The Toe Truth On MultiTasking

Study after study is telling us that multitasking actually does not save us any time. In fact, some studies have said multitasking may, in fact, make us less productive than if we just focused on one thing at a time in our lives/days/minutes/etc.
I suspect those studies were funded by the Couch Potato Institute or perhaps the Lazy Man's Society. Whatever, it didn't matter if I believed them or not. My life was dependent on multitasking and I wasn't going to give it up without a fight.

With my toe.

Anyway, I'll try to finish writing this before I pass out from the pain.

I was doing a little multitasking today.

1. Defrosting a freakishly frosty freezer (culprit finally found: a yogurt tube was smashed into the freezing unit, apparently causing the whole freezer to freak out ... it was not pretty, defrosting the freezer and freeing the yogurt tube, which of course, burst berry belicious food-like goop all over the freezer. Now I'm just waiting to see that the freezer is still freezing before I put our best pig and steer parts back in there.);

2. Caring for (feeding/cleaning/playing with/keeping safe, etc.) three boys, two of whom were in school when the, um, fight happened);

3. Various volunteer-related communications;

4. Various roof-replacement communications;

5. Writing a press release for a client;

6. Billing a client for work completed; and

7. Removing and destroying a broken-down dresser-type piece of closet furniture in an 'old' part of our house to replace with something of a little more, uhmmm, quality.

It's this last item that broke the camel's back, or at least, the idiot's toe (or maybe just toenail). I was having a grand old time swinging a hammer, breaking this bad boy apart. I'm thinking I need to get on this show that my oldest boy likes, something like "Build, Destroy, Build." Because I really surprised myself by how much I liked tearing apart this dresser with a hammer.

Andy, the baby, was safe in the playroom, a few feet from me, when I realized he'd created a bit of a diaper issue for me to deal with. I said, "Andy, be right back and I'll take care of that diaper ... I'm going to just carry this drawer down stairs."

The drawer didn't make it in one piece. It fell apart on the way down, and I painfully soon realized why construction workers do not wear pink flip flops to work.

The majority of the drawer fell on the big toe of my left foot, then broke apart in about eight pieces, falling the rest of the way down the staircase.

I felt pain, saw blood, eeewwwaaaa, didn't see a toe nail.

As a long-distance runner, I am fortunate to have kept my toes in tact all these years. Many friends have not been so lucky.

But I can no longer say that. My big toe's nail on my left foot is gone, baby, gone. So is a lot of skin and flesh, which I suppose accounts for the volume of blood.

Lesson learned. Focus. Don't multitask. At least not in flip flops.

*please note that today's picture does not remotely relate to the topic. I put in a cute pic of one of my guys when I don't have an appropriate picture. I did a random search of 'pictures of toes,' and, well, the result was not what I was looking for. Ever. In my life. It's a weird, weird, web out there ....

Out of the Frying Pan & Into the Fire

My tank was dangerously near empty this a.m., having been sucked dry by my boys this week, and when Kevin returned from a 13-miler, he noticed.

I was a bit, well, cranky. Or, crankier than usual.

So, being a smart man, he said "I got the boys ... why don't you get out of the house for a spell?"

He didn't really say 'spell,' but I knew what he meant, so off I went and didn't let the door hit me on my way out.

As futile as I knew it would be, I walked right into my local nail salon and asked for a manicure and 15-minute chair massage. Futile because paint on my nails lasts about three hours before chipping, and a 15-minute chair massage is a mean tease to the ol' kinks and knots.

But, it was time to myself, and I wanted the hour calorie-free indulgence.

So did a gaggle of preteen girls, apparently. Gangly and awkward and cute all at the same time, the five were there for one of the 11-year-old's birthday party. Pedis and manis were being rendered. The party was going to continue with a stop over at the birthday girl's house, where a few other girls were going to join them, then off to see a movie, then out to eat, then back to the birthday girl's house for a sleepover.

Whew. Lucky girls. Crazy, not to mention generous, parents.

Apparently it was a close call between Ramona and Beezus or Cats and Dogs. (Could I recommend The Other Guys to you girls? Hilarious! I, too, learned to dance sarcastically. No? Mom won't letcha? Yeah, she's probably right.)

That conversation was weaved into several others I was able to listen to during my pampering, including an enlightening discussion of the merits of lip gloss, and a debate about whether a $3 eye shadow was a legitimate 'emergency' and appropriate to be purchased with the $20 one girl's parents gave her for 'emergencies.'

Lightheaded from my massage and with pretty red, clean, short nails, I continued my walk in town, running a few kid-free errands, and was home within two hours of leaving, feeling refreshed and calm.

And while I enjoyed my peak into the world of girls, I was very thankful to be mothering three boys. I've never been much into lip gloss or eye shadow.

Pass Me The Bubbly!

Kevin tells me that this is known in the "marketing world" as "Moms' New Year."

Kids are going back to school, and it all starts anew for parents, especially those of us who "stay home." (The stay-at-home moniker cracks me up. Who 'stays home?' Moms and Dads everywhere are out running here and there or, on a good day, playing in a park or a pool with the kids.)

So, happy new year, parents of school-age children! Pass me the bubbly water. I'll pass on the real bubbly until we get through this transition. I need all my faculties to survive this week and the next few.

For as wonderful as it is to label all those folders and pencils, the move from the free-for-all summertime to our keep-on-schedule school year is as tough on me as it is the kids.

I am thrilled, of course, that my oldest, a third grader, is riding his bike to and from school and that my middle (three-year-old) is relatively happy to go to preschool a few hours a week (is it too late to sign up for a few more hours?). There is a bit more calm in the house for the baby & me. We even got in an hour of much-needed shopping this week.

My productivity, so pathetically low all summer long (inversely, my fun-o-meter was as high as it's been in years), has not yet improved. I suppose I should cut myself a break, it's only been a couple of days. But I'm staring at piles of 'to do' lists, not just piles of things to do, but piles of actual 'to do' lists: roofing quotes, Sunday School planning, closet cleaning, house cleaning in general, filing, picture framing, budgeting, billing for my "paid work" completed over the summer (surprisingly a few projects did get done) ... I have to stop, I'm just stressing myself out now.

And the kids of course have their own stresses. Will school be hard this year? Will I have any friends in class? Will my teacher be nice? Will I be able to tie my shoes? Will Mom remember that I'm coming home for lunch and be there waiting for me?

I guess this is a lesson for my kids and for me ... take a deep breath, focus on one thing at a time, one day at a time, and try to enjoy the moments. Because I'm seeing a number of friends drive their children to college this month, and I know that day is just around the corner. And as much as I find this stage of parenting stressful, I'm so not ready to let my babies go.

So, forget what I said about the bubbly water. Pop open a bottle of the good stuff. These are special times!

Cheers!

Karma, Naturally

May be it is tonight's viewing of Furry Vengeance (the painfully bad but giggle-producing movie with the charming Brendan Fraser and the smart, funny and gorgeous Brooke Shields ... don't knock it until you've watched it with 8-, 3- and 1-year old boys), but I definitely get the feeling Mother Nature is getting back at me.

Back at what me for what, you, naturally, wonder?

Well, on my recent drive to a friend's cabin in way-up-north Wisconsin, my friend clocked a chipmunk, or similar small furry but clearly slow animal. We both felt terrible, but then giggled at the ridiculousness of it. Of course, we were nearing the end of our eight-hour trip, with an SUV full of boys who just wanted to be playing in sand and water, not twiddling away the hours in the back two rows of my antiquated non-DVD-player-equipped vehicle.

So taking out a chipmunk seemed kind of funny.

You had to be there.

That wasn't the worst of it. During what turned out to be a 10-hour trip home a few days later, I was behind the wheel this time when I saw the car in front of me swerve. I couldn't see what it was serving around, until it was too late.

What had to be a five-foot snake, give or take a foot ... the big, thick, coiled kind, was lounging in the sun on this two-lane country road. Lounging, that is, until my front right wheel caught it. Then it was thump-thump-thumping in my wheel well.

Oh, did I feel terrible. Until I looked at Susan, my friend and co-pilot, who started to laugh. Then I laughed. But, honestly, we both felt guilty for hitting the snake, and for laughing about it.

We had just been enjoying all of God's beauty that week up at Susan's cabin. The sunrise, the sunset, our children and those of two other friends playing in the clear lake water. It really was breathtakingly beautiful up there. Naturally. Untouched by modern man, for the most part.

And here we were taking out God's creatures, one by one.

I really was sorry then.

I really am sorry now.

In the past seven days, I've been stung by three bees.

I had not been stung by a bee since I was a little girl stepping on my neighbor's flower garden. I probably deserved it then, too.

So I think the word got out about me and my killing ways.

And Mother Nature is getting her payback. And giggling, naturally.

Societal Neglect More to Blame?

I really don't want to get "political" in this blog, but "political" was the day's word in my house Tuesday.

Motivated by some continuing ed my SIL Jen, a 5th-grade teacher, recently took, my boys and I are much more attuned to our vocabulary.

So Tuesday's word, chosen by Luke, was 'politics.' (Sunday's was Chimera, Monday's was emporium ... this is going to be fun!).

But I digress. And I might even have made the wrong word choice. Maybe this issue isn't 'political,' but I can't seem to find the right word.

Loaded. Maybe that's it.

One of the "news" stories I recently caught up on since returning from vacation disturbs me. Now, that's not true. Nearly 100 percent of the media stories I've read since returning from vacation disturb me, but I'm only commenting on one right now. I'll try not to comment on any others, actually.

I read this particular one in Sunday's Chicago Tribune.

I grant you, it is not a great bastion of journalism, but it reflects society's temporal idea of "news."

The Trib reported of toddler twin girls' deaths. They died in their over-heated bedroom ... no ventilation, no air conditioning, filthy and underweight (Thirteen pounds at 13 months). The 22-year-old mother, who has three other children including one recently born prematurely and still hospitalized, was charged with neglect.

I'm not disagreeing with the charge or that the mother's actions weren't criminal.

The twins were said to have died from, among other causes, "failure to thrive due to maternal neglect."

The 19-year-old father had no comment.

I am so sad to hear of the twins' deaths. Any child's death, at any age and for any reason, is going to make me cry.

I take issue with the "maternal neglect" phrase. Legally, and morally, I get it. A mother's first objective is to keep her children safe. It's not always easy; it's usually not fun. But it is our job.

But didn't the twins actually die from society's neglect?

The personal responsibility argument aside (I get that, too; I do), I feel this is a woman tragically lost somewhere between being a girl and being a woman. Between being a daughter and becoming a mother.

This mother and her story are from just a few blocks from where I grew up. Maybe that's why this particular tragedy, not unique in our culture, is hitting me harder than the others.

According to the article, one of her children was "staying with relatives" and another was in the custody of the state. That left the twins, apparently in her care, and the newborn, born too early, still in the hospital.

My question is: Who thought this woman was capable of caring for 13-month-old twins if one child was already taken in by relatives, another by the state, one born so early she was still hospitalized, and the mom, herself, still recovering from childbirth? Anyone?

We are so quick to label. Bad mother. Broken home. Pro-choice. Pro-life. Conservative. Liberal. Anti-this. Anti-that.

But what if just one person made a difference in this young woman's life, or this young father's life for that matter? What if that very day the girls died, someone had helped that mother rather than judged her?

What ifs. Ugh. They don't do much good.

While we are all in a place and a position to make a difference in just one person's life today, I'm going to plug one of my fave charities right now. It's Maryville's Crisis Nursery in Chicago. Check it out for yourself if you are around here. www.maryvilleacademy.org/subpages.asp?id=33&parentid=2

As for me, I'm going to try a little harder tomorrow. And pray a little harder tonight.

A True "Family" Dinner

My first idea for this blog entry was something like "cuke sandwiches, cuke salad, cuke ... puke ...".

Cucumbers grow like weeds in a garden, don't they?

That was a day or so ago, before attending to my own urban garden, which had been neglected pretty much all summer since planting but very much so this past week while we were on vacation at the family estate, or more specifically, the family farm.

Of course, I refer to Kevin's family estate/farm. They are farmers, by profession and by lifestyle.

Long ago, far way in Norway, and more recently a generation ago in North Dakota, my maternal ancestors were, too. Farmers.

But the only thing my immediate family knew how to grow, and kudos to lil' bro Paul for being so ahead of his time as an urban gardener, was, ahem, a special kind of tobacco used mostly/legally for medicinal purposes. He cultivated his crop in my childhood sandbox out back by the garage. (Sorry, Paul, for narcing you out back in '87, but I really was shocked to come home from college to see that, ahem, crop in my own, socially and economically conservative, Republican, parents' backyard.)

So my in-laws are retired farmers who remain on their farm, which means 'retirement' is merely an adjective they use to describe themselves. They still have animals, although they no longer milk cows. So retirement apparently means, to them: Yeah! We no longer milk cows twice a day.

Cows still reside on property, which is awesome. I'm so glad my boys are growing up calling baby cows "calves" and not "baby cows," which I still do. Now my in-laws breed cows for their calves, which they then sell to farmers who still want to be dairy farmers.

There is still a lot of land, some of which is rented out to other farmers. On some other land, close to the house, is a most bountiful garden. Sweet corn, cucumbers (they call them pickles), tomatoes, potatoes, onions, rutabagas, green beans .. and on and on.

As a gift to their children (and their families, thank you!), my in-laws still raise a steer or two each year that become the most delicious hamburger and fine beef cuts you will ever taste. (I'm sorry, vegetarian friends; I always say, like a lapsed Catholic, I am a lapsed vegetarian ... I believe in the vegetarian diet/way of life/philosophy ... I just can't stop eating this meat!)

Last year, expressing our concern about modern farming/food sourcing, we mentioned how great it would be to get pork from a trusted source, i.e., Rodney & Linda. We ended up buying a couple of piglets (naively named by Luke & TJ -- Bacon & Pork Chop) who they fed and cared for and who, ever so slowly, became ready for market.

Which brings me to our dinner: pork chops (from the farm), beans and corn and whipped potatoes (from the farm) plus salad (red leaf lettuce, cucumbers, tomato, all from our urban garden).

The whole milk for the baby and skim milk for the rest of us, plus goat cheese to complement our salad, were all from our Trader Joe's, which, I'd like to point out, we were able to walk to, completed our meal.

Now that's what I call a family dinner!

It's Like Falling Off a Bike

I slowly but successfully completed my half marathon on August 1st as planned, despite my injured foot. So it was time to give my foot a break and not run for a while. For eight days, yoga and swimming took the place of my long, quiet runs.

Then vacation happened.

I'm at the inlaw's farm, and there is no yoga or swimming. I have my yoga mat, and I will do a few downward dogs, but it is not the same as Carlie or Karin at Sun & Moon. And there is a municipal pool, but there are no 'lap hours' at 6 a.m. like at home. I figure it's because the people up here work, so there is no need to work out.

So I set out on my husband's fancy bike the other day for a long, quiet ride. Lance Armstrong's no softie, so bike riding must be a real sport. I'd sweat; I'd work some muscles; it'd be good.

We didn't bring my bike up because of physics. My bike's set up for hauling two children, so attaching it to the bike rack is a challenge. And with the hills up here, who wants to be pulling around two children? It would be long, but it would not be quiet. Plus, I'd have trouble enough pulling my four cheeks and three chins up these hills.

Kevin's bike proved to be a challenge to ride because I needed to borrow his special bike shoes that clicked right into the pedals. Despite being five sizes too big, the shoes were no problem.

Until it was time to stop. I was reaching the point in my ride where I wanted to turn around and head back to the valley.

I didn't really know how to unclick the shoes out of the pedals, but I'd slowed to a near stop. Those pesky physics again. What happens when you stop pedaling, panicking because there are cars coming at you?

You. Fall. Slowly.

Ever. So. Slowly.

Down. A. Ditch.

But you are too embarrassed and proud to admit there's a problem, so you hike right up out of that ditch with your hands above your head to tell the drivers, who have slowed to see the joke that is me falling with a bike attached to me, that all is ok.

"No problem here; I'm ok. Please, please, please, don't stop." That's what my hand gestures tell the drivers, the only two I've seen in 30 minutes biking to the top of this crazy hill.

As far as falls go, this one is awesome, meaning only a few bruises and no permanent scars.

I am a runner because I am a loser at all other athletic attempts. I'm not good at anything else, really.

As far as biking is concerned, I'm well known for two great falls.

One when I was about 8 years old. I was trying to mimic my older brother's 'pop-a-wheelie' up a curb at the north end of our block, right by the funeral-home-turned-library.

He rocked. I hit rock.

Screaming, I returned home bloody and bruised, with a concussion that prevented me from performing my role in South Pacific that weekend at the Beverly Arts Center. (I'm sure my acting career would have turned out much better if that performance would have gone on as planned.)

I still have a fake front tooth to show for that fall.

The next major fall was when I was riding home from work one night in the rain. I jumped the curb to avoid the Halsted/North/Clybourn intersection in Chicago but then got whopped with a restaurant door opening. I flew into the street, into oncoming traffic, but survived with just a few scars on my hands.

I'm just not that good at riding a bike. Good at falling, but not riding.

So I will try again after the pain subsides. The hour riding was a better workout than the two hours golfing the day before. Even with the fall, I'm still a better biker than I am a golfer.

Save the Curls, Save the World!

It was going to have to happen someday. I wasn't going to go the route of Celine Dion and let my son's hair grow to Samson-like lengths.

I made it past the first birthday, which was longer than I thought I'd get away with. But as 13 months, 14 months, 15 months, 16 months passed, I thought I might make it to his second birthday.

I just didn't want Andy to lose those blond curls.

Sure, everyone thinks he's a girl, but he is pretty! I didn't care!

But Kevin did. A lot.

And the hair-in-the-face was clearly beginning to bug Andy. Or maybe it was the breakfast in the eyes (and nose, and hair, and...).(See photo, above!)

I don't know. I just knew a change was needed, and I wasn't going to be able to hold out until month 18.

So Andy took Toby's appointment today with Heidi at Salon Dolce, a sweet shop just two blocks away. She's been cutting TJ's curly locks for years now.

(I didn't trust his head to the neighborhood barber, no matter how much we like the guy. But a bald barber? You wouldn't go to a toothless dentist, admit it!)

Even Luke ditched the barber a few cuts ago, too, and is a Heidi fan now. I'm not sure if it's all about the haircut for him, or all about him being an 8-year-old boy and Heidi being, well, really very nice and much prettier than the bald barber. She also gives out pencils and lollipops.

Andy didn't care about pretty vs. bald, boy vs. girl, pencils vs. lollipops. He didn't want to sit, not even in my lap, for a single hair to be cut. (He's Momma's boy, that one!)

But Heidi is a skilled technician and wonderfully patient, and she got the job done.
Hair's no longer in Andy's eyes (as he likes to show in this picture), and the back and sides still sport cherubic curls. The cut might not be short enough, or manly enough, for Kevin, but Heidi saved the curls.

My world is safe, for now.

Mamma Said There'd Be Days Like This

Oh, really, it's not that bad. I was just struck by the truth spoken by my 8-year-old as I tried to compare and contrast the benefits and deadly drawbacks of a myriad of fly-killing contraband at our local Ace this afternoon.

I noticed a few flies in my family room yesterday and quickly blamed the kids for leaving a door open one too many times.

But this morning when I drew open the blinds in the formal living room (for the first time in days as it was rather dark and dreary, and we could use the extra natural light) I came across an active civilization of flies. Twenty or 30 were flying about, some stuck between the window panes and all very slow, slow enough that I could swat them with a magazine.

The flies at the farm are faster, and we rely on my MIL to get them. Believe me, if fly-swatting were a professional sport, Linda could have her own LeBron James-style free agency media circus.

I conducted a little research and learned I probably had 'cluster flies' on my hand. They look like common houseflies but behave as if they'd been hitting the fermented grape juice a little too much. Slow or not, I didn't want them in my house, so off to Ace I went to pick their poison.

And while holding the cans and containers a good arms-length from my face (as I did not bring my reading glasses and the warnings about how the products might forever affect animals and small children are printed in the tiniest type allowed by law), Andy was busy pulling off everything from the bottom shelf, then doing his soon-to-be-famous-spin-in-place dance; Luke was repeatedly accusing me of lying to him, as we were supposed to go home right after swim lessons and this stop at Ace was not part of the morning's plan and if we didn't stick to the plan well, then, he would just fall apart (he did by 4 p.m.); and TJ was running from aisle to aisle, barely missing old men while very accurately stepping on women's toes before finding the candy aisle and constantly asking, from half way across the store, if this candy or that candy had soy in it (he can't have soy, and it's in almost every packaged food, especially chocolate).

I took a deep breath and wondered if I'd find in the Pest Control aisle anything for my current infestation of small boys.

That's when Luke said it: "Wow, it seems like being a Mom is a hard job."

Yes, Luke, some days are harder than others. That's why Husbands promise to meet us out at our local Mexican restaurant for margaritas, I mean, dinner.

Thank goodness for Husbands who get it!

Starving the Rats, One Car Wash at a Time

Took the family truckster in for a good washing today. I mean, a good washing. The kind you can only do with no children in tow.

I took out all three car seats before I headed over to Royal Touch Car Wash in Rosemont (conveniently located next to a drive-through Starbucks and across from a Target, making for a perfect kid-free errand trifecta).

Last week's trip to our friends' cabin (posts on that to come), with a stop at the family farm on the way up and back, meant a total of 970 miles and 20 hours in the truck (and by truck I mean SUV) with my friend, one of her children plus my three. That's a lot of snacks -- string cheese, shredded wheat, grapes, bubble gum, juice boxes and pretzels -- consumed en route by children whose opposable thumbs do not appear to be fully developed.

Also picked up along the way was sand, lots of sand.

We also were beneficiaries of my in-law's garden during our farm stops, so bags of freshly cut corn (seriously, picked 30 minutes before our arrival), green beans, onions, potatoes and cucumbers, were shoved under and over and in between everyone in the truck.

I found a rogue cucumber and corn silk under the baby's car seat when I was cleaning out the truck before heading to the car wash. And that wasn't the oddest or most startling discovery.

The workers at the car wash earned their tips today, and the rodents of Park Ridge will just have to find someone else's family truckster to dine in tonight.

Our all-you-can eat buffet is closed.