It's No Wonder NOC = Early Demise

I am a night shift nurse.  No, scratch that.  I am night shift.  I've often said that working NOC, being an N+ on a piece of paper is not a shift but a lifestyle.  It's very true and hard to explain.  I cannot fathom waking at 0500, showering, brewing coffee and bustling off into rush-hour traffic to be on the floor at 0645.  It's just not who I am.
The good...
I prefer to observe the crazy 8-1630'ers in their cars, frantically making phone calls, guzzling coffee, applying mascara, etc... and chuckle maniacally at them all as they whiz past me (never mind that I'm doing 45 in a 60---what?! I don't have anywhere to be!) And as you deal with your day jobs I am tucked peacefully into my cozy bed where I will stay until I wake up, because I don't use an alarm clock HA-HA!!!!
The bad...
But it's unfortunate on nights that I do not work. I am awake at 0100 knowing that I have to get up in five and a half hours to put four children on the bus and feed the other two breakfast.  And of course I won't get a nap before I punch my N+ ticket that night, because who can nap when they slept the previous night?
I originally thought that working nights would be the ticket for those of us with children.  They sleep, we work.  They go to school, we sleep.  In all honesty it still sounds good in theory.  But it's not a good thing.
I'm wore out, folks.  I'm overwhelmed at times.  No longer do my precious children sleep through every noise that I can create with a vacuum in the middle of the night, and they have yet to get themselves ready and on the bus without parental assistance.
I try...
On the Sleepy Tap in this house we have SleepyTime Extra tea (with valerian), and Nyquil, and have tried tylenol PM.  But there is only so much medicating one can do before feeling like a junkie for sleep. So we switch to alternatives.  Angry birds is good for falling asleep.  Crocheting works.  Television doesn't cut it simply for the fact that you're entertaining yourself.  Books don't work because it's too easy to become involved.  So those of us who label ourselves N+ end up not sleeping.
Well I could always switch!
But I do not like people.  Rather, I do not like people who get in the way of me doing my job.  I prefer finding out what I need to know, searching for problems and solving them on my own, documenting all of it and going home.  Your clicky shoes and smiley meetings and cheerleading for the team do not interest me in the least.  N+ are a breed of their own.  We are blunt, we are hard-working, we are vampires?
The ugly truth I am beginning to realize...
I will have to change.  I love my breed, my people, my co-N+...but I am not healthy in this capacity.  I already feel old, most likely due to the six sleeping demons angels in the back of the house.  Or I'm tired quite possibly because no one ever thinks to brew a darn pot of coffee at 1845 before I come in... Is that just not normal?  I long for normal, but without all the fuss.  I am a rule-breaker, a rule-maker, a well-informed decision maker...a picker, a grinner, a lover, and a sinner, even!  A joker! A smoker! But sooner than later...
I cannot be the midnight toker...
And thus, higher-HIGHER education.  Which will equal more sleepless nights and wholly stressful days, but with the benefit of knowing that eventually I can wear my own clicky shoes and call the shots.  There will be no more dinners that end with me leaving the house for the night.  I will hopefully not find myself awake at 0100 in front of my blogger screen waiting for the SleepyTime Extra to kick in.
To thine own self be true...
If the future brings me rounds at a facility, I shall visit my people.  I am awful fond of the N+ crews everywhere I have worked and I couldn't imagine not having their biting sarcasm in my life in some way.  I will dance to Saturday Night Fever songs with the sleep-deprived N+ folk who babble incoherently at 0430 about the things that really matter...like alligator hats, glove placement as a housekeeping check, IV pole dancing, and chair-chart cart choo-choos.  I will REMAIN POSITIVE!!! as I correct the misspellings on all of the memos on the board, because that is what I do.
I am N+, how 'bout you?

Extra-Special Dirty: The Real Reason Mommies Don't Cry

After my last blog, a mommy I know commented that she would have been in tears if she still cried.  I know exactly how she feels.  Mommies don't cry.  We don't.  It's not what mommies do.  We are the seamstresses of our families; we mend the broken and we reconstruct destruction.  Mommies are the CEOs, the CFOs, the Engineers, the Chefs, the Chauffers, the Electricians, the Plumbers, the Maids, the Dictators, the Farmers, the Personal Shoppers, the Therapists, the Pillars of our families.  We are powerful just for the simple fact that we exist.  Without Mom, the home kindgom will fall.  Of course there's Dad, but it's Mothers Day...Fathers Day is another day, another blog.  And speaking of Dad, Mommy takes care of him too.  We primp and fluff, and make ourselves pretty.  We hug and love and support.  Powerful, ever-strong, ever-lasting, always there Mom.  She has no time for tears.  She is our fearless leader.
Bill Gates doesn't cry.  The president doesn't cry.  The director of nursing doesn't cry.  Your boss at work doesn't cry.  Leaders don't cry.  They have too much responsibility to cry.  They are evil, they are mean, they know exactly what to do in times of crisis.  Steadfast rocks who are incapable of tears, aren't they?
Perhaps.  Or perhaps not.  These people have many of the things that others want.  Money, power, endless whatnots and who-zits to keep them happy.  Sure mommies may not have money or endless whatnots and who-zits that are worth anything to anyone other than the person whose pants' pocket they came from, but they have love.
Boundless, energetic, fearless, overwhelmingly fierce love coming at them from every direction.  From the Extra-Special dirty that her children make her house on a daily basis to the Extra-Special snail house with a custom built swimming pool that her child made as a pet "Just For Her" TM.  The Extra-Special love that an adult daughter will give her father in the hospital will darn near annoy the hell out of any nurse on the Earth, believe me, I know.  The fistful of beautiful flowers handed to you straight out of your carefully cultivated garden is Extra-Special...never mind that there are none left in the yard.  The Extra-Special $350.00 that you wire that child whose lights are out, car needs fixed, is going hungry trying to feed his or her own children.  Extra-Special Love, from Your Child, TM.  Made exclusively by YOU, for YOU.  No substitutions, exclusions, limit as many as your uterus can handle before falling out every time you sneeze.
This week a woman at work lost her two-year-old nephew to a drowning accident.  Yesterday, a day before Mothers Day, that child's mother buried her baby.  Buried her heart, her very being, her muddy floors and empty food wrappers, her crayon-covered walls, her fingerprinted furniture.  And most certainly she unearthed her tears.  I could not cry when my co-worker told me about the incident, I cannot imagine the loss.  I do not want to imagine the loss.  "I am sorry," I said.  It was not awkward.  It was simple and we both understood why.  He was not ours and we had no tears as I gave her a hug.  When a child is born, a Mommy is born, and with that we bury our tears.
Tearless Mommies be brave and true to your children.  They love you from the bottom of their muddy toesies to the top of their jelly-smeared headsies.  From them you earn your superpowers, the unsurpassed strength that makes you pick up that mop, wash those same clothes you just washed yesterday, cook sloppy joes the same day you put a fresh tablecloth on, and do third grade math even though you don't want to-or even remember how!  The ability to trade high heels for flip-flops, wear smudged nail polish constantly, put your hair up instead of curling it just so, these too stem from motherhood.  Sure you're stretch-marked, a bit chubby around the middle, exhausted and it shows, but you are home.  You are the beautiful princess in your children's drawings-and look at how SKINNY they made you!  Your hair is flowing and that dress looks fabulous on you!  And just LOOK at how happy you are!  Now granted you may not be made of purple crayon or have green apple colored curls, but when you hear "That's YOU, Mommy!" you believe it. 
Mommies, you are the steadfast pillars of your home.  You are the best that your family could ask for.  So hold your arms open to your Little Muddies and welcome them to you.  Be glad today and every day that you have buried your tears and that your world has become Extra-Special Dirty.

Kids are like overgrown gardens...Rather than give up, give in, or give them away, grow them with patience

This, my friends, is what we like to call overcrowding.  Too many good things too close together.  But it's beautiful, no?  To you this may be amazing, wondrous, and lush-as a garden should be.  Many different types of plants carefully selected to complement each other.  Now to ruin the dream for you.  This part of the garden has been seven years in the making, has had multiple varieties of plants in these exact spots, has been scattered with seeds by impatient me, using my front door garden as my plant incubator.  It has seen a giant hole, a flood, multiple dead shrubs due to my lack of inattention, and its very own colony of minion weeds.  And then it happened two years ago.  I let myself go with the garden, rather than against it.  Weeds may grow here for awhile, I'll get to them one of these days (with my ever-handy Roundup sprayer, no doubt).  As for the iris, they are already in need of staking...the hydrangea will need support as well.  The roses have not succumbed to fungus yet, but I am sure with all of the recent rain they will.  Anyone who has spent any amount of time outside in my yard with me can tell you that I always have pruning shears in one hand and an empty bucket in the other to be filled with clippings.  I will tell you all of the wonderful chores that I have planned.........later in the fall........or next spring.......or perhaps after the jungle overtakes me and I have to swing my way out ala Tarzan via a morning glory vine.  My little piece of Earth is a work in progress, and I LIKE it that way.
Hmmm...overcrowding, blooms too big for their stalks, out of control weeds, and 'seedling volunteers' everywhere.  Things where they don't belong, things getting gross from fungus or bugs, some things are, well, just not right!  But it's beautiful to those who don't live it...
Those of you who don't know what it's like to find your silverware in your yard:

....who have never experienced raw egg salad decorating your dining room:

....who have never had to explain to six children why they couldn't go play on their brand new playset on a 70 degree sunny day because of a temporary bee swarm 10 feet away from the monkey bars:

just cannot fathom being a parent of a large family.  But when you see all the kiddies with their hair actually brushed and their shoes on the right feet-which believe me is a rare thing, not to mention clothes right-side-out!- you all say "Awwwwwwwww...They're so cute and well-behaved!"  To you I raise my eyebrow and choke back a snort.  They are evil minion, these children.  This house is overcrowded!  These behinds are too big for their britches!  The attitudes!  The language!  The defiance!  It's almost like they're..........WEEDS!!!! 
Wow.
Makes you cock your head to the side and think, at least it does me.  Weeds?  Kids?  Hmph... But I don't have to yell at the garden, you say.  I don't have to hand out a whoopin' to those dandelions.  And the weeds and plants don't draw on the walls or spill koolaid on the fresh tablecloth or find my keys, sneak into my room and steal the baggie from the hardware store that has cabinet hinges in it!!!  Wait....I'm getting side-tracked now, and I believe I am onto something here, so bear with me.
Perhaps we should grow our children as we grow our garden, with patience and with love (sans the Roundup, of course).  Maybe we are growing something beautiful and have failed to notice.  All the picking, the cleaning, the rearranging, the folding, the transplanting, the mending, the construction, the reconstruction....they have kept us so busy that we have missed the complexity of what is truly happening around us.  Sure as I write this there is raw egg on the dining room floor and on the wadded up tablecloth in the hallway hamper....there's a muddy bulldozer in the middle of my living room...but my children went to bed happy and I KNEW ABOUT IT!  I really did!  I did not yell at them to go to sleep, I hugged each and every one of them and went over highlights of the day with each and every one of them.
And all six smiled.  Well, Nathan made a fishy face and kissed me with his boogery little lips, but that's just as good as a smile, right? 
The garden will always be here, whether it changes its look makes no difference, it will still be my garden.  The children, these half-dozen hoodlums that we have grown will be here as well-though hopefully they will move out and find their own job and apartment when it is time...But as a seedling tree will only become tall and gangly and drop limbs all over your front yard someday, you must still nurture it when it is young.  You must water it and feed it and support its awkward, annoying early years.  Because as a gardener, that is what you do.
So I will love you, my children...evil, filthy, loud demons that you are.  I will forgive you the peanut butter rubbed on the siding and the hamster loose in the kitchen.  I will TRY not to yell and make that vein in my head pulse, because it really takes much too much wine now to make all that stop...And I will enjoy you.  I will enjoy your everchanging, evergrowing, sometimes challenging little minds. And if you happen to overcrowd me too much with all your shenanigans, I shall warn you that I will be giving you away with the spare iris and daylilies!

Well You're the One Who Wanted Six Kids...

I often hear this admonishment whenever I lament my parenting woes to others.  I'm not sure that these folks realize how alienating this truly is.  Do they not realize that parents with only two or three children can be just as miserable some days?  Do the parents of an only child not have moments that they would love to jump inside the television's Toy Story and zoom to Infinity and Beyond?  How is it that having a half-dozen hoodlums makes us deserving of doom and chaos?  Could I ask anymore questions?  I'm sure that I could, but I'll try to refrain from sounding three.
While we're on the topic of three, let's talk about this morning.  I awoke and was informed of something that had been done to Dad's Chair (TM).  Dad's Chair (TM) is part of a ridiculously expensive-though quite the deal- sectional/recliner package that we purchased from Sofa Mart.  It is microfiber.  Microfiber was invented for mothers, I am here to testify of the ease that one can simply clean any stain, be it snot, peanut butter, crayon, Sunny D, pee, or whatever-it-was-that-I-had-in-my-pocket that fell out and got squished.  Now on occasion I have taken to using the hair dryer to blow-dry a damp, cleaned section of couch...briefly.  Works like a charm. 
I cleaned the couch yesterday.
I did not put the hair-dryer away.
There is a hair-dryer sized hole melted into Dad's Chair (TM).
"Ali did it!" My darling Three year old who most days only answers by "Princess" and is NOT 'gorgeous,' but rather "BOOOOOTIPUL."
"Oh she did?" Commence rubbing her nose in it and swatting her on the butt, sending her to her room, like a puppy with tail between her legs.
Not even a half hour later, they start sneaking to me in the kitchen, first Jo, then Max, then Ali herself.  "Kayleigh really did it, Mom."  "Mom, Kayleigh made us say that Ali did it so she wouldn't get the pants beat off of her."  And then Ali...Boootipul Princess Ali came to me with her big blue eyeballs and pretty blond hair and says "Mom...I nuh do.  Dabin tow Taywee to do it."  Gavin and Kayleigh....of course.
I could go on and on about who did or did not do it and how we all decided who did it, and why the hell didn't the younger kids throw Kayleigh under the bus to begin with?  She IS the mean biggest sister...Sibling logic is lost on me.  Point here being, I was forced to stray from my projects in order to fix Dad's Chair (TM) before dad woke up...  Thankfully I found a patch, and did NOT iron it on, thank you, but used some self-adhesive fabric tape-which I also got wrapped around my hands and in the carpet and all over Alison as well.  Let's just say, it sticks. 
The patch is a peace sign, and while it sickens me to know that I have already had to mend a not even month old piece of furniture, it IS awful cute.  Or was..........until Nathan chewed the darn thing off and ran away cackling to climb onto the dining room table where he could stomp and dance and growl at those of us below.
I know, I know...I probably shouldn't be whining about my day to anyone.  I'm the one who wanted six kids.  But I'm not complaining, I just have to share.  It is a rare day that I meet anyone with six children, and if I can spread the word about what happens in our house just think of all the money people will spend on birth control!  We're a walking Trojan commercial-Forget her pleasure, what about her sanity?! 
And speaking of insane, I took them to the store today.  What a wild bunch we must have looked like with me calling out things like "Gavin, Blue Bonnet!  Kayleigh, cinnamon rolls! Max, get your hands off that! Jolie do you have to pee?"  And our vision could not be complete without Bootipul Princess sitting in the cart on her Mountain Dew Case throne.  A young man passed me in the Giant Pickle (TM) aisle and actually backed up to speak to me.  His face was drawn into that classic panic of a fresh twenty-something father-his eyes wide and bloodshot, stubble on his cheeks, hair sticking out from his head like he'd been electrocuted, and I noticed different colored socks.  "Ma'am?  Are all of these children yours?"  **EYE ROLL**  "Well yes, but I may leave some of them here in the Giant Pickle (TM) aisle if they don't start acting like sweet little human beings instead of Pickle Monsters" I said with a grin.  "Well my wife and I just had our first baby, and I don't know how to do it, but you're doing this...wow.  You're so blessed...bless you...this is amazing."  Now I know that he was delusional from 934 hours without sleep and new baby and blah, blah, blah that any of you who DIDN'T want six kids would try to reduce the compliment with, but there are some of you that know...  Words like these make us stop and look at the Bootipul Disasters that we have created, and for approximately 2 nanoseconds we forget that our new couches have melty holes in them, their shoes are on backwards, and that one of them is wearing her clothes inside out because what Princess says GOES...and we say Poop On You, People Who Say 'Well You Wanted All Those Kids!'  We are LUCKY enough to have all these kids!  You wish that you could have such a glorious bounty of children running amok in your home!  You envy my frizzy-up-in-a-clippy hair and my baggy sweatshirt that smells like laundry that sat in the washer too long before it was put in the dryer!  Annnnnd then we come back to reality which is, believe it or not, conveniently located in the wine aisle and served best chilled...

Four Screws to Awesome

So I have been a busy little lady here today.  I have seven nights off from healing the broken, the sickly, and the loony.  SEVEN!  Do you have any idea what I can accomplish in a time frame like that?  Well I'm here to show and tell what has occured on Day Two.

Adam and I went to his sister's house this last weekend and saw the Best Contraption Ever (TM).  The kitchen trash can was one of those fantabulous Rev-A-Shelf inside the cabinet, hidden away from everything trash cans.  Amazing.  I have seen them before, but never in action and I am here to say: GREAT.  The kids were so impressed that they were actually finding things to throw away!  So a trip to Menards and Four Screws later...Awesome! 


And there has been an issue here lately of little children attempting to tie every cord that is connected to the computer in precisely 87 knots apiece and coloring on the monitor with orange and green crayons.  While I am a fan of art I prefer it on paper...and not the mail that I have on the desk.  We have been wanting to put the computer in our room for safe keeping and peace of mind, but our desk is too large.  The hunt for a desk that will fit where we want it to has been futile to this point.  And then today at Menards-you save big money there, you know...when you shop Menards?  Even Nathan was singing the song by aisle 836.  I found a desk that will suit our needs perfectly.  There is something equally frustrating and satisfying about building your own fake wood furniture.  Something that makes you sigh, scream, curse, and finally lie in a defeated heap on the floor and weep...  But then you end up with something that actually passes as furniture!

BRILLIANT!


Then I decided to tackle the children's bathroom, pina colada in hand, after they went to bed.  It seems that the remodel of 2010 did not want to last very long.  Rather, I don't know how to clean up after myself, so the kids found the primer hidden in the cabinet and sprinkled it on the beautiful black bathroom furniture...meh.  And the wall paper that I painstakingly hung has suffered too many toothpaste and crayon smears, splotches of 'what-the-heck-IS-that,' and is now rendered yucky.  What is my solution, you wonder?  Tile.  You can scrub it.  Is there anything left to say?

This of course is only the beginning.  I have also bought paint to refinish a furniture piece for the girls' room, and hardware for the kitchen cabinets, and rollers to finish painting the cabinets, and replacement doors for the broken kitchen cabinets.  I intend on repainting the children's bathroom furniture and rehanging their mirror.  I also have to write my last paper for this term of my BSN degree.  But most importantly, I have a date with a pretty neat guy, my husband.  We're going to the home show-isn't that romantic?  I figure that it may give me a few more project ideas...

Not with hair like this!

I'm not sure how anyone else dresses to clean their house, but I can't be frumpy when I do it.  Not with hair like this!  As you can see, it's very long, and if you even have one sixth of the number of children that I do, you know the kind of Goo that I could come into contact with.  So the hair must be corraled into a bun, or braid or the hated-by-everyone-I-know clippy.  As a side note, what the heck is wrong with the clippy?  It serves a very valid purpose, and no, I don't care that it makes me look like a nerd...
Beyond the hair, I must be wearing jeans.  Cleaning in pajamas pants just makes me want to curl up on the couch and nap.  Never mind that I wear scrubs at work, which are just pajamas with five pockets.  Which brings up another valid point.  Whatever I wear, it MUST have pockets, as I never know what sorts of tidbits will be brought to me throughout the day by children, or what items the Dyson will just be too wimpy to annihilate.  Walking to the trash can forty-three times a day? Not me-into the pockets you go, see you on laundry day!
Shoes.  I must wear shoes.  Flip-flops work as well, when the weather allows.  I so do not enjoy walking on crumbs and sticky something-or-other. 
And a bra.  Not that there's really anything to hold back, but a good counter scrubbing makes even the smallest grapes rattle in the tube sock, and that, my friends, just feels wrong.
Recap:
1: hair up, to ward off the ickies
2: jeans, because they mean business
3: shoes, to avoid the "seriously?! WHAT is between my toes?"
4: bra, let's save the jiggle for Baywatch or MTV
Hmph.  No wonder that not much cleaning gets done here...not after seeing the maid's beautification process.  Never mind that she has yet to make coffee and eat something.  Oh, and look here...new diapers are needed in the living room.  And what's that?  Forgot to text that question to motherinlawdearest?  Well I'd better just do that first.  May as well check Facebook and the newspaper while I'm at it, too... 
All prep done now, let's get to it, shall we?  Noon?  Already?  Well I guess I can make some lunch for you little rugrats, sure!  And you know since the big kids will be home from school soon,
I need to start thinking about dinner-which has to be early tonight since Adam has class and I have to work tonight...hmmm...
Maybe I can try this again in a few days...

OCD to Struggling Perfectly

I am an only child, raised by landscape designer parents, one of whom is an OCD neat freak (sorry mom, it's true...).  I remember when I was little I would literally be grounded to my room for months until my room was clean.  It's true, my room was a disaster area.  I would spend many beautiful summer days at a time in my 9x13 room buried under mounds of toys, books, and clothes.  It's not that my room started out this way, but whenever I had to pick up my room, I would empty everything into a giant pile on the floor and start anew.  I would spend days rearranging furniture in my room, posters on the wall, toys and books on the shelves.  At the end of it all I would have a brand new room, freshly designed and everything in its new place.  My parents would be happy, and I would be outside climbing trees again.
     When I moved out my M.O. was relatively similar.  I would obsess in the Walmart paint aisle over all the beautifully bright colors.  Heading home armed with painting tools I would refresh every wall and dilapidated piece of furniture that I could find.  Mixing paint colors?  Sounds like a great plan to me!  Try out wallpaper? Cool!  Make furniture? You can DO that? Okay then, let's try it!  It was only me and my dog, Goliath...the coolest dog ever, may he rest in peace.  Carrying my mother's OCD in my neatly arranged mental backpack I would arrange my closet by color, sleeve length, and season.  But I still had the obsession of dumping things into the middle of the floor and starting anew.  Sure it was messy and things were in a constant state of redo, but in my mind I could just SEE what it would someday be.
     Now I own a home.  I own the yard around it.  I also own the six horribly messy children that live inside of it, God love them.  Bless their little hearts they can't keep a darn thing clean, but when they do clean I can see myself in them.  Kayleigh especially, has the obsession of making the giant piles of toys, clothes, and papers that I had...pulling from every nook and cranny in the room to make one horrific pile of "OHMYGODWHATHAVEYOUDONEINTHISROOM?!!?"  But leave her and Jolie in there for a few hours, and after much screaming and name-calling there comes a certain quiet...  And the room is clean.  It is perfect in my half-OCD, half-packrat eyes, and I am happy.  Gavin, on the other hand, used to keep his room eerily clean and organized.  Who is this child, I wondered, and where on Earth did he learn this?  But with Max's coming and growing and mess-making, my brilliantly organized oldest son gave up on the clean.  I understand this, it is what I have become.
     I am struggling perfectly.  I'll admit it.  How I loathe the messiness that having six small children brings.  I have become overwhelmed by the poptart crumbs, broken crayons, and endless reams of unrolled paper towel and toilet paper that festoon the hallways like a bathroom pirate's birthday party gone wrong.  The carpets are stained and stinky, the carpet cleaner defeated.  The laminate floors of the dining room smeared with dropped peanut butter sandwiches and spilled juice.  Ripped paper under the desk, under the table, in the middle of the floor...thanks to the littlest children in my house who think that paper is good for chewing and spitting out.  They're like little cows, chewing the older children schoolwork up and spitting it out like cud.  I thank Amana every day for the HE washer and dryer in my laundry closet.  They do overtime, washing both clean AND dirty clothes that end up in the hamper.  Because heaven (and Alison) know that if you wear something for 3.42 minutes and take it off, it's filthy and must be cleaned.  And I won't even begin to discuss the toys.  Toys everywhere, like Fisher-Price, Mattel, and Hasbro had a drinking game in every room of the house, and ended up puking plastic by the end of the night.  And for those of you who have had the pleasure of dining with us, which is an experience in and of itself, you know.......we NEVER have enough silverware.  Not that we started out this way, but it is how we have ended up after the Silverware Fairy swoops in and removes it all to the yard, which is another mess.
     Our yard is divided into many sections.  We have: 1)the part of the front yard that has not been landscaped and needs to be mowed, which is a pain, but at least we have a big yard, right?  2)The transitional part of the front yard that I have begun a flower bed in, and there's a pretty tree here, but you know, we could really use some more plants in here... 3)The microcosm of the front yard, right inside the L of the house, where the entrance is-it's finally perfect and I enjoy it here, the plants are beautiful and I wish I could magically morph the rest of the yard into this wonderfulness 4)The part of the front yard that surrounds the driveway that needs to have a few tons of dirt delivered to it so it can be regraded and the swamp-o-the-rains can be gotten rid of  5)The dog's part of the backyard, poor Charmin, having to live amidst broken toys and bicycles and trash the kids can't manage to get to the trashcan 6)The patio, which is often covered with chalk designs, more trash, and yard debris....and the grill, which may or may not be in the place we left it, due to the children thinking it doesn't 'look good' where we last had it, apparently... 7)The overlook at the top of the hill-an area that we would like to integrate into the backyard ala cozy firepit style, and I have discovered two redbud trees that I rescued from the hill-vines flanking either side of this area 8)The eroding part of the backyard that extends from right outside the living room window to the concrete pad the shed is on, which houses Adam's 4-wheeler,(and has been rendered, well, how can I say it, USELESS at the moment by the children having stuffed chalk, peanut butter sandwiches, and miscellaneous stuff in the exhaust chamber and gas tank).  9)The field, which is what I call the huge open area of the backyard...and is currently the plot of the new Ensinger Fortress (TM) to be completed April 2011  and eventually a swimming pool  10)The Hill From Hell (TM) that I have mentally struggled with for many years now, and physically struggled with last summer thanks to the city  and finally 11)The football field sized area at the bottom of the hill that we have no access to unless we install a zipline or an alpine slide, both of which are really cool ideas, but impractical financially...  All in all, the yard is 0.88 of an acre.  And yes, to bring up a sore spot again, all my silverware is out there...somewhere.
     I love my house, holey drywall, stained carpets, missing doors and all.  I love my yard, covered in trash and toys and silverware as it is.  I don't intend to soud bitter about any of these things.  I am grateful for my house, my yard, my family.  But the past few years have destructed these things to the point of "OH NO! WHERE DO WE BEGIN??!!! GET THE NAPALM! CAN WE CLAIM AN EXPLOSION ON HOMEOWNER'S INSURANCE??!!"  I don't know where to begin.  I have so many projects to do, and I find it very depressing at times that no sooner I feel like one is done and I am beginning another, the children have destructed the first.  So begins my ambivalence about the whole mess of it all.
     I am a subscriber to Better Homes and Gardens.  But I do not believe them.  Those people in those beautiful homes and gardens do not exist.  Especially the ones who are shown in their WHITE kitchens with their FOUR kids.  Really?  Not true.  You just had this home built and the yard landscaped, and this is your first day living here.  Where are all the papers they bring home from school?  Towels for decoration...really?  Cute little organizational systems don't work like you say they do, writers.  And do you people really separate your colors for the wash?  Really?  Quit making me feel inadequate!
     But I shall rise again.  I have my plans.  I can see how this is all going to look when I am done with my work.  And for now that is what keeps me reading, and planning, and drawing on my graph paper, and hoarding paint swatches and brochures.  It's what keeps me yelling at the children every day to "Clean up this house, dammit!"  For now I alternate between sitting on the porch or at the dining room table, drinking coffee and avoiding housework by playing with my phone or laptop and NOT sitting, but rather cleaning, cleaning, or cleaning.  I will eventually live in the house and yard that I dream of.  I will sit on the deck (not yet built, mind  you), drinking a glass of wine, watching my happy little children in their holey jeans and wrinkled shirts with filthy little faces (please, I don't expect my laundry routine to change!) play in the Ensinger Fortress (TM) and beating the crap out of each other as they do best.
     And eventually I will have pictures and a nice little blog like every other Super Mom on the face of the Earth.  I will post my stories and my pictures of my escapades as "the mom of six kids who is landscaping constantly and remodeling her home" and I will call it something catchy like "Four Egg(singers) shy of a Dozen, and we're all Cracked" or "Me, My Man, and our Six-Pack: Another Day on the Ensinger Ranch," or maybe even "Adam and Shannon: SEE what happens when you eat the damn apple?  DO YOU SEE??!!"  But I kid...and I must get to cleaning.  And someone needs a diaper change...and it's time to make lunch...and do I have enough time to go to the bathroom amidst all this?  I really need to go...