I am what I am, and that's all that I am

The other night, I was attempting to make dinner but something kept getting in my way.

That something was Chase's head.

Every time I went to add something to the pan or stir the food, his head was peering over the stove examining the bubbling concoction.

I had to pause, and was caught up in the memory of something I had completely forgotten about. I laughed as I saw this exact scene roughly 10 years before. It was during our early days in Seattle. Chase was about 10 months old and completely insatiable. His curiosity was so consuming that sometimes it drove me crazy.

EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT. when I was making dinner, he had to be propped up on my hip, watching everything I did. He would lean out, one hand tucked safely behind my arm, and peer intently into the pan. Time after time, I would pull his head back out of the way so I could see what I was doing.

There was no activity interesting enough to keep him busy during this time. He would crawl over to the stove, pull himself to standing at my legs, and cry and fuss until I picked him up. There was no way around it. I eventually just learned to multi-task, as all mothers do. I was able to cook, chop, rinse, and stir with one hand and a 20-pound kid on my hip.

But what's funny is that he is EXACTLY THE SAME at age 10 as he was at age 10 months.

It got me thinking about the other two, as well.

McKay has always been a rule follower. Even as a toddler, he felt compelled to obey the rules. So much so, that often his free-spirited brother caused him a great deal of stress. He'd watch anxiously as Chase ran behind the counter in a restaurant or tried to jump up and operate the cash register in the grocery store.

Which was probably not at all annoying to the store employee actually operating the cash register.

Looking to me for help, McKay would wring his hands in worry and say, "Chase! We not s'posed to do dat!" Chase, meanwhile, was completely oblivious to it all and could have cared less about getting in trouble. By the time I could catch him for a scolding, he was already off exploring something else.

Today, Mack is concerned as ever with doing what he's supposed to. The very idea of stepping out of line causes him near panic attacks and ulcers. In fact, last year the Husband offered him twenty bucks if he'd get a pink slip at school just once. Pink slips are handed out for being late, missing assignments, goofing off, etc., and they entitle one to a lunch detention with the teacher. From what we hear, they are used on quite a frequent basis at the middle school. At the start of sixth grade, McKay was consumed with worry that he'd get a pink slip, and stressed constantly about it.

Even with the Husband's offer, he has yet to earn that twenty bucks.

This little chica is also exactly the same as her baby self.

She is, and always has been, everybody's mother. I often hear her correcting the boys' grammar, as well as their behavior.

Her teaching moments and lectures are usually met with eye rolling and a lot of sarcastic comments, which enrages her even more.

[Ah, the wonders she could have done with baby Chase.]

She is also extremely articulate (and was as a toddler, too). I have to constantly explain and negotiate things with her. It's not a simple matter of being told no. She wants to know what, why, when, and how. The ever popular phrase, "because I said so" is just not in her vocabulary.

I don't know why it's so surprising to me that they are the same people they've always been. I think I've known it, but not really connected the pieces of this puzzle together.

Do you think that means I was a stupid baby?

Never mind. Don't answer that.

Sharing my fascinating medical history, one rash at a time

Yesterday I went to see a dermatologist. Though I've had the bloody appointment for a good month now, it was the soonest they could get me in. Good thing I'm not dying of skin cancer or leprosy. Sheesh.

Impatient much?

ANYway, I went to the doctor because I've got terrible eczema on my hands. I've had it sporadically my whole life on various parts of my body. It's a vicious cycle that is the bane of my existence. I get it. I ignore it. I try and self-treat it, knowing it will take forever to get in to see a doctor. I get so miserable that I finally go in. I get a steroid cream. It goes away.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

This particular round, it is on my two pinkie fingers and my two ring fingers. And just this week, patches started appearing on my two middle fingers. It's like I'm this freakishly ugly, red, scaly mirror image of myself.

I mentioned this oddity to the doctor, and she very nonchalantly said that skin rashes tend to be symmetrical, even on different limbs.

I brought this bit of information home to the Husband last night. He laughed and said, "See! Even your diseases are OCD!"

I find a deep sense of satisfaction in knowing that my diseases are as crazy as I am.

After all, I am nothing if not consistent.

We better have the cleanest teeth known to man or so help me...

Now that school is in full swing, I have been trying to get my routine put together. I forget with the chaos of summer how much I love a rigid schedule.

Like, laundry on Mondays and Thursdays. Bathrooms on Tuesdays and Fridays. Random closet organizing on Wednesdays.

It's pure OCD bliss, I tell you.

[And yes. I realize I'm totally weird. And, no, I do not care.]

This morning I decided to tackle the top level of our house. I started in my own closet, worked my way to the Husband's, and ended with both bathrooms.

There was dust, 409, and magic erasers flying everywhere.

So when I got to the kids' bathroom, I was prepared for the usual globs of toothpaste dribbled down the cupboard. I expected to find at least eight empty shampoo bottles lining their bathtub. [Which, naturally, I did.]

But what I was not prepared for?

The secret stash of old toothbrushes that someone has been collecting in the bottom drawer of the kids' bathroom.

It was like the serial killer trophy case for toothbrushes.

Remember that scene in the movie The Ghost and the Darkness when they find the lions' den and there are just piles and piles of bones?

It was like that. Only with toothbrushes.

I counted them (whilst wearing rubber gloves and tossing them into the trash) and there were 23.

Yes. TWENTY-THREE.

I am pretty sure that is like every toothbrush they've ever owned in their lives.

The question I have is why. Why?

I sort of get the rock/stuffed animal/coins/paper airplane collections. But old toothbrushes?

They have to get this from their father.

Faking it, for history's sake

The first day of school came and went. I had planned to stand on the driveway, camera in hand, and dutifully capture every detail of their departure.

After making breakfast and lunches, cajoling, nagging, and cleaning, I went to grab my camera. Tragically, the batteries were dead.

What is it they say about the shoe cobbler's kids never having shoes? A photographer's children never having photographs?

Yeah. Something like that.

So we staged some first-day-of-school-photos on the second day of school. Honestly, in 20 years, no one will be the wiser.

Plus, they'll be too busy mocking their hair and outfits (and blaming me for both) to really care, I am sure.

This boy came bursting home on the first day, eager, happy, and thrilled with his new grade. Second day? Eh. Not so much. Turns out that teachers like to give homework; plus, tests and studying will be requirements this year.

Unlike his hopes and dreams otherwise.

Good news is he will survive. Really, what choice does he have?

This kid wore his new clothes the first day (which, mind you, I forced him to purchase) then happily threw on his oldies for the second day. Don't know why I bother spending ANY money at all on him. He would prefer to dig through the trash and find old things to wear, use, and undoubtedly, eat.

He is excited to be playing violin this year, and when we went to rent his instrument, they offered a wide price range of options. When the sales lady assured us that they all play the same, but vary in looks only, he requested the oldest, most scratched up violin possible. She laughed, looked at me like, "Is he serious?" and I just shrugged my shoulders.

I am pretty sure he is the first kid in the history of the world to request the old, ugly violin. Most are probably begging and pleading for the newer, unscratched models.

Not Chase. Gotta love that kid. He's saving me thousands of dollars against my will.

The little princess has been THRILLED with her first few days of school. Her BFF Jilian is finally in her class this year, and they have been two peas in a pod. Every day is a new adventure in chatting with her besties. School work, reading, tests? Not on the priority list for this social butterfly. School = friends.

She dresses herself daily and (to my dismay) always looks way cuter than I do. I am thinking those critical comments she makes about my wardrobe might have some substance to them after all. Crap.

And me?

Well, I'm holding my own and trying not to have too much fun during the day. In three days, I have already treated myself to lunch, a movie, a shopping spree, and a nap. It's glorious. I think I love school more than anyone else in the world.

Except for one thing: Its constant interruption of my sleep.

(As modeled by Hannah for you here)

The six a.m. alarm clock is killing me. It will soon be dark at that hour, and cold, and I don't know how I will survive another nine months of this. I'm a frightful beast early in the morning and look something like this:

Yikes, right?

How many days until Christmas vacation?

Maybe, just maybe

My kids go back to school tomorrow. All week I have watched them with melancholy in my heart, loathe to part with them.

The past few days, I even mentally composed a touching, heart-felt post describing my feelings in great detail. One that would make all of you weep right alongside me.

And then...

Then they spent today fighting and tormenting each other.

And they whined to go to the pool. Then whined to go home once we got to the pool.

And left me a present of muddy shoes in the laundry room sink.

And accidentally dumped an entire plate of rice on the floor. Then attempted to sweep it up with a broom, leaving a sticky trail of wet rice behind.

And spilled -- not one -- but TWO glasses of milk at dinner.

And on my hands and knees, mopping it all up, I decided I actually might be ready for them to go back to school.

But then...

Then I walked past the boys' room and smiled at them -- heads together, bent over a Calvin & Hobbs book, their laughter filling the air.

And I hugged my baby girl goodnight, and for the millionth time kissed the tiny freckles dotted across her button nose. Her hair, smelling sweetly of shampoo, brushed my cheeks as we parted and I had to reach back down and hug her tight again.

And I talked a nervous middle schooler through his schedule yet again, loving the way he shrugged at the end of it saying, "Thanks, Mom," as though I accomplished a huge feat.

And I laughed out loud when my funny, quirky middle son set out his first-day-of-school-clothes, planning to wow his classmates with his retro Jaws tee shirt and his current favorite read. Noting with a smile, the man-eating theme with which he's chosen to start the fifth grade.

And at the end of the day I decided that maybe, just maybe, I might miss these little people after all.

Sleep, mountings, and a diet coke keg

I did not get to bed last night until four-in-the-freaking-a.m.

Yeah, I was partying like I am a twenty-something starlet with my peeps.

(Only we were all moms, and I believe most of us were wearing underwear. Except maybe Lori. She's kind of wild like that).

So, actually, I was partying like a thirty-something mom who has not seen her best girls for far too long.

And then the phone rings at the unholy hour of 8:28-in-the-freaking-a.m. It was the Husband, checking in and (really) calling to ensure that no one sleeps in around here.

Lord help me, I love that man, but he has no respect for the sleep in.

I have loads to do today, most of which involve sitting myself down at the pool with a book, though I doubt I will manage to keep my eyes open for even that. Thank heavens for lifeguards.

But before my head hits the desk in a sudden fit of sleep, I do need to address your burning questions about the photo mounting.

And, really, you flatter me. There are a lot of things I am capable of doing, but successfully mounting my own prints is not one of them. I would have no desire to even try.

[Is it just me or does that last paragraph sound kind of dirty? No? Nevermind.]

My secret weapon is my fabulous pro printhouse. I use them for everything. Their work is truly amazing. You will need to have a basic knowledge of Photoshop to order your prints, as you need to upload them in a specific PS format, but their quality is superb. If you are ever in need of any large-sized prints (or small sized, really) these folks are the way to go. They offer print mounting on a variety of substances for a very reasonable price. I've tried every type and have yet to find one that I do not love. They are awesome.

There. That is all. Off to tap a diet coke keg in hopes of making it until lunch time.

Happy Friday.