Play It Again, Sam

So lately I've been dreaming about spending the night in a hotel.  By myself.  Alone.

Is that bad?  Does it make me a selfish person, to not want to serve anyone?  Or answer any of the bazillion, trillion questions that are asked of me by my children on a daily basis, like...

What's for breakfast?  What are we doing today?  Are we almost there yet?  Why did you say SHIT when that person cut you off in traffic?  How come you get to say SHIT, and I don't?  Can we have computer time?  When can we have computer time?  Why do I HAVE to ride my bike while you run?  Will you help me tie my shoes?  Can I have a snack?  Will you make it for me?  Where's my water bottle?  Is it just too much for you having 5 kids, Mom?   What's for dinner?   Can we watch a PG-13 movie that is really scary, cause Dad said it's okay?  Can I sleep in the floor of your bedroom, cause I watched a PG-13 movie, cause Dad said it was okay?  Mommy, why do you drink so much wine?

 AGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!

You know how you sometimes dream what your life would be like, if there were no boundaries?  Like if someone gave you a free-pass to be and do WHATEVER you wanted?  Well, here are my ridiculously, frivolous dreams.  Don't get me wrong:  I totally appreciate my very blessed life...but walk with me for just a minute...

 Live in Europe for an unlimited period of time. I would stay in youth hostels, and travel by taxi and Euro rail and participate in several other extremely dangerous adventures, being a young and stupid American.  I would sip espresso and go to famous museums, and ride my bike through the French countryside.  I would meet up and make friends with a winemaker, who, upon seeing my un-tapped talent for making wine, would teach me how to cultivate and grow grapes.  We would then sip this delicious concoction that we made, in the middle of the day as we lounged by the pool, in a Tuscan villa.  Our biggest worry would be simply this:  re filling our glass.  I would return home only, after drinking wine to my hearts content, or getting my fanny pack stolen.

Have 2 kids. Just to see what it would be like. Like to deliver one baby at a time.  Like to have one hand for each child.  One parent for each kid.    Have enough time and energy to actually give one on one time for each child.  Big sigh,  Followed by an extreme amount of mommy guilt.  Okay, moving on...

Work full time.  in my dream job, as a counselor.  So that I, with all of my damaged goods, could help others with their damaged goods.  So I could have a job, and feel like I'm contributing to my family in a monetary sorta way, while helping others find their way.  I'm thinking that the drive to and from work without anyone else in my car, (especially those under the age of 11), wouldn't be so bad either.

Start a GIRL POWER movement, that sweeps the WORLD...where girls and women alike feel empowered to say WHAT they want, WHEN they want, without worrying about what anyone else THINKS!  A world where every girl and woman embraces their body,  for what it can DO and how STRONG we are, and not solely based on what we look like!  A world where we are free to embrace our strengths and not question them.  To accept ourselves lovingly for all of our many flaws, instead of beating ourselves up!

Shop for clothing, shoes, purses, and accessories.  Oh wait, if you read my last blog, you know that I don't wear accessories.  And my snack bag doubles as my purse.   My shoes are for running.  And my other pair of shoes is flip-flops.  But this is my PRETEND life, silly!  Having the time and money to actually find outfits that compliment my figure that match, and flow.  VS buying my underwear at Costco next to the book section.  I have to have these clothes now that I'm working full-time, dontcha know?

Complete a marathon or climb Mt.Everest.  These two things are kind of one in the same to me.  It will never happen is this life, because truth be told, I don't really WANT to do either of them.  But in my pretend life, I would have countless hours to train.  I would be in the most AMAZING shape.  Like those crazy ass Cirque du Soleil acrobats, who support a full sized man with their pinkie, while riding a tricycle across a high wire that is on fire. I would also settle for having arms that resemble Madonna's guns.

P!NK, Oprah, Maya Angelou and I would hang out regularly.  My boyfriend, Hugh Jackman, would empty the dishwasher.  Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr., and Jesus would make special trips from Heaven, and we would drink brewskis as we contemplate how to change the world.

Marry Tom Walsh Super Genius.  Have an insane amount of kids.  Live simply.  Love deeply.  Practice more patience.   Recognize that at times, I am an un-paid counselor. Realize that I can start my own girl power movement with my own clan.  Pray more regularly. Appreciate simplicity.

Yep, I think that about covers it.

Full Circle

Perhaps you have a friend, acquaintance, or female relative who meets the following description:   she pencils in her eyebrows totally off kilter, applies her lipstick mostly OFF of her lips in Pandora Pink, and painstakingly attempts to put on her eye liner with  the precision of a MAC consultant, but ends up looking kind of like a raccoon?

 It leaves the rest of us wondering, does that woman even LOOK in the mirror before she walks out the door?  I have answer for you:  Yes, WE do, but we are too tired, too busy, or a little of both, to care.  I am convinced I am morphing into this friend, acquaintance or female relative of yours.

Here's the sad part:  I know full good and well that my 6 minute quickie make up application will most likely leave me resembling a circus clown in some way, but I just don't care anymore.  I'm 39 years old man.   I got this damn gaggle of girls.  I just can't keep up with all that anymore.

 If I get a work out in, it's a good day.  If I get a work out in, and get some errands done, it's a really good day.  If I get a work out in, get some errands done, AND get a shower to apply my make up in an erratic fashion, now that's a STELLAR day.

If you've participated with me in ANY extra-curricular activities that are not listed above, (day trips of any kind, including but not limited to: the beach, the pool, Raging Waters, the river, some one's backyard BBQ, talking smack while I play cards, or dancing irresponsibly), you have probably noticed that my eyeliner is smeared down my face.  Or maybe you've realized that my eyebrows have been penciled in to a place where no eyebrow grows.

I just want to say thanks for still being friends with me.  Seriously, I appreciate you letting that go. But I do have one request for you:  if I have a big booger dangling from my extremely expansive nostril, and you don't say shit, then the friendship is off, understand?  UNDERSTAND?

It's all too much to keep up with, this being a girl thing.  There are grey roots to be concealed every 4 weeks at home.  The girls always stare with trepidation when they see Mama's home color application in the works...but they are all too scared to ask questions, so they scurry off to play outdoors.

About 3 times a year, I remember that I should probably apply some sort of hydrating mask to my rapidly decaying face.  If I'm donning the glow white "hydrating/erase wrinkles/supple skin" mask WHILE coloring my hair simultaneously, well, that's just all sorts of pretty right there.  I have scared the holy hell out of the twins more than once.  They will come around the corner, and scream.  LOUD.

There are eyebrows to contain into some sort of arched shape, and chin hairs to be plucked.  Lotion to be applied so I don't resemble some sort of aged piece of leather.  Speaking of leather, sunscreen is a must these days.  But you don't want to put the sunscreen designed for your BODY on your FACE...you need special facial sunscreen for that! What?  You didn't know that?  That's okay, neither did I until just recently.

I haven't even mentioned all the body hair that needs to be removed.  UGH.  I have also totally given up wearing any and all accessories, with the exception of my wedding ring.  Why would I put on a necklace?  So that Charlotte could lynch me with her sharpened infantile skills while nursing?  No thank you.

And you know what else?  Perfume is totally over-rated.  How do you even make a God damn decision?  Should I wear J.Lo?  Or Britney?  Maybe Gwen Stefani has created something lovely.  Or perhaps I should  stick with movie star scents like Halle?   Man, these days, my deodorant doubles as my eau de toilet.

Remember Love's Baby Soft??  Starting at about age 12, I would lightly spritz myself with that EVERY DAY.   It was like an un-spoken but religious habit, that meant:  I, Michelle Francois, could once again, face the world and be okay.  Me and Love's Baby Soft, together.  But the spritzing only took place after my hair was feathered just so, and my comb was carefully placed in my back pocket.  With my fruity tube of Lip Smackers in my front pocket, I was convinced that it's sparkly shine, clearly show-cased my braces.  This was also right around the same time that I just stopped wearing my glasses.  Did I trade them in for contact lenses, you ask?  No.  I made this decision with swift accuracy:  being blind was better than having to wear those damn things.

By the time I was 17, I had become a complete and total unmanageable teenager.  Love's Baby Soft had worn out its welcome, and  it was clear what I needed to do at that point:  trade it in for something more edgy.  Like Exc!amation.  And folks, it's been all downhill from there.

It is a trip watching this transformation take place with Abigail and Isabella.  I keep hoping and praying (REALLY HARD), that they will not, under any circumstances:  grow breasts, get their period, or get their hearts broken by some complete idiot boy.

 Stay 11.  Stay innocent and young.  Love origami for far too long.  Dress up like Laura Ingalls with no worry of who might care.  Sing all the wrong lyrics to Lady Gaga's new song, because you can.

I think I need to go buy some Love's Baby Soft.  Maybe that will stop this thing, they call "growing up".

The Big Picture

So I almost killed my 5 year old today.  I had one of those "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!!!" parenting moments in the Costco parking lot.  You know, the moments when you are so filled with frustration, your knuckles are turning white,  your pulse quickens,  and beads of sweat start to gather at your temples?

 Good times.

I think when good parents feel overwhelmed,  they inhale deeply and count to ten.  These good parents can then collect their wits, and parent calmly.  But this is just purely speculation on my part.  I wouldn't know, because I don't fall into that category.

 Bad parents, like me, just yell out loud WHY we are frustrated in the Costco parking lot, as the onlookers seated at the Starbucks patio, sip their lattes and wonder quietly, "What the hell is that psychotic mother yelling at her kid about?"

So let me share what happened today...

But first let me just say that the Walsh fam has been "on the go" for summertime fun for about 4 weeks straight. A camping trip, with several beach days, followed by Raging Waters, and hours spent at  Happy Hollow.  And don't forget swimming at the Elks Club.  Throw in a 5 trip to Chico, followed by a 4 day visit up to Santa Rosa to see the folks, and well...

 I think it's safe to say, that Mama is feeling a bit tired.  Mama is trying to eek out every possible opportunity of good times before school starts.   Mama has lost her mind.  It is in moments like these, that I realize that I often forget the "Big Picture".  Which is exactly what happened today.

As I stepped out of my truck, and unbuckled Charlotte, Cosette bounded happily out of my seat and onto the ground.  As I placed Charlie on my hip, but before I had time to grab my purse, Cozy locked the truck.  So there we were.  Locked out.  Standing on the blacktop of the parking lot.

"SHIT!!!!!   SHIT!!!!!  SHIT!!!!" I belted out.

Seeing my anger, Cosette's crocodile tears came in a free flow, who explained, between sobs, "I was helping Mama."

"I KNOW!! I KNOW! (followed by a long pause)  I know, Cozy. (short pause) SHIT!!!"

As I  marched into Starbucks, to ask to use the phone (because my cell just DIED, but that's a whole nother story), I  promptly told Cosette to sit at a table, saying,   "Mom is just really mad right now.  I need a minute."

After calming down, I began to see the Big Picture. Charlotte was on my hip.  Thankfully, she was not in the car in 100 degree weather, with the windows rolled up.  Tom was home.  He came to us.  Lovingly.  Willingly.  He stopped what he was doing to rescue us.

I explained to Cozy, "We are so lucky that Charlotte is safe, and that Daddy can come and help us, okay?  No more locking the car door without permission."  She nodded her head, as if she understood,  dried tear marks making tracks down her tanned cheeks.

Because the Big Picture was that this was simply an inconvenience. We were going to be late for a play date.  So why is it, that I lose my mind when these types of things happen?

Lately, I've noticed that Charlotte is more than a little distracted while nursing.  If someone speaks, walks into the same room, or so much as breathes in her direction, she flips her head to investigate her surroundings...all while holding onto my breast as if it's in a vice.   She's also taken to pulling my hair, slapping my face, grabbing my lips, and pinching my armpit fat.

These kind of special moments make for interesting bonding time.  Some days I feel like I need to nurse her in a sound proof padded room.  Maybe if I was wearing a special neoprene outfit, leaving only my nipple exposed, while Charlotte's hands were bound, we would be a more efficient pair.

But then I am reminded of her failure to even latch to nurse after she was born.  So many tears...hers and mine both.  Frustration over not expecting there to be ANY problemos whatsoever with the last babe.  The
Big Picture:  sometimes nursing isn't glamorous, but it's also fleeting.  And that's why when I come home from work on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, I wake her out of a sound sleep, just to nurse her.  The clock is ticking, and I get sad knowing there's not much time left to nurse with this one.  The abuse also tends to also be less violent at this hour :)

Recently I drove 2 hours home from a visit with my folks.  You know how it is when you get home from a road trip...there's the unloading, and putting away of clothes, toys, and food.  And I tend to become a bit anxious over getting it all done, knowing good and well, that my fridge is empty, and Costco is calling my name.  But not before Charlotte is screaming for booby.

Imagine my surprise, as I walked into my bathroom to hurriedly put away my toilertries, and discovered dirt all over my floor.  And dirt all over my counter.  And dirt coating my bathtub.  Shocked, I couldn't comprehend it...didn't I just clean this bathroom before we left?  Tom was the only one here.  Hmmm...

Then it hit me:  Someone, most likely my darling husband, had used the blower, but had forgotten to shut the window.  Thus, bringing all of Willow Glen into our bathroom.  Immediately, I fumed.  Well, as if it's not enough to do already around here...the hell if I'm gonna clean this bathroom again!  He did it.  He can clean it.

Then the Big Picture slowly began to take place, yet once again.  How lucky am I to have a husband who even blew our backyard?  Who wants to make our yard a sacred place for our family?

Yep, there was a little dirt in my bathroom.  I cleaned it up.  I used about 35 paper towels and a lotta Mr.Clean and Windex, to do it.  But it was fixable.

And  I am lucky.

The Elks Club

I have come to a life changing decision recently:  I want to be an Elk.  I want to embody the entire experience of what it means to be a Grand Pu-Ba.  One day, I will run for office and be the Exalted Ruler.  S/he does have a prominent parking spot in the lot, dontcha know?

Just flash back to scenes from the Flinestones, where Fred and Barney go to hang out with other  "studly" men, (which is open to interpretation), and you've got today's Elks Club.  Although women are allowed on the premises, I have come to believe that it is purely for the gawking satisfaction of the elder male observers.

That being said, allow me to examine all of the things that The Elks Club has to offer:

First, and foremost, a bar.  Does it have dark wooden panels lining the walls?  Does the carpet smell dank and disgusting?  Are the seats made of a fabricated pleather, that your ass sticks to as you get up?  YES.  It's like a flashback to 1970, but it's okay, man.  It's the Elks Club.  And let me tell you, the bar offers people watching at its finest.  You've got the older, hard-core, retired Elks, who just park it at the bar and drink...my guess would be, all day long.  Why not, right?  They have nowhere to be.  Nowhere to go.  Unless you count, stumbling to their RV, which is parked out in the lot.

Which brings me to number two:  a place to park your RV.  Hell, you can even LIVE in your RV at The Elks Club.  I'm not sure what the fee is for that.  But just think about it for a second.  Being old and retired, and taking a cross country road trip, let's say, to see the grand kids.  Load it up, and stay at your friendly, local Elks Lodges along the way.  That also have bars.  And young MILF's, with their kids at the pool.  Now that's what I call one-stop shopping.

And how could I forget the POOL?!!  The pool totally rocks.  There is no life guard on duty, which means you actually need to REALLY watch your kids.  But that's what the twins are for!  The Elks Club also has lounge chairs.  Like 5 of them.  But nonetheless, if you want to fight some elderly smoker lady, who's belting out her rendition of  Frank Sinatra's "My Way" because she's three sheets to the wind, for one of those 5 lounge chairs,  it could be a good time.

There are some things though, they you just have roll with at The Elks Club.  For example, being stalked by older men who have consumed a lot of alcohol.  It's all innocent...but still.

Just yesterday while I was there, I met a nice, older "gentleman", his wife, and  GREAT-grand kids.  He and I conversed about raising children, and where his four daughters are living now, yadda, yadda, yadda.

It was all fine and good, until I got up to walk to the bathroom, and he yelled out across the pool deck, "LOOK AT THE FIGURE ON THAT ONE!  LOOK AT THAT FIGURE!  NICE TAN!!!"  I like how he considers me to first of all, even have a figure.  Considering that after 5 babies, I'm rocking a bit of a mama muffin top and some silvery stretch marks.  But hey man, I'll take the compliment, from the elderly, drunk, stalker Elk.

Mind you, as he was screaming that out, his very sweet wife, of at least 50 years, sat next to him.


And then there was the 4th of July celebration.  Which involved cake walks, and hula hoop contests.  And a sack race on the aggregate concrete.

 As the Grand Pu-Ba lined the dozen or so kids up to start the race, I wondered, when is he going to move those kids to the GRASS?  But ohhh, nooo.  The horn blew, and those kids bounced across the pavement with all their might.  OHMYGOD!  I thought,  the Grand Pu-Ba is loaded, and doesn't realize that a kid could crack their head open, or break an arm.

This left me with only one choice:    scream at the top of my lungs to my 4 girls, "WIN!!!  WIN IT ALL!!"

Like I said, one day I will be The Exalted Ruler.