Solving the Sock Problem

I used to regularly blog about what a domestic disaster I am. But there are only so many times you can talk about your dislike of cleaning before you find out that your neighbor reads your blog and doesn't want her kids to come over to your house anymore. Ahem.

But now I have something positive to share. I have solved my sock problem.

I gather from pop culture that we are not the only family that has a problem with missing socks. But I am sure we're the only family where there have been HUGE piles of socks scattered around the master bedroom for weeks at a time. You see, it wasn't that we'd have 3 or 4 missing socks each week. We would always have 30. But there weren't actually missing, they'd just gone through another load and were in another basket. Or something.

The only way I can get myself to fold laundry - or to pair socks - is to do it while I'm watching TV. So I would pile all the partnerless socks on the floor to await the next basket of clean laundry. Sometimes they were. Sometimes they weren't. Sometimes I couldn't even tell.

I tried having each member of the family have a certain type of sock, but that didn't work because different sports require different socks and so do different types of shoes. Next I tried having everyone match their own socks. That worked well, except when there were arguments about whose socks were whose. And except when it took them an hour to make 3 pairs. In desperation, I encouraged everyone to pair their socks BEFORE putting them in the wash.

That one might have worked, except that the socks didn't really get clean that way. And I was spending a lot of time yelling about sock pairing.

I really don't need any more reasons to yell. And I really like clean socks.

So then I had an epiphany. It probably won't seem like much of an epiphany to those of you who excel at domestic things, but please remember I have a low bar. I've screwed up pasta before.

Anyway, I now sort socks as soon as they come out of the dryer.

Ironflower's pile. 

I pull them out and pile them by owner. It makes it much easier to find pairs. It takes all of 5 minutes to go through each pile after a load. Then I just throw pairs into the clean laundry basket and bring them upstairs to be put away. No more giant piles in the bedroom!

I mean, we still have a lot of partnerless socks. And it's not like I've come up with a creative use for them. (Puppets? Cleaning rags? I'm not sure which way to go here.) But there's much less angst involved in the whole process.

Now if I could just figure out why most of the partnerless socks are Hugmonkey's.


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Friday I'm in Love . . . .With Dinner

I (sort of) made dinner the other night.

Normally, in our household, Hot Guy does the cooking. . .and if he's not around, we have hot dogs. Or grilled cheese. Or a delivery from the pizza place. Sometimes - if he's been gone a lot and I feel guilty - we'll do a hummus/veggies/crackers thing. But even I'm getting sick of our staples. Somehow it seems wrong to demand that my children try new foods when they've only seen me cook five things (I can also make spaghetti. But without the meatballs. Not popular.) So I decided to branch out.

The next day, when I was seriously questioning my decision to branch out (I mean, 3 busy kids, beginning of the school year. . .what was I thinking?) I got an email about easy, quick recipes using Pillsbury's Grands! Biscuits.  Obviously, a sign from the universe. Especially since my super-picky kids loooovvvveee biscuits.

But just to be on the safe side, I had Hot Guy supervise.

With assistance from Hugmonkey, who decided that his jester hat was more appropriate than his chef hat.

Except for the whole lack of vegetables and protein, I probably could have just served these plain. They are definitely within my tiny comfort zone. 

Not so much cutting chicken. It would be hard to try the Easy Grands Chicken Pot Pie without, you know, using chicken. 

Hot Guy said I didn't have to follow the recipe exactly (the email said that too, but it still made me nervous), so I   we cooked the chicken a bit first. It made things take a bit longer, but only by a few minutes. 

Almost ready for the oven. 

These are the boys actually eating real food at a meal. You can download the Pillsbury's Grands! Biscuits recipe booklet and tell me which recipes you think your kids will eat. We're trying the Taco Melts next. 

I had planned to take a picture of the just out-of-the-oven and put it here. Except that by the time I got my phone, Hot Guy had dished plates out to the hovering children. 

I didn't even get a picture of Ironflower eating at the table. It might have been because I was too busy eating myself. Definitely the best pot pie dinner we've had around here. 

I was selected for this opportunity as a member of Clever Girls Collective. The content and opinions expressed here are all my own and are not indicative of the opinions or positions of General Mills. Compensation was provided by General Mills via Clever Girls Collective.

Only a Family Member Can Sign You Up for Hoarders, Right?

It's not that I don't want to buy Girl Scout cookies from your kid. I do. I love Thin Mints. I love that now you can donate box right on the form.

But please don't show up at my house unannounced.

See the table? It always looks like that.

I do not keep a neat house. This is one of our family resolutions for 2013, but we haven't achieved it quite yet. And on Sunday afternoons when it's not soccer season and we're not going to Grammy's house and there aren't any birthday parties and the weather is cold and the budget is tight? You are likely to find us all in our pajamas. In our messy house. My hair will be unwashed. The trash bags will be by the door because it's trash night.

I should have written this post last week because not only one but TWO little Girl Scouts showed up at our house today. Even worse, we actually knew the second Girl Scout.

Did I mention that there are also two broken lamps by the front door? And another huge pile of junk that's getting donated next week? Oh, and our walls are so desperately in need of paint that I have covered them with the children's drawings?

Any one of these factors wouldn't stress me out. But all of them? At the same time? With people who don't already appreciate how charming I am?

Yikes.

They're lucky I bought any cookies at all. But you know, Thin Mints.

I would love to be one of those people who's ready to entertain at the drop of a hat. I think I actually used to be one of those people. But I'm not now. So consider this a warning:

Don't show up unannounced if you want me to buy something from your kid. Or if you'd rather not know how slovenly I really am.

Okay?

In Which I Beg For Approval and Comments

I had great big plans for this week, you know. The kids were off from school, so I was going to GET THINGS DONE. Like the laundry. And organizing the art/toy bookshelf so things didn't crash onto Hugmonkey's head periodically. And dealing with the huge pile of papers on my desk. Oh, and we were going to have lots of playdates, as well as the circus and bowling.

We managed a couple of playdates. We went to the circus and recovered from the late night. But then we've been trapped in the house thanks to car issues and Hot Guy working at one of his jobs for many, many hours. So it seems like the kids have just improved their Mario Kart skills while I. . .what the hell have I been doing?

Laundry is still not done. Nothing is organized. And they go back to school tomorrow, which means running around like crazy to deal with the whole half day afternoon schedule that I loathe. But I did make my blog look pretty.  I had to mess with code and search for borders that I liked and learn how to use Photobucket (I know, I know, late to the party again) and deal with Blogger choosing this week to have problems and. . .

So I guess what I'm saying is, please tell me that it was worth it. Tell me that of course I should not have dealt with the household because now my blog looks so cute and that is way more important. Please?

Would This Stress You Out?

The only thing I can say about today is that it didn't rain until after we got home.

You know, I really thought sending Ironflower and Lovebug to school in the afternoon (yes, we only have half day kindergarten around here, it's crazy) meant that our lives would be more relaxed this year. Boy, am I stupid.

We should have had plenty of time this morning. The flu shots were at 9:45 am. But before that I wanted to stop at the bank. And before that I had to pack enough food for lunch and for ChunkyMonkey's constant eating. And before that I had to an edit an article for my mom, which I should have done last night. We made it to the doctor's office on time and all the children calmed down quickly after their initial screams of pain. I was proud of them.

As we hit a nearby park I realized that we didn't have Ironflower's school bag. I changed my timeline so that we could swing by the house before Kindergarten. We played at the park for forty-five minutes, then we left because we had to pick up Lovebug's school bag from where it was being embroidered (at the preschool they are all give the same bag and then the bags are decorated at home with fancy stuff from the craft store. I've discovered that I have no knack for decorating bags, especially when said bags are practically beaten to death by preschoolers. The fancy embroidering that lasts all year is a bargain a $5 a bag, let me tell ya.)

But of course with 3 kids, one of them not yet 2, you can't just run into a store. Especially this store, which has its parking lot half a block a way. So I hauled the stroller and dragged the kids in, only to find out that the bag I dropped off on Tuesday was still not ready. So we went back to the car and I distributed more food before discovering that I had dropped my keys somewhere.

By the time I found them, it was time to race home, grab Ironflower's backpack and get her to school by noon. Then we drove to Lovebug's school to get him there by 12:15. Then we drove home so I could practically toss ChunkyMonkey into his crib for a nap. Then I may have worked. Or stared and drooled at the computer, I forget which.

At 2:20, things started up again. Woke ChunkyMonkey, changed his diaper and armed him with food and drink. Drove to Lovebug's school, where his teacher told me he'd cried over every transition and he began crying (very, very loudly) again as we started for the car. Raced to Ironflower's school and parked on the access road, which is SO not meant for 2 rows of parked cars. Dragged the boys to Ironflower's classroom door and then had to talk her out of playing on the playground. Because we also had to go to the grocery store and I knew I couldn't pull that off after another Lovebug set of tears (he did NOT want to go on the playground) and the 18 dangerous situations ChunkyMonkey would get into during the first 5 minutes.

The big kids were GREAT at the grocery store, which is why we now own 5 more Hot Wheels cars and 1 more Littlest Pet Shop animal. ChunkyMonkey was done after about 10 minutes, which is why I probably owe the store a dollar for all of the grapes he ate while we were shopping. But that seemed a lesser crime than the meltdown that I would have had if he hadn't calmed down. I'm pretty sure my screams would have driven customers away so I'm sure it all works out.

Now they are watching TV and I'm going to make something simple for dinner. Like crackers with peanut butter.

Hi! I'm Jerseygirl and . . .I'm a Lazy-aholic

I've never actually seen myself as lazy, you know. I've always just avoided things I don't like. Like running. And algebra homework. And vacuuming. . .well, you see what I mean. Only weird people like doing stuff like that, right? Doesn't mean I have a problem. Oh, and I like to maximize my efforts - like, my kids know it's much better to ask me for something when I'm already up than when I've just sat down to my morning bagel. Because I love my whole wheat bagels, okay? And because getting up and down 20 times really ruins a meal. Ask the French. They'll tell you.  Anyway, it doesn't mean I'm lazy. It just means I like to manage my time wisely. Like when I taught my students to grade their own papers so that I wouldn't have to spend my Sundays doing it.

But recently, my television remote control has caused me to re-evaluate my character.

I like to watch TV before going on to my other relaxation techniques. After I've gotten my fill of HGTV, Bravo, Comedy Central and E! (just for Chelsea Lately, I swear), I turn off the TV. Naturally, the relaxation benefits would be harmed if, say, I had to get up to turn off said TV. Which is what happened last night. And the night before.

I am pretty sure that since the batteries are new, the remote control itself is dying.

So all I have to do is call the cable company, right? I mean, we pay them almost as much as a car payment every month so I'm sure the least they can do is get me a new remote. Preferably a super-power remote that will never, ever wear out.

Because I DESPISE calling the cable company. In fact, I despise it so much that I didn't even do it today. Sure, putting things off could be considered laziness. But it's not like I sat around doing nothing today. Why, I took my kids for a walk! (as far as the 4 year old's legs would go) I mopped! (okay, the water was already on the floor) I did laundry! (well no, I haven't put it away yet) And I ruminated on the remote control problem. What I'm thinking about doing is seeing if I can get the downstairs remote control to work on the upstairs TV. So that I'll be able to turn off the TV without getting up and without calling the cable company.

It's the perfect solution. For a lazy person. Which it appears that I am. Damn.

Why Isn't There A Special Education Track for Parents?

This is a repost. Because I'm sick. And it's still true.

I cannot cut Ironflower's peanut butter and jelly sandwich properly. No matter what knife I use, no matter where I place the sandwich, no matter how thinly I spread the jelly, the jelly always leaks out by the time I'm done cutting it into totally unequal triangles. Often said triangles also have mangled edges.

When I ask my children what they want for dinner, they usually say McDonald's.

I have yelled the words "Shut up!" more than once. Once a day, I mean.

I am convinced that there is a bedtime routine that will cause my children to go bed peacefully and remain like that all night. I have tweaked the routine so many times I can't even remember what it was at this time last year.

I can't sew. Or cook more than a few things like hot dogs. Or iron. Or remember to actually bring my coupons to the store. And I loathe cleaning.

I don't know how to dress myself. The demands of this whole mom thing would seem to make yoga pants and t-shirts a sensible uniform, but I get depressed when that's all I ever wear. But I also get depressed when all of my cute clothes get stains on them.

I don't really like playing.

It takes me forever to strap and unstrap kids from the minivan. And sometimes they have to remind me to strap them in at all.

I am CLEARLY not keeping up with the rest of the class around here.

Was there a class I missed? Was modern parenthood the real topic of that abnormal psychology class I never went to? Do I simply need some remedial tutoring? WHY did I spend all those hours lugging around a weighted Cabbage Patch doll senior year of high school, if not to help my future parenting skills? Of course, I spent a lot more hours in Trigonometry . . . .which I have never, ever, ever used once since.

Or is the problem deeper? Do I have a processing disorder? A delay in mothering skills? And if so, where the heck is my Individual Education Plan? (Should that be Parenting Education Plan?) Why don't I have an aide? How come I never get pulled out of class to work in a quieter room with fewer distractions?

Is There a Special Education Department for Moms?

I cannot cut Ironflower's peanut butter and jelly sandwich properly. No matter what knife I use, no matter where I place the sandwich, no matter how thinly I spread the jelly, the jelly always leaks out by the time I'm done cutting it into totally unequal triangles. Often said triangles also have mangled edges.

When I ask my children what they want for dinner, they usually say McDonald's.

I have yelled the words "Shut up!" more than once. Once a day, I mean.

I am convinced that there is a bedtime routine that will cause my children to go bed peacefully and remain like that all night. I have tweaked the routine so many times I can't even remember what it was at this time last year.

I can't sew. Or cook more than a few things like hot dogs. Or iron. Or remember to actually bring my coupons to the store. And I loathe cleaning.

I don't know how to dress myself. The demands of this whole mom thing would seem to make yoga pants and t-shirts a sensible uniform, but I get depressed when that's all I ever wear. But I also get depressed when all of my cute clothes get stains on them.

I don't really like playing.

It takes me forever to strap and unstrap kids from the minivan. And sometimes they have to remind me to strap them in at all.

I am CLEARLY not keeping up with the rest of the class around here.

Was there a class I missed? Was modern parenthood the real topic of that abnormal psychology class I never went to? Do I simply need some remedial tutoring? WHY did I spend all those hours lugging around a weighted Cabbage Patch doll senior year of high school, if not to help my future parenting skills? Or course, I spent a lot more hours in Trigonometry . . . .which I have never, ever, ever used once since.

Or is the problem deeper? Do I have a processing disorder? A delay in mothering skills? And if so, where the heck is my Individual Education Plan? (Should that be Parenting Education Plan?) Why don't I have an aide? How come I never get pulled out of class to work in a quieter room with fewer distractions?

This Should Probably Be On Twitter

But it can't be, since I fear Twitter. I think it could consume my life. Besides, I can't join it now that the conventional media has discovered it. I hate bandwagons.

Anyway. Here are some things too short to be posts and too me to be tweets.

I managed to fuck up brownies tonight. I mean, it's one thing to not be able to cook more than hot dogs and muffins. . .but brownies? I'm not sure what I did, either. But luckily enough in the middle survived that I can bring them to Lovebug's class tomorrow for his birthday.

Also, I am paranoid. Yesterday she saw a Carmen Miranda doll at a museum. She said, "I'm going to pretend that doll is a ghost who says, 'Ooooooooo, quesadilla! Queeeessssaadiiiilla! ' ". Naturally I assumed she was developing some possibly racist associations with Latino culture but when I asked her why the ghost doll would say that she responded with, "Because I like quesadillas."

Stream of Semi-Consciousness

Ironflower threw up at school this morning. (Yes, she had school. Long story.) Anyway, I feel SO guilty. She said her tummy was upset, but I attributed it to her usual morning complaining (we are not a morning family) and her runny nose. Hot Guy took her to school, but he forgot her bag. And I forgot to remind him, because it's not like she really NEEDS the bag, right? She's never touched the spare outfit.

So not only did the poor kid puke, she had to wear too big borrowed clothes while Hot Guy went to pick her up.

Once again, we are totally the white trash family at the preschool. Feeling sorry for Ironflower led Hot Guy to stop by the movie store while getting stuff for dinner. (The way we're going, we should probably just give up and let them watch Nascar and wrestling and horror movies every night during dinner. But I digress.) And even though we normally eat dinner while watching a kid's movie only on a Friday night, we're doing it now. And we're watching Barbie and the Diamond Castle.

I'm actually kind of liking these Barbie movies. They have surprisingly good messages and music. Even Lovebug likes the music.

But, well, I'm liking this one for another reason. As it started, Hot Guy mentioned that the guitar playing friends reminded him of the Indigo Girls. Suddenly we started (in code the kids couldn't understand, of course) pointing out all the ways that Barbie and the Diamond Castle could, in fact, be a nice lesbian love story. Begcause whenever we talk in code around the children we totally regress, this has been amusing us greatly.

Try to keep that in mind if you're ever forced to watch the movie.Because it TOTALLY works.

And if you want a real lesbian love story, watch the movie Go Fish.

Just One Touch and My Heartrate Increases

I like to call myself, "efficient", but in actuality some might call me, "lazy". I keep diaper changing gear in the living room so I don't have to run upstairs all the time (okay, this was also a safety thing back when I had a newborn and a one year old, but now that I only have one kid in diapers it's probably unnecessary). I pile things on the stairs so I can take them all up at once when I'm going up there anyway. I fold laundry while relaxing on my bed. When it's time for my kids to clean up their toys, I'm more likely to be supervising than carrying around the Lego tub.

And yet I can't bring myself to use the "One Touch" option on my microwave.

Seriously.

Every time I think about it this voice in my head says, have you become so freaking lazy that you have to touch one button instead of four to heat up your son's (frozen, storebought) quiche? Do you really not have the time to press four damn buttons?

And then I press the four damn buttons. I'm sure there are situations in life where a one button option could be lifesaving. But I'm also pretty sure that those situations do not involve microwaves. It takes less than five seconds to press the buttons - and to choose which button you need for the "One Touch" option. So it's not even a real time-saver (yeah, I checked. I'm a dork, okay?).

Maybe it's for people who don't know how to type in minutes and seconds? Or for people who have numerophobia?

Do you have the "One Touch" option on your microwave? Do you use it?

Embracing My Inner (Outer?) Domestic Dorkiness

Clearly it's time for me to get some high-powered executive type job (never mind that I can't even get a teaching job around here, surely I can get an executive position I'm not qualified for) and hire a cleaning lady. Or a cleaning man. Whatever- I'm not sexist. It's just that the whole stay-at-home mom writing/blogging gig is not so lucrative (though any tips/websites/suggestions/job offers on how to make it more so would be much appreciated) and I need an Alice (like on the Brady Bunch).

My chore options today (as opposed to all the regular cleaning/straightening stuff) were mopping the first floor or cleaning out the refrigerator. Since I LOATHE mopping and love organizing, I decided to clean out the fridge. Although, honestly, how does it get dirty in the first place? It's not like I let the children play in there. Anyway, I removed the contents and began scrubbing with my Target brand Clorox wipes. And somehow I slipped, banged my head on the produce drawer and made one of the shelves fall onto my head.

Yes, I injured myself while cleaning out the refrigerator.

Launderess, Nurse, Maid, Chauffeur, Housekeeper, Nanny,Valet . . . .But Not Cook

I don't cook. I'm not going to say I can't, because I can make grilled cheese sandwiches, pasta with a jar of sauce, hot dogs, frozen vegetables and blueberry muffins. But I really don't like cooking, which I believe would have disqualified me had I actually had to apply to be a stay-at-home mom. Last week when I went out to lunch with the (stay-at-home) moms from Ironflower's class I was totally silent when the discussions turned to what their husbands fed the children when they weren't around. The list included grilled cheese, hot dogs, pasta and calling for pizza. I hope no one noticed my blush.

Fortunately, my Hot Guy loves to cook. Unfortunately, he is not around all the time.

It's not that I need him for breakfast or even lunch. Toasting things is not beyond my ability, nor is assembling sandwiches and microwaving pasta. But when Hubby is not here for dinner, I feel a sense of panic. Surely a real mom would feed them real food and not grilled cheese sandwiches? Some moms actually serve those for lunch!

Since Hot Guy has been in his latest show (Hot Guy does many things but his first love is acting and he is performing in this show, - go see it if you live in the New York area, thanks) he has missed a lot of dinners. And I have felt enormous pressure to perform.

Last night, my children each received a plate of hummus, pita chips, baby carrots, grapes, watermelon, cheddar cheese slices and pita bread. While none of this required actual cooking, I was very proud of my beautiful plating of all four food groups. I felt worthy of the stay-at-home mom title. I felt good about what my children were eating.

Except that they hardly ate any of it. Lovebug ate grapes, watermelon and hummus. Ironflower ate grapes and a pita chip. And though they don't eat much more when I put out hot dogs and peas, I felt defeated.

I know all about the zillions of times a child must be presented with a food before s/he accepts it. But they like all the foods I presented. I know that toddlers aren't big eaters. But two grapes? It's like they know I don't cook or plate with any skill or style. It's like they've given up on me.

Not that they eat much more when Hot Guy cooks. But he's not supposed to be super-mommy, is he? He's already super-daddy for being the only real cook.

I give up. I'm buying Hamburger Helper the next time I'm at the store.

Mommy the Maid

That's the title of some mom's blog, "Mommy the Maid." I've never read it and I don't know the writer, so I don't mention it to inspire anyone to read. I mention it because the title scares me. If I were my maid, I would fire me.

I know that keeping the house clean and the laundry done goes with the whole stay-at-home mommy territory, but it's just not my thing. I mean, the laundry's always done (and usually put away), the dishes are done, the toilets cleaned and the floor is swept. But that's about it. I don't dust very often and no one in their right mind would eat off of my floors. All the mirrors should be Windexed. There's a lot of clutter. And I don't think I've ever cleaned the windows.

I scrubbed out the refrigerator last week. I was very proud of this accomplishment until I saw that the milk had leaked. I bitched at Hot Guy about it and for some reason he took offense. All I could think was, "Oh my Goddess, I have to clean it again?" I like tasks that can be completed and set aside for a while. It's why I only do laundry two days a week and why toy pick up doesn't happen until right before bed. I get a certain satisfaction out of being DONE.

That's probably why I'm not good at those little lifestyle changes that make diets so successful. I've switched to olive oil spread and low fat mayonnaise and I can't understand why I haven't lost thirty pounds. But I digress. Maybe if I did all the maid type stuff I would lose thirty pounds, I don't know. In fact, I doubt I'll ever know - there's no way I'll ever be able to describe myself as "Mommy the Maid".