Every day, around the same time, the bus comes.
And when it comes, it drops off five sweet, beautiful children.
Three of whom are mine.
Or, perhaps I should say, three of whom belong to Tiny.
At least he thinks so.
And when the bus approaches, Tiny’s whole world begins to tremble with joy.
Watch.
(Disclaimer #1: It was Pajama Day.)
(Disclaimer #2: We used the same letter for two of our children’s names. Sometimes (often) I say the wrong name. Sue me.)
Monkey in the Middle celebrated his First Holy Communion yesterday.
I know he’s mine and all, and I might be biased, but man, this kid is handsome.
He did a great job during the mass, and even allowed us to take a few pictures afterward.
(The kid does NOT enjoy being the center of attention. I was given a limit of how many pictures I could take, and he got final approval before any picture was posted here, on the blog.)
So, here are the approved shots:
My sweet, sweet monkeys.
Since I had to remind my cheesy, ham baby to smile for the camera, not at me, we took another try, this time with the grandparents. (Had to ration my allowable pictures wisely.)
ShopRite makes a mean cake!
And, here’s what happened when Real Man gave me his thoughts about how big the pieces of cake were, that I was cutting.
Last shot aside, it was a truly great day full of family, laughs and good times.
I think I may have mentioned, once or twice, that I’m head over heels in love with my children.
Maybe.
Wednesday was a perfect example of one of the things I love best about them.
Real Man and I spent the majority of the day at the ER with Tiny.
(4 hours of intravenous fluids later, he’s fine…story for another day)
When we got home, we were beat.
I popped a frozen pizza in the oven and kinda collapsed into a kitchen chair.
There was a piece of paper on the table, and I pulled it to me, thinking it was someone’s homework.
It said this:
Sweet note, but…huh?
So, I asked the kids what prompted this and they said, quite matter-of-factly, “We wrote the cleaning ladies a thank-you letter, this morning.”
“You did what?” I asked.
They proceeded to tell me that while they were picking up the basement to prepare for the cleaning ladies (1. Those of you with cleaning people what I mean by cleaning for the cleaning ladies and 2. Yes, I have cleaning ladies. Judge away.) Monkey Girl suggested that they write them a letter to thank them for all of the hard work they do when they come to clean our home.
So, the three of them crafted a note saying “Dear Cleaning Ladies, Thank you for cleaning our house. You do such a great job and we really appreciate it. Thank you, also, for picking up the things we sometimes forget to pick up. We’re sorry when we do that and we appreciate it when you pick up our toys, like Legos and stuff, that we forgot. Love, Julia, Patrick and Matthew”
Seriously?
And so this is reason #1,987,302 that I love these monkeys.
Kindness.
1. What did you wear to prom? Include a picture if possible.
That, my friends, is Real Man and Yours Truly at the Junior Prom.
We. Were. So. Young.
2. Would you rather be on the biggest loser or a food eating challenge?
Uh, since the question isn’t which do I NEED to be on, I’ll go for food eating challenge.
Preferably a chocolate and peanut butter eating contest.
Hmmm…the peanut butter might slow me down.
Okay, just a chocolate eating contest.
Yeah, that’s the ticket.
3. What is your favorite refreshing summer drink?
If I could drink anything I want?
A massive cup of red Kool Aid that I’d drink until I had a red mustache and then I’d run through the wall, leaving a hole the shape of my body…or in the shape of an awesome, enormous glass Kool Aid pitcher that no one I knew ever actually owned.
Since I can’t?
Crystal Light Raspberry Lemonade with lots and lots of ice.
I like a summer drink to be cold, cold, cold.
4. What was your first car, and what did you call it?
My first car was a 1985 Nissan Pulsar.
I called her Isabella.
It was black. It was sporty. It was way used when I got it, but it was new to me and I loved it.
Then, I crashed it.
Sold her for scrap.
And that was the end of Isabella.
Until I got my next car…a not-so-sporty Oldsmobile Achieva.
And I named her Isabella, too.
5. What’s one thing your child or spouse does that sends you over the edge?
Debating whether or not I should answer this, because someone, in this house, might read it and then purposefully do whatever it is I write, just to push me over the edge.
Let’s see…
It drives me batty when:
-I’ve just finished emptying the sink and loading up the dishwasher, when someone walks over and puts a dirty dish in the sink. Did you not notice what I’ve been doing for the past ten minutes? Did it cross your mind, as you walked AROUND the open dishwasher door to pop your dirty dish in there? And then, when they say “Oh, I didn’t know if the dishwasher was clean or dirty,” I think to myself, “Uh, so check. And if it’s clean, empty it. And if it’s dirty, drop in your dish.”
-I’ve been in a room for 20 minutes, and as soon as I get up, stretch, and walk out of the room, someone calls my name and calls me back to the room to tell me something. Seriously? I sat there for 20 freaking minutes and it was like I wasn’t in the room. NOW you have something to tell me?
-I have to repeat myself. I have serious issues with repeating myself and I have a husband with some serious hearing loss in one ear and a child who I suspect also has some hearing loss. Good times. By the third time, it takes all my control not to scream whatever it was I was saying at the top of my lungs. “I SAID I LOVE YOU!!! THERE! ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?”
-I’m anticipating someone’s need and I am up, doing something like pouring someone a glass of milk, and as I walk over to the table with it, they say “Mom…can you please pour me a glass of milk?” It seriously makes me want to just dump the glass of milk on the floor.
-Someone eats the last of some treat we have in the house and leaves the box or container in the pantry or fridge, and I think about having that treat all day long, and then, when I get home and go to have it, I pull out the box and its empty. Kinda makes me want to be a food hoarder with secret stashes.
1. Do you make your kids finish all the food on their plates?
No.
I think it confuses the whole, eat until you are full mentality.
However, I also don’t give enormous portions, and if you don’t eat your meat, you can’t have any pudding.
Or, no dinner, no dessert.
We have fruit for dessert on weeknights, anyway, but my feeling is, if you are too full for dinner, then you are too full for dessert.
I’ve never understood when parents let their kids have dessert after not eating their dinners.
But, that’s just me.
If it’s something that I’m trying that is new and I think people might not like it, they get a little portion.
You don’t, however, have to finish your seconds. If you’ve already cleared your plate once, you’re good with me.
2. Do you give an allowance?
No.
We ebb and flow with chore charts where the kids can earn money for doing chores.
However, we aren’t really good with keeping up with it.
I’m not a fan of giving kids money every week that they don’t work for, though, (because, seriously…I’ve never gotten money for doing nothing!) so there is no regular allowance.
They also are not of an age where they have any real monetary needs, so there hasn’t been a huge uproar about this.
Yet.
3. Do you actually park your car in the garage?
Yes. We do.
We’ve never had a two-car garage, and when we purchased this home, (with a two car garage), we were adamant that we would use it for the cars.
Our first house had a separate one-car garage that I did use for my little Honda Civic.
Our second house had an attached one-car garage that was filled with stuff from the move…for the entire three years we lived there.
Our third house had a half of a one-car garage that was full of our bikes and lawn equipment.
This house? Two-car, attached garage with OUR CARS in it! Yeah!
4. What is one food you will NEVER cook?
Seafood is the obvious choice, because of my allergy.
However, I’ll go the non-allergy route and say liver.
I get gaggy just thinking about it.
I know I’ve told this story before.
My Mom used to make it when my Dad was out of town and make me eat it with her.
I told her it was so gross it was going to make me puke.
She made me eat it anyway.
Then, I puked.
Never again.
5. Do you have anything exciting planned for the summer?
We have two different beach vacations planned.
Then, lots of hitting the pool with the monkeys, going for walks, to parks, small day trips.
It’s going to relaxing, fun, and awesome.
Baby Monkey isn’t much for public speaking.
He keeps to himself in public situations and takes it all in and processes it on his own.
This leads people to think that he doesn’t really speak very much.
They say, “I can’t believe how quiet he is. Does he ever talk?”
The truth is, he is our most talkative monkey, which is a big accomplishment because for the first 6 years of her life, Monkey Girl was the chattiest child I had ever met.
Report cards and conferences were full of “She needs to learn when it is time to speak and when it is time to listen.”
And then came Baby Monkey.
Life with Baby Monkey is a constant stream of consciousness about anything and everything.
And so, on the way home from my niece’s communion party, on Sunday, I decided to secretly record his chatter.
It’s a short drive, and for a minute, there, I was concerned that, because he was so tired, he wasn’t going to be his normal self.
But, I waited him out and the chatter began.
Give it a listen and know that once the recording ends and we got out of the car, the conversation continued as we walked in the house, turned on the bath, took a bath, put on his jammies, played with toys, and got him tucked into bed.
Never. Stopped. Once.
Click the numerical link below (because I can’t figure out how to make it pretty).
I had a different Truthful Tuesday set for today.
Then, my friend, Bonnie, sent me a link to a blog.
I clicked, I read, I cried and cried and cried and I remembered, once again, how ridiculously lucky I am that my babies are all strong and healthy.
By sharing today, I’m doing my part to help spread the story and help her meet a goal on the list.
Please visit the blog and read.
And as you read, remember how very, very fortunate you are, in your own life.
Edited to add: I just went to Avery’s blog at 10:10 am 5.1.12 and found that she passed away last night. Heartbroken doesn’t begin to describe it.
You can read Frozen – Part 1 here, and Frozen – Part 2 here.
She really had enjoyed herself at dinner.
So much so that she ignored her common sense nipping at her consciousness, telling her that the snow was coming down too hard and she needed to get going before it got too bad to get home.
By the time everyone started putting in their money toward the bill, the ground was covered in a few inches of snow and the temperature was dropping quickly, making the wet pavement icy beneath it’s new, white blanket.
Two of her female co-workers walked her to her car, the three of them holding each other up, and sent her on her way, yelling promises that she would go slow and carefully.
And she did. But all the caution in the world couldn’t have prepared her for the patch of black ice on I-39 that sent her gliding too far to the right and right into the guardrail. Luckily, her speed was low and the impact was almost graceful. No airbag, no whiplash…just her and her Altima, angled off the road in the snow.
She put the car in reverse and slowly tried to back up. The car moved a few inches, but she could feel, instinctively, the way it unevenly bumped it’s way back that there was a problem with the tire.
She sighed, pulled her coat tightly around herself and got out. She could see no damage to the side of the car that was facing the road, and so she walked around to the other side, steadying herself with one hand on the car.
There was no apparent damage, so she stooped down to inspect the tires and found that the front, right tire was, in fact, flat. She looked at the flat for a minute or two, willing it to inflate on its own, but when that didn’t happen, she opened the passenger door, crawled across the seat and popped the trunk latch. She backed out, moved to the trunk and pulled out the jack and the tire iron.
She was grateful to be close enough to a streetlamp, that she wasn’t working in total darkness, as she bent down and began the tedious work of loosening the lug nuts.
When she finished with the loosening, she put the jack in position and began to pump the car up, a fraction of an inch at a time. Headlights swooped across her field of vision and she felt herself grow both relieved and nervous at the same time. She was all alone on a fairly deserted highway. This was the first car that had passed since she had run off the road, and she felt defenseless. She kept her head down and kept working.
A car door slammed and the icy snow crunched under heavy feet as the driver of the other car approached.
“Need a hand?” a deep, gravelly male voice asked.
Her hands stilled.
That voice.
Immediately she began to tremble. She let go of the jack and instinctively pulled her coat and scarf tighter around her body and head.
“I said, do you need a hand?” he asked again.
Clearly she needed help. And yet this…this was the last person in the world she would ever want to meet again, much less ask for help. Yet, she was fairly certain he couldn’t see her face, as bundled as she was, and so she decided to do whatever she could to get out of the situation as quickly as possible.
She nodded.
“Where’s your spare? In the trunk?” The man didn’t even wait for an answer…just walked to the trunk, lifted the lid, and pulled out the dougnut.
His footsteps crunched back to her and he said, “Move back…I got this.”
She obeyed, sliding out of his way, and moving to stand beside him as he knelt next to her car and began to shimmy the old tire off of the axle.
She watched his glove hands grip the tire and she knew that on the back of his left hand would be a small scar…maybe almost completely faded by know…but still there, in the shape of her teeth.
—
She had been coming home late from work, that night.
She was cursing herself for walking that day when she had known that she would have to work late to meet her deadline, and so she walked as quickly as possible, down dark, deserted streets.
She had thought there was the possibility of someone following her…the hairs on the back of her neck were standing at attention, but every time she turned around, she saw no one and nothing out of the ordinary.
She kept walking.
When she reached her building, she punched in her access code and quickly ran up the one flight to her floor. It wasn’t until she was at her door, pulling out her keys that she realized she hadn’t heard the building door latch behind her.
It was her last thought before he was on her.
He came up from behind, one hand strong around her mouth, the other holding her around the waist.
“Open the door. Do it now and don’t make a sound.”
She almost dropped the keys twice in her attempt to put key to lock, but she managed to get it done, despite her state of terror.
When she turned the handle, he shoved her inside, and she stumbled to the floor.
“Get up,” he growled, and she scrambled to her feet, desperate to do anything he asked so that he wouldn’t hurt her. “Move,” he said, and she walked backward down the hallway, toward the kitchen.
As they entered the kitchen, her eyes noticed the knife on the counter at the same time as his. They both went for it, but he was bigger, stronger…faster.
From there, everything that happened was a blur of sounds and smells.
Clothes ripping.
Loud grunting.
The odors of sweat and beer and cigarettes.
And the knife.
Right up against her neck, daring her to struggle…to try to get away.
At one point, he reached across her with his left hand, and her survival instincts kicked in and she leaned her head forward and clamped down, hard, with her teeth.
He swore and backhanded her, pushing the knife harder into her flesh.
“Do. Not. Move.” he growled.
And she did not move again.
When he was done, he left her on the kitchen floor, shrugged back into his clothes, putting his finger to his lips, whispering “Our secret…or I’ll be back.”
She had never told a soul, and he had never been back.
—
She knew, in her heart, that this meeting in the snow was all a horrifying coincidence, and yet, she couldn’t help but think that it was a punishment for beginning to enjoy life a bit. Her first night out since the attack, years before, and he arrives?
She stood, watching him begin to tighten the nuts on the spare and her anxiety began to rise.
He would soon be finished, and then what? There was no one passing by. Nothing to stop him from shoving her in the back of her car and hurting her, once again.
The snow was falling faster and harder, yet she could see that he had set aside the tire iron as he began to pump the jack.
Without much planning, she reached down, picked up the tool and raised it above her head. He noticed the shift in her body weight and turned his head, his eyes widening in recognition as he saw her face, for the first time.
As he moved to block her movements, his glove caught on the edge of the jack, leaving him unable to protect himself. She swung and iron connected with flesh with a crack in the quiet night air.
Soundlessly, he fell over, into the snow, unmoving.
She stood, stock still, unsure what to do next.
She stared at him, holding her breath, and it wasn’t until she realized that no puffs of breath were visible in the cold, night air that she exhaled.
Dead.
With that thought, her brain began to work again, and she began to make swift, calculated moves, feeling as though it were the first time her mind was clear in years.
She looked at the blood on the tire iron and leaned down and wiped it off with the edge of the man’s coat, making sure to get rid of all visible traces.
Quickly and decisively, she pushed the body under the guardrail, rolling him into the ravine below. She picked up her tools and put them in the trunk. She moved back, got the flat tire and put that, too, in the trunk.
The snow was falling so fast, now, that she noticed that her tracks were getting covered almost as soon as she stepped out of them. Still, she kicked around the snow where he had lay and where she had pushed him under the rail until she was satisfied that no one could look at this spot and figure out what had happened. She could no longer see the body, as it had fallen too far, and was, most likely, already covered with a light dusting of snow.
She walked around to the drivers side, got in and turned over the engine.
It started immediately, and she slowly backed up, turned the wheels, and then carefully made her way home.
—
The whistling tea kettle broke her from her reverie and she stood, stretching her limbs.
She poured the water into her tea cup, pulled out her bagel from the toaster, sat at the table, and began to eat.
When she was finished, she walked to the bedroom, pulled back the covers, climbed in and almost instantly fell asleep.
And as she slept, she smiled.
I’ve only gotten two massages in my life.
If my insurance would pay for it, I would go every week.
I carry my stress in my neck, and my doctor has said that she can’t believe how tight my neck is.
I also had surgery on my neck, a few years ago, to remove a lymph node the size of a golf ball due to Kikuchi Fujimoto disease (I kid you not…story for another time), and in removing the lymph node, the doctor accidentally severed the spinal accessory nerve, or the nerve that feeds the muscles in the upper right quadrant of my back. Therefore, my back has had to need to relearn how to delegate the daily work of picking things up, raising my arms, walking around, etc. You’d never know it to look at me, as the muscles have done well relearning their work, however, my neck and back are stiff and in some pretty big agony quite a bit of time at the end of the day. It’s why I try to exercise, because the stronger they are, the better the outcome for me, and I don’t want it to slow me down, which it doesn’t.
So, when I started to have the back issues, following the surgery, I went for a massage.
It was a 30 minute massage, and when it was done, I came to two conclusions.
1. 30 minutes wasn’t long enough.
2. I needed some large Nordic woman named Helga, or some strapping Swedish man named Sven to actually massage hard enough to work out the knots in my neck and back, because the average sized woman who did the massage didn’t even come close to working out a single knot, even though she seemed to be working as hard as she could.
So, I never went back.
Fast-forward to last week, when the girls and I were in Cancun.
They have a spa at the resort, and they offered a variety of massages, preceded by hydration therapy.
Each massage was 100 minutes and was a little bit different than the others.
So, Erin and I both signed up for the Excellence massage, Kim another, and Michaela, yet another.
They led us into the back and, wearing our bathing suits, had us take a quick shower.
Then, we were led into the steam room.
We toughed it out in the steam room as long as we possibly could, but when we began to feel like our faces were melting off, we decided to call it a day.
They led us to the pool, which was divided into several sections.
Kim and I got into a small, circular part of the pool, and were instructed to stand back to back and hold on to these bars that were protruding from the sides of the pool. Then, they turned on the bubbles.
This jet of bubbles that shot up from the floor of the pool and pounded our feet and our legs.
We were there for about two minutes, and then they moved us into the bigger pool, where we had to hold on, again, while a jet of bubbles shot at our stomachs for two minutes.
From there, we moved across the pool, where we saw two enormous spouts that were flat. We turned our backs and these flat streams of water jetted onto our backs, pummeling our muscles. Then, we moved over to round spouts of water that punished our necks and upper backs with water.
Next, you got out of the pool and walked into a valley of rocks that were sprayed with water to massage your feet, and when you came out the other side, you were to dip your entire body (head under) in a pool of icy water. So cold. It was so cold.
When we raced back out of the ice pool, we were treated to the sauna, where we lay for about five minutes. (Best part of the hydration therapy) We relaxed and talked and enjoyed the sauna.
When they knocked on the door, we thought we were going upstairs for our massages, but no…back in the icy pool for another dip.
And, surprisingly, this time, not so bad.
THEN it was time to go up.
They separated us into our massage rooms, and we got to meet our masseurs.
I was instantly disappointed.
Mine was this little, tiny man named Ivan, who said in a quiet, high voice, “Hola, Miss!”
Helga or Sven, he was not.
He started to speak to me, in English, with a very thick accent, and I couldn’t understand him, so I explained that I speak Spanish, and he switched over and then we were able to communicate much, much better.
He left the room while I got ready and laid on the table, face down.
I heard the door open and he came back in. There were many sounds as he moved around, mixing things and opening cupboards, etc.
All of the sudden, his little hands appeared in front of my face, and he said, “Por favor” and then I heard him inhaling very slowly, so I, too, inhaled very slowly, and was overwhelmed with a pungent scent, which I assumed was on his hands and was supposed to be aromatherapy.
Okay. I went with it.
Thus began the most amazing 100 minute massage that ever was.
(Yes, I realize I have no frame of reference, but it was unreal.)
There were hot oils, hot wraps, hot stones.
My feet were wrapped in hot chocolate paste and saran wrapped. (Poor Ivan…as he painted the chocolate on my extremely ticklish feet, I giggled and giggled and he apologized and apologized, no matter how many times I told him it was just fine…fun, in fact.)
Little Ivan was deceptively strong, and after his first go at my neck and back where he sucked in his breath and said “Wow! This is really tight!” he put that strength to use and worked out every single kink in my musculature.
It. Was. Amazing.
The only part I didn’t LOVE was the “scalp massage.”
It was really more of a “Pull Amy’s Hair for 5 minutes” massage, and I wasn’t too down with that.
I stuck with it, because I kept thinking it would get better, but it didn’t.
In the grand scheme of the other 95 minutes, I really didn’t care that much.
He even massaged my face and my sinuses sang for joy.
I came out of that room, wrapped in my big, fluffy robe and found Kim lounging on this round sofa, cup of tea in hand.
I was like butter. I melted into the sofa, Ivan brought me some tea, and we waited for Erin and Michaela, who soon floated out of their rooms, as well.
I don’t think I will ever have another massage like the one I experienced in Cancun.
I’m not sure I’ll ever get another massage again, because I’ll just know it won’t measure up.
And, it’s interesting, that since the plane landed in Newark, my neck and back have been slowly getting tighter and tighter, and while I was used to it before and so it didn’t hurt all the time, it’s kinda hurting all the time, now.
Soon, I’ll be all wound up again and walking around with my shoulders near my ears and Ivan will be a distant memory.
But, for the rest of you…if you ever hit the Excellence Riviera Resort in Cancun, get the Excellence massage.
And ask for Ivan.
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