GASP!

CHOKE!

WHEEZ!

SOMEBODY PINCH ME!

SAY IT AIN’T SO!

There was no internet access in our condo. It was so.

As I clutched my chest, felt flushed and began to hyperventilate, my children and friends assured me I would live to tell the tale without having to have be administered the Heimlich or any other emergency remedy.

And, as luck would have it, I have!

I spent my early mornings drinking coffee and watching the news while the kids slept and the dogs — oh yeah, no dogs!!! I spent every waking moment enjoying the company of live human beings (not that you all aren’t live, but you know what I mean). I had constant interaction with another adult - my friend who came with her kids - and that in truth was the biggest treat of all. Not making all the decisions and not being the only grown-up was such a departure for me. I relished it. I ate it up along with the lumberjack breakfast and myriad of healthless snacks. I also loved having the attention and company of my 14 year old who is usually out of the house at school, playing sports, with friends at a friends house, in our basement with friends or in his room with the door shut. At least for the time he wasn’t acting 14 with the other 14 year old in our group.

We’re home and we had fun! What could be bad? Good friends, busy kids, hearty food…and all of it usually attached to some kind of mindless shopping experience.

Add that to all that a Cheese Castle on every corner that doesn’t have a Culver’s and you get the perfect drivable getaway for this blog-obsessed transplanted Midwestern single mom — even without the internet. But there’s no place like blog home.

As you know, it’s Spring Break. Most of my friends are either on an island or on a mountain. I, on the other hand, am headed to The Wilderness, in the heart of the midwest capital of kitschy attractions, supersize waterslides and lumberjack breakfasts known as The Wisconsin Dells.

Considering at this point in my life I neither ski nor wear bathing suits, I am probably headed in the right direction.

And how often have I been able to say that?

I recently received a letter from a friend of mine with whom I’d lost touch. In this age of PCs and laptops, Blackberries and Treos; she put pen to paper, a stamp on the envelope, and popped it into a mailbox. I was touched.

Her note apologized profusely for not calling since December ‘04 when my ex died. She explained that she really been hit hard by my reality and the passage of time made it impossible for her to call. She was embarrassed and truly remorseful.

I wish she didn’t feel so badly. Although I have thought of her over the past 15 months, I never once admonished her for not keeping in touch. Honestly, I was too wrapped up in the business of death and with two grieving children to give second thought to much more than that. I realize she feels responsible for the upkeep of the friendship due to the circumstances, but she has two children of her own, a husband, a home, a fulltime job, and a life. What she doesn’t know, because we weren’t in touch, is how I am so well aware that what happened to my children, and therefore to me, started a ripple effect of uncertainty and fear. Everyone we know, and some that we don’t, was paralyzed by the grim reality of it all. It made many of them realize, once again, that if it could happen to us, it could happen to anyone.

I know that it is truly a testament to our 15 year friendship that she felt compelled to share her thoughts and feelings through a letter when she did. Not only had our mutual birthday just passed, which is I’m sure what prompted us both, but two days before I found her letter in my mailbox, I sent her an email saying that I hoped we’d be able to reconnect. To this day I have received no response to the email. After I got the letter, I left her a voice mail, assuming she never got the email, also with no acknowledgement or response. I am so accustomed to immediate communication gratification, that I am a little unsettled by this. Sending off an email or returning a phone call is so simple - to me - but perhaps not so to her.

So I, too, wrote a letter. The last thing I want is for her to think that her note was unwelcomed. Although prolific when it comes to my thoughts and ideas, I kept it short saying that there was no need to apologize, that my children and I are doing well, how much her letter meant to me, and not to be so hard on herself.

I hate the idea that she is feeling guilty about not being the friend she thinks she should have been, and for her sake, as well as for the sake of the friendship, I am glad she got it down on paper and out of her system.

At the end of my letter I included my email address, and am hoping that feels comfortable using it. I also included the web address of this blog, hoping she reads this post, so that she won’t feel funny just getting back to the business of a comfortable, old friendship.

I’m nesting. I am redecorating the laundry rooom and cleaning closets and purging cabinets and all of those things normally against my nature and better judgement. I’ve done this before with equal zest, but those times I was expecting and it was expected. This time I’m not expecting anything except my bills in the mail and I’m scrubbing walls with a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser like there is no tomorrow. I am obsessing about wall colors for the laundry room, throwing away lids to which I have no pots (See:kvetch blog: A Lid For Every Pot) and finally getting rid of the half-eaten, not-so-crunchy anymore boxes of cereal that I have grown attached to. In my present state, emergency boxes of stale Cheerios just don’t seem that important.

Is this a Spring thing? I woke up to snow this morning, so I think not. And, can this be nesting if I’m not pregnant? (Did I mention there is not even a way that I could be pregnant, but this post isn’t about the sad state of my social life.) This is about my recent obssession with orderliness and domestic bliss and how, although to the benefit of my family, it’s all a little disconcerting. Truthfully, it’s overwhelming — a keen and potent reminder that I am the only one here who is going to get these things done, and if they are going to get done, I am going to have to remember they need to get done, and do them. It is a fact that can rock even this solid blogging mama to her core. It is always hanging over head because while I can put a roller in each of my kids hands to help paint the laundry room…and even make it a fun family experience, I have no back-up. When it comes to making the inconsequential decision of which gourmet box lunch color to use, I am thoroughly capable. I enjoy choosing between Raddicio, Apple Crisp and Zinfandel with no one else weighing in. But, if the ceiling leaks or, more importantly, there is an issue with either of my children, there is no one. There is also no one to suggest or even insist, that we check the furnace filters, call the exterminator, or clean the garage to keep this nest in tip-top shape…let alone to kiss me good night.

Did I say clean the garage? The garage. The garage!

I guess that’s nest next.

Today is the first day of Spring Break. I am really trying not to be overwhelmed by 11 days of me and the kids and no place to drop them off every morning. Oh of course, I’ll be toting them here and there to be with their friends, as well as hosting sleepovers and other gatherings, and I enjoy all of that in moderation. My kids will spend ample time with the others who are not off skiing in Vail or splashing in Mexico and we will all enjoy not being bogged down by homework.

It’s not that they want to spend every waking moment with me. And its not that I don’t love spending time with my kids - and even other people’s kids. It’s just — on a school vacation –I’m IT. There is no one else in charge, ever. Its just me. It adds an element of terror to the simplest lone grocery store excursion. Even at someone else’s home, your kids are still, well, just playing there. “Your daughter is coughing.” “Oh, could you send her to the nurse?” “Can you pick him up at 2:45?” “Couldn’t you just send him to the next house on your block so that mom could ploy him with activities?” And yes, I sound vicious - because even though I am, of course, always their mother, when they are at school, they have to go through rigorous official channels to actually get back to me. It’s the only “time off” that I get. The fact that they are learning and socializing while they are there is, quite frankly, just gravy.

So, what prompted a brand new blog post before my first cup of coffee on a morning when I don’t have to make lunches, jump in the shower, rouse the troops and get everyone out the door by 8:20 when there are already 14 half-written posts my “draft” files, all waiting for my creative genius to unfold and let you all know what I’m thinking on those topics?

Not only did the 12 paws wake up before 6 a.m. to tell me it was time to chase a squirrel in the backyard (I am going to need to talk to those squirrels), but my daughter, who needs on school mornings, to be awakened four times in five minute intervals to get out of bed by 7:45 so that she has time to brush her teeth and eat breakfast before I drive her around the corner to her elementary school…bounded out of her room at 7:05.

7:05!

I swear, no lie, I almost burst into tears. The morning is the only time I get in a quiet house where I don’t have to be doing something else. It has to be a joke. So I said what any self-respecting mother who did not want to be accused of murder and languish in sorrow and guilt for her entire life says to an almost 11 year old while pointing a finger so that she is under no misconception of exactly what she means. “GO BACK TO BED.” And she did.

And now, as soon as I click “publish,” I’ll go make sure that the attack of the killer mama didn’t make her cry, and pop the Eggo Chocoloate Chip waffles in the toaster…and maybe we’ll stay in our pajamas ’til noon.

It is, after all, Spring Break.

And I don’t mean Three Mile Island, for those of you old enough to remember. This is just a warning that the subject matter of this post may, in fact, reek of familarity.

Face it, we mothers are human. Like it or not we put our socks on one at a time even if they don’t match, and sometimes, we even, have to use the bathroom for things other than giving baths or scrubbing toilets. I’d thought perhaps with a 14 and 11 year old I’d emerged on the other side of the bathroom-door-always-open rite of passage to a brand new day laced with privacy and dignity. Yeah right. Granted, I can go into the bathroom and close the door and have no one open it. The thought of happening in upon a naked mother is not tops on the list of a 14 year old boy or pre-teen girl.

But instead of fending for themselves, of which they are relatively capable, I realized today, they have each mastered the technique of yelling through the crack in the bathroom door through which sound can and does transmit rather effectively. They are, for all intensive purposes, right back in the bathroom with me.

My daughter, actually, wasn’t the ultimate offender, although her potential is tremendous.

“MOM?”
“I’m IN the bathroom.” (which she knew because she was screaming right into the bathroom door)
“OH.”

Two minutes later, I wasn’t so lucky. My son must consider me quite the captive audience when behind closed doors. He has a lot to learn about women and bathrooms.

“MOM?”
“I’m IN the bathroom.”
“OH. MOM? (muffled by mouth against bathroom door) Can I have
money?”
“Right now?”
“Well I have been using all my own money lately and
it IS Spring Break.”
“You want money NOW? Right NOW? I’m IN the bathroom!”

I proceeded to give him TMI on what was going on on the other side of the closed, locked door, and asked if he really needed money that particular moment in order to go back to his room where his two buddies were waiting to play video games.

I haven’t heard from him since, but I guarantee the next thing I’ll hear is, “MOM.”

I think I am going install one of those locked “suggestion boxes” next to my bathroom door. That way, my kids can write down all the things they need to tell me and ask me the moment nature calls. That will keep them busy I bet.

Unless they can’t find a pencil.

Late last night as I was writing and reading and perusing the internet and the many blogs that have captured my attention and sense of humor*, I started to wonder. Are there as many ways to blog as there are bloggers? I, in no way, would presume to think there is a right or a wrong way, but I am curious.

Do you blast out your post in a huff and a hurry?

Do you type and spell-check and search for applicable links and graphics?

Do your ideas come quickly or slowly?

So whether you email me (as some of you do) because you don’t want to become part of the permanent internet record of a weblog, or if you leave your comment here for all to see…I’d love to know. And I’ll go first.

I blog therefore I mull. I write a draft quickly, based on whatever current or past thoughts are floating around in my head that I want to get out of there (it gets incredibly crowded when the weight of the free world is mixing with whether or not there is any bread to make lunches). Then I reread and rewrite. And reread and rewrite. Often times I have multiple drafts renting space from my Blogger Posting Tab for days on end. I go back and I tweak. And when it reads right to me, when my words say what I mean, when it makes me smile, I click Publish. And that doesn’t mean more changes aren’t coming. I do like to add graphics, mostly because I like to look at them. I consider this blog such a reflection of myself that if I only looked at the polka dots, Times Roman and Trebuchet I would get bored. I have found that in addition to obsessing over content, I obsess over my blog’s appearance. I like visual variety in my blog like I do in my closet. I had a closet makeover last year. Phenomenal.

Blog makeover in the works, but that’s a post of a different color.

My 10 year old daughter waited patiently as plans changed throughout the day for her friend to come and play. Finally, at my insistence and 15 minutes past the most recent time she was scheduled to arrive, my daughter called her friend.

After a few minutes I was reassured that the friend would arrive momentarily and — that nothing is sacred.

“Is she coming?”

“Uh huh.”

“What happened?”

“Her mom was in the shower and then had to get dressed and put make-up on.”

“To drive her over here?”

“That’s what I said, Mom. I told her, my mom just tucks her nightgown into sweatpants and she’s ready to go.”

All this from a child who can’t remember to brush her teeth or to tell me that hot lunch money is due on Tuesday.

She did leave out the detail that I also wear slippers. So I guess I’ll let it slide.

I’ve been blogging now for ONE MONTH. Thanks to those of you who know me and who don’t, for reading this, for being encouraging and for being kind. I so appreciate your comments, whether noted here or not, and I hope you will continue letting me know when I touch a cord, make you laugh or simply leave you in awe of my raw talent as a writer (one can dream, can she not?)

As I continue to try to conquer the laundry, raise my kids, and find true love, I hope you will all come along for the ride. I’m quite certain it will be worth the trip.

The school nurse called today, and off I went to pick up my 8th grade son, again.

Then I gave in. At the urging of the nurse, and after four days of my son being out of school more than he was in, sleeping all day and coughing all night, droning and dragging, I took him to the pediatrician. Even though I knew the chances were slim to none that he was harboring some germ or virus that could not be cured with chicken soup and a new PSP game, I wasn’t going to be wrong and thereby have him home two weeks in a row. (Mother-of-the-Year contestants are dismissed, the position has been filled)

In walks the well-educated, well-compensated, much younger than me doctor. Eyes, lungs, ears, nose. Uh huh. Cough. Breathe. Stick out your tongue.

Hold onto your box of Kleenex…the results are in. And the winner is…

A COLD!

For my $20 co-pay I was really hoping for a multi-syllabic virus and a prescription, but I’ll take the diagnosis and suffer the loss, all the way back to the junior high.