I have no title for this post.

Today, chatting with Lindy, I mentioned that WH (that's "Wonderful Husband") texted me at work to say he had just finished vacuuming the stairway and the second floor of the house. That's pretty darn wonderful -- hence the "WH" moniker. I told her it wasn't as if he did this to earn points. Rather, he did this in response to my bringing up the idea of hiring in a nice lady to visit two times a month and give our home a good once over in the cleaning department. It isn't as if I'm too good for working around the house. It's just that with the six kids, work, school, sports, activities, etc. there are some days when I begin shuttling kids or cars around town on my way home from work, and don't even see the inside of our house until 8-9pm. At that point, there are kids to get to bed and another day to plan for. My point to WH this morning was, we do the best we can, and even delegate several household chores to kids. And, yet, I still look around and wonder when exactly a pack of hooligans broke into my house and ransacked it. And because with a toddler who makes it his job to get into as much shit as possible every day and NOT put things back where they belong, well... things get out of hand pretty quickly.

However, as soon as I so much as formed the thought, WH was all "Oh, hell no" about it. Reason? Bringing in an Amish woman to clean was like offering an open invitation to steal our stuff. First of all, I don't know why he immediately assumed I wanted to hire an Amish woman. Perhaps the close proximity of them to our side of town? I have to admit -- I'll bet they do a bang-up job. Anyway... if we did happen to go with a nice Amish woman, a.) our electronics would be safe, and b.) aside from our electronics, I doubt there's much here she'd want.

Regardless, I am not hiring a woman (Amish or not) to give our house a good, thorough scrub twice a month. Instead, a flame has been lit under WH's backside, prompting him to not only vacuum, but clean* the garage today. I guess I'll take what I can get.


*Note: using the term "clean" here is done so ONLY if you coung moving a bunch of crap from one side of the garage to the other, and supervising a pick-up from Goodwill.

In which I 'fess up to being a big crybaby

So, here's the thing. I've become my mother.
Not completely, since I'm sure she'd argue that we are quite different in some ways. However, when I was a kid, and we'd be watching a particularly sappy movie on television, it was just a matter of time before I'd hear a huge sniff, and turn to see my mom wiping tears away.
"What?!" she'd say, starting to laugh through her tears.
And if my dad happened to walk in? Oh, my gosh... forget it. He'd give a good-natured hard time, laugh and go get her a box of tissues.

Now, that crying person is... me.

Gradually, over the past God-knows-how-many years, I've noticed a tendency to well up with tears if a really sad song was on the radio. Or, say, a really good, heart-string-tugging Hallmark commercial came on. Then, last Christmas, we were sitting in church and the pastor asked us to all stand and sing with the choir.

Oh. No.

I had been secretly crying to Christmas carols at that point for a month. And now, here I was, biting my lip to keep from completely losing my shit while everyone else harmonized on "O Come, All Ye Faithful." I tried averting my own attention by focusing on Bobby, pointing out all the pretty lights in the decorations. It worked. A little.

Fast forward a few months to March, when we kicked off the month with Bobby's first birthday. I couldn't even sing Happy Birthday to him, because I couldn't make it through the song without breaking down. Then, my beloved Butler Bulldogs became the unexpected, Cinderella-story of the entire NCAA basketball tournament. As they ticked off wins from the Sweet Sixteen to the Elite Eight, I would celebrate each win with an enthusiastic cheer -- and teary eyes. The day they made it into the Final Four, I got a double-whammy: as they were winning their game, Jack, Charlie and Sam were winning a tournament game in their indoor flag football league.

I. Was. A. Mess.

After that, during the boys' baseball season, I became extremely grateful for my sunglasses and their ability to cover my teary eyes. The boys had phenomenal seasons (Jack had his first Grand Slam!), ending with Sam's team AND Jack & Charlie's team winning their division championships. As long as I could keep the tears from sliding down my cheeks, I was good. Come to think of it, it was so damn Hell hot out there, anyone who noticed might just have assumed the tears were sweat.

Earlier this week, Lindy tipped me off to a new Kenny Chesney song, "The Boys of Fall." I am not a Country fan in the least; however, I gave the song a listen (finding the eight-minute video online) and almost completely lost my composure. Hello?!?! The song is about football!! How can I possibly cry at football? (It's a hell of a video, people. Check it out. Bring a tissue.) And in the past 24 hours, I have worked up a good cry about a half-dozen times thanks to the Chilean miners rescue. I really think you'd have to have a heart of stone to NOT cry for each and every one of those men, their families and friends as they emerged from the Phoenix capsule. Naturally, for me, getting all worked up and not letting out a good cry has resulted in the mother of all headaches. And the continuing urge to cry.

Before I completely take my red-eyed, quivering-chin award and call it a day, let me add that I am not alone. Someone I know -- someone of the male gender -- has previously been called out for crying at a movie. And it wasn't even the All-Time-Male-Approved-Movie-to-Cry-To (Brian's Song). Are you ready for this? It was... The Little Mermaid. And, he's further admitted to crying at the close of some Lord of the Rings film, but I forget which one.

And now, after coming clean and admitting to being a big crybaby, perhaps I'll just let the tears flow freely the next time I find myself moved to do so. What's the point of holding it in? None that I can see. Other than the fact that I will end up looking like a big, ol' sobbing raccoon as mascara runs all over my face. Hello, waterproof mascara! Where the hell are my tissues?

And Mom? If you read this, you totally have permission to call me out, poke fun and laugh if you catch me getting all sappy. You owe me a few.

Lobbying for June, July, August, November, December.

Why did I leave out September and October?

Simple. They are the months from hell, thank you very much.

September and October are frantic, harried and leave us feeling like we've been run over with a runaway dump truck. Not only is there school for the kids, but marching band practices and weekend competitions... football practices after school for two-and-a-half-hours and Saturday games. And let's not overlook the college student who needs rides to campus and back, as well as rides to work. And back. All this shuttling around town? Well, let's just say I swear I saw Jeff perusing the spray paint display at Menard's. He had stopped at "Taxi Cab Yellow."

Tomorrow marks the half-way point in our eight-week whirlwind. And to mark the occasion, Jeff is celebrating by having gallbladder surgery. And two weeks from tomorrow... shoulder surgery.

Oy vey.

So, tonight... as the kids and Jeff sleep, I am writing while waiting for a critical* load of laundry to finish in the washer, so I can transfer it to the dryer and call it a night. Since I will be on post-op nurse duty for Jeff all weekend, I anticipate catching up on blogging in addition to working from home and reading. Catch you all later.

*Critical because this morning Sam had to borrow clothing from Jack and Charlie -- his drawer was empty. Super. That might be because of the hideously malformed pile of clothing growing out of the laundry basket in the corner of their room. When you make it home past 8-9pm more than a few evenings in a week, the laundry do suffer.

I gave myself 15 minutes this morning to sit down and write a post. Then I got sidetracked by Facebook and currently have about 15 seconds to write something here.

Lots going on lately, just rarely find time to sit myself down at the computer and write. Which, really, contradicts the fact that I call myself/consider myself a writer. Because, seriously... if you are a writer, you must write.

Watched the season premiere of one of the best shows on television last night, Grey's Anatomy. Really connected with Cristina's character when she says to the hospital therapist, "Girls are either born simple, or they're born... me." I have tried to "simplify" myself in the past, and haven't felt like I succeeded. And, while I am still a far cry from being considered "high maintenance," I would love to be one of those women who can focus solely on the important things in life, (God, family, friends) and let all the s**t roll off her back. Unfortunately, I find myself worrying about or obsessing over unimportant things... things that distract me from where I really want to go.

Thankfully, there is always hope -- always a chance for change (note the parallel to Meredith's closing monologue on GA). Every minute, there's a chance to be re-born...

One in the W column...

Jack, #3 (on the right) Charlie, #6, at QB... ready for the snap

RAIDER VICTORY!

So, I've landed with both feet firmly planted in football season. There's just something about the chill in the air (minus the drizzle) and the sound of ref's whistles. I love it. And, despite some early season drama with the boys, during which they were considering chucking football for baseball, their season opener was fabulous -- a 26-6 win. Charlie scored two touchdowns, and Jack ran the ball quite a bit. (Missed a TD for himself after an opponent decided to trip, rather than tackle him. (And nothing was called?! WTH?!)

Here's looking forward to a great season!

WTH?! WEDNESDAY

I'd like to imagine I'd have something more meaningful to say following nearly a month hiatus. However, in the wee hours of this morning, when I wsa obviously still flying high from the soy latte I foolishly drank around 9pm last night, random thoughts began flying around my head, prompting a "WTH?!" thought-bubble after each one. And in keeping with some of my blog peeps' crafty, witty ways, I decided to christen today as "WTH?! WEDNESDAY." My own entry is as follows:

• My cell phone rang somewhere around 3-4a.m. No one was there when I answered, so I hung up. That call was immediately followed by another, in which some girl demanded, "Do you know somebody named Julius?! I went from zero to bitch in 1.3 seconds and told her she had the wrong number. Jeff said I should have told her, "He's sleeping right now..." However, I wasn't in the mood to start trouble and almost guarantee that somewhere, poor Julius would be getting his ass kicked promptly.

Feel free to contribute your own "WTH?! WEDNESDAY" offering in the comments. I haven't yet figured out if there will be a prize, or what said prize could possibly be, but there's got to be something for putting up with rampant insanity and stupid people.

I'd go Amish, but they use cell phones, too

So, this week started innocently enough. A good day at work, great cardio class, I got serious about a training diet and (for once) didn't blow it. The week was off to a wonderful beginning. And even better? It was a 3-day work week, since we are heading out Thursday for a family camping trip -- a "last hurrah" of summer, before college classes begin for Tyler, and the rest of the kids head back to school.

Then, Monday afternoon rolled around.

School registration for Jack, Charlie and Sam. The school didn't have the A/C on, and it was hot. Africa hot. As in, "this-should-be-considered-a-warning-you-are-about-to-enter-a-circle-of-hell" hot. Whatever. We handled everything fairly quickly... at least moreso than I had anticipated. Then it was off to the high school to help Kate. It had just started raining when I got there, but shuttled Bobby and myself into the school ASAP. We got hit with a few raindrops, but no major downpour. At some point in the following two hours, I set my Palm in the stroller cupholder, just in case, so I could hear it if Jeff called. Apparently one of the few raindrops landed in said cupholder, puddled together and proceeded to fry the living s**t out of my phone. Fabulous.

Throughout the next 24 hours I silently lamented the loss of, ... well... everything. Did you hear me, people? Everything. Contacts, phone numbers, addresses, birthdays, anniversaries, notes, shopping lists, the list goes on. And for a brief time, I was absolutely sick over the possibility of having lost hundreds of photos. Irreplacable photos that I should have transferred to the computer, but hadn't. Luckily, Jeff managed to pull the memory card, and there they were. Safe and sound.

In retrospect, I should be ashamed of myself, getting all worked up over a simple piece of electronic equipment. But wouldn't any other person get just as freaked out if their cell suddenly curled up and died? With as many people I know who use their phones for much more than making phone calls, I would tend to think I am not alone. Still, I feel like some spoiled brat, pouting and being all bajiggety over a phone.

A year ago, I was caught running a 5K in a monsoon, and my phone freaked out when it became waterlogged. You would have thought I'd learned my lesson then. You would be wrong. I swore then I should just go Amish and shun all things electric, bright and shiny.

Then you see a buggy pull up at Meijer (yes, I live in borderline Amish country) and see the dad chatting away on his cell phone, and you realize there's just no winning.