You have a bead where?!

I went to a women's family reunion with my husband's mother in Portland, OR over Labor Day weekend. It was a blast. I got to meet a whole bunch of family that I hadn't met before and we did some really cool things. We did some wine tasting at a couple of wineries and took a dinner cruise on the Willamette river.

On the last night of the get together, a psychic came to the party and gave readings. I thought it would be a fun experience, having never consulted a psychic before. My mother in law had been to one a very long time ago and got some spot on information about her life. I never intended it to be a serious thing and didn't plan on consulting her again after the reunion was over. But she gave some pretty amazing readings to a lot of people. Hearing what she said to some , and how many of those predictions had come to fruition, was just spooky. (There's a link to her website to the right in case you are interested). When it came to be my turn, she gave me some information about my job, my husband and my kids. Something incredible was supposed to happen with my career in only nine weeks time! Well, it never happened, and most of what she predicted for me just never made it to reality. But finally, I have one thing I can say has finally come true. She predicted that I would have some minor medical emergencies with my children that would sending me speeding for the nearest urgent care and/or emergency room.

Yesterday, KC put a bead in his nose. I didn't see him do it. I only heard the words "nose" and "bead" and I knew enough. His little finger was slightly bloodied from his own attempts to dig it out. With a steady hand and a flashlight, I plopped him up on the counter and peered up his nostrils to see a green bead perched just out of reach. I tried to get it out myself with a pair of tweezers, but I only managed to push it up even further. So I cancelled my plans to take my friend out for her birthday and trotted off to urgent care for the nose bead-ectomy.

I could tell the doctor was trying not to laugh too much. I'm sure she has seen her share of this. But we happened to get the same doctor who only a few months ago removed a bead from my daughter's ear. In all fairness to me, I didn't know the bead was in her ear. I had taken here there with a fever and a sore throat. KA claimed she didn't know how it got there. It was only discovered accidentally. But the doctor must wonder why we still allow beads in our house.

My first order of business this morning was to vacuum between and underneath the couch cushions. Slowly but surely, I will rid my house of all signs of beads.

Not a first timer

I have blogged before. Nothing earth shattering, but I lost my motivation with the topic, so I stopped. I think my last post on the other blog was sometime in July. But this is different. This is a blog about being a mom. I happen to be a working mom, but a mom is a mom in my view. I make no judgements about those women who choose to stay home and I ask no one make judgements about me choosing to work. Everyone is welcome. And I'm not mad like angry mad. Just crazy. Running around in 10 different directions with my head cut off.

I'll start by telling you about me. I am married (eight years), have three great kids (two girls ages 7 and 5 and one boy age 2). I have a college education and own my home. I drive a minivan five days a week from my house in the burbs to my cubicle 17 miles away. My younger kids are in a daycare three days a week. I wish I could tell you what I do, but I can't. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you (kidding). It's not really that ominous, but it's not a can of works I want to open. And in case anyone wonders, I don't do anything of questionable moral value, like take my clothes off, just for a paycheck. I have an office, for Pete's sake (and if anyone can tell me who Pete is, I'd appreciate it). I carry a Blackberry, check my e-mail from home too often, there are business cards at the bottom of my purse in a lame vinyl case. So it's a legitimate job. I don't like to think of myself as a soccer mom. But with the minivan and the Girl Scouts and speech therapists, I probably am.

For purposes of this blog, my husband is DH (dear husband) and my children will be affectionately referred to as "Kidlet A" or KA (the 7 year old), "Kidlet B" or KB (the 5 year old) and (can you guess?) "Kidlet C" or KC (the 2 year old). Those initials in no way correspond to their real names or initials. It's just how my husband I started referring to them when we didn't want them to know we were talking about them.

Today is Thanksgiving (unless you are my relatives in Canada, in which case it's November 27th). My son brought home this adorable picture he made at school. I've had these kinds of things for Mother's Day, but I've never gotten one at Thanksgiving. Isn't it cute? I want to put it in a frame and I know it's one of those cheesy kid things that I'll never throw away. I have the perfect place for it in my cube.

Motherhood starts at different times for different people. For some, it's the moment of conception; for others, it's the birth. I have a sister who takes in foster kids. For her, she becomes the mom as soon as those kids walk through the door, even if they don't stay very long. The one thing I notice that we all have in common is that being a mom is hard. Whether you work or not, all moms start by having to diapers and feeding (don't get me started on how hard breastfeeding was), then it becomes potty training and and toddler beds. I'm in several different stages at the moment. KA is working on spelling words and using the Internet to practice. KB is in a half day Kindergarten for kids who just miss the deadline for regular Kindergarten and is working on counting to 100. She's doing pretty well, but she always seems to skip the number 15. Not sure why. And KC is struggling with certain elements of using the potty. I am seriously buying stock in Fruit of the Loom. I refuse to wash poop out of underwear.

Sometimes I may be humorous and laugh at all that being a mom has to offer. Some days, I may just be flat out exhausted and rather crusty at all that being a mom requires. Laugh with me, cry with me, share with me. I need all the help I can get. This is my diary - the diary of a mad working mom.