I was not sorry to see this weekend come to a close. In fact, if it had ended 48 hours earlier, some of my immediate familial relationships might have one less scar and my blood pressure would have remained its normal fabulously low 100/56.

My patience was completely depleted by a combination of too many birthday celebrations and teenagers who don’t understand that my sole purpose in life is NOT to do their laundry.

I can handle one birthday party, but three in a four day span is just too much. Jack on Thursday, Caryn on Saturday and Susan on Sunday.

My stress level was compounded by the fact that I didn’t do any birthday shopping for the girls before Saturday afternoon. My procrastination was largely because I have absolutely no idea what to buy them. Their taste in clothes is completely different from mine and they have pretty much everything else that they could possibly need. So Saturday afternoon I raced through the mall… store to store… with Grace in tow hoping that she would be able to help me pick out gifts.

As I left the house to go shopping, I told Susan and Caryn to be sure and keep the laundry running. I had already done the first six loads that morning and we were down to the last four. I had sorted and labeled each pile with instructions for the proper cycle and water temperature.

Three hours later when I rushed in the door, tired and bedraggled from my whirlwind shopping spree, the girls were sitting at the kitchen table chatting over a cup of cappuccino. They looked adorable, dressed and ready for their birthday dinner out with perfectly curled/straightened hair and precisely applied makeup.

The same four laundry piles sat on the floor just as they had been when I’d headed out the door.

I was not happy.

The lecture didn’t seem to work because no one seemed concerned about helping with laundry on Sunday either.

I’m truly considering going on a laundry strike.

But the whole weekend was not terrible. We had some yummy birthday cakes.

Cheesecake for Jack on Thursday:

Carrot Cake for Caryn on Saturday:

Strawberry Shortcake for Susan on Sunday:

And we had a blast at Benihana with the whole family, including Rick’s dad and stepmom. A great place to celebrate a birthday with a group!

And best of all (for me anyway), the birthday parties are now over, and I get a reprieve until May when Rick’s and Grace’s birthdays are two days apart. Maybe by then, I’ll have found a good laundry fairy, so I can concentrate on important stuff like cake baking, gift shopping and reservation making.

For Christmas, I asked Rick for a good vacuum. He absolutely refused, saying that I would never let him live it down and bought me this instead.

I tried again for Valentine’s Day. He bought me these instead.

I see a trend here. He cares more about his stomach than the cleanliness of our home.

But I really DID want a vacuum cleaner, so last week I set off to find one for myself.

I do this once every couple of years when I get disgusted that the current Hoover/Kenmore/DustBuster/Bissell hasn’t been able to keep up with the dust Harveys that my house seems to breed.

I have been operating a vacuum since around the age of eight and I have owned one since I was 20. Even with 35 years of experience in the dust sucking business, I have yet to find a vacuum cleaner that does the job that I expect it to do.

Maybe I just expect too much. But we can put a man on the moon. We can bake a potato in five minutes. We can sightsee the streets of Paris from the comfort of our homes (Google street view). And we can’t come up with a vacuum that works?!

About nine years ago, when I was in the midst of one of my exhaustive searches, some poor unsuspecting Kirby sales girl (i.e., struggling college student) knocked on my front door. She offered to clean one of my rooms FOR FREE. I informed her that there was NO WAY I was going to buy anything from her – no matter how disgusting she proved my carpets to be with her vastly superior machine.

She was good at her job. I let her clean my family room. I was, of course, horrified by the amount of dirt that Jack had been crawling around in. But I was even more horrified by the price tag on one of those things.

Who pays $1400 for a vacuum cleaner?! … over 60 low monthly payments?! You’ve got to be kidding me?!

In hindsight, perhaps I should have splurged. Because every time I think that I’ve found the perfect vacuum… no matter how many bells and whistles it has, no matter how much I paid and no matter what the vacuum salesperson told me, I am never satisfied.

I have never found a sweeper that can clean all floor types, one that will withstand the abuse of an angry put-upon teenager, and, most importantly, one that will suck up 130 years worth of accumulated dirt.

My house, built circa 1880, has all different types of flooring: hardwood, wall-to-wall carpeting, area rugs, throw rugs, tile and dirt. (Ok, the basement is actually concrete. But all the crumbling walls make it look like dirt, so I would never risk my vacuum’s life in our basement. Even the shop vac would try to sneak out the cellar door if it had legs.)

With a dog, a cat and seven people, that’s 22 dirty paws tracking mud, snow, sand, leaves, you-name-it around my house. (I guess the cat doesn’t count since she doesn’t go outside, but she makes a huge mess with her litter box.) I desperately need a vacuum that I can count on.

Since I have 4 ½ able-bodied children in the house, I have them vacuum often. Well, “often” is a bit of an exaggeration. For that matter “vacuum” is a misnomer. Using that word as a verb implies that they actually do something with the tool in question. I think that three swipes in the middle of the floor, a quick chase of the dog out of the room, and three or four crashes into the coffee table legs qualifies as “vacuuming” in their minds.

I thought I had a brilliant plan last year when I bought a cheap upright to keep upstairs. Certainly, it could handle the simple wall-to-wall carpeting of the bedrooms. Six months later, when I took it to the sweeper repair shop, they practically laughed at me. “Buy a new one,” I was told. “This one isn’t worth fixing.”

So last weekend I went from store to store: discount stores, department stores, electronics stores, special vacuum stores. I researched every available vacuum style, light ones, heavy ones, cheap ones, expensive ones, bagged ones, wind tunnels, canisters, uprights… the list goes on and on.

After reading numerous reviews and asking the advice of everyone from my coworkers to my Facebook friends to Grace’s cheerleading coach, I finally came to a decision. I found a 20% off coupon, drove to Bed, Bath and Beyond, and bought a Dyson.

It wasn’t the $1400 Kirby, but it wasn’t pocket change either.

I brought it home, excited to get it out of the box. I was just sure that THIS was going to be THE ONE. THIS was going to be the vacuum that miraculously transformed my dust bin into a Better Homes and Gardens centerfold.

What I missed in all of my research was that Dyson’s SUCK… and they suck really hard. In fact, they suck so hard that they pull area rugs up into their beater brush. This produces a horrible, grinding, ear piercing noise designed to alert you that there is an obstruction in the brush bar.

Rick came home from his run in the snow to find me depressed and distraught. Not one to let a household appliance get the best of me, he tried to help.

The Dyson will never work well on the area rugs, but Rick managed to sweep the living room without sending the dog into hiding. Now if I could just get him to do that all the time… and wear those running pants while he’s at it.

Before my family size multiplied by two … back when I was still young and had lots of energy … before my capacity to think creatively had been eaten away by too many diaper changes, soccer games and elementary school projects… I unwisely set a precedent of celebrating Valentine’s Day as if it were an important holiday.

Gift shopping for everyone, special treat baking and craft projects filled my hours in the days before Valentine’s Day.

Grace and I would make special Valentines for every member of her class. None of those boxes of Blue’s Clues cards for us! OH NO! We made Valentine butterflies with sticks of gum and licorice, Valentine mice with chocolate kisses, Valentine lollipop flowers, and Bee-mine Valentines with pipe cleaners and pencils.

Of course “we” is a bit of a stretch. Rather “I” would spend hours gluing wiggle eyes, cutting felt hearts, writing names, and twisting pipe cleaners for the chosen Valentine card of the moment.

I feel a little guilty allowing that tradition to go by the wayside just because Jack is the LAST of the kids to have a school Valentine’s Party. So last week, I set about making “windowpane” cookies for each of his classmates (Family Fun magazine, once again) and tying each of them neatly in a heart-adorned goodie bag with a red bow.

The next morning, I realized we had forgotten to decorate a Valentine box for him. I can’t believe that they STILL do those. I remember digging out a shoe box, covering it in tin foil and construction paper hearts when I was in fifth grade. Some customs just don’t die.

So I trudged down to our dungeon of a basement where there is craft project material galore… as long as you’re willing to battle the spider webs and the layer of dirt that covers every surface. As I rummaged for a shoe box, I noticed some bright pink Victoria Secret boxes left over from the girls’ Christmas pajamas. PERFECT!

I grabbed one of those, cut a mail slot in the top, covered the “Victoria Secret” on the box top with the pink tissue paper that was still inside and “Voila!” a Valentine box.

My only problem was how to sell Jack on taking a pink VS box to school.

Problem solved!

Wednesday was Lauren’s 23rd birthday. I sometimes wonder whether she feels like she is 23 or 93 or 3.

She MOVES like she is 93 – a combination of severe scoliosis, poor depth perception and lack of exercise. Her rare, but memorable, temper tantrums and fondness of Dora the Explorer and Handy Manny episodes lead me to believe that she feel s more like a three year old.

But the real reason for my speculation is that Lauren seems to have no real concept of time. Today, yesterday, next week, tomorrow, last night, this morning, last week… are all synonymous in Lala land.

This makes for some interesting miscommunications from time to time.

A couple of years ago, Lauren came home from work with a bag full of gifts. It seems that they had thrown her a birthday party that day. “But your birthday is in February, Lauren. This is August.” She would NOT be dissuaded. Someone had told her that her birthday was going to fall on a Tuesday that year, so she had informed everyone that her birthday was on Tuesday.

This year, I did not tell Lauren that her birthday fell on a Wednesday, so we celebrated it on Saturday.

Since the other kids get to have a special “friend” party, I try to do a little something special for Lauren’s birthday too. This year, we took her bowling with the whole family.

I love to bowl with Lauren. It gives me an excuse to ask the attendant to put up the bumpers. (Somehow I still manage to get gutter balls.)

Jack enjoyed bowling with Lauren too – until all of us, including Lauren, started to mimic his distinct bowling style.

It works for him. He beat all the girls.

Afterwards we went to Lauren’s favorite restaurant, Las Margaritas. Ok, it probably was not really her favorite restaurant, but one of the great things about Lauren is that she is easily swayed by the power of suggestion. Besides, now that she’s gotten to wear their sombrero, it will certainly be her favorite.

Then it was back home for cake and ice cream. Lauren’s special cake was a giant cupcake. This one was much easier than Jack’s Lego block cake; it’s just a special pan. Although the pan cost as much as a bakery cake, so EVERYONE might be getting giant cupcake cakes for a while.

And, then, of course, there were presents; a dvd, some pictures and wall stickers to decorate her room, cheery valentine socks, colorful underwear, and best of all, a Dora dinner set, complete with a plate, a cup and a bowl.

“A DORA BOWL!” she exclaimed. “Adorable,” Rick replied. We all laughed, including Lauren.

Lauren’s brain never ceases to amaze me. She has no comprehension of time. She can read only the simplest of words and she can’t follow multi-step instructions. But she has no problem picking up on her dad’s silly puns. One of the wonders of living in Lala Land.

Last week in the midst of my running from cheerleading to soccer to work to basketball to “parenting- high-school-student-how-to” meetings, I had a brilliant inspiration to make a special birthday cake for Jack.

Must have been all the extra time I had on my hands.

He LOVES Star Wars Legos and I decided I should make some kind of cake to go along with that theme. After all, he is the youngest… the last baby… why not do something really special just one more time?

I gleaned the internet for Star Wars Lego cake ideas. There are some beautiful cakes out there: spectacular life-like models of the Clone Wars Storm Troopers that fifth grade boys adore. Of course, there were no step by step directions to go along with those. Just the name and number of the professional cake decorators who are quite willing to provide said cake for your very spoiled child’s birthday party.

My kids are spoiled, but they don’t fall into the “My Super Sweet 16” spoiled category. Kroger and DQ are professional cake decorators in my mind. Their cakes will get devoured by hungry pre-teens just as quickly as a $300 masterpiece by the Cake Boss.

Regardless, I didn’t want to BUY a cake. I wanted to MAKE a cake. It’s just the mom thing to do.

So, after hours of fruitless web-surfing, I decided a simple Lego block-looking cake with some of Jack’s Lego guys sitting around it would have to suffice. Certainly that would only take an hour or so to bake and decorate.

I started on Wednesday and Thursday by visits to Michael’s, Meijer, Kroger, Giant Eagle, and JoAnn Fabrics. You wouldn’t want to get all of the ingredients and necessary equipment in one trip to one store. That takes all the fun out of it.

When all the kids were finally in bed around 11 on Thursday night, I baked the cake. That was the easy part. Duncan Hines, 97 cents at Meijer. Box cake tastes just as good as any from scratch that I’ve ever tried to bake.

Friday morning after I got all five of the kids off to their five respective schools, I started the decorating portion of the program. In my cake decorating internet education, I had read all about making the perfect icing, crumb coating, icing colors, and fondants. I felt fairly confident that I could make the icing from scratch and still be finished with the cake and get to work by eleven.

Sculpting Lego blocks and icing them was more of a challenge than I had expected.

I got to work at two.

The result was well worth the labor involved. … Right up to the point that Jack had a meltdown because his Lego men were “RUINED” by the icing! (Nothing a little hot water didn’t wash away… but Jack has taken lessons from the girls’ drama school.)

Rick was out of town on a business trip for 51 hours and 20 minutes last week. That was approximately 51 hours too long for my taste.

I would like to say I missed him because we are still essentially newlyweds and I just… well…missed him.

But the truth is, all the kids were home and, frankly, I was overwhelmed by them. Five kids, one adult… that’s a ratio that makes a parent want to run screaming out into the snow.

Of course, it didn’t help that I also decided to schedule Jack’s “friend” birthday party for Friday night before Rick got back into town. Thus, adding another four kids to the Friday evening mix. And not just any four kids: four eleven year old boys!

I always do this: bite off just slightly more than I can chew, thinking that I am Super Mom and, surely, I can handle this. When, in actuality, on the inside I feel like I am little more than an eleven year old myself, learning as I go along.

The plan was to pick up the boys from school, take them to the new Dave and Buster’s at Polaris, let them play those silly games until I could no longer take the buzzing, sirens, gunfire and screams, take them back to my house for pizza and cake, and have their parents pick them up by 8. Just in time for me to leave to pick up Rick at the airport.

Of course, I didn’t have a backup plan. So when the snow started to fall, I ignored it. And then the phone calls began to come in. Concerned parents…was I really still going to have Jack’s party in the midst of the worst snow storm we’ve had all season?

Those parents just don’t understand. I have four birthdays to celebrate in two weekends this month. Everything has to go according to a schedule or it isn’t going to happen. Besides, I had just spent SIX hours on the birthday cake! (my next blog) There was no way I was going to cancel.

I appeased the parents by promising to bring all the boys home myself so they didn’t have to go back out in the storm.

And so began my evening: white knuckles on steering wheel from work to school, to home (to drop of Grace), to Polaris, to home, to pick up pizza, to home, and finally back out into the snow to drop off all four boys in three different neighborhoods.

I was in the driveway of the last boy when Rick called to say he was on the ground in Columbus. I told him he was just going to have to wait. So much for missing him!

Ten days ago, I felt something “give” in my foot on the last quarter mile of a seven mile run. The next day, I tried a 1 mile jog with Jack and decided that I was done running for a while.

I was hoping the pain was in my head and/or it would go away in a day or two.

It didn’t.

Once again, I was faced with the same decision that I have been time and again: Do I go see a doctor who will put me through a whole battery of expensive tests just to tell me that I need to stop running for four to six weeks …. OR… do I save the $400-800 and stop running for four to six weeks on my own?

For some reason, I need permission from someone else to take a break… even when running hurts… and I’m willing to pay for it.

So yesterday I caved and went to my favorite orthopedic doctor at Ortho-Neuro. He’s seen me for a compound fracture of the fifth metatarsal (barefoot basketball), a stress fracture in the left ankle (running in old shoes) and a strained calf muscle (hypertraining last May).

I like him because he’s a sports doctor and pretends to understand my absurd obsession with running… while at the same time politely ignoring the fact that I am not a real athlete… just a mom who wants to be.

Here’s my fashionable new footwear:

At least it’s just a shoe this time… and he actually wants to see me back in two weeks instead of six. YES! I might make it to the half marathon on May 1 after all.

Ahhh… the first of February… the beginning of the longest month of the year!

The month in which winter seems to hold on with its icy fingers in spite of the fact that I was done with it three weeks ago when the Christmas tree went to the curb.

The month that the kids start to get cabin fever, resulting in even more bickering, snipping and all out sibling warfare than normal.

And, most challenging for me, the month that we celebrate four of the five kids’ birthdays.

No wonder I firmly believe that it’s the longest month regardless of what the calendar tries to tell me.

Poor planning on our parts — having so many kids two months after the holiday season. Our bank account has barely recovered and off I go on another shopping spree.

And to think, I was so pleased with myself for planning Jack’s birth to coincide with my post-holiday blues, thinking that I would break up the winter monotony each year with birthday party planning.

Little did I know that someday I would have not just one birthday party to plan, but EIGHT!

Somehow, over the years the kids have decided that they are entitled to TWO birthday parties each year. Not only do they get the “family” birthday, complete with a cake of their choice, a meal of their choice, a decorated door, and, of course, presents.

They also must have a “kid” birthday where they invite their friends over for yet another celebration for which I have to issue the invitations, clean the house, plan the menu, make multiple runs to the grocery store, and, inevitably do the after-party cleanup.

I thought that “kid” parties were only for the special years: 10,13, 16… that kind of thing. But they’ve become an annual event and I don’t know how to stop them.

Since the kids are only with us half the time, figuring out exactly when to have eight separate celebrations in the fourteen days that they are home throws another wrench into what is already a packed schedule.

So, although the first birthday doesn’t occur until next Wednesday, the celebrations will begin this Friday night and continue pretty much non-stop for the rest of the month.

By the 28th, I will have no money. I will have made strawberry shortcake, two chocolate cakes, and a cheesecake. I will have ordered 25 pizzas and thrown out 20 of them. I will have taken three special lunches and one special snack to three different schools. I will have corraled eight ten-year-old boys at Dave and Buster’s and twice I will have tried to keep 40 teenagers from having food fights in our rec room.

I can’t wait for March to roar in like a lion.