Soloing. For Real This Time.

Tomorrow begins nine days of pure, unadulterated freedom.

Erm, I mean. . . Tomorrow morning my Valentine and Life's Love leaves for over a week, and he's taking both my babies with him. All the joy and light will drain from my sorry existence, leaving me a hollow wretch of a woman until their glorious return.

I'm a little torn.

I'm worried about being lonely. And I'm worried I will love it.

This could be the only time - at least for the foreseeable future - that I will have this opportunity. I doubt I will be alone in my own house for an extended period of time until after this currently gestating whelp leaves for college.

And it's not like the rest of my family will be suffering. Bump will be in Florida, where it is warm. He may fit in a round or two of golf. His mother will be infinitely more helpful than I am: she's retired, so she will be around all day to help; she will cook; she will take care of all the laundry. She will spoil our children so rotten that when they get back I will spend weeks explaining that a bowl of whipped cream is not an acceptable appetizer.

My work schedule makes it impossible for me to join them, but should allow me to be home by 8 or 9 every night. And right in the middle of those nine days, there is the weekend. Two whole days of fat, sweet sweet liberty.

Here's my problem:

Every time I have harbored the thought "If I weren't married with two kids, I would _____," that blank usually begins with the words "get really drunk and . . ."

Since getting really drunk is clearly out of the question right now (dammit), and most of the things that follow "get really drunk and. . ." don't make logical sense to attempt sober, what should I do with all this unfettered time?

I feel as though catching up on saved TV shows is a waste of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. (Don't worry, I plan to spend some time vegged out in front of the tube, watching the kind of programming that makes Bump shudder when he sees it taking up memory on the Tivo. But I can't spend every night doing that, right?)

On Wednesday the contractor will begin tearing apart our bathroom. I have a to-do list as long as my arm, mostly related to de-cluttering the apartment and getting it ready to market. I'll spend at least a night or two packing up things to send to storage.

I also plan to go bra shopping.

So, what else, Internet? Since doing tequila shots and Prince William is off the table, what should I do on my Family Vacation*? Help me out, here. What would you do?

*It's a vacation. From my family. It's a Family Vacation.

You Have Got To Be Kidding Me

It's been a busy week at work: long hours, multiple annoyances, and a host of forehead-thumping encounters. I am usually fine with the deadly hours this time of year, considering it a trade-off for a less demanding schedule in the summer and fall, but I always question my dedication when I realize my office expects me to work on Superbowl Sunday. I mean, is nothing sacred?

But I got home in time for most of the game, and after a week of not much sleep and too much time at the office, I have this morning off.

We're hiring a Daytime Babysitter (Esther isn't your run-of-the-mill babysitter, she's a Daytime Babysitter. It takes a special kind of woman to sell childcare services in the light of day.) for the already-born tormentors and having our first ultrasound to meet the other one. It's probably too early to see any gender-specific parts; this scan is to ensure things are all regular-like in the chromosome department.

As long as I'm on the subject of new hires, we've employed a contractor. He's also coming by this morning to settle a few final details before beginning work. Our condo has been screaming "You people just don't fit in here anymore!" at us for several months, so Bump and I have gotten serious about selling this place and getting a house. We're completely re-doing the bathroom, updating the kitchen, and having light cosmetic work done in the half bath. We'll also need to (hire someone to) repaint and install new carpet. This contractor was highly recommended by a friend who, amidst glowing reports, described him as "a straight man with a gay man's aesthetic." Sold.

Bump leaves with the tormentors on the 12th. He's going to his mother's for a week so the contractor can demolish the bathroom without the assistance of our two curious muppets. I'll be lonely and unshowered while they're gone, so come by and see me, won't you?

Oh, and I found this in the toybox last night:
What. Ever.

Now he's just showing off.

Lumpyhead's Poker Mnemonic

I realize there are things about your children you cannot control. You set the foundation for their lives, but some of their choices and certain aspects of their personalities are beyond your control.

There are a few things I want desperately for my children. Happy, healthy, blah blah self-esteem cakes, but there is one vital component of their brains I will not leave to chance: my children will know the hierarchy of poker hands.

To that end, I often sing Lumpyhead the following song:

One Pair, Two Pair, Three of a Kind
Then a Straight (five cards in a line)
Flush is next (all of the same suit)
Full House (trips and a pair to boot)
Four of the same number
Straight Flush (a wonder!)
Five of a Kind with wilds
a Royal by house rules.

(See, in our house a Royal Flush beats a Five of a Kind, but Five of a Kind beats any other straight flush.)

Lumpyhead calls it the "Pair Song." He has begun to sing along, although I don't think he can sing it by himself yet.

It's probably a good thing we don't send him to Sunday School; this would probably get him kicked out. Because the song is sung to the tune of Jesus Loves Me.

I'm sure Jesus loves you, too, but do me a favor and start singing this to your kid, okay? I mean, it doesn't do much good to yell "Shuffle up and deal!" if no one else at preschool can play with you.

An Announcement

Yes, I am a feeble idiot who is overwhelmed by the task of caring for two children for three days. (Three! Whole! Days!) (Alone!)

Here is my excuse for being such a big baby: I was also nauseous and exhausted the whole time.

It seems I have a uterine growth. It currently measures about 35 mm, but we expect its size will increase rapidly until August - at which time it will expel itself or be surgically removed.

We are excited.

Also terrified.

But mostly excited.

(Not really. We’re mostly terrified)

Lula's Birthday Party

A note to party planners everywhere: If you offer people a pink party hat or a mustache, most people choose a mustache.

Then you feel bad for the people who chose party hat, so you have to give them a mustache, too.
So, make sure to buy plenty of mustaches.

Lula made a photo-appropriate mess with her cake.

Then Lumpyhead muttered something about you being a clock-clucker.
Or something like that, I didn't hear him clearly.

Last Year

She arrived at 12:21pm.

Aunt Bob and I started drinking almost immediately.

We will be engaging in similar activities this afternoon. (Minus the whole "giving birth" thing, thankfully.) If you can't join us, might I encourage you to open a festive beverage of your own?

Damn Magnadoodle

A long time ago I told you about my failed attempt to draw Thomas for Lumpyhead. Apparently Lumpyhead does not learn from experience, because a few weeks ago he brought me his magnadoodle and asked me to draw a monkey.

A monkey.

I drew a mildly deformed baby.

Lumpyhead looked at it and asked where its ears were. I gave up and instructed Lumpyhead to ask his father to draw him a monkey. Bump quickly rendered a proper monkey, complete with ears and a tail.

Then Lumpyhead asked for an elephant. "Ha!" I thought, "Finally I won't be the only one who disappoints the boy."

Bump drew this.

Dammit.

My husband obviously missed his true calling. Is there much of a market for magnadoodle sketch artists?

Breakfast Is Served

When I mentioned that Bump was out of town, I neglected to point out that he is the one who does all the cooking in our household. I don't hate to cook, I'm just not very good at it; so when I cook it means that we're stuck having to eat what I've prepared. And, well, nobody wants that.

I tried to make Lumpyhead a pop tart this morning. It did not go well.

Accompanied by a shining halo of light and the triumphant sound of angel voices, my colleague Linda came over this afternoon. She often babysits for us, and the tormentors both love her. While she was here, I was able to take a nap and a shower. (I also took Lumpyhead to the playground while Lula slept, but let's face it, the true luxury was in the nap and the shower.)

I love that she came, but nearly as valuable as her presence was the psychological lift I got from knowing she was on her way. Last night, after both kids were bathed and in bed and I was cleaning up the debris from dinner, I nearly cried. I would have just lied down on the dining room floor and sobbed, right alongside the slimy string cheese and crusty bits of rice, if not for the bright glimmer of hope in the mantra: "Linda comes tomorrow, Linda comes tomorrow. . ."

At that point, I had been on my own for a mere 24 hours.

But I had a big fat nap today. I don't smell funky anymore. We had chinese take-out for dinner. Bump comes home Monday morning.

We may just make it.

Soloing

Late yesterday afternoon, Bump left for Vegas. He returns on Monday.

When he called this morning to check in, he asked about my plan for the day. “Survival,” I told him.

I was not kidding. Not even a little.

TMX Lumpyhead

When you tickle your children, do you say anything? Like "tickle tickle" or "coochie coochie coo" or "shut yer hole, you furry red muppet"?

I'm not sure how this started, but when I tickle the tormentors, I say "Ouagadougou, Ouagadougou."

It makes them laugh, but . . . am I dooming my offspring to odd word associations? Will the capital of Burkina Faso always make them giggle?

I'm just saying, it might lead to some uncomfortable situations if they land jobs in West Africa someday.