Life on Decaf
Miserable doesn’t even begin to describe how my mood has been this week. Since we’ve moved in with my parents, I’ve had a headache from the time I wake up until the time I go to bed. Mr. BBM said it was stress. My Mom said it was allergies because of our new location living in the woods. I figured it was exhaustion and dehydration because check and check. I feel like I’m suffering from both of them.
Today I found out the real reason.
Earlier in the week, I asked my Mom if her coffee was regular or decaf. She told me it was regular. If I miss my cup of coffee, I get a horrendous headache. I had kicked the caffeine habit during both pregnancies and for as long as I nursed both of these girls. But when you have two little ones and you need some go power, you grovel back to the coffee and the caffeine. It’s what needs to be done.
This morning as I was preparing a small pot of coffee, I read the label on my Mom’s coffee:
"Dunkin’ Decaf."
"Dunkin’ Decaf!!!!" I cried out! I immediately went downstairs to the little refrigerator that houses all of our things we couldn’t fit in the big one to retrieve my very caffeinated coffee, and dumped a healthy heaping tablespoon into the coffee maker.
My mood is drastically improving. I may actually have the energy and feel well enough to find my socks today.
Best Friend for a Reason
I was feeling emotional and grumpy yesterday. I’m overwhelmed with packing, grumpy about having to move out of my house before I wanted to (and into my parent’s house, who seem to be grouching to everyone in my family about us moving in), and the sadness about leaving this house after almost five years was setting in as well.
Going to see our new house progress last night barely cheered me up. They had put stone in the footprint and had the forms there to pour the basement walls (probably happening right now). It didn’t matter. The negative feelings were overwhelming.
I came home and was just settling in for a long night of grading thesis statements with no capitalization when my best friend called me. She started with an apology for calling so late and then quickly launched into her reason for calling.
My best friend, the most amazing kitchen packer I know, informed me that she is driving out tomorrow and staying until Friday to help me finish packing. I instantly burst into tears. She has always been there for me through the years, but this went beyond the status quo of being there for your friend.
It wouldn’t be a big deal if she was driving 30 minutes. The big deal is that she’s driving 4.5 hours to come and help me, with her 4-year old son in the back seat. Not only that, but she insisted on bringing her own bed linens, towels, toiletries and even dinner for all of us.
I have been overwhelmed with a completely different feeling since receiving her phone call and I can NOT thank her enough. I figured that all of you who have offered virtual support through this moving process could go and thank her for me too.
So go visit her site, tell her how amazing and wonderful she is, and think happy thoughts about an easy drive for her tomorrow.
Packing just got a whole lot more fun.
Thankful, Hectic, Proud
Filed under: Building the BBM House, Mental Strain for Mama, Moving
This morning, a friend took both of the girls to play with her four daughters so I could have a couple hours to pack in peace (i.e. pack up all the things the girls don’t want me to pack). Is she fantastic or what? In the middle of my morning, I got a call from the showing center. I used to crave calls from the showing center, but when they called this time, I was first confused and then completely thrown off my game plan.
It was 11 a.m. when the phone rang and the person on the other line, who had set up many of our showings during those grueling months on the market, told me that the appraiser wanted to come at noon TODAY! I sighed with disgust as I looked around at my house. Newspapers were everywhere so that I didn’t have to keep walking up and down the stairs to get more to wrap things in, empty boxes covered an entire wall, full boxes were littered throughout the house and you may remember that I have been on a cleaning strike since last week. I’ve shown fantastic follow-through with that pledge.
I figured it was better to just get it over with while the girls were out of the house, so I said yes. Then I turned into the Tazmanian devil and spun my way around the house, picking up dirty clothes, folding the pile that needed to be folded, making beds, wiping off counters and begging Mr. BBM to please, for the love of God, use part of your lunch break to run the vacuum.
Instead of arriving at noon, she came at 11:30. I think I would have told her off if she wasn’t so overly apologetic and sweet. I continued to pack while she went from room to room, taking measurements and pictures. When she was finished upstairs, she found me downstairs in the family room and asked me if I had a professional decorator work on the house. Dumbfounded, I told her no. "Well, are you an interior decorator by trade?" I think I may have snorted with laughter, as I told her "I wish." She then said, "Well then I hate you. I seriously hate people like you, because you didn’t have to hire anyone and this place is gorgeous. It looks like a model home. You’re amazing at picking colors."
Her comments had me on my heels and I almost fell into another box of "misc toys." I thanked her and then followed her around fishing for more compliments. I told her that her compliments meant the world to me because I am currently second-guessing everything I’m choosing for the new house.
Want the truth? I think she was buttering me up so she can come in with some out in left field low appraisal that’s going to wreck my life. I’m all for thinking positive, but that’s just too much good all in one day right there.
I got a ton of packing done, despite all the interruptions, and figured I’d take the girls to the pool this afternoon. Lil C wanted to hang out in the baby pool, so I sat there and watched her demurely make her rounds, surrounded by her little float. When she noticed another little boy who was probably newly two, she approached him and told him her name. He ignored her and walked away. She seemed irritated.
A few minutes later, the little boy walked over to Lil C and started splashing her. As the water droplets landed on her hair and face, she clenched up her little arms in disgust and turned her back to him to weather the rest of the storm. When he was finished, she turned around, clenched her fists and raised her arms and said, "I VANT YOU TO STOP SPLASHING ME RIGHT NOW!"
He looked at her with fear, turned on his heel and went quickly back to his side of the pool. He didn’t bother her the rest of the day. After listening to Big I ask me to take care of her problems for her since she’s been born, I can’t even tell you how my heart soared with pride when Lil C took care of business on her own! That munchkin is two years old and she completely stood up for herself, without whining, without crying, and most importantly, without asking me to get involved. It was simply awesome.
Later tonight, we went to check out the progress on the house. The hole is deeper and the girls were having a blast running around in it and asking which room they were in now. When I first put Lil C down in the hole, she looked up at me and asked, "Where’s the hole Mommy?" It was fairly obvious we were many feet below the normal ground level. Then, she looked down and saw a little area where the dirt was pushed away. It looked like a small rock had been removed, leaving a little gutted out area in its place. "There’s the hole!" she yelled.
After a couple more minutes wandering around the dirt, she murmured to her sister, "this is fun." As we were about to leave, one of our new neighbors rode his bike up with his sons to say hello. He was super nice and he let us know that everyone on the street hangs out, drinking beer and cocktails while the kids run around and play behind the houses in the park. I’ve never been happier about the lot we chose.
Next week, our realtor is taking us to a pig roast as his guests at the local pool. Our realtor will live just down the street from us, so he offered to take us and introduce us to all the neighbors. I just hope no one splashes Lil C. Things could get ugly.
Tumbling Class Drop-Out
A mother can only tolerate so much screaming before saying "enough is enough." Today: enough. After trying unsuccessfully, for the fourth time, to get Lil C to try her tumbling class, I finally gave up. I tricked her into staying in the room today and thought maybe she’d do o.k. if she couldn’t see me.
I was wrong.
She screamed and cried and her mood never improved. With 10 minutes left to go in the class, I grabbed her and left. We’re done with tumbling class. Tumbling is not in our genes I guess.
I spoke to the school director as we were leaving. One look at Lil C’s swollen and tear-stained face convinced her to help us out a bit. So, on Saturday, Lil C is going to try an art class. She’s been begging me to go to an art class, so Saturday she’ll get her chance. The best part about it being on a Saturday, is that I can make Mr. BBM take her. I’m off the hook. He just doesn’t know it yet.
On the home front, there’s a bulldozer parked in our lot as of tonight. They started to dig the lot out across the street, so I think we’re next. Tomorrow we make our selections and fight about colors. I doubt I’ll sleep tonight; I’m just that excited!
In other news, my best friend is away on vacation this week and I promised her I would write a post for her blog. The only problem is that I don’t have the password to log into her site. I thought I did have it. So, in lieu of me writing a fabulous post over there, please just go click over there and say hello. If I can’t write for her, I’ll flood her with traffic and link love.
Sibling Rivalry
July 4th was my sister’s 29th birthday. Every year, we have a cook-out/birthday party at my parent’s house. While my sister opened her presents (one of mine to her was a pair of silky underwear with rings all over it-hint, hint, boyfriend), my Dad disappeared. He came back a few minutes later with a piece of folded up paper.
I should note here that since my sister was born on a popular summer holiday, she always has a party. Since I was born in the dead of winter (February 7th), parties don’t happen. Once, my elementary slumber party had to be canceled because we had feet upon feet of snow. As an adult, I often get the old "the weather might be bad so I don’t know if I’ll be able to go out for dinner with you for your birthday" excuse. No one wants to celebrate a birthday when they’d rather be hibernating. It’s depressing and entirely unfair.
So, when my Dad announced that he had a poem to read to my sister, I couldn’t help but mentally roll my eyes. My Dad is not a poet, never has been, at least as far as I know. I think of him more like an algebra dictator, but that’s just my experience with him.
He started reading this poem about my sister. He talked about how bravely she approached her back surgery while in high school. He talked about driving her to flight school in Florida, only to have her change her mind after being there one day, which resulted in a mad rush drive back home so that they could enroll her at Penn State (my Dad’s alma mater). We should also note here that I am a graduate of Pitt and was not allowed to even look at out of state schools. If I had known that wanting to go to flight school would have gotten me to Daytona Beach, FL, I would have considered getting over my fear of heights.
The poem continued with the theme of "we couldn’t be prouder of you." I thought I might gag.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my sister, but she hasn’t exactly been a saint. She hasn’t exactly made my life easier either. When she was a baby, she knocked down my blocks. When I was a teenager, she used to try to spy on me and my friends. When my parents bought be a Geo Metro the summer after my freshman year in college, they made me keep it at home while I went back to school. She proceeded to "decorate" my car with Christmas lights while I was away. It was already pretty hard to make a Metro look cool. That did not help. The very next year, they allowed her to go trade it in for a purple Nissan AND allowed her to drive it to school. I almost always had to ride the bus, and when I did get to drive it was a beat-up Escort station wagon. I’m not complaining, but it wasn’t exactly a cool car for a high school girl.
After college, my sister got engaged and moved in with a total creep; and we had to move her out of that house in seven hours (before he got home from work). She also has six pets: three huge dogs and three cats. One of them spontaneously poops on my Mom’s floor whenever she dog-sits her. Not even my kids do that kind of stuff.
Because I’m totally mature, I spent the rest of the day and night playfully reminding everyone of my sister’s screw-ups. I also whined and complained that my Dad never wrote a poem about me. I told my sister she can quit calling me the favorite child; it’s quite clear I’m not.
And then it all became very clear. . . my Dad totally wrote that poem to throw her off. I really am the favorite daughter.
I’m the one who watched hockey with him from the time I was born while my sister preferred Sesame Street. I’m the one who played softball and made the all-star team while my sister showed no such interest in anything "sport." Like my Dad, I’m the one who gets grossed out by licky dogs (it must be genetic), while my sister practically makes out with hers. I’m the one who gave him two fabulous grand-daughters while my sister continues to up her animal count and bring them for frequent and mostly unwanted visits to my parent’s house.
I’m also the one moving in with my parents, in less than four weeks, for the second time in my adult life, this time bringing three family members along with me . . .
Something tells me there won’t be any poems written about me anytime soon, at least not good ones anyway.
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