School craziness

Oh my gawd, you guys. I have turned into the crazy mom who is stressing like hell over kindergarten. Ava will turn five in August, meaning she is eligible for kindergarten. But North Carolina recently changed their cutoff so that kids have to be five by August 30, which will make my little princess one of the youngest in her class. Now, Ava is, naturally, a genius. And I'm not biased at all. (I'd also like to point out that she is the most beautiful child to ever grace our planet. Again, no bias). Seriously, though, the kid is pretty damn smart. She started reading at 4, and now, at 4 1/2, she can read just about anything you put in front of her. She prefers Dr. Seuss and Charlie and Lola, but she also loves the op-ed page of the New York Times. Not really. Okay, so we've established her genius. The flip side is that she's pretty shy at first,and I could see her easily just blending in by being her sweet, quiet self, doing her work, and keeping a low profile. (This, by the way, is the opposite of the Ava that actually resides in my house. She's a diva, with differing public and private personas.) Her preschool has an accredited half-day kindergarten, so we're 99.9% sure that's where she's going in the fall. Of course, after that, I get to stress again about whether she should repeat kindergarten or go to first grade, but that's a year away. I did, however, just submit a magnet school application, so if she gets in somewhere, I'll get to figure out if it's time to venture into the great unknown of public school. All this is enough to make me start drinking at an unacceptably early hour. But I have a sitter today, so instead I will go clean. Adios.

"We're going to have to shut it down..."

Why is it that "routine maintenance" pretty much always turns into something major? Friday, Bobby the HVAC guy was supposed to do some sort of cheap fix to our unit. An hour later, I was looking at a cracked heat exchanger and an $1100 bill. Oh, and the best part? When he said, "I'm real sorry, ma'am, but I can't turn this back on until it's fixed." Really? CAN'T? Or won't? I mean, I think you could also pull up your pants so your ass crack is not showing, but clearly, you are choosing not to. Oh, and yes, please charge me $1100 so that you may come back on Monday, or perhaps Tuesday, and finally fix my heat. Did I mention that it was supposed to be 28 degrees that night? And that the baby has a cold? So, what did I do? Although I really wanted to be a bitch and put up a fight,I chickened out, acted all nice and sweet, authorized the repair, and went out with the husband to see the Black Eyed Peas that night. A couple of giant concert beers helped to alleviate the pain of the pricey repair. And the cold night. And I also kept talking about how I think Fergie seems to have a really fun life. So, now it's Monday, and I'm about to spend the third night in a row at my parents' house, 70 miles from my own abode. Luckily, I heart my parents, and they heart us, too. The husband remains at our cold house, and I hope to return there tomorrow, when warmth is restored. Stay tuned. While the love is strong between the parents and me, it's time to get back home. Pronto.

Normal?

Okay. So last week was back to normal week for us. The last few have been c-razy. Starting all the way back at Christmas. I mean, there was that. And then preschool did not resume until, like, the SECOND week of January. Okay, fine. I'm sure a teacher workday was needed that week so that the teachers could do things like, oh, I don't know, organize construction paper? After that there were one or 2 normal weeks, and then Ava got sick and missed a few days, and then we went to Disney World. Fun times for all. But we came back to snow. So again? No school. And we live in the South, so anything more than a dusting of snow means life must come to a complete stop. (An aside: why are people so obsessed with milk and bread when it's going to snow? I mean, I obsess that there will not be enough wine in my house, but staples like milk and bread? Totally secondary). So like I was saying, we were finally back to our normal this week. Of course, around here, normal means stressed mommy in the morning. I am quite lucky that I don't have top-of-the-mornin'-to-ya kind of kids. They get up no earlier than 7. So, of course, I should get up and get ready before they do. But do I? Noooooo. So, we all rise somewhere around 7, and then some sort of time vaccum comes along and sucks out all the minutes between 7 and 8:30am, and then I get all panicky and rushed trying to get all of us out the door and to preschool on time. Now, does it matter if we are late to preschool? Probably not. I mean, I'm pretty sure it's not the Land of Academia. But those 3 hours? Like temporal gold to me. So, we get there as early as allowed. Anyway, I'm not really sure what happened, but Thursday morning I had some sort of "I-look-like-crap-and-have-nothing-to-wear-and-oh-my-god-I-can't-leave-the-house-without-flat-ironing-my-hair" meltdown. Husband is just looking on helplessly and probably thinking, "Uh oh. The crazy bee-yatch is back." I had to text him a little later and formally apologize for my temporary insanity. He didn't respond, which I think probably translates to, "Right. I am used to it. And I know it will happen again very soon. Like, next Wednesday." My point? (Because I do have one). Normal to me is not normal. I always feel frazzled. I always feel rushed. And this? Is all okay with me. Because really. It's not a bad life.