Role Reversal

Several events last weekend made me realize that my life with children has come 300 degrees around the circle.   My husband and I got up around 7:30 and were shushing each other so as not to wake the kids, because if you wake them up on one of the precious two days that they get to sleep in, well – heaven help you.  You will need full armor to protect yourself from the attack.  We went for a hike and got home before they were even out of bed.  We have reached that point that I dreamed about 14 years ago, which seemed unfathomable at the time.  I get up earlier than my kids.  For many of you with young children, this sounds like nirvana.  But it isn’t all smiles and zzz’s.  

Back in the day, I was exhausted much of the time.  Waking up drearily at 6 am or earlier and trying to find something to occupy the kids while I napped on the couch, did chores, or attempted hygiene.  If I chose the former option I would encourage them to be quiet so Mommy could get a little more sleep.  Inevitably, one kid or other would find Dante’s toy, also known as THE POPPER, that he pushed like a vacuum and was delighted by the plastic balls inside popping frantically like an endless supply of bubble wrap.  This was emphatically the plaything of choice when we were hung over.  I want to believe that Fisher Price was not malicious, and was in fact trying to instill a behavior/reward tendency in these young urchins to pick up a vacuum or lawn mower as they got older, but I think they failed.  The device met an abrupt ending, as I recall.  We would proceed with our day by taking an exotic excursion (to the likes of the grocery store or the park) until lunch and counted the minutes until the afternoon nap.  You prayed for a full two hours of time, but could never actually count on it to do anything important; it had to be an activity that could be left at any moment.  I mark this time as the beginning of the decline of my brain cell count and concentration span.  The inability to focus on anything for than 10 minutes becomes the equivalent of maternal instinct.   A few more hours of mindless alphabet play and then we had dinner, bathing and BEDTIME!  The prize being a glass of wine, perhaps a television show, and a brief view of ourselves as we used to be. 

On the positive side of these early years, while life was physically demanding, I was young enough to possess the stamina to get through it.  I could leave the kids and they didn’t remember.  I wasn’t in my car from 3 pm -7 pm driving all over town in pursuit of the next activity that will provide my child the full resume required for college entry.   I could have a glass of wine or two without my kid summarizing my consumption, and pointing out the horrors of DUI.  It was funny when they repeated the swear word I uttered by accident. I could walk around naked and they didn’t even notice – I’m not saying that it was like Boogie Nights in my home, but we did not want nudity to be alarming.  We wanted our kids to be comfortable with nudity and their bodies.   They would run around naked or in a diaper and we would chuckle at how cute they were and tickle their belly or grab their chunky thighs.  Which leads me to another weekend incident exemplifying how my life has changed.

During the week I still have to rise early – usually by 6:30 most days, so I can wake the veal (aka my son), re-wake the veal about ten minutes later, feed the veal and drive him to school.  Repeat for my daughter (who is definitely more self sufficient - you can infer what you wish from their various role models)- from 7:30- 8:10.   During the day, I have time to run errands, do chores, work, etc.  But the time goes quickly.  You wait breathlessly for the “all day” option and suddenly all day is much shorter than it originally seemed in my imagination.   After we drive around throughout the afternoon, we are greeted by the homework war.  I often picture the teachers as feebly armed terrorists persistently bombing my home night after night, chipping away at my patience and happiness.

On the weekends, our date nights are rare verging on nonexistent.  (There were a couple of nice years where my son was old enough to “babysit” but young enough not have a social life – this is bliss – enjoy it!) If we do venture out, we are usually interrupted during the course of the evening to drive someone here or there and we are generally home by 10 pm because that is when scattering occurs.  After ten there is no good place for teens to loiter legally so they tend to congregate in the home of the parents who are out trying to have a life.  Tsk Tsk on them.  I’m fine if the teens choose my home, but I feel a responsibility to be present when this happens, and so we trudge back to our abode.  Most times, we don’t go out, and there is usually a friend coming and going from the house – often at odd hours.  The play date of the past that took place from 11-1 during the day, now happens between 8:30 -11 in the evening.   You may be on the hook to drive during this time, so it is advisable that you not be lounging around in your jammies sipping a cocktail. 

Last weekend, this was indeed the case.   Keep in mind that my brain was still in a haze of foggy real estate terms and was probably not functioning at its highest level.  I was very tired and was looking forward to an early bedtime.  I was vaguely aware that my son had a friend arrive during the evening.   To celebrate completion of my real estate studies, I took a bubble bath.  I dressed in a long-sleeved cotton nightgown that came down to my knees.  Certainly not sexy, but I did break my own law of not lounging in my jammies.  I had promised my daughter that we would do our nails so I searched the house to find her.  I walked into the TV room where my son and his friend were “hanging out”  (the teen equivalent of a play date) and I called her name.  For no apparent reason, my son starts yelling in a strange monotone voice, MOM LEAVE. MOM LEAVE.  MOM LEAVE. Over and over again in the manner of a skipping 45 record.  I stood there, like a deer in the headlights, trying in vain to figure out what I had walked in on.  Thank God I was home to catch them in whatever terrible activity they were embarking on.  Were they watching Real Sex on HBO?  Playing an R-rated video game on Wii?  Drinking whiskey from a concealed flask?  Hiding a bong in the couch cushions?  Were they evilly torturing my daughter in a way that was not immediate to the naked eye?  What was going on in here that required my exit so urgently? After several awkward minutes of this, my daughter finally understood that I was not in my right brain and blurted out, “Mom, Your Boobs!”  I looked down and realized that it was not the kids, but me – a deer WITH headlights that was causing such commotion.   I made a hasty retreat to my bedroom and not finding any way to ameliorate the situation, started laughing so hard, I couldn’t stop.  As it turns out, I was the only one who found my slightly pendulous headlights to be comical; my kids had no urge to grab my thighs or blow on my belly.  They were completely embarrassed.   And so, I pretended that they were in their cribs – told my husband that he would have to do the driving on that particular evening, made myself a cocktail, watched Boogie Nights on Showtime, and wallowed in the luxury of being able to sleep in the next day.   

Favorite Things October

Clothes

Hanro sensual cami bra

I purchased one of these bras several years ago, and I just bought a second. 

They are expensive ($75), but the quality is amazing and when treated properly they last a long time – gotta love the Swiss.  You benefit from the support of an under-wire with the comfort of a camisole.  They are true to size, so if your regular bra size is 34B,  this will fit the same. They used to be available on BareNecessities.com, but lately I can only find them in multiple colors at Neiman Marcus.  And because I appreciate a good marketing writer, I had to include the description of Hanro on the web.  "With a 130-year history, the Switzerland-based company Hanro specializes in clever, stylish, and alluring underpinnings. Known for a superb fit and seamless design, this line blends trends with comfortable and highly practical style."  Underpinnings?  I can picture myself in the Four Seasons overlooking Lake Geneva, frolicking with my Swiss lover and in the heat of the moment he says, "Ah Darling, you are so magnificent, you must remove your underpinnings this instant!!"

While searching for this bra online to provide a photo, I ended up in the “daywear” sub section of Neiman Marcus lingerie.  Hmmm.  Daywear.  For me, daywear depends on what I am doing that day.  If I work out in the morning, then my gym clothes become daywear, if I have an appointment with a client, then I wear some office/work attire during the day.  If I’m sitting at my computer for 8 hours straight taking super boring real estate classes, I wear my pajamas.  It appears that “daywear” is garb for someone who has nothing to do during the day but choose an outfit they can lounge around in.  If I ever get to that point in life AND I can afford to buy clothing in the “daywear” category, this is what I picture myself in.

Joli

My friend Katherine just opened a fabulous boutique in SLC.  While the store space is small, the offerings are grand.  Katherine buys only the most beautiful, unique, and stylish women’s clothing, accessories, and jewelry for her clients.  There is a tasty little bistro next door, so grab a bite and do some shopping before the Holiday Season begins!  (1594 Stratford Ave, SLC just off the 1300 Sugarhouse exit) http://www.saltlakemagazine.com/blog/2012/09/shop-the-grand-opening-of-joli-boutique-in-sugarhouse/

Products

Dove Go Sleeveless deodorant

Deodorant, it seems, it like mascara these days.  The kind that I bought 3 months ago is no longer available.  Instead, there is a new and improved version that has cannibalized its sister product in the market.  Consequently,  I am forced to sample the Dove “Go Sleeveless” deodorant,  fully believing that this is just a new marketing ploy.  However, I have to say – since I started using it,  the hair under my arms grows more slowly and is very thin, so I don’t have to shave as often.  This could be a real break-through!  I’m going to try it on my legs next, then the bikini area, and perhaps even on my chin where those annoying hormonally infused hairs grow sporadically and seemingly right before big events.

CeraVe cleanser and facial lotion with spf

My dermatologist recommended this for my son who has some breakouts.  I figure what is good for the hormonally charged gander is good for the hormonally challenged mamma goose.    Both the cleanser and the lotion have hyaluronic acid, which is supposed to help skin retain moisture.  You can buy this at Walmart, Target and Amazon.

B&B products – The term B&B has been thrown around for a while and virtually every cosmetic company seems to be producing one of these B&B creations thus making it a commodity, but I do like the Loreal Youth Code lotion.  I mix it with the CeraVe moisturizer to get a bit of coverage without feeling overly made up.

It’s a 10 – leave in hair conditioner that defrizzes, detangles, smooths, conditions, etc.  There are ten things that it does but I can’t remember all of them because as we know, my memory is filled with irrelevant real estate terms, but I do know that it is available at Target and Amazon.

Apps

Food for table (my brother turned me onto this) – this app allows you to plan up to three meals per week for free and more if you pay extra for the bigger version of the app.  You can choose from chicken, meat free, slow cooker, salads, etc.  It also alerts you when grocery stores in your area are having a sale so you can plan your meals around those items.  The meals are pretty simple, so I would say this is more for weeknight meals, but it is great to have on your phone in the grocery store when your time to shop is limited  and your creativity is in even shorter supply.

Nike training app This app offers general workouts at three levels: beginner, intermediate and advanced.  It also has fitness routines for specific body areas such as a “better butt”.  The app demonstrates the exercise and then times the workout and notifies you when to switch to the next exercise.  Great for the at-home workout.  My only complaint is that it is a kilobyte hog.   My friend Amanda, who has a much better butt than me, gave me this app.

Books
What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarty
This is an entertaining read, not any great classic - but very fun for anyone married and/or with kids.  Alice gets banged on the head and forgets the last ten years of her life - but amazingly she seems to only forget the bad things.  What a concept!

Left Neglected by Lisa Genova
Also a quick read, Left Neglect is actually a form of brain injury.  Fascinating and frustrating!

Movies
Argo
I was 13 when the Iran Hostage Crisis took place, so in hindsight I probably should be more familiar with this historical event, but I was preoccupied with boys, Steve miller, and other teenage distractions during 1979 and 80.  Anyway, this movie keeps you on the edge of your seat, is very well made and Ben Affleck, even with the bad early 80's hair and clothing still looks entirely sexy.  I don't even like facial hair.  I can't explain it, I think this real estate class has permanently scarred my brain.   (yes this is my new crush)

Recipes

Coconut chicken curry

My sister-in-law gave me this recipe. It is really tasty and you can make it ahead of time.  Good for a group, serve with rice (and the trimmings listed below) and steamed broccoli or asparagus.  Or a salad with toasted almonds, goat cheese and mandarin oranges.

The Reality of Realty

As many of you know (because I have been whining and complaining for days), I have been asked by my husband to contribute to the family real estate development business by obtaining my realtor license.  Under great duress, I agreed to undertake the 120 hours of classes plus exam prep and completion so that I can become A Real Estate Professional.   Because I am part of an equitable relationship,  I fully expect that when I finally begin my novel, Blake will merrily agree to take 120 hours of grammar and spelling classes to support the publishing/editing effort.

This is the worst thing he has ever asked me to do (OK at least in the top five things) since our relationship began in 1987.  It ranks up there with helping him complete his senior college thesis on the Economy of China, or doing that sprint triathlon where I nearly drowned, or when I climbed Mount Washington with a 40 pound pack.  With these other events, I never detected any remorse about putting me in uncomfortable situations.  However, this latest experience has induced some unfamiliar behavior. I think he realizes that he may have over-extended the call of duties implied in the marriage contract (vs. an express contract which I now know are two different things) and that, just possibly, he feels a little bit guilty. Case in point – while I was taking some of these classes online, he actually made me lunch and brought it to my desk (granted it was two turkey/cheese roll-ups and a jar of yogurt – not exactly what Barefoot Contessa makes for her employees, but it is a start).  Not at anytime during college, courting, grad school, breast-feeding, NEVER has he made me lunch or brought it to me. So I know he feels badly and I plan to capitalize on these new found emotions.

When I attended grad school, I identified two things that I never, ever wanted to be when I grew up: an attorney, and an accountant.  Well, guess what friends, as part of the family business, I now possess a healthy understanding of Quick Books and can define eminent domain as well as the best lawyer.  (I am not intimating that Realtors are anything as complicated as lawyers – but even the legalese involved in realtor training is more than I ever wanted to know).  I feel as though I’m trying to learn a new language while in the throws of early Alzheimer’s.  I can’t even remember why I walked into a room, no less the definition of abrogation.  I have been using the alpha part of my brain for too long.  The beta version is atrophied.  I recommend that all of my friends take a class immediately, before it is too late.

I completed 18% of my 120 hours online, at home, in my office.  Sometimes slumbering, other times scribbling away at math problems that remind me of the SAT (which of these four things is NOT part of The Bundle of Rights).  I tried to toil in the evening before bed, but the same screen repeated itself in my head all night and I ended up having to take a two-hour nap the next day because I didn’t sleep a wink.  (I think this is when Blake’s guilt started to kick in)

Today, I adopted a can-do attitude and decided to take some of the classes live.  I reason that if I can take two full days of classes (16 hours), my completion rate will jet up to 30%.  The physical classes take place in a newer building in a strip mall in Murray – a rather industrial part of Salt Lake City.   I have to admit, my first four hours of class were rather pleasant; I had a great teacher who entertained us with real world examples of real estate in action.  There is a big difference between learning something versus memorization - especially when you have Alzheimer’s.  It was refreshing to sit in a classroom after the banality of the online experience (although I missed the Pavlovian clapping sound I receive when I answer a question correctly online).  Anyway, the teacher was the plus in this equation.  The minus is that within the first hour of my 8-hour real estate journey, I consumed one bag of Swedish fish, two Reece's peanut butter cups, 2 large peppermint candies, and a bite size Butter finger.  I created the following word problem in my head, “If Kristie eats 400 calories per hour and does no exercise and continues this for the next 7 hours, how much fat will be on her muffin tops when she is done?  How much after 120 hours?”   

For the next 3 hours, I managed to refrain from the candy offerings in the classroom.  Thankfully I had a short break before my remaining four hours of instruction began.  I decided to explore the strip mall with greater scrutiny.  When I first pulled in, I noticed a sign that said ESPRESSO in front of the mall. No brand names or colorful logos, just ESPRESSO in red caps.  No messing around here, this must be the real deal! – I thought to myself.  I walked maddeningly around the mall in search of perks (pun intended).  Nothing.  I did, however, take note of the following retail gems at my disposal:

• Two insurance companies
• Tio’s Mexican Restaurant
• Papa Murphy’s Pizza
• Golden Isle Chinese Restaurant (At least all of the ethic food groups are represented)
• Smokes 4 U (I got a lot of good xmas shopping done here)
• The Best Hair Salon (ironically, I saw no clients)
• A similarly titled A+ Nails (also without patrons)
• Shoe Repair (obviously decided there were too many false superlatives in the mall already and just went with the basics)
• And the true golden nugget of the strip mall – Smith’s market

Fearing certain gastric distress for the next 4 hours if I chose the ethnic options, and hoping to repent for my earlier poor nutrition, I opted for a ready-made spinach salad from the Smith’s produce section and ate it on the stairs in front of Tio’s.

I’ve always wondered where the STRIP acronym originated and after some assessment, I’ve come up with a couple of options:

Shopping That Really Is Pathetic

Stores That Require Improvement Pronto!

Shitty Tasteless Retail Is Painful  

Worried that I might be gang-raped by some of the clientele burning rubber through the parking lot as they frequent the Smokes 4 U, I retreated to the safety of my vehicle.  (Hmm, if they see my JHilburn car magnet and are interested in high-end Italian clothing, should I risk my life for the sale?)   As I looked out my window from the annals of this hellhole of a mall, I see my salvation shining in the sunlight– right across the street (of course) is a Mormon church.  (Now I know why the ESPRESSO store was no longer in business but there were at least 10 vending machines advertising coke).  I contemplate going to pray for Blake to take the realtor classes instead of me, but realize I am too far in atheist debt to request anything of God at this point.  Appropriately, I trudge back in for my final class of the day, Settlement Procedures.  I need to stop whining, sleeping, consuming sugar, complaining, and settle in for the next 100 hours. 

Guilty Admissions

I’m not talking about the false essays we wrote to get into college.  I’m referring to the fact that we all have little addictions that we delight in; yet do not want to admit for fear of judgment from family and friends.  Sometimes we have thoughts that are embarrassing and probably shouldn’t be shared with others.  In the spirit of friendship, commiseration, and free therapy, here are mine.  Judge away…

I love shopping.  In the department store, small boutique, online – it doesn’t matter.  Not so much in Salt Lake, but oh well – probably divine intervention that I moved here?!  I feel at ease and comfortable in the surrounds of a store.  Sometimes I can even stand in the entry of an establishment, perform a quick overview and be able to depart within ten seconds knowing that I will not find anything there.  I’m proud to say that my shopping radar is well-tuned and astute.  When I’m having a bad day, the sparkly cosmetic counters at Nordstrom or Bloomingdales bring a grin to my face and my shoulders drop down to their pre-stress position.  It is the perfect dreamscape for me.  As I waltz down the aisles taking in the stylish ensembles featured on the perfectly posed mannequins, I feel like I’m at my own personal fashion show.  I envision myself in that shiny pair of burgundy booties, with the newest skinny jean, a creamy silk blouse casually drapes my torso and some dangly gold earrings complete the costume.  Then I drift to the make up counter for a makeover.  Armani foundation that makes my skin look like Audrey Hepburn, a blush that restores the rosy luster to my ruddy cheeks, eye makeup that makes my eyes pop and the wrinkles recede.  Armed with new face and attire, I head for the handbag sector.  The array of colors and sizes looks like an east coast hillside in the height of fall.  Only better because you can select one and stuff it with personal belongings and carry it with you every day.  I choose the Prada doctor bag even though it cost as much as a ski camp for my kids – I say “what the hell” and throw it on the Amex card.   I am the quintessential 21^st century white suburban gatherer after all.   Of course, I do not buy any of these things, and I depart looking as drab as when I entered the shopping complex.  But I did picture myself in a new way, if just for a few moments and I feel a lurch in my step.  I even feel a little prettier, although the overly made-up MAC representative never touched my skin.

I love Botox.  Those little eleven lines between my eyes that I spoke about earlier this year make me feel old, tired, and unhappy.  When I am able to go for the shots (I literally rolled change to go most recently) I can feel my face getting lighter.  It isn’t possible for me to frown and so I feel happy.  My eyes look wider, my forehead looks clearer.  I feel 5 years younger.  What about the Frownie you inquire?  I use that at night to supplement the botulism that I have injected into my five-head.  Am I crazy?  Overzealous?  Yes, but can you really put a price on a smooth five-head?

I love More Magazine.  Usually at the gym I reach for the always entertaining People, or the fashion forward Bazaar.  However, on this dreary overcrowded day at the gym– none of these mags were available.  Forced to choose between Bicycling and More, I chose the mid-life publication.  I know this might seem shocking given the previous paragraph but I don’t consider myself to be middle aged.  I think that Julia Roberts and I are still 28, and so when I see her on the cover of More – I stop in my tracks and say, “shit Julia – when did we get so old?”  Contemplating reading a magazine that is intended for the over 40 year old reader is depressing to say the least.   However, I figure if Julia and I had things in common when she was on the cover of Vogue, then her wisdom might prove helpful now.  To my astonishment, I read every article and stayed on the stepper for 45 minutes.  Totally enthralled was I with the pertinent articles:  helpful tips on applying foundation to aging skin, products and clothing that are actually age appropriate, how to deal with a rocky female friendship – I forgot that I was huffing and puffing away.   The tag line (which could be taken a number of ways) even made me feel good about myself, “For Women of Style and Substance.”  I hope that is me.

I love the gym.  Wow, this is a doozy.  When you live in Park City with the mountains at your whim, saying you love the gym is almost like saying you hate chocolate.  What in the hell is wrong with me?  I love the orderliness of the gym.  The equipment is lined up neatly, follow it along and work every muscle.  I appreciate the efficiency of being able to knock out cardio and weight training in one session.  I enjoy listening to the music and watching what others are doing for fitness routines.  The gym, large concrete building that it is, is made for suffering and sweating.  I go, I suffer and sweat, and I emerge a stronger, happier person ready to eat ice cream and chocolate with less guilt.   When I’m hiking or biking, I want to take in the scenery, talk to my girlfriends, and sing like Julie Andrews.

I ate a whole bag of Heath bar Crunch that was supposed to go in my kids’ cookies for school.  Sometimes I used a spoon; sometimes I just poured the bag into my mouth.  It took me three days, but I’m proud and embarrassed to admit that the bag is gone.  No cookies for you, kids!

I had my first successful gravy making experience last week.  I guess that is somewhat embarrassing given my middle age, but I always thought that gravy was only something that grandmas were capable of making.  My daughter has been begging me to make it with mashed potatoes for weeks. Usually we have it twice a year – on Thanksgiving and Christmas.  With the chilly onset of fall, I thought Why not?  I searched through recipes from my go-to chef, Barefoot Contessa, and found a wonderful gravy recipe.  I probably only had about ¼ cup of chicken droppings and the rest I made with canned chicken stock.  The brandy or cognac adds a surprising depth of flavor.  We were all full and content; I didn’t even want to raid the bag of chocolate chips that I have hidden in the freezer.  I think perhaps the reason that gravy is so satisfying is that it is comprised of solid fat (butter), liquid fat (chicken grease), flour and salt. 

I colored my hair darker and I hate it.  In an effort to be more frugal, I asked my hairdresser to use more of my natural color so I will only have to highlight every 2-3 months instead of every 6 weeks.  I look like a mouse. My hair is flat.  My face is ruddy.  I like to be blonde.  I need to be blonde.  I am a shallow, terrible person.

I made myself cry thinking of my son going off to college.  Mind you, I have another four years before this becomes a reality.  The thought of him not coming and going, putting his arm around me, yelling “Mom” in his funny voice literally brought tears to my eyes and a small panic to my heart.

The backside of my body has completely gone to hell.  I suppose this makes sense and is why our creator only gave us eyes in the front of our head. How am I supposed to see that my flabby back fat is bulging over my bra, my muffin tops are leaping out over my pants and my saddle bags are one with my butt when I have to use two mirrors in an awkward position to examine these problems?  If I did have eyes in the back of my head they would pop out in disbelief and a complete lack of recognition.  It looks like someone took a meat mallet to the rear side of my thighs, while a poor tattoo artist drew bluish-green lines like a curvy highway going up my legs. I could start a massive workout routine solely focused on my rear silhouette at the concrete, sweaty, suffering, gymnasium or I could choose to look ahead for something More.   

Fall Frenzy

 I forget about the frenzy of fall. 

After the savory pace of summer,

Fall can be a real bummer.

First:  Back to School Necessities

Child A has white days and red days; he needs a gargantuan backpack, a binder for each day as well as separate folders for each subject matter.   Grim PE uniform is also essential.  Assorted pens, paper and pencils complete the package.  Since he is a boy, he doesn’t fall prey to some of the more trivial school supplies. 

Child B has white days and blue days and requires similar items for her studies.  In addition, she feels entitled to all of the cute items  (character themed thumb drives, tie-dyed book socks, locker decorations, computer sleeves, etc.) that Staples is hoping you are tired and rushed enough to buy.  Which I am. 

Second: Back to School Clothing

Both Child A and B would appear to have enough attire to clothe a Chinese province, but upon closer inspection – “Nothing FITS!”.  Both children are then instructed to wade through their closets and create complex categories such as “fits” and “doesn’t fit.”  The end result being, they probably get new clothes!! In their minds, this does not warrant an exclamation point.   If someone asked me to clean out my closet so I could get new clothes, I would perform like the Tasmanian devil.  But for my children, it was as though I asked them to pull out their own teeth.  With pliers.

Third:  Back to School Homework and Sports Schedule

My lazy summer evenings comprised of BBQing some sort of animal product and throwing together a pasta salad, eaten out on the patio and washed down with a vodka drink will be replaced by:

• Retrieve Child A from middle school bus stop, bring child home, fix snack, adopt proper tyrannical tone to maximize home work completion
• Extract Child B from Junior High, repeat snacking and homework steps above
• Deliver Child A to sporting activity 1 on Field X
• With record speed, peruse Whole Foods for healthy dinner material, check out and deposit in home refrigerator
• Deliver Child B to sporting activity 2 on Field Y
• Attend informational meeting about Sporting Activity 3 (children A&B) and hope that carpool delivers Child A safely home from practice.
• Pick up Child B and 2 friends – take them to their respective places of residence
• Return to abode to assemble dinner
• Resume duties as homework director (rack brain for algebra II and biology terms)
• Sign at least 9 documents per child
• Remember that you forgot to attend Child A’s back to school night, curse and pay Child A and B  $.50 each
• Wish you had a vodka drink
• Make nutritional lunches for tomorrow, clean up kitchen, get children to bed, give husband best I’mexhaustedareyoukiddingmeyoureallywanttohavesex? look and initiate middle aged beauty routine. 

Repeat for the next 9 months, and then for twelve years.  Hope you can afford college and a recession doesn’t result in a 'failure to launch' scenario.