ProudMary

I think I'll go for that massage now

When is that Dyson guy going to invent a coffee maker that won't get completely clogged with a single ground, causing it to erupt in angry burning hotness all over everything everywhere?

Anyway.

Cap'n back on premises:    check. 
Niece back home:    nearly check.
Children on antibiotics:    two.
Business intact:    check.
Inches of snow:    10
House on the market:    check.
Offers on the house:    one.
Serious offers on the house:    zero.

It occurred to me yesterday that before we did this, before we ditched our jobs and moved to the country to do our own thing, that I carried an unspoken assumption that once I left the city I would somehow acquire all the spare time and sanity that I ever desired.  Instead, there are more plates spinning, and zero time for moi.  And still, I couldn't actually tell you what actually fills my day.  Kids, yes.  Customers, yes.  Cleaning, yes.  It doesn't sounds like much, but boy howdy, it's a lot. 

So, yes, the Cap'n did a knock up job in the city and was back in record time.  And my niece visited to help pick up the slack and was incredibly helpful.  If I could snap my fingers and have anything right now, it would be a 16-year-old daughter who is so thoughtful and eager to help.

Last week poor BabyEve came down with a nasty case of RSV, and nearly landed in the hospital.  For four days she just sort of checked out...distant gaze...nothing sweet, just misery.  She's doing much better now, and it's amazing to have her back. 

Whilst hovering and fretting over BabyEve, I knew Poopies had Yet Another Virus, but figured it was business as usual.  I knew he was carrying a fever, but figured it was just a new cold settling in, and would pass like the others.  I knew he had been coughing for awhile, but honestly, we're all always at some stage of a cough.  It wasn't until his eyes got all pink, puffy and glazed and he stopped eating that I realized something was up.  The Cap'n took him to the doctor yesterday and apparently got a few raised eyebrows at the severity of the Pooper's illness.  I feel so bad, he was really sick.  To be fair, BabyEve's illness was far more dangerous, but it pulled all my attention and I forgot about my poor little guy, quietly festering in the corner.  Poor.  Little.  Sweet.  (and now skinny) Pooper.  Ugh.

Solo Mio

So, somehow it happened again.  The Cap'n packed it up last Tuesday and headed down to the city for another stint as Renovation Man.  This time for only a couple/few weeks, we'll see.  It's apparently going really well, lots of good progress. 

My end is a bit harder to manage this time around.  Although Poopies is way better company than he was a couple of years ago, he now realizes that his Daddy is missing, and so looks to me for extra support, though I'm stretched a bit thin these days between BabyEve, the business, the ice storm we got this weekend, and the ungodly awful flu I came down with the day the Cap'n left, of course.  Yeah, Tuesday night was one of those harrowing nights you don't soon forget.  I had this crazy fever, chills, clingy boy, crying baby, and I couldn't even stand up to get either one of them anything.  Thank god for breastfeeding, at least Eve was covered.  Poopies got a chocolate muffin tossed at him for dinner, so he was pleased.

The reason for the madness is that we're actually getting rid of the house in the city.  Putting it on the market and hoping to sell it by June, partly for tax reasons and partly to help finance a better living situation up here.  Yes, I know the housing market is in the toilet.  Yes, I've already been thoroughly counseled on what a bad time this is to sell by nearly everyone I've told.  I know.  But, the NYC real estate market is different from the rest of the country and the house actually hasn't depreciated at all, it's just about the same value it was probably about a year ago.  So, that's my rant.  And, with all the Cap'n's good work, the house actually is quite beautiful and the perfect steal for the right person.  Given the neighborhood, I'm very sure people will be happily surprised once they get inside.  I'm actually really sad to see it go.  It has finally realized the beauty I always knew was there, but never got to live in.  I only got to enjoy the cockroach and the squalor phases.  It seems a shame to work so hard to shine up a little gem and then just leave it behind. 

So, yeah, it's been hard.  It was impossible not to get that familiar knot in my stomach when the Cap'n drove away at 4 am.  Even though I know this is for a much shorter time, I just assumed I would never have to return to those days of lonely, blank survival.  The sickness and ice storm were just icing (ha!) on the cake. 

But, my salvation arrives tomorrow in the form of my lovely niece from Texas.  My generous sister was gracious enough to loan her out to me, so not only will I have an extra set of hands around, but I'll get to know my niece a bit too, which is really cool.

Where's the Poop

You just don't know the joys of preschooler-wrangling until you find yourself crawling around your house in a complete frenzy, nose as guide, looking for the misplaced product of your child's anus.  And he's no help, telling me that it's on the couch (it's not), on the TV, on the ceiling, etc.  Add to that a front office where any customer might appear and be insulted by either the olfactory long note: P-O-O-P, or the panic-stricken screaming three-year-old in the background: "I'm pooping!  I'm pooping!" who finds himself in the unfortunate situation of not wanting to poop in either a pair of diapers, or in any sort of potty.  Try to do it and not say "SHIT" at any point in time.  Try.

Den of Ill

From the day a child is born, you do everything in your power to steer clear of all danger; vehicular, recreational, bacterial, viral, all of it.  You don't let him play with others when their upper lip is slick with snot, you wash hands, Purell probably too much, on and on and on with the protecting and the fretting. And then when they're three (or so) you toss them into the veritable vat of microbes called preschool and wish them a good day.  Nice.

Since Poopies has started preschool not even two months ago, he's had at least six colds and the Cap'n and I have caught about half that.  If there are any veteran moms out there...how long does the insanity last?  Because we're getting nothing done, sludging through our days, barely looking forward to getting better for a few days before the next invasion.  I do wish parents would be more discerning when determining whether or not to send their kids to school.  I understand that you can't dodge work for a little runny nose (though I hate to see that too, frankly, when it's having lunch next to my momentarily healthy little guy) but when I see totally miserable, glassy-eyed, flu-stricken kids trying their best to forge on, it makes me mad.  I know it sucks to miss work when you're not even sick, but it is so not cool to your kid to make them do anything other than lie on the couch and watch movies when they're that sick, and obviously not fair to the others that will suffer from being exposed to your little viral incubator. At the preschool Halloween party on Wednesday there was a little boy dressed as a chicken that was barely vertical and clearly very sick.  I can only assume that our current mini-flu is courtesy of the poor little chicken...oh my, does that make this Avian Flu? 

As Is

At nearly five months after delivery, and despite the last month of working out with diligent intensity, I have become downright perturbed at my current clothing situation.  So, I stopped by Target on my way home from BabyEve's* appointment yesterday to purchase something for my lower half that neither needs to be hiked up every 45 seconds (maternity pants), nor gives the dreaded "muffin top" effect (pre-maternity pants).  And was perplexed to learn that I am no longer part of the population that can wear those sexy jeans with the 1" long zipper, the hip, fun "low-rise" jean.  No, those jeans are reserved for women who still have their original equipment, in its original condition, those who have not selflessly handed over their taught, lean bodies for the sake of their oblivious children. 

I thought I was all cool after Poopies, I had escaped his pregnancy with nary a stretch mark, and I still looked pretty good all things considered.  Well, somehow sweet BabyEve did a number on me and it's a pretty sad state of affairs I have to say.  I hope once I slender down a bit more it will improve, but I'm not terribly optimistic.  There seems to be extra....skin.  Ugh.  Anyway, it came down to either more "muffin top" or the 9" zipper, full-coverage, huge-assed-with-the-pockets-up-high "Mom" jean (which actually was pretty flattering waist-wise I'm sorry to say), and nothing in between.  So I slunk out of there totally empty-handed.  This pants thing is much more complicated than before.

*yes, we call her "Baby Eve," nearly all the time, I'm afraid.  I don't know when it will stop, possibly after it gets shortened to "Baby" for simplicity's sake, and we all go to a mountain resort for the summer and she falls in love with a dance instructor and helps his friend get an abortion, thereby disappointing us but then proving her maturity and fearlessness in a sensational closing dance number where she finally nails that tricky lift.

Speaking of BabyEve, and despite the whole body-ruining thing (kidding!), she is totally awesome.  Very gorgeous, extremely chatty and so, so sweet.  It's amazing to see her little person emerge, to look into her eyes and know that we're on our way to a clumsy little toddler, and a hilarious preschooler.  By Poopies-comparison, she's very fair with strawberry-blond hair, and still has her blue eyes, which I hope--more than I should--that she keeps.  Beyond the fact that she's so pretty the way she is, I am strangely insecure that the Cap'n's fair family looks upon my brown hair and eyes as genetic mud, mucking up what would have been fair grandchildren.  Which of course they probably don't, but they honestly could because it's frankly true!  But enough of my chromosomal insecurities...

Poopies started preschool last month, and it's going pretty well I'd say.  We learned early on that the Cap'n needed to do the drop-off, since me doing it meant a really bad scene with lots of tears and pants-grabbing. He seems to be getting along with the other kids, though I have yet to see him engaged in actual play with anyone other than the teachers, but I know this will come with time.  It's not for lack of encouragement.  Every day I ask him if he has any new friends, and every day I am told with authoritative inflection (including hand gestures) how "one boy got very, very angry" with him, which I was initially flabbergasted about, but since we get the same story every day and he doesn't seem very upset about it, I am left to conclude that either he really is getting some boy mad at him constantly and that it doesn't faze him in the least, or that on the day that the mad boy incident really happened he got a spectacular reaction from me, and so decided that he would repeat it every day to elicit extreme motherly concern.  Part of me wants to roll my eyes and put on a knowing smile when he starts on the same story again, but on the other hand, I don't want appear blasé about being told about his day, and don't want to discourage him from recounting the day's events (real or otherwise) and so I've continued the impressed concern, and the motherly advice to stay away from angry boys.  I am a sucker for manipulation, always have, always will.