Luck, luck, bo buck, banana fana fo ...

Today I feel lucky.

I'm lucky that I get to hang out in my son's new K-1-2 (kindergarten, 1st and 2ng multigrade split) homeroom class with his younger sibs for however long I want, whenever I want. I'm lucky none of his classmates threw up when my daughter dropped the A-bomb in her diaper and then announced to the class, "I just die-ree-a, ev-bod-ee." I was more worried about her lack of descriptive accuracy. That rock was solid. Can you say fiber alert?

I'm lucky I got to join my kindergarten wonder for a field trip to the local city college's lush garden. I'm lucky I didn't step in chicken skat when we visited the garden's grungy chicken coop.

I'm lucky my son has a warm, caring teacher named Jose, who was kind enough to offer my other children a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a shiny green apple when they looked at me grimacing because I forgot our field trip snack at home. I'm lucky they let me have the last bite.

I'm lucky my pediatric dentist will still see my children. She reminded me that my husband missed the kids' last appointment. "That's two no-shows on your record," she said in an admonishing whisper off in a dim office corner where her other, no doubt more conscientious parent customers wouldn't be able to hear.

I'm lucky my 3-year-old didn't bust his head wound open when he fell backwards out of the sit-and-stand double stroller today. I'm lucky no onlookers snapped back at me when I loudly advised them to "put your eyes back in your head" as I scooped Cheeks off the dentist's waiting room carpet and back into the stroller. Note to dangerous mom self: Fix broken backseat double-stroller straps ASAP.

I'm lucky my best childhood friend, Cyndi, cheerfully quickly replied to my Classmates.com message. She even subscribed to my blog feed. Thanks, girl. Like you said, we won't lose touch this time.

I'm lucky my husband tore my laptop apart, reloaded Windows and enabled me to get back to regularly blogging. I know he expects a little something in return, so why am I typing this right now, just after midnight while he waits for me? I'm a selfish shit.

I'm lucky my maiden name means "lucky" when translated from French to English.

I'm lucky so many wonderful people left me positive comments on yesterday's pity-party-for-me lamenting blog post. Seriously, I feel a lot better knowing someone out there enjoys this blog and might even find relief and humor in my retelling of my many maternal misadventures.

I'm lucky my husband put the kids to sleep (the boys are drooling on pillows in our 8-person tent, still set up from last weekend's sudden school switch/mom-guilt allaying sleepover bonanza) so I could steal away to the local hookah/espresso bar to work on my book. I'm lucky my writer's block fog lifted, even if only for an hour or so. I'm lucky Mike, the new cafe owner, makes such awesome homeade baklava and supple, wet feta cheese that actually bends without breaking.

I'm lucky I didn't inhale three-in-a-row clove cigarettes. I hear those things can make your lungs bleed.

I'm lucky there's still some java left in my mug. Who cares if it's past midnight? It's never too late for a caffeine buzz.

I'm lucky my daughter stopped yelling "NO WAY!" at the top of her impressive little lungs at the pediatric dentist's today when I threatened to take her favorite retired cell phone away because she flat-out refused to get into the stroller. Okay, I admit it -- I said I'd throw it away. I was desperate. Like you've never said something so unessecarily and overaly harsh to a two-year-old as onlookers judging eyes bored into your back? My kids are going to come out so warped, it's not even funny. She clammed up spit-spot and climbed right back into that stroller seat, though.

I'm lucky for mom friends who "get it." Who get me and my three-kid madness. Thanks, Amanda, for making us feel at home at the "new" school, and for staying with my snoozy little girl at the van so I didn't have to wake her to pick up her brother, then strap right back into her car seat. Am I the only mom who feels totally overwhelmed by simply transporting three young children from point A to point B. Just the five-friggin'-point straps alone are a bitch to get through. Throw in throwing food to the very last row of seats, back to my hungry sons. Aim is key. They know to be at the ready when mom yells, "Ready? Aim. Fire!" "How's that quesadilla mom just chucked into your face, little bud?" It gets scary when I hurl Aquafina bottles in their direction, but, hey - they asked for it!

I'm lucky you are reading this right now, especially when you consider that I hardly visit anyone else's blogs and seldom comment. See, I really am lucky.