Don't bother me I'm writing

Today was a very long day, and I can safely say I'm not man enough to make it as Homemaker. I love my children, but I also love the feeling that I've accomplished something -- anything -- worth while. To illustrate just how lousy a homemaker I am: Ashlyn is sitting here beside me drinking the last bits of pop from the four cans of Coke Zero I have stacked on my desk. I'm sitting in my unmade bed writing my blog while Harry Potter babysits my daughter who's now emptying my pop cans into a cup that she dug out from god knows where. Jerod left for work at 5:30 a.m. and it all went down hill from there. Some of it's bad enough that I don't want to share. And you know -- if you've read any of my previous posts -- that I love sharing everything.  Here goes: I forgot to give the girls their toothbrushes this morning so they didn't brush their teeth. I dumped out two bowls of cereal before I happened upon the only flavor that Lily will eat-- whi...

I'm an unhappy riser -- anyone who's ever had to wake me up will attest to this. They might go a step farther and tell you I'm a belligerent, rabid b**ch in the A.M. I am -- especially when I wake up late. Mornings have always been a challenge. And most people know better than to pick a fight with me while the gunk is fresh in my eyes. But for whatever reason my husband -- once again -- strays from the pack in this arena. Too bad for me -- I've given him a buttload of ammunition since I started this blog. And there, of course, is the downside to admitting your foibles to the world. Someone will undoubtedly turn them around on you, and you -- like me in many a heated argument -- will be completely disarmed by your clever diction. And so I was this morning. I woke to my daughters screaming playfully, but alarmingly loud in the bathtub. The time on the clock was 8:10 a.m. giving Lily just 25 minutes to get dressed, fed and out the door to school. And seeing as ...

Oh, to have some time and peace and quiet. I wonder what it would feel like to not hear any voices all day -- to not be asked to wipe someone's butt, or blow someone's nose. I'm on break, but it's not really a break. Anyone with children knows that the work away from home is the break. You don't get lunches at home -- you don't even get bathroom breaks. You can try to close the door, but someone will barge in on you:  "I have an emergency. My sister yelled at me, and I told her not to." Or, "The cat is under the bed, and she won't come out." Or, "I can't find my Lalaloopsy doll." Or, "Daddy yelled at me for breathing." The joys of being home with children. I can see why housewives take to drinking. I'd have gin and cocktail olives for breakfast every morning with orange juice and vodka, if I wasn't operating under the delusion that I'll block out something here and there to work on my 50,0...

In my former life as a newspaper reporter I loved interviewing children, because their quotes were always amusing if not hysterical and ridiculous. It was with that in mind that I asked Lily to help me write a story for this evening's post. And though I'm biased as her mother, I'm fairly confident her story will amuse and at times even frighten you. Our tale of woe begins in a play attic atop a a fine pink- and white-painted Victorian cottage, home to the Busher family -- Jon, Clare, Liliana, Cecelia, Olivia, Sophia and Ariana. The girls were playing Barbies with Mother Clare, who was deep in Pride and Prejudice sprawled over a lavender pouf embroidered with white and yellow daisies. The music of the girl's play voices amused Clare as she pictured Miss Bennett and Mr. Darcy sparring in the English countryside. The room was warm and smelled of cinnamon and apples. Their blissful afternoon was interrupted by an explosion of breaking glass and leaden...

Jerod's looking for the magical crack dealer our kids have hiding in the couch cushions -- a pipe pedaling leprechaun with stains on his teeth and rancid fingernails. The youngsters are restless tonight. Lily faked throwing up to avoid doing homework, and -- forgetting how close to death she was -- did a gymnastics routine on the kitchen counter. Ashlyn punched her in the stomach and laughed as I chased her all over the house demanding she go in time out -- "Go sit on the stairs. NOW." Jerod's voice is booming through the walls and floorboards, "Stop ... get down from there ... what the heck ... stupid dogs ... you're supposed to be sick ... Ashlyn Dever ... No ... that's it ... Ashlyn, go sit on the stairs." It's the kind of night when mothers and fathers look at one another with sad, defeated eyes and ask, "Why did we do this to ourselves?" The blanket that covers the hole in back of the couch is blessed with Ashlyn's ar...

Saturday marked a new low for Jerod and me -- enrollment in the doesn't-get-out-much club for broke married people with children. We were guests at a wedding. A beautiful wedding on a boat in Seattle with free food and -- insert the Imperial Margarine music here -- an open bar. This was a big letter day for the Bacharach-Trenchard duo, because we never go out anymore -- two kids, no money, no energy -- blah, blah, blah. Case and point: Our last date was more than a year ago -- dinner out. I was on the rag. Our social life features delivery pizza, on-demand movies and comfy dinners with friends and family. We have no complaints, but it's nice to go out now and then.   I'd marked the wedding on our calendar in red marker with hearts and stars and smiley faces. It could have been our wedding for all the fuss we made. But -- as I said -- we hadn't done a proper date in ages. It was nice having something special to look forward to. We dug our fancy clothes out o...

I've been following this story about a 2-year-old boy who went missing in Bellevue on Sunday after his mother reportedly left him alone sleeping in an unlocked car. She told police she had run out of gas and walked with her 4-year-old daughter to a Chevron station. She claims that her son was missing when she returned to the car an hour later . And here's the kicker: She was arrested two years ago for leaving the same child -- a newborn then -- unattended in a car while she and her then-husband went shopping at Target. Who knows where the boy is -- whether or not his mother has anything to do with his disappearance. Hearing these stories sets off  my crazy-mommy instinct to grab my kids and hug them til their eyes nearly pop from their sockets. We're all guilty at some point of taking our children for granted. It's especially hard when I come home from work and Jerod says, "I'm sick. Here's the kids. I'm going to...

I stood in a hospital maternity room 14 years ago -- only half horrified at the entire birth process -- waiting to meet my best friend's daughter, Miss Lauren Eloise. This bundle of blue-eyed joy filled the fortunate or unforunate role -- depending on your point of view -- of First Baby in our small family of friends. I like to think of Lauren as my unofficial third daughter, my almost niece and -- when she's not calling me the "meanest person on the planet" -- my friend. These blessings are mine more than hers. She's put up with a lot from me, though I'm confident she'll eventually pay me back for the teasing and practical jokes. My experience then with little people -- as an only child and having been a terribly irresponsible teenager -- was rather limited. My name was on nobody's list of approved babysitters. So Lauren was my first stab at being parentish or auntish -- not that her mother needed or even wanted my assistance. I forced ...

Last night -- when I started this post fully intending to publish it by my self-imposed deadline of 11:59 p.m. Monday through Friday (Saturdays and Sundays are optional) -- I was watching How to Train Your Dragon with Ashlyn. This was worth celebrating as it marked our apparent graduation from the Deathly Hallows and Michael Myers to something light and cheerful. We've watched the first installment of the final Harry Potter story some 20 times since it's Oct.8 premier on HBO. It's the only thing to do in my bedroom as far as Ashlyn's concerned. Every Saturday and Sunday morning -- every weekday afternoon upon my arrival home from work -- Ashlyn leads me up the stairs chanting "Ha-we Potta, Mommy. Ha-we Potta."  If I'm in my room writing I can set my clock by the protests that go on in the hallway outside. The muffled giggle and thunk-thunk of a small fist hitting my door are followed by a few moments of quiet, in which I can hear her breaths getti...

I hear voices. Sometimes they talk all at once, and I can’t distinguish one from the other or what they’re telling me. They talk to me at work and in the car -- always at a time and place that is wholly inconvenient. I pull my hair and tell them to shut up. And then, when I’m open to them -- when I’m ready with a pen and paper to jot down every word -- they shun me except to rant on my mediocrity. During my dark years of unemployment, for instance, the voices -- and I’m only guessing here to excuse their vicious diatribes against me -- were apparently sick on vacation or robbed at gunpoint or detained at Customs. I tried to write in their absence, but my words were dull and clumsy. I consulted my good friends Merriam Webster and Will Shortz. I read a lot of books and highlighted words and phrases that inspired me. But I couldn’t write a word without my voices. I decided to give it a rest -- if I focused on something else the words would come eventually. I blamed it on television....

There's a 2-year-old named Ashlyn, a kitten named Maggie and a 6-year-old named Lily running laps around my room. Maggie is squeaking and the kids are screaming "mommy," and "kitty," and "mommy," and "don't do that ASHLYN," and "MOMMY." This is a typical Saturday morning minus the kitten who joined our household last night. I try to wake up at 4 a.m., but I never quite manage to climb out of bed before 6. Then there is the ritual of cursing at the empty coffee pot. I tell my husband on Fridays to set it up before he goes to bed,  but he invariably forgets the delay brew. And then I must play the waiting game with my coffee cup in hand and no caffeine to get me rolling. So, I sit down to write at 7 a.m. By this time the kids are awake, and they want attention. Jerod -- my husband -- is cleaning out the cat box and fixing something for the kids to eat, but that doesn't stop me from yelling at him, "I'm ...