Why Would I Sleep?

Seven hours in an airport, with three kids, stuck waiting near the gate because of frequent weather updates from the connecting airport. Followed by a missed connection, which resulted in a night spent in the connecting city. With no luggage. No toothpaste. And no clean underwear.

Did I mention the kids? How about the sister-fights at the back of the plane during boarding, after the toothpasteless night, which had me worried that we’d be booted off the plane and added to a never-let-these-fools-fly-again list. All while Sam sat in a nearby seat muttering sweet nothings about guns and bombs, since he saw pictures of them at the security checkpoint. (Each time, I spoke sternly about the potential consequences of such mutterings, to which he responded, loudly, “MOM, DO YOU REALLY THINK THE GOVERNMENT IS MONITORING OUR CONVERSATIONS??” Then he continued his Monologue of Weaponry.

They let us travel anyway. So much for Homeland Security.

Whaddya want? I’m living in a hotel!

*Thanks to Uncle Mike for the quote/complaint. Please note that all queries will be handled in the order received, that is to say, sometime next fall, maybe*

Saturday, April 20th - Wednesday, the 23th: Pick up boxes at moving company, pack, swear, bruise self, pack more, clean things, make arrangements for three (count ‘em, three) moving day all-day playdates, make liberal use of garbage dump and Goodwill bins, throw broken toys away, pack, swear more, pack, lose ability to speak, pack more.

Thursday, April 24th: Totally panic about a) lack of readiness for movers arrival (April 25th), and b) amount of stuff packed to go to hotel (= too much stuff.) Transport cats and children to hotel; check in. Unpack and organize; repack a lot of it.

Friday, April 25th: Distribute children to friends’ houses, all except for Abby, whose friend spent the previous evening puking. Return to house at 7:30 AM to meet movers. Pack, clean, freak out excessively. Praise Abby for dealing so well with 10 hours of total boredom. Collect children. Return to hotel for 9:30 PM collapse.

Saturday, April 26th: Return to house for final cleanup. Encourage kids to play in the yard. Assume that Abby’s whining and complaining is an emotional reaction to moving. Repeatedly point out that lying down in the parked, hot car might make her feel worse rather than better. Head out to Hannah’s soccer game, in search of normalcy. Be thankful that Abby doesn’t barf until after she exits the car. Yep. Right on the sidewalk.

Walk down the street to local grocer to obtain water, tissues, and plastic bags.

Proceed on foot to Hannah’s game.

Park self and green-faced daughter in adjacent baseball field, far away from all other children. Try not to laugh as Hannah screams, “FEEL BETTER, ABBY!!!” for all to hear. Cycle through three different grassy locations with puking child, bottle of rinse water, and rapidly filling plastic bag full of barfy tissues. Enjoy field nap in the sun with Abby once the barfing subsides.

Proceed to hotel and enjoy three more vomit explosions.

Nervously consult WebMD to check the “when to seek medical advice” guidelines regarding dehydration.

Sunday, April 27th: Spend the day rejoicing over the fact that the stomach storm subsided just as I was figuring out how far we were from the nearest ER.

End the day watching in horror as Hannah begins puking.

Seriously appreciate the part of hotel life that includes daily housekeeping.

All stuff in storage, kids adjusting, Sam at camp with his class for a week (departure day was the same day as closing) spring has sprung, finally…

Sam: Mom, don’t you think violence is funny?

Me: No, Sam not at all. In fact, it really upsets me that you think that.

Sam: Mom, girls like dolls. Boys like action figures. Girls like gentleness. Boys like violence. That’s why we have different bathrooms.

Yes, the spring activities have run me ragged, and the kids have been sick, and I keep falling asleep on my living room floor at 9 PM, but mainly I’ve been absent because we’re moving.

That’s right. Packing up, moving out, arranging for utility shut offs, address changes and the usual assortment of move-related activities, in addition to the facts that:

1) trying to sell a house in this real estate market is scary if not downright stupid
2) we’ll be living in a hotel for a while, and
3) oh, there’s no three.

But those are all the items that I have not written about yet and likely won’t get back to, so let’s just move on shall we?

Please bear with me while I try to pack up the house without boxing up any kids or cats. We’ll be moving it all to a secret and undisclosed location (please take note of my safety sense, my children, namely Abby) since this is, afterall, the internets.

At least here, I won’t have to change my address.

It’s trash day, and I just cleaned out my freezer, because for the first time in five years I remembered that I’ve been meaning to do that and I remembered it on trash day.

I found some chicken breasts that expired in 2004.

This begs a question, which you can answer by clicking here:

What? It was frozen!

This has been your meat update.

So, I go AWOL for a while, and I return to find that WordPress has launched a whole new format on the “Write” page. Am I being punished?

I know that it all looks the same out there to you readers, and I’m probably breaking some sort of unwritten bloggers’ rule by even bringing this up, but from in here? Downright trippy.

No really, it’s fine, and I’m sure that in some way it’s even better than it used to be, but, well, some of us have issues with change, and I suppose I’m just really, in some very roundabout way, asking for sympathy, or a hug, or maybe a red lollipop.

And holy cow, this is my 200th post.

While I was growing up, I thought that parents were required to share birthdays. That for any given person, spousal choice was limited to whomever was born on that same day. This is because my mom and dad share a birthday, so I just assumed it was a rule.

Of course, I was also shocked — I mean, SHOCKED — to realize that Mom and Dad don’t know everything, that Santa, The Birthday Elf and The Easter Bunny are more “imaginary friend” than “guy who breaks into the house and leaves presents,” and that chocolate doesn’t grow on trees. Dammit.

Happy Birthday, Mom and Dad! Here’s to life celebrations and many, many more.

The girls have upgraded their efforts from public access infomercials to music videos.

This is entirely kid-produced. No help or interference from any adult. Computers are cool. And you gotta love the toilet metaphor.