Life's Like a Box of Chocolates

If you have spent any time around kids, then you know that kids have a tendency to get sick. A lot. Usually, kid illnesses fall into one of three categories: (1) the cold/flu; (2) some crazy contagious thingy (see pink eye, hand foot mouth disease, impetigo, etc.); or (3) a stomach bug. Anytime your kid is sick, it sucks, but there's something extra sucky about a stomach virus. When a very young kid has a stomach virus, things are bound to become a shit show - and I mean that in the most literal way possible. It's not the kid's fault of course. They can't help it and I'm sure the sudden urge to yak takes them by surprise too. 

What I'm trying to say is that when you got kids, there will come a day when you will find yourself knee deep in yesterday's dinosaur chicken nuggets and there's nothing you can do about it! Short of putting a diaper around your kid's head, you will one day find yourself on your knees scrubbing an unidentifiable substance out of your carpet as you wonder how you went so wrong in your life that you ended up here. If you are lucky, these episodes will happen in your home where you can deal with things pretty efficiently. If you aren't so lucky, you will find yourself in the center ring of your very own freak show where everyone will get to experience the scary sights and smells. 

That's a big lesson I've learned. Try as you might, you can't really plan for every contingency. Kids get sick. Sometimes at really inopportune moments. You just gotta roll with it and hopefully laugh about it later. You never do know how even your best laid plans will turn out and that's life! 

Now, I think we've established that anything that can go wrong for me usually does, so let me tell you about my family's trip on the "Polar Express" or as I call it "The Train Ride To HELL." For those of you not familiar, the Polar Express is an actual train ride that families can book during Christmas. It's billed as festive and fun for the kids. Tickets go on sale months in advance and sell out in minutes. Well, I managed to score tickets for the train by breaking night and ordering them online the minute they went on sale. So far, so good, right?

The day of the ride, the kids were so excited, especially my youngest son Thing 1. I dressed the whole family in matching PJs. By God we were committing to this thing! We were gonna have some holly jolly Christmas fun dammit. We boarded the train and things were going fine for about the first 10 minutes. The train was packed with families. The seating on the train was booth style, so we arranged ourselves in a set of booths at the back of the train.  At that time our youngest daughter was about 6 months old. The hubs was holding the baby while I settled our other three kids in for the 2 hour long train ride - remember that number: 2 hours. 

It was like a freaking Norman Rockwell painting on that train. Children singing carols, dads playing patty cake with giggling infants, the entertainers on the train strolling up and down the aisle playing instruments! Out of nowhere, my youngest son stands up in the booth and announces "I feel sick." Before I even have time to react, he basically erupts like a tiny volcano. He has gone full Linda Blair exorcist style in the middle of a crowded train. We immediately panic, cause that's how our family rolls. I'm trying to catch the puke in whatever I have available. I grab one of the kid's Santa hats and hold it under my son's mouth. He is now shrieking AND puking and the train falls quiet as everyone turns to gawk at the shit show happening in our booth. Did I forget to tell you that the bathroom was extremely tiny and non functioning on this train? I yell to my husband, "get some paper towels and something to clean this up!!" Instead of doing that, though, my dear husband takes off running for his life up the aisle - with our 6 month old baby girl in his arms! Homeboy is just running! The hat is full, so I'm now desperately trying to catch the puke in my pocket book. Where is it all coming from? He's so freaking tiny!

"What the hell are you doing?" I hiss at my husband as he runs past me up the aisle for a second time. "I have the baby in my arms! What do you want me to do?" he yells over his shoulder at me as he disappears back down the aisle. "Give the baby to one of them!" I point to my useless older children who have moved seats and are trying to pretend that they don't know the rest of us. "They can't hold her!!" he yells back at me as he continues running up and down the aisle, Santa Clause pajamas flapping in the wind. Mind you, dear readers, my oldest daughter was 9 at the time - totally capable of holding her sister for a few minutes. "Give them the baby and help me" I say, except my voice has dropped several octaves and I sound like a 65 year old biker. By this point, my son's cute little elf pajamas are completely saturated, so I have no choice but to strip him. My son was 2 at the time and potty trained, so I didn't think to pack any spare clothes for him, and we still had about 1:45 minutes left on the train. It occurs to me that he might have to spend the rest of the time on the train buck naked.

Finally, Forrest Gump stops running and hands the baby to our oldest daughter. My sick son is shivering like a chihuahua, naked under his coat, but at least he's no longer yaking! Thank the sweet baby Jesus for that. When my husband returns, he has a roll of paper towels, some disinfectant and a garbage bag. Let me tell you that the clean up operation in that booth was....something that I've been trying to forget for over a year now, but can't. It was that traumatic, people! About the only stroke of luck we had was that the gift shop actually had one set of pajamas in my son's exact size available for sale. By the time we had the booth cleaned up and my son dressed, the damn train ride was nearly over. The kids looked like they'd been through war and my husband's legs no doubt were aching from the mini marathon he had just run. Needless to say, we did not book another train ride this year. Maybe we'll return one day....like with our grandchildren or something.

You guys have no idea what's about to happen to you...

What to Expect When You're Not Expecting

My youngest child will be turning 2 in April. She isn't just the youngest, though. She is also the LAST baby. Yes, no more children will be passing through this baby chute and I'm ...... OK with that. I'm actually more than OK with that. You see, it's a great thing that we stopped at 4. Anymore kids and I'd be writing to you from a psychiatric ward. Seriously. Don't get me wrong: I love my kids and I'm glad they are all here. I'm pretty sure, though, that each child has taken at least 2 years off the end of my life. I'm not that great at math, but if my calculations are correct, this means that I am slated to die at least 8 years early. But, anything for your kids, right?!! I'm just gonna hang on long enough so that I can experience the joy of one of them having to wipe my butt for a change. I don't care which one of them has to do it, either.  Pay back is a bitch!!

I am very commonly asked (often with a faint look of horror), whether we plan to "go for number 5." After I'm done laughing hysterically, I bluntly inform the asker "Hells no!" Then, with happy tears in my eyes, I tell (sometimes perfect strangers) that we've burnt that bridge to the ground! YOU SHALL NOT PASS little baby makers. To give you an idea, 10 minutes after our last child was born, I was on the phone scheduling my husband's vasectomy. Why a vasectomy vs. a tubal ligation? My reasoning was simple: after 10 years of being pregnant, birthing babies, and breast feeding babies, I felt very strongly that my loving husband should experience the joy of having his genitals smacked around a bit. Fair is fair and the vasectomy procedure is faster and less invasive. He agreed and so the factory is closed. 

Now, here's the million dollar question: how did I know I was done? How do you know that your family is complete? It's such a tough question, but I will say that I knew after my first, second, and third children that I didn't feel like everyone who was meant to be in our family was here. The picture wasn't complete, so we knew that we wanted one more. As soon as my daughter was born, I felt it! She was the last piece of the puzzle and I haven't had any second thoughts since. 

How else do I know? Seeing other babies does not make "my uterus ache with longing" as I've heard others poetically describe it. Newborns are obviously adorable and sweet, but the feeling I get is more so of my uterus trying to detach itself from my body and escape via any orifice it can find! I can picture my uterus galloping away from me like a runaway horse. In fact, if I didn't still need my lady parts, I might be totally OK if I woke up some morning to find them gone! I'm so bad, that it's not safe to sit me next to an expectant mother. God forbid she asks me "what's labor like?" or "what's it like having 4 kids?" My eyes suddenly glaze over and I start saying very unhelpful things like, "have you ever felt like your lady bits were doused in gasoline and lit on fire?" or "I haven't slept in 10 years" or "I have a hemorrhoid for each child, you do the math." And then I laugh and laugh and laugh! Yup. So, I think it's fair to say that we are done. 

Now, if you know me, you know that I adore my children. I would never take them for granted. I know how lucky I am to have 4 healthy kids. But real talk ... kids are hella hard. I think it's OK to admit that too. My kids have a really early bedtime and it's not because I'm a conscientious parent. Once 7 o'clock rolls around I'm in search and destroy mode. Objective: find the children and neutralize the threat. I need them to not be in my line of sight after a certain time at night. It's not them, it's me! I sprout hair, teeth and fangs when the sun goes down and it's just in every one's best interest to go the F the sleep. 

I think sometimes we go into this parenting thing with the expectation that kids will some how make everything better. Study after study shows that kids do not necessarily make life better or marriages stronger. I've learned to approach this parenting adventure from the standpoint of: I'm just trying to raise good human beings. My kids were not put here to fulfill some image of myself. They are unique, individual people whom I have committed to guiding towards adulthood. But boy do I live for the funny moments, the peaceful moments, and the joyful celebrations. Those moments make all the little daily struggles well worth it.

Jingle Hell

When your kids start to out number you, you quickly find that doing stuff you used to take for granted becomes hard. Really hard. Like soul sucking hard. For example, going out into public. I have four kids, so anytime I get to leave the house with just one or two kids, I sometimes get a little cocky. Hey, I've gone lots of places with all four in tow and it was fine ... ish. I mean, no one died, got lost, or got arrested, so that's a success! Right? 

Well, let's talk about my oldest son's Holiday concert. My husband was working, so I decided to take my two youngest with me to the show. My oldest daughter attends a different school, so it was just me and my two little shadows: Thing 1 who is three years old and Thing 2 who is one. 

The concerts at my oldest son's elementary school are held in the auditorium. It is always packed on concert days, so, a wise woman would do well to get there early. Unfortunately, I am not a wise woman, so after parking 2 miles from the school and carrying one kid and dragging the other, I made it into the building. Ok, feeling a little sweaty, but no big deal. Brush it off. You made it! Now, let's find a place to sit. 

I scanned the crowd and actually found two seats near the front! My luck is changing, I thought, as I sat Thing 1 on a chair and put Thing 2 in my lap. Easy peasy. We'll just sit here and enjoy the show. Alas, it was not to be. 

I don't believe I actually saw any of the show. My eyes were fixed on my one year old who was doing her best imitation of Gollum screaming "MINE" every time I tried to take something dangerous out of her hands. Where was she finding these dangerous objects? In my freaking purse. But here's the kicker, I let her rifle through my purse in the hopes that it would distract her long enough to get us through the concert. But once you open Pandora's purse, there's no turning back. I had created a monster. She must have snatched every pointy thing from my bag: my keys, a pen, a metal credit card case. It quickly turned into a game of tug of war. She, trying to pull the bag and its stabby contents to her chest and me, desperately trying to pull it away from her in the opposite direction. She was enjoying scattering my business cards all over the floor and sucking on my keys and was not about to give up the bag. "Why is she so strong?" I thought to myself desperately as I continued wrestling with her. 

It was about this time, that she reached into my bag and angrily pulled out one of the maxi pads I keep in there for emergencies and tossed it across the aisle. She looked up at me with an expression that said, "Your move, bitch." Of course I let go of the bag and scrambled after the maxi pad. 

By this time I am actively sweating. I am faintly aware that my son's class is singing, so I pop my head up periodically to smile at him. He appears to be mouthing the words to "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas. "It's really lovely, but I'm kind of busy whisper-screaming at my daughter to please shut up and sit on my lap. I find myself frantically offering her various bribes, except that's useless cause she's one and doesn't give a damn about anything and cannot be bought. She laughs and gives me a toothy grin as she tosses a business card for a company called "Pure Romance" (don't ask) over her shoulder. I resemble a gopher, periodically popping my head up to smile encouragingly at my miserably singing son or snap a fuzzy cell phone picture. 

Throughout all of this, my youngest son is actually behaving! He's sitting next to me fairly quietly. Thank God for that, right? Wrong. As soon as the show ends, it's his turn to go rogue. As everyone is filing out, he decides that he's mad as hell and he's not gonna take it anymore. He throws himself onto the floor and begins to wail! I have my daughter on one hip and I'm trying to pull him to his feet, but he's gone boneless. He now weighs at least 100 pounds and I can't seem to pull him up. I decide, "Screw this, I'm just gonna leave him there!" and I start to walk away. He is not following me and I'm starting to get the stink eye from other parents observing the scene. The school principal even goes up to my wailing child in an attempt to console him. He looks at me like "Lady, is this your kid?" I avoid his stare pretending not to know the child who now seems to be speaking in tongues. 

After a few more seconds, I decide that I've finally had enough. Even if I have to drag him out by one foot, I'm getting out of there. I don't care who's watching (or judging). As if he sensed the impending danger, Thing 1 stops crying. I pull him to his feet and hightail it out of there. Needless to say, it was not my most successful kid outing! 

What's the lesson here? Kids can be little assholes sometimes and the degree of assholery will increase in direct proportion to how important it is for them to be quiet. Attending a festive holiday concert? Your little asshole might pull some sanitary napkins out of your purse and toss them at the horrified old lady sitting next to you. These things happen people! And...you will get through it. You might have to enter witness protection for a few years, but it will pass. And when they look at you and smile in the way only they can, you'll remember: they will only be this little once.  Enjoy the ride. It goes super fast. 

Coxsackie Virus: Or My Descent Into Hell

It all started on a Monday. We received an innocuous looking slip of pink paper from Luke's daycare:

"Please note that a case of coxsackie virus has been reported in your child's classroom. Please take appropriate precautions." 

Naturally, I wadded that bad boy up and tossed it in the trash with the rest of my junk mail. We get these notices a lot this time of year. Big deal! Kids get sick. What am I gonna do? Quarantine my kids because some other kid has the sniffles? 

Stop right there. You can clearly see from my dismissive stance that I had no f'ing clue what coxsackie virus is. I thought it was some sore throat thing. No big deal. First rule of war: know your enemy. I was already on the losing side. 

Anyway, we continued with our hectic schedules. With 4 kids in the family ain't nobody got time to worry about some crazy little virus! We were soon forced to slow down when Luke developed a fever and sore throat. Now, my husband and I have 4 kids ages 9, 6, 2, and 6 months. We are past the point of running to the pediatrician for every fever. We got the fever and sore throat protocol down pat. No biggie. I still didn't connect any of this to that little slip of pink paper.

Welp, one by one this bug circulated through the family. First 2 year old Luke, then Logan and then big sister Sarah. I prayed that somehow I'd get lucky this time and avoid catching what the kids have. I washed my hands diligently, I popped some pills preventively, but in the back of my mind I knew I would not make it. I never do. If my kids get sick, I eventually get sick too. Sometimes I just embrace the inevitable and let the sickness take me like an antelope that knows it can't outrun the lion. Just kill me and be done with it! 

And if I get sick, my husband gets 20 thousand times sicker! He claims that the virus mutates into a much stronger version once it gets to him making him much sicker than the rest of us....yeah, no. 

Like a thief in the night I felt the symptoms begin to creep up. Was that a tickle in the back of my throat? Was my forehead a little warm? Sweet baby Jesus, why!? I must have picked up my kids' flu. Pretty soon I was calling my mom on the phone at 8:00 a.m. insisting that I was dying and that she needed to come now before it was too late. It was a Wednesday and the kids who weren't sick (in this case Logan) needed to get to school. I was officially useless. My daughters looked to me for love and comfort. You are on your own kids I rasped with only my bloodshot eyes peeking out of the blanket. Go find my mother. She's our only hope now. 

I could see Sarah shaking her head at me. Slowly. As if in disbelief. I know what you're thinking kid. This wasn't my proudest moment as a parent. 

With a little bit of love, grandma's soup and some penicillin both of our fevers broke later that day. Sarah was fine the very next day and I thought I was on the mend too until....the itching started. 

It begins quite innocuously. A few red bumps on your hand. They kind of itch. You think, hey no big deal, must be a bit of a rash left over from the virus. But then the bumps start spreading. By evening, both hands are covered in red itchy welts. No biggie! You think to yourself, clearly in denial. Nothing a little Benadryl can't fix. Pretty soon though your kids are like "ew mommy what's happening to your face?" And you look in the mirror and realize that your nose looks like it's about to rot off on account of all the sores. What the hell was this illness? All the kids had was a fever. No one got this crap!

Flash forward and I am sitting in the local urgent care wearing a hijab because I am literally covered in sores head to foot. I brought along my 6 month old Stella too because she was feeling a bit warm. I know what you are thinking, "awe poor baby!" Screw the baby people! She's fine all the kids were fine! I'm the only a-hole in the family who erupted like Mount Vesuvius. I'm like the elephant man confined to my house. I'm being fed through a slot in my bedroom door because no one wants to come near me!

Anyway, the doc at the urgent care took one look at me and said, "Ew. I know what you got." By that point I was ready to submit myself to an episode of Medical Mysteries. I must have some exotic ailment like flesh eating bacteria! "It's coxsackie," he said dismissively. "Nothing you can do about it. Just has to run its course. Your co-pay is $20 dollars. Thanks." 

And that's our family's first experience with coxsackie virus. 

P.S. Note that in end we all actually had some form of the coxsackie virus. That is what caused the fever and sore throat.

P.P.S. Really lucky bastards like me also develop nasty sores on their hands, feet, mouth and other areas like the scalp and face. Fun times I tell you. 

P.P.P.S. How come all my kids just got a sore throat and I get the same illness and my nose basically rots off? It just ain't right. 

So tell me, has your family ever dealt with this dreaded virus? 

Pregnancy: I'm Doing It Wrong

As many of you may know, I had my fourth (and FINAL) child in April. What you may not know is that I am terrible at being pregnant. Now, this may sound like an odd thing coming from a woman who has been knocked up 4 times, but it is the truth. If there was an Olympic category for "worst pregnant person ever", I'd be bringing home the gold!

Some women just exude pure joy when they are pregnant.  Little birdies chirp around them. Angels sing when they enter a room with their glowing skin and perfect little bumps. They say things like, "I am just soaking in every moment of this pregnancy" while sipping organic juice and eating a healthy salad topped with grilled chicken. They talk about taking prenatal yoga classes and lovingly chart each milestone and prenatal appointment on a special keepsake calendar. 

I stomp around with a permanent bitch face slapped on. I get horrible morning, noon, and night sickness that lasts well into the second trimester. I eat hot dogs and cold cuts and sometimes cold cuts on top of hot dogs sprinkled with freaking soft cheese. The only exercise I do is throwing up. Occasionally I may rise from the sofa to hand my kids some money so they can run to the ice-cream truck and bring ME back a King Cone. I gain at minimum 50 pounds each pregnancy. On a small framed woman, 50 pounds is a whole lotta pounds let me tell you. There ain't too many places for that weight to go, so it goes EVERYWHERE. I get heartburn so bad I walk around with a Maalox mustache from guzzling the stuff. Speaking of mustaches. My pregnancy hormones get so out of whack, that I could compete for the role of bearded lady in my very own freak show. I become so forgetful that my doctors have to call ME to remind me that I do in fact need prenatal care. It's unreal how bad I am at gestating human life!

Well, every pregnancy, I have what I call a "come to Jesus moment." It is a moment in time where I realize that I am seriously done being pregnant and cannot imagine waking up even one more day looking and feeling like I've swallowed a basketball, a football, and a dang soccer ball. About 25 weeks into my last pregnancy, I had my come to Jesus moment.  Picture this: I am standing in my kitchen angrily slapping together a sandwich when my youngest runs in screaming about something or another. All toddlers sound like drunk people when they talk, so I really couldn't understand what he was saying.  Bending down to hear him better, I hear a loud "RIPPPP!!" In confusion, I quickly stood back up in search of the noise. Looking down at myself, I realized what had caused the sound.

I had split my pajama pants wide open. My pajama pants. Pants that are supposed to be stretchy and loose. Pants that had failed me. Apparently sensing the fragility of the situation, my son fled the room.

As I stood in my kitchen, suddenly nude from the waist down, all sorts of irrational thoughts flooded my head like, "could I sue the manufacturer of these pajamas for intentional infliction of emotional distress?" and "the youngest child witnessed everything - he will just have to go." Letting out a wail of pure horror I fell to my knees and gathered the tattered remains of my beloved Victoria Secret pajama pants in my hands.

Never again, I whispered, my fist clenched in the air. Never again. My husband Lou, alerted to the commotion by my toddler's drunken babbling, chose that moment to unwisely enter the kitchen to investigate. 

Any way, that's how Lou was scheduled for a vasectomy 6 months later. I wasn't kidding when I said never again. What was your "come to Jesus moment"?

Fakebook

If all you ever knew about someone was based on their social media presence you might be tempted to believe that everyone lives a pretty charmed life. No strife, no struggle, no need to change their underpants 'cause clearly their shit don't stink.

You'd also be wrong, wrong, wrong. Social networking sites like Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Pinterest are the equivalent of a perpetual first date: your legs are always shaved, your outfit's always tight, you're on your best behavior. You say all sorts of things people would never actually say in real life like "Look at my zillion carrot diamond ring!" or "just feeling sexy today!" Who talks like this? We do.  When we're on Facebook! 

There are actually people out there who become depressed when viewing other's pages because it seems to them that everyone else's life is so much better! See this article written about this phenomenon.

It's human nature, I suppose. We've probably all contributed to the myth that is our lives on social media. One thing that I try to remain aware of is that we never really know what goes on behind someone else's closed doors. You don't know what people are struggling with behind the posed stances and brilliant smiles. 

The same person who just posted a seemingly idyllic pic of themselves and their significant other wind-surfing in the South Pacific may have been arguing viciously with that person moments before the shutter clicked. 

That pic of a gourmet home cooked meal? The kids probably refused to eat it that night. They had chicken nuggets instead.

Those adorable pics of young siblings with their arms around one another? Their mom probably had to threaten them with extinction and then bribe them with candy to get them to sit still long enough to take the pic! It probably also took at least 104 crappy pics to get the one Facebook worthy shot.

Cute puppy dog pics? That little ball of fuzz probably crapped on the carpet later that day. 

Social networking sites provide a moment frozen in time without any context whatsoever. Those of us on the outside looking in might be thinking "gee, that person has the perfect life!" 

Nope! 

Nobody does. So, wish your friends well, but know that no one leads a perfect life. We wouldn't be human if we didn't experience the full compliment of existence: joy and struggle. Facebook is just particularly good at highlighting only the joyful parts. 

Dumpster Diving

I have a confession to make. A dirty little secret, if you will. It is really quite embarrassing, so this is going to be difficult for me:

I am a dumpster diver. 

There, I said it! My name is Surviving Mamahood and I am a dumpster diver. I am sure you're wondering "how did this happen?" Well, let me 'esplain. First, do me a favor and put down whatever it is that you are eating.  My apologies in advance. Thank you.

It all started on a rainy Spring afternoon. My then 7 year old daughter, who is a Girl Scout, had been collecting orders for the annual Cookie Sale. For those of you not familiar, each girl gets a super long order form to track their sales. You can also track on-line but that can be a pain in the ass, so most folks use these forms to write down the names of the customers as well as the type and number of boxes ordered.

Now let me be absolutely honest with you. When I say that my daughter was selling cookies, I really mean that my husband and I were selling cookies. Warning to any adults foolish enough to get mixed up in this cookie business: you will be the one stuck pimping out cookies. Because we are naturally competitive when it comes to selling we enlisted the help of family members to sell even more cookies! We were building an unstoppable cookie empire, ya'll! Before we knew it, we had collected literally hundreds of orders - all neatly documented on the cookie order form.

On that rainy afternoon, this sacred document was left behind at the local diner. To protect the innocent (me), I am not going to talk about how this form got left behind at the diner.  Suffice it to say that mistakes were made and yada, yada, yada. No, we did not keep a copy of the form as a back-up.

Anyway, as soon as we realized that the form had been left behind, we raced to the diner hoping that they had set the form aside for us. Surely they would have realized that this precious document was not junk?! Tough luck for us. The form was no where to be found. The kind waitress explained that the trash from that meal service had already been taken out back and put in the ... DUMPSTER. My husband and I locked eyes in horror. I am sure he was thinking "Gee that sucks, oh well we tried, right?" Me, being the super psycho control freak that I am thought, "I wonder if they would let us hop in the dumpster and have a look around?"

I am going to pause here for a second. I feel like I need to explain myself. Clearly, the normal adult reaction to such a thing would be to think, you know, this really sucks, but what can you do?  I'm not gonna get in a dumpster for a lousy piece of paper?  Am I right?  Bueller? Bueller?  The truth is that I am not normal, people.  I am a fixer by nature.  I don't take no for an answer and truly believe that with a little bit of hamburger elbow grease, any problem can be solved. I also routinely suffer from Hot Mess Syndrome. My brain was telling me that we had to get in the dumpster and try to find that order form.  My nose was telling me that I was going to be very sorry if I did. I should have listened to my nose.

My husband made the first valiant attempt at my urging.  He returned home in five minutes, no form in hand, with a completely disgusted look on his face.  "I lifted the lid of the dumpster and it was nasty.  I tried pushing a few bags over, but I didn't see anything.  I'm not going back there. That form is gone, babe."

Cut to me pulling into the parking lot of the diner armed with rubber gloves, my own garbage bag, a flash light (it was dusk now) and one of those flimsy face masks.  I tiptoed to where the dumpsters were located and used an empty can to stand up on so that I could peer into the dumpster.  I am 5'1 and this dumpster was big.  I couldn't really see over the edge, so I made the fateful decision to climb on in.

This was a diner dumpster.  Therefore its contents were an amalgamation of every type of diner food and artifact that you can imagine. I was adrift in a sea of half-eaten hamburgers, cooking lard, and vegetable peelings.  I stayed in this dumpster for nearly 25 minutes rooting through the trash bags like the world's saddest and largest raccoon.  At some point during those minutes, it began to drizzle. I stared up at the moon from inside that dumpster and imagined myself a tragic hero. Wouldn't everyone be surprised when I returned home victorious!  And you know what?  I didn't find the form. I had to drive home naked, shoe-less, stinky, and empty-handed.

After my husband hosed me off on our front porch, I went to bed that night feeling rather defeated and mortified.  I had climbed in a dumpster! For a stupid form! Anyway, we were ultimately able to fairly easily re-create the list, which again, adds to my mortification, but hey, it's a pretty decent war story!

What nonsense have you had to do in the name of helping your kids?