I’ve been teetering on the edge of losing my ever loving mind over the past few weeks. Between working 70 hours a week in the office, another 20 – 30 at night on my own business, I’ve worn myself down to merely a zombie going through the motions. Mike was off work for the past 6.5 weeks and I’ve been doing what I can to pump out some quick work to bring in a little extra cash while I’ve been swamped at my salary paying regular job. Without him, I’m certain this house would have imploded.

I try valiantly to find balance, but I find that I become consumed by one or the other depending on how much attention they require. The kids get sick, I stay home, things come up that need my attention then I spend too much time away from the office or unavailable, the boss notices and then there’s reprimand. Should I have to put in additional hours – which include weekends – then family and marriage suffer. Finding that balance is a feat in itself and I am finding I am not so strong at managing my home and work-life balance.

Actually, I am failing that balance.

I know it’s short term and will eventually, (hopefully) work itself out. It has to. I love what I do. I love working. I love being a part of something and contributing to amazing and wonderful transformations on a daily basis. Driving into Downtown Toronto and seeing the skyscrapers and condo buildings makes me proud because even though they have become eye sores and block out any natural light in the downtown core, I have been a part of their construction. Though my work is neatly hidden beneath soil, steel and glass, It’s an amazing feeling to know that I have contributed to that.

But that feeling, as amazing as it is, is really nothing compared to that of being there for your children. Teaching them, learning with them, being there during their Firsts. Nothing in the world can neither compare nor replace that, and I don’t I want it to.

I want both.

I want to find that perfect equilibrium.

But then again, don’t we all?

I am not about to quit my job, though I do appreciate the links and feedback on my last few posts, I am just working through being overworked and underpaid, fatigued and riddled with Mommy Guilt. It’s regular day-to-day around here. I need to rant and vent, but I am so grateful to have you. To hear my woes and encourage me to keep on keeping on.

Just a few more hours of sleep. That’s all I need.

Oh, and a life coach, personal organizer, nanny and a winning lottery ticket.

I wasn’t kidding. I want it all.

It’s not often that I cook. Everyone who knows me well knows my cooking typically consists of quick and easy items: macaroni and cheese (Velveeta, not that Kraft powder shit), spaghetti, sandwiches, zoodles, sometimes boxed preservative laden meats even.

I think it’s more the waiting part that turns me off cooking rather than the actual mixing, working and creating. I am very much the type of person who needs immediate results in order to be satisfied.

Cooking does nothing for me.

Once and a while I will bake. I love making chocolate chip cookies mainly because I eat more of the batter than I do the cookies. See? Immediate results.  I’ve been known to slave over a few lemon meringue pies in my time, even some easy peasy cherry cheese cake type concoction I learned from my Gramma. Once again, all quick, all easy all requiring little to no actual baking.

Since having children I have taken a little more pride in cooking and baking. I’ve learned a few more recipes, I’ve actually made macaroni and cheese from scratch (THANK YOU PIONEER WOMAN!) and even indulged in bring baked goods to work. To feed my co-workers. To share. To proclaim to outsiders that I am indeed capable of making food stuffs save enough to eat!

Carter announced to me earlier this year that he LOVES pumpkin pie. LOVES. Because the lady at the daycare – The Cooker, The Daycare Lunch Lady, The Chef, or as I like to call her: The Procurer of Food for The Little People – makes a mean pumpkin pie.

So, for Thankgiving, I thought I’d spoil the little ankle biter and make him his own pumpkin pie. After all, what child could turn down a pumpkin pie made by their caring, doting and wonderful mother? Right?

I’ll spare you the disaster details of the actual pie making as they are irrelevant. But the kid got a pie. A pretty damn good pie if I do say so myself.

As we sat down to indulge in the delicious pumpkin-y goodness with a dollop of Cool Whip I could see, out of the corner of my eye, Carter’s little four year old face scrunch up in disgust. I played it off as nothing as I dove into the creamy goodness of my pumpkin filling.

The kids wasn’t eating anything. Not even a lick of the Cool Whip. I kinda suspected what may be coming, but I asked anyway.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” I asked.

“This pie tastes like junk,” he said matter-of-factly, “and not the good junk either.”

Seriously? Are you SERIOUS, you little jerk? After I slaved over that pie for you. I measured. I mixed. I baked. I WAITED!!!  And you call my pie JUNK!?I am NEVER. BAKING. AGAIN!!

But instead of letting him know how royally pissed I was that he dismissed my pie so coldly, I did what any parent would do in that situation.

I excused that ungrateful little shit loving and brutally honest child from the table and scarfed down his pie too.

:::

This post in brought to you by the Silicon Valley Moms Book Club. This month’s book is See Mom Run: Side-Splitting Essays from the World’s Most Harried Moms by Beth Feldman. The book is a culmination of short essays written by a number of very talented blogger who also just happen to be moms (including two short stories from one of my favourite writers, Liz Gumbinner of Mom 101). It’s witty, hilarious and ALL TRUE. Read it!

For the FTC blah-blah-CRAP: I was given this book for free and asked to write a post inspired by the book, not a review. Also? Suckit.

I thought I’d pass the reins to someone else for the time being. You’ll have to excuse the mumbles and lack of dialogue on his part, he’s just starting out. I’m thinking once he gets his routine down he may be better at maintaining this bitch.

I mean the site.

(Not THIS bitch.)

((That’s just wrong.))

(((Not to mention disgusting.)))

((((And also? SOMEONE ELSE’S JOB. SOMEONE WHO HAS NOT BEEN DOING HIS JOB.))))

(((((YA HEAR THAT SOMEONE ELSE!? I’M TALKING TO YOU SOMEONE ELSE.)))))

Ahem.

This is all wrong. ALL. WRONG.

Like I said: I think he’ll be taking over.

This past weekend was my very first BlogHer and since I’ve been writing on this site for over three years now, I’ve come to *know* quite a few people. I’ve become very close with a gigantic mitt full of them making it even more surreal to have those people (and more) in the same room at the same time, talking face to face. There’s no other way to describe it other than completely surreal. I mean, you know all about them: their loves, their children, their hard times, their fears and to have never laid eyes on them until that meeting and know exactly who they are is pretty fuckin’ cool.

I can’t remember which night was which nor where I’ve ever had so much fun before.

Krystle (@snarkykisses), Moi and Miss Karen (@karensugarpants) at The Sparklecorn Extravaganza hosted by MamaPop.

photo lifted from Dove Clinical Protection Photo Booth @ MamaPopRocks Sparklecorn Extravaganza

I stayed up all hours of the night living off basic necessities like coffee, pop and free swag food – and free alcohol (DUH!). I think I had one staple meal the entire weekend.

I felt like I was in college again.

Totally hugging on The Michelin Man in the Expo

Totally crushed on people I’ve been reading FOREVER like the GORGEOUS and very sizzle Sizzle.

Me and Sizzle

And her? OMG HER. I would move to Florida and live in a cardboard box just to be with her all the time.

Me and Miss Britt

My Americus twin. I don’t know what more I can say about her besides she’s funny, GORGEOUS and so generous.

Angie and Me. Us. Forever.

Oh, and she likes my bewbs.

My Ali (@alimartell), Me and my Angie, bewb lover (@alotofnothing)

Wednesday night, our BlogHer Carpoolers‘ vehicle arrived. Chevy dropped off a beautiful 2010 Equinox which I immediately fell head over heels for. It’s an amazing drive which I totally pimped out the whole time (because I wanted to, not because they plied me with alcohol and free food). I think I may have even sold it to the gas station attendant I caught drooling all over the hood.

I arrived at Miss Karen Sugarpants‘ house where she greeted me at the door with a beer in hand. Which totally makes up for her calling me a twat. Then I spooned her and snored sweet nothings in her ear for about two hours before we got up and headed out on our eight hour drive to Chicago. Giddy like little high school girls we crossed the border into Americus blaring Britney Spears while Karen earned her new moniker @karengrannypants.

And America? Can you please talk to Target about opening their doors at 7:00am. Kthxbai.

Arrived in Chicago short on hearing (I think @karengrannypants forgot her hearing aid back home because the stereo was louder than loud and my ears were ringing for DAYS) where we met up with my twin, my stalker (WUUUUT?) (P.S. Fuckin’ LOVE her), Miss Shash and my dearest Avitable (Yes, I said dear). A warm welcome indeed.

After finding our room and cracking open our WalMart beer (I never thought I could love WalMart or America more) we met up with Mrs. Flinger (but don’t click that link because Ree has beaten Leslie’s server to a pulp and there’s nothing there.) in the hall as they stuffed bags for the Room 704 Party. Skype doesn’t do that woman justice people. Mrs. Flinger is all kindsa awesomesauce!

Thursday night has become a blur of FINALLY meeting my imaginary friends, parties and swag.

Seriously? What is this swag y’all are talking about? I’ve never even heard of swag. Swag gives me hives.

(If you haven’t listened to Dane Cook’s ‘The Nothing Fight’ then that will mean absolutely nothing to you, just carry on.. we’re walking… we’re walking…)

I know Craftastrophe won a weapon, I drank some beer and walked about six city blocks at 3 o’clock in the morning only to turn around and go back to the hotel.

I paid for a conference pass yet didn’t attend one panel. I’m not sad about that in the least. Because you know what? That conference pass was worth just being a part of those Community Keynotes (Can’t find a link to video at the moment, sorry!) and the Room of Your Own sessions. I stressed a little that I was wasting my money not attending them until that Community Keynote. Then I KNEW why I was there.

Friday night’s Nikon Cocktail Party was totally fabulous. Met some goreous women, and hung out with some of my favourite ladies while I contemplated approaching Carson Kressley but shied away from his lips critisism fame and watched from a distance.

Can I just tell you that party? So well put together, so much fun pretty well the highlight of the trip.

Or so I thought.

Because that was BEFORE I made it to the Sparklecorn Extravaganza.

Oh.

My.

Gah.

I didn’t even get any cake, just a giant unicorn leg of fondant icing.

Unicorn cake. OMFG.

picture from amysprite’s flickr. Go see. She’s AMAZING!

But like Karen said: The party was like a HUGE wedding without all the boring stuff.

And then I went all Gene Simmons on Mrs. Flinger.

So ya. That’s BlogHer.

Ahem.

Oh! And Casey. My dear sweet Casey.

Nothing but perfection.

Another amysprite pic.

________________________

Side Note:

I wanted to thank you all for your outpouring of support during our difficult time in The House of Me. I don’t think I’d be as sane right now if it weren’t for you. So thank you from the bottom of my cold, dark, shriveled heart.

I love you.

There are interviews being conducted with the children starting in two weeks. I haven’t decided if I should be there or just have Carter talked to someone without me there. I’m working through that at the moment.

We close on our new house TODAY. Our internet will be cut from this afternoon until the 11th of August so I have no idea when I’ll be checking in again. I’ll do my best to keep up with e-mails for The Business and I’ll be here and there when my addiction sees that it’s time to head to the nearest WiFi location.

<3

P.S. None of the photos are mine. I’ve stolen each and every one of them. There’s been NO time to download my camera. If you click the photo it will link you to its rightful owner.

I’ve failed.

I’ve failed my child.

I see the words, and before I can finish typing them, I feverishly delete as the lump builds in my throat and as I think about the notion of googlebots and searchers finding this site with those words and I just can’t bring myself to include them.

I can’t even fathom their truth. I can’t comprehend.

As a parent, we do our very best to protect our children. We try our damnedest to keep them from compromising situations, and hope that what we’ve done is enough to protect their innocence.

My dear beautiful 3 year old son has been – over the last month, in the care of someone I thought I trusted. Someone I felt comfortable with. Someone who has allegedly taken advantage of our trust as parents and allegedly committed a crime against a child under their care.

Someone whom my child has been alone with on many occasions.

I want to believe that these allegations are false. I pray for my son, for this person, that this situation is no more than a tale from a confused child, a misunderstanding.

There has been an investigation, charges have been laid. My hopes for a misunderstanding are fleeting.

I don’t know what to do at this point.

I feel sick.

I feel confused.

I feel sad.

I am lost.

We’ve discussed the situation with Carter and he’s pretty adamant that nothing’s happened to him. I can’t really say much more at this point because I just don’t know what there is to say.

I am in shock.

I have failed to protect my child.

I hate age four.

We’re technically not there yet, so I hate age 3.8333333333…

We’ve reached the crossroads between independence and needing mommy for everything and it ain’t pretty people.

As of late, everything has been a fight. Questions and defiance all the time. It’s almost as if he’s mocking my authority, because seriously? Killing me.

This morning for instance: Carter kept insisting that today was Thursday not Wednesday. As much as I’d like him to be correct, he wasn’t. I attempted to tell him that today was in fact Wednesday, not Thursday to which he continued to insist that today was THURSDAY as if that would make it THURSDAY. I tried valiantly to ignore the constant But today’s Thursday Mommy. It’s Thursday, not Wednesday. Mommy, it’s Thursday right? Today’s Thursday.

Then tears started (his not mine -yet) and I gave up. I just let him go on believing that today is Thursday.

Choose your battles people, and choose them WISELY.

I never thought I would be a spanker, a yell-er or so frustrated with a child. I think I’m a relatively patient person, but this kid? Carter’s trying every ounce of control I have. Time outs are futile. He’ll sit there talking and fidgeting; I start the clock over each time until he sits there quietly and waits out his punishment but he’s sometimes so disobedient and difficult to the point where I end up yelling. He cries, I yell and everyone’s just pissed off at the world.

I’ve become That Yelly Mom.

You know That Yelly Mom. The one that can be heard from the road screaming at her kids while all the windows are open? The one that you wrinkle your nose at and think “She doesn’t need to talk to her kids like that,” or “Holy shit lady. Calm down.” Okay, so maybe not to that extent, but yes. That’s me.

I hate it.

I despise it.

Before I realize that I’ve done it, it’s too late.

I ask and ask  and then yell when he doesn’t listen; and before I realize that I’ve turned into That Parent I never wanted to be.

There has been no spanking to-date; I’ve resisted the urge so many times resorting to taking away privileges, time outs or early bed. Sometimes they work and sometimes it all just seems like a wasted effort.

So then I yell.

I know it’s a normal stage of development for a child to find and exert their independence, but it’s a stage that I am finding I don’t handle very well. With the combined whining from Hudson, who is also at a stage where he’s developing some semblance of independence, my patience are at an all time low. The stock I once had in my ability to parent effectively is about as deflated as the US housing market.

I just don’t know how to get through the next 12 months without having a constant and unforgiving battle of wills with a four year old child and not be admitted into a 12-step program in the end.

I went to see my grandma again this weekend. Her brother – my great-uncle – was in town from across the country. I hadn’t seen him in over ten years so it was nice to have the opportunity to visit. It’s funny how relationships change as we age. Aunts and uncles whom would sit huddled around the dining room table, coffee in hand, whispering in hushed tones so not to let our young ears hear the stories are now sharing them with us. It was kind of a surreal feeling to be sitting there, as an adult, sharing, listening and commenting – with a coffee in front of my while my youngest was perched on my knee and Carter was off in the living room playing.

Carter was me 24 years ago. Oblivious to the family dramas which were being relived in the next room. He was innocently playing as the stories of our sordid history unfolded before my very eyes. Stories I desperately wanted to know, but prayed had a different outcome.

As the two versions of the truth melded together, years of my past rushed back. Little tiny pieces that had begun to found their rightful place; blending and weaving ever so carefully creating The Big Picture. The Big Picture that doesn’t show my mom is a favourable light. It’s difficult to see that the truths I’ve believed for so very long were maybe not the truth at all. The person I should believe in, one hundred and fifty per cent, may have purposefully told me lies.

I don’t know how to deal with this information I’ve been given. I asked for it, it wasn’t unloaded on me unjustly. I knew it could potentially stir up some trouble for me and my brother, but I didn’t expect that it would be to this extent. Not that we, ourselves are in any danger but the chances of my mom feeling betrayed and hurt have increased significantly. The possibly of our relationship being changed is considerable, but I knew that going in.

I strongly believe that family events which have changed the course of my relationship with the rest of my family should be told. For years everything was shrouded in secrecy and as I near thirty I deserve to know what’s happened to my family.

I thought I was prepared to know.

Now I’m not so sure.

But I do know, I NEED to know.

The House of Me is awaiting the word to see whether or not we should officially be under quarantine. Mike fears he has swine flu. With flaming angry pink eye, cough wheezing and general shittiness, he of course believes he is on his death bed.

I am the only relatively healthy one at the moment, *touch fake MDF wood looking product* which doesn’t bode well for my sanity. Kids are on the mend but Hudson is still teething and Carter… is… well… Carter. Man that kid is high strung happy and moody active. He’s so much like his father I fear for his future partner just love him so much.

Mike called form work yesterday about a billion times to tell me he thought he had pink eye. His eye was oozing and crusty and red. Tell tales signs of the conjunctivitis. And that there my friends, is ALL kindsa hotness. I told him that he likely has pink eye and to stop touching it. When he came home he quickly pulled me aside, out of view of the kids and pulled off his sunglasses to show me a flaming red, angry, pussy* eye leaking and definitely oozing. Pink. Eye.

Eating lunch? Dammit, I always do that!

Afraid of possibly scarring Carter for life he refused to take his glasses off in front of the kid which prompted a million questions asking why daddy was wearing his sunglasses in the house. Mike thought that rather than telling him that his eye hurt and leave it at that, it would be better to concoct this story about how it’s too bright and he needs his glasses to see. Which, I HATE. Why the fuck make up a story when you can just give a very simple dumbed down version of the truth.

That’s how I deal with Mike most days. You think he would have caught on by now?

I immediately corrected him because Carter doesn’t need to have these dumbass stories created for his benefit.

Unless it’s about Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy or unicorns because those? Those are awesome magical beings – like Hobbits – and children need to have a little magic in their lives, not stupid stories about how it’s too bright in the house and Daddy needs to have on his sunglasses. I’ll bet if I let him keep going he would have begun singing some Corey Hart and we don’t need that shit at the dinner table, people.

Mike hemmed and hawed through dinner about whether or not he should have his eye looked at. Buddy wouldn’t even take off his figgin’ sunglasses for fear of scaring the ever loving crap out of his four year old, but thought it was well enough not to warrant a visit to the doctor? BRILLIANT.

I convinced him that Yes, his eye must be looked at; so he begrudgingly went to the doctor and after an hour called me to say that this old geezer doctor at the walk-in clinic passed by his room twice to see other patients. Then, when he finally saw the guy, he was told that he had strep throat. Mike continued ranting that he was never going to that fuckin’ clinic again because the geezer doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Apparently the doctor didn’t even look at his eye and only swabbed for strep but, people. You didn’t need to get up close to that thing to see that it’s badly diseased. Fuck, I could tell as he was walking up the driveway.

Eventually I had to cut him off to ask if it was possible that he did indeed have strep because he did sleep most of the weekend; and when he wasn’t sleeping, he was complain about being tired having a sore throat.

His answer? Ya, I guess.

The doctor deduced he had pink eye IN CONJUNCTION with strep throat.

NIICE.

So he did what any sane person with a swollen eye full of infectious disease AND possible strep throat would do – he went to WORK. (He sits in a crane all day long alone, he’s not worried about spreading it. *rolleyes*) About forty minutes ago he called me to see if he should go to the doctor to see if he has swine flu.

Apparently we’ve gone from denial to self-medicating.

I just don’t have the heart to tell him that it’s my fault and I had sharted on his pillow.

Now? My eyes? They’re itchy.

But I don’t have pink eye.

I don’t have pink eye.

I don’t have pink eye.

I don’t have pink eye.

Please, don’t let me have pink eye.

I just haven’t had enough coffee today. That’s it. Coffee. I need coffee.

________________________________

*Who knew there wasn’t a pural to pus and that it wasn’t pussy. I was writing at work and had to hurry since lunch time recess was coming to a close. Pussy suits him so it stays.