Buying in Bulk

Things I never, ever, imagined I would buy in bulk:

• KETCHUP.  I could live without this condiment for the rest of my life. I use it when necessary, like on a hot dog, if tomatoes, onion an pickles are unavailable. Or on dry/tasteless fries. My children? Well, it's required for them to eat any meat. Because, besides hotdogs, we tell them that everything else is "chicken". And chicken needs ketchup. Duh. Curtis will dip his fingers in the ketchup and lick his plate clean. George will even dip his carrots in ketchup. It's really, quite gross.

• RANCH DRESSING. If ketchup doesn't work, there is always ranch. Carrots, fish sticks, chicken nuggets, pizza; you name it. Kids will eat just about anything if they have dip available.

•  HERSHEY'S CHOCOLATE SYRUP. Same story as above, only with milk. It's a lot cheaper and more versatile to turn white milk into chocolate milk with syrup. And, sometimes you just gotta have chocolate milk. Once you go chocolate, you never go back...that doesn't quite sound right?

• TOOTHBRUSHES. I haven't done this yet, but that is only because I keep forgetting to grab a pack when I am at Costco. A SomeEcard had a saying that went something like this, "If your toddler has been in the bathroom, unattended for more than 2 minutes, you might as well throw away your toothbrush." Truth. George!!!!! If he escapes upstairs, the first place to check is the bathroom, and he always can be found with a toothbrush in his mouth. Guess it's better than a hand in the toilet. I had an overnight call, was gone one, single night, and when I got home in the morning, gone. I didn't even have to throw it away, my toothbrush had simply disappeared. I am currently using a disposable one that I stole from a hotel, probably sometime in college. It's lasted 6 nights. That's a record.

• CHICKEN BREAST. I have no good reason. I just never imagined it. I used to be against freezing meat. I don't mind it anymore. 

• SHOES. Oh wait, this isn't the "Things I wish I could buy in bulk" column!? 

• Strawberries, Gogurt, Apple sauce, eggs.

•  GUMMY VITAMINS. I mean, I never thought I would be purchasing Vitamins at all, let alone Gummy ones. But since I have them...

I guess when you have children in bulk, you start purchasing foods for them in bulk. So, in hind sight, I should have seen this coming. 

IU Girls Gone Wild: Destin.

The longest amount of time I spent, side by side, with any of these girls, is 3 years {because I was a freshman, and they are all older}. Three measly years. Three out of the four years of the most intense physical, emotional and mental training of our lives. We were swimmers at a Division 1, top 10 NCAA program. Unique to swimming, specifically women's swimming, are the sheer number of hours spent training. We swam in the morning for 2 hours - or, if you were sprint group, played "follow the leader" skipping around the pool deck. We ate. Went to school {napped}. Came back for more training, consisting of running, dry land, weights, jump rope, or other such plyometrics. Then 2-3 hours in the pool. Again. Then, Training Tables at the Stadium for dinner, with all the football players, basketball players and other athletes, probably consuming no less than 2,500 calories in one buffet meal, per night. Wednesdays we slept "in". Sundays we got "off". We got a week or two off of training in the Spring, and again in the late Summer. I would still run a bit, because after a month long taper, and a few days out of the pool, I would begin to get "out of shape". Ha!!!!!! I thought I was getting 'out of shape' after a few days of less than 6 hours of working out! For 12 years of my life, I didn't go more than 10 days without swimming. Ever. Now, after years of medical training, I am flabbergasted than none of us were hospitalized with Rhabdomyolysis. And, I'm not sure that I didn't have a mild case after an hour of box jumps, then a night of dancing to 17th Floor. I literally could not use my calf muscles to walk, let alone push off the wall for flip turns. These ladies went through the same; were the same.

We spent endless hours at the pool together, in the weight room, in the locker room, on buses, a private jet even, the dinner table, the Village Deli, Bloomington Bagel, Nick's, Kilroy's, running through campus in our swim suits. Gross. We didn't even think it was weird. We knew what items each person kept in their locker, how long they had been there. We knew each others favorite foods, TV shows, music, clothes. We weathered more break ups, scandals, love, hate, joy, fear, desire, disappointment, success, and exhaustion in those 3 {4} years, then most people will in a lifetime. Despite a 10 year time lapse since we last spent every waking, and sleeping hour together, we reverted to our 21 year-old selves. Only with a midnight-ish curfew.

Anne and I quickly settled into our comedy routine, where we make things funny by simply repeating them 60-75 times in a slightly different manner each time. Though, Susan makes it pretty easy to laugh, when she excuses herself from our romp in the ocean to "go jump off the sand dune." Anne wades over to me and says, "Ummm, Smitty? Do you see any sand dunes from which you might be able to jump into the ocean?" I scan the area, "no". Anne replies, "Oh. Ok. Because Susan has just informed me that she is going to go jump off the sand dune." I look again, "Nope, unless she means..." I am about to finish my sentence with "...the slight ledge of sand that is the bank, and has more sand below it" but I couldn't, because I see Susan backing up to, indeed, jump off the embankment. Anne and I watched silently as she runs, then jumps with the biggest of smiles, lands, and disappears {aka, falls}. I am still coughing due to the salt water I aspirated from laughing so, so, so incredibly hard. Anne and I cannot even speak for minutes, as we watch the other girls jump to their feet. I can only imagine the view from the lounge chairs, Susan must have seemingly disappeared off a ledge to them! Not to mention that she still swam out to meet Anne and I in the ocean, actively bleeding from her sand burn abrasion...sharks can smell that stuff!  We are all lucky to have survived. Anne and I will laugh about this, regularly, and every time we see Susan, for the rest of our lives. We just will.

Though we immediately reverted back to our college days, and we all seemingly have maintained the same personalities, outlook, demeanor, our lives have changed drastically. The seven of us have experienced so many things in the past 10 years. There are 2 doctors, a PhD, 2 coaches, a big name in USA Swimming, 9 boys - 6 & under, one on the way. Marriages, surgeries, babies, losses, moves, break ups. Truly, as we all sat and talked of where we had landed, we remarked how the saying "if we all threw our problems in a pile and saw everyone else's, we'd grab ours right back" remains true. We have only kept in touch via infrequent email, text, social media and even rarer, actual phone call. We reunite about once a year, nearly every year, with a couple years missed in between. So hearing about our lives, in person, was refreshing, eye-opening, and shocking, even, at times.

There is such a large part of me that only these girls understand. Often, and especially now, during my search for a job, I think to myself, you have no idea what kind of person with which you are speaking. You will never find a more committed, devoted, hard-working, loyal, persistent, driven, or happy human, mom, employee, friend, wife, sister, daughter, co-worker. But the IU ladies? They know. We all know. No matter what life hands any one of us, where it takes us, what we may look like to the outside world, in our hearts, we know that not only every single one of us is AMAZING, but that someone else knows it too. And that, feels wonderful.

Alone. With 4!

My husband has left for Portland. He will return in 5 days. This means, I must go to work full time and manage the household. I went to the store yesterday, knowing I may not get the chance to return...so I stocked up on Ben and Jerry's as well as a box of red wine. After all, as the saying goes, "If momma ain't happy; ain't nobody happy." I also completed the menu for the week with kid friendly, easy to prepare meals.  Coincidentally, they are some of MY favorite meals.  So, I eat like a 2-5 year old boy, what gives? Oh, the menu, you ask? Fried Rice and watermelon. Sloppy Joe's and Tater Tots. Pork chops, broccoli and noodles (or cheesy potato casserole if I'm really feeling fancy). Macaroni soup. 

We went with the Sloppy Joe's tonight.  Curtis had one and half! He did nothing but thank me for dinner. The other 2 had 'happy plates' as well. Ok, ok, if you must know, I had 2, and a 'happy plate' also. We then ventured out on a walk around the block. On this walk, Curtis and George proceeded roll down every "hill" we passed. I put the word 'hill' in quotation marks because, well, there were no hills.  Maybe very slight, somewhat imagined inclines. They looked like fools. But it was cute. Entertaining. Energy-releasing. Amusing as Curtis spit out a mouth full of freshly mowed grass. Brock asked what the man passing us was carrying, pointing to the small Minsk'y leftover box. The man kindly replies, "a Minsky's pizza box". To which, Brock exclaimed, "That little!!!?? Oh my gosh! It's so cute." The man just laughed. Brock is currently so obsessed with tiny, cute things, that he really wants a chihuahua.

Now, after getting them all to bed, the house picked up a bit, the dishes done, I am left with a decision...wine or ice cream?  Wine. To blog, or watch...ANYTHING I WANT!!! Grey's? Downton? Some chick flick? Read? The possibilities are endless! Matt seems laid back, but when it comes to television, well, he likes 24. Need I say more? B-O-R-I-N-G.

Tomorrow. They all need baths. I think we'll go with watermelon (before bath) and chicken fried rice. I'll have ice cream. They can have Popsicles.

Wish me luck.

The Nuggets {of LOVE}.

 “Motherhood is a choice you make everyday, to put someone else's happiness and well-being ahead of your own, to teach the hard lessons, to do the right thing even when you're not sure what the right thing is...and to forgive yourself, over and over again, for doing everything wrong.” ― Donna Ball, At Home on Lady Bug Farm

Mother's day was last Sunday. I woke up at 8am in the morning, in the hospital, after being woken up previously, at 6:47 by a page, and not going to be until close to Midnight, but it sort of felt like sleeping in late. The boys (mostly Matt) had made me a giant 5 layer cake. He used 2.5 boxes of cake. 2 tubs of icing. 3 tubes of icing. Pink sprinkles. Colored, sprinkle discs. It took me probably an hour of being home before I even noticed the massive thing, and the flower next to it. Not all of the boys were even home to witness my reaction, as the two eldest had slept over at Mimi and Papa's.  Though the day seems dedicated to celebrating mothers, for all they do, every day, day in and day out, without hesitation, for their children, I found myself appreciating the children instead.  Suddenly, their separate and beautiful personalities, full of nuances unique to each kid, shone bright as if to scream, "look at me!" I also found myself reflecting on my own motherhood, and parenting.

Brock, who graduated from preschool this week, seemed to really understand the day. He asked for extra hugs from me, and paid me compliments throughout the day. Though, it's amazing how quickly the appreciation and admiration slips away. Which became so immediately apparent today as I caught him with a plastic knife, carving patterns into our leather ottoman. This discovery intensely angered me. I momentarily contemplated a physical consequence, but instead, in my maddest of mad voices and mannerisms, sent him to time out. He did not appear sufficiently remorseful, so as I walked past him on the stairs, I broke his plastic knife in half and threw it in the trash. Along with the plastic fork and spoon, all of which he had acquired from Hen House, and carefully carried all the way home, while riding his bike, so as to "start a collection" (as I later found out after disposing of them all). A little part of me felt awful for destroying his bizarrely meaningful plastic-ware. Part of me also felt, this is tough love. A lesson that needs to be learned. He needs to think before he acts. This is just furniture, what if he did this to an animal, or person!? This evening, when he overheard me telling the story, he reported, "it's healing well". Wishful thinking there, Brock. Maybe if the cow were still alive. He later wrote "mom"  and "(drawing of an eye) (drawing of a heart) u" on the Magnidoodle. Ugh. Forgiven. Melt my heart.

The other weekend, while trying to get ready for Xander's First Communion, the boys were making me crazy. So loud. Destructive. Obstinate. Getting them dressed was an absolute fiasco. In fact, George pooped in the tub (which I would say, scared the shit out of him, but that had already happened) while all 3 were bathing, so we had to switch to the shower. Matt was out golfing, therefore unavailable to help. Finally, after getting them all mostly dressed, it was my turn.  I stood in the bathroom attempting hair and make up while the 3 of them played in their room. In my head, I'm thinking, just stay in there. Just play quietly. Enjoy yourselves. Please don't do anything that requires my attention...and in the midst of this thought stream, Curtis saunters into the bathroom and stands beside me.  I can feel the agitation. WHY IS HE IN HERE? They always touch everything in the bathroom, nothing of which should be touched. Don't touch my hair brush. Or my tooth brush. Or my deodorant. Or my bobby pins. Definitely NOT my make up. And DEFINITELY NOT my hair straightener. Curtis rests his hands on the counter. I can tell, he is surveying, contemplating what to touch first...and I say it, sternly, "Go away, Curtis." In his usual, laid back, innocent, unsuspecting way, he replies, "Why mommy?" I'm so annoyed, I want to scream, but I simply say, "Because I don't want you guys in here or near me right now. Mommy needs a moment to get ready, and you are making me crazy." He just looks at me, without missing a beat, and says, "But I love you, mommy." Defeated. Fine. You win. Stay in the bathroom. Touch all my stuff. I kiss his forehead. "I love you too, Curtis." With one statement, I'm reduced to puddles. Curtis does this, all the time.  Staying mad at that child is nearly impossible.

George pats my back, ever so gently when he gives me a hug.  I love it.  I try to get hugs from him, probably more than I should, just to feel his tiny, soft hands patting my back. He says "thank you". Always. I don't know how to phonetically type the way he says it, as it's mostly clear with just a unique, adorable little intonation, that I hope to remember forever. Perhaps I should attempt to record it. It might be close to "sank-o". He's pretty good with please, "pees" as well. George has always been into positive reinforcement. I think he secretly watches his brother's mistakes, and has learned, if I say please and thank you, my odds to getting what I want go up, significantly. I'm looking out for that one...middle child, forget me not.

Mitch, my big lug. My baby. He can do no wrong. For the rest of my life, I will feel horrible for letting him fall down the stairs. All the way down, our 14, steep, hard, barely carpeted stairs. He is not only growing at a physically inhuman rate, but seemingly meets developmental milestones at the same alarming rate. Just moments prior to his first stairs encounter, he attempted and failed to get up, over, and past the step in our room - just as he had failed a million times before...until I left him unattended.  For 45 SECONDS. Why!!!??? Why at that moment? Why not while I'm watching, and laughing at your futile attempts to get over that step? Not so futile now. Nope, he did it. And now that he survived going down, he is obsessed with climbing back up those 14 steps. Sitting at 4 months, crawling by 5, climbing by 7, walking by 10, dominating all his brothers by age 2, and tackling on the offensive line of a pro team by 22. Right? Right.

Family Dinner

I wish I had a photograph, or better yet, a video clip of our dinners at the kitchen table growing up with 7 people.

This table, at best, measured 4.5 x 3 feet. It had four chairs, one at each of the heads, and 2 on the open side.  The wall side had a bench, custom made by my grandfather.

Being one of the more neurotic, or "OCD" members, I insisted on sitting in the same spot, every night.  This was on the open side, next to my mother.  Despite this being a well-known fact amongst the family, nearly every night, someone attempted to sit in this seat (usually Brennan), thus opening the meal with an argument.  Not surprisingly, I always won the spot.

No one ever tried to sit in our parent's spots.

Eventually, we all got settled.  Poor, middle-child, peacemaker Leah on the bench, separating the 2 boys.  Always in the role of referee, and despite, obviously occupying THE WORST seating assignment, always willing to do so, without complaint.

Annora sat to my right.  Due to the dimensions of this table, she would frequently get upset and frustrated with me "elbowing" her as we ate.  I'm right handed!  Sometimes your elbow has to jut out to cut the food or load the spoon.  Or, sometimes, I would purposefully stick my elbow out as far as it would go.  Sometimes this would aggravate her to the point of leaving the table. Mission accomplished. Or, I mean, sorry?

My father would always wait for us all to fill our plates, before he served himself.  Sometimes, if the quantity of food appeared questionable (which was extremely rare) he would wait for us all to have our seconds.  In this case, he could usually rely on Brennan to over serve himself quite generously, and would have a full portion in the form of Brennan's leftovers.  For some reason, my mother's mantra "You can always get more" never registered with that boy.  Worst case, my father ended up with a bag of potato chips and beer for dinner.  I don't know, maybe that was his "best case" and motive all along.

My mother would never get her own glass of water.  Being seated nearest her, and being the cleaner option (over Timothy) she would just drink mine.  Really, most of us didn't get a drink.  We would all sit, patiently waiting, eyeing our siblings, hoping someone else would give in first.  Inevitably, Annora or I would do it, and then the requests come pouring in (pun intended), "While you're up..."  Ugh!  7 glasses of water later, I'm seated again to eat.

My youngest brother harbored the least diverse palate of us all.  If my mom happened to prepare any green vegetables for dinner, we had guaranteed dinner time entertainment and drama.  Well, drama was always a guarantee.

I remember one, specific incident with broccoli.  Timothy was not allowed up from the table until he ate one, single bite.  We had all finished, were up playing, watching TV.  Every so often I'd walk back through the kitchen and find him still sitting, alone, on that bench, with the broccoli on his plate.  I remember coaxing him to do it.  Reassuring him he will not die.  He finally put that bite in his mouth, by this time, most of us were back in the kitchen to witness the mastication. Or is the word massacre?  Because you probably couldn't tell the difference. He screamed, cried, threw his head back, hit it on the wall, cried some more, drooled.  I laughed.  We all laughed.  He got up from the table.

For all 7 of us to remain seated for the entirety of the meal rivaled the lunar eclipse in frequency.  Whether the departure was optional or forced, it was usually done so with tears, laughter, and anger...by one or more family members.  Annora and Brennan being the most frequent offenders, Annora leaving in anger, Brennan being expelled.  He thought it funny to belch or fart REALLY loud at the table...the bench providing a lot of amplification.  My parents didn't share his humor.

The phone, which hung on the wall in the pantry, could ring, but under no circumstances could be answered during dinner.

The dogs were not to be fed.  Supposedly.  Everyone still did it.  Including mom and dad.  In fact, they were the worst.

Technically, to get up, you were to ask, "May I please be excused."

I liked to linger.  My father and I were usually the last to leave.  Maybe it's because, we were both still secretly hungry.  Maybe it's because we enjoyed the quiet moment before the bedtime routine.

The number of people, table size, arrangement and frequency of these dinners has changed over the years.  The mood, ambiance, atmosphere has not.  Likely never will.