Oops, I did it again!

I played with my birth control, got lost in the dark....oh baby baby..

I mean, oops. I'm pregnant.

So, now that all of you have picked your jaws up off the floor. It's true. I didn't pay anyone and I still got pregnant! I have triplets, which means I get to have sex maybe once every 4 months? And I still got pregnant.

Silly me.

I am actually very excited. Apparently the universe must think I'm doing an ok job to throw another helpless infant at me. Or maybe they were caught looking the other way but how fun is this? I get to see what being pregnant with one baby is like! (So far? Sucks.) I get to sleep with a baby, possibly breastfeed, give birth 'naturally' (why am I excited about that? Who knows), and generally allow my children to do the bulk of the childcare. I mean, why else have three older kids? Babysitting? Check.

No really. I am terrified too, but if you must know, I wanted another one. Pregnancy is weird and woman hormones are weird. It wasn't too long after I gave birth that I wanted to be pregnant again. Which is pretty pathetic considering I spend every single second of every minute complaining while pregnant. Triplet pregnancies suck. But this time, lucky for you, I'm finding the second trimester to be a bit nicer on me. I'm only 3 days in, but forgive me for enjoying the fact that the first trimester exhaustion, nausea and mood swings have been gone for 3 days.

And count yourselves extremely lucky that you missed all the whining that went with that period. Expect, however, third trimester to be a nightmare. Especially as I get closer and closer to the possibility that a large sized baby (this family makes none other) will be exiting by a method I have not experienced as of yet.

Ok, let's hear it. Only, if you're going to berate me for being pregnant again? Don't bother. I'm too happy.

The Tao of caring

Careless:

1. not paying enough attention to what one does

2. not exact, accurate, or thorough

3. done or said heedlessly or negligently; unconsidered

4. not caring or troubling; having no care or concern; unconcerned

My husband and I had a 'discussion' last night about carelessness. We didn't agree what it meant and so I'm still thinking about it today. I refuse to be called careless. Sure, I'm a klutz, distractible, a multi-tasker who sometimes needs to slow down, but not careless. Because my definition is #4 up there and some of #3. I think it's a pretty negative thing to not care. It sounds like I'd be running through life kicking over vases and smashing my car into the car in the parking space in front of me who took up 1 and 1/2 spots with his tiny Yugo while I try to fit into what remains of my parking space.

That's so not me. I spend endless hours of the day caring 'too much.' I agonize over peoples opinions, try to anticipate their needs, smooth the wrinkles out, clear the pathways and hope that no one ever has to ask me to do something for them that I haven't already done. When someone is waiting for my parking space? I haul arse to get out of that spot, even if it means spilling coffee on myself in the rush to stick it in the holder. If I knock into someone while passing them in a store? You can bet I apologize, even if it's their fault. (And can I ask why people don't care to move out of MY way once in a freakin' while? I mean, I am not large in diameter by any means. My purse is of average size. Give me a few inches!)

But the endless bruises on my thighs, shoulders and sometimes head gives my klutziness away. I consider it an inherited trait as my mom couldn't ride a bike without wiping out at least once every time. And it was always when she borrowed my bike. Not that she'd tell me she'd fallen on my bike again, I'd just walk out the next day to ride it to school and the handle brake would be knocked over to the inside of the handlebar. Hmm. Wonder how that happened? Anyway, I consider the klutz also to be due to my multitasking mind. I'm usually off to do something rather quickly when I do run into the baby gate/doorknob/doorframe/nothing or trip over the steps/doorjamb/completely flat floor. Does multitasking make me careless? I don't think so.

My husband, on the other hand, has cultivated a personality characteristic that I think took him years. I'm not sure you are necessarily born 'careful.' I think he chose, early on in life, to carry himself so carefully through the world that he is not only highly unlikely to ever trip or run into anything, but he is also preternaturally quiet when moving through a 1914 house where every floorboard squeaks. I respect this talent. But I think it takes a lot of effort. By now it's second nature to him, but I imagine at the beginning he had to think all the time about where he put his feet, where his arms and hands were as he walked, how to navigate tight spaces and whether every hair on his head was in place or not. (Just kidding!) Just thinking about that exhausts me.

I won't do that and in a way I respect my life choice. I run through life talking a bit too loud, feeling free, laughing at my bruises, arms flying in whatever direction. It doesn't mean that when I break something or dent the minivan for the 715th time on the stupid narrow garage door opening I don't feel bad. I do feel bad. It sucks to have dents. If I break something truly important like an family heirloom I do agonize. But I can tell you that if it's a hole in the wall that can be repaired, a glass that can be replaced or heck, even a nice object that can't be replaced, I will not be beating myself up for days. Life is to be enjoyed. Houses are to be lived in. Things are to be used and sometimes broken. And apparently, minivans are mine to destroy. Life goes on. Does that sound careless?

Hey crabby pants...

Dear unknown nanny,

I've now spent two hours with you at my triplets' music and movement class, and admittedly I was busy chasing one of three around the room and participating in the class, but I've made some observations that I'd like to share. First of all, I'm not sure who hired you, but I'm pretty certain that the parents of that delightful little girl hired you for many good reasons. My guess is that they anticipated that you would actively participate in their daughter's life bringing her joy as well as discipline in good measure. None of us parents expects nannies to be 'on' all the time but when we pay you to care for our children we expect a few things:

1. An attitude that indicates you kind of sort of like our child or children at least a little bit.

2. A willingness to participate in the activities that help our child grow or just entertain them.

3. A smile at our child on an occasional basis.

4. An ability to at least pretend enthusiasm when the class requires it so that our child feels inspired to participate in the class on which we have spent our hard earned money.

5. Not to see the following behaviors: frowning at our child while smiling at everyone elses', sitting still when it's participation time, not singing the introductory song, or ripping of drumsticks or cymbals out of our child's hands disapprovingly when it's FREE. INSTRUMENT. TIME.,

Now, I don't know about you, but I'm inclined to tell on you. If I could find the parents of your charge and let them know that somehow they hired a surly, unhappy, non-participating, misses the entire point of music and movement class nanny, I think they'd be glad I told them. However, in a city of millions, my chances of reaching them are miniscule. However, if I have to dance through one more class while watching your black cloud stifle the joy of your charge I may find a way. I and my nanny can NOT be the only ones encouraging your charge to sing and dance freely as is the POINT OF THE CLASS. Unless you are taking her home to a glass house wherein she is not allowed to be a child, then I think she's allowed to make some noise and have fun in this class. Capiche? Liven up and chill out for goodness' sake or I might smack some happy into you personally.

Yours,

Mira

On sleep

Speaking of evolutionary principles, what is the point of fighting one's bedtime till all hours when you know perfectly well you will be up at 6 am no matter when you fell asleep? It seems mighty counterintuitive seeing as how doctors have shown that inadequate sleep will affect you negatively in many ways. So why do toddlers fight their parents, sometimes for hours each night, about falling asleep in their beds and then spend the next day all bleary eyed and crabby for all to enjoy?

Of course it's not just the toddlers is it? How many of you adults out there fight your bedtime constantly? I say almost every day 'today I'm going to go to bed early because I feel like crap.' Does it happen? Oh no. Despite the fact that I know that my impatient, tired toddlers will be rattling their cages loudly and screaming starting as early as 6, I watch one more crappy show, read one more magazine, send one more email. I know I feel like my justification these days is that once the kids finally go to sleep I need a couple of hours to decompress but really? I'd feel better in the morning with less decompression and more sleep. And honestly? I didn't go to bed on time before I had kids.

So what is this about human nature? I'm a morning person and I still can't get into bed on time. So I spend my days dragging around trying to find the energy to play with three wildcats and rueing the lack of sleep I got last night, because in addition to my stupidity one or more babies may have had a bad night and awakened me 3 or 4 times for comforting, and I think to myself that there must be a reason we do this to ourselves? Perhaps the saber toothed tiger was on the prowl in early evening and we needed to be up to watch for it?

In contemplation of the noble tantrum

What is the evolutionary principle behind tantrums? Can you imagine, just imagine, cave mamma Ugg with child #1 standing just outside cave mouth #43 on Cave Mouth Street grinding corn or preparing to go out and gather and little cave kid Ugg Jr throws himself to the ground and pounds his tiny fists and kicks his tiny legs and screams like a bear to get what he wants? Do you suppose she rolls her cavelady eyes and hands it to him? Because I don't. I see cave mamma taking her club out and giving him a good whack.

Imagine, again, Mayan momma standing in the hot sun after harvesting corn (oh I'm not an indigenous tribe specialist get off my back) watching Mayan girl baby screaming to be allowed to play with that last ear of corn, because it had become her toy, and not giving it to Mayan momma immediately upon being asked. Do you think she might be tempting the Mayan god to select her for the heart sacrifice? I think I'd tread a bit more carefully if I were that kid.

And imagine, if you will, prairie settler family Miller just put prairie kid Joseph to bed and he throws a tantrum to the point of barfing on his bedcovers. Do you think that in an era of no washing machines and no multiple sheet sets he was allowed to do this time and time again for no apparent reason and not end up sleeping amidst his barf particles? I think not. I think he'd be washing his own sheets pretty soon in the river with bloody knuckles of his own. I think he'd learn pretty stinking fast not to barf in his bed. His mom wouldn't be running with his barfing self out of the nursery to try to stop the inevitable sheet change one stinking time. I don't think so. Heck, he'd be lucky to have a bed. And if he barfed in mom and pop's bed? I think he'd be hoeing a row of crops before he was 2.

I mean how did tantrums achieve anything until the current parental administration where we overindulge such children? In the last, what, 50 years there's been a sea change from children being a necessary production of help mates for the household to children being our entire reason for the sun coming up in the morning and goodness knows you better not wake/upset/scold/deny/deprive them. So I see how it's evolutionarily useful now. It works like a charm to lay your tiny little body down in the middle of a packed grocery store and go to town with tears and snot because you bet your mom is going to scoop your butt up and get you anything to shut you up so she can finish shopping because this is the one stupid chance she gets all week to get groceries and if she can't now you'll all starve.

Well not this mom. That kid and I will either be standing there annoying the rest of you until he's done with his theatrics or we leave and we starve. I know it looks bad to the other judging eyes and I've been them too, but you know once you're the parent that the difference between a tantrum and a true cry is so obvious to you at some point early on in getting to know this kid that you can not allow yourself to indulge the former. Because that only means more in the future. And those judging eyes? They can go have triplets of their own and then judge me. Well, maybe not even then. Because this is my kid, and for some unexplainable reason tantrums are there in the animal brain, even though I'm pretty sure that our ancestor apes used them to better effect and they should have been extinguished as a useful strategy somewhere around the 1300s, BC, and there is NOTHING. I. CAN. DO. ABOUT. IT. So smile sweetly and move on rubberneckers. Nothing to see here.

She's got legs...

Its amazing that day after day my brain continues to think I'm 25. I will be walking down the street on any average day, well not an average day because I usually dress and feel like some kind of schlumpf, but on a day when I've actually gotten dressed and feel somewhat 'together,' and I will see some young hot dude approaching or a set of them sitting on a wall that I will have to pass and I will girly up and get ready to suck in the gut and walk past feeling kinda cute.

But then it hits me. That voice of reality, which seems to be a young black girl for some reason, says "Giiiirrrrrlll, you ain't 25 no more. You are 37, post triplets, and in clothes with cat hair and toddler snot on your shoulders." Ugh. Might as well punch me in the stomach. I deflate, I try to manage the mess a little bit, stomach still sucked in, pull hair across face, put purse on mucus covered shoulder to disguise. But it's amazing how easily I forget! And the funny thing is that when I was 25 I couldn't wait to be 30. Apparently my brain got stuck back there though. I'm continually amazed to find lines on my face and, when the hair dye starts to fade, grey hairs prolific in my scalp!

I know that a lot of women love their 50s, at least according to Oprah, and I'm wondering does one's brain finally catch on to the age you are at that point? Because as long as my brain keeps thinking I'm 25 I'm going to keep being disappointed when I look down at the truth as I'm walking down the street. Or in the windows of the shops I'm passing. Which used to be a fun thing to do, see how cute I look walking by in my new miniskirt outfit and heels. Good gracious, no miniskirts now. No sirree. If I happen to turn into one of those ladies who tries to dress 25 despite my age? Please, I admonish you all to slap me. I know it might make me cry, but it's better than looking like an ass.

Bad, Bad Babies

Why do children make the scariest sounds all the time and think it's hilarious? Right now I'm sitting in my living room watching CNN's all Michael Jackson all the time tv and listening to the baby monitors whereupon my daughter (A) is making choking and gasping noises while B laughs hysterically. I had to mute my friendly MJ tributes to listen closer. What if she had started choking on an eye from a stuffed animal that she gnawed off in typical animalistic fashion? How would I know?

But the bigger question is, how many more months will they think that gasping/choking noises are funny? I mean they have the attention span of gnats, how do they remember this same 'joke' for months? And why doesn't it hurt their throats like it does mine if I try to emulate them? I suppose when one's vocalizations are limited to non-word utterances, one finds unusual ways to make jokes? Perhaps I should relish this time as the inevitable endless knock knock jokes are on their way and fart and poop jokes will follow shortly after. Three times. But when you're driving up the highway to grandma's house and almost drive off the road while whipping your head around to verify that your child (C) is not, in fact, choking on his spit, it is just not acceptable! Someone is going to get hurt. And I'm not talking about spanking.

Did I what?

Another one of the strange questions I get a lot when people hear I have triplets is "did you know you were having triplets?" To which I must say "huh?"

Do people really think, in this day and age, that a person can grow three babies inside them and not have a clue? Do they not understand the nature of ultrasounds? Do they not realize that everyone has an ultrasound at some point in their pregnancy? Do they not think about the fact that three babies takes up more room than one during the incubation period? Do they watch too much TLC and see those nutty women who didn't even know they were pregnant and think we're all oblivious that way?

Because you'd have to be pretty unaware, and by unaware I mean stupid, to not know that you're getting awfully pregnant looking awfully fast when you have triplets. And I don't just mean skinny girls, large ladies also can tell that they have triplets. It's a huge pregnancy. And you start to show at 6 or 7 weeks. "Normal" single baby pregnancies don't show until 4 or 5 months which is why they get to keep their pregnancies a secret from everyone first trimester. Here's what I looked like at the end of my first trimester. Think I coulda fooled anyone?

So, I tend to look really confused at people who ask me if I knew I was having triplets. I try to clarify if they mean to be asking me that other stupid question "did you try for triplets?" or if they really mean did I make it full term without knowing and find myself in the delivery room being told it was a boy, a boy and a girl. No, it was shocking enough at week 8 to be told there were three embryos. You'd have to live far far away from medical treatment to make it with a triplet pregnancy and not know it. So the fact that I live in the bustling metropolis that is San Francisco kind of would indicate that I was likely to have good prenatal care, wouldn't it?

It's a good think I'm actually quite pleasant in public because this kind of question is the type that makes you quickly put on a poker face to avoid looking at someone like they have two heads. I mean, asking me if I 'tried' to have triplets isn't much better because how exactly does one 'try' to have triplets but I guess someone who has never had a baby or had a friend have a baby (how cloistered do you have to be?) might not know anything about prenatal care? Or am I making excuses for plain old dumb people?

Walter the nightmare pooch

Product warning: Walter the Farting Dog, a toy we have possessed for over a year, a toy which was a mainstay of my daughter's crib because she loved it, has the potential for a total meltdown. Yes, one night, while you're watching some DVR-ed crap on TV and enjoying reading your blogs, you will hear over the baby monitor "thbthpthbthpthb." Then a minute later "thbthbtpthbbb." And again, and again. Until you decide that your daughter must have her foot on the dog, causing its unintentional flatulence at a critical juncture of the sleeping period of three, count them three, easily perturbable babies.

So you'll tip toe into their nursery, reach for the dog, right where you remembered it from checking on your daughter earlier, and at the moment you grab it you will find, to your horror, that it will go completely bezerko. Like some stuttering rap star of farting, it will begin to fart incessantly but in a staccato rhythm that is so very not conducive to sleeping triplets. Instantly you will step into hyper speed, exiting the nursery at the speed of light while praying simultaneously to every god in the pantheon that not one triplet will be disturbed by this insanity of a fart festival.

I am now sitting in my living room listening to the last and dying farts of a Walter the farting dog. Somewhat sad at it's passing, but also somewhat relieved that it is shutting the heck up after trying to wake all three of my damned babies! Heed my warning parents! This is NOT a good crib toy!

A public service announcement from yours truly.

The queen makes her demand

Sometimes I wish the words "Triplet Mom" were tattooed on my forehead. At least then people would understand why I stood there with my greasy pony tailed hair, stained t-shirt (my husband's since I don't fit into my own), tattered jeans with front butt and flip flops displaying my way beyond non-manicured toenails. I mean I want to wear a medal or something that I even got out of bed this morning and instead these people just think I'm a flake or some sad fashionless idiot who has no idea how bad she looks! That's just not fair. I suffer. Greatly. Daily. And nightly. Right?

No, it's funny the dichotomy of a multiples parent when it comes to attention. I'm sure I don't speak for all of them but I'm sure I'm not the only one who has two different reactions to attention depending on how it's given. First, I hate the people who are dumb enough to say things like 'you poor thing' or 'you sure have your hands full' and far, far stupider things that you would be surprised to hear if you are not a multiples parent. I mean the very fact that having more than one baby at a time somehow gives people the right to inquire how I got pregnant in the first place makes you want to smack your forehead a little bit. I want to know why I don't get the congratulations, the 'how wonderful' that 'normal' pregnant and new moms get. (Except from the Asian community, which I love, because not only do they think it's fantastic that I have three babies, three being a magical number, but that two of them are boys, how lucky could I get?) So, obviously, this is the negative side of attention that had me wishing we were invisible when I walk my huge stroller down the street.

But then there's the other side of the coin. The side that had me strolling past Robin Williams' house daily with my triple decker stroller, when the babies were just infants, hoping he might look out the window and run across the street because he wanted to 'do a bit' on the ridiculous stroller or the realities of having multiples. That's the part of me who wants to always wear a shirt that somehow announces that I have triplets so that unaware people might make their shocked comments about how great I look (even if they do tack on 'for a lady with triplets.') It's the part of me who, at my mothers day dinner, made sure the waiter knew I had triplets, and pretty much anywhere I go finds a way to bring triplets into the conversation so I can show them a picture on my iphone. I mean, there is a little attention whore inside of me who I do not recognize!

Oh yeah, look at me, look at me!

Actually, I do recognize her. She's the one who planned my wedding and wanted everyone to know it was my wedding day and made sure that it was all about me and that beautiful dress walking down the aisle. Oh yes, I remember her. She's the one who also would love someone to take me to a Mexican restaurant, put that stupid sombrero on my head and sing me the happy birthday song just so everyone know's it's my birthday. I have to admit. I am quite familiar with this side of me. But since I've had triplets she's been more present than not, because I was only a bride-to-be for a year, only have a birthday once a year, and was only pregnant for 9 months. I am a triplet mom every stinkin' day and I want credit dammit.

Where's my crown?

First priority

My mom keeps threatening to come visit me and the kids again, like she did before she became "too sick" to do so. She was always allowed to visit Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, since she moved to town and that worked for me because I'm always fine with someone else entertaining the kids for a while. Gives me a bit more free time. However, as you might expect from my previous posts, it has to come with a touch of chaos. Inevitably, she needs a taxi right as I'm fixing dinner, feeding dinner to the kids or about to take them up for bathtime. I do everything in my power to avert these type of conflicts, but she's a master. Oh, no, she's not ready to leave yet, she'll wait until after dinner. Five minutes later, while I'm actively shoving food into my triplet's faces, oh wait, she suddenly needs to leave right now because she's about to turn into a pumpkin. So what can I do? I can call her a damned cab and get her out of my hair. Even though my kids are left with a mom only paying half attention to them at dinner, it pays off in the end I suppose because she leaves.

So she calls last Saturday and says she wants to come over right now. How is it ok to not only invite yourself over but give 30 minutes notice when someone has 3 kids to care for? Is there anyone's family in which that is ok? I suppose some people like flying by the seat of their pants and don't mind drop in relatives, but then I suspect their relatives aren't nuts. I thankfully negotiated my way out of that one nicely and had a nice Saturday afternoon with the family. But come Monday I expected her to come visit and so I called her. I had her groceries and needed to know if she could take them home with her, oh no, no she would not make it to our house today because she felt so terrible, so could I bring her groceries? I hopped in the car for the 30 minute drive over intending to spend an hour visiting and get home in time for the kids coming back from the park.

"I should go home with you" she says to me when I arrive. Oh no lady. I did NOT just drive all the way down here to spend time with you and deliver your groceries only to drive you back to my house so we can spend the whole stinkin' day together. No I did not. "I have to escape this place." Dramatic, aren't we? Why mom, what is so bad? "It is just terrible here, and the food is horrible. Let's go to lunch together." So wait, you think you can go to a restaurant, sit and order a meal, eat it and come home but you can't sit in a taxi to get to my house where you could relax in a recliner in order to see the grandkids you claim are your only reason for living? Okay. How do you do that math?

So then I made some random comment about being fat because I eat due to the stress of my life and lack of time. She asks "what is so stressful, what do you have to do that takes so much time? Mess around with kids all day?" Mess around with who? What? Are you kidding me? My own mom honestly thinks that all I do is lay about and play with kids all day. How does one respond to such an offensive statement? I seethe quietly and respond "I have three kids, a husband and an ELDERLY mother to care for. It takes a lot of time mom."

It is so hard to swallow that someone can be so dense sometimes. It's like she has no idea what her words sound like. But then, since the world does revolve around her, I suppose she wouldn't. Narcissism must be nice since you never have to think about other people's problems. I could be coughing up a lung (like I was on this same Monday visit) and she would ask me the next day on the phone as if surprised "oh, are you still sick?" She called Tuesday at 1 to say she was coming over immediately because, again, she "had to get out of this place." At 3, she calls to inform me that instead of coming to visit her grandchildren, again the only reason she has to live according to her many statements, she has gotten her hair cut, and a manicure instead. She is now too tired to come over. Okay. I ask you, once again, in what world is that an ok thing to do? Say you're coming over, then call 2 hours later and say you're not after all because you decided to get a manicure?

I guess I shouldn't complain, because once again, a week has gone by and no visit from mom to my home. I should be happy that I only have 3 kids to take care of instead of 4. But I still keep shaking my head. Where do her priorities come from? Does she hear herself talking? Does she have any clue what she sounds like? I have to answer for her. No. Not. A. Clue.

Chaos part 2

Seems innocent doesn't she? Not so much.

Why does everything having to do with my mother end in chaos? How is it possible that her vortex of crazy is so strong that even things that I am 'in control' of are sucked in? It is truly amazing. There is not one time that shocks me any more but let me tell you about some of it.

First off we have the sale of her condo. Yes, it is a sucky market so I'm not going to complain about the sales price or the sticking it to me that the buyer did just because she could. Because, what seller isn't suffering at the present time? My complaint is this: how is it possible that after being on the market for 3 months, the very moment an offer comes in I am on my very first, monumental, wedding anniversary related, miles away from the babies, romantic getaway in Big Sur with my DH? Is it not possible that this single, solitary, miserable buyer's offer could have come in 2 days before or a day after this trip? Is it really true that I have to spend hours of my mere 4 days away printing and faxing and signing and sitting on the phone receiving instructions from the real estate agent because if I don't deal with this one miserable offer we may never get another? How did she plan this? It's magical I tell you. It's like her universe has a compass that points always to Mira's least convenient time to do something.

So, we get the contract signed in the middle of my 'vacation' and time passes until this week. The week of closing. It's very simple what I have to do, and straightforward: since mom is too sick to get to a notary (her condo is across the country in DC) I have to go to the notary myself and get the documents signed and then xerox and fedex them. Yes, there are 30 pages, but I was once a real estate agent myself, how hard could it be to get these documents signed, notarized and sent off? Well, apparently, once caught in the vortex of mom, it becomes nearly impossible. First off, I'm sick. I'm sick like I haven't been sick in years. My children gave me this illness, and they are not too bad off. They coughed a bit, released 8 tons of boogers each and had a few bad nights. But since they all had bad nights in a row, I got sicker. No sleep and a simple cold apparently adds up to bronchitis and the need for heavy drugs.

So I wake this morning, prepared to head to the notary by 9, get back in time for a phone call at 10:30 and with a plan to see a doctor about my unhappy lungs sometime in the afternoon. Oh no. Too easy. First, I arrive at the UPS store only to realize that the title company sent me a 32 page document that printed fine with the exception of one hidden page that was legal sized and therefore cut off at the top. Thanks guys, how did you expect me to print a legal page on 8 1/2 by 11? So I had to go home, get the DH to make the printer print it properly, then head back to UPS. I then encountered the slowest, most detail oriented (and that's putting it nicely), most politely unable to do things the way that the lawyers in MD wanted it done, notary public. So we had to make calls and find a way to do the notarizing for a MD contract in the CA accepted way. One might think that notarizing is somewhat standardized across the county but that would be false. Because that would be easy.

So once we established that he had a way of following his rules and still notarizing my document we proceeded. There were 8 signatures that needed notarizing in total. This took 45 minutes. Each signed document must be recorded in his little book, a separate form filled out, a stamp and my signature. Oh. My. God. Really? 45 minutes NOT including the initial review of documents and negotiations with the paralegal? Grinding and gnashing of teeth could be heard blocks away, but not a single bronchial spasm. I persevered.

I then had to head home for the phone call but called the Dr.'s office on the way. The only appointment they had was for 10 minutes after my phone call ended at a location 30 minutes away. I had to exchange my DH's car for mine, park down the street, conduct my phone call, and halfway through start driving downtown. Thankfully, my affairs are not chaotic. The phone call was accomplished, the doctor's office got me in and out in 20 minutes and I was on my way to the Fedex/Kinko's to fax and xerox and fedex. Again, this seemed simple enough. Really. I xeroxed, I started faxing, I prepared the fedex forms. Wait, hold on, the fax machine is spitting random numbers of pages through at the same time and we have no way of knowing what pages actually got scanned through. Even though I only put 5 pages AT A TIME through this stupid machine. Wouldn't you think Fedex could afford a nice spiffy self service machine?

No. The self serve machine would be 10 years old and finicky like a cat, so the nice man behind the counter offered to fax it. His beautiful new high end fax machine pulled all 29 pages through in the blink of an eye. I thought, this is a change in luck, now we'll be done soon. So I waited. 15, 20, 25 min. Uh, Fedex dude? What's up with the fax? "Oh, apparently the machine stopped at some point, I think page 19, and I can't tell why but usually it will redial the number and try again." So I wait, 15, 20 minutes again. What page does it say it's on now? "uh, page 20, it must have started at the beginning again." Gee, sure must have! 10 more minutes. What page is it on now? "24"

Ok world. That's it for me. Honestly, I have fedexed the original and the lawyers will have it by 10 am tomorrow so I'm all done. If the last 5 pages of that document don't make it through I could care less. I'm pretty sure the world won't come to an end. And if they call me and tell me they need it they will find out pretty quickly that I don't care. I have now spent 3 hours of my very small amount of personal time waiting for slow and stupid people and machines to complete small and easy tasks and I am done.

But see what I mean about everything becoming chaos around her? This stuff is usually cake. Sure, there are at least a thousand pages in the average sales contract for a house, and a thousand and 50 when you can't be there in person for closing but notarizing, faxing, xeroxing? Cake! What is it about this woman that draws the evil spirits of delay and postponement towards everything around her? I can't go grocery shopping for her without something going wrong while walking through the store, driving to her place, unpacking her stuff into a refrigerator. And I won't even go into the story again about the organizer person I hired to do her stuff. All of you non-believers who think that the world is a completely scientifically explainable place listen up. It just isn't true when you live with crazy.

I dare you to offer to help me with my mom and avoid getting sucked into the crazy. I dare you.

Wordful Wednesday

I would never have guessed how much kids are like cats until I observed it in my household. My triplets are always doing cat things. For example, the minute a new cardboard box arrives in the house, they check it out and climb in. They spend hours playing in it. More than with any toy I buy them. Which is also like a cat. The best toys are garbage or wrappings or packaging. Also like a cat, they bump heads sometimes as a greeting. Again, like a cat, they cry noisily when hungry. They tend to hurt you when they get over excited, with nails and teeth. Their poop stinks, they sometimes pee where they are not supposed to and they hate having their nails cut and going to the doctor.

Had I known that three kids would be essentially like three cats but with more work I might have reconsidered my choice to have both.