Donation Thursday

One of the biggest challenges of being a mother to 7 children is ORGANIZATION. Anyone who has ever known me knows that this is not my strong suit. I'm a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants kind of lady. Yes, Great Aunt Margaret, I wear pants. I do. I reject the notion that a lady can only be a lady in a skirt, with the wind whipping at her hoo-ha. I mean, really?! Who does that anymore? Jeans and tshirts are my uniform most days, and a hooded sweatshirt if its too cold, but not cold enough for a coat. But I digress...organization. Yeah. Even my thoughts are unorganized most of the time.

Well, today's the day I dread. I have to sort through all the kids' clothes and figure out what stays, what goes, and what gets put away for fall. Its a task in great speculation (as in, how much will each one grow in the next five months) and also a sentimental task. I love looking at all the little clothes and remembering the funny things the little parasites have said or done while wearing a particular item of clothing. The reality of the matter is that I DO NOT have room for sentimentality. There is physically no room. I am happy to have my shoeboxes full of pictures, and should be.

Zane and Nora are helping me. We have garbage bags galore. I am glad to see some of this stuff go, like the socks that are too small for everyone, yet always seem to make it into the laundry basket week after week. I can't even drink because I have to make an appearance at work tonight. St. Mary would not appreciate a drunk Respiratory Therapist, even if it meant I did a better job and enjoyed it a lot more.

See what I mean about disorganized? Maybe I have ADD. Or ADHD. Maybe it was never diagnosed. Maybe life would be easier if I were medicated. Ah, Jesus, off the subject again. The eternal rant...maybe I should sort through my books too, and make room for the new ones that should be delivered this week. Thanks, Amazon! But, yeah, I'm staring at this pile of clothes, and it needs to be dispersed, and nothing's happening with my ass rambling away here, so...

There's not room in this bed for all 5 of us, put the seat down, etc.

My kids have taken over my life. I used to have a life of my own, but it is no longer.

I used to ride a motorcycle. I was the heavily tattooed, boisterous, outspoken writer who had a day job. I was a smarty-pants and knew it. I wasn't afraid to tell stupid people just how stupid they were. And if they didn't get it, they were even stupider than I thought. (I met a couple like that, the ones who wanted to talk about their FEELINGS and not the reality of the situations they created.)

This new crop of kids has put a new spin on Me, though. I never thought I would let a few little people distract me from what I am supposed to be doing. But still, this summer, when I should be on Ender's Island having my residency for grad school, I will be at home with the shrieking beasts. I just couldn't stomach the idea of leaving them alone with my husband, as saintly as he is, for ten whole days without any day care. Its a practical decision. I have an infant. He would have to take a week off work during his busiest time of year. I hate that I have to defer this residency, but I know its the best choice I could make.

I still have my tattoos. They aren't going anywhere anytime soon. But I am more hesitant to display them. I used to love looking like a thug/hoodlum/white trash. It was a good way to keep pretentious people from talking to me. The kids' teachers thought I was on the dumb side, I'm sure. It was nice to shock them with my education and vocabulary. I'd leave parent-teacher conferences and see them scratching their heads, having the "What just happened to me" dialogue with themselves. It was funny.

But now I have sold my motorcycle and my Jeep, am selling my husband's bike, and have become self-conscious. I am no longer boisterous or outspoken. In fact, if anything, I have become more introverted. I don't like people looking at me. (I'm afraid they will see what I used to be and wonder how everything changed.)

I don't resent the littles. I think they may have saved me. I wonder, though, if once they get bigger, I will return to the Me I was. Will I kick everyone under the age of six out of my bed, and go back to sleeping with my husband? Will I rant about the toilet seat and how nasty it is to have to touch it before I can sit to pee? Or will I continue to accordion in on myself, until I am completely invisible?

Spring in Duluth

What does Spring mean, besides being that span of time between April 21 and June 21? I'm pretty sure it is something different in my world than many other folks'.

Spring means it might stop snowing sometime. The only month Duluth has never had snow (yet) is July. And there's a first time for that, too. Mostly it means things turn to mud, and it rains a lot. But like lots of other places, the robins come back. The squirrels and raccoons come out of hibernation and desecrate the neighborhood garbage cans in search of food. Which means we have a rifle in our dining room and a pistol in our vestibule. Yep, it looks like the Clampetts live at our house. But I doubt any robbers will look through the windows and decide ours is the house to rob.

It also means my kids try to sneak out of the house in shorts. Nevermind that it might only be 35 or 40 degrees. If ths sun is out, so are their pasty white Minnesotan legs. I've tried to explain that since the calendar says spring, it is not automatic shorts weather. They don't seem to get it.

Spring is also a time for a couple birthdays. Rudy and Casey both roll over another year in May. They ask for the same dumb shit every year. Floaties for the lake, squirt guns, the gamat. The May birthday party is quite the ordeal, though, because there are a few others in our extended family that celebrate with the kiddos. Its mayhem, but I love it.

Spring is anticipation of Summer, in my book. Mud and filth do not appeal so I ignore them and wait for green to emerge. Waiting, waiting, waiting...

They Rise Earlier and Earlier...

Its not fair. I have a newborn who goes to sleep about 9. As in PM. She, being the angel she is, gets up at 4, eats, and then retreats to her slumber for another 5 or 6 hours. A mother's dream? You would think so. I actually have to get up somewhere in the middle there because my hooters are screaming at me that if I don't DO SOMETHING they are gonna blow. I'm not really awake for that 1AM pumping, I'm just on autopilot.

So my baby sleeps all night. I don't. I sleep for shit. The littles get up earlier and earlier, now that it is light at 5AM. They stomp down the stairs and demand breakfast and juice. They demand to get dressed. Zane wants to know if he can go play in the driveway at 0530.

Then I have to make lunches for the other 4 freeloaders. By the time this is done (usually in a total daze) I feel the need for coffee. Then I take a quick shower--I try to savor it as it is my only "alone time" anymore. When I emerge from our lukewarm shower (it never did get rectified that the water in there is never above 95 degrees)I feel like I am ready to deal with the world.

The baby squawks a little. I pick her up and she barfs on me, my hair, my clean shirt. I stink like baby barf. Nora wipes toothpaste on my jeans, one of the two pairs that fit. I change my shirt some days. Other days I just hit it with a baby wipe and spray the spot with Love's Baby Soft.

I love them. I love them, I really do. I wish, though, that they would coordinate this morning routine so NO ONE got up until ten. Just one day a week, so I had something to look forward to. For now, though, its just purgatory.

Our Trek through Appliance Hell

The last year has been a bad one for our appliances.

First the dryer, born in the 1960s if you judged it by its color, refused to spin. So clothes got hot, the ones on the top dried, and the ones below got moldy and smelly. We expected its death, actually a lot sooner, considering we had to prop the door shut with a 2X4. It never latched from the day we moved in, but I was happy not to have to drop a load of cash on a new one right off the bat. So the new dryer was welcome, a far more energy efficient model that dried in half the time. And it was white, not avacado green.

Then the refrigerator stopped cooling. Bart Simpson called, asking if our refrigerator was running and I had to tell the little stinker "No." Joke aborted. We put all the food we could in the downstairs refrigerator, remainders in coolers on the porch and under the kitchen table. I was beginning to think that this was a conspiracy formed entirely by Maytag.

Conspiracy theory confirmed: The washing machine was next. I called a repair man in hope of resurrecting it, since it was relatively new and modern. It was a front loader, which I thought I would like until I had one. The seal around the door always smelled moldy, the damn thing never really drained. The repair man charged me $90 to tell me it would cost more to fix the stupid thing than get a new one. Shit!

Then last week, Nora (aka No-No Nora) pushed all the cycle buttons on the dishwasher and then held in the start button. I was watching this in my pre-coffee daze from the dining room. The dishwasher made a grinding sound. Smoke started rising from the door. She giggled, thinking this was great fun. The smell of burning electrical components filled the air, and then.....the door blew open with a POP! Broken dishes everywhere! Lights went out! Two-year-old screaming and bleeding! Yes, bleeding! The shards of broken dishes scratched the side of her face before catapulting her backward onto her ass, making it look like Freddy Krueger had attacked.

I put my head down on the table as she climbed up into my lap, tears and blood mingling on my pajamas. Yes, the dishwasher was dead too. And now, the only appliance in our ENTIRE HOUSE we have not replaced in the last year is the oven. Which is gas. Which is impossible to break/wear out/destroy. Right/

A Day Late...A Dollar Short

In honor of mother's day, albeit a Horrendous Halmark Holiday.
A poem you will never find in a card for it is way too gritty and real:

My Grandma Milkweed

Sprouted up in 1916, a girl
who lived through Prohibition,
the Great Depression, the wars.
First in France, then Germany, then deep jungles
of Southeast Asia followed by desert sands.
She could have predicted
the outcomes of all of them
after the first one, her crystal ball
was clear on that.

Tall, her fibrous limbs worked
the farm, picking and bundling
firm stalks of asparagus she sold to Naples
Fruit Stand down
on River Road. Her stem
was straight. Her leaves
were full. Flowers sprung up
in her hair, making her look exotic
not just overworked.

Her skin took on the hue of dirt
but her hair was always red, wrapped
up in kerchiefs. She went to work
welding fittings and never returned
to housewivery or the dirt
when the boys came home.

She sipped sangria
once, at the kitchen table
where she pickled canned baked.
She got a little heated
over the bastard she had married, the one
who drank his paychecks up and left her
to feed their seven children:
my mother, my aunts, my uncle.
But then she laughed
since she was the one who took up with him
anyway. Not like she didn’t know
what she was getting into.

Now, though, my Grandma Milkweed
doesn’t speak. She doesn’t know my face or name.
I tried to coax a word or two out of her
last time I saw her, eight years ago.
She was mostly gone then. She still lit up
when her dog brushed against her leg, begging
for a scratch.

I stopped going to visit her. I stopped
thinking of her

as anything more than history.
Her pod, split open
gave its seeds, adrift on their silken wings
to the wind. All that remains now
is hard, grey casing
and the silvery stem
where once we all attached.

Best Kids' Shopping in Duluth!

I am on a limited budget. With 7 little parasites, I guess that goes without saying. Part of the "How do you do it?" question is financial, and I would like to share the best, kid-friendly places to shop in fair Duluth. This means mostly that prices are good, products are decent (but don't obviously last forever) and salespeople are kind to harried mothers.

5. Wal-Mart. C'mon, you knew it would make the list for cheap prices. And the salesfolks there are so used to nasty, bratty, white-trash kids that when you bring a herd there and they behave in a semi-human manner, the salespeople sing your praises and damn near applaud you. Cheap clothing, but don't expect to hand it down, as it is NOT of fine quality.

4. JCPenney. A bit high-end for us, but I pride myself on always getting the little freeloaders new shoes of decent brand. (Nike, Adidas, Skechers, etc.) I had to wear generic shoes most of my childhood (He llo, Payless tennies) and always swore my kids wouldn't have to endure the heckles of their friends for such humiliation. Not to say Payless isn't THE place for dress shoes, because it totally is!

3. Lots for Tots. Quality, clean used kids clothing and accessories. An awesome staff. A place for the little kids to play while I do boring things like shop. High end stuff at a great price. A rewards program. HIGHLY recommended. HIGHLY.

2. Goodwill. Hit or miss. Cheap. Dirty place, but wonderful staff. Nice place to ditch all the outgrown stuff without feeling guilty.

1. Savers. Even though it smells like puke as soon as you walk through the door, the selection is always changing. The salespeople are pleasant, they offer good coupons, a fair selection of toys to keep the brats busy, and great prices. Also hit or miss, but usually there is a large enough inventory to get what we need. Prices are good, and all profits go to the Disabled American Veterans.