Beware of Simple Questions...

Sometimes a question is so simple, it leads you to believe that the task in question will also be simple.
So when Jimmy asked this morning if I could pick up our taxes from the accountant, I thought, of course I can pick up the taxes. Run in, grab the taxes, leave. I would have B and O with me, but no big deal. Our accountant has a home office, so it's not even like we would need to walk through a busy parking lot or walk far from the car to get there. Much simpler than, say, a trip to K-Mart for a coffee maker, or taking all three to N's dance class, or taking B and O to the play area at McDonald's.

What I hadn't foreseen was that the accountant himself would be with a client, his assistant would be busy, and the office would be filled with other people. So we waited a few minutes for the assistant to get our paperwork together, and as she attempted to explain things to me, B and O discovered the book shelf, and decided that the books would look better on the floor. I also hadn't foreseen that, unlike in past years before Jimmy had started his business, this was not a simple "Here's your tax return. Sign it and mail it". This was business taxes, and personal taxes, and state taxes, and federal taxes, and tax paperwork for the business for 2012, and oh, by the way, write a check for this rather large sum right here and send it off by April 15th, thank you very much.

I kept looking at that sum, thinking, wow, that is a lot of money. And, no, this does not mean we made a lot of money. Trust me on this. You might think that's the case, but I am certain that is not the case, so as I stared at the rather large sum, I started to feel somewhat overwhelmed. And as I stared at that sum, the assistant started telling me about another sum-fortunately much smaller--that needed to be mailed to the state, and about checks that needed to be written later in the year, and forms that needed to be signed and returned to them, versus the forms that needed to be returned with the checks. I started thinking there was no way I was going to keep all of this straight.

At that moment, of course, B and O pulled more books off the shelf. O brought one to me that was titled something to the effect of  "Holistic Remedies Your Doctor Won't Tell You". I briefly wondered if this was required reading for CPAs, and then decided it was probably useful for when their clients pass out in shock after seeing the numbers on their tax forms.

The assistant is talking about this check, and that check, and in a few months this other check, and this one goes in this envelope, and this other one goes in that envelope, all while B and O are pulling books off the shelf, and running around the office, and starting to scream. Oh no, not the screaming. And I think, wait, I have three children...aren't they supposed to be good tax deductions? It also occurs to me that it's really unfair that everyone gets the same deduction per child. I mean, has the IRS met my children? Then I think, well, actually Uncle Pete (finally! someone in this family with a normal name!) works for the IRS, and he knows my children very well. Maybe he could explain to the powers that be that they are each worth at least a double deduction. I mean, what about all the necessary expenses directly relating to their care?  Like wine. And tequila. And, eventually, xanax.

I see the rather large sum again and I think I am going to pass out. Good thing the accountant has that holistic remedy book. I think maybe I should talk to Jimmy about having another deduction child. I quickly realize that what we save from an additional deduction we would end up spending on Jimmy's mental health care and/or beer. Probably not worth it.  I think of joining the Tea Party. Or the Libertarian party. Or maybe I'll start my own tent city with a sign that says "We are the 99% who pay too much in taxes while the 1% sits around and whines".  I decide this is probably the best option, since we might need a tent to live in once we pay this rather large sum to the IRS.

The assistant is still talking. I am putting books back, and chasing O, and telling B to stop screaming, and I am totally confused about who is supposed to get which check when and which form goes to the state, and which goes to the feds, and which comes back to the accountant. O is now also screaming, happily, but very loudly. I am starting to sweat as I realize that I am going to mess this up and they are going to take Jimmy to jail, all because my children were out of control in the accountants office and I,  brain dead and with no attention span even in the best of circumstances, got it confused. I think of the prison show I saw recently that gave me nightmares, and then I realize, wait--this would be federal prison. Don't people say that's like a country club? It occurs to me that part of our taxes are going to fund country club prisons for other people who don't pay their taxes. Then it occurs to me that maybe they intended to pay their taxes, but just got it all confused, because their children were screaming and throwing books in the accountant's office.

B and O have disappeared into a back office, with the accountant's books. I am trying to round them up, while putting back books, attempting to make them be quiet, and listening to the assistant, who clearly just wants me to leave. Now. The accountant comes out of his office and appears to be, well, scared. New people come into the office and take all of this in with looks of fear and/or apprehension. The accountant asks if I have everything, and tells me to make sure I take the children with me. I think of Jimmy going to the country club prison, and I think no, it doesn't have to be this way. I will write a letter to the IRS. I will tell them to talk to Uncle Pete--surely he will tell them that my children are worth a double deduction. And then I will beg, plead if I have to, No! Don't take Jimmy to the country club prison!

Take me instead.
Please.

Copyright 2012 The NBO Chronicles. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction without permission.. Simple template. Template images by Ailime. Powered by Blogger.

May I have your attention...please?

At breakfast this morning, B asks what O is having for breakfast (because, you know, God forbid they have the same thing. Or God forbid they have something different. Depends on the day).
"Oatmeal is having O" I answer. Twice.
"Mom!" he asks, "Why are you talking funny?!" He is staring at me. His face clearly says..."my mother has lost her mind".
I am? What did I say? Oatmeal is having...oh, right.
"Sorry B, O is having oatmeal for breakfast".
He smiles and says "Mom, you are so funny."
Yes, I am. Too bad it's not intentional.
A few minutes later, I tell N to brush her shoes and get her teeth on. She laughs, thinks very little of what I have just said, and does what she knows I meant to say.

The other day we were in the car and my mind had wandered...to what we needed to get at the store, what I was going to make for dinner, how nice it would be to be sitting on a beach somewhere with a drink with a colorful umbrella in it...or a colorful drink with an umbrella in it..see what I mean? I was jolted out of my little fantasy by N screaming "Ow! Stop it!"
"B! Don't hit your sister!" I scream say firmly.
"Well mom, you just told him it was OK," N informs me.
I did?
"He just told you he was going to hit me, and you said OK!"
 Whoops. Sorry. I have no recollection of this. I must have thought someone was asking me if I wanted another colorful drink.
"Um, Mom, you can't tell him it's OK to hit me and then yell at him for hitting me". Love this girl. She is so smart. I just wish she wouldn't use it against me.

I think this all started when I had O. We were in the hospital, with our cute, sweet, adorable baby boy, and the nurses would come in and ask his name. I loved that N was there, as the proud big sister, to tell them her new brother's name. I loved that when someone came in and said "How cute! What's his name?", I could look at N, smile brightly, and say "Go ahead. Tell them what his name is, honey". I loved this, because I couldn't remember my brand new child's name to save my life. Granted, I was in a post c-section haze, and I've since heard that the effects of anesthesia may stay with you for months--even years--after surgery--a fact I am now clinging to with every brain cell I have. Yup, both of them.

I'm pretty sure I was smarter before I had kids. I was at least more articulate. It's hard to remember back that far (my oldest is six-and-a-half. Not all that long, you say? Try it in parenting years. It's like dog years) but I'm pretty sure that I used to be able to have a real conversation, on the spur of the moment, and not sound like someone for whom English is a second language.

From what I can recall, I used to be able to call, for example, the cable company, succinctly tell them what I needed, and have it taken care of. Now, by the time a real person comes on the phone, I have no idea why I've called them. I usually try to make small talk until it comes back to me. They probably get off the phone and think "Wow! That lady was so friendly". Nope. Just brain dead.

And though it's hard to believe now, I used to be able to have an actual phone conversation with a friend, and really find out what was going on in their life, and tell them (effectively) what was going on in mine. These days, of course, I rarely talk on the phone, because someone is always grabbing me, hanging off me, screaming for me, or spilling something. But on the rare occasion when I have the house to myself (OK, that hasn't actually happened since 2005. But occasionally I do have a room in the house to myself) and try to have a phone conversation, I realize...this is still much harder than it used to be.

Maybe it's my attention span. I try, I really try, to give that conversation my undivided attention, but there's always something there, just at the back of my mind..that wont stop calling my name..Mommy! Mommy! Oh, wait that's not my actual name. Maryann....did you take something out for dinner? Did you check N's homework? Did you throw that laundry in the dryer? Did you refill your wine glass? (ha! like I'd ever need to be reminded of that!). If there's not something on my mind, there's always something that grabs my attention. Who left a crayon in the dishwasher? Why is there mud on the toaster? How did those children pick the lock and get out of their rooms? I feel like a walking advertisement for ADHD meds.

Maybe I just have too much going on. When O was about ten weeks old (or was it B?) I went back to work. It was only three hours a night, two nights a week, but three hours is a long time for a nursing infant who doesn't like bottles all that much, and even longer for his father who was home with him. So, since my office is five minutes away, I would nurse, go see a client, come home and nurse, and go back and see a client. Stressful, but it worked for the most part, and to my knowledge, I only met with one client with my nursing bra still undone. I still picture that (poor, traumatized) man writing on an evaluation form, "Maryann is so laid back. She really lets it all hang out".

Eventually, whichever child that was nursing stopped, and things got easier, though I would often feed little whoever-it-was their baby food right before I went to work to lighten the load slightly for Jimmy. As in, I fed him, walked out the door, got to work, and saw a client. And again, to my knowledge, I only met with one client with a very large clump of baby food in my hair, which I didn't notice until I got home that night.

So, what is it? Am I not as smart? Do I no longer have an attention span? Is it just stress? Who knows. All I know is, somewhere between becoming pregnant with my first child and giving birth to my third (do they still call it "giving birth" if you've had c-sections? I've always wondered that...), I have apparently lost....something. The good thing, though, is that I have been forced to lower my standards. If I haven't told anyone to beat up their siblings, if I've called everyone by the right name for the whole day (OK, fine, most of the day), and if I don't inadvertently expose myself to a client, it's a good day.

As long as I don't forget where I left my wine.




Copyright 2012 Author of The NBO Chronicles. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction without permission.. Simple template. Template images by Ailime. Powered by Blogger.