So Far

This trip could be one story: fiona's face plant from her stroller at the airport (which had M and I covered in her blood when we checked into the hotel), francie's possible concussion after she fell backwards of the couch and hit her head on the marble floor... And was drowsy and delirious for a few hours (comically, when I called our pediatrician, he asked if she was fatigued and irritable; when is she not?), or when we stupidly tried to do the famed drive to Hana and Francie threw up all over Bennett on mile ten, or when we turned back and went to a gorgeous rocky beach instead ... At which Efram sliced open his foot and M carried into a nearby restaurant dripping blood.

But that story doesn't do the glory of this trip any justice at all. I realize that any trip with five kids, three of whom are under five, is going to be full of mishaps. And if I were queasy, I'd never go anywhere.

M and I want to actually be in the ocean at the same time... So we've hired some sitters and we are going snorkeling.. Sea turtles, here we come.

Stitches?

Kicked off the trip by watching Fi face plant out of her stroller. Bloody face. Bloody mess. Bloody hell.

Home Alone

I have been single parenting for almost two weeks now as M is on his grande tour of Amazon offices. A few observations for spouses who travel:

1. Never once, now matter how true it may be, tell the spouse at home that you're tired. She (or he) doesn't want to hear it. She's been alone with your kids for days on end, and tired as you may be, tired on the Eurostar just isn't the same as tired in your own bed into which several small children have made their way in the middle of the night. And peed.

2. Bring an extra suitcase for gifts. Maybe two.

3. Pretend you've been eating tuna out of a can, even if you've eaten sushi in Tokyo and a pain au chocolat for breakfast in France. Every little bit helps.

4. When you get home, before you collapse into a jet-lagged slumber, leaving your spouse essentially on her own for another 48 hours... throw something sparkly at her.

I told M I love him, but I just don't like his kids. Does that make me the world's worst mother? My own mother in law swooped in and came to stay for a few days -- a true godsend. But my boys, Bennett especially, pride themselves on showing her what a crappy parent I am. He likes to say, within MIL earshot, things like: "Why are you telling us not to yell? You always yell. You yell all the time. That's why we don't like you." You can see what I'm up against.

By the time M got home from last week's trip I was in true dishrag form; I could barely string a sentence together. This week is a little easier. Even though Bennett devotes a full hour a day to whining about his finger, Francie has been home sick, and I had to do some work despite being on maternity leave, I'm in better shape. It may have something to do with the fact that I know he's coming home ...with a suitcase of chocolate.

Gum

Efram is forbidden from ever chewing gum again. At least until he is old enough to move out.

I find it on countertops, tables, notepads, sinks... And now in his pillowcase.

The Finger.

Took Mr. Bennett to Children's Hospital today to the Orthopedics Clinic to treat his mallet finger... also known as baseball finger. If the staff of Children's also worked at the DMV, passport office, or post office... the world would surely be a happier place, because they very well may be the nicest, sunniest people on the planet. I witnessed nice people take his x-ray, examine his hand, and explain to him that his hands are not to come into contact with a ball for six weeks while his finger heals. No baseball, and (wait for it).... no football.

He looked at the nice, sunny bearer of bad news in astonishment. And then he looked at me. To be honest, knowing how much of a pain in the ass he was going to be about this, I was just as disappointed as he was. But I shrugged. Then nodded, as if to say, "You heard the lady."

He tried to get around the restriction: "What if I hike the ball with my left hand?" Nice try, buddy. "What if I catch without using my finger." Ditto. She told him he can run around, bike, swim and play soccer, but as he sat there in his bright blue Colts hat, in the middle of football season, none of it seemed appealing.

And then I stupidly tried to put things in perspective.

"Athletes sit out for weeks a time" I say. "You're now an official athlete. Whohoo!"

He looked at me as if to say, if these are the nicest people on earth, then you very well may be the stupidest.

I am not phased by my failure. "Hey, look around," I say. "There are kids in leg casts, arm casts, and some in wheelchairs waiting to heal." You're so lucky -- it's only a finger.

The disgust now turns into a look of complete confusion. He couldn't imagine a broken arm, or anything else, and as an eight year old, he certainly couldn't put any of this in perspective. Perspective as I learned right there, is for adults. Adults who are grateful to be in the Orthopedics Clinic for nothing more than a finger. All an eight year old boys comprehends is no ball for six weeks, and nothing I said was going to help.

The nice, nice lady saw him fighting back tears. And then, nice as she is, makes things worse.

" I bet you have a Wii," she said. Bennett swings around, stares at me, and says, "No, I don't. But all my friends do." So now I feel mildly negligent as well as useless. "Well," she says, "You probably have video games at home." Still staring at me, he replies, "No. We have nothing in our house." At this point I expected him to add: "I'm the oldest of five. I barely get fed. For fun I get to peel paint off the side of the house and eat it."

Feeling rather crappy at this point, I immediately bleat out: "But he has a DS, and he can play it all he wants." And then Mr. Bennett gives me the biggest grin imaginable, because I've just said EXACTLY what he wanted me to say. In fact, I played right into the little bugger's hands.

And there you have it. I learned more about the complex mind of an eight year old boy (which as I have repeatedly noted, is far more complicated than that of a thirty-eight year old man), and even more about what not do when you're on the spot. Even if the world's nicest people are all around you.

I have to add, that being Bennett, he continues to surprise me. After I finished promising him the moon, I got the biggest smile when I promised to teach him to do something he's been begging to do for months: knit.

January seventh. Resolutions in tact.. Somewhat. Have yelled minimally. Have cared minimally. Feel no more zen than I did a week ago. Maybe it will take a few weeks to kick in.

Almost...

I'm generally known for getting in over my head. Especially with a new baby in tow. After a few weeks the sleepless delirium sets in, and I start saying yes to all sorts of projects I have no time for. Because I work from home and make my own hours, I went back to work earlier than I should have when Frances (No.3) and Fiona (No.4) were born. I figured I was home anyway, hanging out with a newborn, I might as well get some work done. It always worked for a few weeks, but then, right when I had a big brief to write, or I'd hit a bump in my research, it would coincide with a patch of sleeplessness, a school vacation, a sick kid, a visiting relative.. something that would make working virtually impossible. I'd try to work, but I'd end up with a work product that looked like something.. a toddler would have done.

I got an email today, about an administrative mistake someone else made, and just as I responded to it, I tagged on the end: "By the way, I'm ready to take on work now." I almost sent the email, almost dove back into a commitment I couldn't handle, almost resigned myself to more toddler-esque work product, but then.. I didn't. I erased the line.

2011

Tried to get the kids to make resolutions. They were far more interesting in making resolutions for me. Nice try. Bennett told me his list of resolutions for me was a mile long. After a lot of back and forth, I did manage to squeeze a couple out of them, but nothing substantial.