Saturday, July 31, 2010

Big Step

I would like to think I'm not a helicopter mom (is that phrase even used anymore?) But honestly? I probably lean toward hovering.

I can't help it. My children hover around me and I can't seem to swat them away.

Today, Alyssa and I were invited to go to the mall to celebrate the birthday of a very good friend of Alyssa's. We left Olivia at home with Tom, much to Olivia's dismay. She was extra clingy all morning, telling me often that she wanted to go with me and Alyssa. We tried to talk up the auction Tom was going to take Olivia to, but she didn't buy it for a second. Damn those smart three year olds.

Of course we left her anyway, staunchly ignoring the pouty lip and the restrained tears. Off we went to the mall, where much fun was had by Alyssa, her friend and her friend's cousins.

Then, much to my amazement, when invited to go back to their house with them, Alyssa agreed, getting into a van that didn't belong to a family member without me.

Alyssa has known this girl and her family for two years and this was the first time she went anywhere with them without me. I was so proud. And so terrified.

Not terrified because I don't trust the mom. I do trust her to take good care of my darling, precious, super special snowflake. What terrified me was them getting three miles down the road and Alyssa realizing what she'd just agreed to and losing her sweet little mind with the knowledge that I was suddenly driving in the other direction.

See, I was on my way to the auction Tom and Olivia were perusing in hopes of snagging a new dryer. I had to drive about 30 miles in the other direction to pick up Olivia and then she and I would drive another 65 miles back to join Alyssa at the friend's house where we'd join them for cake and ice cream and frolicking on the trampoline.

When I got to the auction, Tom and Olivia met me at the side of the road, where, upon seeing me, Olivia burst into tears of relief at being rescued. I know, the drama never ends.

We headed home, hung some laundry on the line (at this point, we weren't sure Tom was going to get the dryer and the laundry was wet...) gathered extra clothes, snacks, a pillow and blanket for return drive home and headed north.

When we got to where Alyssa had been enjoying herself, I fought of a couple of over-friendly dogs and made my way into the house, where Alyssa burst into tears of relief upon seeing me there.

Maybe it's not me, right? Maybe my children are the helicopters and I'm just the landing pad they have to return to every so often just to refuel.

I am so proud of Alyssa for going home with her friend and spending a couple of hours without me. I'm also REALLY glad to have her and Olivia both sound asleep here at home tonight. One step at a time.

Friday, July 30, 2010

Quiet Moments with Alyssa

I know I've written ad nauseum about how hard it must be for Alyssa to be the big, 'normal' sister of a clingy, physically-special needs child.

Sometimes I will catch her watching Olivia sitting on my lap in the rocking chair, patting my boobs lovingly and I'll see a wistfullness, a longing. And it breaks my heart because I'm not there for her as much as I think she needs, or heck, maybe as much as I need.

On Wednesday night Olivia fell asleep on me during Alyssa's gymnastics class. I held her through the class and through paying for the next four-week sessions. O slept through me putting her in her carseat, through me ordering Alyssa some ice cream at DQ, through the drive to my mom's house.

When we got there, I took the still sleeping O to our room, where she slept through my putting a diaper on her, her pajamas, etc.

And then, I left her there, in bed and went to spend some time with Alyssa, just us.

But my first instinct wasn't to leave Olivia in the bed. It was to carry her sleeping self out to the rocking chair and rock her a little more.

But then it hit me. That kid had been asleep for almost two hours by that point, she was out for the night. She didn't need to be rocked, she needed to be left alone so she could sleep comfortably.

And her sister needed me to go out there and just talk to her. To let her tell me stories, to let her flip and me to marvel at the flips.

And that's what we did. It was so nice.

Last night, Olivia fell asleep at 8:30, rocking with me in the rocking chair. Again, rather than rock her for an hour, I took her to bed after twenty minutes and then spent the next two hours on the floor beside Alyssa, just being.

She's such a silly, sweet girl. She's so rambuncious, so full of ideas and energy.

Her imagination is outrageous. I love it so much. I love her so much.

I think these past two nights have gone a long way toward removing some of that wistfulness. I hope they have. I want to continue to make time for her, to spend quiet moments with just her, reminding her that she's still my baby too, that I adore every single thing about her, even those things that drive me nuts, just because they make her Alyssa, my sweet, smart, funny girl.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010


I love Funyuns. Just had to get that out there. I know they're pretty much made of anything that isn't natural but, well, they're one of my many guilty pleasures.

But seriously, now that Olivia is as potty trained as a child can be who can't pull her own pants down and get on the toilet herself, I find that she's becoming more and more stubborn about actually GOING to the bathroom.

It's so frustrating when I SEE the signals that she has to pee and ask her if she had to go and she says, "No."

Only to continue the pawing at her own crotch in an effort to hold the pee in.

This happened in the toy aisle at Walmart this past weekend. I asked her three times in five minutes if she had to pee. I even told her that we'd come back to the toys after she peed. I promised.

She was so busy looking at all the wonderful toys that she didn't want to go pee. So she'd tell me she didn't have to go and then glance back at the Barbies on the shelf, only to grab herself ten seconds later.

Finally, five minutes and three seconds after I originally asked her if she had to pee, Olivia bent over and said frantically, "I do have to pee, I do!"

And with that, she was peeing on the floor.

So I grabbed her peeing little body off the floor and headed for the bathroom, knowing it was useless. Of course, once perched on the toilet, she no longer had to go.

After I wiped her and pulled up her now-wet underwear and skort, I knelt down to eye-level with her and asked, "Livie? Why did you tell me you didn't have to go? I asked you lots of time and promised we'd go back to the toys."

She replied, "BUTT!" And grinned, as if she was quite clever.

I stood, opened the stall door, made her wash her hands, walked her out to the cart and put her wet little butt in the cart. We then went back to the toys, where Alyssa browsed to her heart's content.

The entire time Olivia asked to get out of the cart. I told her she'd been naughty and didn't get to look at the toys more closely.

It wasn't fun but I hope it was effective.

Sadly, I'm pretty sure it wasn't. Three year olds are notoriously bratty. It just how it is. I'd like to think it's what makes us appreciate four year olds.

And now...back to my Funyuns.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010


Weekends are my laundry time. It kind of has to work that way since I'm away from home Tuesday morning thru Friday evening. So the laundry starts Friday evening and usually goes on until Sunday afternoon, with the washing, the drying, the folding/hanging and the putting away.

It's a chore.

Add to that the fact that I have to pack clothes for myself and the girls each week, hoping to avoid the SAME clothes week after week after week, and it's time consuming, to say the least.

So there I was on Saturday, my second load of laundry just finishedn the washer, the first load dry in the dryer.

I put the dry clothes in a basket and move the wet clothes to the dryer. I turn the knob, close the door, press the button and ... nothing. I try all the previous steps again and still...nothing.

So I move the obviously still wet clothes from the non-cooperating dryer and take them outside to be hung on the line.

Saturday was one of those extremely hot days, one of those days where just breathing causes one to break a sweat. Yet, even with the hot humidity making the air so thick one could almost see it, there was a bit of a wind. More than a breeze, but less than a gust.

Anyway, now that the weather report from Saturday is out of the way...

I started hanging the clothes on the line that has stood in our backyard for the entire seven years we've lived in this house. This line has always been reserved for towels and sheets. But on this day... the only thing to escape the clothes pin was my bra. Yes, I hung my underwear out there, but I drew the line at hanging my over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder out on that line for the entire neighborhood to see.

I'd managed to get most of the clothes hung (this load consisted of at least fifteen pairs of size two toddler underwear...just picture how many pairs of tiny underwear were hanging from that line) snapped. The entire line just fell down. I was just glad the grass needed mowed rather than having just been mowed because at least this way, there were no freshly shorn grass particles sticking to my STILL wet clothes.

I was obviously not meant to have dry clothes on this day. I took the thirty pairs of size two toddler underwear off the line as well as the three size three swimsuits, the several pairs of size seven pants and shirts, put them all back in the basket and lugged them all back inside.

And then I waited. What was I waiting for?

For Tom to get home, of course.

See...I attempted to go retie the line to itself but...that didn't work. So I waited. I knew, sweet little helpless woman that I am, that my man would make this all better, as soon as he got home.

And you know what? He did. Sort of.

Of course, he didn't arrive for a couple of hours, but when he did show up to save the day, he found some new clothes line in the garage, he hung it from the posts and voila! I had a clothes line.

The dryer? He did not fix. It appears to be a lost cause. So sad. But hey, at least it didn't die in February, right? Right!

Tom did ask me why I hadn't called him at the time all this happened. He said he could have told me where the new line was and how to attach it to the posts. "Yeah," I said, "but that would have meant I had to actually go into the garage and then back out into the sweltering heat. I figured it was better to wait and let you do the work and I'll just go hang those clothes now. So thanks."

I must say, we make a pretty good team.

Monday, July 26, 2010


The house we currently own is over 100 years old. It's not a bad house, really. Except for one lacks closet space. To the point that it actually has one 'real' closet in the entire house. Sure, the previous owners built 'closets' into two of the bedrooms upstairs. This construction amounted to putting up a frame and enclosing one corner of each room, making a place to hang clothes.

But...yeah, not exactly what I have in mind when I think about closets and storage space.

I hate not having a coat closet. I also hate not having a linen closet. There is nowhere to stash winter coats, no place to hide the vacuum cleaner. It's just a mess.

The new house, that we're getting closer and closer to actually, maybe owning...ahh, the closets.

You know you're a grown up when the most exciting thing in your life is the possibility of owning so very many closets.

The walk-in closet in the master bedroom is bigger than the living room in my second apartment in Chicago. There is a coat closet when you walk in the front door. There are three other bedrooms, each with its very own actual closet.

And let's not forget the linen closet at the top of the stairs! Oh wow, the closets. I know. I just might be losing my mind. But if so, at least I'll have a variety of closets in which to hide and peel the paint as I mumble about the joy I've found in each and every closet.

Friday, July 23, 2010


That photo I posted of the girls earlier this week haunts me.

Not only does Alyssa look about twelve years old in that picture, she looks (to me) so sad. I see her holding her baby sister so protectively and wonder, "What are they afraid of?"

Now, I'm pretty sure that's just how Alyssa looks at cameras. She's suspicious of anyone who wants to take her picture and she can be a little stand-offish if it wasn't her idea to bring out the camera.

But she's had a few night terrors in the past year or so that scare me so much. She's using pointing at something I can't see, telling me it's trying to get her. Or she just cries and cries, like her heart is breaking.

Like every other mother out there, I want to protect my children from pain. While I know this is impossible, I want to make their lives as safe and happy as possible. Again, like every other parent out there.

Alyssa never remembers her dreams/terrors the next morning. She just laughs and goes about her day.

I've talked to her, subtly, reminding her that she can tell me anything, at any time. She always smiles and says, "I know."

I also tell her constantly that I love her, always, no matter what.

I don't know. I think parents worry no matter what, we can't help it. It's ingrained in our very DNA.

It's probably how our species has survived the eons.

Thursday, July 22, 2010


So with Julie's comment on that last post, I have to confess that yes, yes I did leave my car sitting in a prime parking spot for at least six weeks because I thought it wouldn't start.

Well, it really wouldn't start. But I thought it was because of something mechanically wrong with the car. I was wrong. It was pure operator's stupidity. I'd turned the car off without putting it in park. The next time I went out to drive it somewhere, I attempted to start the car while it was still in drive. Guess what? Most cars, even those manufactured in the 1980s won't start if they're in drive. I know!! Who knew?

Oh shut up.

At least it didn't cost me anything to 'fix' the car. And, wonder of wonders, I hadn't actually taken the time and cost to have it towed somewhere to be looked at before discovering the problem all by myself.

I am not mechanically inclined, to say the least. In fact, I'm not even interested in becoming mechanically inclined.

Once upon a time, I asked my brother Jason, who is four years younger than I am, to change the oil in my car. He did so, and as he came in to wash his hands he mentioned, "You know, when I changed the oil in Mitch's car, I taught him to do it himself, so I never had to do it again."

I raised an eyebrow, ala Spock, and replied, "Bully for him." I had no interest in learning th change the oil in that or any other car. That's why Walmart has a tire and lube center, thank you very much.

Not to be all gender-biased, though. I'm all for women taking charge of their vehicle maintenance, IF THEY WANT TO. But if not? There's a 10 minute oil change place down the street.

My husband is quite handy and yet even he would rather spend the $20-30 at Walmart for oil changes than take the time to do it himself. Go him, right? Though, admittedly, he's probably never let an automobile sit for six weeks because it was in drive. Just saying...

Speaking of my husband being pretty handy with tools, I've learned in the past few months just how good he is with a sheet of drywall, some nails, a pail of paint and some brushes.

In the years we've lived in our current house, it's been, well, not exactly a dump, but, less than perfect. Yeah, that's a nice way to say it.

And we edge closer and closer to moving out of that house, it's looking better and better. He's put down new flooring in four rooms, he's put up drywall in three rooms, he's painted areas in at least five rooms.

I know! Now that I know what he's able to do, I won't be willing to let things slide in our new home. Except, he's planning to rip out the drywall from the new basement even before we're moved in. And....he's already said he doesn't plan to replace it until we're ready to sell....WHY?!? I asked that very question.

His response? "Why do we need the basement to be finished?"

My thoughts on that? If we don't need the basement ot be finished, why do the next owners need it finished? Oh, that's right, because supposedly they'll pay more for a finished basement. Whatever, I'm all about getting new drywall up down there. Of course, that might mean I need to learn to hang drywall....that'll probably go as well as my learning to change my own oil.

Too bad there isn't a ten minute drywall place down the street.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010


When I was in college (oh, you KNOW I wanted write 'at university' but it sounds so proper and English and well, that's just not me, so...) yeah, when I was in college at the delightful Bloomington campus of Indiana University, one of the biggest challenges was parking.

I was a 'dormie.' Although, we were seriously trained not to call our the buildings in which we lived 'dorms.' They are residence halls, you see. You sleep in a dorm. But you LIVE in a residence hall.

And one of the most harrowing parts of a residence hall is finding parking. There are levels of parking, for which you have to purchase permits. As you got further and further along in your education, you were able to purchase better permits.

The problem with snagging a prime parking spot was that once one parked their vehicle there, they didn't want to move it because they'd lose their spot.

This always confused me, to be honest. Wasn't the whole point of getting a good parking spot so that it would be convenient for you to go somewhere at a later date?

Yeah, but...then you'd have to come back and someone, probably someone you didn't like much AT ALL would most assuredly have come along and parked in YOUR spot.

So those friends, the ones with the great parking spots, could often be found bumming rides to the mall, or the stadium, or wherever, from their friends with the less desirable parking spots because...see above about losing their prime parking space.

I know. Makes no sense.

And now that I'm all grown up and have a garage in which I'm allowed to park from November to late March, I laugh at all the college drama over parking spaces.

Each stage in life has its stressors. Each moment has the good and the bad parts. I'd like to hope that as I sprint my way into my 40s, I'm learning to filter out the bad and bask in the good.

I'm trying, I'll give myself that much.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010


I'm feeling my way here. Trying to find my voice.

Over at Share, I felt like my voice came pretty easily. In the beginning (I think I started that blog when Olivia was five months old, difficult but with no diagnosis in sight) I was just sort of reminiscing about her beginning, her early days in the NICU, her screamy, screamy nights, her refusal to be put down and yet her hatred off all that existed in the world.

Then therapy started and my voice got lighter, more conversational.

I thought that voice would carry over to here. It hasn't.

Maybe it's the audience.

At Share, I knew my words were being read. I knew my audience, the women I'd met at SU, those I cared for already through their words, their pain, so similar to my own and yet always so unique, every story heart-breaking even as it was heart-warming.

I know by my followers that several of you from Share have followed here. But this is a different place, and it is requiring a different voice from me.

This is more about the entire family, not the one that is 'special.' Maybe this is more about me than about my kids.

Who knows? Bear with me as I continue to find my voice, my tone, the reasons I'm here, writing all this down. I know the main remember, to be able to come back and see what we were doing at this particular point in our lives. Perhaps to bring a bit of immortality to my story, as ordinary as it is.

Because look how big they're getting.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Four Letter Words

I'm not really one to toss out profanity...well, unless I happen to be alone in my car, cruising down US 20 at a good 60mph and some asshole truck driver pulls off of 49 into my path when I know damned well that fucker HAD to see me coming in his direction and I have to slow down to 30mph just to avoid slamming into the back of his trailer. Then, I will probably swear so loudly and colorfully to make a sailor blush.


But those aren't the four letter words I have a problem with.

When I was in college, one of my aunts pointed out that I seemed to have been cursed to always date boys/men with names that had four letters.

Let's see:

First boyfriend: Jody
Second: Todd
Third: Jeff
Fourth: Sean
Fifth: Andy

Okay, then, let's just stop there since I've sort of proven my point. Right?

See, the aunt was right. There was a pattern. Sure, Andy was short for Andrew, but he went by Andy. Four letters. Sure, sure, there are just a lot of male names that have four letters or are easily shortned to four letters. Sure, that's very true. And yet, my brothers, Jason and Mitchell (Mitch) didn't have four letters. Two of the most important boys/men in my life were not a part of the four-letter curse. My favorite (and yet most annoying, hmmm) cousin is Aaron, again, not four letters. So, obviously, there are as many if not more male names that have more or fewer letters than four and yet...I'd attracted all the guys with four-letter names.

This was the start of my obsession with names.

When I first met Tom, I refused to even consider going out with him. Three letters be damned! I was not going to be a part of the couple known as Tom and Tommie. Uh-uh, no freaking way! Not only am I Tommie but my DAD is also Tom, which was just too weird. Creepy even. Yeah, I got over that, huh?

And yet...he was sweet. And Tom wasn't short for a named that originally had four letters. No, Thomas has six, so we were able to avoid the four-letter curse both ways.

Obviously, I would have missed out on a lot, had I continued my refusal to date a Tom. And Tom's sons? Jeremy and Dustin, again, important men in our lives and not a four-letter name in sight.

I do believe we've broken the curse. I suppose I should go home and thank Tom for his persistence. After I've traveled 65 miles on a highway filled with inconsiderate truck drivers who make me swear like I'm one of them.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010


As we edge closer and closer to actually moving into a home closer to my work and Alyssa's school, I find myself getting more and more morbid. Thoughts of horrendous accidents hover at the edge of my subconscious, taunting me.

I've been making this 65 mile (one way) commute for over eight years. I've been incredibly lucky these past eight years. I've not had a serious accident in all that time. And I drive a major highway during my commute for over 40 miles.

Sure, sure there was that time that our car spun out of control on an icy road and a two-year-old Alyssa and I ended up in a snow drifted ditch. But that was nothing. I simply drove out of the ditch and limped the last twenty miles to my mom's house, only to get stuck at the end of her driveway for the day. It wasn't that big a deal, though at the time, I though my heart would pound out of my chest. Alyssa had been sleeping at the time of the spin out. She woke up as we slowed to a rest in the ditch. She asked if we were at Grammy's. We weren't. But we made it.

We've always made it.

And that terrifies me. What if our luck is running out? I know, that's crazy. it? Is it really?

Karma is a bitch. Karma hates the smug. I know this because I've bragged about a good night's sleep one too many times and had a very cranky child keep me awake for hours the very next night.

Which is why I worry. Worriers aren't smug. They're too scared to be smug. And worrying tends to make me a little more careful while on the road.

See, my fear is that since we're so close to not having to make this drive anymore, as we are almost able to count the number of times we'll have to merge onto the highway and drive defensively among semis and SUVs and other crazy drivers, one of these last trips is going to end badly.

I realize that this is irrational. But isn't fear always irrational? I just keep praying that we continue to be lucky/blessed/whatever you want to call it. And I keep driving carefully and hoping, hoping, hoping that karma is overlooking me today, tomorrow, next week as we wind down our commuting time. Please?

Monday, July 12, 2010

The Truth about Babies

Every baby shower I attend we have to do that silly thing where every veteran mom in the room writes a little note to the new mom/mom-to-be with some little bit of advice about babyhood, infancy, whatever.

And each time I have to write something I'm taken back to Alyssa's first few months of life and I almost always write:

"Don't do anything about your relationship with your child's father during the first year of your new baby's life. You will like him again."

I'll be honest...during those first months, I wondered if Tom and I would survive the stress of being new parents.

It was so hard. There were times when I know we didn't like each other very much. Though we'd discussed parenting values, ect while I was pregnant with Alyssa, the actual act of parenting was so different. And we disagreed. And I always, ALWAYS took it personally when he made a suggestion of any kind.

Yeah, it was mostly me. While I didn't suffer ppd, I did suffer a lot of angst, a lot of doubts and whenever Tom made a suggestion of any kind, I thought he was saying, "You're really bad at this. Let me fix you."

And I hated that.

I got to visit with my cousin Emily a couple of weekends ago. She's got a beautiful, fat eight-month-old daughter. And she's still in that first year, obivously. I reminded her that she once loved her husband and that she will love him again. She laughed through tears and said that she wishes people would tell new moms that sometimes your new baby will not like you.

I told her that most of the time, new babies don't like anything or anyone, they just want to eat, poop and hopefully, sleep.

Olivia was such miserable baby. I told this to Emily, pointing to my laughing, running three year old and said, "It gets better, Em. It really does."

And it will for her. Stella will discover that her mom is the coolest person in the whole world and Emily will see that all of her sacrifices and all the work she's put into that little girl will pay off.

But yeah, in the beginning, that baby doesn't like you very much and often, you don't like your spouse very much. But, hopefully you're like me and it gets to much better, so good that you barely remember how hard and stressful it once was.

Even if your three year old squeaks at you, "I hate you forever!" Yeah, she said that this weekend. But three minutes later, she insisted she loves me. So whatever. If babies are hateful, three year olds are fickle.

Friday, July 9, 2010


Familiarity can be a wonderful thing. It can let you know how to soothe a sleepy child, it can give you the insight to know when to walk away from your spouse when he's in a mood or when to push to get him to talk.

It can also teach your lovely, adorable children just how to push each other's buttons as well as your own.

My girls are pretty good about letting me sleep a little later on the weekends.

One of the many, many drawbacks of co-sleeping is that I know the instant they wake up because they tell me so.

Just this yesterday morning, Olivia woke up at 4:30 announcing she was hungry. When I didn't jump right out of bed to get the princess a little nibble, she decided she was thirsty instead.

I muttered, "Oh give me a break..." even as I stumbled out of bed and got her a drink of water.

A half hour later, she told me she was still hungry.

On the weekends, she'll let me lay there for a good fifteen minutes after she wakes up (usually at 6 freaking 30 on a Saturday morning) before she announces she has to pee.

She knows I'll get up and take her pee. She hopes we'll stay up. We never do. I always tell her we're going back to bed after she goes to the bathroom because 6:30 is just too darned early to start a Saturday.

One of the things that irritates me the most these days is the almost constant repeating of the phrase, "I'm hungry."

I can feed my children a full, five course meal and ten minutes one or the other, or sometimes, both, will chirp, "I'm hungry."

It makes me crazy! I know, they're growing children.

Except, they never know what they want to eat. They always want to go to the kitchen, WITH ME in tow, and look around, as they decide what they'd fancy to eat that moment.

I've been known to say, "I am not standing in this kitchen a minute longer. Once you've decided what you want, come find me."

I know, I'm such a meam mom. But one can only stand in the kitchen gazing about oneself for so long before one loses one's mind.

Those of you with more than two children have my complete and utter sympathy and awe. Those days when my nephew is around, growling his echo of A's and O's chirps, I think I just might need to run for cover.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Another Step Up

Olivia's physical therapist from our First Steps program once told me that Olivia is a stair-stepper when it comes to developming new skills. She'll go for months on a plateau, just cruising along, enjoying the status-quo.

And then, one day, BAM! She masters three new skills in the span of an hour.

Some kids go at a steady incline, continuously adding skills but not Olivia.

She watches, she waits, she practices when no one is looking and then, suddenly, one day she's climbing up a slide with no assistance (this happened Tuesday.) And she's doing the little hop of a cartwheel they teach beginners in gymnastics classes. And she's peeing in the potty with amazing consistency. Even her gymnastics 'coach' said last night that she sees an improvement in Olivia's confidence and skill. Go O!

And as thrilling as these advancements in gross motor skills/social skills are, they wreak havoc on her sleep.

I'm a sleeper. I have no idea why I was given children who seem to think that sleep is for the weak. They would go to bed at 10pm if I'd let them (I don't, if only because I need a couple of hours in the evening not hearing the constant refrain, "I'm hungry.") and get up at 6am every single day without pause.

They must get it from Tom because that's not how I sleep. I want lots and lots of sleep. And I don't get it.

Obviously, I'm willing to give up a few hours of sleep here and there as Olivia marvels over her physical achievements, but if I hear a whispered, "Mommy? I'm hungry." at 4:30am one more time, I might just lose my mind.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010


I officially hate house-hunting. I am on the verge of hating realtors. I know, strong statements. But...well, it's stressful and annoying and I'm sick of it all.

As stated before, I work 65 miles from where we live. For our entire marriage, Tom and I have spent half a week apart, every week, all year long. I'm tired of that too.

I actually do like the guy. I'd like to spend more time with him, to actually life FULL TIME in the same house with him. I know, it boggles the mind that married couples do that, doesn't it?

Well, I want to be one of those married couples. One of those couples who see each other every single day, even if just for a few hours in the evening. I want the girls to see him every day. I want him to be able to fix them breakfast on school mornings while I race around getting things ready so we can leave. I want him to help me clean up the kitchen every night after dinner. I want him there every single night to help me get the girls into bed.

I want a lot, I know.

And we were so close. We'd put in an offer on a house. A great house. But...they wanted more than we wanted to spend. So we made a low offer at the advice of our realtor.

And they (the bank who currently owns this great house which has been empty for over a YEAR!) countered. We countered their counter.

And they came back at a good price. One we should have jumped at.

But our realtor and Tom were in the 'game.' They wanted to win. They wanted the bank to accept our offer, not the other way around. So we counted the countering counter. Ahem...


A few days later, the realtor called and gave me some devestating news. Someone else had come along and offered close to the asking price.

That was that.

Or so I though. That wasn't that.

A few days after that, the realtor called AGAIN. This time, he said there was something wrong with the other offer and did we want to go back to the bank with an offer of what they'd offered us. Confusing, right? But we did. We went back and made a backup offer of the last offer they'd made to us.

And they COUNTERED that!

Seriously...I'm losing my ever loving mind here. I told my realtor that I'm not going higher than they'd originally offered. We know they'll go to that point becaus they did once. This is not some family I'm screwing out of a down payment for their next home. This is a financial institution that is willing to let this house sit empty for another year while countering and countering and countering some more.

So we wait to hear if they'll just take the final offer or not. But yeah, I'm beginning to hate everything involved in buying a house.