What, me crabby?

So, I'm writing a post, when what I should REALLY be doing is writing for the people who actually PAY me. Ahem, Mikey.

I actually feel pretty good right now. I succeeded in getting to the floor surface of my daughter's room. Because, since about April-ish, we haven't really seen her floor--what with all the T-shirts, socks and other clothes that couldn't walk their own way into the hamper. You can't train clothes like you used to, ya know? There was also a lot of "art projects"--things made from twisted up paper, paper clips, elastic bands--stuff that really didn't look like art so much as garbage can candidates. So, while she was at school this week, I logged about 25 hours in her room getting rid of bags of junk like really important worn-out hair elastics, crumbled notes with really important statements like "Clue #4" on one side and nothing else on the other, really important invitations to get a free Bratz tote when she buys another Bratz item, which should never EVER happen considering the "gently used" (read: never used) Bratz items she currently owns should all seem BRAND new.

Organizing--it's a tough job, and I'm not the best person to do it. "Mike, look at this toy from when Cara was three! We should keep it for the memories." In actuality, the toy lost the right to take up residence about six years ago.

But if left to Mike, the whole room would just be thrown in the garbage can. His idea of organizing is black trash bags at the curb. I, meanwhile, try to sort by what Ryan could still like, what Cara might still like, what can be given to friends, what can be put in a charity bin and what can just go in the garbage. What I call organizing, Mike calls a waste of time. But the last time I let him "organize" without me--which was years ago--we lost kid bikes and ride-on toys that were still IN HEAVY ROTATION! He was quite pround that the garage looked neater. Meanwhile, I nearly had an aneurysm in my effort to not actually strangle him. To this day, when something goes missing, he's knows he's guilty until proven innocent.

So, what's on the Sunday plan for this weekend? Well, with my organizing done (except for the basement toys, our entire attic and our garage) the kids and I will take some kind of day trip. This week's paper ran it's annual list of apple picking sites, so we'll probably do that as long as the weather's good. Some places offer just apple picking. Other's have apple picking and hay rides. And some have apples, hayrides, pony rides and a petting zoo situation. Or I can just base the choice on distance from our home. Because, with my kids, half the fun is definitely not "getting there." No, for them, half the fun is getting what mom planned to give them, and then begging and pleading for mom to give them more. At which point, the "fun" comes to a "pause" while I dissolve into a stream-of-consciousness tirade with the word "ingrates" invoked several times, Ryan crys, and Cara grouses.

...But it's all good.

On second thought

Okay, I know I ain't too quick on the uptake, but it dawned on me that Mike gave me this blog so I could complain online instead of to him directly. Ingenious. All husbands should take note. Wife: "Do you know how tired I am? Do you know what pains in the ass these kids were today???" Husband: "Honey, I'll tuck the kids in. Why don't you write it all down on your blog, and you'll feel so much better." To himself: "And leave me the hell out of it!"

I took the kids to the outdoor art fair Sunday. They were into it until we got there. Then, they complained bitterly until I got them each an Italian ice. Which actually worked out, because I wouldn't let them into any booths with their treat--"Stand right here where I can see you, but don't come in with that sticky mess!," and I got to look at a few things without them moaning. Of course, as soon as the ice was gone, they started in again. It's their job and they do it well.

By the end, my son told me his legs were tired and his feet were sore, so, "Can we go to the park now, Mom?" ...It all makes sense when you're four.

I had to hit up Starbucks first. After the park, where my daughter got nauseous because she was reading and swinging at the same time, we picked up groceries "for our dinner tonight. We'll have chicken. For our dinner tonight. This is what we're eating TONIGHT." We get to the parking lot and Ryan says, "Can we get pizza at Ray's now? I'm hungry." Is it me?? When I say no, he starts yelling wildly in his car seat. But isn't it great when you can just slam the car door and all that yelling just goes away. Until you get to the driver's side door, open it, and it's still there...."I'M HUNGRY NOW!! I DON'T LIKE CHICKEN!! I WANT PIZZA!" Then Cara chimes in, "JUST SHUT YOUR MOUTH RYAN! YOU'RE HURTING MY EARS! MOM! MAAAAHHMMM!"

Cut to Mike, on the sofa in the basement, TV quietly droning. "....and when we come back, it's Jets ball."

See, ingenious.