Dinner time

The transition of junk table to dinner table, of homework to eating always seems impossible to me. One minute crayons, paperwork, a college catalogue, a coupon for cat food, that weekly with the tv guide, and a roll of scotch tape, all of it must find a new spot that where it won't get lost but I won't have to look at it. Fifteen minutes, one side of Janet Jackson's greatest hits, and there are napkins and jelly jars and a mountain of pot roast and a hill of mashed cauliflower, potatoes and leeks, a puddle of spinach and me and the kids gathered around, sniffing and negotiating how much and how long and looking for ketchup.

Guilty Pleasures

     Just after the kids finally sleep, there is that moment I realize I will not hear "mom, can you shut out my light, " "don't forget to wake me up 15 minutes early," "what was that, you are watching tv without us?!". When the stillness settles around me, I begin my life without them. And yet they are there, in those moments just after. I listen for footsteps, or doors, I don't want to get caught by my kids doing what I do in the hours I have sent them to sleep.
I go to an "inappropriate site"on the internet and hope not to get busted. If the phone rings, I answer it like I'm asleep. When I snack, I wash out the bowl and wipe counters.
I'm not up to anything yet, just by living a life after they sleep, I feel like I'm cheating.
Just being online, or reading a novel or sipping tea at 11:05 feels like a forbidden pleasure.
Before I had kids, I had to work so much harder for that sense- this is bad, therefore it must be-feel-taste really good. Now, all I have to is be awake after they sleep and watching something HBO.
     I'm such a dangerous girl.

Growing Pains Back to College after a Long Time Gone While Juggling the Demands of an 8 yr old and an 11 yr. old

  Life for the next month or three is going to be nuts. I have got homework and labs and each weekday  begins with the quest for impossible parking. I have an NCAA player in the making, and an Olympics contender on the verge- in the midst of my stuff my athletes need to be ferried to and from practices and competitions and fed something other than last night's pizza. 
     There is my homework, their homework, playdates and hangouts, and the constant challenge of keeping them in appropriate footwear that fits. And I can't forget the new kitten, the not so new puppy, the cats and the turtle and the dead bird in the shed, ( I have to find Whitey an everlasting home where Sophie won't rip him to shreds.)
      I have a lot on my plate, hell, I have a lot on my casserole dish that is roughly the size of Portland.
      So as I move through these days coming ahead, I will plan for the moments just after.
      When it's done, when grades are in, championships won or lost, animals buried or tossed, living animals getting along or banished to individual rooms, doctors seen, paperwork done, I am going to find me a night on the town.
     I don't want to do shots. I could care less about scintillating conversation. I don't need to dress up or eat morsels of strange food at ridiculous prices.
     I want to go to club where I've never been. I want to sip a cold drink, take my time. I want to be asked by a gentleman, who, when he asks will act like he isn't sure of my answer, for a dance. I will say yes. When I take his hand, the band will start playing just the right song. (I don't know what the right song will be but it will be Just. The. Right. Song.) And we will slow dance round that floor like we have all of the time in the world. And we will.
To Be Continued.

Too much vicarious kind of life

For the past few days, I have spent a lot of my time watching my kid(s) participate in sports, driving them to actual competitions so that they could compete in sports, then waiting to drive them or watch them, or just sitting on the sofa trying to figure out the right words to say to them to support them in their sports goals without becoming one of those mothers.
I haven't been able to post because all of this support, emotional and logistical- meaning getting them from point a to point b, takes a lot of time. I can't jot down notes while I am gazing at my child adoringly and studying the actual game so that I can be an effective sports mom.

Long long day

The bird died. I just finished my post on FB about the Death of our Bird, but right now I'm sitting here feeling a little dishonest. I made it sound like I'm really broken about Whitey's (not after the gangster, he was white, Katy was four and very literal,) demise. Truth is I feel really bad that in the middle of a very busy day our bird keeled over in the bottom of his cage and my greatest concern was finding a box big enough to put his body. 

If you are reading this and thinking about getting a pet, think hard. Animals are messy. Sometimes, if you are lucky, and sometimes if you are not, they live a long, long time. They might bite you, or ignore you, or poop in your shoes. And you need to make sure that even if you are willing to put up with all of this, that you will have time for him or her. 

We didn't really have enough time for Whitey. I won't make the same mistake again. 

To the person at the Local Fitness Establisment, and I'm not naming names-

    Just because I am never in physical possession of my car keys that have the plastic id card dangling from the ring does not mean I am disorganized. Just because I always call you to get the times for open swim doesn't mean I'm forgetful. And just because I always need to borrow headphones doesn't mean I'm pathetic.
     I might be busy trying to figure out a solution to the current health care nightmare in this country, or working on a way to get art back into our public schools. Or I might just be pondering the perplexing question of my decade- how can our new kitten have fleas in the middle of January in Boston, MA? All of the aforementioned are worthwhile intellectual pursuits, and certainly might explain why I'm a little distracted. So cut me some slack. Or next time I visit, I will put the aforementioned kitten on your head.

Walking the dogs

I am going to learn Spanish by listening to Shakira while I walk the dogs.*  In a few weeks, I will be able to get my kids to shake their hips on command and my husband will find himself unable to sleep, quaking with the knowledge a she wolf lays beside him. I will suddenly understand what the word waka means, and instead of getting cranky, I will be tempestuous.
Maybe not such a good idea. I don't really want my kids to shake their hips, my husband's already a little bit scared of me and needs all the sleep he can get, and I think waka is actually an African word, and I am more than capable of googling it. I do like the tempestuous idea though. Maybe I should try listening to a little opera.

*I don't think I mentioned, my current profession is walking dogs, so if you know anybody in the South Shore area with a pooch that needs to lose a little of that holiday pooch...:)

Introduce myself

     I am a little short of time today, a dog needs to be walked, and I have to pack up Katy and I for the gym, a monumental task that involves finding headphones and swim caps and the building snacks, but since I created my blog yesterday, I feel the need to write something today.
     The idea for a blog came out my ramblings on Facebook. I loved making notes about what is going on in our lives so that one day the kids and I can look back and have a written daily record. But I don't think Facebook is the right forum for that, so here I am. I've been reluctant because honestly, I don't like the word blog. I don't like the fact that right now as I sit here typing away, I am blogging. Sounds either gross, or way too trendy. Actually, both.
     But I do like having an audience. So I am now a mother, a college student, an ex queen of the Boston nightlife, a daughter, a wife, a lover of music and zumba, and a blogger. Still not crazy about the word, but I'll get over it.