” I suggest perhaps Aunt M can re-fill it at the art studio where we have a helium tank for parties. He is good with that.

Once the boys hit the sheets they are out fast. I watch Oprah til midnight and fall asleep with the tv on.

It’s very cold on Saturday morning. I try not to rush the boys but we are due at the radio celeb family’s house by 10:00 to play until noon. We are late to the car because of all we have to dress in to get to the car. Then I spend more than 10 minutes hacking away at the two-inch-thick ice that blankets my car. But only after almost not getting into the car in the first place because the lock and door are so cold they get stuck. Sailor tells me they fell asleep waiting for me. We drive over. Such a hassle to go anywhere in weather like this. Especially for a mere two hours. It’s just not worth the effort.

Radio celeb is doing a promo thing in Mexico so his wife is doing the single mom thing for the weekend. The kids are all happy to see one another, tho celeb twin boy seems a bit tired from last night’s pj party at our house. The three boys take off for the 4th floor. Wondering about the safety of this, the mom shows me the tv monitor. We watch the boys play on a tv screen that covers the entire wall. We sit down for coffee but twin girl wants to play Disney Monopoly. I am not a Monopoly player. But I am game (no pun intended). I choose Pinocchio as my pawn – the short fat guy with the big head. We play around the board but the game goes nowhere because the banker has not dealt any money so we are all too broke to buy any property. Ah, the story of my life. The boys return and the little sister asks to play “the Dot Game” – Twister. Before I know what is happening, I have right foot red and left hand blue and the kids’ mom is handing out money over the Monopoly board. Sailor is trying to play along with me, but in truth I am the only one with left foot green. My arms are beginning to ache. Twin boy asks if we can stay for lunch. We have no plans and it’s almost noon. I have absolutely no reason to want to leave. So the kids’ mom makes mac & cheese for our five and a salad for us. The kids sit at the kids’ table and we sit at the adults’ table. Twin boy feels the need to go out to the snow covered backyard for something as soon as his mac & cheese is gone. Before long five children are as bundled as possible minus snow pants and playing in the snow. We keep an ear out and assume we’ll be in touch if the kids need us. Over and hour and a half later the five come in soaked to the bone and much in need of dry clothes and hot chocolate. I have brought no clothes with me for my boys. Both are given undies, socks and pants to change into. And then Mac spills his hot chocolate. All over himself. He is given undies, pants and a shirt to change into. Now wearing the twin boy’s clothes, I find it very hard to differentiate between the two from the back for the rest of the day. They both have red hair. We settle them in with a video while we run my boys’ coats and mittens in the drier. Twin girl poops and the toilet gets stopped up. Her mom races around the house in search of her unsightly plunger. The toilet over flows and water pours out of parts of the toilet I hadn’t realized bore openings. Poops float around. Water spills. I grab for paper towels and cover the floor. The mom heads out of the bathroom for something and comes back to find me putting something in the trash. She thinks – mistakenly – that I have cleaned up the mess. We have a good laugh. The kids have taken off for other parts of the house and I check my watch. It’s after 3:00. “Another hour and we can order pizza,” I say, half jokingly. But I really would like to stay. The house is warm and spacious. The children are having a great time together. It’s freezing outside. I have no place I have to be. I am enjoying the conversation as it comes in fits and starts among the ruckus of 5 children between the ages of three and five. Her hubby is in Mexico and mine is long gone. It’s Saturday afternoon and there’s nothing I’d rather be doing than hanging with my kids and fun friends. Pizza arrives around 5:00.

The mom leaves me in charge of our five while she makes a quick trip to drop off her 16-year-old. We play hide and seek. I hear Sailor on the 2nd floor. “What’s the matter, baby?” I call to him. He is running back and forth across the floor in a panic. “I haf-go pee! I haf-go pee!” There are seven bathroom in this house but he has no idea where the closest one is. When it’s my turn I am an excellent hider. I am in the foyer, and the kids come as close as the front living room but don’t find me. It’s a great place to listen from. I hear…

“Let’s look in here.”
“No, it’s dark.”
“That’s ok. Parents are not afraid of the dark.”

“I’m tired of looking for her. I want to be the hider now.”

The conversations the kids are having are cracking me up. I am still hiding when their mom returns. Mac finds me shortly thereafter.

The pizza guy comes and we sit down together. But the boys are all done eating before we have opened up all the food. This, I say, is why I don’t like to cook.

We have to clean up before we depart. Toys are scattered about three of the four floors. We start in the basement. When I notice all the kids’ beds are neatly made, the mom tells me they usually aren’t but she had to impress the company (us!) today. I think she has to be kidding. Either that or she really is quite humble. Either way, we get along quite well and she makes me feel very comfortable in her home, financial differences seemingly not an issue. I realize that while I may be flat broke, I am not a lower class citizen by any means. I was raised upper middle class and despite the pitiful numbers resting in my bank accounts, I am who I am. I have been raised well and at one time I actually did have some money. A nice income and a good savings, even. So while I do not currently have money to speak of, I came from comfortable and have been more than comfortable. My person is not a poor person. My children are not lacking for experiences, good friends, excellent education, culture. They don’t live a poor live. They live a very enriched life. Some day I hope to have financial wealth to go along with our persona/spiritual wealth. Meanwhile, we are good folk.

I am wiped out after cleaning up all the toys. My boys, true to usual, take things out as we are putting things away. We spend 15 minutes gathering our belongings and re-dressing in coats, hats, mittens, scarves and boots. Sailor’s boots remain soaked and I have to carry him to the car. It’s 6:30 when we leave. Six and ½ hours later than our planned noon departure. I hope we have not overstayed our welcome. I hope we have not driven them crazy. I hope she would have told us if she’d needed us to leave. I hope we are invited back. Sailor is asleep before we get home. Mac is asleep by 8:00. I’m out by 10:30 or 11:00. Whew! A fun day. Sometimes what I need most is to just step out of my life and all the responsibility that comes with it and be spontaneous. Just stay in someone else’s life for a day. Saturday did a lot to elevate my mood. I feel less stressed.

Until I realize we are supposed to take the bus to Navy Pier at 9:00 the next morning with my parents to see the new kids’ penguin movie “Happy Feet” at the IMAX theatre. It’s supposed to be 17 degrees out. Oh joy!

I have convinced my parents to drive down to the pier despite the hefty cost of parking ($22!). I squeeze sideways between the kids’ car seats and Nana drives off. Sailor surprises me by remembering that I sat like this when we went to a restaurant. Which I believe was the summer before this past summer.

We learn that the $22 parking fee is good for the whole day. So we go to the movie. Mac’s friends the triplets are seated a few rows ahead of us. He whimpers thru most of the movie that he is scared and wants to go home. Finally there is a truly frightening scene and I cover his eyes. That passed, he is fine and sits thru the remainder of the flick quietly. Instead of returning immediately home as planned, we decide to make the most of our $22 parking.

The kids visit with Santa and get their photos taken, which my mom surprises us by purchasing for $20. Mac looks adorable and Sailor is in typical fashion: sippy cup in one hand, bag of crumbs in the other. We romp thru the children’s museum, have lunch, and try out toys in the museum toy store. My parents decide to leave us and bus it home. My dad hands me the parking ticket and the cash to get out of the garage. We head back to finish up the museum and find much more than had originally met the eye. Including a $1 photo booth. We get in and take six zany photos. These will go up on our wall. If I’d done them earlier perhaps they would have made a cute and unique holiday card. The lights begin to dim at 4:00 so we head out of the museum. I take the kids into Build-a-Bear “to look” I say, but I don’t mean it. The least expensive bears are $10. We add a Santa hat and beard to each for $4.50 each. Mac names his vanilla-colored bear Love Bear and Sailor names his chocolate-colored bear HoHo. Neither boy complains that his bear’s house/box is too big or too heavy. Sailor does not ask to be carried. Both boys re ecstatic. We spy a ship outside. Sailor asks if it’s the Titanic. I bundle us all up and we walk along the pier. No one is outside. We get a close up look at the Ferris wheel. “What that called?” Sailor can’t remember. We head back in and Mac finds Starbucks for me. They try to charge me $2 for each of the kids’ chocolate milk. I tell them we want only one then and surprisingly one cup of milk nearly fills both sippy cups. I top them off with milk meant to cream coffees. We leave the pier at 5:00. We exit the parking lot at 5:05. We are home at 5:10 . I bathe my boys and strip of the multiple layers of clothing I have on including a hideous pair of crème-colored cords that are too big, a wool sweater, long sleeved t-shirt and tank top, tights and boots. I’ve been sweltering all day. We were dressed for 17 degrees outside, but failed to spend more than a few minutes of the day actually outside. We climb onto the couch and share a snack from one common plate: I have cut up apples, cheese and two turkey dogs and accompanied them with crackers. No one is hungry enough for dinner.

Neither of my boys fuss when I put them to bed at 8:00. I plunge into a hot bubble bath with the latest issue of Cosmo, which I finally realize I am too old (or too single) for. I hope the bath lessens the soreness of my legs, which is either the result of the Twister game yesterday or the number of times I climbed up and down the stairs in our friends’ four-story. The weekend has gone by too quickly, which I rarely say. We have had no rest but we had two days full of fun and unusual experiences. Maybe the boys will sleep in tomorrow, as we don’t have to rush off to gym class. Wishful thinking, I know. My goal for the morning is to be on time to Mac’s 11:00 talking doctor appointment, but because we have a whole unstructured morning ahead of us, I am nearly certain we’ll be late.