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When my Ty was born, Dave would actually try and compete with me on over who was the “most tired.” I would say, “I am sooooooooooooooooooooo tired!” and he would say, “Me, too.” And I would say, “But not as tired as I am.” And he would sorta squint and look at me and say, “I think I might be” and then I would say,”No, Dave. That is not possible. I am nourishing another human being from my (said in a whisper) breast every two hours.” I would say, “Dave, I am tired at my ROOT. I am tired at my CORE.”
In an effort to streamline things, we have now abbreviated the whole mess to I am “tired at my root-core.” And the phrase lives on. Oh, we can really throw down on this one. Dave has two jobs working with teenagers that require him to commute to two different cities and he usually works 2 weekends a month as well. Plus, when he walks through the door, he is expected to be daddy and uncle Dave and be smiling and happy and give me a foot rub. Me? Well, I am in charge of five kids ranging in age from 1-14. Enough said.
We’re tired.
Can I get a witness?
Most days I tackle our life with grace and aplomb. Not really. Most days I tackle our life with a gritty determination to do my best and not send anyone into therapy. To get all the hugs in. To make sure they are all fed. To listen to my gut. To pray. To breathe. To get a shower in, if not make-up on. To kiss my husband when he walks through the door. To call my mom. To parent with intention.
But April nearly killed me.
And it bled a bit over into May.
These last few weeks included a very sick one year old, three trips to the ER –two trips for head lacerations on two different kids and one of those trips was for me because I broke my toe. And if anyone thinks I am being a wimp about a broken toe, come on over and ram your toe into the mega vacuum cleaner we own. No? Okay, let me continue with my list. These last few weeks included sports for three of the kids — that’s Track, Soccer, and Martial Arts — a 1/2 dozen birthday parties to ATTEND and two to HOST, Dave starting a new job, and a huge project that I cannot even begin to tell you all about because it is just that top secret. I am also the room mom for preschool and for some reason I just signed a permission slip last night for Izzy to attend and help out at the school carnival. Whah? I know it is all just LIFE and I am not complaining. But last night I decided to up the ante on our “tired competition.” As I was coming home from a preschool board meeting after spending a total of four hours and 7 phone calls trying to restore our internet and a Costco run that had my broken toe throbbing, I looked over as Dave was pulling in the driveway from swim practice. I said to him. “Hey Dave, my root-core just BROKE!”
He stopped. Looked at me. “Well, okay… you win!”
A-ha!
I win!
I am the most tiredest of us all! I win!
I wonder what my prize is?
…someone goes to the Emergency Room.
Oh yeah. If you have kids you all know that trips to the ER are a part of the deal. But when you have five kids, lets just say they are a regular part of my monthly planning. Pick up birthday gifts, buy milk, spend evening at hospital, wash the car…..
We’ve had trips for a broken leg, a major bump to the head, a lip laceration, a mysterious stomach illness, pneumonia, and much much more. Each comes with its own story. Here’s the most recent.
So, on our recent family trip, we decided to add HEAD LACERATION to the list.
The story is quite simple, actually. Jade and Lily were trying to close the sticky bottom drawer on the dresser in their room — upon which rested a large TV set. Said sticky drawer continued to stick. Jade and Lily, however, continued to force it, thus creating a rocking motion that sent the TV plummeting off the dresser. And, Jade (in true Jade -form) pushes her little sister out of the way and then catches the TV and thus prevents any deduction to our damage deposit. BUT, before she catches the TV it ricochets off her head. Yup, her HEAD.
So, Dave got to drive her along dark country roads in the middle of the night, following a map, to the local island hospital. They almost gave her stitches, but came away with her wound glued back together. Seen here after a day of healing:
Jade and her Head Lac
It looked worse the night before.
So, the day after her “ordeal,” Jade says to me, “Yeah, the doctor told me that I cannot shower or take a bath until the laceration heals.” And then she sorta slumps down and shakes her head back and forth.
Dave, however, sits straight up and says, “That is NOT what the doctor said.” He looks at me, shakes HIS head. Looks back at Jade and says, “The doctors said to be careful not to get the wound wet while bathing or showering.” Jade looks right back at him as if he is speaking Spanish or Farsi or Japanese. Shrugs. Then walks off. Dave looks at me and asks, “WHY DOES SHE SAY THINGS LIKE THAT?” I say, “8th grade girl.” I Shrug. And then walk off.
Over a week later and life has returned to normal. We are back into our life here in the burbs, I am buried under laundry, kids are going in different directions. One Tuesday night I head over to the junior high and pick Jade up from track practice. It was a cold, blustery day and Jade is shivering when she hops in the mini-van. I look at her and say, “OH, I am so glad that you are about to jump in the shower to warm up!”
Wait for it.
“Oh,” she replies, “I can’t shower.”
“Why,” I ask in complete innocence.
She then lifts her hair to reveal her head wound.
So she really did think Dave was speaking Spanish or Farsi or Japanese.
“Do you remember the conversation with Uncle Dave about this?”
Blank Look.
“Do you mean you have not showered since vacation?????!!!??!”
Blank Look.
“GET THEE TO A SHOWER!”
We arrive home and I say to Dave, ” Why does she do things like that?”
“8th grade girl,” he replies.
(I bet he had been carrying that one around just waiting to use it.)
The reason why Dave and I could never partner up for THE AMAZING RACE has little to do with my fear of heights and my distaste for airline travel.
It has to do with the complete and utter lack of ability for us to get from point A to point B with A.) not fighting or B.) in a timely and effecient manner.
Each week we go to some friends’ house for dinner and fellowship. The live approximately 45 seconds away by car.
45. Seconds. Away.
The trouble is that there are two possible routes to take. Imagine the route being like a clock. We live at the 10 and our friends live at the 4. So, we could go clockwise to get there or, yup, counterclockwise.
Every single freakin’ week we argue about which is the better way to go. We argue for the entire 45 seconds. I am pro-counterclockwise. Dave is all about clockwise. He is wrong. And, I think he knows it. So, one week we took two cars — each in our favorite directions. We arrived at exactly the same time. And this settled nothing. Not a thing. We continue to grumble and bark at each other… on our way to dinner, fellowship, and prayer.
So, for Spring Break Grandma treated the family to a short vacation at Whidbey Island. This is a wonderful place only 1 hour and 15 minutes away from our house — and that is including the ferry ride. When one travels to Whidbey Island one morphs from suburbia to rural and quaint. This is a place with “locals.” And we managed to turn that hour and fifteen minutes into two hours and 20 minutes.
I won’t go into the details. But it was totally Dave’s fault. He even thinks so.
The good news is that we didn’t fight. Izzy said, “Aunt Kari, you didn’t even use the F-Word one time!”
See, now, that is a good vacation.
Please tell me that I am not the only one out there who tilts their head and says “huh?” when their husband does something the “wrong” way.
I mean, okay, I will stipulate that I need to chill sometimes. Micromanagement is a genetic disorder in my family (yes, mom, you have it, too…).
But sometimes I am simply stunned into silence (well, not really…) at the things that Dave does.
While making lunch: ”You did NOT just put syrup on the kids’ peanut butter sandwiches?!”
While helping with the baby: “Are you actually going to change the baby’s poopie diaper while she is STANDING UP?”
While sorting laundry: “How did you confuse my t-shirt (or stranger still, my underwear…) with Jade’s?”
I am very lucky to have a husband who helps, but sometimes… no, no… most of the time, I just don’t get it.
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