I'm not sure what I did but the sleep gods are angry with me

Earlier this week, I lost hours of sleep because I stupidly nicely went to the school at 3:30 a.m. to let the parents in line for PK registration come into the building. You'd think that the sleep gods would give me some good karma for some amazing, uninterrupted sleep.

Instead, for the next couple of nights, I kept waking up thinking about all the insane lies the parents tell me things I need to remember to do at school. I keep a pad of paper and a pen by my bed so I can sit up, write down my random thought, and go back to sleep. Usually, I use up about one Post-It note a week. This past week, I used four. In two nights. Hopefully, this isn't a sign of needing to buy stock in Post-It notes.

Today is Saturday, a day in which I usually sleep in a little. Seeing how I've unknowingly ticked off the sleeping gods, I shouldn't have been surprised when my son called me after school on Friday to report he needed to be at the school at 4:45 a.m. on Saturday morning because everyone in the school system is too cheap to send the kiddos on the bus the night before and get them a hotel room. He is on the Science Bowl Team and they are going to the State Science Bowl competition. Since he is becoming so well versed in Science, it might be time for him to figure out where he came from seeing how his father and I barely made it through school. As for me, I think they may have accidentally swapped babies in the nursery when he was born. Somewhere in Mayberry is a doctor or lawyer with a child who is barely making it in school and they are scratching their heads at the misfortune.

I digress.

Adding insult to injury in regards to my sleep deprivation, I am driving to my mother-in-law's apartment to entertain her as her other son and the movers move her shit stuff into the assisted living unit. The lucky bastard known as My husband is extremely fortunate because he has a catering gig. He'll miss out on the hell all the fun.

As I finished polishing my halo before going to bed last night, I was looking forward to some good sleep. That is, until the alarm was scheduled to wake me to get Mr. Funny up for his day of science trivia. Again, the funny, funny sleep gods had other plans. During the night, Mr. Strong's stupid cool phone kept twittering to let him know he has a message. I would have turned it off but I was afraid I'd throw the damn thing up against the wall mess something up. So it just bleeping beeped all night long.

I'll be back later tonight and I'm sure I'll have some great stories after spending the day with my mother-in-law. Really, the woman is hilarious (even though she isn't trying to be). The only problem is I'll need to get some sleep before I can share them so I can once again remember how to pick the right phonemes to form real words.

Adios!

And there wasn't even a ride at the end

Each year, we have one day set aside for Preschool registration at our school. Georgia has really been a pain in the tushie with their stupid, stupid rules and regulations on the front runner in regards to preschool. Because there are a set number of slots (our school has 40 slots), each school system is allowed to register the kiddos in one of two ways: first come, first serve or a lottery drawing. For a variety of reasons and our system's ability to be creatively cruel, we go with the first come, first serve method.

After school on Monday and after the halls had been sanitized again from the god-awful stomach virus making the rounds, we set up for the registration that was scheduled to begin at 8 a.m. the next morning. When I got home, I reminded my husband of all the excitement called "Preschool Registration" that was scheduled to occur the next morning. And despite having several parents be rude to me on Monday (unrelated to preschool), I had a sucker of a happy and forgiving heart and I set my alarm to wake up at 4 a.m. (which is stupid only 30 minutes earlier than usual) so I could get to school early. I had even planned skip reading your blogs at home and just read them at school while the few early-bird parents thawed out in the lobby.

So there I sat on Monday evening tooling around on my computer when the phone rang. It was one of my custodians (she is from the Philippines - and is an awesome person). We'll call her Ms. Electrolux in honor of the vacuum she loves.

Ms. Electrolux - "Thay is people at da door and thay shake it and I is scared."

Me - "Holy &@*$! Those must be parents out there waiting for the preschool registration."

Ms. E - "Thay is got thay face up against the glass in da door and thay is looking at me. It only eight tirty and we supposed to stay until nine tirty but I is scared."

Me - "Well, just go on home. Let's call it a day."

I could not believe there were parents in line already. When I checked the weather report, the prediction was for the temperature to dip below freezing again. Didn't they know we weren't giving away any computers. And there were going to be no concert tickets available for purchase.

As I went to bed, I tossed and turned. I kept thinking I am nice and warm in my bed. They are probably freezing. Would it look bad if a parent froze to death right outside the front door? They'd probably blame the school because after all the schools get blamed for everything wrong in society. I can just see the front page of the local joke of a rag newspaper - "Human Popsicle sticks found outside school doors."

Finally, I got up at 2:30 a.m. (again, thanks insomniac sleep) and jumped in the shower. And holy automotive oil at the difference in traffic when you leave for work three hours early! I only passed one car and it was a police car. When I got to school around 3:30 a.m., it looked like a squatter's community had descended upon the school grounds. The parents were sitting in chairs with piles of blankets covering them. One parent who will probably have a child in the gifted program even had an extension cord plugged into an electric blanket.

I've never seen parents so excited about coming to school. There were FIFTEEN parents in line at 3:30 a.m. Unbelievable! It was probably my golden opportunity to plump up the principal's account but I resisted.

But next year, I am so going to capitalize on the preschool registration. We'll be selling coffee and donuts and for a small fee, we'll let them camp out in the lobby.

If You Can't Find One, Raise One

We have a friend who likes to say when you can't find a wife, then you should just raise one. He IS a few years older than his wife (who was born the same year I got my driver's license). But isn't age just a number? Once you get beyond holding up your fingers, most people just don't give a shit about the actual number.

My husband is a lot few years older than me. Other than his gray hair and music taste, you'd never know. Well, and those conversations about our memory of Disney World opening in Florida. I was in Kindergarten. He was smoking pot and going to college.

So, this Monday Tuesday Tribute is for you, Mr. Strong.


The man who made this headboard with my step-father from an old door and two old columns. I love it! And the best part was hearing about the conversation you had to endure with dear, old dad. But he was right, wasn't he? The extra glue support from routing out the columns to snuggly fit the door in does keep it from wiggling.

Geez. What a conversation to have with your father-in-law.


And the same man who made this ridiculous cute little conversation starter of a table. I actually do think it is hilarious cool that you used to wear those colorful hightops.



Let's take a minute to appreciate the finer qualities of this unique tv stand made from old doors, glass shelving, and wood scraps from the garage. You are as cheap resourceful as you are creative.



And while I know it must frustrate humor you to have to deal with my lack of decorating sense, I was appalled that you'd get rid of a perfectly good traverse rod impressed by the funky curtain rod you made from bamboo cut from the neighbor's yard and random metal rings found in a bin at Home Depot.



And what an artist you would like to imagine you are! After drying the flowers and restringing several chandeliers, this piece made its presentation on our bedroom wall. Who wouldn't be impressed with the title, "Oh shit, it looks like rain. I think I'll have a drink."?




I've never really known how to keep from crying over what to say about this little duckling who stays on top of a column in our living room. It was a REAL duckling. And I thought Jews didn't stuff animals. Isn't it, like, not kosher? The poor, poor duckling. It is just creepy. In a cute kind of way.



One of the reasons I was suckered into dating you fell in love with you was the way loved your daughters. And when they expressed their feelings for you, I love that you framed it.




Thanks for being my biggest encourager. At the risk of sounding cheesy, you heal me.

Why I'll Never Be Nominated for Mother of the Year

In light of the upcoming Oscars, I am reminded of how I used to have dreams of being awarded Mother of the Year trophies. I just knew some day, some how some one would recognize the value in the combination of my patience (you aren't going to interview my boys, right?) and my unique perspective on the world. I've kept a shelf cleared for any possible awards. So far, the only plaque I've ever gotten in my life is one for Academic Improvement in the 8th grade (which is basically a nice way to say "You started off the year sucking wind; however, you ended up passing. Yay. Good for you. Better for us."). It would be nice to be recognized for something besides not failing 8th grade.














Some people questioned my judgment when I hung this in my son's room as a joke. Mr. Strong and I found it at his parent's house (and I don't want to know the story behind it). I thought it was funny. Four years later, it is still hanging over the nightstand.
















As a former art history major, I do see the beauty in a large variety of art pieces. Including the human body. Therefore, it didn't even phase me to hang this in the boy's bathroom.

It is art, after all. And the walls were bare (no pun intended) until we hung this gal up there.














And this hangs over the potty in the boy's bathroom. I rather like this retro picture. The girls used to make post-it note clothes for theses ladies a few years ago. They see the body as a blank slate waiting for fashionable clothes.




















And now, thanks to my real life BFF (thanks Kippy!), I have this GREAT poster. I LOVE IT! Without a doubt, my youngest son will love it, too. So, while he was at his father's house for the weekend, I took the liberty of hanging it in his cave (closet turned into an office).

It really brightens up the space in there, don't ya think?

And you guys are probably thinking all this nakedness is what will automatically disqualify me from any Mother of the Year contests. Well, I think you are wrong.














When my son comes home from his father's house, he'll find the new poster hanging in his office. Along with that is a nice note from the heavy girl.

Sorry, honey!

I've been a mother for nearly 2 decades and I've yet to be nominated for the elusive Mother of the Year crown. Since I don't have a snowballs chance in you know where of winning, I might as well lose with a bang

*Note to self: Find number for adolescent therapist.

Future Blogger

Yesterday, while in a Kindergarten classroom, I overheard this scenario.

Small little girl with small little voice is reading her journal when one of the boys in the class yells out, "I can't hear her."

Small little girl with the small little voice tries reading louder. The same little boy becomes agitated. "I CAN'T HEAR HER!"

The teacher stops helping small little girl with the small little voice to give Mr. I Can't Hear Her the "look." He looks right at the teacher and says, "Ok. Ok. I can't hear her but BRAVO. Good job. Is that what you want?"

I love when kids can be sarcastic!

Big Hairy Deal

I have big hair. Really. And I didn't love the 80s that much. It is just that I have curly hair. Girls with curly hair tend to have big hair.



I've never been very good at *fixing* my hair. It probably didn't help that I was raised by a mother who doesn't know how to "do" hair. She is of the old school. You know, the ones who have a standing appointment every Friday to get the hair washed and styled. And then she doesn't wash it again until, well, the next Friday.



Vacations of my childhood were planned around her hair appointment. "We can leave after my appointment." Or, "We have to be back on Friday by 4."



I used to question her lack of hair washing. As for me, I have to wash my hair EVERY DAY! When I don't, the curls stand up on the crown of my head making me look like Alfalfa's love child. My mother can't relate. I once asked her if she got hot and sweaty. Like after exercising. She then proceeded to demonstrate the rigor of her finger exercises. Apparently, they don't make her break out in a sweat.



I was in high school before I learned to NOT brush my hair. This was also around the same time I learned to use gel. Nothing says "I look good" like crunchy hair. Since then, I've had basically the same hair with varying lengths and degrees of crunchiness.



This past weekend, I went to a new lady for a hair cut. After the cut, she dried and ironed my hair (it took a LONG time) until it was straight as a board. Amazing! I loved it! Immediately, I bought the straightening cream and a round brush never thinking about the time it would take to carry out this straightening act every morning.



Mr. Strong took one look when I walked in and said, "I hate it. How long will it be that way" which motivated me to say something like "forever."



On Sunday, I had high aspirations. One of my friends and her husband were coming to dinner. I was going to surprise her by opening the door with straight hair. The scene in my mind was great. She was going to rave about my hair and prove Mr. Strong wrong. My hair was going to look GREAT!



After over an hour of drying my hair (really, untangling the damn brush from the curls that kept popping up like a bad dream), I started in with the flat iron (and that thing is friggin hot) borrowed from the kids.



What a disappointment! In the end, I looked like Buster Brown.



There was no raving over the new do. So, I took her shopping for shoes in my closet and gave her a golden egg.



Any one need a round brush and straightening cream?

The Education of a Principal

Today, two new students started at my school. They are not in the same grade and they do not go home to the same address.

And they have left us wondering how in the heck Charles Manson got conjugal visits with fertile women.

They make Barbie Stickers seem like, well, a doll.

Child number one stripped down to just his pants (no socks, shoes, shirt or jacket) and then ran. His mother says he is adjusting to our school. My dad was in the military and I changed schools several times. This may explain my predisposition for stripping.

Child number two just talked out of his head about flying around the school. And there were lots of grunts and groans. We called the last school and they were working to get a copy of the psychological that was completed on him after he jumped out of a window. Apparently, he often acts out scenes from various movies. The flying talk clearly suggests he is involved in a Spiderman scene (I swear that is what the counselor told me). We hear his Indiana Jones scenes are not to be missed.

In addition to trying to settle down the new kids, one mother got upset with me because I had her daughter call her about the checks she stole from home. I now know my place and won't bother this mother again with concerns about her daughter's future. Or the future of her money that may be vamoosed if the wrong person (besides her daughter) gets their hands on her random personal checks floating around.

Just when I was feeling a bit frustrated with the stress (and it was stressful today for some reason), I ran into my friend's son. Mr. Brilliant is a happy go lucky kid who seems to know far more than the average 6 year old. Since his mother's cancer diagnosis, I've given them a lot more attention. Today, he gave me attention.

Mr. Brilliant: Hey. I've been thinking about how you could help my mom. (I love the honesty of children.)

Me: Really. What can I do?

Mr. Brilliant: Well, she is going to start chemotherapy next week and two weeks after that she is going to lose her hair. I think you should get her some hats. My mom would really like that.

And suddenly, Charles Manson's love children and the angry parents didn't seem to matter so much.