Well I did, in fact, survive my surgical ordeal.  It hurt a hell of a lot more than I thought it would and I now look like I’m storing baseballs for the winter, but at least it’s over with.  I felt a little wimpy opting to be put to sleep, but I’m seriously so glad I did.  I don’t like being awake while things are being removed from me.  It’s why I like being unconscious during childbirth.  And sex.

Probably my biggest anxiety about yesterday, more so than wondering if I have cancer, was having an IV put in.  I won’t go into detail — mostly because I go completely limp if I even think about it, and if I’m limp, I can’t type — but I had a really traumatic IV situation four years ago when I had Veruca.  I think I can sum up the experience in two succint words that will help you understand the reason for my trepidation:  Teaching.  Hospital.

Anyway, the nurse yesterday started out by saying, like every other nurse has said to me every time I’ve needed an IV or blood work, “So, did you forget to bring your veins, today?”  She chuckled, I stared at her blankly.  Funny, so funny.  Lady, do you really think you’re the first person who has ever said that to me?  I know this drill by now.  So, of course, I had to get two IVs because the first one wasn’t working right.

It’s so weird the way anaesthesia works.  One minute I was in the chair, contemplating if I should trust any oral surgeon who has a framed Cyndi Lauper album cover on his operating room wall, and then it was over.  I was in “recovery.”  My mother was there with Veruca and Devil Dog.  My mom was helpful and my children were horrified by my appearance.

Recovery is going okay.  I’m taking a lot of drugs.  I absolutely could never be a pill addict.  For one thing, it’s too hard to remember times and amounts, though I guess the average addict doesn’t get too concerned about adhering to dosing instructions.  But also, meds just mellow me out a bit and make me incapable of proofreading.  Okay, Percocets make me kind of funny but 800mg Ibuprofens are like heavy wool blankets that smother the Percocet humor, as well as any intelligence, imagined or otherwise, right out of me.

Special K is away for my brother’s bachelor party.  He really needs some training in how to be a dude.  This is how it’s supposed to work when you’re away with fifteen other guys:  He should have a one-call limit that consists of “Hi, is everyone okay?  I’m cooking my dinner on a stick right now.  I’ll see you Sunday night.”  Instead I keep getting these, “I feel like I shouldn’t have gone with you still being so sore.  I miss you and the kids.  I love you.  I’ll text you.  I’m in a canoe right now,” type of calls.

For one thing, when my husband is adrift in a  hollowed-out tree, I’d appreciate him concentrating on that task instead of texting me.  I knew we should have reviewed the rules before he left.  He’s failing at all things macho and chauvinistic!

The kids have actually been pretty well-behaved in their father’s absence, though it’s only been ten hours.  Veruca has been quite solemn in her demeanor and told me “I’m going to behave this weekend because I know you don’t feel well.”  DD keeps getting close to my face and screaming, “You’re sick Mommy!  You’re sad and you’re sick!”  Aspie cuddled with V for 2 hours this morning watching Sleeping Beauty.  His facial expressions made it so evident that he’d rather be playing Twister with a cactus or living in a universe where there is no math, but he sat there and watched it, allowing Veruca to stuff fistfuls of her popcorn directly into his mouth — basically, she treats him like a pet llama — so I could rest.  Unsolicited and stoic support from a nine-year-old.  Pretty amazing.

Other than that, it’s a quiet day.  I’m getting a ton of stuff done on my sites –yes, I started a third site — but I have a hard time getting what I want.  Like, I have a vision of how I want each site to look, but I am having trouble finding someone who a)  gets it b)  knows how to do it and c)  speaks English.

Time for a nap.  The heavy wool blankets are getting the best of me.

Happy Memorial Day.  It seems so odd that today is a day to recognize our fallen soldiers.  Men and women gave their lives in the name of freedom and protection.  In exchange, we get a three-day weekend out of the deal complete with barbecue and 20% off selected items at Best Buy.  Something seems very inequitable about this.

We had my brother — incidentally, a veteran – and his fiancee over this afternoon.  As their wedding approaches (just a few more weeks!) it’s nice to take last-minute advantage of these lazy days. 

Aspie was all kinds of dramatic this weekend.  He actually ended up on punishment for his mouth and his penchant for throwing laundry on his bedroom floor.  I encourage free thought and independence and even intelligent debate but I won’t raise a fucking brat.  So you won’t see him in many of the pics of this weekend — and let me assure you that there are no pictures of him smiling – because every time I pointed a camera in his general direction he pretended he was ducking from shrapnel. 

You know, sometimes I feel like he’s almost cured of Asperger’s Syndrome.  Okay, I’m no Jenny McCarthy, but I wonder if he was misdiagnosed or something because he seems so normal lately.  This weekend was a reality check.  Just in the way he acted most of the weekend.  Moody, could not — literally couldn’t — accept advice, guidance or information from any person.  He wasn’t just being a know-it-all…it extends beyond that.  It’s really annoying to deal with and I spent a large part of the weekend doing my own little self-control exercises as to not lose my fucking mind and bash his teeth down his throat — thankfully I’m not a teeth-basher type…mostly because I’m well aware of the cost of dentistry.  The only thing more difficult than dealing with a nine-year-old who won’t listen to reason, is dealing with a nine-year-old who won’t listen to reason whilst he’s wearing a blackwatch plaid bathrobe in 80 degree weather paired with horizontally striped pajama pants, white soccer socks (pulled up over said pants and hiked up to the knees), a black skull cap and a lightsaber threaded through his bathrobe belt.  I would be lying if I said I didn’t fantasize that I was in some Star Wars movie and I was given the power to vaporize him.  In a “comes back in a sequel” sort of way, naturally.  Do people actually get vaporized in Star Wars?  I don’t know, but I’d like to think so.

Veruca spent most of the time in the yard saying , “Mommy, take a picture of me now.  Take a picture of me with this pose.  How do you like this one?”  So, yeah…most of her pictures are not candids though she tries hard to make them appear as such.  She is fully aware of the camera at all times.

She’s really keyed up about her upcoming role as flower girl in my brother’s wedding.  The plan?  I’m not telling her that it’s the day of the wedding until it’s time to put her dress on.  After the original dress purchase, it took me a month to get her to stop asking if today was wedding day. 

Oh, and we let her get a pet.  An ant.  And he has to stay outside.  And he may look a little different every day but it’s only because he’s growing up so fast.  Shhhh.

And, yes.  Her fingernails are blue.

Devil Dog tired himself with endless time running around and playing soccer.  The original goal was to exhaust him for bed but I think he exhausted my brother more.  Age is a bitch.

DD really is my brutish child, simple in his needs (he requires a lot of food and has started a terrible habit of groping me and then exclaiming, “I feel better.” — he’s your basic man).  His newest trick is Love With An Agenda.  He’ll spontaneously approach and tell me he loves me and he’ll kiss me.  Within a few minutes I’ll realize that I’ve been pickpocketed of something.

So much is going on right now. 

I was supposed to be away this weekend for Lola’s baby shower.  My mom hurt her back so that trip is scrapped. 

I am starting full-time at Evil Beet on Tuesday which requires a big life adjustment for me.  It’s a good and positive move but I need to get some serious structures in place so my life feels more organized and doesn’t crumble down around me.  I’m strongly considering getting Devil Dog and Veruca into a pre-school program a couple days out of the week.  They are sick of me.

When I was planning on going to PA this weekend, Aspie and Veruca were coming with me.  Special K was taking Devil Dog to see his parents on Long Island.  Now, through some amazing twist of luck, fate and insanity, K is taking all three kids to New York.  All.  Three.  Kids.  Allow that to sink in, folks.  I can’t believe it either.  When I have child-free weekends like this, and this isn’t my first, I make huge plans to get drunk and pee with the door closed, but guess what?  I never do.  I usually end up being more of a raging bitch than usual.  I’ll eat an entire family pack of Twix, end up sleeping with candy wrappers scattered all around me, do a lot of dramatic sighing and obsessive texting throughout the day to get updates on the heathens.  I’m really screwed up.

I’m hoping Special K doesn’t read WHN tonight because if he does, my kid-free weekend may be revoked.  As a matter of fact, as soon as I publish this, I’m army crawling down to his desktop and yanking the cable modem and telling him I forgot to pay the bill.  Because I must tell you…Veruca and Devil Dog have been fighting all day.  Like, beating the shit out of each other type of fighting.  I know you must find it very difficult to believe that this child is capable of violence, but…

Veruca screams at DD, “Hold my hand and don’t let go for anything!”  DD screams back, “No!  Be quiet!”  

“Yes!” 

“No!”

“Yes!”

“No!”

And then a white patent leather go-go boot to DD’s forehead, a closed-fist punch to Veruca’s jaw (from DD, not me…though tempting).  I freak my freak, yell at them, and then force them to hug, kiss and proclaim their love for one another.  Sidenote:  As if you couldn’t tell, DD is still into the “I’m blind!  I can’t see!  I can’t see!” routine.  

Then the cycle beings again.  “Hold my hand and don’t let go for anything!”  Fuck.  My.  Life.

Aspie got in trouble for talking in class today.  And when I say “got in trouble,” I basically mean that he was gently spoken to.  He’s pretty devastated.  You know that he prides himself on stellar behavior and a sparkling academic record.  Personally, I’m thrilled he’s getting a little static.  Recently he’s been a little mouthy, a little rebellious and he’s getting a sense of humor.  For my Aspie, this is improvement.  I want him to have a voice so others don’t choose his voice for him.  Developing a sense of humor and making jokes means he’s less doom and gloom.  We haven’t had a talk about Obama’s strategy for Iraq in weeks (however, he is still staying awake nights, worried about college applications, choosing a major and trying to figure out how far he’ll have to commute to campus.  Baby steps).  He’s not only having more conversation, he’s initiating conversation.  Granted, the topic may have to do with the tragically short life of a mayfly, but again…it’s progress.

Pray for me this weekend.  Hell, pray for Special K.  He’s gonna need it.

Because you aren’t going to get it here.  Not today.

I realize that a lot of my parenting posts have a negative tone to them.  It’s not that I don’t love and adore my children and cherish many things about my life with them.  But, seriously, isn’t that what every mommy blog out there is about?  Feeding tots organic, only grown in the US pears while simultaneously tandem breast-feeding their sling-bound newborns?  I, for one, am sick of it.  I’ve been known to toss frozen mini waffles at my kids (I do toast them) whilst being completely unaware of their country of origin and babies in slings just feel like extended pregnancy to me.

This is what my life looks like tonight:

1)  Feeling really mad that Special K didn’t leave work (over an hour away) until 7:30 p.m.  This is an extremely rare occasion, couldn’t be helped, and he did call.  I did do my perfect “No problemo, honey” bullshit routine on the phone, because I’m doing the whole supportive wife thing this week.

2)  I’m calculating just how many hours today that I’ve been dealing with the shit my kids dole out to me.  It’s been fourteen straight, just in case you care.

3)  I ate Jell-o pudding for dinner.  I’m considering Cheetos for dessert.

4)  Aspie is downstairs.  He is the smartest person in this house; he consistently positions himself on whichever floor has the fewest people.  I think that’s called “flying under the radar.”  He does it better than anyone I know.  He calls it “Giving you alone time Mommy.”  I’m no fool.

5)  Veruca is in bed.  Kind of.  She’s been up three times for pee breaks and once to ask who, in her room, keeps saying her name.  After extensive investigation, we discovered who it was-her.

6)  Devil Dog is in his bed crying.  Well, he was crying, begging to use the potty.  He is two, a boy and has zero interest in controlling his bodily functions.  But he picked up this catch phrase along with “my tummy hurts”, “you’re fresh” and “what the hell?” and now, these are all I hear.  Personally, I think he just asks to use the potty because it gives him a couple minutes of access to his toddler unit.

In the past couple of minutes, I’ve been gifted with some silence.

You know that parenting is going to be hard.  After all, if forming decent humans was easy, society would look a hell of a lot better than it’s current appearance.  What they don’t tell you, and who is “they” anyway?…but what they don’t tell you is about the resentment that mothers feel.  I don’t know, maybe I’m the only one.  I don’t resent my kids; they were just the result of margaritas or failed Ortho-Evras.  But there are days when I look in the mirror and look at my life and feel like it all went to them.  They deserve everything I had to give; I’m their mother.  I’m supposed to give it all away.  But I never replenished and now I’m too fucking tired.  Parenting has become a survival sport and I’ve lost the battle.  I’m exhausted, my stamina is gone and they are stomping on my limp carcass.  Over-dramatic; I’m aware.

In other news, my editor emailed me some suggestions on how to help with my bandwidth issues.  Which is awesome; she’s a wealth of information.  I think she reads here and just shakes her head at my idiocy, but then eventually takes pity on me and sends me nice emails that, in their original, pre-edited state, probably read more like :  “Dude, Are you really this stupid that you can’t properly manage your sad and insignificant blog?”  I also think she, like my other childless followers, reads here and then serious contemplates permanent sterilization.  To her and to all the rest of you:  yes.  Consider it.  Strongly.

Special K just walked in.  Veruca is on her fourth pee break, Devil Dog is screaming again and Aspie…well he’s still giving me my alone time.  I am going to lock myself in a room and watch a couple episodes of Intervention.  Most people watch for inspiration; I’ll be watching for technique.