Asses and Aztecs

Today, I sit down to finally write something useful (after a couple of weeks of writing websites for various clients and not much else) and — look at that. I got nothin’. That’s sad. I suppose I’ll just do what I always do — ramble on about my life and the various levels of insanity that propel me through it.

So on that note, I might as well admit it. I have some serious issues. I mean something is truly out of whack. After spending most of Tuesday and ALL of Wednesday in a spiraling-out-of-control-I-can’t-suppress-my-raging-
emotions-and-I-think-my-head-is-going-to-fall-off-or-blow-up state, and nearly driving my car straight out of state and onward south to Mexico FOREVER, in lieu of turning left and parking and going into the meeting with a client (with the b-partner following me no less) — I had a hint. Something. Isn’t. Right. The whole time, I was thinking, “That’ll teach ‘em. I’ll just drive away, never come back and then…” But, teach whom exactly? That’s the big, $1,000 question. My girls? Teach ‘em what it feels like to have a mother who lost it and ran away one day on her way to a meeting? The hubby? Who I can’t live without for more than a minute? Hmmm. Uh. No.

So needless to say, I had a hang over yesterday. Woke up with that oh-my-god-what-did-I-say-to-people feeling that usually comes after an evening of over-imbibing. Only this time I was stone cold sober. (Scary.) Therefore, I did what any rational, but slightly deranged and desperate person would do. I found a scapegoat. Because it couldn’t possibly just be me now could it? (Don’t answer that.) My scapegoat? Hormones. I’ve decided that since I went on to start my period at 3 a.m. Thursday morning that hormones have to be the root cause of my head spins and projectile emotional outbursts. Now I just need to figure out the cure. So I don’t keep on turning into this three-headed monster every three weeks or so. (“Honey, please stop scaring the kids.” ☺) I’ll keep you posted. (And a big thank you to Purse Girl for talking me down off the ledge…and to the b-partner whose ears have to be bleeding by now.)

The lover-ly part of my week is that the partial meltdown of my uranium fuel core — almost causing radioactive exposure for nearly everyone who crossed my path — all took place as the hubby was leaving — and left — town. And as I was melting down, I realized I had a scratchy throat. And Bean starting teething which meant all but one of the 20+ diapers I’ve changed since he left were full of poop. And the tiny hiney it all came out of is now covered in rash. And the teeny bean does not like to sit still on the changing table. She prefers to thrash around like a mini-beast who’s about to be sacrificed at an Aztec ritual. (And I promise I only have diaper cream in my hand.) I then have to go outside and shovel the front walk and driveway that have been covered overnight by three or so inches of the white stuff (thanks again to Micky T for doing the sidewalk ☺). I’m feeling just bubbly enough to tackle the elliptical for 30 or so minutes and take a shower while Bean is slumbering.

So around the time the hubby calls to say he’s made it to his beachfront hotel room (after a quick stop at In-n-Out Burger — my all time fav), I start getting chills and realize this scratchy throat has a master plan. At this point, I’m already locked in to hosting a playdate for Miss 6 (now 7) and her friend. I’ve agreed to pick them up after yoga and bring them home (some OM time). I’ve had dinner going in the crockpot all day, so I’m safe on that front. I start to calculate how much more time I have that it’s mandatory to remain upright before I can collapse. I start a mental countdown. “I think I can. I think I can…”

And I do. But at 8:30, dishes be damned, I do collapse. Straight into bed. I sleep for three hours before I’m awoken by Bean crying out. Then I can’t sleep because my head feels like it’s going to explode and my body is shivering all over and I feel like I’ve been kicked repeatedly by the bronco that obviously must have thrown me off of its back at some point during the day. And as soon as I do finally doze back off, Bean cries out again. And so it goes. All night. I finally give up at 3 and decide to down some Tylenol and when I stand up the dam-down-there bursts forth with it’s own little version of kicking me when I’m down. By the time I search the house for tampons and accouterments, get water, locate and take the Tylenol, snort some nasal spray, and check on the girls, it’s almost 4. And I’m wide awake. I think around 5 I finally fall back asleep for an hour or so.

I get up and crawl through the motions of lunch making, breakfast preparing, child diapering, teeth brushing, “do you have your homework?”-ing, remembering to brush my own teeth, and get the girls in the car with moments to spare before our neighbor arrives for carpool. I’m holding it together pretty well considering. I do the school drop off and fellow mom greetings with a rivulet of snot crusted across the back of my throat. Nanner’s mom says, “You sound congested.” I say, “Do I now?”

My solace, Rock Star, arrives at 9. Even though Bean is asleep anyway, there’s something about knowing that you won’t have to be the one to respond when she wakes up that lets me sleep from the time my head hits the pillow until RS calls down to wake me up an hour later. She leaves for class and I muddle through the afternoon as best as I can, grunting half responses to the b-partner, the hubby and the accountant – and managing to keep the rest of my business interactions to e-mail only. My head is a couple of hours ahead – in knowing that I have a dinner meeting with a client. I feel like an athlete prepping for the big game. Or an actor about to face the camera for an Oscar-worthy performance. If I lose my focus, I won’t make it.

Then, suddenly, just as I am dressing to pick up Miss 6 (now 7), bring her home and then dash back out for said meeting, the whole thing stops. The color comes back to my face, the aches subside. The snot recedes. And, huh. No idea why. (But I’m definitely not complaining.) The meeting went well and I came home to girls tucked in for the night. RS had even cleaned the kitchen. And I’d had wine and tapas and conversation with adults.

This week may end well after all. Tonight we are taking Miss 6 (now 7) on a date. No Bean. Just her and us. She’s over the moon…

A side note on Bean and sibling influence: I went to a coffee with the principal the other day with Bean safely strapped into the stroller. I had pictured a hand-shake, meet-n-greet-n-grab coffee setting. No. It was everyone seated (quietly) for a Q&A. I decide to give it a shot anyway and start shoveling Girl Scout cookies into Bean. At one of the most quiet moments she says (loudly), “Urp! S’cuse me!” And proceeds to repeat it about 5 times while I turn purple. Since there’s no way for me to explain to the crowd, “Oh, the girls do this at home at dinner all the time. It always gets a big laugh. Ha-Ha…,” I just slink out with my dignity in shreds. Maybe next time.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: The Bird and the Worm. The Used. And so it goes he crawls like a worm, crawls like a worm from the bird…[must have been out of his mind]