Survivor: Seattle

For anyone else in my family, my current trip would be the urban equivalent of Survivor. Two days (and counting) without one second of televised content. Who knew it could be done? Clearly no one from my household.

It's not me. I hate TV. Mostly. I like the occasional program and a movie or two, but I do not live and breathe to touch the remote. And mostly, I find myself turning the damned thing OFF because everyone leaves it on. 24/7. Probably to specifically annoy me.

So, for this trip, where I have enjoyed two nights' worth of room service and peace and quiet, I can happily say I haven't even looked for the remote. Each evening I've diligently completed within six hours what would take me at home about 12 (maybe 14 given Squirrel's recent proclivity to projectile puke across my office) and I've even made decent progress through "Atlas Shrugged." (Anyone familiar with that tome knows that it's not a light or fast read).

With sadness, I know my time is coming to its end and tomorrow evening I must return home, where the biggest battles are waged over "remote possession," and I will once again become point person for finding/cleaning/distributing all things essential and non-essential.

But until then, I am going to savor my last night in Survivor: Seattle. Quiet is the ultimate elixir. Well, that and a good book. 

business travel, u r doing it wrong

I'll admit that I am out of practice with the business travel. Before I had kids, I had mad packing skills that enabled me to load a suitcase with precisely everything I needed, including a good book for the flight, in less than 30 minutes. Maybe it's the interruptions. Maybe it's the cat puking on the floor. Maybe it's just because all of my stuff is now scattered across a larger footprint. But this time around packing was a chore rivaled only by sorting whites and darks in my laundry room. 

Being the "expert" traveler that I am, I dutifully searched weather.com to determine what would be the best array of attire. And, having remembered the days back when I had time to read Glamour or any other magazine, now that I come to think about it, I pulled out of my memory that clever girls traveled with color-coordinated gear so that one skirt, a scarf, a blouse and two pairs of shoes could get her through an entire week PLUS a formal dinner. Which is why I found myself in Payless today, seeking a flirty pair of flats to replace the ones that Fred the Cat had gnawed on so that I could travel with my three-item ensemble. Why spend $80 on nice skimmers when $15 wouldn't make me nearly half as heartbroken should Fred set his fangs upon a new pair, I thought. And the whole gig would have gone off without a hitch had not another woman in what appeared to be a similar predicament want the exact same pair of shoes that I had under my arm. Now, I'm all for helping out a friend in need, but that extended no further than helping this poor soul searching the racks, ask the counter person to run the style code and then, taking a "I'm so sorry" tone, rushing off with my shoes. Because clever girls need their flirty shoes, especially when they have a flight to catch in 1 1/2 hours.

Had I known that these same "comfortable" flats would have me walking like I had trekked the Sierra Madre barefoot later that same day, I might have just handed them off, taken my sneakers and told everyone in Seattle that the sneakers + skirt look is all the rage in the OC. Instead, rather than striding with confidence through the SEATAC airport, I slogged along wincing with each step, wishing I had some arch supports handy. This would also explain the side-eye I inadvertently slung at the one-legged lady who was exiting the bathroom through the entrance. I was on a roll, and on a mission, and my expectations were not to encounter anyone coming out through the in. I'll berate myself later for thinking any negative thoughts about anyone who clearly is overcoming greater odds than falling arches. 

In fact, come to think about it, I found it rather impressive that she also was talking on her cell. Now there's a feat, pun intended, I could not have pulled off.

The Frog is Dead.

Admittedly, I took a break. A long one. Not from work. Not by a long shot. Just from thinking. So a lot of time has passed. In four short weeks I have been to Seattle (which was working fun, but still fun), Las Vegas (which was working fun, but not nearly as much as Seattle) and to so many "end of the year" functions I feel like I'm running an "end of the year" marathon. And in the midst of all of this work and running and getting ready for the "end of the year," the frog died.

Froggy arrived at our doorstep as a tadpole; the coolest part of the neighbor's camping adventure down in the canyon. He arrived with three siblings, as it were. He alone survived the sweat shop that is my boys' bathroom. Having transformed the surf frog habitat where once Discovery Science Center spawn had attempted to thrive into a new nursery, Froggy and his friends splashed about in mostly complete peace. The only exception was when Fred, the frog killing cat, was lurking.

Froggy's siblings died a bizarre and sudden death one evening. But Froggy kept on going. And Froggy became Froggy. Transfered to a new and luxurious home downstairs, Froggy adapted well, even to the piercing blue eyes that gazed upon him like he was the greatest delicacy known to cat-kind. But as the weeks progressed, the only two humans still curious about Froggy were mom and dad, who made sure that he had a ready supply of fruit flies and ample water. 

That is, until William's birthday weekend. And, for two long days, absorbed in details and running between boy scouts, neighbor's houses and ice hockey, as well as William's Disneyland birthday extravaganza, nobody checked on Froggy. And in that 48-hour span of time, Froggy died. 

William, devastated to find his little friend lifeless and shriveled, is a mixture of perplexed and distraught. When pets die it opens up a window to have valuable discussions with our children about the fragility of life and how to live in the "now" (which kids do in spades, anyway). But having your reptilian buddy die over your birthday is never ideal. And no amount of cuddles and rationalizations can ever adequately explain what transpired.

So we will bury Froggy somberly with the assorted hamsters and mice who have shared their lives with us; the furry friends lasted much much longer, but all have had their special time with us. And the only downside to this backyard memorial is that as I garden, I secretly hope I don't displace a burial spot I may have forgotten.

And now Fred has absolutely nothing to terrorize. To which I suggest, you know, the boys really want a dog...

Happy Mother's Day

It's Mother's Day, which explains exactly what I am doing: cleaning. If you're a mother, you know that life rarely resembles the :30 commercials you see on TV. You know the ones where mom is being hugged, gifted, breakfasted-in-bed, flowered and generally pampered? Yeah. That mom is living in a parallel universe. The people look familiar, but they don't live in my world.

I woke up to a load of damp laundry living in my dryer, a stinky cat box and a seven-year-old rummaging through the pantry for cookies. I dried and folded the clothes, cleaned the cat box and gave the kid fudge Pop Tarts (not like that's much of an improvement over cookies, when you think about it). I was then gifted with a card from the cat. And a request from my 11-year-old to make Ramen Noodles. For breakfast.

Since then, I have washed the car, straightened the living room, fed the kids again, and saved the cat from a rolicking game of "get the kitty". Right now, the kids are re-soaking my car with a frantic game of "hose each other until we are supremely wet." And I am looking through my email, finishing up on multiple frantic projects.

I'm not writing to say it wasn't a great Mother's Day. It was. It was my great Mother's Day. Because it reflects my life, and that's not a bad thing. The only thing it needed was chocolate.

I hope that your Mother's Day was equally special. Happy Mother's Day! Now, go wash the car.

State of the State Report, Round Deux

I think I mentioned that I detest the fifth grade project tour de force known as The State Report. I still do.

Weeks into this mind-numbing experience, it is time for the delivery of the epic piece known as The Brochure. This, in essence, a condensed version of the actual State Report (for which my husband and I received a 14 out of 15, silent high five), is now the bane of our collective existence. I'm not sure that we, I mean he, will finish 12 panels tonight. Even if it IS due tomorrow. Although I may enjoy the lingering scent of Spray Mount, but I digress.

Because even after this Dementor of a project is turned in, there remains a poster AND a shoe box diarama. And I remember making a waterfall for my daughter's diarama out of toothpaste that I molded between Saran Wrap. And I remember going to bed at 3 a.m. 

No. I still love the state of Virginia. But I am completely at odds with the State Report.

I hope youngest son is artistic because after two tries, he is on his own. Sorry little dude. I'm in a bad state.

When Did It Become the End of the School Year???

I know that I am getting older because, in my world, days, weeks and months fly by like the animation in old black and white movies where the director wanted to depict the passage of months by blowing off calendar pages in quick succession. Yesterday was December 22nd. Today is May 2. I blinked and lost six months.

With this ridiculous time-speed continuum comes the letter I have been dreading: Hi! It's your Room Mom just letting you know about Teacher Appreciation Week, and oh, by the way, it's almost the end of the school year. Seriously?

Teacher Appreciation Week is one thing. It is five dread-filled days in which I pray that I remember what gift to send with what child on what day. Because if you forget or get it wrong, you'll hear all about it in the car at pick-up. "Mom!" the injured party will exclaim. "TOMORROW is 'bring a flower to school day.' I was totally embarrassed because I was the only one who brought in a flower and John laughed at me because it was pink and also because it was from our yard and that's really lame he says." 

So next week will be a real nail-biter, and for all of the wrong reasons.

But the "end of the school year" thing has me looking for a defibrillator. I honestly swear that I JUST finished a very LONG summer, enjoyed the annual trek to Target for new school supplies and got them started. How did we get to the END? I am not ready for 10 weeks of continuous entertainment, endless bickering, ongoing wet pool towels in the dryer, all while trying to work. Nor have I even begun to research potential camps to keep any one of them entertained for any length of time. 

Maybe, just maybe, if I blink it will all be a dream and the school year will have begun all over again. Or the school district will consider year-round school. I can hope.

Is anyone else experiencing this? If so, I'd love to hear how you are handling it. I am sure you are doing it better than me.

Dads Don't Understand Tooth Fairy Protocol

While I was on a business trip this week, my 7-year-old lost a tooth. Thankfully, it's one of his upper canines, and the loss of it may help ensure that at least one of his missing two front teeth might possibly emerge. It's been a year. We're still hopeful.

But the bigger issue for this was the drama surrounding the "leaving of the money." If I had been home, it would have been a relatively easy situation to resolve. Tooth Fairy protocol (at our house, anyway): 1. Stay up longer than said child; 2. Sneak in 3. Swap the tooth with a dollar; 4.  Call it good. But this time, Dad was the Tooth Fairy. And he wasn't sure how it worked.

He called me at 10:30 p.m., winded. "I can't find anything to put under William's pillow," he finally heaves. "Uh, got a dollar?" I query. He ignores me. "What about the Disneyland pin on your shelf," he suggests. The pin in question is indeed quite cute and is exactly something William would want. It depicts Chip and Dale playing with an acorn or something to that effect. It would look great on William's lanyard. Only problem is that William was with me when I bought it. He was supposed to be earning it. Note to self: remember what he was supposed to be doing to earn it.

"No," I tell my husband. "If you put the pin under his pillow, I'll be busted as the Tooth Fairy."  The wind effectively sucked out of his Tooth Fairy sails, said husband decides to go with the dollar angle. 

I could have saved him 30 minutes...

Do your husbands understand the Tooth Fairy rules? What kind of Tooth Fairy fun has your family experienced? I'd love to know.