Halloween. Saturday. Candy. Love it. Caleb and I are candy crime-lords--we send kids out into the streets to get candy and then we collect a hefty cut of it.

 

It is nature's way.

 

Though, now that I think about it, if Caleb and I donned our Dora and Diego costumes one more time, I'm pretty sure we'd get a stupid amount of candy all by our grown-up selves.

 

We will be one candy-collecting kid short this year. Cheyenne is out with what appears to be the dreaded H1N1. She's not feeling completely miserable but I'm still keeping her quarantined in her room until her fever goes down and stays down. So far the other children don't seem to exhibit any symptoms, and thank God for that. I took them to get their vaccines last Thursday so if they can hold out for another week or so, maybe we'll be okay around here.

 

And the flu can just suck it.

 

 

Here's Mia:

 

"Mom. I LOVE 'We Will We Will Rock You'. I am that guy's biggest fan. I love him--like, the same way a person loves a mom. But I hate the man who sings 'We Are the Champions My Friends'. He is HORRIBLE."

 

"Mom. I am going to be a singer just like Freddie Mercury. I am going to sign up for singing clubs in 5 different places: Alabama--that's not too far away, is it, Mom? And also Texas, Oklahoma City, Newcastle, and Georgia."

 

"Mom, I LOVE my new bedspread! My room looks just like 'streme makeover homedishun. You know, with Ty and all his friends. I'm going to be on that show. And Freddie Mercury is going to be my friend, and he's going to build a dream house and I'm going to sing on Ty's horn."

 

 

The "bedspread" is a big honkin' piece of supposedly damaged fabric that I found for a ridiculously cheap price at Hobby Lobby. I didn't sew it in anyway; I just tucked it in on all 4 sides of the mattress (that never gets slept on).

 

 

I finally hung Mia's paintings.

 

 

In case anyone was wondering what that big polka-dot thing on the wall was.

 

 

It's hard to decorate a room shared by a girl and a boy.

 

 

Now if I could only get them to sleep in here...

• Exercise! Exercise is vital to a mommy's mental well-being. At least, that is what I'm told. I like the idea of it. For a while I tried it myself. And it gave me a sense of peace, a "high", if you will. Recently, cold rainy weather, soccer practice, band competitions, and chaos in general have made finding the time to fit in said exercise nearly impossible. So I'm thinking of trying something else in order to squeeze out as much stress relief as I can given my situation: I'm going to make the kids run laps. Around the neighborhood. Merrick included. This plan is sure to bring on hungry children (who will eat anything I cook without complaining) and early bedtimes (they won't be able to keep their eyes open after 7:00!), thus securing no less than 3 hours of mommy-time at the end of every. Single. Day.
• Mommy-time! This junk is important, too. Around my house we are all about it! And let me tell you, there's nothing better than getting a long hot shower, watching "Wolverine" on pay-per-view, and getting a long cold shower, all the while knowing your children are sleeping soundly in their beds. Even if I have to threaten to take away every toy they hold dear should they venture out of their rooms for so much as a glass of water, those hours between 7:00 and 10:00 belong to me and me only, and maybe Caleb if he brings a popcorn offering.
• Coffee! Coffee is absolutely essential, especially on those mornings--well, not those mornings--all mornings, really--when the kids seem to leap out of bed screeching for banana-nut cheerios on the couch with orange juice and the soft side of the fuzzy pink-polka dot blanket and a fire in the fireplace and could you turn on Curious George and oops I spilled my cereal and I have nowhere to set my orange juice down and oops I just spilled that too.
• Coffee! With real sugar and real milk. The stronger, the better.
• Coffee! It is a valuable tool in dealing with day-to-day-to-day stress. Drink it before exercising! Drink it before bedtime! Drink it in the car! Drink it in the bathtub! Drink it! Just Drink It!

Ahem.

• Singing. I sing at the top of my lungs. All the time. Whatever song I feel like. Everyday has a different vibe. Sometimes it's Smokey Robinson. Sometimes it's Allison Krauss. And sometimes, like today, it's Miley Cyrus's "Party in the USA". I'm not proud of that, but in my defense, it's catchy. And Merrick freakin' loves it. We sang until we were hoarse. And it...felt awesome.
• Obviously, this blog. I just love to write, writing's my favorite.
• Painting is a tremendous stress relief for me. I can get really absorbed in my painting. But since dragging out the materials and setting up takes more time than actually finishing a painting, I don't do it as often as I would like. Which brings me to my next point:
• Cleaning. Just don't do it. I mean, clean what is neccessary to keep your piece of mind, but beyond that, just let it go. For instance, in my house, I would have to sweep literally--NO, LITERALLY--every 10 minutes to keep all the dog hair from piling up and joining forces and becoming one giant talking dog. But since I am 1) Lazy and 2) Not entirely insane, I sweep only twice a day. My floors? Are admittedly disgusting. But I find that if I take my contacts out and stare at the ceiling, I don't even notice the dog hair. I can even trick myself into thinking we have carpet. The clothes in the washer will not start mildewing for another 2 hours...or so. Go out and get some of that exercise that everyone talks about.
• That said, I'm not a fan of clutter. It makes me uneasy. What I like to do--rather than organize--is just get rid of everything, ideally before it even gets a chance to pile up. Goodwill loves me, and what they won't take, I trash. Why? Because I'm not about to knowingly stress myself out by organizing (there's that word again) a garage sale. I only keep the most important school papers and only the finest artistic achievements--but I am not completely heartless. I keep the things the kids are most proud of, plus all the sappy hand-printed construction-paper cards they make me, because I know when I'm like 80, I'll want to bust them out as proof of my motherly love and devotion if in the event they try to place me in a crummy nursing home...or lock me in a basement. Or sell me into sex slavery in Mexico. I only throw away the scribbles of a 7-legged purple cat--when the kids aren't looking.
• There is this guy who hangs out around the house sometimes--he's sort of cool to talk to every now and then. He's a bit of a pyro and when the wind is not blowing too hard (approximately 9 random days out of the year), he'll build a big honkin' fire in the backyard and he'll set the stage: reclining lawn chairs, blankets, and music--'cuz we're redneck like that. After the kids are in bed, we turn on the baby monitor and we kick back and make each other laugh. Or not. But whatever we do, it always relieves a great deal of stress...
• Buuuut since he's not here tonight, "Wolverine" on pay-per-view will have to do.

 

Saturday Caleb and I are going away.

 

Without the kids.

 

At night.

 

By ourselves. Alone.

 

After 4 years of living here, we finally scored an invitation to the annual neighborhood Halloween party. Down the street. Did I mention we won't be taking the kids?

 

Costumes are required to attend this party--and the costumes have to fit certain criteria: Superheros, Villians, and Cartoon Characters are the suggested themes. Caleb, the kids, and I have been tossing around ideas all week. My favorite suggestions were ones that by no means had anything to do with anything: The Lunch Lady and a Sloppy Joe (I hadn't thought this one out: where would we find a Sloppy Joe costume?) or Phineas and Ferb (we lack triangular heads).

 

Cheyenne rooted for the Hannah Montana/Jonas Brother combo. But I think her motivation lay in that she really wanted to see Caleb wear black "guyliner" and skinny jeans as Joe Jonas.

 

Caleb tried to convince me that a Star Wars get-up was the way to go. Although I resisted, I felt flattered that he actually envisioned me looking good as Princess Leia...until I realized he fully intended to be the Jedi Knight to my Storm Trooper.

 

And, on a side note, costumes marketed towards females over the age of 10 come in 2 catergories: slightly trashy or downright slutty. And I? Am not all about showing off my private parts in public places...at least, not anymore...

 

We were just about to settle on Britney and K-Fed (yawn...besides, my Britney impersonation days are waaay over--I got rid of the red pleather a long time ago...or did I? ) when Mia, ever the Nick Jr. fan, suggested a costume so obvious and so easy (read: cheap) that we just couldn't resist...

 

And so today, in preparation, I secured pieces of what some might consider the World's Most Appropriate Costume. Orange shorts, pink tee, purple backpack, and cropped black wig? Check. Caleb has yet to buy a khaki vest and a rescue pack. Any guesses as to who we will be? I don't expect people without small children to have a clue.

 

I still think I would've made a great Sloppy Joe.

 

Captain's Log, January 2009--Oh, what? Wait. Apparently it's already October. So.

 

Captain's Log, October 9, 2009: Today I came into close contact with the firemen. This was an unexpected encounter, as I did not see a firetruck parked in front of Walmart as I entered the building. Even though there is an obvious pattern concerning the firemen's grocery shopping schedule (Friday mornings at 8:30 a.m.), I had not properly prepared. While I had thankfully remembered to brush my teeth this morning, I did not comb my hair nor did I wear my fancy dress and red patent-leather high heels like I had previously planned. I had on instead my frayed brown cargo pants, a gray thermal shirt under a black t-shirt, and my ratty hair rolled up under a knit cap. I looked like a scrag--which, hilariously enough--is an old school word for "emo".

 

I had gotten through the rest of my grocery shopping pretty uneventfully, with little resistance from Merrick, and had just entered the checkout line when I felt a presence behind me. Not one, not two, but 4 adorable firemen, dressed in their little navy-blue day-clothes, stood less than 3 feet away from me as I placed milk, oatmeal, and an assortment of feminine products onto the counter. Merrick eyed the men curiously. The sullen cashier suddenly increased in speed, and she went from kiss-my-ass-mode to giggly school girl in a matter of seconds.

 

One of the men waved at Merrick. He was the youngest of the four and most surely the bimbo, if you will, of the group, based on snippets of conversation I overheard. Merrick tossed an acorn squash at him. It hit the floor with a thud, but surprisingly, it did not splatter. The fireman picked up the acorn squash and placed it on the belt next to my various pumpkins and gourds. I thanked him and Merrick laughed. The cashier giggled and tried to cover up her mustache. I paid and left.

 

I don't know if I'll ever remember to take a shower and apply mascara before my Friday morning grocery outings. All I know is that my run-in today has left me with so many questions: Why do you shop all together? Is it like girls going to the bathroom? Are you using the wingman system while grocery shopping? What do you buy? Why didn't I think to check this time? Do you have to drive the firetruck when you grocery shop? Is it an absolute requirement? Can my kid sit in the firetruck? Can I take a picture of my kid sitting in the firetruck? Do you have a dalmation? Can he come in the store? Where are your yellow coats and red hats? Do you ever wear the oxygen tanks just for funsies?

 

...Do you secretly think mommy-jeans are hot? You do? I knew it.

 

Enter Day 100 of my husband being gone (or Day 5--whatever). It's raining. People in this town are sick left and right and I'm pretty sure I'm about to come down with Ebola. Telltale sign? My neck hurts. And I'm tired. I'm convinced that someone came into my house in the middle of the night, dumped out my coffee and replaced it with decaf. That same person may have also eaten all of our chocolate-chip granola bars.

 

To perk ourselves up, Mia and I had a makeover party involving scissors, My Little Ponies, and one unfortunate knock-off Barbie doll. As a mom, I knew it was wrong...but, as a mom, I do what I want. And I wanted to mohawk some ponies.

 

Mia really enjoyed it.

 

I think it's safe to say that Cheyenne's "emo" days are officially over. They lasted all of half a week. She tried, though. She wore everything black and dreary that she owned: 1 black t-shirt and a pair of black leggings with white polka dots. She made the most perfectly accessorized emo, and her hair never went without a straightener. It took her 3, maybe 4 days, before she admitted defeat and resigned herself to being...herself.

 

Merrick's as nuts as ever. An interesting development: he grabs his diaper and grunts at me whenever he's wet or dirty. I can't remember if the girls did this at his age. And I don't care. I'm not potty-training him until after he turns 2. Come to think of it, I'm not potty-training him at all. I think I'll leave this one up to Caleb. It's his turn.

 

I've been doing a little painting and drawing at night since there's no one to snuggle up with and put my ice-cold feet on. I've been only slightly depressed without my husband but have been able to keep myself from really sinking until today. And now I will go into an elaborate explanation:

 

Every morning I drive Mia to school down a country road past mostly fields full of cows and sunflowers. It's nice. She sings at the top her of lungs to the "Tinkerbell" soundtrack and Merrick listens to her and contentedly crams his entire morning banana into his face. I drive and look out the window, and about halfway down our route, there's this house right off the road. Next to the house there's a brown metal building with an inviting front porch, and in that little building there's an old man, piddling away at his work bench, every morning at 8:00. I can't help but look through the windows of his workshop, all lit up with flourescent lighting, tools and ladders hanging on the walls, wooden work-benches, different kinds of saws everywhere--the door is always open, and a big fat old yellow lab lays right outside on the front porch, and it looks like the warmest, coziest place to be in the whole world. I can just smell the sawdust and I can picture coffee steaming hot in a mug that says "World's Best Grandpa" sitting there on one of the work-benches, and the old man talks in a soothing voice to his old dog named Jimbo, and I wish I could pull the car over, go sit on a stool in that workshop and watch the old man while he makes a birdhouse, because he's an avid birdwatcher and he's hoping a family of cardinals will move in once he hangs the thing on a tree branch by the kitchen window. Coincidentally my favorite bird is a cardinal, so we talk about cardinals and he pours me some coffee and my kids pull the dog's ears and we laugh and he tells me about the gold old days and I get to wear safety goggles.

 

But I digress.

 

Today, rain was pouring and the Tinkerbell CD was skipping. I was out of bananas and the kids weren't happy. Caleb's been gone for 5 days and Cheyenne hates me because I wouldn't let her stay after school to "practice her flute" (which I'm thinking is code for "hang out with boyfriend who is also in band"). Normally, I could've handled all of that (or not...), but today, the workshop was closed-up and dark. No old man, no dog...no coffee. And because of that, the gloomiest day of the week got gloomier.

 

If that metal building is not lit up tomorrow, I'm knocking on that door and I'm telling that old man to get his butt to work. I'm telling him there are people counting on him. And then I'm asking him if he'll brew some caffeinated coffee.

 

That is all.

 

I know you all think this is going to be yet another post about how I once again forced myself to go to church, sat through an hour of nauseating music and hand-shaking, and half-listened to a pompous fat white man with bad hair preach at me about sins he'd never even think of committing...

 

But you would be wrong.

 

I don't know what to say. I don't know what was different about today. Scratch that--yes, I do.

 

I said a prayer--no, really! I said one! Weeks ago. And here's how it went: "Dear God. Please. For the love of Pete. Um, please, calm me down in church. Make it to where I'm not so negative and suspicious. Make it to where I'm happy and open. And to where I don't have a stomach ache for the rest of the day. Let me just understand one thing. Just one--one sentence out of the preacher's mouth, one bible verse, anything. Just let me get it. Let me have just one little "aha!" moment. Please. Thank you, dear baby God. Amen."

 

And that's how it's done.

 

Today, God punched me in the gut. And then, while I was down, he kicked me in the head. So picture me--sarcastic, skeptical me--sitting in a church pew, listening intently to the preacher's (who, in reality, was not pompous nor fat nor did he have bad hair) every word. I was even following along in my bible, for crying out loud. And before I knew I it, I was praying again:

 

"So. Dear God. You know me. You know how I've had a hard time with this--growing up Catholic, joining a small-town Baptist church, having a bad experience, backsliding like nobody's business, and running back to the Catholic church again. I'm comfortable there. I like the kneeling and the standing and the kneeling again, the quiet prayer and the limited singing. The little old Irish priest makes sense to me. And Southern Baptist? Really? Aren't those the same people who boycotted Disney? And you know how I like beer. And how I cuss. Like a sailor. On steroids. In the mafia. I cuss like I'm getting paid for it. How am I supposed to fit in here? I'm not even sure I want to be here! I mean, I do, but I've forgotten. I forgot everything. I just want to get it again, crap darnit all to heck! Do you even see how ridiculous that sounds?! I've been trying to do this on my own for so long...how is this even going to work?"

 

And, I swear to...well, I promise you, after that little prayer, that every single word out of the preacher's mouth came from God specifically to me. It was like someone grabbing you by the shoulders, looking you dead in the eyes, and calling you out for every single thing you've ever thought or said or done. And every question I've been asking was answered, every excuse I've come up with was null and void, and, most importantly, every doubt I've had over the past year and a half was put to rest.

 

My kids are lovin' that place--even Cheyenne! My husband feels comfortable and inspired. Nobody we've met seems manipulative or calculating or pushy or eerily happy or freaky religious or remotely judgemental. They're refreshingly...normal. And calm. And I'm pretty sure I have it in me to be the same way.