*&^%$#**&($#@!

I know I shouldn't complain...but isn't that the whole point of having a blog to begin with? So that I can dump the complaints out of my brain? That way they don't stay in there, clogging up all the parts of my mind that could be spent doing other things, like re-organizing my coat closet or getting rid of all the expired salad dressing in my refrigerator.

That is the point of a blog, no?

Oh yes, once upon a time I was full of funny stories about my children. Full of them. These days, those funny anecdotes seem to get farther and farther away as the kids get closer and closer to puberty. And that, my friends, is really not all that funny. Trust me.

Even the daughter has failed to provide me with viable blog fodder lately. Well, besides acquiring the one thing I always wanted but never got as a child, the (hear the bells and whistles ringing) Barbie Dream Townhouse, she hasn't done anything that has made me scratch my head and go "Hmmmmm" in a long time. Unless you count covering herself with homemade tattoos (of the ink pen variety) when my attention was diverted. But hey, at least she spelled her name correctly and wrote "thank you" on her fingers - which makes me feel like I'm really not that bad of a mom and I'm raising a thoughtful and creative human being after all...despite all the screaming.

Speaking of screaming. When I switched the name of this here space to "Stop Screaming I'm Driving," it was because I seemed to repeat those words ad naseaum in the car until I was really certain that my own head would do a Linda Blair and spin right off of my shoulders. Lately though, I've been considering renaming it "Stop Screaming in the House." I know, seems vague and non specific, right? But do you know how tiring it is to repeat this over and over again to my children? Especially when I'm trying to take a shower - really the only place a mom can escape for a moment of peace and quiet - and all I hear is the boys screaming like a couple of escaped mental patients.

And my daughter. Oh yes, she is enamored with all things Barbie these days, and that is very cute and makes me miss my own childhood like nobody's business. But try telling her something is blue when she thinks it's black and she's taken to screaming like a baboon on steroids.

This cannot be a good thing.

It isn't as if we're a screaming-type family either. I mean, I would expect this in a home full of wild yellers, but yellers we are not...at least most of the time. If and when I do yell it is always appropriately. Yes, appropriately. Like when I've had it. When I'm at my wits end from listening to my kids scream at each other for days. Yes, I do believe that screaming is contagious - and I've caught it from my children.

You know the screaming is getting bad when you glance towards the windows to see if any are open, because you are afraid the neighbors might hear the screams and call CPS. I only do this when the kids scream, because if the neighbors hear anything close to what I hear, they will become so concerned for my safety that they will dial the law enforcement agency in charge of such things and beg that they remove me from my home...off to a nice, quiet, padded cell.

Wouldn't that be nice?

PS, I'm not really going to change the name again.

Fear and Loathing in the Doctor's Office

"Don't touch a single thing."

Words from my mouth upon entering the doctor's office for my children's annual check ups.

The whole "state of fear" that our media and government has got us in has jaded me, altered my way of thinking, changed me forever. I no longer leave the house without a hefty supply of hand sanitizer in my purse. I check the kids' backpacks to make sure they have plenty of it too and, after reminding them not to lick their hands after using it (you'll get drunk!), I remind them to use it liberally. As in, every time you touch anything.

Since our pediatrician shares a space with the walk-in clinic, I was especially freaked out. I scanned the room for the most germ-free looking place to wait and sent the kids there, instructing them not to even breathe until I'd checked them in. I was happy to see that the staff had removed the gigantic toy (aka hot germy mess) that used to take up most of the floor space in the waiting area due to "that bad flu that's going around." At least that's what I overheard the receptionist telling a coughing and jumping young girl while we were waiting. I just prayed she didn't cough in our direction.

I looked people over ten times as they came through the door.

Is that person feverish?

Does that one have a cough?

Is that one wearing a mask and if so, why?

Are we all going to die?

Since when did bringing my kids to their check ups become such a terrifying experience?

Besides the whole H1N1 buzz in the air, this doctor's visit was much difference than previous ones. And I'm beginning to worry about the state of health care in this country, even though if you'd asked me before I would have told you that I had nothing to worry about. I've been shielded thus far from a generous health plan with low co-pays and prescription costs. We've had virtually everything paid for, every procedure, every test, everything. Our kids get seen as soon as needed and it's never been a problem making sure that they receive the best care available...until now.

"Welcome to the public option." Our doctor said to me when he told us they had no seasonal flu vaccine.

I could tell this bothered him. He explained that since the government took doses of the regular seasonal flu vaccine out to make the H1N1, that there were less doses available than prior years, with a visible concern I'd never before seen on his face - and he's been our pediatrician for as long as I've been a mother, almost 13 years. He assured us that his office was told they'd have it in late November, and to just call and we'd be able to get it then. But you could tell that this year, unlike any of the years before, was taking a toll on him, and not just because he was another year older - but because things are changing.

It's unavoidable.

And for the first time, I'm a little scared.

I'm scared that even though we currently have great, super, awesome and fantastic coverage, that's all going to change. It's hard to keep up on the specifics of each new health plan congress is proposing and now, hearing that they want to keep themselves "exempt" from the current one on the table, I'm a little concerned. Okay, I'm a lot concerned.

If it's not good enough for congress, how can it be good enough for my children? And your children? The their children?

And this isn't just about not being able to get a seasonal flu vaccine, it's about so much more. What happens when they can't see my kids when it's really needed? What happens when I need to go to the doctor and can't get an appointment? What happens if my grandmother can't get the protection she needs or my parents can't get coverage after they retire?

What then?

Fortune Teller

"6 will be better. 6 will be better. 6 will be better." I'm repeating this mantra each hour until her birthday in a few days.

Not that 5 has been horrible, quite the opposite. 5 is fun. 5 is adventurous and silly and taking time to enjoy every little thing that crosses her path. 5 is riding a bike without training wheels and winning a three-legged race with her best friend. 5 is trying new things, swimming like a fish and learning to read. 5 is loving and kind and still so very sweet.

It's also a lot of work...still.

Ever since she walked in on a cheesy and completely ridiculous "scary" movie that the boys were watching a few weeks ago, I've had a sleeping bag rolled up next to my side of the bed. Lo and behold, each night somewhere between 1 and 3am...in she comes. She doesn't even mind sleeping on the floor, which I thought would be a natural deterrent to coming in our room at night as opposed to staying in her own cozy and comfy bed. She snuggles into that scratchy polyester bag like it's her very own Sleep Number Bed, and goes right back to sleep.

I can't say that I completely don't understand, because I do.

For years, her brothers shared a room with each other, never really having to battle the bedtime monsters under the bed alone. They always had the other one to lean on, to count on, and to talk to if they were having trouble falling asleep. They were never completely all by themselves.

So it's no surprise that she goes through these phases more often than they did at her age. Or, perhaps it's because she's a girl...or because she's the last "baby" of the family. Or, as my husband likes to point out when he really wants to get my goat, that I "coddle" her.

I disagree.

Sure I treat her with excessive care and kindness.

She's. My. Daughter.

If I coddle her, than I coddle the boys too. I am, if nothing, more than fair when it comes to fanning out my kindness when it comes to my kids. Sure, it's different for 11 and 12 year old boys than it is for 5 year old girls, but it is, nonetheless, no different in meaning. The love is the same, even if it wears different clothing.

Just ask my oldest when I'm standing at the front door in the freezing morning, still in my pyjamas, blowing him kisses as he and the neighbor boy walk to school.

Oh yes, I'm that embarrassing.

But with her, it isn't just all about the sleeping. It's everything else too, it seems. I know that kids tend to reach some sort of developmental apex around their birthdays, hence the weird behaviors, but if I hear one more whiny, emotional, dramatic scream from her when she doesn't get her way - I'm not sure I'll make it to her sixth birthday, a mere three days from now.

And the most frustrating part of it all is that I know she is capable of doing the things she requests help for. I know she is. And I never had a hard time cheer leading for the boys when they pulled the "I can't do it" card out on me, but with her it seems like every time I try to do this, it's a battle. We're talking WWIII, nuclear bomb, war of the worlds type battle here, not some diminutive little spat.

So I'm repeating myself again, "6 will be better. 6 will be better. 6 will be better." And I'm really hoping that my fortune telling skills prove to be correct otherwise I just spent way too much money on a Barbie Dream Townhouse.

Happy Dance

I slept most of the day.

The rain pounding outside and the wind trying to rip every single shingle from our roof made it all the more enticing to slip back into the covers and pull the sheets up around my neck. With the leaves swirling this way and that and the lights flickering, a cozy bed was the only place I wanted to be. It also passed the time until the doctor's appointment.

Nothing like hiding from the world when you are about to face something you'd rather avoid.

It's the best coping mechanism I know. Well, besides drowning ones' sorrows in a bottle of Grey Goose...but that isn't really too conducive to parenting now is it?

The kids scribbled drawings on the white board in the doctor's office. Passing the time making variations of Pac Man while my husband played the antiquated game on his cell phone.

I twiddled my thumbs.

Twiddle.

Twiddle.

Twiddle.

"They're normal." Said the doctor.

"Normal?" We said back in unison.

"Normal."

That heavy rock that had been hibernating in the pit of my stomach for months decided to round house kick it's way out of there upon hearing that news. Normal. No parent wants to hear anything other than that. Normal.

And she didn't even ask to see the notes I'd taken! I guess I can put those in his baby book so we can read them 40 years from now...

Of course, tonight we'll whoop it up. We'll celebrate, we'll trick or treat, we'll eat more pumpkin pie and "whoop" cream than we should. And we'll thank our lucky stars - because we know that it could have been so much worse. We'll take all the normal we can get, even if it means making some adjustments - we'll take it.

So, for all you people out there trick or treating, that breeze you feel? That's my sigh of relief. Watch out, it could knock you over with it's force because friends, it's a mighty big sigh.

Grab the Broomstick, Hide the Scissors!

Katie is in that in between stage.

Ladies (and maybe some gentlemen too), you all know what I'm talking about. That stage of hair grow-out that is most frustrating of all: the bang grow-out.

Last month right after school started, Katie had asked me to "please, please, please mommy - cut my bangs!"

And so I did.

Although she had been growing them out for quite some time (they were almost past her nose), I had been growing weary (tired, bored, frustrated) with the constant braiding, head-banding, and making them disappear with the magic of a clippie process that we had to go through each and every morning. In short, it wore me out.

Nobody ever mentions the difficulty of hair control when talking about raising daughters. Outside the random ad for Johnson & Johnson's No More Tangles, a product I used liberally as a child myself, if only for the mere joy of pretending I was one of those Barbie heads whose hair you could style in a million different ways. I'd spend hours in the bathroom, spraying that stuff on my hair and angling my mother's hand held mirror just so - so that I could see the back of my head...

Where was I?

Oh yes, the No More Tangles. I should have known by the way that this stuff flies off the shelves at Target, that it is a popular item - and not just because little girls like to stare at themselves in the mirror or inhale it's ultra fruity scent. I should have known that with a little more patience on my part, we could be past this awkward grow-out stage of bangs that we find ourselves in again and on to the fun and exciting part where your hair actually does what you want it to do.

Oh, who am I kidding?

The sooner Katie learns that her hair will never be just like that Barbie's head on TV, the better. Her sixth birthday is just around the corner and what better time than to have all your hopes and dreams shattered? I mean, after all, nobody can have perfect hair. Not even you, daughter.

But try explaining any of this to her. It's about as effective as trying to run from a mad rhino.

This morning, while she and I were getting ready for the day, she became...irate. She pulled at her hair and whacked her brush on the bathroom counter. She stomped about and stuck her lower lip out farther than I thought possible. It was a no-good-very-bad-horrible-morning.

In a nutshell...she was pissed.

"You have two options honey," I said to her as calmly as I could, for I did not want to add fuel to the fire raging and to be honest, she was scaring me a little with her Linda Blair-type attitude.

"You can either let me help you get your bangs up and out of your face, or we can cut them again so that they're not in your eyes."

"Noooooooooo," was all she said before running into her room and burying her face in her pillow.

I quickly scanned the room for any preschool-sized scissors intended for craft projects and upon finding none, left her alone to calm down. A few minutes later, she was back. "Mom, why can't I just cut them little?" She said holding her hand up to her forehead in an effort to show me just how short her bangs could be.

I think I may have prayed (and I'm not a praying woman) to the gods of reason at that point.

"Katie, we can either trim them up, or pin them up. Those are your options."

Clearly, she was not amused and stomped back into her room.

I'm hiding all sharp objects.

And praying to the gods of please-don't-let-my-daughter-cut-her-own-hair.

New Rules

If you're a fan of Real Time With Bill Maher on HBO, you know that at then end of each program he gives his "New Rules," a funny, crass, honest and often offensive to some list of "rules" in which to deal with the news and current events of the previous week.

This is kind of like that, only in mommy time, not real time.

New Rule: No more reading the Twilight series books before bedtime. I know it's wonderful that you, a brand-new 11 year old, is attempting to finish book 3 before Christmas, and that's commendable. BUT yelling at your mother that you "will not sleep on dead bodies" when she comes to check on you in the middle of the night is just not cool. In fact, it kind of freaks her out. And then, when she laughs because seriously, what else is there to do? Do not tell her that she's not being nice and then repeat the phrase. States of consciousness are subjective kid - and this sleeptalking is getting old.

Lay off the vampire novels for now.

New Rule: No more laces. Yes, you heard me daughter. I love the fact that you can tie your own shoes now. BUT when it takes you no less than 10 minutes to do so, it kind of makes my eyes want to jump out of my skull and my hair stand on end, especially because 10 minutes ago you were going to wear the hideous but oh so convenient Hannah Montana shoes with the Velcro. I don't care if you want to wear the laced shoes, but just figure it out before we're walking out the door.

And those Hannah Montana shoes that I cringed while purchasing? Best investment ever.

New Rule: When you first started playing football and I had to learn all about football pants and pads, a result of being the primary laundry-doer, it was not that big of a deal to take out the pads every time I had to wash your football pants. BUT now it's getting old and the pads? They are getting stinky. If you can't take the darn things out of the pants before putting them into the hamper, I'm going to have to return them and their stankiness to your room, unwashed. That's just the way it is buddy. I don't have the time, patience or the stomach to do this day after day after day and I know that your football season is coming to a close soon, but those pants...dear lord, those pants have seen better days.

In short, take everything out of your pants before putting them in the hamper (and this is not limited to football pads - it includes gum wrappers, love notes, pens and pencils and Spongebob trading cards too). You'll thank me for teaching you this someday.

New Rule: I am not going to make you a separate dinner just because you "don't like" what is put on your plate. Since when did a kid not like meatloaf? Your father and I are thinking about having genetic testing done to determine if you are, indeed, related to us or if the hospital made a horrible mistake when you were born and switched you with a baby whose parents lacked taste buds. Furthermore, if you'd like to go to a birthday party, I suggest taking my advice and eating a healthy meal (that I MADE for you) before hand because there will be no sugar before actual, vitamin-rich, real food.

The end. The pickiness is getting old.

New Rule: Starting today, there will be a fine imposed each and every time one of you spits their toothpaste out any place other than the sink. That's right folks, a fine. You will pay your parents back in the form of shovelling doggie doo or something equally as fun if one more glob of bright blue toothpaste is found upon the monkey rug in your bathroom. You might forget that this bathroom is one of 2 available to guests who visit our house, not to mention your mom when she can't make it to her own bathroom. And stepping in a gooey, disgustingly minty pile of toothpaste is not fun OR enjoyable.

Get your aim right.

Until next week children...

And So it Goes

A week.

It's been a week now and still...nothing. No news, no phone call, nobody banging on my door with an envelope bearing the words "TOP SECRET" upon it's manila exterior. And I know, that I better get used to this.

A late night journey into the world wide web was a mistake. I knew it would be. Causing more sleeplessness than any 2 little blue pills (Tylenol PM written on their surface) could cure. Night after night after night.

Notes.

Notes in a silly little National Geographic Kids explorer journal (the closest thing resembling paper that I could find). The date. What he had for breakfast. What he had for lunch. What he had for dinner. Snacks. Symptoms. Do it all over again the next day and try to decode the meaning of it all with shaky knowledge begotten from somewhere inside of a computer along with mother's intuition. A precarious combination, to say the least.

Calm.

I have no choice other than to remain calm. I have to be calm for him. Imagine what he must be feeling? Oh, what he must be feeling. It's unfathomable at his age. It's unfair and wrong and it makes me angry.

I snapped at him for eating something not on "the list."

"How could you?"

"Do you understand how important this is?"

"I can't go to school with you everyday and make sure that you follow the directions from the doctor, you have to be more responsible."

Guilt.

He's a child. How could I? What was I thinking? He slipped up just a little...okay, twice. Will it really make a difference? Will he have to start all over again? Will the doctors be upset with me for not doing a better job?

Control.

There aren't many things I can control about the situation. Following the directions is the only thing I have, the only reign I hold, the only grasp on doing something for my child to help...and will it be enough?

Love.

And among all the guilt, the worry, the note-taking, the confusion and the sleeplessness, lies love. The core of it all is love. And that is never anything to question or to wonder or to lose sleep over because it's always there - unwavering, all-knowing, comforting.

I just wish love was enough.

And so it goes.

7 down, 3 to go.