I gotta tell you about this. One of those things on one of those days when you just want to start all over and climb back in bed. Let me set the scene:

I get home from work each night pretty late, right? So last night...I popped open the frosty beer I'd been dreaming of, took a delectable swig, and realized I was so freaking tired it could have been lighter fluid for all I knew. Never to waste a perfectly good Sierra Nevada, I ripped off a small piece of Press N Seal, covered that bad boy up, plopped it back in the fridge and went up to bed. Which is about the time Mike opened his door and started the groaning and moaning routine. Seems first grade has him coming down with every ailment in the book. It took me a good half hour to lie in bed with him and "scritch" his back before the kid would nod off. Ah. Sweet mercy. I hit the pillow as fast as I could scrub off the war paint.

Ryan woke up an hour later.

Gave him a bottle.

Went back to bed.

Michael was up again.

Then Jack.

Then Mike again.

Great.

Clock hit 6:30 -- I was up. Made breakfast...soothed Michael...got him off to school and came home to do what you all do, too. Laundry. Cleaning. Changed the sheets on the boys' beds. Made dinner. Read Jack the longest book known to man went to change the laundry around. And then I saw it. The blood.

A smudged spot here. Another spot there. In a pattern all over my kitchen floor. It had to be Jack. I tracked him down in the house and found him hobbling around with toilet paper wrapped around his toe. Great solution. He cut it somewhere but when I questioned him, he couldn't tell me any specifics. Where he cut it. How he cut it. When he cut it. Not at all frustrating. Then get this.

The doorbell rings. I send Jack upstairs to get a bandaid from my bathroom closet and go to answer the door. It's some painter guy who has to do some touch-up work to our living room...so I invite him in...only to have Jack pop up with what he thinks is a bandaid. No. It's no sterile strip. It's a freaking maxi pad of epic proportions that the hospital gave me after I had Ryan. The thing could stop a severed arm from bleeding, it's so huge. And the icing on the cake? Jack's pulled off the little tabs protecting the sticky strips and has the thing stuck to his arm and is FLAPPING it around like a plane. Little did he know that a tampon would have made the perfect rudder.

Good thing the painter recognized me as Wendy Bell from TV.

Can't I just go back to sleep now?

I don't know about all of you, but "back to school" time is a total nightmare in my household. I have a 4 year old who's going on 30... a 6 year old who's trying to sell me that he's "sick" and doesn't much care to go to first grade... and a 9 month old who I'm quite confident has no plans to ever sleep through the night. Or the day. Or any part of the night or day. Ever. Never. Never ever. And I will never, ever again go on vacation that ends two days before a new school year starts. No way.

So... Sunday night into Monday morning... I could see it brewing. Mike chewing his nails. Spending a little too much close time with me. Strange ailments. A sore thigh muscle. Come on. How does a kid hurt a thigh muscle at the age of 6? Is there a rock wall at our house I don't know about? And while I feel for him... no... make that ACHE for him... there is a delicate balance between coddling and comforting. And Michael knows the difference.

To make matters worse, my new schedule is throwing a huge wrench in the routine. I used to be home by 12:30PM, ready for my full-time momness. That meant predictable school pick-up, homework help, dinner prep, typical screaming for silence. Now? Our babysitter's doing the school job. And Mike is coming home to no mom. No me. Now tell me. If you're a working mother -- does this sound familiar? All too.

I DO get to come home for dinner every night after the 5 PM news, but Mike's crocodile tears start welling up as the minute hand ticks ever closer to the time I have to leave to go back to the station for the 11. It's only been two days of school and already, I'm exhausted. Mike woke me up three times last night (Joe got hit up twice -- my kid is good) claiming a wild variety of problems. A dream that I had my head cut off. A throbbing headache. Even a sore tongue, for crying out loud.

I'm telling you all about the same trials any other mom or dad has suffered with kids going back to school. But I want to REALLY relay this message because so many of you write me, commending me for my fine parenting. You're kidding, right? I'm as befuddled as the rest of you. As tired, worried, over-worked, under-valued, and otherwise totally freaked out with the dawn of each new day. So my solution is this: Keep it simple.

I get an hour with Michael every morning before school. And my mission is to make it the best 60 minutes I can. Special breakfasts. Good talks while I make his lunch. Laughs at the breakfast table. Chats about what we'll have for dinner that night. Flash card quizzes (he already has two tests this week). And a hand-in-hand walk the one block to school. But still -- at the door to his classroom -- he has it. That look. Tears my heart out. And makes me proud. My little man. All too soon he won't look at me like that anymore.

Hello again!

It's been a few weeks since our last visit, and I couldn't think of a more fitting way to wrap up my family's summer vacation than by posting this picture. This -- is my grandmother. My last living grandparent. The single most amazing woman I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. The woman I hope to be more like. This is my father's mother, Dorothy. We call her Grandmu. This month she'll turn 95. Ninety Five. Have you ever thought about 95? Have you ever thought about a healthy, active, totally with-it 95? That's Grandmu. I don't think I've ever heard her complain. No whining about ailments. No griping about dwindling days. No misery or agony. She's a champion bridge player. Recently got irked by "assisted" living so she ditched the round-the-clock care to live more independently. At age 95!! She always has a smile on her face, is beautifully coiffed, always lovely. My inspiration. I hope to age as gracefully and as happily.

Joe and I took the boys to my family's reunion at a small state park in nowheresville, South Carolina a couple weeks ago. We do it every two years...but this time was special. All but two of us attended, and we had picked up where we left off last time in about an hour. Grandmu was the hit. The matriarch. The woman without whom none of us would be. We laughed. Played silly games. Swam. Barbecued. Drank bad beer. And we forgot all the stupid problems we might think we have...just to belly up to the table where Grandmu sat with her fragile frame and bright eyes. And each of us got a turn. A go at the "last time." Will she make it to 97 and to the next Bell Family Reunion? I sure hope so. Because I'm not ready to say goodbye.

I thought about what I should say when it was time for Joe and me to pack up the boys and head to the second part of our summer vacation -- the beach. How would I say goodbye to the woman who's been so much to so many? Could a kiss, or a hug, or a touch, or a look....tell her how I feel? How much I love her? How much I admire her? I never got that chance. My aunt loaded Grandmu into her car and drove her back to her "assisted living" facility just minutes before I made it to the parking lot to say goodbye. I think I cried the first hour of that car ride to the beach.

If she does make it to the 2008 reunion, I'll make sure I sit down with her right away and take her hand in mine and say, "I love you." But then again, I've told her that a thousand times. I know she knows. Whether she's here on earth or up in heaven, I know she knows. And I hope to some day grow up to be just like her.

To all you faithful readers out there...just a short note that my blog entries will continue in two weeks...near the end of August. A special thanks to each and every one of you who has sent me such wonderful e-mails. We really ARE all in it together, and I appreciate you for reminding me of that, day after day.

Talk to you again soon!

It's just been one of those weeks. You know it's gonna get rough when your Monday starts with your kids' fish dying. Sea Bass. He was a good pet. Low maintenance. Though I did once actually pay a neighborhood kid 20 bucks to feed him when we went on vacation. Good God. The fish is, what? 59 cents? Well, Sea Bass wasn't looking so good. He wasn't TOTALLY dead, so I had to explain the pre-emptive flushing during the memorial service the boys and I had in our first floor powder room. (Here's Jack's quote, "Good Bye, Sea Bass. Say hi to Moose for us.") Yeah. Moose the fish died last year. If you're a Pittsburgh hockey fan, you know what the names mean.

Then -- Jack woke Joe and me up Tuesday morning at 6:45 -- by setting off the house alarm. Poor kid went outside to surprise me by getting the newspaper. Ended up locking himself out. Cops love it when that happens. How can you get mad at a kid who has good intentions? Especially when those intentions don't include fire.

Tuesday night -- Michael wiped out on his bike. Hit the ground so hard a chunk of his helmet flew across the street. The kid was fine until he saw the gash on his elbow and the blood. Hysterical. Makes me wonder how we all survived with no safety gear at all. I actually thought going 100 miles per hour down a hill on roller skates into traffic was a good idea.


And today? I had promised one of Michael's classmates last week that I'd take him, his brother and mother to the pool with us today. Totally forgot about that one, though, until my phone rang at noon. It was the mom. A sweetheart of a woman who had two sons in bathing suits, goggles on their heads, standing at her front door ready to come over. Yep. I totally forgot. Had to fess up to that one like a big idiot. Michael made me feel so much better by pitching a fit about never being able to do anything fun...blah blah blah. Are you kidding me? He launched into this tirade as we were in the backyard playing baseball. (Note to all kids: Don't tick off your mother when SHE'S the one pitching.)

So -- while it hasn't been my most glorious of days for me, the picture I want to add here makes me smile. My little crappers are a handful. But I'd never know the range of ways I could mess up without 'em.

I used to love that Talking Heads song. I don't at all love it when my four year old's the one with the matches.

So -- just a brief story about weekend pain, friends. Let me clarify that: Weekend pain with Joe on call at the hospital THE WHOLE TIME. Yeah.

Stupid thing to do #1? Take the boys to church. Alone.

Stupid thing to do #2? Let Jack get "a drink" during the service. By himself. Fountain's at the back of the church. Four rows behind us. Okay. Bring it on.

An inordinantly long time passes and -- no Jack.

Unless he's decided to tap into the well that pushes the water into the silver drinking fountain at the back of the church, the kid's up to no good. Bad instincts, you know? Like the time I was pregnant with Ryan and was painting the nursery. Took off the outlet covers for a closer coat and not two seconds later, Jack's eyes are spinning because he stuck his finger inside the socket. (I had just told him not to do this.) Or the time he jumped into the deep end of the pool, fully clothed, because he was peeved that we were packing up and going home. Jack can't swim. That was a fun retrieval. Or the time he opened up our refrigerator as we were leaving for vacation so it smelled like a dead animal when we returned. Ever done an inventory of the stuff in your fridge? Do you have any idea how expensive it is to replace these "staples"? Funny. Capers aren't on that list anymore.

So -- tick tock. Tick tock. No Jack. I send Michael on recon. (He's The Informer). He comes back and loudly proclaims, "MOM! JACKS LIGHTING MATCHES BACK HERE!" Yes. I'm fairly sure God any everyone else heard him. And true to his word, Jack was back in that candle room where people light one for a loved one. In true tempting fashion, there a little cup with long matches sticking out if it, and Jack's having a field day lighting them all on the candles. Lucky the kid didn't burn the place down. And the worst part of it? He didn't see that there was a problem. A health hazard. A potential death wish. Hum dee dum. No biggie.

Stupid thing to do #3? Taking my 3 boys and one of Mike's friends to the pool after church. That was actually the calmest part of my day. Watching four kids flirting with certain death. Ah. It sure is nice to back at work.