Give The People What They Want

(And I'd just like to take this moment to say that I'd like to go to bed now, please.)

So, one of my readers (who I swear is not me with another account) politely asked for pics of the playroom. They'll be up at the end of this post. I'm good at some things...photographing rooms is not one of them. The window is crooked, the perspective is all weird...eh. Hopefully you'll get the gist. But you might be like "Why is she wasting our time?" What I would like to bring your attention to at this point is this:

This is the laundry situation right now-no, wait-the clean laundry situation right now. (It might look OK to you because (and I don't think I'm supposed to admit this) I certainly didn't feel like getting up from the couch to go photograph my laundry problem. That's a regulation size foam board of family rules behind that there pile of laundry.) There's a giant load in the washer, one in the dryer and 3 to 4 loads waiting to be laundered on the laundry room floor. I want to cry. I want to make a rule that no one wears clothes ever. Every time I open the laundry room door to add to the pile, I swear I can hear the laundry laughing at me. Like, a "relishing one's evilness" laugh. It may have been gleefully rubbing its laundry hands together. I had to avert my eyes so I could try to go to bed before midnight tonight.

See, I came home and was like "I'm going to do work." But the work that doesn't count is the work that I did all night...the cooking, the feeding, the bathing, the changing, the clothing, the reading of the bedtime stories, the mild threats to make Abbey stay in bed...once I got all THAT done, I was free to start on the dishes or the vacuuming of the entire house. But I'm fricking tired and I don't feel like it. So, I'm going to type this and go to bed. And you can't stop me. But, as you can see, the laundry situation is getting out of hand and I'm setting myself up for dismal failure since I work the next 3 days straight.

Also, I work the later shift which is interesting because I go to work later, but not late enough to do anything significant around the house. But I get off at nine and it's all I can do to drive home and fall into bed because 9 has somehow become my bedtime. It's one short step from here to eating dinner at Denny's at 4:30 p.m. and watching Matlock.

So, if I'm giving my lovely blog reader (who I swear is not my mom) the (poorly taken) pictures of the girls' room and playroom, I'm sorry everybody but I'm going to bed after this. Please don't contact Hoarders yet. I can change!

I'm really happy about the "No Toys In The Bedrooms" rule because it seems so much more peaceful (and sleep-conducive!) in there. I did not wake up this morning at 5 a.m. with Abbey laying on my face. Score!

Playroom:

Girls' Room: (And no, I did not make Abbey's bed for you. It just got real in here.)

Divide and, Like, 65% Conquer...

So, today, after a very rough day of Abbey being in pain after her surgery and much crying (To the point I had to tell her to stop crying because it would hurt her eye. I always thought I'd be the type of parent who would let their kids emote to their hearts' content...but this is not the case. Of course, the complete opposite is also true as I let New Baby cry it out tonight for the first time.) I realized that I had to redo our plan. Like, I try to make our house be in such a way that it can be totally cleaned in like 10 minutes. (Because, really, who feels like cleaning longer than that.) This means that every few months, I have to spend like 12 hours cleaning. But I'm comfortable with that. I think, over time and with much trial and error, I will figure out a way to keep it clean in 10 minute increments forever. At least, this is my motivation for these all day cleaning days, without which I might never clean again, descending into squalor and ending up on Hoarders. (Do you think they get paid for appearing?)

I'm not done. I only vacuumed one room of the whole house and if you don't vacuum often, you can take crumbs into bed with you. (Blech.) I've been tossing around ideas in my head of how to avoid that from investing in patio furniture and eating all of our meals outside (But what about rain?) to investing in all sizes of soft slippers and refusing anyone entry into our house unless they swap their shoes out for some (I feel that my guests might find this off-putting.) to purchasing enough sheet sets that they can be replaced and laundered daily. (But the way I do laundry, I'd probably have to buy seven sheet sets per bed. This is financially inadvisable.)

I noticed that when I'd get Lola out of her crib in the morning, she'd have random toys in there with her, sometimes a stray sock or shoe. And the formal dining room off our living room was the play room, but the toys had a way of migrating everywhere (living room, kitchen, hallway, my bedroom; perfectly poised for me to step on in the dark when I get up to pee.) and I had just plain had enough.

So, I enacted a new rule today. "No toys anywhere but the new, improved playroom." I took the biggest bedroom in our house and moved all the toys out of the kids' rooms and into it. Also all of the art supplies. (Which makes the fact that Abbey ground an entire red oil pastel into the carpet of that room a good thing now!) In the kids' bedrooms are their books, their beds, and their clothes and shoes. THAT'S IT.

They're really excited about the playroom. I, on the other hand, couldn't even stand on my own legs anymore after moving all that furniture around. (I don't think I'm supposed to admit that because a correlation may be drawn between that fact and the $28 of Girl Scout cookies I purchased.) (Don't judge me.)

But there's still so much to do. I am exhausted. I hope there's enough Advil in my purse for tomorrow.

Ha, I can vent here because it's my blog.

After missing two visitations and not having any contact with his kids for over a week, here's a verbatim text message exchange between the kids' dad and me today, after Abbey was released from the hospital following eye surgery.

Him: "How is Abbey? My piece of shit boss made me come in at 8 so he cud hav off today he's about to get fired."

Me: "Hurting. You missed your last 2 visits with the kids before missing her surgery today. WTF?"

Him: "I'm skipping ld" (ld = labor detail...a punishment imposed upon him after he drunkenly wrecked his parents' car into a cop car the night me and New Baby came home from the hospital. He said he couldn't stay to help take care of her, me, the older kids or any combination thereof because he "had to work in the morning.") "tomorrow so I can spend all day with them shits been crazy lately not sure what's gonna happen with my job."

Me: "Your job was closed yesterday."

Him: "Yeah, I'm talking about today yesterday I got in a fight with my dad and didn't wake up till 2 really not tryin to deal with either of yall right now my nerves r shot and ur jus gonna b mean."

Me: "Mean is not coming to see your kids or even calling them for a week."

Him: "Im coming to see them 2moro mean is getting off on being witholding and treating someone like crap when u don't need anything from them."

Me: "Yeah, sometimes shit gets crazy at my work too and I don't come home for a week. Oh wait, that's not me. Because I'm a responsible parent. So, hope you got a nice long nap yesterday. I'm gonna hold our daughter and clean her blood and puke and tears. Grow up. Or not, cause I got this."

There was no response.

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to learn from all of this (probably some sort of more selective process for choosing a mate), but what I have learned is trust no one, take care of your things yourself and many, many people are just awful.

Quote of the day:

Me: "Do you know how much I love you?"

Abbey: "Yes."

Me: "How much?"

Abbey: "Thwee!"

Just What I Needed

Sunday afternoons are the day that the kids' dad has visitation with them. He's always off work and comes to see them at his folks' house. (He's not doing well enough to take them to wherever he's living now.)

Here's an interesting nugget of fact: I'm living four houses down from the kids' dad's parents. In a house that they own. In the house that my husband and I and the kids occupied before we left. They are my landlords and back up baby sitters, free of charge. I wouldn't be able to have the job I do without them. And I think I'm working for a good company, so I want to see where this goes. But I hate the fact that they were cool with us living in a shelter for six months and only are renting this place to us now because it became apparent that not only was the kids' dad not going to get custody of them, but that he might also not be allowed to see them much anymore.

So, being that I'm in the unique position of having people who enable and fully support my (redacted) soon to be ex-husband, parts of this will necessarily be redacted because I think it is easy to find this blog and also connect it to me.

So, today is dang Daylight Savings Time. I loathe Daylight Savings Time. I do not need time to play little tricks on me and switch hours and then make me guess for awhile afterwards what the crap time it is based on the light outside or the clocks I may or may not have switched and the ones that switch themselves. Useless. Daylight Savings Time is just useless. I wrote to the president about getting rid of it but I never heard anything back.

Anyhoo, on the Spring Forward Daylight Savings Day, I refuse to do anything. I do not like waking up and finding an hour missing. I don't need to be that rushed. So, I decided to take things easy and not worry even about cleaning up because in the afternoon, I'd be without the kids for several hours while they went to their grandparents to see their dad. We watched some Nick Jr. on DVD and ate popcorn and I uploaded ancient CDs I found in a book in the garage to my computer. It was a nice day.

The kids wanted to go to the park and I would've taken them but usually their dad comes around 12:30 for them. I fed them lunch and after lunch, two of them are ready for naps. But I didn't want to put them down and immediately wake them back up, so I kept them up. We were really just hanging out at the house together. In limbo, waiting for the call that their dad had arrived. I decided that I would vacuum and then fold that dang new mountain of clean laundry while watching a movie. (A grown up movie.) (OK, not that kind of grown up movie.) This sounded to me as indulgent as like...a spa day and then sailing on a yacht with Fabio (who isn't even attractive to me but seems to be a symbol of luxuriousness.) and I was looking forward to it. I was also looking forward to missing the kids and being extra excited when they came back to me. (Instead of mentally strategizing my days around where they'll be and feeling obligated to maximize my accomplishments when they're not around.)

Imagine my surprise when it got to be 1:30 and I hadn't heard from the kids' dad or grandparents. OK, not surprise. It was more like a clenching feeling in my stomach of "Oh, hey, that's how that's going down." Goodbye clean house. Goodbye movie watching. (Well, movies that don't star Dora the Explorer or CGI animation.)

And it pisses me off too, because their dad skipped out on his last visit with them. With no explanation. Didn't even bother to call and say he wasn't coming. It's not like I get that many breaks...because the kids don't go to his house so they have to be watched by their dad whose parents are watching him. This requires a commitment of time and a synchronization of schedules that makes things difficult. Also, their dad is a (redacted) who (redacted) when (redacted).

And, no, it's not that it makes things difficult, it's more that he's just a (redacted) because I know if it was me, every second that I got with my kids, I would be there. I would try to get more. I'd come early and stay late. It is totally alien to me that the other half of these awesome kids' parents doesn't share the same enthusiasm for them.

Or maybe he's just (redacted).

Ugh. Anyway, so Sam calls his grandfather because he's getting antsy about going down there. Also, he really wants to go to the park. He figures if they're not going over there, I will take him and if they are then he can get them to take him. His grandfather doesn't answer. I shrug and decide to plan on having the kids.

Sam goes outside to feed the dog and then comes back to the house to announce that he saved a turtle's life who was being kicked around by the dog. He watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles within the past week, so I'm hoping this has something to do with his proclamation. I peer out from the back porch and see a very large turtle shell. (Or tortoise. I have no idea.) I lean over and see the turtle, his head and legs sucked back as far as possible into the shell, glaring at me. I have no idea if this is a box turtle or snapping turtle that is preparing to tear off our fingers. (Although I'm hopeful it's a box turtle since Sam still has all his fingers intact after getting it away from the dog.) (That's another one of those things about being "on the spectrum". In instances where kids would normally run and get their parents, Sam tries to handle things himself. Often ending in disaster. OK, that's dramatic. Often ending in minor injuries and major messes.) We slice some apples for the turtle.

I put the girls down for a nap and go to take a bath. (I kind of thought I'd get to catch a nap while the kids were gone. (Ha! Dreams.) Taking a bath is kind of like that. While I'm in the bath, Sam bursts in and says he wants to keep the turtle as a pet. I remind him that I signed a piece of paper saying that the only pet we'd have at this house was his dog. This was the most unfortunate turn the conversation could have taken.

You see, Sam is an argumentative young thing. When you say something he doesn't like, his mind immediately crafts the highest quality arguments to oppose it. And when his mind was desperately trying to procure permission to keep the turtle for the pet, he remembered something that had (mysteriously! but luckily.) been missing from his memory for months.

His pet fish.

His dad had purchased a pet fish for Sam. I don't know why or when. I was introduced to it at one point when I brought the kids over for a visit. It seemed like a pretty labor-intensive pet for a guy who never once cleaned his showers or toilets in the 18 months he lived without me. (He probably is still currently not cleaning them, but I never have to see that place.) But, miraculously, whenever I'd come by the fish would still be there and it seemed that the necessities for fish care were all around. Some sort of liquid drops. A shaker of food. A net.

But when the kids' dad's folks asked him to move out of the house so the kids and I could move back in...well, I'm not quite sure exactly what happened. I know that he took a couple pieces of furniture and split. And still didn't clean the damn shower or toilets or really anything. And the night we moved back in, I was unpacking dishes in the kitchen and looked up and saw the fish. It kind of broke my heart, even though I don't like fish.

Its bowl was up on the pass-through between the kitchen and the living room, so the whole bowl was illuminated by the living room light. I could see that the water in the bowl was noticeably murky. But there, at the top of the water, was the little beta fish, rolled on its side. Probably trying to get to something that was not filthy, it had died. And, again, I don't care for fish but I burst into tears. The kids' grandfather took the bowl and got rid of it. I don't know what he did with it. He asked me if I wanted the bowl or rocks back and I choked that I wanted to forget that the whole thing had ever happened.

So, for the first couple weeks that we were at the house, my mind spun wildly thinking about what I would do if Sam asked me about his pet fish. If he asked me where it was, I couldn't say I didn't know, because I did know and that would be a lie. And I try to not lie except for when it comes to like...good surprises and such. (Like birthday presents.) But he never ever asked about it. It was like our household was a completely different entity inhabiting this space and the things that existed in it before were forgotten.

But today, while he was trying to reason why he should get to keep a possible snapping turtle hungry for fingers as a pet, he remembered his fish. And he stopped himself, halfway through his sentence. "But I have a-hey, what happened to my fish?"

Unfortunate for (selfish) me, his question wasn't phrased in a way that I could side step it. I took a deep breath for composure's sake. I looked at him. I took another deep breath. I realized that if I kept taking deep breaths that he was going to figure it out anyway and probably be mad at me for making him guess. So, I told him.

"It died."

"When?" he said, concerned.

"Before we moved back in here."

Sam's a smart kid and he knew that if it had died before we took possession of the house that it was probably because his dad had quit taking care of it.

He burst into loud tears, pressing his fists into his eyes. I apologized to him. He yelled that his dad had killed his fish. I told him that I didn't know what had happened to it but that I doubted that his dad had meant to hurt it. But Sam is nine years old and he knows...how his dad is. He sobbed that the last time he'd seen his fish, its water had been really dirty and that his dad had said he'd take care of it.

And just like the visits he's been missing and the stuff he's promised to take him to do...Sam knew he'd been lied to. I was so angry that I had to be the one to put that pain on him...and that I made him vulnerable to a person (his dad!) who would do that to him.

I decided that we were going to have a good day, in spite of everything. I sat with Sam for a long time, letting him talk about his feelings. He asked me about my pets who had died and I told him about them all...and told him about them honestly...including my beloved childhood dog who passed away during a five year period that my father and I didn't speak.

I think it was one of those bittersweet growing up moments. I hope. There's so much damage control for me to do.

This was when the kids' dad's mom started texting me. Apparently, the kids' grandfather had decided to go look for the kids' dad. She said something about him not having a phone (Which is crap, we share a family plan...a bill that he consistently pays two weeks late. It takes quite a man to strong arm the single mom raising his kids into paying his half of the phone bill so her cell phone doesn't get shut off.) I asked her if she knew why he'd missed Tuesday's visit. She said it was between us. I said that it was actually between him and the kids and that they were wondering why he's not coming to see them and that if she knew, she'd be doing them a kindness to clue them in and set a realistic expectation for their relationship with their dad.

No answer.

He never did come.

So, I decided that we were going to plant some seeds outside. Lola slept through the whole thing, but Sam, Abbey and Emma Joan got to get dirty (and then muddy, once they watered the seeds.) We planted tomatoes, green beans, basil, dill, oregano, sage, lavender and strawberries. The kids had a blast and I took lots of pictures. New Baby looked like she liked feeling the breeze between her toes.

After that, we came inside and the kids watched Shrek while I made spaghetti and meatballs (from scratch!) for dinner. (I rock.) The kids' grandmother texted to say that she'd like to bring Abbey's surgery present over for her. I told her to go ahead and come. (Mostly because we were in the middle of eating spaghetti and meatballs and I thought that their triple spaghetti sauce beards would hasten her departure.)

She shows up with a balloon flower for Abbey which, of course, immediately brings Lola to tears because Abbey won't share it. Abbey also got a Dora microphone and some sort of purple haired doll on top of a sparkly purple horse. I haven't told Abbey explicitly that she's having surgery tomorrow. I don't think there's a way to put it to her that won't cause her unnecessary alarm. I just told her that we're going to the doctor tomorrow, just me and her and she can't eat until we leave the doctor. But Sam and Gracie (the daughter of one of the kids' dad's siblings, who the grandparents are raising) start smugly announcing that the only reason Abbey is getting a present is because she is going to have surgery tomorrow. "And it's gonna hurt!"

In order to "make things fair" for the other kids, the kids' grandmother has brought over presents for everyone. She tells me they're bubbles. Neat. My kids like bubbles and it looks like they're in those "no spill" bottles with the easy grip tops. We go outside. I save the turtle from the dog with a mop and a laundry basket (why does the turtle keep going over there????) and when I turn around, I notice that the ground and the children are covered in what looks like paint.

She's brought them colored bubbles. (WHO (redacted) DOES THAT?????!!!!????) She mumbled sheepisly something about how she figures they're washable...cause it's soap...and the kids get busy smearing the solution up to their elbows and chasing eachother with "zombie hands". They make handprints on the fence. Sam writes his name in green bubble solution across the back door. They have it all over their shoes, their clothes, their faces. Lola has started eating it and now has a blue tongue, chin and neck. The kids' grandmother picks up the baby and goes inside to play with her, leaving me with 4 children, dripping with colored soap. As she's going in, I tell my kids that they're all going straight into the bath from the back yard. Gracie asks to come too but the kids' grandmother says no.

Once all of the liquid is finally out of the bubble containers, I make the kids come to the back door. I make them line up their bubble containers and kick off their shoes. I undress Lola and plop her in the tub (the water and bubbles already going). The water immediately turns blue. I notice her fingernails are dyed blue. She starts smearing blue soap on the sides of the tub. (WHO (redacted) GIVES COLORED BUBBLES TO CHILDREN AS A GIFT???) I go back out and get Abbey. I repeat the process with her and plop her in the tub. I start the shower for Sam and instruct him to put the dyed clothes and shoes straight into the washing machine, to dispose of the bubble containers and to get in the shower. He does so.

Now my tub is purple, my shower is green (And hey, my landlord is the person responsible for it. Wonder if I'm getting my deposit back.) So, not only do I get to clean up from the spaghetti mess and the planting seeds mess, I get to clean up from the colored soap mess too. WHO DOES THAT? Thanks a bunch, lady.

After that, I gave Sam and Abbey chores to do and came in here to type this. My eye is twitching. I am so...frustrated. But I'm doing my best. I'm doing my best.

Saturday Morning Cartoons

Not on TV. Around the breakfast table.

Emma Joan got demoted from her position in the Bumbo in the center of the table after she proved that she had the ability and wherewithal to dump out mine and Abbey's cups of water in the time it took me to turn around and grab napkins. (At least I was grabbing napkins?)

She is now in the high chair but she's still way too little for it and her chin is just barely higher than the tray. She flails her arms up from the sides, attempting to snag the puffs on the tray, but all she does is push them away. Fortunately, she was sitting next to Sam who would nudge the puffs back to her.

Lola doesn't like bacon and the other kids do. They are kind of bacon fanatics. (Who knows where they get that from. Heh.) Lola likes eggs though and the other kids don't. But I still give them all 2 eggs and two pieces of bacon. They always trade and Lola ends up eating half a dozen eggs but everyone seems happy so I guess that's fine.

Sam always torments Abbey. Today, he said

"Just so you know, I've seen marshmallows scarier than you."

Abbey's response? "...Where?"

During all of this, Lola is chowing down on her eggs but surreptitiously tossing her hash browns onto everyone else's plates. New Baby is grinning big gummy grins at me, Sam is thanking me for the "big" breakfast ("Isn't it good?" "Yeah", he says, "But mostly big.") and Abbey is gasping, applauding and saying "It's SO GOOD."

Now Lola's watching Diego (Drek!), Abbey's running around in the backyard with a whisk (?????), New Baby is uh, maybe pooping? and Sam is doing the dishes. It's kind of peaceful.

Best Day Ever

Yesterday (it was still today when I titled this blog post...but then I fell asleep.) was the best day ever.

I made the girls a huge breakfast of bacon, eggs, hashbrowns, and toast. We ate it while watching Price is Right and Jeopardy. Then we all took naps. Then we woke up and went to a local indoor play area. We came home and had dinner and then took a walk.

I accomplished everything I wanted, the house stayed clean, and everybody had a good time.

Interview with the Older 2

• At what age is a person a grown-up? Abbey: "What is their name?" Me: "How old do you have to be to be a grown up?" Abbey: "Like this" (gestures taller than her with her hand.) Sam: "OK, I think you have to be 18 to be a grown up, 16 to drive a car and 21 to drink alcohol."
• What is your favorite food? Abbey: "Dog food" Sam: "Cookies. No, ice cream."
• If could change one rule that your family has, what would you change? Abbey: "Cookies." Sam: "Bring an arcade into the house." Abbey: "STOP TALKING TO MAMA." Sam: "I would change 'Be Kind' to 'Be Awesome.'" Abbey: "Cookies."
• What is something that makes your family special? Abbey: "The world." Sam: "That we all got phones and we're all in the Apple Family."
• What is your favorite color? Abbey: "Blue." Sam: "Black."
• If you could be an animal, what would it be? Abbey: "A chicken." Sam: "I would be a dog. No, a cheetah."
• Are you a good friend? Abbey: "Yeah." Sam: "Well, duh."
• What is the best gift you have ever given? Why was it so special? Abbey: "Um…my candy!" Sam: "A jacket."
• What is the hardest thing about being a kid? Sam: "That you don't get to drink alcohol and drive. And that you are guarded. I want to do everything I want by my rules and have an arcade in my house." Abbey: "Uhhh…" Sam: "Oh, and by the way, we're little."
• Who is your best friend in the whole world? Abbey: "Ummm…my teacher." Sam: "Cedric."
• What TV shows do you like the best? Abbey: "Yours."
• What do you want to be when you grow up? Abbey: "Super hero." Sam: "I wanna be a rockstar."
• Where is your favorite place in the world? Abbey: "Here." Sam: "Disneyworld."
• When was a time that you felt lucky? Abbey: "Like this." Sam: "When I first saw my iPhone."

High Five!

I feel so dang accomplished by just putting food on the table and having the five (OMG, there's five!) of us sit around together and eat it. I worked for the money to buy that food, I bought that food and brought it home, I prepared that food, I served that food and by the constant repetition of us eating (on the nights that I am home) (and not at work) (because that's pretty much the only place I go) together...my kids are going to grow up and have at least one memory of us eating a meal together. I'm proud of myself for that.

It feels nice to get one thing right because MAN I am good at kicking myself for everything I get wrong. Or even things that I would find a way to kick myself about if I made a different choice. I wonder if other mothers feel this way...the impression I get from talking to them is that they do. Whatever choices we make (and there's so many to make all the time) we can have guilt about them...even while simultaneously knowing we made the best choice, listing the good points of said choice and explaining why a different choice wouldn't have worked. Why are we so good at this? I assume that shopping is the modern day version of gathering (as in hunting/gathering) (PS I'm dang good at it) and I am not sure what guilt is the modern version of. Or why it's so highly developed in us. Like, what survival purpose does constant guilt serve? I can't figure it out. But I'd like to so I can feel good about how well developed mine is instead of thinking "I WISH MY BRAIN WOULD SHUT UP NOW." so much of the time.

When we eat together, New Baby sits on a Bumbo in the center of the table.

Thought Shards

Hey, everybody, can we all agree to stop using the carts at Wal Mart as a trash can?

Even animals agree that Creed is just awful.

During my time at home sick, I decided to read about unsolved mysteries. Now I can't sleep at night.

Hey, day care people who say that my 3 1/2 year old isn't "required" to take a nap, but she is required to lay on a mat for two hours...you are the reason she wakes up at 2, 4 and 6 a.m. And your refusal to change your policy makes me want to call you...at 2, 4 and 6 a.m. to give you the opportunity to rethink your stance. Or at least to keep me company.

The fact that the Rachel Ray audience applauds her while she cooks freaks me out.

I would trade one of my kidneys to have a housekeeper.

My hair is going through an "awkward phase" that resembles Fred Savage's character from the Wonder Years. This phase is made even more awkward by the fact that I shared the previous comparison with a co-worker and he informed me the Wonder Years was "before his time." So I'm old AND I have bad hair.

It also cracks my co-workers up that I used to own a beeper and didn't send an email till I was in my 20s.

I'm trying to bribe myself into cleaning up the house by promising myself a bubble bath beforehand. It's kind of working.

My STBX told me that I am petty and vain because I won't give him a free iPhone. I think I might never be in another romantic relationship because I picked such a rotten one this time.

My mentor at work told me that I can't be mad at love just because I got "bad customer service."

I love Valentine socks and wear them all year round.

Lola (the almost 2 year old) talks so that her mouth makes funny shapes, like a character from South Park. I love it.

I want to start taking walks with the kids on the days that I'm home for dinner. But I either have to push a double stroller and wear one, like a pack animal, or run the risk of Abbey and Lola darting into traffic.

I could sleep for a week at any given moment. Well, I could if someone would solve that dang unsolved mystery.

Neurotic Camel

Oh, for the past few days, I've had some noble aspirations. One was to clean the house. OK. It was An Aspiration. Also, it did not happen.

I'm kind of a big old softie when it comes to taking the kids to day care. Ever since I was in, like, junior high...I didn't know if I wanted kids, but I did know that if I had them, I did not want them going to day care.

Probably the thing that motivated me to try my darndest to stay married was the idea of having to put the kids in day care.

So, since I've been home sick this week (but slightly less so as of...today) I figured I would keep them home from day care today. So we could hang out. And that's how that wild aspiration came about.

The house isn't too bad. And all 3 kids I was keeping home take naps. And a lot of what I had to do was the folding of the laundry. I could totally do that AND schedule simultaneous family bonding time in the form of a movie we cam all tolerate.*shakes fist* (Seriously, somebody find me a way out of this madness. Didn't I just lose a whole day to this? We need disposable clothes.)

What I didn't anticipate was the sub par sleep I got the night before. (At one point, I woke up to New Baby (yes, we call her that) kicking me repeatedly in the nose. How does that even happen?) In the morning, I was awoken at the first glimmer of dawn by Abbey, crawling across my bed on all fours. "Hey mom. Mom," she whispered exaggeratedly, "MOMMOMMOMMOMMOMMOMMOMMOMMOMMOMMOMMOM. Hey. Mom. I wanna do Play Doh." (I lay very still, hoping she'll think I look so cute when I'm sleeping and that she'll decide against disturbing me.) "Hey mom. Mom. Mom." (She topples off the edge of the bed. Silence. I'm torn between concern for her well-being and psyched that I might have scored an extra couple moments of sleep.) (Her head pops up over the edge of the bed.) "Moooooom. I'm OK."

She grins.

So we get up and of course, they want to eat, so I get everybody changed, fix some breakfast and sit down to eat. By this time, New Baby wants to nurse again. (I try to just nurse her when I'm at home with her because 1. Formula is dang expensive. 2. They just had a recall for finding beetles (and beetle parts!) in it. As far as I know, that hasn't been a problem with my breastmilk. and 3. Even sans-beetles, I have a hard time feeling good about feeding my kid something whose first ingredient is "Corn syrup solids.")

So, we do that. Then Lola wants to sit on my shoulders brandishing a toy ice cream cone and toy baby bottle. Why? I do not know.

At least Abbey is committed to watching an exorbitant amount of PBS kids. I'm 1/3 of the way to being able to accomplish something. I try to get Lola interested in the show. No dice.

But then, New Baby's eyelids are drooping as she eats. Maybe she's going to go down for a nap. All of that late night nose kicking probably wore her out. I let her nurse for a good long while to get her all tuckered out. And she's asleep. Awesome. I carefully lay her down in my bed and come back out. Abbey's still watching TV. I try to get Lola interested in her dinosaur toy. No. I make her some popcorn. Not interested. I finally give her a bowl of pretzel sticks and she sits down to watch Curious George. Now Abbey's nowhere to be found. I hear New Baby stirring from the other room. Dang it. I go inside and find Abbey, her face hovering inches over New Baby's, sucking her pacifier enthusiastically.

When Abbey was a baby, I tried desperately to find a pacifier she would take. I spent late nights googling "Most nipple-like pacifier" and ordering every search result. None ever took. So, in my opinion, her pacifier window has passed and I have no qualms about plucking that thing right out of her mouth. She had her chance.

So, Abbey's now woken up New Baby. And there is no time for me to do anything.

This same problem played itself out in different combinations for the entire rest of the day. Like, eventually I ended up going out and purchasing dinner so as not to add to the incredibly long to do list from which no items were crossed off. (I did manage to choke down my dinner in record time, leaving the kids eating at the table so I could do a hurried load of dishes while they were distracted.)

It's a juggling act, it is supreme magic to get anything accomplished ever...and if you're ever wondering what gift to give at a baby shower or whatever...someday, once the newness of having a kid wears off, be there to give the parent a break. Parenting is a constant shifting of priorities which means that an entire day of laundry folding can rear its ugly head pretty easily. Or you can go longer than you're willing to come to terms with without showering. Or years without shaving. Or hours without peeing. I do that all the time. I'm so used to eating fast and not taking a bathroom break for myself ever, I'm like some sort of neurotic camel. (Do camels hold pee? It seems like they would. Isn't that what the humps are for?)

I know though, that the immediacy of keeping all these balls in the air gives the illusion of time passing slowly but really time is passing me by so fast that if I keep my eye on the ball and not on my kids, I'm going to turn around and miss it. It's hard to simultaneously hurry up and slow down. Especially when you've needed to vacuum for so long that you start trying to convince yourself that your carpeting probably came with a crunchy dusting of Rice Krispies. Right? Let's pretend it's not sticking to my feet. Or that it is and I like it. Works for me.

Rip Van Winklefest 2011

I've brought myself back from the throes of death long enough to blog. (Ah, technology.) (And dramaticness. I guess I'm not really dying...the doctor probably would've written that on the diagnosis sheet...but I am awful.)

I don't have health insurance. In fact, the day I went to the ER was the midpoint of my first year with my employer. I am not yet full time but have twice interviewed for a full time position (and haven't gotten it yet.) so I do not have health insurance or paid sick time. (Just 6 more months and I can get sick...even if I'm still part time!) Despite the catastrophic effects of going out yesterday to the store (I'm leaving them out of the blog for your sake...and really, for humanities sake. If people start blogging about their lives with that much commitment to the truth...and people start reading it...I'm pretty sure that that's one of the signs of the apocalypse.) I was feeling terribly guilty about not going to work this week. (And stressed! You know, with the whole "No making of the money" thing.)

As I sat, I began to wonder if I shouldn't just suck it up and go back to work. I'm still having sporadic fevers, but I could just up the ibuprofen intake, right? My throat still hurt, but, by golly, I still had a bit more hydrocodone! That'll smooth that over nicely. I didn't know how long I could be upright but standing would probably be good for the congestion. Right?

That's when my face broke out in blisters.

Initially, I thought I'd accidentally bitten the tip of my tongue at some point. But then more appeared, on my gums, my lips, my cheeks. Then more, on my nose, my scalp, my eyelids. They're small and red and very painful and have made my face look a little deformed. I can't go to work like this! Also, it occurred to me that I probably have leprosy or something. So, despite being uninsured, I realize that I really need to go back to the doctor to have this leprosy looked at. (Or measles. It occurred to me I might also have measles.)

I went to one of those urgent care clinics where if you pay a large amount of money they will see you and pretend to care whether or not you die. I brought the paperwork from my ER discharge with me ("Virus-Not Otherwise Specified. Myalgia-Not Otherwise Specified." Now that's thousands of dollars well spent. You don't get thorough diagnostics like that for nothing.) and the face blisters, of course, because there's no leaving them anywhere. As I sat there slumped against the wall, staring at the doctor, my eyes different sizes due to the blistery swollen eyelid, he informed me that there are many viruses and there's no telling what they are unless we mail them to the CDC (WHAT?) and that I still have a virus just like I did several days ago and it may take me up to three weeks to recover. Oh yes, I just paid a hundred dollars for that.

So I came back home and slept, trying to figure out how to call my work and tell them I still have an unnamed virus (The nurse was like "Have you ever had this before?" and I was like "I don't know what I have, they just called it "a virus"." and she was like "That is what you have, a virus. There are many viruses out there." and I was like "Ok, well, yes, I guess I've had a virus at some point prior to this in my life."). I don't ever recall being told, however, that I have "A Virus". I know I haven't been Crazy Blisterface before but apparently that's just one small symptom in a long list of things that indicate I have "A Virus."

So, I'm off, for an entire week from work. No pay. And this is no vacation. The last time I was off and well, I spent the entire day folding laundry. I know you're chuckling to yourself about my hyperbole right now, but no, it's true, from 9 a.m. to 7 p.m., all I did was wash and fold and put away laundry. I took a picture because you're not going to believe this.

See? Before this, it was all piled on the couch and I had to fold and put it away so we could have a couch again. But what about this? What if we had two couches? A laundry couch and a people couch. And the laundry couch was supposed to have laundry on it. Maybe even fabric softener could somehow be built into the construction of the couch, or perhaps woven into the upholstery (because sometimes clothes get wrinkled after hanging out on the laundry couch for awhile). And like, when people come over to your house, it's not a sign of you living like a slob that there is laundry all over your couch. It's supposed to be there. (At least, it's supposed to be on the laundry couch. If you've got laundry on your people couch, you've gotta get with the times.) Why do we not have this? Because it seems to me that if we can put a man on the moon and we can have iPhones, that we should be able to not have to fold laundry any more.

My idea is so wondrously simple that I imagine it's already been thought of and subsequently shot down by the chest of drawers manufacturers. They probably don't want word of it getting out because then they'd be out of business. I wonder if they'll try to have my blog taken down. But, hey, chest of drawers manufacturers. There's room for all of us in this wonderful, new, folding laundry free world. You could be the first designers of the laundry couch.

Healing Myself With Sheer Willpower!

(Not to get all Charlie Sheeny on you.)

(But this is what I do.)

Gotta go back to work tomorrow. All I did today was sleep. I'm still not feeling great, but I've just got to make it happen.

The way I usually make it happen is that I realize if I don't do it, it's not going to get done. Like, for instance, when I purchased the 4 drawer filing cabinet and had it delivered to my house. And they delivered it to my porch. And I was like "Hey, can you put it in my room?" (at the opposite end of the house) and they were like "No." and so then I had to find a way to make it happen. Or have a filing cabinet on my front porch that I guess would rust the first time it rained and totally waste my money. And messing with my money is like messing with my emotions. So...I made it happen.

I know I need to temper the whole "If I don't do it, it won't get done" philosophy because it is impacting the way I think and live and work. They like team-building and such where I work and me wanting to do everything myself won't fly. Me making other people do what I think should be done does fly. But I feel like so much time is wasted in the convincing people to do something. I feel like...they should just want to do it, if it's a good idea, maybe they should've thought about it themselves already. I'm willing to call over my shoulder "Hey, I'm going to go do this now" as I'm on my way to do it, but I get the feeling that's not enough.

I also understand that this way of thinking will probably keep me from ever having a romantic relationship again. I mean maybe not, who knows? And it's not that I am concerned about it. The thought of a "relationship" makes my stomach queasy. Not in the good butterflies anticipating way but in the like...the way after eating a really bad meal at...say, Applebees (note to self: rule out possible Applebee's blog monetization.) and then the server comes over and offers you really gross Applebee's dessert. That's the feeling the idea of dating gives me.

And I look at my life as it is and try to imagine someone who would volunteer for a position in it. I can't imagine that person. There are a whole lot of kids here, a whole lot of work to be done. And I can do it. It'd be cool if there were someone to rely on for part of it...but as hard as I try to imagine what that would even look like, it doesn't materialize.

I bought some spanx the other day for the first time. I get it. I'm a curvy lady. I get asked when I'm due when I'm not pregnant. (That makes me want to murder you on the spot, so stop asking.) I put them on and I guess they reshaped my tummy and hips but wherever they pushed that stuff, it feels like a bunch of other stuff was displaced which displaced other stuff until it felt like my brains were going to pop out the top of my head.

So then, it's like, can't I just be who I am? Can't I just look like a lady who has been pregnant or nursing since January 2007 (I have) and who has 4 kids? But then I also look at the SHEER WILLPOWER I have and all of the things I've made happen because of it and it seems like having a "beach ready body" or whatever should probably be an easy task to accomplish, what with the whole "build a career and place to live out of absolutely nothing" task I undertook last year. Or the whole "go through pregnancy and labor all by yourself" challenge. It seems like looking hot would be an easy win.

But like...I don't know if I want to have to do that. Because the idea that someone might withhold from me...friendship, romance, a promotion at work...better customer service at Wal Mart...the idea that anyone would withhold anything from me because I am imperfect, not Photoshopped, airbrushed or Atkinsed...makes me not want the thing they could have given me.

Is this an intellectual way of being lazy? Perhaps. All I know is that after a long day of making miracles happen (Hey, you try getting 4 kids where they need to go every morning, going to work, retrieving said kids and then getting dinner, baths, homework and bedtime stories done all day every day alone and by 9 p.m.) the last thing I want to add to that is an hour on a treadmill. I am working. A lot. But, as the lovely Margaret Cho said, being 10 pounds lighter is a full time job and I don't have time for it. And I don't. Because I'm working like three full time jobs alone as it is.

I just want to be good with who I am. And I think I am. I think I'm putting it together, tiny pieces at a time.

I think I'm gonna return the spanx.

Quote of the day: Abbey: (filling her backpack for school.) "Mom, I'm taking Brobee." (She has a giant stuffed Brobee (from Yo Gabba Gabba. Awesome show.)

Me: "No, you can't take Brobee. I don't even think he'll fit in your backpack."

Abbey: (looks around room, her eyes land on her piggy bank) "How about this pig?"

Me: "I don't think so."

Abbey: "You sure?"

Me: "Yeah. Besides. That's not what you take to school. You take your folder and paper and a pencil."

Abbey: "I wanna pencil."

Me: "OK, I'll get you a pencil."

Abbey: "I need a lot of pencils."

Me: "I'll see what I can do."

Abbey: "Heeeeee."

Candy, Illness and an Intro

Today I am sick but recovering. I think I've been sick for over a week but maybe I've been in denial or maybe I've been like a buffalo that's been shot by an arrow, trudging along till you fall over.

I fell over yesterday. (Not literally. Stay with me.)

I left work even though I only had to do the phones (which means no one could see my face and I could cuddle up in a chair), came home and couldn't sleep or relax even though my folks were here (which means that I got to take three baths (the only thing that makes me feel better when I'm sick) (other than strong prescription medications.) and lay in my bed to my heart's content.)

So I went to the ER, despite not having health insurance. (Can't wait to get that multi-thousand dollar bill in the mail.) (If you thought that this was just a blog about parenthood, boy were you wrong. It's also about being super poor. And the overuse of parentheses.)

I've had recurrent kidney infections and the thing about those is that if you don't get the medicine quick then you can't keep it down and it has to be given through IV. And if you don't get there quick enough for the IV, you have to stay for a few days soaking up the IV. Plus, I was in crazy pain, my fever wouldn't break and I didn't even care that my mom walked in on me moaning in the bath and saw my boobs.

Six hours later, I was sent on my way with a couple of prescriptions and a diagnosis of "a virus". My stepdad went with me and confirmed that the nurse had actually told me my diagnosis was "Malaysia" which I remember thinking at the time was a place but then I decided that I'd had a high fever for over 12 hours and was probably delirious. (We are seriously questioning whether or not that was a real hospital or not. There didn't appear to be any patients outside of the "ER" which consisted of 4 recliners in a row with curtains around them.)

I feel a lot better today. Like, I'm not writhing in pain or delirious but I'm shuffling around like an elderly person and could use several long naps.

But, when you're a single mom, that's not happening. My mom looked sympathetic when she left last night. But there it is. I told the kids today to go easy on me and they really have been great. They've straightened up and looked after eachother. Right now New Baby is napping with her feet propped up on my leg. Abbey and Lola are watching Sword in the Stone in the next room and Sam's making lunch. In fact, it was the discussion over who would make lunch that brings you today's quote of the day.

Abbey: "Aw, you sick mom?"

Me: "Yeah."

Abbey: "You need to go to sleep?"

Me: "No, not right now. If I go to sleep, who will take care of you?"

Abbey: "Me. I can make lunch."

Me: "Oh, really? What are you going to make for lunch?"

Abbey: "Uh...Candy!"

Abbey's three.

I guess this might make for an easier read if you have a better idea of who I am talking about. Allow me to introduce my offspring/housemates/raisons d'être.

This is Sam.

He's 9. I should probably mention up front that he has Asperger's (because that will probably put some of the other info about him in perspective) but that's rarely the first thing people think when they meet him. Or ever think. Maybe that's because not a lot of people know what Asperger's is?

People who meet Sam are usually pretty amused by him. He's always thought of himself as an adult and has tried to establish himself as such since he was able to communicate enough to let me know he considers himself my equal.

He's a glass-half-empty person. He's grouchy and notoriously lazy. (If I have him, for instance, put clean silverware away, he'll stuff it all into the drawer haphazardly. Even when he has to make his own lunch that he has to eat for school, if he's feeling particularly lazy, he'll put one applesauce cup in it and a ziploc bag of potato chip crumbs.) He's also quite forgetful. This winter, (and I guess it still isn't over yet, so this number has not yet been finalized) he has lost 4 coats. He uses his clothes as a napkin. When I do laundry, every piece of clothing from him has five dabs of SOMETHING on the shirt and pants. He sighs a lot about having a bad life because he has to do things like chores and homework.

I'm working diligently on his temper, sense of entitlement and work ethic. It is tough. Sam's been a difficult child from the get go. And there's really never going to be that payoff where all my hard work comes to fruition. It'll be what doesn't happen that lets me know I (I initially wrote "did things right" but there isn't a "did things right". No one ever gets it all right.) made a difference...that he doesn't go to jail, that he doesn't alienate himself from meaningful relationships.

But there's more to him than this. He has an awesome sense of humor and love of the absurd. He loves music and creating art. He has a keen sense of truth. I guess he's full of contradictions because the same kid who is afraid of the noise the vacuum cleaner makes, shrewdly told me at age 5 that he knew Santa wasn't real because there wouldn't be price stickers on the stuff in his stockings. He loves the water and although he's afraid of so many other things, he's never been afraid of going far out into the ocean, where he can't touch, and bobbing on the waves. The waves seem like they're good for him, like they reset his inner metronome or something. I've always felt the same way after a trip to the beach.

Sam also has a good sense of right and wrong and justice. He will still do stuff that he knows is wrong and will lie in an attempt to get away with it, but he knows start to finish that it is wrong and why.

There's almost six years between Sam and Abbey. Which is probably a good thing because he was a high maintenance kid. And I know every parent of multiple kids marvels about how different kids can be from each other. He and Abbey were night and day. (I'm sure I had something to do with that, because of the kid that Sam was.) Where Sam would push me away, Abbey pulls me to her and tries to keep me there, clinging to my leg if I try to go anywhere. As soon as Sam could move on his own, he'd crawl into his room and shut his door. I peel Abbey off of me to put her in her bed every night (using a combination of threats and bribes to keep her there) and wake up every morning with her practically laying on my face.

This is Abbey.

This girl is chock full of personality. This is a girl who, with her face coated with a thick layer of chocolate, can look at you wide eyed and claim "Mommy, I not know who ate your candy." Abbey only says "I love you too." (Even if she's saying it first.)

She would live on my lap if I let her. This made her a rough baby. She wanted to be so close to me that it seemed like she wanted to inhale me. She took forever to sleep through the night, because she didn't want to be away from me. Abbey had difficulty with transitions, new situations (starting preschool) and would cling to me. She didn't walk until she was 15 months old and nursed until I pried her off of me and refused to do it anymore. (Around the same time.) She's a Mama's Girl. I probably caused some of that because I was delighted to have a kid who didn't push me away! (I didn't know kids could be like that! I thought Sam just didn't like me.)

Abbey is a sassy thing. She will absolutely stand up for herself and isn't afraid to throw down if needed. She's also a girly girl and loves dressing up and all things sparkly, pink and purple. One of her first sentences was "I'm a pwincess!" which she would say every time I put her in a dress. Now that she's outgrown using me as a security blanket, she has no fear and will climb to the top of the highest anything, talk to any person anywhere (we were once in the supermarket check out line and she demanded that the man in front of us purchasing a bouquet of flowers give her some), go anywhere...she would try to drive my car if she thought she could get away with it. Make no mistake.

She has strabismus amblyopia which is like a lazy eye. The reason is that her optic nerve is malformed in one of her eyes. The doctors want to do surgery on it, which I've agreed to and set a date...but it bothers me a lot. The surgery isn't going to help her see better. It's just going to make her eye look more "normal". She doesn't know her eye doesn't look normal. The doctors insist that in a year or two, the other kids will notice and make fun of her and then she will feel sad. They say that to do it now is best because she won't remember and she will never be made fun of for it. They said "Doesn't it just break your heart when you look at her?" but it doesn't, I hardly notice it and I think she's beautiful. I have a difficult time imagining Abbey allowing anyone to put her down. I think it's kind of crazy to make her go have surgery for something that the only benefit to her is that kids won't make fun of her. For that. But all kids make fun of all other kids for something. Will I surgically correct all of those things too? Everyone I've talked to about it says they'd do the surgery for their kid (or their hypothetical kid, if they don't have a real one) and that makes me feel weird that I have an actual kid and am so torn about it.

This is Lola:

Lola is a very funny kid. She wasn't a clingy baby in the least. After the first two, she was an absolute breeze. She doesn't show off, doesn't ham it up, doesn't smother, doesn't demand. Maybe all third kids are like this. Maybe all kids who aren't incredibly needy like the first two are like this. I'm not sure. She's a lot of fun but is already quite set in her ways. I sometimes wonder if she'll end up with an autism diagnosis as well. There are a few quirks of her behavior that are reminiscent of Sam.

Lola is quite a talker. Sam didn't talk well till he was way past the age of 4. Abbey came into her own talking-wise at the age of two and a half or so. Lola can nearly keep up her end of the conversation and she won't be two for a couple of months. She will lean over and give me a delicate smack on the lips. She loves to sit on my lap and be read to. She will thrust books into my hands. Lola likes to eat. Although she's over a year younger than Abbey and a head shorter, they were the same size clothes. (Abbey and Sam are so small, though, they're in the 3rd percentile. Lola's actually right in the middle of the growth chart. She's average but compared to the other two, she's huge.) Lola loves Elmo ("Ay-mo!") and Dora ("Doh-wa!") She can slide to unlock my iPhone and scroll through apps to choose the one she wants to play. When she wants my attention, she runs over and shouts "HELLO!" breathlessly like a reporter beginning their segment at the scene of a fast breaking news story. My day is full of "HELLO! I want juice." "HELLO! Up!" or "HELLO! Doh-waaaaaaah!"

This is Emma Joan:

The youngest of the four. Emma Joan is such an easy baby, and so happy, that she makes Lola look like a tight-fisted tyrant in comparison. I sometimes worry that she might become clingy like Abbey because she does like to sleep next to me and she can only take so much of the other kids before she's warily scanning the room for me. She just likes being with me. But she makes it really easy to be around her, because she's not clinging to me desperately sobbing and wailing at the thought of having to release me from her grasp long enough to cook her dinner, she just smiles even more when she's with me, she sleeps better when she's next to me, she eats better and is more satisfied when I nurse her, she burps better when it's me doing it. Sometimes I think she gets along with me so well because she really is my baby. I mean, she has a dad. They all do. (Same guy!) I'm married to him right now. But we've been separated for awhile and will soon be divorced. We were separated before I found out I was pregnant with Emma Joan. I went through my pregnancy, labor and childbirth without her dad. I drove myself 35 miles to the hospital when I was in labor. My mom was at my side when she was delivered. I feel like we have a special bond because it was just the two of us for so long.

Emma Joan is named for two of her great grandmothers, one on my side and one on her dad's side.

So that's them, the Fab Four. I need this blog for many reasons...to keep track of what they're up to, because I'm so in the thick of it that we're just surviving and I know that one day...it'll seem like a week from now, they'll have all moved out of the house and I won't remember a thing about the past 25 years or so. I also need a place to vent. Some days, I can literally make it through the entire day without speaking to another adult. And hopefully, also, this blog will make me a millionaire. Very, very soon.

Everybody's sleeping now. It is peaceful. It's time for me to join them. Good night and nice to meet you.

There's too long of a "not eating food" period between whenever the last snack time is at day care and dinner at home. As a result, I frequently travel with snacks in my car to appease the kids on the drive home. (Otherwise, there is much fighting.)

The other day I brought bananas. We were driving home and the weather was nice so I put my window down. Of course, Abbey demanded that I put her window down too. When she finished eating her banana, she flung the peel out the window. I immediately looked around to see if anyone had noticed, feeling ashamed because my daughter had just blatantly littered as we drove down a busy street in my bright yellow car, but also I thought "Hey! It's just like MarioKart!" and smiled to myself imagining a car behind me driving over it and spinning out.

I find that that's a lot of what parenting is like, weird emotional pairings like embarrassment and amusement or horror and awe. (Which is what I felt when my oldest was 2 and climbed to the top of our side by side fridge by pulling himself up on the handles and walking his feet up the front.).

And, New Baby's crying. This blog will obviously be a tale told in pieces.

Quote of the day:

Sam: "I got hit in the face by a brick at school today."

Me: "What?! How did that happen?"

Sam: "Well, I was bored so I wasn't thinking about where I was going so I walked into a wall."