Sam's Club Part II

After my annoying encounter at the check-out, I made it all the way to the car and had the kids in (but not buckled) when I realized I couldn't find my phone.  I could. not. find. my. phone.  I had a crap load of hungry kids who had just been very patient on an excursion and now I was going to have to unload them from the car to head back inside to retrace our cat-herding steps, and then certainly stand in a hysterically dull line at the service counter.

Enter Becky K from The Blue Hutch!  I spied her in the parking lot, started shouting and waving my arms like the lunatic that I am, and caught her attention.  She was absolutely LOVELY and stayed with the kiddos at the car so I could race in for a fruitless search for my phone.  Yes.  Fruitless.  I thought I was going to throw up.

I returned, shoulders slumped, to the car.  After thanking Miss Becky who had delighted my kids (they talked about her incessantly for the next hour), I resigned myself to buckling them in and starting the drive home. 

But then. Then!  As I was wrangling with the five-point on Lizzy and digging out some of the junk she manages to store in her seat during a regular car ride, I felt something plastic-y and familiar.  No.  No Stinkin' WAY!  My lovely child with the most beautiful brown eyes I've ever seen had been SITTING on my phone for the better part of 20 minutes - her little tushie encountering "silent mode" over and over again as I called and called it - and didn't say a single word.  I almost crumbled.  Any of the other kids would have told me.  Even Annie would have looked up, then wriggled around trying to figure out what causing the rumble in her trunk.

But Lizzy?  No way.  In fact, she said "Your phone was making my hiney jiggle!". And laughed. 

Sweet Lizzy Lou.

Jury Duty

After 41 years in this sweet city, I received my first summons.  A part of me truly is crazy-hyper-strongly pro-civic duty, I live in a democracy and this responsibility is part of the privileges we have as citizens of our great country, etc, etc.  A more current, bigger part of me is the mother of 5 kids, ages 7 and under, who instantaneously became annoyed when I only looked at the envelope and was already figuring out the logistics necessary to make this work. Seriously.  I opened the mailbox, did the quick flip of the mail to see if anything interesting (ice cream coupon?) was there, saw the envelope, and within a microsecond launched into irritable planning mode.

Attitude adjustment necessary.

Are You Catholic?

Well.  Of all the ridiculous comments I've received while out with the kids, this one is new and probably the most obnoxious and offensive.

Let's back up.  I was unfortunately at Sam's Club yesterday.  Unfortunate because the place makes me crazy, but I keep returning because milk is nearly $1 cheaper than the grocery store and - what with us barreling through 8+ gallons/week - you can see why we go.

So there I was in the checkout, with 4 gallons of milk and some strawberries, surrounded by kids (and they were being very good), when this not-so-young man turns to me, surveys the brood, and asks me if I'm Catholic.  I immediately knew what he was implying - my Idiot Radar is fine tuned - gave him the hairy eyeball and my very best smirk and said "No Sir.  I am not".  To which he replied "Well, I thought only Catholics had that many kids.  God help you".

So I said "Well He does, thank you very much" and turned away.

For. Real.

John and I are pretty used to the comments and staring and I'm sure we do look a little odd when we're at the grocery or Target.  I'm talking and gathering and regroup the entire time, and the kids are actually pretty good when we're out of the house, but the constant movement and noise gives us the appearance of a beehive. And I have to admit, when I see other biggish families when I'm out, the first thing that pops in my wee little head is "Wow - that's a big family! Looks sort of weird".  So I'm aware we could be a bit of an oddity. But really not that odd.  There are lots of families out there with more kids.

But beside the ignorant stereotyping from this guy, the thing that bothers me most is that these strangers have no qualms about asking me ridiculous questions or making equally ridiculous comments with my children present.  My children who - for the most part - do not have auditory issues. My kids were all staring at this guy and who knows what they were thinking?

And what almost made it worse for them (but better for me) is that the cashier barely waited until the man was out of earshot when She.Went.Off. with the "Who does he think he is?!! Did you hear what he said to you?!!? You can have as many kids as you want and as long as you take care of them (I thought the "take care of them" part was funny) it's no one's business!  Do you hear me??!?".  I laughed and told her I was used to it, all the while thinking about how my kids think their world is normal - bless their little hearts! - and here, at Sam's, they hear from strangers that we aren't.  It happens all the time.

Good grief.

Biggish Family Logistics - Not Funny At All

Tornado sirens exploded in the middle-of-the-night a while back, launching John and I out of bed.  Surely a false alarm, right? Right?  Late Spring.  That's when sirens are supposed to go off.  It is not Late Spring.  It is Winter = no tornadoes.

John ran downstairs to check the radar while I paused to assess the "feel" of things.  Lots of wind, some rain, what the heck?  The warnings just kept going and when I heard an actual forecaster talking at us on television - which meant SOMETHING was going on - I launched into tornado mode. This means grab the kids and head for the basement.  Easy, right? No. Not easy because there are five kids.  Five LITTLE kids who may not be able to get themselves downstairs briskly enough for my liking, because tornadoes don't wait until everyone is in the safest spot possible before they continue on their course.

So there I was, my arms full with Annie and a maglite, directing Ainsley to head downstairs, when I headed over to the Trips' room where Lizzy (thankfully) was already out of bed.  I sent her on her way, and then I paused.  Gracie and Johnny were lights-out.  Who to grab? I can't do both because of Annie.  Would one listen and immediately follow orders so I can haul the other?

And that is what I freak about when I can't sleep at night and my brain is tormented by worst-case-scenarios. Fortunately, insomnia is rare for me.

And this is why I talk to the kids about emergency plans.

And I realize this is a bummer of a post, but everything turned out just fine.  There weren't any tornadoes in our area and John was 1/2-way up the stairs to tell me as I was part-way through my thought process.

So we went back to bed.

Oh, For Crying Out Loud

So I have this not-speedy-quick "race" in one week and, in spite of my maddening injury, I'm getting pretty fired up about it.  My 7-miler yesterday didn't produce any serious pain and I figure tacking on another 6 miles next Sunday will be a breeze.  Right? Don't worry, I'm not delusional about this. I know for a fact that my body will not be pleased with me after this gig and will yap at me about it for some weeks after.  But it's worth it.

But then tragedy struck this evening.  Real, honest-to-goodness tragedy that would have brought me to out-loud cursing if the wee ones weren't around.  I was negotiating Annie and trying to scarf down my dinner of pasta when an errant, sauce-laden noodle fell off my fork, tumbled down my shirt, my jeans, and landed with a wet plop on my running shoes.  I took a deep breath before I glanced down at the crime scene, steadied myself, stole a peek, and...flipped out.

Keep in mind I am not materialistic (at least not very).  Example: only one of my pair of jeans has intact knees and, as much as I've tried, I can not seem to bring the ill-fitting, ripped jeans statement back to it's glamor of the 80's. Therefore, I just look like a hobo, walking around my not-so-shabby neighborhood with my torn pants. My other pair of regular, non-jeans pants has the seam coming apart in the rear-area, but I also don those babies on anyway.  Heck, I even wore them to church last Sunday.

But my running shoes!!!  Now those are an entirely different animal and I am borderline neurotic about my shoes. I normally would not be wearing them around the house so they only have running miles on them, but this ridiculous plantar fasciitis necessitates constant arch support (golly I sound old!).  And I have this freaking race coming up and can not handle taking one million strides in my kicks, seeing the horribleness of a stain every time my right foot plants.  Because, even if I scrub the daylights out of them (they are soaking in Oxi Clean as I write), we all know it's nearly impossible to get red sauce completely out. 

Slow, deep breaths. They're only shoes.  They're only shoes. They're only shoes. Millions upon millions of people don't even own shoes and I should not freak about mine.  I should not.  I will not.  And I'm going to have to repeat this over and over in my head for the next several days until I don't get a case of the shakes every time I see them.

Curses!!!!

Warning: loads of whining to follow.

My body has betrayed me.

In all honesty it did a long time ago when God's plan included triplets, and I've come to a deeper, truer level of thankfulness (not to be confused with acceptance, mind you) of the aftermath of being blessed with a total of nearly 15 pounds and 51 inches of healthy babies.  Sigh. Shoulder droop.

But now.  Now my pride has taken a hit and I didn't have a lot left over to give up.

I'm supposed to be training for a 1/2- marathon coming up in...oh...3 WEEKS and I've been sidelined with an injury.  I've been running for over 25 years and have never been seriously-take-a-break-from-running injury and now is not the time. You see, running is one of the very, very, very few things I can do well and is the only form of exercise I enjoy.   

I've been fired up about this 1/2 for 8 months now and did everything just right.  Built the best base possible.  I couldn't have been more careful about increasing my mileage, blah, blah, blahbiddy blah.

And now it's ended and I'm still (stupidly) going to hobble through this thing for many reasons.   I ran 4.4 miles yesterday and my foot (plantar fasciitis) was only  yelling a little bit, so I think I can add another 9 miles to it without causing more injury, right?

Double curses.

Knufflebunny Sniffles

We love the Knufflebunny books around here and if you haven't read them, then you need to shimmy yourself down to the library and check them out. 

We gave the third one to Lizzy for Christmas and there's a problem.  A big problem.  And that problem is my eyes get all misty and my throat gets all chokey as I read the last couple pages.  For the record I am not a crier. That doesn't mean I'm unemotional, I just prefer not to cry.  So when I'm trying to play it cool and read Knufflebunny Free in a normal voice to the kids and not doing a terribly good job of it, they turn their heads around and look at me like I'm a crazy person. Then I have to cough and gather myself and continue reading, trying not to weep. And they turn around again to catch another glance as I manage to finish.  It's the "what is WRONG with you???" look.

I've read Knufflebunny Free at least 3 dozen times now and my emotional reactions don't change.  It's actually making me coo coo that a children's book can manipulate me like this. It isn't the only one. Miss Fannie's Hat has the same effect.  It's been one of Ainsley's favorites for over 3 years now.  Three years of becoming all teary when reading a book about an old lady who donates her most favorite hat "the pink straw with roses" to the church auction. 

When did my tough shell break apart?  And where are the pieces so I can glue-gun the thing back together?