Margaritaville to Crazy Town

A story from early last week:

Today was the first day of summer vacation.  Today was the first day all of my children would be home all day alone with me.  Today I went to Crazy Town four times.

Let us back up two days.  It was a gorgeous Saturday.  Frankly, a downright perfect summer day, complete with a great breeze and zero humidity.  Epic, really.  It was a day for many wonderful things.  But today, I was going to my first Jimmy Buffett concert.

Why the Buffett concert going experience is not part of every human being’s regular therapy, I can’t surmise.  I have never seen, nor experienced, the kind of widespread happiness that transpires amongst all concertgoers at Buffett.  It’s a little freaky, all this happy happy, but man, I bet no one would require their meds that week, if they hit a Buffett concert. 

Hands Are Full

I have two weeks to get this story out before I no longer can compare myself to this superstar.  Her 4^th babe (an actual girl) is in the belly, so here goes:

Ok, I get it.  I’m not rocking Victoria Beckham’s style as she artfully guides her 3 boys through Manhattan, London, or any airport.  Maybe my long hair, (which I refuse to cut, because it is the only thing left on me that mildly resembles my childless self) looks a little ratsnesty in the back. Maybe my eyewear that was so ‘in’ 5 years ago, sits slightly (or not so slightly) tilted across my nose. Maybe wrangling 3 small people whose limb movements could make them strong contestants in an ancient tribal dance competition while I’m trying to check out of Target makes me look a little…..challenged.

Oxiclean

Simply put, you can’t find a toxic thing in this house.  Militant green living, as I see it.  Don’t bring your Red #40 anywhere in here, or your VOCs.  I won’t have any of them.

Unless of course, you have laundry in amounts that no human should ever consider when first walking down the aisle and thinking of the dreamy life ahead.  And when you do take on this Mother Load, and use EVERY green detergent out there to save your family, you realize, that each day your 3 sons coat their shirts with every meal, green detergent totally sucks.  And green stain lifters. 

Housewives' Knees

"Housewives’ Knees” is something I need to get off my chest.  Actually, I really need to get it off my knees, but anyhow…..

If you have this condition, I’m sorry.  It seems this can be part of the post-childbearing body alteration that makes you jump with fright as you inadvertently pass a mirror. Amidst the varicose and spider veins that have multiplied like fruit flies on your legs, somehow your knees look like you haven’t showered in 3 years due to the brown knobby patches on them.

So You Want 3?

Here’s the deal.  You’ve got it totally together:  A super-independent, rule-abiding, encyclopedia-reading 4 year-old - let’s call him the “Professor”, and a creative, sweet-talking 1.5 year-old who actually sleeps through the night, a.k.a. the “Sly Fox”.  

Please.  You better challenge yourself.  Slip one past the goalie and go for the third.  Why not?  This has been too easy.  Besides, why would you only want two kids taking shots at you when you’re 60?  Three will undoubtedly be much more interesting.