Tuesday, February 23, 2016

In Which I Remember I Have a Blog

Dear reader, do not think that funny stuff (well, funny for you) has stopped happening. It’s just that I have lacked the energy to form the events into cohesive sentences.

Also, my alarmingly dwindling attention span means that I can’t focus for longer than a Facebook post. (Facebook, as I recently found out, is the social media for OLD PEOPLE, doncha know. The cool kids today are all on Instagram – sorry, “Insta” – and Snapchat and Twitter and other things for the young and cool and not the rapidly closing in on middle age harried looking mom types. The only thing more old-fashioned than Facebook is actually going to over a friend’s house in person to complain about stuff and pull out pictures of your kids from your wallet. While maybe drinking tea. Basically I’m the equivalent of mailing a letter.)

But here is a short summary of what is going on here these days:

We are on the spaceship hurtling toward Planet Teen. I am piloting the spaceship, which is a really dumb idea, because I clearly know nothing about this planet we're about to land on. Is the air breathable? Is there water? Scientists have confirmed signs of life in the form of clothes all over the ground. The inhabitants seem to sustain themselves with WiFi. Although I am going in for a blind landing, I am sure of a few things: I don't speak the language so I will say something wrong, I will not understand All the Things and I will definitely yell too much even though the inhabitants DID NOTHING WRONG, and it was probably the inhabitants of the neighboring planet (Neptween) that are at fault.

Meanwhile, the fourth grader is spending a great deal of time creating a cache of paper weapons. We have a spear, club, ninja star, gun, sword and sheath. You guys, when the paper zombie apocalypse comes, we are going to be SO READY.

5.5 year old loves the doctor. What’s wrong with that kid? He cannot wait to have appointments. And he lovingly peels off the sticker he receives after each visit and places it on his window. A doctor sticker collection. I guess they will come in handy when we need to corral our paper zombies after clubbing them to death. (Does one club a zombie to death? I’m still in 1998 with Buffy – omg how many plot lines would be solved if those crazy kids had cell phones? – so I’m well-versed on vampire-killing methods but fuzzier re the zombies).

Babies continue to adhere to their strict schedule of emptying drawers, getting their fingers caught in said drawers, falling down, banging their heads, finding my pocketbook, fighting over toys, poking each other’s belly buttons, climbing on furniture, spilling their spill-proof sippy cups and testing gravity ("Gravity Log, Day 1: I dropped the pacifier. It fell. Now I am sad." "Gravity Log, Day 237: I dropped the pacifier. It fell. Now I am sad."). They are also speaking fluently in the language of Grunt. In addition, they continue to enjoy middle of the night parental visits to adjust blankets and reinsert pacifiers. I will never not be tired. I know that now.

Piles of crap (yes, they are members of the family and deserve their own update) continue their relentless takeover of the house. They’ve gotten more brazen. Not one week after we did a big POC cleanup, a new generation arises, stronger and more insidious than ever before, spreading their many-tentacled grasp onto every flat surface of our living space. And even some of the bumpy spaces. They are creative, I'll give them that. One day I will give up and graciously give over the house to the POCs. I will let them grow wild, as they are meant to be -- the heaps of papers "to be filed," serving dishes from Shabbat, the remains (or beginnings, they look similar) of someone's art project, bits of tape, elderly magazines. Also toothpicks. As for me, I will go live in my car. I'll be okay – there’s a hardy supply of half-finished water bottles, granola crumbs and used tissues.

As for me, I’m busy working, parenting badly, losing my patience/temper, screaming and then feeling guilty, cooking food at least one person will groan about, doing endless loads of laundry (we are overachievers in the wet towel on the floor category), opening the dishwasher to load it and then yelling at the child whose job it was to unload it, looking for a dishtowel to mop up the latest spill (cups of water are always strategically placed to maximize spill potential) and then yelling at the child whose job it was to fold the towels and put them away, prying potential choking hazards/poisonous objects/our Maccabi cards out of the babies’ hands, holding lengthy discussions with the children about whether they should take a sweatshirt to school today (because I’m also a live weather app, able to foresee not only the outside temperature but also the inside classroom temperature, so I can accurately determine the most appropriate outerwear for the day), listening to passionate monologues about the unfairness of 1. homework, 2. who got picked for a thing today in school (spoiler alert: it that was not the child who is talking to me), 3. the responsibilities and/or privileges of a different child in the house (spoiler alert 2: the other children have way less of the former and way more of the latter than the child speaking to me), despairing at the state of my house while muttering “oh my god this place is a wreck,” looking for the missing: library book, shoe, USB stick, school project, tiny shekel store toy, cell phone or water bottle cap, attempting to listen empathetically, shouting things about dirty dish placement and homework completion and fight stoppage and omigod will I ever stop saying these same sentences????? and of course throwing out art projects, math tests and assorted memorabilia when the children aren’t looking. (ProTip: Hide the art projects under some paper towels or vegetable peels in the trash because the children WILL discover your dirty deed and there’s only so many more years you can blame the babies for it.)

So that's what we're up to. How are you doing?