Roadmaster and Pilot – John Rudy
Co – Pilot - Meems

1. Seatbelts buckled at all times
2. No more than 1 stop for every 175 miles
3. No multiple stops during the 1 allocated rest stop (such as burgers here and fries there)
4. No DVD players and movies- children MUST enjoy the surrounding countryside and traveling America’s byways
5. Hand-held video games and mp3 players are allowed, but only in 20 min. increments
6. No throwing of any kind –this includes, toys, games, shoes, and food
7. No throwing up of any kind – including Mommy
8. No sleeping by the co-pilot. Zero tolerance here
9. Co-Pilot must engineer happiness with all fellow travelers
10. No whining
11. No question of route, speed, direction of RoadMaster by Co-Pilot

This won’t be my first time. I’m a professional sweets quitter. I’ve done it, oh, maybe 342 times. Once I even went a whole week without them.

I’m not saying it’s not okay to enjoy sweets in moderation. The problem is, with my obsessive “all or nothing” mentality, the word “moderation” holds no meaning. Every afternoon, I would count out exactly 40 M&Ms for my afternoon snack. 39 would simply not be enough, and 41 would cross some imaginary line in my head. I am not capable of eating just one cookie - if it’s not 4 or 5, why bother? And if I’m going to the trouble of making the brownie batter, why stop at just a few spoonfuls? I’ve been known to settle down with a spoon and eat the stuff like soup - raw eggs and all. Disgusting? In theory. Delicious? You betcha.

I knew I had a problem when Savannah caught me last week, sneaking up the stairs with my nightly sweet treat (3 head-sized chocolate chip cookies, fresh outta the oven) on a paper plate with a napkin on top. When she tried to lift the napkin, I howled and held the plate over my head as if it held my deepest, darkest secrets. Then she called me out: “Why do you always hide it under a napkin? Why don’t you want anybody to know when you eat junk?”

That did it. I realized the anticipation of stuffing my face with cookies, brownies, and ice cream was far sweeter than what came afterward. The fleeting moment of pleasure was outweighed by the self-loathing and overall gross feeling, which sometimes lasted for hours. Plus, as an avid exerciser, I was sick of feeling like all my hard work was being canceled out by the constant stream of sugar, aka devil’s serum.

Maybe someday, if and when this OCD abates, I’ll be able to casually enjoy just ONE cookie or ONE handful of M&Ms without making a federal case of it. Until then, sweets and I are officially on a break. And not a Kit-Kat one.

He just started to snore.

I find this amazing, how a person can fall asleep instantaneously in the middle of the day without being drugged or deathly ill. Note the sunlight streaming through the open blinds. WTH?? Other than those bone-weary pregnancy days, I haven’t had a mid-day nap in years. Maybe it’s a boy/girl thing. When a girl has a few minutes of spare time, she plays on Facebook, paints her nails, or reads a few pages from the novel that’s been collecting dust on the nightstand. When a boy finds himself with some down time (which happens much more often — but that’s a whole ‘nother post), he’s drawn — like a dog to bacon — to the nearest horizontal surface.

I should also note that John clocked a full 7 hours of sleep last night, while I engaged in yet another fun-filled night of musical beds, setting alarms in each girls’ room before crawling into their tiny beds. At one point, all three alarms were going off at the same time, sending me running from room to room swatting at snooze buttons to shut them up.

John, of course, slept through the whole thing.

J: “What did you order?”
M: “Spaghetti and meatballs for you, with 2 extra meatballs. Lasagna for me. Each comes with garlic bread. Mine comes with minestrone soup, yours comes with a salad with Italian dressing. Small cheese pizza for the girls. Extra order of garlic bread for Abby. Side of spaghetti sauce ‘cuz they’re always stingy with it.”
J: {silent, glassy-eyed, as his man’s brain struggles to process all of this}
M: “Be sure to check the bag.”
J: {recovering, slowly shaking his head from side to side} “No way am I checking for all that.”
M: “What do you mean, you’re not checking?”
J: “I’m not checking all those bags. It’s too much.”
M: {now I’m the one struggling to comprehend} “But that’s the whole reason I called in a pick-up order instead of delivery. When they deliver, it’s always missing some crucial thing. When you pick up, you have the luxury of checking everything right there and calling them on it.”
J: {tossing keys onto table} “You can go pick it up, then. I’ll give the girls a bath.”
M: “Are you serious? Why?”
J: “It’s too much pressure.”
M: {laughing out loud} “Too much pressure? To pick up LaRosa’s and peek in the bag?”
J: “I’m not checking the bag. And if something’s missing, you’ll freak out. It’s too much pressure. So you go, check to your heart’s content, and everybody’s happy.”

I could have kept debating, but then realized I would have been arguing myself out of 20 minutes alone in a quiet car, with full control of the radio. If he would rather get pelted with bath toys and mop up the swamp that would soon be the bathroom floor than poke through a carry-out bag, he’s picked his poison.

An hour later, as we sat down with our food, John pointed out that his spaghetti was missing the extra meatballs. “You would have been so furious if I was the one who picked it up,” he said. I didn’t say what I was thinking: No, I wouldn’t have, ‘cuz they weren’t my meatballs.

My best friend Lara (who has known, loved, and hated my wacky tendencies for 20 years), called last week to invite me to lunch with a couple of girlfriends. I was excited until she gave the details: 2:00 at Panera. I calmly explained to her that I couldn’t possibly eat lunch at 2:00, as that would wreck dinner, and I love dinner too much to wreck it. “Fine,” she said, in the tone she uses when she’s a step away from cussing me out, “then just get coffee.” I reminded her that I’m probably the last 33-year-old mother in the world who doesn’t drink coffee, so I’d just get a Diet Coke. But then I remembered: Panera doesn’t have Coke, and everyone knows Diet Pepsi blows, so I’d have to go through a McD’s drive-thru to get one of their delicious fountain Diets on the way. By the time I stopped talking, I realized she’d hung up on me.

This has been fun, but it’s 5:42 PM. Time to start our nightly debate about what’s for dinner.

Dreams are kinda cruel if you think about it. You settle in for some blissful nothingness, but your brain has other ideas. It’s like someone has taped your eyelids open and forced you at gunpoint to watch a movie all night, one they picked for you without your input. Maybe you were in the mood for a romantic comedy, but instead you find yourself stuck in front of Back to the Future or Gary Busey’s True Hollywood Story. If you’ve got no choice but to sit through it, without the benefit of popcorn or bathroom breaks, it seems like you should at least be allowed to pick a classic John Cusack flick or the latest sweet morsel from Sandra Bullock.

Either way, I feel cheated that I put in a solid 6.5 hours in bed and have nothing to show for it but a non-alcoholic hangover.

“In fact, it doesn’t even have to be particularly smart or funny.”

There. Maybe now I’ll post more often.

I think about writing here at least several times a day. While getting Claire her bottle at 2 AM, I get hit with ideas for kick-ass posts and scrawl them on napkins. Great stories unfurl in my head like a dropped spool of ribbon. But when it comes down to it, I can’t muster the time or energy to tear myself away from my work and craft a respectable entry.

So, I’m saying to hell with respectable entries. Every day, come hell or high water, I will take a break from writing about colon cleansing and wedding planning and coffee machines — and the hundreds of other topics people pay me to write about — and come here to indulge in my own unpaid musings, however trivial or inane. Like those everyday Larry David moments (i.e. bulletproof packaging), funny things the kids say (”Mommy, you’re too old to wear that”), or the deeper stuff that robs me of sleep and sends my heart racing in the wee hours.

Not because anyone is chomping at the bit to read it, but because it feeds my soul and gets me in the mindset to pursue my life’s dream. And isn’t that more important than paying the electric bill?

Savannah showing off her guns at Great Wolf, spring 2010 (Abby's not sure what to think)

I hereby resolve to stop starting each post with an apology for how long it’s been since my last one. After all, isn’t that a little egotistical? As if people are lining up at their computers to hear all about my missed deadlines, failed potty-training attempts, and OCD symptoms.

So, yeah, it’s been awhile. When diving in after a long period of silence, I always like to start with lists.

5 Reasons to Smile

1. Spring break next week! No school for 10 consecutive days! Slow mornings, sunny afternoons, excursions to the park, kids in and out of the house all day, the girls changing clothes each time the temperature nudges up 2 degrees… wait a minute, I think this is on the wrong list.

2. Joined the YMCA on Sunday, and have discovered a wonderful new breed of freedom. Free child care, free fitness classes for me, indoor/outdoor pool… So far we’ve visited 4 times already, morning and evening. They’re already starting to give me odd looks each time our troop comes banging through the doors; maybe they’re wondering if we’re homeless and are using the Y for our hygiene needs. Or that I’m dropping the kids off at Child Watch and then sneaking out the side door to go shopping. Actually, that’s not a bad idea…

3. John got a new job! After a 3-month hiatus (during which we learned that there IS indeed such a thing as too much family togetherness), he started at Cintas on March 1st as a Marketing Manager. His love of all things corporate — right down to wearing the suit and tie every day — is one thing we don’t have in common, but I’m thrilled that he’s thrilled (and out of the house).

4. Claire asking from her car seat, during every drive: “Can I go crazy, Mommy? Wanna go crazy!” This is her cue for me to turn on her favorite song from John’s bluegrass CD, something about heading into Mary’s kitchen for some ground sausage. When the banjo starts, Claire proceeds to “go crazy”, which means kicking and flailing her skinny little arms and legs while shaking her head wildly back and forth, pale hair flying and teeth bared in a wild smile. Pure, unadulterated joy that makes the nauseatingly twangy music worthwhile.

5. Birthday season has begun. Claire rang in her 2nd at Chuck-E-Cheese on March 10th (that place really needs to get a liquor license), Abby turns 4 in a couple weeks, and Savannah will be 6 (going on 16) in May. John is convinced all of these parties will drive us to the poorhouse (shhh, don’t tell him we’ve already got one foot in the door).

5 Reasons to Pout

1. John’s out of town on business all week. It’s all Mommy, all the time. Bedtime is like trying to herd a trio of goats to their respective pens (do goats even have pens?) while they all keep trying to butt their way back out to the common area.

2. Still not finding time to write. I don’t mean my business writing or my blog writing, but the writing that beats inside of me like a caged animal trying to get out. I know there’s only one solution: to set aside the laundry, the deadlines, and the baby and just eke out a few hundred words of my novel each day… but that’s easier said than done. Alice Hoffman and Jodi Picoult didn’t get to where they are with the best of intentions.

3. Due to what I’ve self-diagnosed as a stress fracture in my foot, I haven’t been able to run for a month, and missed the Mini-Heart Marathon this past Sunday. I’ve been walking instead, but as any runner knows, that’s the equivalent of eating low-fat yogurt instead of UDF homemade ice cream - it just doesn’t measure up. Luckily, I’ve discovered spinning & kickboxing classes at the Y, so that should tide me over until I’m able to pound the pavement again.

4. Last month I resolved to kick the Diet Coke habit and switch to water. I did really well — for about 10 hours. Now I’ve resolved to stop making unrealistic resolutions.

5. I can’t think of another one, because truly, in spite of the never-ending messes and races against the clock, I’m a very lucky gal. So, might as well have a Diet Coke and a smile.

(By the way, my friend, former neighbor, and fellow mommy has just launched a new blog chronicling her hilarious escapades raising her two kiddos. It’s called Zoe and Xander and be warned: it’s addictive.)

Is it wrong that I don’t want my daughter to speak correctly? Going on 4, Abby still struggles with basic grammar and pronunciation. Her pronouns, tenses, and blended consonants get all jumbled together, so anyone outside our family may need a translator to interpret what she’s saying. The sad part is, I find myself loving every last garbled word. Here are a few examples that make me want to grab a spoon and eat that sweet girl right up:

Me: “You’ve had too much candy today. It’s time for a healthy snack.”
Abby: “Okay, but only if that be’s grapes.”

Me: “It’s time to brush your teeth.”
Abby: “Mommy, I want you to brush my own teeth.”

Me: “Grandma will be here in a little while.”
Abby: “I want she to come now!”

Abby: “Mommy, get Claire away from me! I don’t like the smell she’s making.”

Me: “Wash your hands if you want to help with these cookies.”
Abby: “I just washed ‘em, Mommy. Look, my clands are all hean!”

Abby: “I almost felled, but I catched myself.”

Best of all is when she’s trying desperately to think of the right word, starting and stopping and starting again, her little brow furrowed with the effort, until she finally gets frustrated and stomps her foot and yells, “I don’t know what I’m saying!”

That’s my cue to tell Abs we don’t have to talk at all — sometimes hugs are easier.