ANGRY BIRD

As of this morning, we were all just about fully recovered from Thursday night's excitement, AKA The Night I Panicked, Ran Into a Wall, Landed Butt-First In Dog Food, Narrowly Avoided Burning the House Down But Thoroughly Traumatized My Children Anyway. Jason and I replaced the fried oven coil over the weekend and scrubbed and re-scrubbed fire extinguisher residue off a truly mind-blowing number of surfaces and kitchen items. 

The one thing we HADN'T done, however, was actually turn the oven on. That was like, Advanced Placement PTSD level shit there, and every time I thought about it I decided that I could totally cook healthy meals for my family in the microwave. Or by shoving pizza slices into the toaster. 

I finally caved this morning and turned the oven on so I could bake a loaf of bread. (Because apparently I now BAKE BREAD. This just happened, you guys. I've even gone and acquired an attitude about bread machines, preferring to bake bread the frustrating, old-fashioned way. What the fuck kind of prairie-ass nonsense is this, I ask you?)

Anyway! I preheated the oven and everything seemed to be pretty okay in there, at least in the "Is There A Pyrotechnic Display Currently Happening Inside Your Stove Y/N" department, so I stuck the bread in and turned my attention back to making coffee. 

"HEY LOOK FIRE!" Ezra observed casually, like the old seasoned pro he now apparently is.

Indeed, the oven was smoking. There was a terrible smell. And I discovered that for all our cleaning and scrubbing, there still seemed to be some extinguisher residue on the oven door. I removed our now-probably-50%-toxic loaf of sandwich bread and took immediate action, as I am now truly a mature, capable woman with excellent life skills. 

(Translation: I called Jason and asked him what in the what fuck I was supposed to do now.)

It turned out Jason hadn't run the self-clean cycle on the oven, as we were instructed to do on some random, badly-written eHow article about What To Do When You've Gone And Probably Unecessarily Shot A Fire Extinguisher Into Your Fucking Oven. I thought he had, but apparently HIS Oven Fire PTSD had made him too afraid to try it unless he had four-and-a-half hours of free time he could spend staring directly at the oven. 

Bitch, please. I gots four-and-a-half hours. I hit the self-clean button and opened the doors and windows to let the chemical-y smelling smoke out. 

It turns out, though, that staring directly at an oven is kind of boring. So after the kids went to school I eventually wandered off to take a shower.

When I came back into the kitchen for a coffee refill, I was confronted with this:

Ceiba had apparently hurled her fool self at the back screen door and knocked it wide open. And a bird flew in. And...yes. There was now a bird in my house.

My first instinct was -- yes, okay -- to run for the camera to take pictures because otherwise who would BELIEVE THIS SHIT? I certainly wouldn't believe this shit. Hell, I was standing there slack-jawed and frozen a few feet away from the bird and still couldn't believe this shit. My luck is a small flappy bird, your argument is invalid.  

I snapped a couple pictures and then we stared at each other for a minute or two. Then it decided to flip the fuck out and take off for the living room. I shrieked and ducked, even though it was flying in the opposite direction of where I was standing. 

Indeed, Internet. NOW WHAT.

Cecily told me to get a broom and guide it out an open door, and several other people recommended various traps involving towels and hampers and board game lids. 

I went with the broom option and approached the bird with confidence.

The dumb thing took off again, through the dining room where it flew facefirst into a mirror, then fluttered around making an incredible amount of racket and I shrieked and ducked again and GAH STUPID AWFUL NATURE. 

Finally I went around opening all the windows and doors, attracting the attention of a landscaping crew right outside the front of the house, who all paused to watch the crazy woman in boxer shorts and a Les Miserables shirt from 1994 opening windows and screens while occasionally ducking and yelping for no apparent reason. 

Then I went upstairs and closed the door. The bird was officially on its own to figure its own stupid shit out. 

(Post-production re-enactment of presumed single glitter tear shed by bird in my absence.)

Every 15 minutes or so, I crept downstairs to check on the situation. I did wonder what I would do if the bird seemed to be gone, but without actually witnessing it making it out a door or window, would I feel okay closing everything up? What if it was just hiding? Or down in the basement, partying with the hypothetical snake? GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, WILDLIFE. I HATE YOU SO HARD RIGHT NOW.

I needn't have worried, because every time I made it downstairs I immediately spotted the bird, usually:

1) hanging out on the pot rack, directly next to a wide-open window

2) perched on a lamp, directly next to the wide-open back door

3) back on the stupid curtain rod which was LITERALLY FOUR INCHES FROM FREEDOM.

I basically spent over half of my morning being held hostage in my bedroom by the world's most mentally-challenged bird. 

After an hour or more of this nonsense, I got fed up and marched downstairs, picked up the broom and stared down the bird directly. It was back on the pot rack. I lifted the broom to shoo it away but couldn't stop visualizing it taking off in a panic and dive-bombing directly at my head. 

I don't know how long I stood there, trying to talk myself out of my irrational fear of this small, frightened creature, only to get a good look at its claws -- its horrible scaly chicken-claws -- and a new shudder of terror would rack through my system and I'd freeze up again. 

It moved first. Downward, onto an Ikea island...

where I had put my plastic-wrapped loaf of still-uncooked, toiled-over bread...

that the bird was now landing directly on...

OH HELL NO YOU DIDN'T YOU GODDAMN FEATHERED VERMIN GET OFF MAH BREAD

This was apparently my breaking point. YOU MESS WITH THE BREAD, YOU GET THE BROOM. I shouted at the bird and charged at it with the broom. It instantly took off and flew to the other side of the kitchen and out the back door. It collided with the open screen on the way, but then it was gone. 

I dropped the broom like a mic and slammed the door shut. This was my house. MY HOUSE. I was in charge. I was capable. I was a motherfucking ADULT. 

EPILOGUE #1: And then the pediatrician's office called to find out why Noah and I hadn't shown up for his 6-year physical this morning. 

EPILOGUE #2: And then I gave up and ate some cookies.

This Mortal Coil

I dropped my mom off at the train station yesterday, and she fretted over leaving so soon. Jason wasn't going to get home until the wee hours of the morning, so was I sure I would be okay without her that night? All on my own? 

I laughed. Come on, Mom. I can handle one measly night alone with my own children. I've done it before, you know. 

That's the conversation that kept running through my head a few hours later, when the oven caught on fire.

I'd just finished heating up some fish sticks for the boys -- the nerdy homemade kind, full of vegetables and healthy crap that always disappoint Noah because what happened to the rectangle kind, Mom? From the bo-o-ox? -- and was starting to steam some broccoli for my dinner. (Broccoli that I was planning to utterly drench in cheese sauce, however, lest you think I'm some kind of healthy wizard, or something.)

I heard a loud pop, like a blown light bulb, and saw a bright white flash from the general direction of the stove, like metal in the microwave. 

Something had sparked in the oven. Something was still sparking and hissing and glowing red. Something else was burning, with actual fiery flames. 

Um, fuck?

I opened the door (DUMBASS) to see what was happening and...okay, the heating coil was sparking and freaking out and then random bits of filthiness and crap from the bottom of the oven that we hardly ever clean (DOUBLE DUMBASS) were catching on fire as the coil snapped and fizzed. 

I slammed the door shut and turned the oven off. When this failed to solve All The Problems I went for the fire extinguisher. 

It occurred to me that I have never actually used a fire extinguisher in my life. This occurred to me right as I noticed the words "STAND BACK SIX FEET" printed on the instructions. I noticed these words right after I blasted the thing at the oven, which I was standing directly next to. 

While I was choking and gagging on the cloud of...whatever it is that comes out of a fire extinguisher and frantically opening doors and windows, Noah cheerfully asked for some milk. 

NOT NOW OKAY MOMMY'S BUSY.

The fire extinguisher succeeded in killing the extraneous filth fires, but the coil continued to glow and crackle and shoot off sparks and smoke. And it was...moving, from the back of the oven towards the front, like that scene in The Money Pit right before the entire kitchen blows the fuck up.

I stood there and debated my next move. I settled on chewing on the inside of my cheeks and wondering when a grown-up would arrive to help me.

When this also failed to solve Any Of The Problems I wondered if I should call 911. Get the kids out of the house, sit outside and wait for the fire department to come fight a fire that wasn't really a fire, but just, uh, I don't know. A VERY ANGRY OVEN. 

No, I decided. I was not going to be the mother -- the person -- who got all spooked out over a malfunctioning oven coil and called 911 because she had no problem solving skills. Fuck you, oven. I was going to DEAL WITH THIS.

Free Business Idea For Google: Make a version streamlined for emergencies, that senses if someone is frantically trying to look up things like "OVEN FIRE" and "ELECTRICAL COIL THINGIE BURNING" and "HOLY SHIT NOW WHAT," you send them directly to a result that tells them what to do.

Instead, I got a page full of forum topics and OH THE IRONY, multiple complaints about defective heating elements catching fire in MY OVEN MODEL THANKS GE SPECTRA. The first link I clicked was a message board where someone described my exact predicament and said that the fire didn't stop until he unplugged the oven. And then the first response was from an "electrician" who claimed that what the OP was describing never happened and wasn't possible and it was probably just a grease fire and HOLY HELL I DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR YOUR "PICS OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN" ARGUMENT.

I spent all of about 15 seconds speed-reading through Google results and content farm garbage before gathering that I needed to unplug the oven. Okay! That's easy enough.

Um.

Hmm.

Where...does the oven plug in? Right behind it? In one of the cabinets? WHY DON'T I KNOW THESE THINGS SOMEBODY REVOKE MY IN-CHARGE-OF-OTHER-PEOPLE PRIVILEGES.

I opened several cabinets and yanked out the contents to see if there was an outlet visible in the back. No luck. I stepped back and stared at the oven and took a deep breath. Okay. IT'S ON MOTHERFUCKER.

I grabbed it by the sides and started pulling it away from the wall. Noah repeated his request for milk and pointed out that Baby Ike was crying in his swing on the other side of the room.

I KNOW SWEETIE BUT MOMMY IS STILL BUSY DEMONSTRATING SUPER-HUMAN STRENGTH TO SAVE YOUR LIVES OVER HERE OKAY

I managed to get the oven a few feet away from the wall, enough space for me to scramble over the countertop and reach behind for the cord and see that it...went directly into the floor, through a hole cut into the hardwood floors, and then disappeared to God-knows-where. 

ARE YOU KIDDING ME COME ON

Okay, fine. FINE. Circuit breaker time. I ran downstairs to the basement and was immediately faced with some challenges:

1) The fusebox and circuit breakers are in the far, far back corner.

    1a) In front of which we have been thoughtlessly hoarding an incredible pile of miscellaneous and randomly hurled junk.

    1b) The only lightbulb in the vicinity of that corner has burned out, because who cares? LOOK AT ALL THAT JUNK.

    1c) The labels for all the circuits were written very small, in pencil, several years ago by an electrician with terrible spelling and handwriting.

    1d) Oh, did I mention that Jason is pretty sure he saw a snake down there a couple weeks ago? 

    1e) And we put down traps but haven't caught anything yet? 

    1f) BUT THE OVEN WAS ON FUCKING FIRE.

So I did what any mother who just left her three defenseless children alone upstairs in the general vicinity of a volatile appliance (though to be fair, I did scream "ANYBODY WHO GETS OUT OF THEIR SEAT IS GOING TO BED" before I ran downstairs): I barreled through and up the pile of junk with bare feet and no flashlight, only to discover that I could not make out ANY of the labels and had no idea which circuit to turn off. 

So I threw the main breaker and killed the power to the entire house. 

And then. Dilemma. I was sitting in the far corner of a pitch-black basement, on top of a rickety pile of boxes and baby exersaucers and broken Ikea furniture. I could assume that cutting the power solved the oven problem and just turn everything back on, OR I could stumble back upstairs to check on the situation and try to make my way back here, hopefully with a flashlight. 

I inadvertently solved that dilemma by accidentally falling ass over teakettle OFF the pile of crap, knocking over a bulk-sized bag of dog food in the process. 

At this point I realized my children were screaming. 

Oh no. Oh no no no MOMMY'S COMING WHAT'S WRO--

--THUD. I miscalculated the path out of the basement and ran facefirst into the wall. 

The boys were crying because they were scared. Really, really scared. 

And yet they'd both run into the foyer to huddle around Baby Ike, who was also crying. 

The oven was dark. It worked. I dropped to the floor and tried to give everyone hugs and reassurances and not to worry about oh my God, alllllll the doors and windows are open and the neighbors are probably able to hear all this screaming, which was seriously at home-invasion-murder-van volume levels. 

"It's okay! It's okay! Mommy had to turn the lights off but everything is fine and I'll get a flashlight and have everything turned back on in five minutes, okay?"

...

Hey, anybody remember that scene in the first Jurassic Park when they shut off the power to reboot the system? And then they have to go flip some circuit breakers "just at the other end of the compound" to turn it back on and Samuel L. Jackson's all, "No biggie, I'll do it, I'm  Samuel L. Fucking Jackson," and THEN HE GETS EATEN BY RAPTORS?

Yeah, me neither.

I dug around our kitchen junk drawer for a flashlight. I kept thinking I'd found one but kept picking up the same goddamn screwdriver over and over. Finally I remembered we'd stuck a bunch of them in the coat closet in preparation for Hurricane Irene. I found two of them...

...neither of which had batteries.

WHAT THE WHO DOES THAT COME ON

Back to the junk drawer. All three children are still screaming at the top of their lungs. I manage to get batteries in one of the flashlights, guessing with my fingers as to which direction they're supposed to go, but it still doesn't work. Noah is convinced that we are all going to die and is yelling for "somebody" to come help us. I ignore this vote of confidence and try putting the batteries in the other direction, but still no luck. The flashlight is broken. I hurl it out the open back door just fucking because and start fumbling with the next one, realizing a moment too late that it requires the same size batteries as the one I just threw into the backyard. 

At this point I'd probably been fighting with the damn flashlights for longer than the oven even burned, but I didn't dare try to navigate the basement without one. (SNAKE.) Finally, I get one working and the boys threw themselves at it like terrified little moths. I want them to STAY PUT while I head downstairs but they will have none of it, determined to stay as close to me and the light -- the glorious, holy light -- as possible. 

So that's why Noah fell down the basement stairs, right around this point. 

OH MY GOD COME ON

I stopped to make sure he was okay but instead of his usual theatrics he all but screamed at me to leave him behind and get the lights back on. DAMMIT WOMAN I'LL JUST SLOW YOU DOWN.

I scale the pile of junk and spilled dog food one last time and throw the switch. Everything comes back on. The boys rejoice. Ike continues to howl, because uh, lights are great and all, but I am mostly interested in some boob.

But we were all okay, the oven fire was out, and everybody got all the hugs they wanted. Including me.

 

EPILOGUE #1: Nobody ate their fish sticks, but I gave them chocolate milk anyway. I ate potato chips while watching Project Runway, because my broccoli got ruined and I was in no mood for any cheese sauce that did not come out of a can. 

EPILOGUE #2: I was also in no mood to scrub fire extinguisher chemicals from the inside of our oven and several nearby surfaces until after midnight, but I did that too.

EPILOGUE #3: Jason got home around 2 am and said I mumbled something in my sleep about clocking out and it being "his turn," but I wouldn't say for what.

EPILOGUE #4: Replacement coil will be here tomorrow. Currently keeping situation under control through the Power of the Stinkeye, also eating out. 

Blessed Preshus Milestones of Doom

One...

Two...

Awfuck.

So. That started happening. The worst part is that he's almost simulaneously mastered flipping back onto his belly, which means he'll soon be doing that thing where I leave him on the floor for three seconds and then BAM, he's wedged underneath some nearby furniture. The best part is that I can start dressing him in a layer of Swiffer cloths and stop vaccuuming under the couch.

Ike, Instagram'd

Every photo I take of this baby is immediately my most favorite. 

We've officially entered the Four Months Old Ball of Sunshine & Glee stage, where almost everything is worth smiling at or over because WHOA CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS NONSENSE? I'M SITTING UPRIGHT KIND OF! THAT TOY MAKES NOISE. MY FEET ARE IN MY MOUTH. BOOBS CONTINUE TO EXIST.

Yeah, he's very caps-locky right now, sorry. Just be glad I'm sparing you my version of I'M ON A BOAT entitled I'M IN A STROLLER. For...now, anyway. (Just need another verse's worth of lyrics. THEN WATCH THE FUCK OUT.)

(Wooden teether/rattle from Little Alouette, a gift from HeatherB, better known around here as Ike's Boombox. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star is his jam. Pump it up! He's in a stroller! Mommy thinks she's funny! Etc.)

We're also in the midst of the four-month sleep regression, which for Ike has taken the form of refusing to go bed, at all, ever, until he basically gets ridiculously, irrationally exhausted around 11:30 at night. At which point he screams in fury at me like, DO SOMETHING, right before finally passing out cold. I AM doing something, child! It's called drinking. Go to sleep. 

Oh, kidding. Kind of. The seven false starts at bedtime aren't my most favorite, but I know they shall pass and suddenly he'll erupt in a new skill, one that likely ups his odds of injuring his fool self in a spectacular manner the instant I need to pee. 

Yup. And?

Oh, Baby Ike. You are funner than a personal monkey, at least 20 times cuter, and you probably smell better too. Mama loves you heaploads. 

Blood Around the Edges

Jason is at a software conference in California all week, and apparently can see Disneyland from his hotel. My mom is in town to help me out with the kids, or at least that's the idea: Please come and save me from my own purposeful decision to have this many children, ay yi fucking yi.

Today is (was? would have been? no, let's stick with is) my parents' wedding anniversary. 

I'm glad she's here. She says she's glad she's here, too. She had flowers and a card delivered to his grave this morning, though. 

Her grief is...still intense. Raw and fresh and liable to bubble over at any second. The kind of grief that can make people uncomfortable because it's just so real and there. 

And then there's me. I'm fine! And good. What's for lunch? I should go to the store. We need cat food. 

Jason says I keep hitting the snooze button on my grief. On grieving. Which I suppose is true, like I keep expecting there to be a time when I can pencil in a good cry and some Deep Thoughts between 11 and 1 next Thursday but oh, crap. I have that call with the people at the place. Then I have pick Ezra up from school and get Noah at the bus and Ike has a doctor's appointment and there's some free time on Saturday but I think I'll schedule a haircut instead. 

I could probably convince you -- and myself -- that I have simply opted to immerse myself in life instead. Life! Which goes on, blah dee blee, and my father would not want me to be sad and weepy at the expense of reveling in my pile of adorable, hilarious children. That happened, and that's all there is to it. The best way through it is through, at full speed, on a train, that's been turbo-boosted with rockets. 

But then: My mom mails me copies of some old photos she's found of him. To add to the huge stack of assorted pictures and yearbooks and newspaper clippings I promised to scan for her ages ago, but have not yet touched. I stare at his face and feel my eyes getting hot. I quickly slap the paper face down on the counter, then cover it up with some catalogs. Then I snap at one of the kids, for absolutely no reason at all. Stop that. Whatever it is you're doing, just stop. 

And then: We're out at lunch, some casual place with a big flatscreen TV up above the bar. We're in a booth across the room but I'm staring at the TV anyway, watching some PSA-type commercial in horror, knowing I should look away, look away, look away...

OH GOD STOP IT NO NO WHAT THE HELL. (<--Click at your eyeballs' own risk.)

I finally manage to look away, but only because I need to turn my face towards the wall while I attempt to get my sobs back under control. I blame postpartum hormones and try to laugh at myself. Jason tries to tell me it's okay but I cut him off and ask him about the state of my mascara.

And then: Father of the Bride comes on TV. Jason and I watch it for the dozenth time for no real reason. I make fun of it a lot, because I have no patience for extravagant weddings and never fail to side with Steve Martin over his poor little spoiled brat daughter who falls asleep reading tips for a BUDGET WEDDING, THE HORROR, SEE WHAT YOU'VE DRIVEN HER TO? SHE'S THINKING OF BAKING HER OWN CAKE, YOU MONSTER.

And then: She calls him on the phone, from the airport, just to say she loves him. My heart shatters into a million pieces and I'm sobbing -- bawling -- because I can't do that, ever again.

And that's how it goes. I stuff it down. I look away. I keep the photos and clippings in the basement. I put his fingerprint back in my jewelry box to protect it from Ike's grabby little fists. I dab at my eye makeup with tissues and laugh at myself and go to the store for cat food during Noah's karate class while Ezra tries to sneak ice cream into our cart and I text my husband to find out if I should pick up some dish detergent too. I'm fine! Really, really fine. 

And then I walk past the Band-Aids and there it is, again, bleeding ever so slightly around the edges.