Mommy Diaries

Frosty, who?

2010-12-03T04:20:00.001Z

Andy the First Grader,
is a happy jolly soul.
With a love for trains and cookie dough
he also plays with his Legos.

Lukey, the Kindergartener
is sweet, so teachers say.
His parents ponder and his brothers wonder
what he’s up to every day.

There must have been some magic
in the parents that they got.
For after Matthew broke them in
nothing else could ever shock!

Josh is still running
like a crazy fool some say.
Lucky Kirsten knows he’ll bring home a rose
And put his stinky shoes away.

(To the tune of “Frosty, the Snowman”)

A Questionable Persuasion

2010-08-23T15:33:00.002Z

As the mother of three sons, I've resigned myself to the fact that boys are louder, rougher, dirtier, and stinkier than girls. I quit looking enviously at the parents of girls in the pew in front of us at church some time ago. (All three of their girls sit quietly and color!!!!!) There are trains, cars and a heck of a lot of blue at our house. My boys regularly get notes sent home from the teacher for unruly behavior at school. (What school authorities call unacceptable behavior is, in my opinion, a normal level of activity at home.) I've never had to guess at our boys predilictions. Dolls and pink, ick. They currently avoid girls (except for me) whenever possible.

Not so for my friend Angie. We often commiserate (she has two sons) on the rollercoaster train wreck our lives have become as the parents of sons. One of her boys, while reassuringly wild and crazy (he fits right in at our house), occasionally gives her cause to wonder what his future preferences might be.

On the one hand, this kid displays reassuringly Y chromosome behavior. He kissed all the girls on the first day of Kindergarten, can't sit still, and is on his way to a black belt in karate. He also, at the age of 9, has a girlfriend. They enjoy chatting and swimming together, sitting together at lunch, and occasional walks home from school. But a recent trip to a sporting goods store gave Angie a moment's pause.

Let me explain. In the South, a large sporting goods store usually includes everything from rifles to ice skates. Upon viewing the gun case, her son clapped his hand together with glee and exclaimed, "Mommy, look! Guns!" and then, "a pink one! Oh, Mommy, look!" The clerk behind the counter gave her a LOOK. Since she didn't feel like explaining that her child was excited for her (he thought a pink gun would be perfect for Mommy) she quickly steered him away from the weapons section of the store.

While checking the fit of her younger son's football gear, he got bored and wandered off. Angie found him in the swim section, feeling up a plastic mannequin. As she herded them out of the store, she asked her son just what, exactly, he'd been doing to the mannequin. He answered that he'd been "feeling the dolls boobies", then giggled and said, "I liked it". Angie almost fainted. (Where the hell is my husband when I really need him!?!?!?)

When she told me the story later, she admitted that the boys made out pretty well that day. After the sporting goods store, they went to Target. They walked out with a cart full of G.I.Joe, Nerf guns, and even some warlike games for their Wii.

But she stayed away from the Barbie aisle. She thought it best to keep her son away from any possible temptation.

A Trip to the Mall

2010-08-17T17:07:00.002Z

I went to the mall today. Now, under former circumstances (that is pre chiildren) such a visit rarely caused me anything more than mild consternation. Maybe I got a little annoyed when it was crowded after Thanksgiving, but otherwise, a trip to the mall was accomplished with a minimum of fuss and I generally got out with what I'd intended to purchase.

Well, this trip was a little different. First of all, it was unplanned. Oh, stop yelling at me. Yes, the spontaneity is mostly gone. Yes, I always have been anal. Yes, that tendency may have been reinforced in the military. Granted, being married to a type A+ personality has rubbed off on me slightly. But trips with my three boys are usually planned with precision and with a flush bank account. This one was necessitated by the failure of Josh's car to start when it was supposed to this morning. Hubby went off to work in my car (no problem), but I was stranded at home during summer vacation (serious problem). And yes, there was an errand I HAD to do today. I had to pick up the stupid chickens. But that's another story, so I won't digress.

Got the car jump started by a dude called "Buddy" (I'm not kidding), who pulled his tow truck into our driveway with what I can only describe as finesse. The boys, still in pajamas, were entranced. Andrew said to me with an almost reverential tone, "Mommy, there's a TRUCK at our house". Buddy, himself a father (2 boys, 1 girl) gleefully alowed them to climb all over the hulking thing, while watching me hyperventilate as they swung back and forth on the hook. Fortunately the battery had enough juice to start, and three sad faces sadly waved goodbye as the tow truck left with a smiling Buddy.

So, off to Sears we went. Getting in the car isn't as insane as it used to be, now that eveyone can wipe their own hiney and get their own clothes on. But the Sears here in Huntsville, AL is unfortunately attached to a mall. My efforts to conceal our actual destination were a complete failure. I think some of my military intelligence genes passed through the uterus. I went in through an entrance towards the back, thinking I might get away with camouflaging our location. Nothing doing. The minute we entered the garage they knew precisely where we were.

While waiting in line (there's always a line when I have my kids with me) to converse with a mechanic I firmly stated to my children, in the following order:
#1: stay here
#2: do NOT touch the towers of tires that apparently pass for decor at a Sears auto center.
#3: do not yell
#4: do not TOUCH your brother

The other patrons in line stared at me (the men) while the grandma looking lady winked at me. When my turn came to speak with a mechanic, all three boys took advantage of my inattention to not follow my instructions. Any of them. Andrew made a dash for the tower of tires he'd been eyeing, Luke took off to explore the view in the waiting room, and Matthew, ostensibly to return Luke to me, broke instructions #1, #2, and #4.

I ordered my offspring back to my side in a tone which broked no argument, peppered with German words, and my evil eye look. I separated them, Matthew too my left, Andrew on my right side, with Luke 2 feet behind me. When I turned back to the service dude, a young man barely out of automotive school, he was openly grinning. After reaching an agreement on what precisely I wanted done, he smiled and said, "I think I better call my mother today and thank her. I have two brothers." The grandma lady in the waiting room snorted and merely said, "God bless you". I don't know why. I hadn't sneezed or anything.

Error #1

Due to my swift action in getting to Sears, I arrived too early. That is to say, the mall part wasn't open yet. I had another 10 minutes to keep my children occupied in a small room filled with adults containing no books, no crayons, and the Today show playing on the television. Andrew, like an angel, amused himself looking through the glass wall at the fascinating scene of cars and trucks being worked on by the aforementioned mechanics. Matthew sat next to me and every 30 seconds groaned at the inanity on the Today show (I couldn't blame him) and loudly whispering if he could change the channel. Luke, unable to bear the thought of Andrew involved in something that didn't involve him, sidled up next to his big brother and proceeded to bother him. This invoked recollections of my own childhood, where I would be minding my own business when my bored brother proceeded to annoy me, simply for lack of anything better to do.

Chidlhood memories aside, I remembered that my beloved husband had recently gifted me with a new phone (that romantic fool). The phone had email access and a screen. I quickly went to you tube and called up "The Cat in the Hat" video. Luke quickly left off annoying his brother and was entranced for the remaining 9 minues and 30 seconds we had to wait.

Error #2. Now Luke knows that Mommy's phone plays this video. I can't go anywhere anymore without him asking "Mommy, can I watch your phone?". Matthew instantly became incensed, demanding to know why he couldn't play with my phone. I gave him my special LOOK OF IMMINENT DEATH and he sulkily retreated back into his chair, muttering under his breath.

The mall finally opened, and we went through the Sears store, amused at the elderly people waiting for the garage door to open up so they could pounce on the latest sales.

Now, I don't know about you guys, but we have a definite pattern at the mall. First, we go to the play area. Andrew and Luke amuse themselves jumping around, Matthew begs for money for the neighboring arcade, and I sit down on a nearby bench. On a good day, I can make this stretch for an hour. This was not a good day. There was a playgroup of some kind that were there that morning. My two youngest children were surrounded by small babies and toddlers in the play area. It got boring dodging around the babies after 15 minutes, so we collected Matthew and decided to find some other amusement.

Second, we rode the escalators. A lot. I ignored the evil looks I got for permitting my children a dozen rides up and down the escalator. Hey, they weren't pushing, shoving, or yelling, so what is it that possesses a complete stranger to approach me and lecture me on the dangers of escalators? She was there with . . . you guessed it... two little girls. After delivering her message, she sat back, expectantly waiting for me to fall to my knees, clasp her about the ankles and thank her for her words of wisdom. I literally gave her the cold shoulder and replied, "they're fine" and ignored her until she flounced away. I got even with the little priss at the jumping place, where my kids did flips while her two little princesses gingerly bounced up and down, careful not to mess up their pinafores. A kindly gentleman added fuel to the fire when he said, "those are some fine boys you have there" as he and his silver haired spouse continued their lap around the mall. I could have kissed him.

After the jumping place, we discovered something new. In what had been the old Disney store, an enterprising woman had placed 5 inflatables, complete with a ball pit. Considering that it had been an hour and the car still wasn't done, I figured that it was well worth the cost to let the boys jump around for a bit. The proprietor was an 80 year old woman from India who spent the entire time telling me about her far flung relations around the globe. While the boys were having fun throwing brightly colored balls at one another, I heard about her 8 brothers and 3 sisters, her husband's 9 brothers and 2 sisters, her 6 sons, and the shortcomings of all her daughters in law. Luckily the timer went off announcing the end of our session before I could hear about the educational accomplishments of her 19 grandchildren. What really freaked me out is that this woman was more limber than I was. She walked around the place, scooping balls up and bending down with more energy than I can ever remember having. I want to go back sometime without the boys and ask what her secret is.

Well, now that we were back on routine, our next stop was the cookie store. I informed Matthew that no, he couldn't have the double cookie with the frosting between that would send him into a diabetic coma, and then helped Andrew and Luke make their selections. Do you have any idea how much three lousy cookies cost at the mall? My cell phone rang, and it was Sears, telling me that something was due and the belt was in bad shape and that it would cost $1900 to replace it. I felt my blood pressure rise, but managed to politely ask the man to just replace the battery, thank you very much. He tried to convince me otherwise, and I answered with " It's been two hours and I have three kids in the mall. Do you really think I want to have the $%&# belt replaced? Just give me a new battery." After a pause, he chuckled and told me he'd have my car ready in 10 minutes.

The bad part was, we had to go back up an escalator (Matthew nagged me to let him go up the elevator) and past a toy store to get back to Sears. Did I mention that Luke had broken his arm 4 days ago? He picked up a soft and cuddly Sponge Bob, gave me a devastating look, and called, "Mommy, look! Sponge Bob will make my arm feel better." A lesser woman would have caved, seeing those blue eyes and the bright yellow cast, but Germans are made of stermer stuff. I gently took it out of his hands and reminded him that he already had a sponge bob at home. He argued, but I got away with scooping him up in my arms and load of guilt on my shoulders. I barked a "no" at Matthew and Andrew and we were on our way.

When we got home everyone went to their own room to chill out. The car had a new battery, I had a headache from listening to Madonna mall music, and my wallet was $45 lighter. And I didn't even flinch when, 1 hour later, Matthew asked me, "Mommy, can we do something fun today?"

Twas the Night Before Christmas

2010-03-22T18:27:00.002Z

To give you an idea how hectic it's been around here lately, I'm finally posting something from Christmas. Happy New Year!

Twas the night before Christmas,
and all through our dwelling,
A little boy had to be scraped off the ceiling.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care
With warnings to the boys that they’d better not dare

Get out of bed for a glass of water
Or otherwise disturb their beloved mother
She was wrapping presents, and couldn’t recall,
Where she’d hid all the toys; not another trip to the mall!

Then came Dad to the rescue, to inject common sense,
Into the cloud of wrapping paper, which was really quite dense.
He carefully approached Mommy, where she sat,
Desperately trying to wrap a pogo stick for Matt.

Darling, she begged, won’t you make yourself handy?
And wrap this car for dear little Andy?
The grandparents looked on our preparations with glee,
Said they, I’m glad it’s them and not me!

Dad spoke not a word, wrapping like a mad hatter,
But still managed to hear a distinctive pitter patter.
Could it be? Was it Santa? Was it a fluke?
But no, of course not; go to bed, little Luke!

Dad sprang into action, things moved along rather quickly,
And Mommy became notably less prickly.
We whispered to our children, as we turned out the light,
Merry Christmas to all, please sleep tonight!

Happy Mother's Day

2009-05-11T18:08:00.007Z

I was recently asked to address a group of women at their monthly meeting. Apparently I'd made some sort of positive impression on the coordinator. I can't imagine why, as I am still running around like a chicken with its head cut off after my three boys, ages 9, 6, and 4.

Two other ladies spoke before me. One was a practicing psychologist and another an ethsitician. When the mistress of ceremonies introduced them, she included their impressive qualifications, which included advanced degrees and their own business. Since I was a last minute addition (the original speaker wasn't able to make it) she hadn't had time to find out anything impressive about me. When she introduced me, "and our last speaker is Kirsten Kennedy...a ..." she hastily mentioned my past accomplishments, which I must admit, sounded impressive. The last one was finished over 10 years ago, and I've sacrificed myself on the altar of motherhood ever since then.

When I was preparing my speech the night before, I was filled with panic. What on earth could I say to a group of women of differing ages, education, and income that would be entertaining, inoffensive, and interesting? I was staring at the blank screen on my computer when the answer came in the form of my 4 year old son covered in sand, coming into the house to request my assistance with the finer points of castle construction.

Of course. Kids. Most of us had them. And those who didn't had probably seen some at some point or another. They definitely had heard them. My speech went like this:

Hi. I'm so glad to see so many of you were able to make it this morning. I was asked to address you and offer some practical advice of some sort. About what, I'm still not sure. I'm sorry I was running late today, but our boys had karate and gymnastics, and our dryer isn't working, so I had some trouble finding clean clothes this morning. I have three boys. The first two are separated by three years, and the middle and youngest are 21 months apart. Let me make it easy for those of you without any functioning brain cells after your sleepless night: at one point in my life I had a five year old, a two year old,
and a newborn.
We were living in a two bedroom house without a dishwasher. Less said on the size of my house, the better. Sort of like the size of my hips. When my youngest was 4 months old, at some point in the midst of the chaos which now passed for my day, I realized that something was wrong with me. I was fat, exhausted, and overwhelmed. In step with my generation, I ran out and got a book to help me with my problem. That didn't work, so I joined a mom's group. That only made it worse. I'd never seen so many thin, pretty, put together women with perfectly behaved children in my life. I quickly decided I needed to find out what they had, and get it, quick.
I got a "to do" list longer than my nursing tops. Depending on the source, the advice I received only made me more tired. I needed to work out every day. I needed to keep the house nice and the children clean. I needed to cook nutritious meals. I needed to get together with some other moms. I needed to develop a hobby. I needed to put on makeup every day. I needed to dress nicely. I needed to go out on dates with my husband. I needed to discipline myself to do a Bible study every day. The books and women all promised me, do this one thing (whatever their particular "thing" was), and you will feel better.

I have only one thing to say. Baloney. What I needed was a full body post partum epidural. When was I supposed to put on makeup, when there were some days I didn't even make it into the shower? Work out? I got a workout every day pushing the double stoller up a 60 degree hill. Keep the house nice, puhleese. By the time I got the dishes done from breakfast it was time to make lunch. Fold the laundry - why? Do you have any idea how much a new baby spits up?
What I needed as angel. And that's what I got. She knew, you see, what I was going through. Without my even asking, she flew across the country to my rescue. For one glorious week, I slept, took a shower unaccompanied, went for walks with my baby, and ate nutritious meals. Mama cooked, cleaned, did the laundry, and somehow kept the boys entertained during it all. She even stayed up all night once so that I could get a full night's sleep.

I closed off my speech with an exhortation to the assembled women to ask for help if they needed it. Even if they were a graduate of West Point and had an MBA in Finance. I was beseiged with women sharing their stories with me after the luncheon.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama. I love you.

The Parent Teacher Conference

2009-04-17T01:53:00.004Z

This is such a misnomer. At the so called parent teacher conferences I've attended, the teacher talks and I occasionally get a word in edgewise. Think about it. Teacher holds all the advantages. I'm seated in a child sized chair looking up at my child's teacher. The last time I had to maneuver my rear into one of those little chairs I had flashbacks recalling my own elementary school years. When I reached 4th grade with Mrs. Hagelin, (an old school teacher who was never sick. She brought her medicine to class with her. Even the boys were aftraid of her.) I had to leave the room and splash water on my face to compose myself.

But nothing strikes fear into the hear of a child more than a parent teacher conference. What will your teacher tell your parents about you? Maybe the incident involving spitballs wasn't that smart after all. I recently had occasion to renew that fear. This time, however, I was the parent. Walking into my son's classroom, I got that same queasy feeling as when my parents went to the dreaded conference.

This one was for our Kindergartner. Back before I had kids, I promised myself I wouldn't permit myself to feel this crazy angst at my children's parent teacher conferences. I would arrive full of confidence and acceptance of any shortcomings of my child, should any be mentioned (which of course, there were).

I dressed in something other than my customary t shirt, jeans, and sneakers, actually applied makeup and put my hair to rights. That's when that little knot in my stomach started forming. We arrived at our son's classroom ready to hear how brilliant he was, and maybe he should skip 1st grade altogether due to his academic prowess.

That's not what happened. Have you seen a Kindergarten report card lately? It had been awhile for me, so my mother unearthed mine and read off some of the skills a Kindergartener needed to have to advance to 1st grade thirty years ago:

tie shoes
zip jacket
knows primary colors
plays nice with other children
follows directions
uses scissors
washes hands independently

Kindergarten has changed. It is now what we learned in first grade. My son's list looked something like this:

can copy sentences from board
can write l, m, and first and last name
knows phonics (always presuming already knows the alphabet)
knows numbers from 1 to 100
understands concept of rhyming words
knows address
knows telephone number

I sat there in stunned disbelief as our son's teacher explained some mysterious test called "Dibbels" required for advancement to first grade. I can't even pronounce it, much less explain what the heck it's for. Our child, who were were thinking of having tested for the gifted and talented program, apparently didn't perform very well on the "nonsense word fluency" part of the test. He kept interrupting the examiner, telling her the words weren't spelled right. (Apparently what he was supposed to do was sound out the letters of each word, to prove knowledge of phonetics.)

The other part he didn't perform particularly well on was breaking the words up into their parts. Excuse me? All this time we're teaching the kid to put the letters together to form words, and now you want to test him on breaking them up? His teacher explained that the test was to measure "the building blocks of reading". Since the child could already read, why does he need to be tested on the "building blocks". She didn't have an answer.

By the time we got home my head hurt from the description of these tests. We sent the object of these discussions off his room to play, where he promptly got out his trains and set up an intricate track involving switches, bridges, and a windmill (enhancing his fine motor skills). Then he proceeded to form a sculpture out of play doh (displaying his knowledge of primary colors) with his brothers before dinner (displaying the ability to get along with others). I wondered what the test administrators would have made of that.

The Temper Tantrum

2009-02-20T16:27:00.005Z

C'mon, admit it. Before you reproduced and became responsible for the behavior of another human being for 24 hours, 7 days a week for 18 years or more, you would look at screaming children in public and think, "when I have kids . . ." It's o.k., you can come clean. We've all done it. My personal favorite is, "if that was my kid, I'd . . . "

Then you became a parent. I have three children. In the 9 years that I've been a parent, I have witnessed tantrums caused by everything from a sleepy, cranky kid to a request to get into the car. I've discovered something about tantrums these past years. There are categories of temper tantrums, you see. It's kind of like hurricane classifications, with a surprising number of similarities. Hurricanes are classified into five categories, based on their wind speeds and potential to cause damage. Tantrums can also be similarly classified, based on volume, duration and potential to cause damage.

Category 1: Whimpering

Child starts to cry, saddened at your inability to purchase say, some cereal, in the grocery aisle. Volume of whimper is confined to the immediate area around your grocery cart, eliciting sympathetic looks from surrounding shoppers. Thanks to the 3 second attention span and the lollipop in your purse, by the time you turn the corner to the next aisle, child is consoled. Embarassment level is minimal. Parental response is frequently distraction.

Category 2: No!
The day comes when your child does not want to do something. I know, it sounds impossible, but your darling little child does not want to please their beloved mommy. You want them to sit down and be quiet, and they want to stand up and shout. Church is a great time for this to occur. Restaurants and movie theaters are also famous for these battles of will. Child is told to sit down and listen. Kid decides this is the time they have to go potty, wash hands, read a story, etc. When informed that this is not the time to do those things, the kid errupts into a miniature volcano, getting up, walking around, and asking you all those questions you wish they'd ask later . . . like in 10 years after you've had a chance to look up the answer. Volume level is loud enough to be heard by those in a 10 foot radius. You're embarassed and frantically try to hush the kid, who responds with a loud "no!" and dashes off. You catch the offender and leave the area, possibly to return when the kid has had a chance to calm down. Parental response might include a swat on the butt and/or time out.

My oldest son was terrified of the church nursery until he was 3. As a consequence, the only way we could attend was armed with a bag full of coloring books, toys, and other items of interest to hold his attention. These things lasted 10 minutes before the little explorer just had to start moving around. I've collected him from the center aisle, the pew in front of us, the pew in back of us, and the altar (he didn't want to leave without blowing out the candles.) One of my most vivid memories is when he called out "all done" at the end of a service. Our pastor was highly amused, and responded with "depart in peace".

Category 3: The full blown temper tantrum

You tell your child in a firm, reasonable tone that no matter how much they whine, you are NOT buying them the toy. Child falls to the ground, kicking and screaming, informing all the world what a bad mommy you are. (This never happens to my husband, incidentally.) The volume of your child's screaming can be heard at the opposite end of the store (big box, not boutique) and the looks coming your way by your fellow shoppers are filled with venom.

You realize that you don't need milk that badly, and decide to leave the store. The kid instantly becomes a dead weight, actually pulling away from you in an attempt to make his feelings known. In your journey to the car, you are kicked in the shins, knock over a display, and have sustained permanent injury to your eardrums. You could appreciate the kid's fabulous uppercut, but wish he'd restrict it to the boxing ring. Maybe karate lessons weren't such a good idea. You march through the parking lot, attempting to fish your keys out without losing your grip on the kid. (Personally I always threw them over my shoulder in order to leave one arm free. The kid, not the keys.) Upon reaching the car, you toss the child in (none too gently) and attempt to buckle the buckling, kicking, squirming mass of humanity into the car seat and get the heck out of there.

The screaming (now in an enclosed space) continues up until the kid falls asleep or you reach home, at which point you are the one screaming. You will never return to the store unless it's without the kid and you are wearing a wig and sunglasses. Parental response to this type of tantrum frequently includes a wooden spoon.

Important terms to know:
Tantrum Watch: Like hurricane watch, you are alert to the possiblity of a tantrum coming to your area within the next 36 minutes. You tune your mommy antenna to track where and when it will reach you.
Tantrum Warning: A tantrum is imminent. Leave the area immediately. I don't care if you have a cart full of groceries, leave.

The official hurricane season is from June 1 to November 30, but hurricanes can happen any time of the year. According to most child rearing experts, it's perfectly normal for toddlers to throw tantrums. Preschoolers are less likely to throw tantrums, but by the time they reach school age, children theoretically have better coping mechanisms. Well, that's all fine and dandy, but just how was I supposed to know that a request to follow me in Wal Mart would make my 6 year old fall to the ground, kicking and screaming? I mean, how was I supposed to know that he wasn't done looking at the lobsters yet?

Where is that little...?

2009-02-14T01:21:00.005Z

In lieu of "good morning", my husband's first words to me this morning were, "Where is that little bastard?" Now, this might mislead a casual observer that my beloved husband and I are on less than civil terms. Nothing could be further from the truth, as any intimate observer would quickly realize. No, he was referring to our three year old, who woke us up at 6:09 on a Saturday morning in summer when we'd let him stay up until 9:30 p.m. the night before. Let's see if you can guess my response to this tender greeting. Was it:

a) in the garage

b) in the backyard

c) playing in traffic, or

d) playing in his room

A far cry from those vaguely recalled romantic greetings of the dawn that existed prior to our child rearing years. Now the only sighing heard is from the reluctant parent who decides to actually get up with the kid.

The kid in question had been up for most of the night. Not sick, injured, or any other acceptable excuse for being awake when it is time to sleep. No, he just decided to be awake. And, just to make things a little more interesting, he desired his beloved parents' presence during his nocturnal activities. They were fascinating, to be sure. The activities, that is. He suddenly decided NOW was the time to brush his teeth, play charades, and practice tying his shoes. Activities we had to tackle him to do in daylight hours were suddenly infinitely more interesting when the moon was up.

Our attempts to convince him of his folly were met with howls of indignation. That normally wouldn't faze us (hey- we Ferberized two previous kids before this one), but one son had karate the next morning and the other....let's just say Andy doesn't do cranky well. In desperation, we tag teamed him, figuring between the two of us we could bore him to sleep.

Daddy had the first shift, and I must say he did a fine job laying down with his boy, humming our alma mater, and patting the offender'ss back. But then Daddy fell asleep, and the kid decided to see what Mommy was up to.

I was rudely awakened by the overhead lights and my hair being yanked out by the roots. No, our son is not a candidate for future intervention with law enforcement officers, but rather somewhat uncoordinated. You see, he reached up and grabbed a handful of blanket to hoist himself up onto our bed, and didn't realize strands of my hair were intertwined in the blanket. My yelp could have alerted the neighborhood of an air raid.

This woke Daddy up, and after nodding off in a toddler sized bed in an awkward position, he had his own aches and pains to worry about. In his leap out of bed to come to my aid, he tripped on the toys on the floor, reached out to catch himself, and inadverdently grabbed hold of the Winnie the Pooh latch hook rug on the wall. The rug came down, along with a few pieces of the drywall. Suffice it to say, it was Mommy's shift after that.

After clearing a path from the bed to the door, I sat in the kid's bed, patting his back and singing lullabies in an effort to lull him to sleep. My arm was numb, my memory depleted, when deep breathing assured me he was asleep. I gently disentangled myself from the bed, remembered where the path to door was, and slipped out. I got back into our bed, where I managed not to disturb my sleeping husband.

45 minutes later, just as I must have been hitting REM sleep, our beloved son climbed into the middle of our bed with a book in his hands, declaring it to be "stowy time". Unable to think clearly, I suggested a DVD instead. The kid accepted my offer with alacrity, displaying an uncanny ability to change direction mid stream.

And that's how Daddy found us, 3 hours later. I was bleary eyed, whether from lack of sleep or the overexposure to shows designed for a 3 year old audience. Oh, and the kid? He was choice b), playing happily with a jar of bubbles.

Love my Valentine

2009-02-12T22:14:00.006Z

I hate Valentine's Day. Now, I know, as a woman, I'm supposed to be thrilled with Valentine's day... the flowers, cards, chocolate, etc. I don't have any trouble with the day in principle, you understand. It's the parties. This year I have three boys in two different schools. And each child desperately wants mommy at his class party. My presence is requested at three different events tomorrow, beginning at 9 a.m., 10:30 a.m. and 11 a.m. At a glance this doesn't look too bad, except that the 10:30 one is at a different school, 20 minutes away.

Do you have any idea of the amount of cookies, cupcakes, and chocolate that I am responsible for? I made the fatal error early in the school year of presenting one of my children's teachers with some chocolate chip cookies for her birthday. The mistake was in letting the school know that I can apparently bake good food.

Cupcakes to preschool, three dozen heart shaped sugar cookies to 3d grade, and an enormous bag of chocolate to Kindergarten. Now, before anyone tells me to just go out and buy the stuff, there is a reason for making it all from scratch. The third grade class has a child with an allergy to nuts, and the boys in preschool refuse to eat any cupcakes with pink or any girlie colored frosting. Fortunately, I lucked out in Kindergarten - everybody loves chocolate.

And the Valentines cards. Not only do the kids get completely overloaded with sugar at Halloween and Easter, but Valentine's Day as well. Candy makers have come up with the brilliant, but sadistic, idea of combining cards with candy. The candy comes prepacked with a spot to write the names of the various people involved. Don't get those, you might think. But then you have to deal with your kid having the only mom in class who concerns herself with nutrition. It's worse than being the dentist's kid on Halloween. Social downfall is practically guaranteed.

So, tomorrow, when you are happily imagining what your significant other has cooked up for you, think of me, dashing from party to party, cupcake trays in hand.

Third Grade Homework

2009-01-13T23:51:00.004Z

This evening, as I think back to a kindler, gentler time in my life, it gives me a chance to reflect on how things change and become harder. I'm not referring to my childhood, you blockhead. I fondly recall assisting my son with his homework. That is, when he was in Kindergarten.

I mean, have you seen 3d grade homework? The kid is asking me to help him study for things I barely remember. Honestly, when was the last time someone asked you to write the dictionary pronunciation of a word? I understand and agree with the emphasis placed on correctly spelling the absurdedly complicated English language (if you want to spell a word exactly as it sounds, try German), but studying for those tests is a killer. Tears, flouncing out of the room, and tantrums are a common occurence in our house; and those are only my reactions. To watch my son wrestle with why "unfortunate" isn't spelled U-N-F-O-R-C-H-U-N-A-T is a study in empathy.

He's o.k. with the math homework most of the time. Given the fact that he has two super type A parents, this is hardly unexpected. And if I have trouble with the "if Edgar has 3 marbles and Jane has 5..." questions, there's always a load of laundry that just has to be done before Daddy gets home.

But the reading? Puh leese. First of all, the stories are mostly boring beyond belief. They're filled with almost poetic tales of children pondering the beauty of the woods and where flowers go in the winter. Similes and aphorisms abound, with a frightening mix of oxymorons in an attempt to hold what the authors must know is a kid's flagging interest.

My kid goes into the test knowing the story backwards and forwards, and he's required to answer a question that goes like this, " What do you think Charlie is thinking when he's thinking about climbing the doghouse?" He can't win. When the test comes home with his answer marked wrong, and the correct answer written in purple ink, I'm forced to admit that I would have gotten a B on the gosh darned test, too. He can read and tell us all kinds of things about sharks, trains, penguins, and a fictional character named Geronimo Stilton, but "Wings" somehow doesn't hold his interest much after the test is over.

I think I'm going to skip homework today. I paid my dues.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

2008-12-19T19:12:00.001Z

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my children gave to me…

· Twelve cookie cleanups

· Eleven trips to toystore

· Ten tangled tree lights

· Nine bathroom visits

· Eight loads of laundry

· Seven bedtime excuses

· Six snowflake sculptures

· Five Hours of Sleep!

· Four painted pictures

· Three boys bouncing

· Two pooped parents

· And a knocked over Christmas tree.

Our Family Christmas Card

2008-12-03T14:42:00.002Z

In keeping with tradition, I designed our family Christmas card this year. I'm starting to run out of ideas, so this year I plagiarized, with a bit of personalization thrown in for good measure.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my children gave to me....

12 cookie cleanups
11 trips to toystore
10 tangled tree lights
9 bathroom visits
8 loads of laundry
7 bedtime excuses
6 snowflake sculptures
Five hours of sleep!
4 painted pictures
3 boys bouncing
2 pooped parents
And a knocked over Christmas tree

Mosaic Madness

2008-09-21T11:15:00.002Z

I can't believe it...the store carrying my stuff called yesterday to tell me they'd sold another one of my pieces. This time, an angel went to a lady who was looking for a present for her grandmother, who loved pink.

Notes for a New Mother

2008-08-28T01:59:00.010Z

It's actually happening. You're having a baby. You're eating right, sleeping right, exercising right, and are reading all the stuff you're supposed to. The secret is out, and admit it: you're wearing maternity clothes so that no one can possibly imagine that you're just eating a wee bit too much at mealtimes.

Now comes a wonderful time in a pregnant woman's life that the books all refer to as "nesting". Personally, I think it's just the time when it actually hits you that you're going to have to make a space to put this little person who's due to arrive. Not only a space, but provide food, clothing, shelter, and entertainment.

In response to a query about whether or not she really needed all the stuff displayed at the baby store, I recently gave out the following gems of maternal experience to an expectant mother:

#1: What somebody else found to be indispensable may not be to you or your baby.

#2: A baby bathtub may not be entirely necessary (but then a very clean kitchen sink will be!)

#3: You will probably get a lot of baby blankets and cute outfits as presents. I don't know why, but when a woman who is done having children goes into the baby section of the store, all thoughts of sensible fly out of her mind and she gets the most adorable damn outfit she can find (usually also the one which is the most impractical to dress the kid in.)

#4: Grandmas are famous for blankets. I don't know why, they just are. You'll need a lot of them because the kid will spit up and pee and poop on everything at least once, if not all at the same time.

#5: Wait to get the gym, bouncer thingy, and/or swing until you're tired of holding your adorable precious baby. This may take years.

#6: Wipe warmer dries out wipes. Unless you want to stumble around at 3 o'clock in the morning looking for some with cleaning solution on them as the kid wails and flails questionable excretions all over, I suggest skipping the wipe warmer.

#7: Have one pack of size 1 diapers in the house ready for baby. Otherwise, buy as you go. Unless you want stacks of diapers that don't fit the kid stacked in your place masquerading as truly avante guard art.

#8: Shoes: personally, I bought a lot of clothes with feet in them. My children were forever losing their socks, so this was the only way I could still find them. (The socks that is, not the baby.)

#9: Despite all your best intentions to breast feed your baby, there will be a time when your boobs are really sore, she's fed, and the kid won't stop yelling. Since this will in all probability occur at 4 a.m., I suggest having a pacifier on hand. Get one of the rubber ones, not the clear silicone kind. It says "NUK" on it. Don't let anyone fool you - the kid won't get confused between you and the nuk.

#10 Bag to hold all the stuff when you do, indeed, actually leave the house. Diaper bags come in all shapes, colors, and sizes these days. Do not get the flowery or cutesy kind. This gives husband all the excuse he will ever need to not have to carry the diaper bag. Unless you want to be consistently relegated to toting the suitcase that now is part of the requirements for leaving the house, get a diaper bag with a rugged pattern to camouflage the changing pad and butt cream therein.

#11: What the hell else is your husband there for, if not to be dispatched to buy anything the baby (or you) needs RIGHT NOW? (Be careful with this one, as overuse past the first 30 days of the kid's life may cause him to suspect a lack of planning on your part.

Back to School

2008-08-06T01:12:00.003Z

Two other moms in my neighborhood and I did the back to school happy dance this afternoon. We've concluded that we are the only ones who actually openly admit what the whole block is thinking. "YES! GOODBYE SUMMER! THE KIDS ARE GOING BACK TO SCHOOL AND I DON'T HAVE TO ENTERTAIN THEM ALL DAY LONG ANYMORE!" For Jacque, Sherry, and I, none of this sappy fake sadness that our babies are growing up and going off to school. I tasted my freedom last year, and man, does it taste good. Our three boys, ages 8, 5, and 3 are off to school tomorrow and I couldn't be more thrilled.

I've spent the last three months going to the library, swimming pool, playground, water park, karate, gymnastics, and to the bathroom with three boys in tow and I am ready for school. The cons don't even begin to tilt the scales when you consider the pros. For the small price of feeding, dressing, and delivering three children to school I get the holy grail of motherhood: 6 entire hours to myself.

6 hours to go for a run without stopping every 10 seconds to admire rocks, go grocery shopping in peace, take a shower without company, speak to another adult without being interrupted, read the paper, and maybe even pursue my hobby (mosaics). The possibilities are endless. And for anyone who calls me a selfish, shallow woman, I merely would like to point out that I've sacrificed myself on the altar of full time mothering for 8 years, so back off.

That's what I'm telling myself. The truth is, I'm going to be a mess tomorrow. Our middle son, Andy, is going to his first day of kindergarten.

Musical Beds

2008-06-03T03:27:00.004Z

As is often the case when one has small children, expressions take on an entirely new meaning from your previous child free state. Musical beds is one of them. My husband and I apply this title when our three children, ages 8, 5, and 3 decide to freak us out and switch beds on us. That is to say, the bed they were tucked into is not the bed they sneak into while their completely exhausted parents collapse on the couch and attempt to catch up on say, adult conversation.

In my house, this happens fairly often. It all began with our middle child, who wanted to sleep in his big brother's room on the air mattress. All was well for a time, because big brother didn't mind. Peace reigned in our house at bedtime. Well. One evening big brother wanted some privacy, so our middle child decided mommy and daddy's bed was a great place to drift off into dreamland in. We simply picked him up when he was dead asleep and placed him back in his bed. The kid woke up in his own bed none the wiser. Peace reigned at bedtime.

Then, one day, big brother decided he wanted to sleep in his little brother's bedroom on the air mattress. Quiet reigned, and all was well.

Then the baby brother decided it wasn't fair that big brother and biggest brother were having all the fun, so he snuck into whichever room the two of them decided to camp out in. Now, you're asking yourself how two adults could possibly not notice a 3 year old creeping down the hallway in the evening. Ninjas have nothing on this kid. All I can say in our defense is that a) we're on the way to sleep ourselves, b) our senses have been dulled by the arrival and subsequent raising of 3 boys, and c) we just might have recalled the activity that led to 3 boys sleeping down the hall.

So the oldest complains that the baby is bothering them and all is not well at bedtime. Pandemonium reigns as we get everybody sorted out and into the bed that they've been assigned when we moved into the house. Eventually, quiet settled on our house and I stopped folding laundry and made my way to my bed to get some sleep.

When I went in to our middle son's bedroom, I noticed the covers were in more disarray than usual. Andrew was asleep in his bed, but he had company. Luke, the youngest, had apparently snuck in and occupied the foot of his brother's bed. I gathered him up to take him back to his bed and somehow managed to open the door to his room while simultaneously carrying a 40 lb. limp noodle and not waking him up. (highly underrated skill, I'm thinking of updating my resume) As I leaned over to lay him down, I realized that Matthew, the oldest, had snuck into his baby brother's bed and was sound asleep.

Not being talented enough to juggle a 40 lb. 3 year old and a 71 lb 8 year old at the same time, I laid the little one down at the foot of his bed, picked up Matthew, and staggered into his room and deposited him none too gently into his rightful sleeping place. Then, I went back to Luke's room, arranged him on his pillow, and performed a record breaking standing long jump out of the room when the little guy opened one eye and almost woke up.

By the time I made it out into the hallway, I had forgotten what I was doing there in the first place. The music had stopped playing and I was the only one not in bed.

Barbershop Mayhem

2008-05-30T10:10:00.006Z

I took my children to get haircuts today. In my defense, it's summer, and they needed it. Well, that is to say, two got a haircut, and the third was highly encouraged to watch before I gave up. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

My father recently admonished me to make sure Matthew didn't need a haircut when he goes to see them in Florida in a few weeks. Now, I love my papa a lot, but his idea of a little boy's haircut and mine differ somewhat. The last time my son came back from visiting his grandparents, he had a crewcut that took forever to grow out. I like the crewcut look (hey, I used to be in the army) but it has to be at least a little bit longer on top. Matthew looked like a miniature Mr. Hedbavny, my old elementary school principal. Freaked me out for awhile.

Anyway, on Day 8 of sumer vacation (67 more to go) I got my three little monsters into the car and off to the barbershop. I still don't know what I was thinking. Then again, I obviously wasn't, because any mother with at least one functioning brain cell would know better than to take all three of my boys to get a haircut at the same time.

The bad news was, we had to wait. The really bad news was that we had to wait a really long time. Since I'd passed the point of no return (the boys were looking shaggy), I was determined to get them a haircut, even if it killed me. It almost did.

Luke, who is four, started getting restless first. I mean, magazines featuring heads of different styles of hair can only hold his attention so long. He, quite naturally, egged his bigger brother (Andrew is six) on and pretty soon I began to have serious concern for the safety of the bottles of shampoo on display. (Why do these places have rows upon rows of bottles on display at kid level? Why?)

I took them outside to run laps on the sidewalk in front of the shop. This method of exhausting my children into submission has worked wonders in the past. I kept one eye on them, and another through the shop windows. I herded the boys back in when I saw that our turn was coming up next.

The stylist finished her customer, turned, looked right at me, and suddenly decided it was her break time. Now, not to toot my own horn, but I am a great tipper. I know that it isn't easy to cut a squirmy kid's hair (particularly Andrew's). I weathered the insult and calmly informed Matthew (o.k. my voice wasn't strictly as quiet as it could have been) that it apparently wasn't our turn yet and that he would get to go next. Andrew decided he'd had enough of paging through hairstyle books and started decorating the windows with his fingerprints. And Luke? He made a beeline for the lollipops. What kind of idiot leaves a cup full of lollipops within reach of the average 3 foot child?

I decided they didn't need haircuts that badly and gathered my brood and headed back home. My husband came home in time to see that our kitchen had been temporarily converted into a barbershop. He walked in to a mess unbeknownst to modern sanitary conditions. Our youngest decided it would be fun to play with the clumps of hair, and had proceeded to sprinkle them artistically throughout the house.

We went out to eat that evening. And I found hair for weeks afterward.

You're going to have a baby

2008-05-19T23:07:00.005Z

for Nikki

The queasy tummy, desire to eat really strange foods, tiredness, hot flashes, and love affair with the bathroom wasn't enough to clue me in. No, we women nowadays, in true instant gratification fashion, aren't even content to wait until a certain biological function doesn't occur on time. We want to know, and we want to know now. For all 3 of my pregnancies, I ran out to the nearest drugstore, peed on a stick, and knew for sure .... I was having a baby!

The really super part is keeping it secret. When I discovered I was pregnant, I'd be walking down the street, and suddenly have the desire to grin at complete strangers with that, "I know something you don't know" smile I developed in 3rd grade. But the really fun part is keeping it secret from your husband. The elaborate, often amusing plans of telling him have taken on the complexity of an operations order for a D Day assault.

Of course, he does eventually notice that --it eating grin on your face, which has a tendency to clue him in. If you can keep that under control, (and if he's really busy and distracted with say, work, moving, or something else that just might take up his concentration) you're home free. The sky's the limit.

With our first baby, my husband was actually attending a training course for about three weeks following my discovery. This gave me entirely too much time to plan how to spring the announcement. Worse, was, I was living with my parents at the time, so concealing the quesy tummy, etc. demanded a great deal of my attention and creativity. Thank goodness my living quarters were in the basement.

When we were finally reunited, he was up to his eyeballs in details and things he needed to to before he could start his new job, move, and all the delightful accompanying details that go with it. I kept hinting we needed to talk, and eventually we went for a walk, at which time I mentioned there were some details we needed to iron out before he departed for Korea. Money, living arrangements, names.... Priceless.

Now, with our second baby, it was even better. Again, we were getting ready to move, starting a new job, and he had a huge race he was getting ready for (see my earlier posting, the Runner's Wife). I sprung the news on him when we were out to dinner, casually mentioning that Matthew would make a good big brother. Our fellow diners were highly amused.

With our third baby, I didn't have the energy or time to figure out anything elaborate. I found out by peeing on a stick, with my two boys (ages 1 and 4 and the time) pounding on the bathroom door, demanding to know what on earth Mommy was doing in there. My poor husband was completely surprised, as this baby wasn't entirely planned for (hey, we're type A+, what can I say). I couldn't have supressed that --it eating grin on my face even if I'd had the energy. To this day, when I have that grin plastered on my face, Josh starts feeling nervous.

But telling the husband pales in comparison to the really BIG QUESTION: "who do we tell next?" My parents? Yours? Both at the same time? I've known couples who've lain awake nights, trying to figure out which set of parents deserve to get the news first. And when you're preggers, you need all the sleep you can get. (You sure won't get any AFTER the baby comes.) And after you've tackled that monumental problem, what about siblings? aunts & uncles? cousins? grandparents? It's a nightmare for every prospective parent. And the all important, but potentially hazardous, "who do we invite into the delivery room with us?" (personally I say piss everybody off and just have your husband)

But what I loved the most is the barrage of advice that comes after the congratulations. What to eat, what not to drink, or smoke, how to sleep, what maternity clothes to buy, put your feet up, get enough exercise, stay happy.....And your mother suddenly becomes the most brilliant, saintly person in the world. Who else can advise you on absolutely everything, yet still assure you that this is your baby?

And the questions from absolute strangers once you start to "show". Personal information you would never dream of sharing with another living soul becomes conversational fodder at the check out line. When are you due? Do you know what you're having? (duh - a baby) How much weight did you gain? (none of your bleeping business) Are you going to get an epidural? (do I look like a masochist?) Are you going to breast or bottle feed? Cloth or disposable? And, my all time personal favorite, "How are you feeling?"

However, you're pregnant. I'm sorry, I know I'm going to get all sorts of hate mail for his one, but I personally never went with the "we're" pregnant. Baloney. I'm the one who's throwing up. I'm the one who's going to get swollen ankles, leg cramps, food cravings, a sore back, and stretch marks. We are having a baby, but I'm was the one who was pregnant. All he has to do is fetch whatever food you happen to want at a moment's notice, massage your back, rub your feet, put up with the mood swings, and at frequent and regular intervals, assure you how beautiful you are. Who gets the easy part, huh?

And the kid's not even here yet. Heck, the peanut's just a blip on the ultrasound at this point.

I've decided I'm going to say just two things to my brother and sister-in-law:

1) you're going to be great parents

2) do not, under any circumstances whatsoever, travel with a brand new baby on a plane for Christmas to your parents' house.

Mosaic Madness

2008-04-15T17:00:00.001Z

I finished my first big mosaic project!

What did you do all day

2008-04-14T22:59:00.004Z

In case anyone is wondering, I spent the day flying kites and cleaning.

Laundry ... the pile that never ends

2008-04-13T23:54:00.003Z

I just finished 6 loads of laundry.

There are 19 semi neatly piled stacks of clean clothes on my bed. A neighbor recently commented to me, "I bet you do laundry every day". Well. . . yeah! I mean, when you spend the afternoon throwing rocks into a pond with three boys, what do you think?

It wasn't that bad at first. All three boys obeyed my instructions to: a) not get too close to the muddy banks, b) stay out of the culvert, and c) avoid the fire ant piles at all costs.

Well. That didn't last very long. According to my 8 year old, he was desperately trying to follow rule c) which necessitated breaking rule a), which in turn led to a slip and a splash into the water. Then, since "I'm already dirty" led to the breaking of rule b). I turned around for literally 30 seconds, and I couldn't see him. He entered the culvert (which is like a really big pipe) and apparently didn't hear my frantic calling of his name. When he emerged, even more filthy than before, he was truly bewildered at my purple face and angry countenance.

Since one little monkey just has to follow the other, I was soon chasing my five year old out, who explained that he "wanted to check on the alligator" and threatening my three year old with cessation of all desserts for the next week if he followed his brothers' example.

I herded them home, leaving a trail of wet, muddy footprints for my neighbors to follow and not-so-privately comment about my parenting techniques. In an instant, my laundry pile acquired three shirts, three pants, 9 socks, and four pairs of shoes (my shoes were muddied during the rescue mission).

Later in the evening, I was enjoying a few quiet moments folding the laundry while the kids were engrossed in a Scooby Doo DVD. I was filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment when viewing all 19 piles of clean, folded laundry. (hey, I'm a stay at home mom. I'll take whatever I can get.) Bored, or apparently worrying if Mommy was lonely, my three year old wandered in. Close on his heels was my five year old, worried he might be missing something. I warned them both to stay off my bed, and went to answer the phone, which started ringing.

I returned from my 20 second trip to the next room to answer the phone and discovered both boys apparently hadn't heard my warning about staying off the bed. My formerly clean, folded and sorted laundry was all in a pile on the floor. On the bed was my five year old, poised to take a swan dive into the pile. I heard a muffled murmur from inside the pile, and discovered my three year old swimming in my clean underwear.

Mama said there'd be days like this, but I don't think she reckoned with my three.

A New Twist on Homework

2007-12-05T23:40:00.000Z

A new excuse for "the dog ate my homework". How about, "my little brother scribbled on my math homework (20 problems finished while 2nd grader whined the entire time) with a purple marker". Grrrrr....

From Now On...

2007-07-25T01:52:00.000Z

After watching (babysitting is soooooo passe once they're past 3 years old) my neighbor's two boys this morning, I noticed a dirt trail from the door crossing the living room floor and leading to my son's bedroom, where the trail abruptly stopped. (Either the miscreant's feet had miraculously ran out of dirt to track in or it soaked into the carpet, I can't tell.)

I cheerfully (yes, cheerfully) went to get the mop to wipe up the telltale evidence of a combination of 5 little boys, 1 backyard, and 43 gallons of water. When I finished mopping up the living room floor, I figured the kitchen floor could use a little wipe down. (The kitchen floor ALWAYS could use a little wipe down.)

Now, we have 3 children, ages 7, 4, and 2, so I'm used to the various crumbs, globs, and spills in the vicinity of the kitchen table announcing to visitors what the day's breakfast menu was. But I was completely unprepared for the effect 5 children's lunch would have on my floor.

Oh, did I forget to mention I'd scrubbed the floor yesterday?

Silly me, lunch was Spiderman shaped mac 'n cheese, oranges, nuts, and juice. OK, I know it's not the healthiest lunch in the world, but it was all I could think of that all of them would eat. That, and it was the quickest food I could get to the table before my head exploded from yet another little boy asking me if lunch was ready yet.

I got the food on the table, sorted out who would sit where, broke up the fight over the Spidey cup with the crazy straw, and poured everyone's breakfast preference. I then excused myself for a much needed trip to the bathroom. (I have become my mother, I always have to pee.)

When I arrived back at the table, the three older boys (one of which is mine) were using their spoons to catapult web shaped pasta across the table at one another. The orange peels had been transformed into handcuffs (Moommy, boys don't wear bracelets), and the nuts served as cannon fodder for their straws.

The two younger boys watched with a gleeful enthusiasm I can only hope to someday emulate while viewing such a spectacle. They cheered their older brothers on, clapping their hands with delights, knocking over cups (those non spill cups are such a rip off) and spilling milk and juice everywhere.

Just as I was regaining my breath to deliver an ear shattering command to cease and desist (i.e. STOP!) the phone rang. It was my neighbor, and asked if I would please send her boys home now. She tentatively said, "I hope they haven't been too much trouble".

With complete honesty , I replied that they hadn't caused any mess that my boys weren't equally involved in. Then I mentioned that I hoped she wouldn't be mad if they came home wet.

I turned on the sprinklers and herded the boys outside. I figured that would be the easiest way to clean them up without making even more of a mess. Besides, the ants could use a snack and I didn't feel like picking pieces of Spidey out of my drain for the next two days.

As I returned to the kitchen and viewed the damage inflicted on my kitchen floor, a new Family Rule came to mind:

from now on, we're eating outside.

Bathtime Etiquette

2007-03-27T20:35:00.001Z

Now that my boys are growing older (and somewhat less accident prone), bathtime is not quite the tub circus that it used to be. My oldest, who is seven, has declared that he requires privacy while bathing and does not wish any assistance in his daily ablutions. (Except if the soap gets in his eyes, at which time anyone with a dry washcloth is welcome in the bathroom.) Otherwise, keep out.

My two youngest boys, however, are still in the delightful phase of childhood which welcomes company in the tub. Seeing as they are in the tub quite often (see previous blog entries), even a brother is welcome to share the suds.

But...a few rules have to be in place to ensure a peaceful bath.

Bathtime Etiquette

No more than two children ages 4 and under can be bathed in a standard sized tub at the same time. Three or more are only for the tub in in mommy and daddy's bathroom.
When permitted the privilege of using mommy's bathtub, you will not press the button that makes bubbles until the water level covers the jets. Bubble bath will only be used in extremely limited quantities.
Use of the commode is compulsory prior to entering the tub, even if you don't think you have to go.
There will be no splashing of child seated on the commode by the child already in tub.
There will be no peeing in the tub.
If the above for some reason, should occur, the offended party WILL NOT screech loud enough to break glass, leap out of the tub, or slug the offending party.

The Runner's Wife

2006-11-24T03:39:00.000Z

My husband has a mistress. She's been there since the earliest days of our marriage, but I've noticed her influence steadily growing. And she is a sneaky witch, let me tell you. Slowly, insidiously, he's spent more and more time with her, thinking about her, and preparing for her.

I'm referring to running, of course. It started out simply enough, with a marathon here and there. Then it became marathons at regularly spaced intervals. Then it became vacations scheduled around marathons. Now I'm tossing off terms like, "Western States 100" and "50 milers" like it's something everybody should know about, not just .01% of the population operating 4 standard deviations from the norm.

Did you know that there is a whole cult of running geeks probably operating in your neighborhood? They are instantly recognizable by their uniform: khakis, North Face, or Columbia Sports pants teamed with running shoes. Their T-shirts and/or jackets are inevitably monogrammed or emblazoned with some race or other. The longer, the better. Ball caps, while optional, frequently espouse a race such as the NYC marathon, Boston marathon, Texas Sunmart, etc. But my all time favorite is the dinner plate masquerading as a belt buckle: it's awarded to finishers of the Western States 100. And yes, it is a race conducted in California in which the contestants run a consecutive 100 miles....within 24 (silver buckle) or 30 (brass buckle) hours.

My man has more shoes, which require more maintenance, than I do. These get rotated on a regular basis and require airing out, not to mention get stuffed with newspaper when they get really wet. There are gobs of wadded up newspaper floating all over my garage on a daily basis.

There is an entire wardrobe consisting of nearly (but not quite) identical shirts, singlets, shorts, jock straps, socks and caps. These all serve various arcane purposes: running in the rain, in the sun, on trails, on pavement, on hills, on straight paths.

My husband, while in high geek mode, is consumed with the details of calories, protein, carbohydrates, lipids, acids, vitamins, and strange shakes with titles like, "recovery drink", "Isopure", and "Perpetuem Extreme Endurance Fuel".

I recently met another runner's widow (similar to golf widows) at a get together of geeks after a race called the "Dizzy 50's" in Huntsville, Alabama. She smiled at me, recognizing a fellow spouse in arms. We dug into our onion rings and shared stories of 4:30 a.m. wakeups, 12:30 a.m. "training runs" and how to untangle jock straps from the washer. We looked over at our spouses, eating their low carb white bean chili and getting rehydrated after sweating all over 50 miles of trails and toasted them with our drinks.

It's not that bad, she said to me, once you get past the smell. But what you really have to watch out for is the shoe obsession. Once they start to keep logs, you're a goner. But until then, enjoy your designated driver. (Runner's can't have alcohol the night before a race, it dehydrates them.) And brush up on your pasta recipes, she offered as a parting piece of advice.

I went home that evening, strangely content after sharing my woes with a fellow runner's wife. But I woke up later that night, a question burning in my brain. What the hell is gu, anyway?

The Halloween Hop

2006-10-30T22:17:00.001Z

No, this isn't "Hop" as in a dance talked about by your parents when referring to days gone by. It's the night before Halloween, when you realize you are never going to find your kid's costume in his size. He's begged and pleaded for a pumpkin costume and you come to the awesome realization that you're going to have to make it. Start hopping.

For those of you who sew your own clothes, this obviously doesn't present much of a problem. If you have a sewing machine and can use it for more than sewing on patches, this probably wouldn't put a hitch in your stride. For the tailoring impaired, your Halloween Hop might resemble what happened to me.

My son, last year, for his Kindergarten costume, begged and pleaded to be a pumpkin. Not the " 'lil pumpkin pie" costume that you see in the stores, but a pumpkin. In the weeks before Halloween I combed our local stores, searching for a pumpkin costume in his size. To no avail. I searched the Internet, and decided that paying $69.99 for a costume the kid would only wear for one day of his life was just slightly ridiculous. (Man, am I glad we have boys. Think wedding dresses for 3.)

Finally, I gave up searching for a ready made costume and found myself aimlessly wandering the aisles of our local craft shop, praying for inspiration. I had two grumpy children with me, both of whom amused themselves by grabbing various small items off the shelves. A lovely grandmotherly type noticed my obvious distress and asked if she could assist me in any way.

"Pumpkin" was all I could manage to blurt out, completely overwhelmed by the aisles upon aisles of beads, paints, foam, plastic flowers and other items "crafty" people have the ability to assemble into attractive decorations. In one aisle there was a complete selection of small, unpainted wooden figures. What do people do with all that stuff?

My gracious saleslady led me to a corner of the store where fabric was on display. There were other people waiting to ask her something, but I grabbed her hand and begged, "please, don't leave me" in a pitiful voice. The other customers circled around, eager for blood, with absolutely no pity on my obvious vulnerability. In craft stores, I've discovered, it's best to put on a strong front and at least appear to know what you're doing. The weak are culled out of the store in a hurry by the higher order elements.

She led me to a row of fabric bolts with the instructions, "just pick which orange you like honey. I'll be back in just a little bit." She vanished into the crowd of circling women, snapping out directions in a crisp, sure voice. Scent? Aisle 3. Mosaic stones? Aisle 6, in the back. Plaster of paris, please look behind the scrapbooking section.

I turned to choose the fabric which I presumed would be the basis of my son's costume. The bolts got fuzzy and I had to sit down a minute to regain my balance. Do you have any idea how many shades of orange there are? Not only that, but some fabrics had patterns running through. Then there's the type of fabric. It ran the gamut from cotton to felt to rayon. My head started swimming again, but then my craft angel appeared from behind a display of buttons.

What pattern are you working with, dear? She asked in a patient sort of voice. I handed her a sheet of paper I had printed off the Internet that had "simple" instructions on how to create a pumpkin costume. She tsked, then asked, "what are your son's measurements?" I answered with my hands, about so tall and so wide. A size 6 in jeans I said, thinking this would help. She bit her lip, trying not to laugh.

We made the determination that I'd need approximately 5 yards of orange fabric and some black and green for the eyes, mouth, and stem. Unfortunately, the store was out of orange felt by then (it was the day before Halloween) and besides, the costume wouldn't "fall" properly with such a stiff fabric. My options were limited, with rayon or polyester still left.

I got home with a bag of rayon (think $) and various spools of thread. Then I really started hopping. That evening I sat crosslegged on the floor with yards of flowing orange material and hopped between the ironing board, the fabric spread out on the floor, and the sewing machine. My fingers were bleeding with needle pricks , but I didn't give up until the damn costume was finished. I couldn't get up when I finally was done, much to my husband's amusement. The pumpkin costume, I must admit, was a masterpiece of creativity with just the right splash of desperation to keep it interesting. I even crafted a small hat to resemble the stem, with green squiqqly felt strips dangling along the sides. A small square of orange fabric made a terrific patch for a hole in a pair of jeans. We're talking a completely coordinated outfit here.

The next morning, my ecstatic son donned his costume and headed off to school. I didn't even mind when he came home with the prize for the "funniest costume".

But this year, I bought him a Batman costume 6 weeks before Halloween. It even has a plastic mask.

Tour de Bedtime

2006-08-14T03:52:00.001Z

Most parents of small children love bedtime. Admit it. As much as you love, adore, and cherish your children, you love it when they are asleep. Their sweet little faces relaxed and innocent, the sound of their gentle breathing, and most of all, the prospect of a few minutes of peace and quiet where you can return to your preparent state and not worry about anyone but yourself and maybe your spouse. Heck, you might even actually remember what activity it is the two of you engaged in that made you parents in the first place.

I love bedtime. I long for bedtime. There have been days where I've gotten out of bed in the morning and the thought of bedtime is what got me through my day. It's wonderful - you can watch a television show that doesn't feature any characters hopping around singing the praises of brushing your teeth, going potty, or the letter of the day. (I refuse to watch American Idol for this very reason.) You can read a book without anyone crawling all over you or having to fend off a request for yet another horsey ride. You can finish your sentences, talk on the phone, make an unaccompanied trip to the bathroom, or even just listen to music and take a hot bubble bath. You can even go to sleep, if you like. No doubt about it, bedtime is one of my favorite parts of the day.

But my friend Tracey (who can potty train in her sleep) hates bedtime. Absolutely dreads it, fears it, and would do almost anything to avoid it. She admitted this to me recently. I was stunned, shocked, appalled. How on earth, I thought, could you hate bedtime?

Then I remembered. She and her husband are operating on a different plane of reality than the rest of us. They just had their third boy. And if this little guy is anything like his dad, he's probably already contemplating how he's going to parachute out of his crib to get in on the action on the ground. Considering that their other two boys are ages 6 and 4, they cannot be held responsible for their temporary insanity.

I remember when our first baby was just one year old, and I asked my friends about just how the heck I was supposed to get the darling little monster to sleep. I got tons of advice about a nice warm bath, story time, and laying the kid down "while they are drowsy". Above all, the parenting books caution, stick to the ROUTINE, and in a few weeks, the kid will fall in line. Like potty training, this was a bunch of hogwash and certainly didn't work for my kids.

As I got to think of it, it isn't actually bedtime that I'm so enthralled with. What really works for me is when bedtime is actually over and done with; check marks the block, so to speak. The ramp up for the actual "bedtime" is something only experienced parents can truly appreciate for the volume of activity it generates. The actual activities preceding bedtime are worthy of a workout akin to Lance Armstrong training for the Tour de France in terms of blood, sweat, and tears before you slip on the yellow jersey and head for the finish line (your own bed). We won't discuss the possibility of chemical stimulants.

First Leg: And They're Off: Announcement that it's bedtime

Upon announcement that it is, indeed bedtime, your children suddenly remember that there is a school project that is due the following day which requires a trip to the store to purchase $37 worth of supplies to create something ominous called a "diorama" or the equally sinister "plaster of paris" statue which will be worth 80% of your child's grade for the year. If your children are not of school age, this announcement will generate a burst of energy in your child which you only see in the most experienced sprinters during the Olympic games. A debate as to whether or not it's bedtime ensues. Your ability to read a clock is insulted, as well as your judgement as to how much sleep a human being actually requires before falling over in their tracks is also usually part of the reparte.

Second Leg: Transportation Station: Getting them into the bathroom

You debate with yourself whether the little angels are really all that dirty, and if the teacher will notice the sand under your child's fingernails the next morning. Remembering that it's probably easier to clean their feet than clean and change all the bed linen, you weigh in on taking a bath. Ignoring the dishes from dinner, the toys that still need to be picked up from the afternoon's reenactment of "Toy Story", you manage to extricate at least two of your children from their hiding spaces beneath their beds or in the closet and herd them into the bathroom. If you get really lucky, the third cooperates by being lured in to the vicinity by the sound of running water.

Third Leg: Wash Station: Actually accomplishing the purpose that you're in there for.

I've learned not to expect too much actual washing to go on at bathtime. It's easier for all concerned if you fill the tub with soapy water and hope some gets splashed in the appropriate nooks and crannies. Washing the hair is only conducted when it really, really needs it or that day's activities included sand or mud. Between the dodging, shrieking, and wiping water out of the eyes, I've discovered an expedient means of rinsing them off: the shower. This apparatus also serves as the means of getting the kids out of the tub. What really drives me crazy is after all the fuss of actually getting into the tub, you have to use a spatula to scrape them out of it. The water could be a mere memory, it's freezing cold, but they beg for the chance to splash in just one more puddle.

Fourth Leg: The Sprint: Drying them off

Forget those adorable pictures you see in magazines of children laughing delightedly with a hooded towel draped just so over their heads. Processing the clean children from point A (the tub) to point B (into their pajamas) is accomplished by tossing the towels in their general direction as they sprint out of the bathroom. Air drying is soooo underrated.

Fifth Leg: Pit Stop: Pajamas and Stories

Depending on the ages of your children, this can be accomplished with a minimum of fuss or the ability to do 6 things at once. Even if I lay out the pajamas on his bed, my oldest will inevitably get distracted by a book, a toy, a loose crayon. While wrestling my youngest child into his pajamas, I call out various cutoff times along the way, "if you don't have your left sock on by the time I count to 5" or, "if those pajamas are not on after 7:45 p.m., we're talking about missing a story". My middle son, as of late, delights in demonstrating his creativity by putting his pajama bottom on his head, and putting his feet through the arm holes. While I'm impressed with his thinking outside of the box, it does tend to derail my ultimate goal: bedtime.

Sixth and Final Stretch: The tuck in

By now, if you aren't completely exhausted, you can sense the end is near. If you get really, really lucky, they actually stay in their beds after they are inserted into them. In really, really unlucky cases, you're talking about two siblings sharing a room and a bunkbed, which can get challenging. I remember going to check on my two oldest boys' progress in the sleep department and being greeted by two completely wide awake children busily tying the sheets together to form a bungee cord.

We had to put up a baby gate in my middle child's doorway once he figured out how to open the door himself. We have caught him sneaking into his big brother's room (way past both their bedtimes) in order to conduct experiments in gravity. Needless to say, we were not amused. But I have to admit that the deer-in-the headlight expression on his little face when we caught him was priceless.

We've also had the priceless experience of both our older children sleeping in our room when we finally had to allow our youngest the educational experience of "crying it out". Since the baby's room is right next to the two older boys room, his shrieks of indignation were keeping them up. It was right about 3 in the morning when I gave up trying to share a king sized bed with a fully grown man and two smaller versions of the same and headed for the sofa. I had to, as I was nursing two broken ribs and a black eye from the thrashing of two small children who both insisted on snuggling up to Mama.

But, finally, when it's all done, there are three beautiful angels to look in on before collapsing into my own bed. And I remind myself of the famous philosopher who said, "this too, shall pass". I just wouldn't mind if I could get one night to pass with everyone in their own bed.

The Messy Husband

2006-08-11T01:38:00.000Z

This posting was originally going to be titled, "Top 10 Reasons It's GOOD to have a Messy Husband", but I had to squash that idea when all I could come up with were two good reasons. Hey - it's harder than it sounds. I got all kinds of input about how messy husbands drove their wives crazy, but it was a little harder, apparently, to think of anything good about them.

And I know that this title is sexist and perpetuates all kinds of gender stereotypes, but pooh on you. So girls, I'm socking it to you (us). OK, strap on your armor, leave your sensitivity behind and keep reading.

I am so with my fellow frustrated sisters with MESSY HUSBANDS. I know, I know, I'm making broad generalizations that we thought we left behind in the 1950s. Ha! In my circle of friends and acquaintances (which are a considerable number), I can only count two husbands who would get on their wives cases if the house was messy when they came home. They just didn't seem to have any idea of the havoc small children could wreak. Or big ones, for that matter. But those two gentlemen were West Point graduates who went on to become explosive experts. In their particular cases, I applaud their innate sense of neatness and attention to detail.

However...the other 99% of my sample of men (including my father) were incurably messy. My particular favorite (I happen to be married to him) could, in the process of merely entering a house, leave disorder in his wake like swells of water behind an ocean liner. A jacket laid over a couch, keys, change, wallet and sunglasses left on a counter, shoes mysteriously winding up in the middle of the floor, and glasses left on a table. It's like our long dead historical icons with plaques and statues all over the place, shouting out, "I was here!". You would never mistake whether or not the man was present. Signs were everywhere.

Newspapers are a particular bone of contention, as they are left spread across 7/8 of the kitchen table while the rest of us try to eat on the remaining horizontal surface not covered with newsprint. Or, I'd wake up in the morning to a living room floor carpeted in newspaper, since "someone" left them opened on the floor next to the couch the night before.

It was never a mystery as to who had last been in the bathroom. Towels on the floor, a dozen toiletries left out on the counter, the rug rumpled and the hamper lid open with socks trailing out onto the floor.

It used to drive me crazy, especially when we were first married. I'd trail behind him, straightening, picking up and putting away the chaos he left in his wake like a passing tornado. He'd walk past a basket of clean, folded laundry without it ever occuring to him to pick it up and return the clothes to the appropriate drawer. I'd bite my tongue anytime I went near the sink, which mysteriously filled with glasses whenever I wasn't looking.

From my many conversations with my girlfriends, and attending a university with a 10 to 1 male to female ratio, I was assured this trait was almost universal among the male of our species. Once, while my tactical officer was inspecting my room, he commented, "girls are neater than boys" after a fruitless 5 minute search for dust. To which my roommate answered, "we smell better, too."

Then, a few weeks ago, my husband went away on a business trip for a week. Midway through the second day, as I went through the house musing on the odds of getting my 20 month old down for a nap, it hit me. Our house was completely neat. No dishes in the sink, no laundry to do or put away, no beds to make. The dishwasher was empty, the carpets were clean, I'd mopped the floors that morning, and my oldest was quietly reading while my middle child was taking a nap. I almost didn't know what to do with myself.

Then I realized: some day (hopefully about 50 years from now, God willing), there would come a day where the house would always look like this. I wouldn't have to clean up after anybody else's mess anymore. Because nobody else would be there. I'd be alone.

Needless to say, my husband was welcomed home rather more enthusiastically than he anticipated. And the next day, when the newspaper was on the floor, a pair of boxers draped on the back of a chair, and his cell phone, keys, change, wallet, and sunglasses were decorating my kitchen counter, I just smiled.

2 Reasons why it's good to have a messy husband

He never notices if the house is a mess. Think about it. What if you take the day off and make mud pies in the backyard instead of doing your usual chores? A messy husband probably wouldn't even notice you'd skipped housekeeping that day. (The muddy footprints might tip him off, but I wouldn't count on it.)
You are a queen when you find his stuff for him. So, the next time you hear, "honey, have you seen my _____ " look at it as an opportunity to stun the man with your magical powers.

Potty Training

2006-08-01T01:56:00.001Z

I hate potty training. I mean, I know nobody actually likes it, but I really, REALLY hate it. No watering it down with words such as, "dislike" or "distasteful". Remedial Potty Training, make way for me.

And those of you smug parents out there who give me a superior look and inform me precisely how easy it was to potty train your children, go away. This article is not for you. And if one more person starts a sentence with, "what YOU need to DO is....." I will not be held responsible for my actions.

I saw a book titled "How to Potty Train Your Child in A Single Day". It caught my eye because I was out buying yet another set of 2T-3T underwear with an obnoxiously cheerful train printed on the rear. I'll leave it up to your imagination as to the fate of the last pair I bought.

Leafing through the book, I got the gist of the author's method. You buy a doll that can tinkle, then give it plenty to drink. Placing the doll on the potty, you demonstrate the basics of the procedure you'd like your child to emulate. When the doll is finished, you throw the doll a party. Works like a charm, the authors state confidently.

Well. Another mother strolled by with her kid in the shopping cart, saw what I was reading, and started gushing. She was so enthusiastic, I began to suspect she had financial ties to the publishing house. She went on and on about how easy this method was, and how fast her daughter caught on, and how nice it was to finally be done with diapers. I stood there, with a carefully neutral expression on my face, torn between manners and desire to start jumping up and down doing the "pee pee dance", just to see how she'd react.

I tossed the book back on the shelf and headed towards the diaper aisle. Are you kidding? Everybody knows that all you need is a huge bag of m&m's and not go anywhere for awhile....say a few weeks. Then again, in my case, make that a few months.

Other People's Kids

2006-07-31T19:12:00.001Z

At some point, you are actually going to venture outside of your house with your children to visit someone else with children approximately your kids' ages. Yes, I know you think that this will never happen. But believe it or not there will come a time when you are actually able to get each child (and yourself) fed, cleaned up, and dressed and out of the house in a reasonably organized manner. If you're really good, you might actually remember to take the address and directions of the person you are visiting. Or, you might be lucky enough to have someone in your neighborhood so that you don't have to remember their address. All you have to do then is remember approximately where their house is located, and the tricycles, swingset, and minivan in the driveway will shine out like a homing beacon for a carrier pigeon.

I recently went on such a visit with my three children, having been invited over to "see her new kitchen". So, off we went with two on bikes, one in the stroller, and me in my walking shoes. Upon arrival, my children immediately set to with our host's toys. And man, were they something. The latest Thomas the Tank Engine stuff, the best Legos, and a really cool collection of Play Dough. The visit would have been a lot of fun, had the resident toddler not taken such an active dislike of my 1 1/2 year old.

This vicious little guy attacked my kid at every turn. I had to admire the little gangster. He was smart enough to not try anything with my 6 year old, whom we've taught that you don't start a fight but you sure as heck can finish one. And he apparently didn't like the odds of tangling with my 3 year old, who despite his small stature has the heart of a lion. Andrew is also a master of ninja stealth attacks, which I learned when a 35 lb. bundle suddenly hurtled out of the closet and landed on my back while innocently cooking dinner. No, the little future Scarface-in-training figured he could take on someone half his size, correctly assuming his superior firepower would carry the tide of battle.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Mama Bear's rounding her cubs up because somebody dared to look at her little darling sideways. But seriously, this little punk was way out of line. In the space of a 20 minute visit my baby was kicked, punched, grabbbed, pinched twice, and pushed down the steps. And honestly, Luke wasn't even messing with his stuff. I mean, I could understand if he objected to sharing his toys, but he followed my toddler from room to room, just to torment him. I finally despaired of parental intervention and hoisted Luke onto my shoulders, where he spent the remainder of the visit tearing my hair out of its moorings.

The little demon's mother, between pointing out various details of her new kitchen occasionally noticed her offspring's transgressions. Her response was to ask him in a soft, honey sweet voice to, "please don't do that baby" or "that's not very nice".

As a former Army officer and current mother of 3 males, I was tempted to mention the complete ineffectiveness of her wishy-washy requests for acceptable behavior. The suggestions running around through the back of my mind involved some rope and a cage, so I bit my tongue and decided to treat the visit as an educational experience instead.

After the pushing down the steps incident, I gathered up my troops and went home, not caring what my hostess thought. My shoulders were beginning to go numb from the weight of my little guy, and my scalp was burning, but there was no way I was going to leave him in the stroller while rounding up the other two.

Oh, and by the way, the kitchen was gorgeous (I think).

Things I never, ever thought I'd say

2006-07-16T17:33:00.001Z

This is a work in progress, periodically updated as new reports come in.

Things I never, ever thought I'd say

Give me that booger this instant!

Don't eat the flyswatter. Here, have a cookie instead.

Stop helping me clean the tub and go jump on the bed.

Please go watch TV.

Could you just wipe your own hiney, please?

No, you can't have your banana until you finish your pizza.

Get down off the kitchen cabinet. You might break my nice dishes.

Pee pee, come out!

Don't go in the water. Stay in the mud.

Don't swallow your gum. Give it to Mommy.

Next time, don't use permanent green marker to color your hands. Use the washable kind.

Who wants the last Oreo?

Whatever it is, just spit it in Mommy's hand.

Stop running around with that bucket on your foot. Put it on your head.

Don't slide off your bunk bed. Jump down.

If that happens again, hit him back.

Don't you want some candy? (This when my middle child refused to put on his Halloween costume.)

The Sounds of Mother's Day

2006-05-16T18:27:00.001Z

My Mother's Day began with a whimper and ended with a bang.

The whimper was from my husband, as 2 of our children awakened at 6:14 a.m. on Sunday morning. The sigh came from me, rolling over and burrowing deeper into the covers. (Hey, it was Mother's Day, I got to sleep in.)

The slam was from our bedroom door as my husband firmly informed our 6 year old Mommy was not to be disturbed. The whine and sniffle from the other side of the door was from said 6 year old as he went to have breakfast. The jiggle at the door was from our 18 month old, who apparently didn't understand or chose not to obey Daddy's edict.

The slap was the sound of aforementioned 18 month old's pudgy hand connecting with my cheek as he clambered up into bed with me. (Why do they always come to my side?) The whoosh was when Daddy retrieved our youngest son to redirect his considerable energy into something non mommy oriented: breakfast. (Since he hasn't been nursing for quite some time now, this wasn't as difficult as it once was.)

As I snuggled deeper into the covers, a sigh escaped as the muted sounds of breakfast dishes clanking drifted to my ears. No, wait, that wasn't clinking from the kitchen. It was our middle son, with his ever present Lego train (Toby). Our 3 1/2 year old had taken advantage of Daddy's momentary distraction and traversed the length of the hallway between his room and ours with stealth worthy of a trained sniper.

The thump was his foot hitting the wooden chest at the foot of our bed as he vaulted onto the small of my back. (I have to admit, the kid's coordinated.) The groan came from me as I accepted the inevitable and swung my legs onto the floor. As I escorted our son into the kitchen to join his brothers for a celebratory Mother's Day breakfast (Fruit Loops) I was greated with yet another wonderful sound.

The sizzle was the sound of my Mother's Day pancakes being cooked to perfection by my husband. He decided to spare me our 6 year old's recipe for pancakes, as dictated to and faithfully recorded by his Kindergarten teacher:

My Favorite Recipe

Matthew

Pancakes

Mix a lot of things like milk, water, and

strawberries in a bowl. Pour the dough in a

pan on the stove. Cook for 20 minutes. Take

a spatula and put it under the pancake. You

flip it over. When they are flipped over and done,

you put them on my plate.

The splash was the sound of the vase containing my Mother's Day flowers being overturned as our 3 1/2 year old hurried to get his share of the Fruit Loops breakast aperatif. Teh creak was from my knews as I got out the rags and towels required to wipe up the spilled water which made a melodic drip onto the floor.

Moving on to the afternoon....

There was blessed silence as our two younger sons settled down for naps and our oldest enjoyed a book. The peace was abruptly shattered by the announcement from our doorbell that there were visitors at our door. "I'LL GET IT" came from my oldest as he pounded to the front door. A debate ensued between 3 males between the ages of 6 and 8 as to precisely what activity the trio should engage in. A decision reached, my shout in the vicinity of my departing son's ears informing him when to return home echoed through the house as he raced off on his bike.

The thump was from the baby, who woke up and requested immediate evacuation from his crib by his usual method: tossing all the contents of his crib onto the floor. This didn't used to be a problem, as the items were all soft, cuddly, light stuffed animals. But when he figured out how to detch the toys we had attached to his crib in the vain hope of keeping him occupied until a decent hour of the morning (like, say, 5:30 a.m.) the thumps got significantly louder.

The giggling was from said 18 month old as I gave him zerberts during his upholstering (diaper change). The pitter patter of little feet came from our middle child as he woke up and went in search of an other upright members of his clan. He started giggling when I got a "surprise" from the baby during his diaper change. (What is it with little boys and peeing during the 1 1/2 seconds they're not covered on the changing table?)

The general chaos which precedes all five of us getting to leave the house involved the usual shouts, scuffling, and thumps as 2 adults located socks, shoes, and other paraphernalia required when actually transporting 3 children outside of their den. We picked up the oldest and his bike on our way to our hike at a nature preserve 4 minutes from our house (I love our house). Our hike was uneventful, just the usual squish as our children located and thoroughly explored every mud puddle along the path.

The splashing started from the baths that were necessary the moment we got home. I didn't even mind mopping up the bathroom floor from that, as it was accompanied by heartfelt declarations of "Happy Mother's Day" by my adoring fans. My husband's voice reading their bedtime stories was one of the sweetest I'd ever heard, as I was stretched out on the couch. (It even beat out the sounds of him cooking, serving, and cleaning up after dinner.

But the best sound of my Mother's Day had to be the sound of three little boys breathing deeply in their sleep after a busy day of making my day happy.

As I got into bed that night, ready to drift into oblivion, the final sound of the day was a crash from the kitchen. I got up to investigate, and found that one of the pots drying in the dishrack had succumbed to gravity. The perfect end to a perfect day.

The Picky Eater

2006-05-09T01:33:00.002Z

Before I had kids, I promised myself I would have children that ate what was put in front of them. By golly, I was going to prove to the world that I was a Good Parent and I had Good Children that were properly grateful for the food that was set on the table.

Well. Our first child was relatively easy. All we had to do was remind him that his dessert was dependent on his eating his green beans, and viola! The green beans disappeared with truly astonishing speed into it's assigned place (the kid's mouth). He naturally came to expect the consequences of his actions, namely, a piece of brownie, two scoops of ice cream, or some other such delicacy.

Our second child was reared, foodwise at any rate, exactly like our first. The first year of his life went smoothly, if you just ignored the pureed sweet potatoe stains on the wall opposite his high chair. But when he turned two we began to experience some difficulty. After two days of untouched meals on his plate with the resulting "no dessert" clause in the parent-child contract, we began to wonder if our parenting skills need a little brush up. A return to school, if you will.

This kid will not eat vegetables, period. He hasn't had anything remotely resembling dessert for over four months, and we still can't get him to eat anything besides bread, pancakes, or Quaker Oats Squares. And did I mention that he's lactose intolerant? So he's drinking rice milk (too much soy goes through his system like ---- through a goose) which has no protein whatsoever. I've deep fried squash which I sliced to look like french fries in an effort to get this kid to eat something that remotely possesses nutritional value. To no avail. Bread (whole wheat) and maybe french toast if I catch him when the planets are aligned correctly.

He also doesn't eat fruit or even drink juice. I've watched him turn up his nose when he found the tiniest miniscule piece of fruit I (thought) cleverly concealed in pancakes and go to bed hungry. And don't talk to me about it's a discipline problem. He didn't eat for two days once when my husband and I decided to stand our ground and just continue reheating his plate from dinner. He grew listless, yet still refused to eat spaghetti!

My husband, who is an avid runner, in desperation purchased some chocolate flavored protein power mix in a last ditch effort to get at least some muscle building nutrients into the kid. The kid actually likes it, thank goodness, but it disturbs me to think that the only way we can get any kind of nutrients into his little body is through elaborate subterfuge camouflaged by chocolate.

I took him for his well baby appointment and related our concerns to our pediatrician. (Now, in all fairness, this was a new guy, as we had just moved to the area.) He looked me dead in the eye and said, "you need to be more creative as a mother".

I didn't even slug him. I just gave him a tight little smile and asked how many children he had. He admitted he and his wife didn't have any children just yet.

If anything, my smile grew tighter and wider as I bid him good day and wrestled my children out of the examining room. On the way home, I called my mother, who reminded me of my own extended dinner table hours faced with three green beans while the rest of the family enjoyed their dessert. Revenge, she said, is best savored cold. Especially with a bowl of ice cream.

Forgetfulness

2006-04-14T13:48:00.000Z

Did you ever go somewhere and realize you'd forgotten something you really needed for the day, trip, or whatever you were setting out to do? It might be something easily replaced, like a toothbrush, or something not so easily replaced, say, your wallet. Back before you had children, this unusual occurence was pretty easily solved. You could a) turn around and go home and get what you forgot, b) locate a store and purchase a replacement, or c) do without.

Now that I have children, this is a situation not so easily solved. First of all, you're always forgetting something. That something is usually important. For example, option c) do without is so horrible to contemplate as to strike it from the list of possible options. Not only have I forgotten to leave the house with my child's sippy cup, but, on occasion, it has been the wrong one. Imagine said child's distress. Imagine the decibel level of shrieking which lead me to turn the car around and retrieve what I obviously should have known was the right cup.

Option b) purchase a replacement is also frighteningly difficult once the item forgotten is in some way tied to your child's well being. We once took all three of our children to my inlaws house and forgot my middle child's stuffed puppy. (My inlaws lived four hours away adult time, six kid time.) This wasn't just any puppy. This was the puppy. For those of you who still don't get it, this was his cuddle-up-and-go-to-sleep puppy. At the time we had a newborn infant in the house, so any additional disturbances to our already stressed out sleep patterns was cause for serious contemplation of hopping in the car and getting the darn thing. Reason prevailed, and I wound up in bed with the aggrieved party, while my husband camped out on the living room floor wedged between a glass coffee table and a stone fireplace.

Option a) turn around and go home, can also be tricky. In some instances, yes it can be done. You don't need milk and eggs that badly. Or, you can postpone your trip for another time. Or, if you have time to spare (rarely) you can turn around, get the missing item, and still manage to get your child to school on time. But then again, fortune doesn't always smile so benevolently upon you.

I remember one plane trip back when we had only one kid, and I forgot diapers. I'm not kidding. I packed everything to keep the kid fed and amused during the trip, but somehow the diapers did not make it into the gargantuan backpack we were hoping to pass off as carry on luggage. By the time I realized this, our luggage was checked, and I had taken our child to the bathroom for a diaper change minutes before our flight.

I stopped, mid swaddle, to frantically seach through my bag. I had already thrown the old one out and there weren't any diapers available at the stores dotted throughout the terminal. What was I going to do, stuff the kid's pants with napkins from the latte stand? Wad up a blanket and pad his diaper area and hope for him to sleep the entire time? My panic must have showed because an angel in the form of a fellow mother waiting to use the changing table registered my distress. "What's wrong, honey?" she asked in an accent that under any other circumstance would have made me smile. "I forgot diapers!" I wailed. "How could I have forgotten diapers?"

She handed over a stack and smiled. "This is our third" she said of the baby on her shoulder. Then she patted my shoulder and said, "we don't leave the house anymore without going through our battle checklist".

I recently had an occasion to fly with our then 9 month old baby. Before the flight took off, I took him in for a last diaper change. There was another mother using the changing table, so we patiently waited our turn. When she started frantically searching for her bag and her hair started to stand up, I handed her a stack of diapers, and said, "hand me the dirty one, I'm closer to the trash". As tears of gratitude welled up in her sleep deprived eyes ringed with dark circles, I told her, "this is our third, and we barely leave the house anymore".

But nothing beats my friend Tracey, who went to the circus with her two boys (and a third baby on the way) and realized she had forgotten to bring any wipes. Now, I went to school with Tracey and can personally attest that she was one of the most organized, punctual people I've ever met. This woman has been in charge of a 150 man organization with complicated equipment and literally hundreds of different tasks to perform. She could anticipate and solve problems before they even had a chance to occur. Her boss actually broke down in tears when she left. And, to top it off, she has this fantastic Southern accent that can charm any New Yorker within a 5 meter radius into putty. (I've actually witnessed this happen.)

But all that somehow changed when children arrived. Add pregnancy to two boys under the age of six and it's like the details started leaking out of what brain cells weren't occupied with staying awake.

She admitted that wearing a white shirt to an activity that had cotton candy on the menu wasn't the greatest decision she'd ever made. But wipes? She told me later, "how could I forget wipes when going to a place where sticky pink candy is a tradition?" Her only defense was that she was out of practice since her youngest had been out of diapers for awhile. All she had was a single container of hand sanitizer with her to attempt to clean off the assorted popcorn grease, soda, and ketchup that managed to escape their assigned containers within 15 minutes of sitting down. By the time the circus was halfway over, she said it looked like she was wearing a tie dyed t shirt created by Barbie.

But I don't think Tracey could have anticipated the inconvenience of no wipes when dealing with portable toilets. Before she could say stop (and mommies can say stop pretty darn quick) her little darling picked up the little "smell good" disk in the urinal and asked, "Mommy, what's this?". Thank goodness she still had a half bottle of hand sanitizer left. But boy, it was something.

Their third baby is due this summer, and I just didn't have the heart to tell her to stay away from airplanes until the baby is in college.

The Mommy Olympics

2006-04-02T21:33:00.001Z

After years of viewing the Olympic games, I've decided there needs to be an event that middle aged women dominate. I'm contacting the Olympic Committee with a few thoughts on suggested competitive events.

The Bathtub Brawl

Timed baths for at least two children in a standard sized tub at the same time. No whirlpool or spa baths are permitted. Soap must be used for its intended purpose. Hair washing is optional, but is looked favorably upon by the judges. Points taken off for each quart of water on the floor outside of the tub. Extra points awarded for each additional child and number of toys that actually stay in the bathtub during the course of the bath.

The Get Ready Rodeo

A timed event including breakfast, teeth brushing, face washing, dressing self and children, and putting on shoes. No velcro fasteners, shoelaces only. Cold cereal can be considered breakfast. Extra points awarded for the backpack scramble and lunchbox locator. Hair brushing had to be removed as an area of judgement, as boys had an unfair advantage. At least two children for this event, one of which has to be a) in diapers, or b) in the middle of potty training.

The Grocery Gallup

For experienced mommies only. The mommy must pick up groceries for a family of five or more that will last at least one week. Extra points awarded for fresh fruits and vegetables, none for frozen pizza. Four food groups must be represented. Failure to stay within budget limitations is grounds for immediate disqualification. Contestants must be accompanied by at least one child under the age of four. Napping children do not count. One family member must be a) in diapers, or b) potty training.

Contestants will be judged on maintaining calm in the face of at least one, possibly more, whining/crying children between the ages of birth and 4 years. Expect at the very least one fellow store customer to make obnoxious remark. Extra points awarded for snappy, but not snippy, comeback. Points will be deducted for any time over 1 hour spent in the grocery store.

The Pick up Pentathalon

Contestants must be prepared to deal with car not starting at any stage in this event. Automatic disqualification for any children late to any appointment or forgotten at activity. Bonus points awarded for nursing mothers. This event is currently based on a typical weekday. Weekends are under consideration for the Winter games. No carpools allowed. Pregnant contestants are given a 30 minute head start and two nausea breaks.

First, the competing mommy must drop off at least one child at school, grade Kindergarten or above. It is raining and child must be kissed goodbye and wished a good day.
The mommy must then proceed to drop off another child at a daycare type setting or preschool. Child cannot be dropped off at the door of the facility. The mommy and child must park and walk to the assigned classroom. A third child must be held on hip during this event. For those who do not have a third child, a 25 pound egg will be assigned for your use. Any cracks in the egg will be grounds for immediate disqualification.

Once that child is safely ensconced in preschool, mommy must pick up dry cleaning, prescription at a stand alone drugstore, and purchase birthday present for upcoming birthday party.
At this point, the contestant may choose to pause to catch their breath, nurse a baby, or for a trip to Starbucks or the local liquor store for fortification. Then she must return to school to drop off lunch box that oldest child forgot.

The mommy must then pick up the child at preschool, again parking and taking baby on hip. (Those assigned eggs will face an inspection station) . Points are deducted for your kid being the last one waiting to be picked up. The mommy must admire artwork and insert child into raincoat before leaving the facility. Dashes to the car without wearing a raincoat are not allowed.
The mommy must then drop off the car for an oil change, but is permitted to take children into cramped, dirty waiting area. By the time the oil change is completed, it is time to pick up oldest child from school. Expect delays due to rain.

This event ends once child is picked up from school and is seated with seatbelt fastened. The mommy is awarded points at each station for poise, remembering dry cleaning stub, checking with the pharmacist for medicine dosage, choosing present that birthday child does not already have, and being early for pickup at school.

In the event of a tie, an additional activity will be inserted into the afternoon. This may be, but is not limited to, a) sporting event or, b) a birthday party, or c) scouting event, or d) church activity.

The Clean the House category and Completing the Laundry could not be included as competitive events. Everyone knows that's impossible.

Where did my memory go?

2006-03-24T14:43:00.001Z

Why is it that I can't remember to file the taxes, yet I can remember 46 different Thomas the Tank Engine character names?

There's a whole new world just waiting to be discovered once you have children. It's a world you never even imagined was out there. From my own childhood, I have fond memories of Sesame Street. I am reading my children the same silly story about the monster at the end of the book starring Grover. But my kids not only have Sesame Street to discourse on, but also Teletubbies, Blue's Clues, and Thomas the Tank Engine.

The Teletubbies are fairly easy. There are only four of them, with whimsical names like Tinky Winky, Dipsy, La-La, and my personal favorite, Po. Blue's Clue's is pretty easy, with only two principle characters, Steve and the blue dog, coincidentally named Blue. But Thomas the Tank Engine really stretched the old brain cells, let me tell you.

There's the cheeky blue engine, named Thomas who gets into all kinds of scrapes with his friends Percy (green) and James (red). But it's insidiously tricky after that. Because then tender engines like Edward (blue), Henry (green), and Gordon (blue) enter in to really confuse you. The little numbers painted on the side are some help, but once you've got them down other buses, cars, and locomotives are continuously introduced so as to make your life hell going past the toy aisle in Target and Walmart.

But, I've done it. I've even sat with my children and watched the movies, read them the books, and colored in the Thomas the Tank Engine coloring books. I've made curtains, purchased a Thomas alarm clock, and put sheets on the little devils beds with Thomas and Friends scattered about them. T-shirts and socks, as well as underwear adorned with trains are scattered about the house. There are even Thomas the Tank Engine bathtowels, shower curtains, soapdishes and toothbrushes available for "your little Thomas fans" as the catalogs that have insidiously crept into our house proclaim. I couldn't have avoided knowing their names if I tried.

In an effort to diversify our son's interests, we would make subtle hints about Batman and Spiderman. To no avail. "Thomas is my favorite!" was his inevitable reply. He recently suggested we paint his bedroom "Thomas blue" during one trip to Home Depot. If I have to listen to Alec Baldwin narrate another DVD about the Adventures of Thomas I might have to enter an institution for the maternally insane.

Then, one day after kindergarten our son came home and told me, "Mommy, Thomas (his make believe friend) has Hot Wheels cars that run on a track".

It's all Time Management

2006-03-21T02:24:00.000Z

My friend Jen, who is expecting her 5th (yes, fifth) baby, insists that it's all time management. For example, whenever we manage to catch one another on the phone, she usually is in the middle of something, about to go drop off or pick someone up, or going somewhere (doctor's appointment, dentist, gymnastics, etc.). Heck, she can even email and make phone calls at the same time, a skill I myself have not been able to master. But what really had me floored was the day I found out she was painting her dining room. While pregnant. The best I could do when I was pregnant was to muster enough energy to put fresh sheets on the crib before heading for the hospital to have the kid.

She warns me right up front she only has say, 4 minutes to talk. And in those four minutes I learn a heck of a lot, let me tell you. I'm in awe of this woman, whom has never once in the course of our 12 year friendship complained or griped about her duties as mom and general CEO of the household. Not once. This woman can toilet train a toddler in her sleep, is on a first name basis with the nurses at the emergency room, and can take 4 children grocery shopping without breaking into hives. On a good day I manage to leave my children home with daddy so I can go grocery shopping.

So, it appears that the answer to my daily question (how do you have 3 kids and maintain a semblance of sanity) is TIMING.

Get Andy to speech on time in the mornings? A Teletubbies video popped in at 8:14 a.m. and insert child into clothes while he is absorbed in watching squat figures in strange costumes run around after a blue vacuum cleaner. During this time, it is also possible to dress one year old and get self into bathroom. Teeth brushing is optional for mother (I'm not the one in speech) but can be accomplished for three year old with Teletubby video as bribe. At all costs, do NOT put on video before brushing of teeth. Otherwise speech teacher will look askance at child and give you dirty look for inflicting milk-cheerio breath on her. At end of video, grab 3 year old, stuff into his jacket and without breaking stride, insert him into the car seat and go. Remember to also wrestle one year old into his car seat. Any dirty diapers will have to wait until after we get to our final destination.

Going to the pediatrician? Start two hours ahead of time. Get children ready first. Wrestle them into clean clothing (which you had to go dryer diving for) and get shoes on now, before you're wrinkled. Pull out toy they haven't seen for awhile and dash into bathroom to change out of sweatsuit with bleach stain on one cuff and sweet potatoe stain on the shoulder. While changing, dash out a few times to break up fights over toy and kiss boo boos. Attempt to dissuade youngest from emptying the contents of the bathroom drawers onto floor (he followed me to the bathroom after the fight with his big brother) while struggling into clean shirt. Clean up mess, grab one year old in football hold, and jam feet into shoes on way out of bedroom. While restocking diaper bag with the necessities (diapers, wipes, snacks, drinks, spare clothing) sternly inform one year old the videos are not for stacking in the kitchen sink, particularly when full already with breakfast dishes. Change baby's diaper, then immediately get into car seat. In remaining 14 minutes, convince 3 year old it's time to go, run a brush through my hair, and find immunization cards for both kids.

I asked Jen when she got the housework done and she told me, "oh, you know. Just grab a few minutes in between going places and getting the kids ready." Panting from my recent get-ready-to-go-pick-up-oldest-from-kindergarten rodeo, I could only gasp out, "I've got to go" and hang up the phone.

All I can say is, I'm in awe. Oh, and I need to paint my bedroom.

My Son, the Artist

2006-03-13T01:49:00.000Z

Our first child scribbled crayon all over the kitchen floor when he was just shy of 3, scribbled on the walls with permanent magic marker when he was 4, and got extremely active with the scissors sometime in between. I remember my parents' comments when I related these incidents to them. For the first episode of the floor, my mother asked me, "well, where were you while this was going on?" (I was in the bathroom). With the marker on the walls my father very calmly replied to my hysterical recitation of events with, "the question is, how did he get his hands on the marker in the first place?".

Nowadays, I relate my sons' disasters to my parents after I've had time to think about my defense. For example, when I was pregnant, "I was in the bathroom" was always acceptable. I mean, it's an absolutely necessary activity, not like say, making the bed or cleaning the shower. (Of course, they'd have something brilliant to say about unmade beds or yucky showers, but that's besides the point.)

But now I'm careful with the markers and the crayons and have SET LIMITS about where they are allowed to be utilized, namely, they stay on the kitchen table. Now that we've got our oldest, who is 6, fairly civilized, I can safely say that we've reigned in his ideas about home decoration. But now it's our middle boy's turn, and he's embracing his artistic sensibilities with gusto.

I was clearing up the kitchen table from the latest round of artwork in preparation for dinner when I noticed a cap without the matching marker. This is not an unusual occurence, and it was a yellow marker (and washable) so I didn't exactly go hunting for the marker. I started dinner preparations when my 3 year old walked into the kitchen with what I can only describe as the biggest ---t eating grin on his face that I have ever seen. In his grubby little hand was the missing yellow marker.

My mommy antennae went up like they were electrocuted. I asked him, "where have you been?" and got an even wider grin. I snatched up the marker and went through the house like one of the characters on Crime Scene Investigation. Did I mention we just moved into a brand new house? I checked the living room, the bathroom, the baby's bedroom, his bedroom, his older brothers bedroom, and then, dreading what I might find, my bedroom. No sign of toddler graffitti anywhere. The little guy follows me, still grinning. As I retrace my steps, a part of my brain registers I haven't seen or heard our youngest (17 months) for the last 5 minutes or so.

I found the baby on top of his oldest brother's bed and the sight of him made my heart stutter. He looked like he had yellow fever. His face, ears, and hands were colored with yellow magic marker. Even his ears were yellow.

I grabbed him down, washed his face (while he vigorously protested), and said to Andrew, "don't color your brother again, ok?"

Another entry for the list of things I never thought I'd ever, ever, hear myself say.

Daddy's Home!

2006-02-28T19:03:00.000Z

OK, I have to tell you right away I got the idea from Cam's blogspot, dinnerwithdad.com. But it brought out too many memories to resist.

I can remember way back when I was a little girl and my mama called out, "Papa ist zu Hause!" (Daddy's home). Eric and I dropped what we were doing and rushed to the door. Papa, after a hard day at work, still had energy to give us rides on his big black shoes and pick us up for a swing around the kitchen.

The story at my house is a little different. First of all, the kids can hear the garage door going up when my husband comes home, so they are poised and laying in wait to ambush him before he even gets out of the car. As he approaches the door, Matthew, who is 6, leaps from the steps and greets his daddy with an exuberant tackle. As he's getting off the floor from this greeting, our middle son, Andrew, takes this opportunity to clamber onto Daddy's back. With 30 pounds on his back cutting off air to his lungs, and 55 pounds wrapped around his chest, he stumbles gamely on toward the door, only to be greeted at the top of the steps by Luke, our 16 month old.

As Luke frequently requests his dinner a little earlier than the rest of the family, he is usually covered in crumbs or somewhat sticky from his recent meal. Daddy's pant leg usually gets smeared with anything ranging from spaghetti to applesauce. I am waiting for my kiss, and then begins the delightful trip to the bathroom to get hands washed for dinner. Josh disappears into our bedroom to soak his trousers.

Josh tells me our dry cleaner stopped shaking his head in bewilderment at him after one afternoon when I picked up our clothes with all three kids with me.

A New Game: Finding the Clicker

2006-02-27T18:05:00.000Z

For those of you not in the know, the remote control for the tv set in our house is referred to as the “clicker”. Some evenings, with the last brain cells remaining functioning in my head after a day of tending to needs of my children, (ages 6, 3, and 14 months) I actually desire to see a program on the dusty screen of our television.

This is a lot more complicated than it sounds. You see, before we had children, the clicker went in the drawer of the side table drawer in our living room. Maybe we’d forget to put it in the drawer, but then it was usually sitting on the side table, or maybe, on a bad day, on a chair. This object took approximately 10 seconds to locate, then we settled down with our popcorn, pressed a few buttons, and presto, the desired program came on the screen.

Now that we have children, things are a somewhat different.

I check in all the regular places. It’s not in the drawer, it’s not on the side table, it’s not on the tv, it’s not behind the tv, it’s not wedged between the couch cushions, it’s not under the couch, and the program stars in 2 minutes. Where could it be?

I start checking all the irregular places: the bathroom, the kitchen sink, the windowsill, the plants, the toybox, the bookshelf, the Tupperware cabinet, and the drawer with the kitchen knives.

Finally, I sneak into the kids’ room and check the drawer in the changing table (holding my breath the whole time), under their beds, and in the drawers of their nightstands. No clicker. Now I’m oxygen deprived and it’s 3 minutes past the program’s start time, but I’m still holding out hope of being able to understand the entire premise of the show. Only at 7 minutes into a program is all hope lost.

My husband joins me in the search (it’s something he wants to watch, too.) Where? Where? Where is the freaking clicker?

He, being somewhat more in touch with the concealing habits of the male of the species, finds it. He holds it aloft triumphantly, containing his glee to a muffled whisper, “I found it!” We race to the tv, 4 minutes into the program. At the first commercial break, I turn to him and ask, “so, where was it, anyway?”

It was in the hallway, tucked securely into one of his gym shoes. I got up and got the Lysol.

What did you do all day?

2006-02-12T22:20:00.000Z

I remember once, I think I was twenty, asking my mother, when she was at home with my brother and I when we were little, "what did you do all day?".

One afternoon, it being somewhat hot, I decided to pump up the pool for my oldest, Matthew, who was 5, and my middle child, Andrew, who was 2, to play in. They were thrilled, and happily got their suits on. After pumping the pool up, I went back inside to get my youngest, 4 months.

In the 27 seconds it took me to collect my youngest son, the water in the pool had mysteriously turned a murky, muddy color. When questioned as to how this happened, both my older sons were at a loss for an explanation. My middle son, enlightened me when he demonstrated his newly acquired skill for excavation with his red plastic shovel.

OK, they're boys, right? What's a little mud, anyway? Don't be so uptight, Mama. So, I didn't even comment when the paint came out and the pool was artistically redecorated. I didn't even get angry when my oldest smeared my middle child with red paint (this occurred during the 24 seconds it took me to lay my baby down after he fell asleep on my lap). After my heartbeat returned to normal (the kid looked like he was bleeding all over his body) I could even appreciate the artistic streaks and daubs on his little body. At any rate, he didn't seem to mind in the least, and smeared the paint to cover himself entirely, seeing as his brother had missed a few spots.

Got my middle child headed towards the tub with a minimum of mess tracked through the house. My oldest "helped" me empty the pool and clean up the toys. I told my five year old to take off his suit and get in the tub, with the warning, "please don't touch ANYTHING" on the way to the tub. In the 2 seconds it took me to unhook the screen door, he had taken off his wet, muddy, paint-smeared suit and was swinging it around the room. There are spatters of multicolored mud all over my laundry room.

I yelled, STOP! and he did. Then, he said, "Mama, I have mud in my mouth. I have to spit it out". He missed the sink by a few inches.

This kid will be lucky to make it through puberty alive.

A train in my bathtub

2006-02-05T14:43:00.001Z

So, we bought this amazing, beautiful house with 3 bathrooms. The idea was that our boys would have one, guests would have one, and my husband and I would have one all to ourselves. That way, we figured, we could be messy and no one would know. Everyone would dutifully use the bathroom assigned for their use, and the endless irritations of our past life (the one where at times as many as 4 adults and 3 children shared 1 bathroom) were at an end. As my mother would put it, we should be grateful to have a bathroom at all, you spoiled kids, but that is neither here nor there.

It was not to be. Shortly after moving in and receiving truly astounding numbers of boxes with our possessions packed therein, my parents came to visit. They came at this hectic time for a legitimate reason: to return our middle child, who had been spending the past 2 weeks with them while we negotiated the move. Considering that said child is three years old, it was a lovely thing for them to do. I don't want anyone to think I'm ungrateful. Besides which, he had a great time and got to have two doting grandparents all to himself.

But, we didn't have the guest room set up yet. I've discovered over the years that even the lowest maintenance and undemanding guests do have some small expectation of minor amenities, such as beds. So, naturally my husband and I insisted they take our bedroom (with accompanying glamour bath) while they were with us. Needless to say, the toothbrushes got mixed up and we were constantly in and out of our/their bathroom during their stay. I contented myself with the thought that I'd have my bathroom back in a couple of days.

Our oldest, however, had decided that the whirlpool bath was the coolest thing in the world and delighted in creating bubble sculptures that reached the ceiling. I was forever finding the remnants of soap scum in the tub that took hours to clean up. And there never seemed to be any of my shampoo in easy reaching distance. I was getting pretty tired of smelling like pink bubblegum when my husband hit upon the brilliant idea that since Mommy and Daddy's bathroom was so special, Matthew was going to be allowed to take his bath in there on Saturday nights. But otherwise, the little guy had to use the duck bathroom (so named for its decorating motif) with this brothers for his hygiene requirements.

But that still left the other two. Our youngest, who is 16 months old, finds the tub handles irrisistible, since they are at precisely the height of his little fingers. Since said fingers are often sticky with the remnants of playdough, jelly, drool, and other compounds with adhesive qualities, our fixtures resembled Crime Scene Investigation, after they've dusted for prints.

And forget about our water bill. One night I walked in to find the tub perilously close to overfilling with warm, steamy water. In response to my investigative efforts, our oldest solemnly swore he had nothing to do with it, my husband shook his head, and since I knew it wasn't me, I turned my questioning gaze to my younger progeny. My questions were answered when our youngest laughed, ran to the bathroom and demonstrated his dexterity in turning the fixtures on. There was nothing to do but let them take a bath in our tub, even if it wasn't Saturday night. I mean, we couldn't let the hot water go to waste.

Our middle son has mixed feelings about mommy and daddy's big tub. He likes to go in when his older brother is present to fight off the invisible dragons lurking down the drain, but otherwise stays pretty clear. Except for one memorable evening when I dragged myself off the couch with visions of a nice warm bubble bath before bed. While I thought he'd been napping, Andrew had apparently decided to build himself an entire train depot in the tub, complete with soap platforms, conditioner swamps, shampoo tracks and face mask mountains.

I didn't get my bath, and it took longer than usual to clean the tub that night.

Watching Television

2006-02-04T03:13:00.000Z

First of all, let me state first off that watching television with children is impossible. Unless, of course, it happens to be something they want to watch. In which case, they'll be sitting still and you will suddenly have consecutive minutes to get to one of the 43 things on your to do list. But then you'll be in the middle of one of those things and the show will end. The only thing to do in order to cross off what you started on your to do list is to put on another show they want to watch. But that will get you into a vicious cycle of never ending Barney videos and getting things off your to do list, and besides, it's not good for your kids to watch too much tv, anyway.

So... I decided to actually watch television while the children were awake. First, I turned on the TV Guide Channel to see if there was anything remotely interesting and non brain rotting to watch. I had to immediately change the channel as the commercial running on the upper half of the screen was not something children should see until they're say, 21. Even then I'd question it, based on the grounds of good taste. Joan is so catty.

Channel surfing proved equally elusive, since I had to surf past the kids channels. Each time I surfed past another cereal commercial my eardrums were blasted with, "no, Mommy! I want to see that!". Finally I settled on the discovery channel, with an interesting program featuring space. My middle child put his hands over his eyes during the take off scene, and my oldest kept up a running commentary punctuated with occasional questions like, "how many stars are there?" and "where do the stars go during the day?". My youngest was behind me, pulling on my hair.

I detangled my youngest's fingers, told my oldest, "nobody knows", and got up to reassure my middle child that he didn't have to be scared, it was just a tv show. My youngest vigorously protested the loss of weaving materials, my oldest asked, "how come?" and my middle refused to be reassured. I changed the channel.

My next choice proved equally inappropriate. While Emeril got out his signature frying pan and started sizzling something I can only dream of producing on a day when there are no children in my kitchen, my oldest decided to take a spin around the living room, my middle son covered his eyes when he heard, "BAM!", and my youngest got into my hair again.

I gave up and turned on Barney.

Setting the Table

2006-02-04T01:35:00.000Z

Back when it was just my husband and I, setting the table was a quick, easy task accomplished while cooking dinner, perhaps in between stirring the pasta and uncorking the wine. Now that we have three children, it’s a somewhat different scenario.

First of all, wine is a luxury only afforded on evenings where there are no children present. These occasions are few and far between. Pasta, instead of being tossed with a sauce delicately seasoned with asparagus and mushrooms, consists of two choices: spaghetti, or mac and cheese. But I digress.

So, at about 1 hour before dinner, I start assembling ingredients on the counter. In the process of taking the ingredients out of the refrigerator, I am interrupted a few times by my 13 month old, who has displayed a distressing fascination with the condiments in the refrigerator door. You haven’t lived until you turn from the stove to witness your baby holding a bottle of hot sauce, with the contents dripping down the front of his shirt. (At first glance, it looked like blood. My blood pressure spiked so fast I’m surprised I didn’t have blood come gushing out of my temples.)

In the course of chopping and assembling food (ok, I admit it, I watch the food network channel) I stopped numerous times to move the sharp implements out of the reach of small fingers. My oldest is doing his homework (did I mention he’s in Kindergarten?!) at the kitchen table while my middle child colors beside him. I move a few crayons out of the way to make room for the plates, cutlery, etc.

MOMMY! “I was using that!” OK, sorry, sorry. I move the crayons back. I notice the table needs to be wiped off again, owing to an afternoon snack involving honey. I take the plates I’ve managed to place on the table off again. I wipe the table, careful to avoid the emerging masterpieces.

MOMMY! What? What? What? The baby is reaching toward the stove. I drop the plates and lunge to rescue our infant. Hot, hot, I tell him. He looks at me, grins, and toddles off. I stir the pasta, stir the spaghetti sauce, and make my way back to the table. I’m waylaid by my middle son, who wants a horsey ride on my back. With the 30 pounds of extra weight strangling the air out of my throat, I step around my youngest child to admire my oldest’s homework efforts.

MOMMY! What? What? The baby is reaching for the oldest’s homework. “Get him off! He’s not allowed to help with my homework!” I put the baby in his highchair with a few cheerios, hoping he’ll stay amused until I can get dinner on the table. I go back to the stove and stir the pasta and the sauce again. I gather up the dishes and make my way back to the table. My middle child is hopping up and down, doing the dance any self respecting in-the-middle-of-toilet-training-my-child mother has come to recognize. I drop the plates and take him to the bathroom, hoping this will be the moment when he (finally) gets it.

We get back from the bathroom, and I let my youngest out of his high chair, as he is restless and dinner hasn’t even begun yet. I wrestle all three children into the bathroom to wash their hands before dinner. The timer for the pasta goes off, so I run back into the kitchen to drain the pasta. While I’m doing that, my youngest toddles in, splashed from head to foot with water from the sink. I pick him up and take him to get on some dry clothes.

MOOOOMMMMMY! What? What? My oldest son is finished washing his hands, but my middle son has his feet in the sink, and is performing some arcane hygiene ritual which requires water all over the floor. I dry the baby off, dry my middle child off, then go dry off the bathroom floor. The timer goes off for the sauce.

I get everybody back to the table, turn off the sauce, and throw some dishes and cutlery somewhere in the vicinity of everyone’s place at the table. The door opens, signaling my relief is on its way.

By the time my husband sits down, the pasta is stone cold, the sauce singed, parmesan cheese is mingling with the cheerios on the floor, and the baby is definitely restless in his highchair. By now, I need a glass of wine.

But hey – I set the table.

Moving..with children

2006-01-15T03:52:00.000Z

So, we did it. We packed up the entire contents of our home on the West Coast and somehow it was all transported to the opposite coast with a minimum of loss and breakage. The stuff was packed in these nifty boxes that were so heavy they could only be lifted by the two big burly men the moving company sent over. Their names were Bubba and Billy James.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. You see, there was this time lag between when our household goods were packed in California and when they arrived in Alabama. It was this pseudo time warp where time as we know it ceased to exist and the days were punctuated with errands to exotic places like the utilities company and the lawyers office for something mysterious called the Closing.

First we drove from my parents place in Florida to Alabama. Yes, they're right next to each other, but we drove from the southern part of Florida to the northern part of Alabama, so it took awhile. Yet another of my cherished, "I will never buy my children one of those" fell by the wayside by hour 7 on the road. Darn, but those portable DVD players are handy. We got to Alabama with not one of those phrases so beloved of parents everywhere, "if I have to stop this car one more time.." passing through our lips.

We stayed in a Residence Inn for a week until all the details of our new house were finished and minor things like water, electricity and heat were turned on. For those of you not in the know, the inn is like a small apartment, with a small kitchen, living room, and bedroom geared for people like us who need to make themselves comfortable for awhile. Breakfast and dinner were served in the dining room if you didn't feel like cooking.

This was a great event for us, as the selections available at breakfast were much more varied than anything my kitchen was ever capable of producing on a typical morning. By the end of our stay, our six year old was voicing his desire that our kitchen resemble the hotel dining room more in the future, with bacon, eggs, waffles, and a selection of cereal available every morning, instead of just when Daddy cooks.

The really fun part was meeting our fellow temporary homesteaders every morning at 7 a.m. over the juice dispenser. Trust me, you do not want to get in the way of a 200 lb. man who absolutely HAS to have his o.j. in the morning when the dispenser is down. Luckily, I was able to brandish our sticky 15 month old in his direction and make my escape past the waffle iron.

When we finally moved in and said goodbye to the hotel, it was to be met by a barrage of paper the likes of which paper shredders can only dream of. I couldn't find our silverware for 9 days, but I did find our Tupperware, carefully wrapped in six layers of paper and placed in a box the size of a refrigerator. While wading through the sea of paper I managed to organize the pots and pans and put away cups and baby powder. We employed our oldest as the paper presser, an activity curiously reminiscent of harvesting hay in days gone by. We chose one box to toss all the used packing paper into and our six year old hopped up and down, pressing it down to make room for more. This activity served the dual purpose of keeping the paper contained and tiring the kid out.

Of course, we had to carefully watch our youngest, who displayed a propensity for climbing into boxes half filled with loosely wadded paper. Luckily, we heard him from inside one of the boxes before it was carted away to the dumpster. Our middle child, who is 3, amused himself leaping from the couch into boxes cushioned with paper. This was all well and good, until the box tipped over mid leap and gave him a lesson in physics. You know, the one about bodies in motion stay in motion and all that.

It's been 11 days, and I still can't find our silverware.

You might ask what on earth I've been doing if I can't seem to knuckle down and at least open all the boxes and take a peek inside. I had to rescue our fifteen month old three times from the top of our six year old's bunk bed before I hit upon the brilliant idea of locking the door. But then the little tyke proceeded to enter the second most interesting room of the house and push every button on the computer, printer, and modem that his pudgy little fingers could reach. And those pots and pans I managed to put away? Those wound up in a scattered path between the kitchen and the bathroom, where I found the little guy gleefully unrolling the toilet paper into the toilet.

But nobody's broken an arm (yet). And I haven't had the delightful experience my friend Jen had the other day when her little girl decided to warm up a roll in the microwave. Jen said it looked like a briquette in her microwave, but what with the smoke alarms going off and the neighbors breaking down the door to see if they were all right, she didn't have time to take a picture.

But the absolutel best part about moving is that somehow a dozen of my husband's 493 racing t shirts got lost in the shuffle. Ooops!

Traveling . . . with Children

2005-12-13T01:55:00.000Z

The insanity which prompted us to fly our three children, ages 6, 3, and 14 months across the country from California to Florida was simple: fly the kids and go through one day of pain vs. seven days of a cross country trek in our car. This way, we figured we’d have the least negative impact on the fewest number of people.

I have to admit experiencing a fiendish sense of delight when we got them up at 4:30 a.m. All those nights the little devils woke me up for requests for sustenance and comfort all came into startling clarity when I charged into their room when it was still dark out and insisted it was time to wake up and have some fun. My husband and I had been up since 4 a.m., packing the car and making sure we were ready. By the time 4:30 a.m. rolled around, I was in a chipper mood, cranked on coffee and adrenalin. As I gently shook my oldest awake, I whispered, “time to go on the airplane!” in an upbeat voice.

Needless to say, we got all three of them dressed and into the car without waking up the entire neighborhood. Lugging two car seats through the airport didn’t even get us frazzled. Even going through security was a relatively painless exercise, as the chance to take off his shoes particularly appealed to our middle child.

Once on the plane, the excitement mounted. The shades went up and down a few times, and they settled in to anticipate the pleasure of take off and landing, not to mention the sunrise. Then . . . they were absolute angels the entire trip.

OK, OK, you think I'm bragging. But my brother and sister in law traveled over the Thanksgiving weekend on Kindergarten Air, so I have to shout out to the world that my kids uncharacteristically resembled winged cherubs with halos on this trip.

I’m not making this up. The youngest slept almost the entire time, and each of the older two also indulged in naps. The markers, coloring books, view finder and other paraphernalia stayed (relatively) in their assigned containers and not one shrieking incident occurred. Not one. The mini sized bags of pretzels were a hit, not to mention the choice of beverages. We hit a bad patch when our oldest had to throw up, but even that was managed with a minimum of fuss. He made it to the bathroom in time, if you can imagine our luck.

Layovers? Piece of cake. I mean, hey, there was a train to ride, a machine to stick the tickets into and, get this, sidewalks that moved. Our 3 year old couldn’t have been more pleased. He practiced his hopping with great success at the end of the moving sidewalk, while our oldest amused himself hanging on to the handrail. Our youngest watched enviously from his stroller. Only the lure of yet another plane ride could get them out of the Denver Airport.

Our fellow adults on the plane were frightening. Oh, we didn’t mind their obvious trepidation as they saw us board. We didn’t even mind the frantic looks exchanged between one pair as we settled in behind them. (Later they told us they’d never seen such well behaved children.) But the people I sat next to presented a bit of a challenge.

The young man on our first leg seemed friendly enough. I mean, he wasn’t working, wasn’t in school, and was returning home from a trip to Hawaii where he had engaged in a soul searching trip to “find his inner self”. A perfect conversationalist, we could chat about anything. He’d never seen a child this close before, he confided, and certainly never imagined that they had such cool clothes. (The baby was wearing blue jean overalls and a red collared shirt.) Then he spilled his coffee. I didn’t mind that it was all over my pant leg, honest. It didn't get on the kid. More importantly, it didn't wake up the kid. But did he have to spill it all over my diaper bag? Thankfully, the diapers were spared. Never mind that the wipes got dunked.

On the final leg of our journey, I sat in a row with a very nice woman who didn’t even give me a scary look when I plopped in my seat with my sleeping infant on my lap. Later, I was to discover why. It would have taken a massive loss of cabin pressure to faze this gal. The fumes drifting across the row were enough to knock me out, never mind if I’d actually sipped from the innocent looking bottle of “iced tea” she’d brought with her on the plane.

We landed safe and sound and were met by adoring grandparents at the gate. By then the baby had woken up and was thrilled to stretch his legs. And, if you can imagine, the kids didn’t even attempt to travel the length of the luggage carousel. A perfect trip.

I’m considering calling Wringling Brothers to see if they have enough room for a freak show act.

Neighbors, then and now

2005-12-05T03:52:00.000Z

Before you had children, neighbors were people you waved at on your way going in or out of your front door. If you were really lucky, you had similar taste in music. And if you were super lucky, they were the kind that brought by baked goods because, at the end of a tough day at the office, they knew you were too tired to bake.

Now, that I have children, my neighbors are people to be avoided at all costs. I live in an old house that was divided up into two living spaces, with a separate townhouse in the back that we share a backyard with. There are also neighbors on either side, with about 10 ft. between their houses and ours.

One evening, the doorbell rang and it was my neighbor and her fiancé. After exchanging greetings, she expressed dissatisfaction with our noise level in the mornings. She explained to me that our dining room window must be located by the window right next to their bedroom window, and at 7:30 a.m., just as she’s hitting the snooze button on her alarm clock, she could hear me yelling at my oldest to brush his teeth. My oldest leaves the house at 7:45 a.m. for Kindergarten.

Another day, my other neighbor (from the townhouse in the back) met us on the street in front of my house and asked if I couldn’t keep our kitchen windows closed, “just until 8 o’clock in the morning”.

Yet another neighbor expressed her dissatisfaction with my parenting skills one balmy Saturday at 12 noon when she came out in her nightdress to fetch her newspaper. She greeted me with the question, “Did you see what the kids did to the lemon tree?” My oldest had climbed the tree the day before, and a broken branch had fallen on the path. She apparently found it too uncomfortable skirting around the broken off bough before she had her morning coffee. Seeing as it was about 5 cm in diameter and about 2 feet long, I failed to see the humor in that one.

And my absolute favorite was the morning I answered the door, and my neighbor who lives in what she refers to as “the cottage in the back” (it’s a converted garage) was on my porch. She was stopping by, you see, because we apparently left our outdoor light on the night before, and it shines right into her bedroom, and then she can’t sleep.

Oh. And the neighbor I share a wall with? She comes out when she sees us playing in the backyard and sits with us, just to “enjoy the company”. She gets a plate of brownies every time I bake.

When I have children. . .

2005-11-26T21:21:00.000Z

C’mon, admit it. Back when you were childless, you were part of the Child Police. Any time you were at a restaurant, movie theater, airplane, or other public place and children were disruptive or there was a crying baby, you were there to turn, look, locate, and stare disapprovingly at the Parents Who Could Not Control Their Children.

Your children would sit quietly in restaurants. Your children would color while waiting for the meal. They would gratefully eat what was placed in front of them and the thought of tossing their portions to the floor in protest wouldn’t even occur to them.

Your children would no more dream of disrupting a movie theater full of patrons than say, you would. On the airplane, your children would never even think of amusing themselves by say, kicking the seat in front of them, or lifting that little table up and down more than once. Run up and down the aisles? It wouldn’t enter their little minds. They would sit down, fold their hands in their laps, and quietly listen to the music on the plane’s audio system. Perhaps you would enjoy a nice discourse on the clouds going by, or why the sun moved from one side of the airplane to another.

I have actually seen a child like that. It was my neighbors’ kid, a beautiful little redhead who could be taken anywhere. Her mother would lay her down for a little nap late in the afternoon so she could cook dinner in peace and this little darling would actually go to sleep at bedtime. My neighbor once expressed concern when I wouldn’t let my child take a nap at 5 p.m., seeing as he appeared to be tired. I explained that if you let the kid take a nap that late in the afternoon, he’d be up half the night and I needed a few hours of sleep if I was going to be in shape for when he paged me at 6 a.m. the next day. She was bewildered at the idea of a child not going to bed at the assigned time and utterly shocked at the thought of waking up before 8 a.m.

But, back to my children. All I can say is, Hah! When I had children, none turned out the way I had imagined back in my childless days. Not even remotely. With our first child, we couldn’t go anywhere that required him to stay still for 3 consecutive seconds. Only when he turned four did we dare venture out to casual eating establishments, like Chinese take out. But then the second one turned one and mobile, so we were back to square one. When our third arrived, we gave up going out altogether unless there was an equal adult to child ratio. Better yet, if the adults actually outnumbered our boys. That way there was backup for when the assigned Lion Tamer needed to stop for breath.

Movies? Please. Restaurants were something saved for when you had a few extra twenties lying around for a babysitter. And who has extra anything with three kids in the house? Now I’m the one developing the ability to NOT NOTICE the glares of adults around me when I step outside the house with my children.

I’m hoping this skill will serve me in good stead when I have to manage three children ages 6, 3, and 1 by myself on a flight from California to Florida. We’re moving, and my husband thinks it would be “too much” for the children to endure the cross country trek via car. I suggested that he fly with the children, and I drive our car to our new home. For some reason, he wasn’t too enthused.

My neighbors with the redhead are expecting another child any day, and all I can say is, I hope this next one is one of those that runs up and down the aisles on the airplane.

The Birth Order Difference

2005-11-22T05:23:00.000Z

The Mommy Diaries©

by Kirsten E. Kennedy
with a little help from Matthew, Andrew, and Lukey, and from my best friend, Josh

The Birth Order Difference

Assume you have more than one baby, for whatever particular reason seems good at the time. Namely, a playmate for the first one, which will actually give you some free moments during the day to get your makeup on (this is a documented reason parents give for having another child, laughable as it is.) Or, your birth control decided to take matters into it’s own hands. For whatever the reason, there’s another baby in the house. You’ve discovered the idea that the children will entertain one another is ludicrous, at best, and that you have no time to dream about makeup, much less apply any because you’re constantly brushing up on your refereeing skills.

In psychiatric circles and other esteemed areas of academia, there’s a term called, “Sibling Drift”. This describes the phenomenon occurring at your house when more than one child occupies the premises.

Sibling Drift, Mealtimes
The first baby, when it’s time to eat, you get out their pristine highchair, fasten a bib around the baby’s neck, and make sure all four food groups are adequately represented in the baby dish. Second baby, you wrestle the kid into the high chair, snap a bib on, and try to keep child 1 and child 2 from tossing food across the table at each other.
Third baby: You remember to feed the kid.

Sibling Drift, Naptime
First baby: naptime is adhered to regardless of social events, weather, or visiting friends and family. Trips in the car or stroller are carefully choreographed to match up with child’s naptime. Naps are reluctantly given up, only at the instigation of the child.
Second baby: Naptime is a little looser. Baby can be stretched a few minutes in order to accomplish certain parental goals, such as grocery shopping. Older child is kept quiet so younger sibling can get some rest. Naps are given up when younger child realizes older sibling doesn’t have to take them anymore.
Third baby: those car seat carrier combinations sure are handy!

Sibling Drift, Toilet Training

First baby: you are bound and determined to have that kid out of diapers by the age of two, like your mother says you were. After a great deal of persistence, (and not leaving the house for two weeks, you claim success sometime between 2 and 2 ½ years old.
Second baby: if you’re lucky, this one follows bigger sibling into the bathroom and gets the idea by 2, 2 ½ or so. I am not lucky. What makes it a little harder this time is that you have more places to go, and it’s not feasible to not leave the house for two weeks, due to various playdates, gymnastics lessons, preschool activities, etc. By 3, you claim success (sort of).
Third baby: You barely have time to go to the bathroom. You ignore your mother, all your friends, and find a pediatrician that reassures you that bedwetting is perfectly natural until age 4.

Sibling Drift, Crying
First baby: you are having a conversation with say, your brother. Baby starts crying. Brother wants to finish what he’s saying, but you cut him off with a curt, “my baby is crying”, hang up the phone, and go see to the baby.
Second baby: you are busy reading a story, talking on the phone, or engaged with your older child. Baby starts crying. You excuse yourself from the activity, then go tend to the baby.
Third baby: Dinner’s burning, you’re changing child 2’s diaper, and child 1 is scribbling with green permanent marker on the wall. (you didn’t even know you had a green permanent marker in the house.) You finish changing the diaper, turn off dinner, and wrestle the green marker away from the would be artist. Then, you go get the baby, who by this time, is inconsolable, having to wait so long for you.

Sibling Drift, Toys
First baby: toys start showing up when the child gets mobile and is bored with your pots and pans. Soft, age developmentally appropriate toys slowly accumulate, but are still contained within reasonable limits.
Second baby: skips over baby toys after 6 months of age and wants to play with older siblings toys. You get a big plastic tub to keep all the toys in. You spend a lot of time breaking up fights and discussing the concept of sharing.
Third baby: your house no longer even remotely resembles the love nest you and your husband so thoughtfully arranged. Your house is strewn with baby toys, which all manage to escape the big plastic tub you bought to keep them in. You stumble over them in the bathroom, kitchen, living room, the kid’s room, and your bedroom. In the middle of the night, you stub your toe on the way to returning at least one kid to their own bed,

Hey, with more than one kid in the house, you ought to be glad the house is still standing at all.

You're scaring the single people

2005-11-16T02:36:00.000Z

The day comes when you are out with your baby in the stroller when you realize you’re scaring the single people. It all starts out innocently enough.

Your husband, being a kind, considerate kind of soul, encourages you to go out for a walk with your baby, leaving him home with the older two children. It being a sunny day, you jump at the chance, slipping on your shoes, grabbing your sunglasses and heading out the door with a cheery wave.

You’re in a chipper mood, despite the fact you were up between 2:30 and 4:30 last night with your teething baby. Never mind that the older two hopped out of bed at 6 a.m. It’s the weekend, the sky is bright, the baby’s finally asleep, and you’re out in the glorious fresh air.

You pass a Starbucks, think about it, but decide against it. (I mean, who wants to maneuver the Peg Perego stroller through the mid morning coffee crowd.) You assume the glances are directed towards your sleeping angel. You pass the café, where a line is out the door for. . . breakfast? no, surely not. It’s 10:30! (you've been up since 5:30 a.m.) These people couldn’t possibly have slept that late.

You keep going, smiling to yourself. Then, you pass another trendy café where people are sitting down, laughing, sipping their frothy coffee concoctions. This time, you notice a well dressed, neatly coiffed, manicured, woman with impeccable makeup look at you, then lean over to her similarly attired friend and say something which makes her look at at you and also laugh.

You think to yourself, “what the heck?” What’s their problem? So, you’re wearing two year old sneakers with ancient jeans and a t-shirt. So, you only finger combed your hair after the shower this morning and it’s (gasp!) somewhat windblown after your walk. So, you’re walking slightly hunched over because the freaking stroller manufacturers don’t think that 5 foot 8 inch tall women have babies.

Then, somewhere in your sleep deprived brain, you remember there was also a time when you sat sipping (not gulping) an overpriced beverage on a sunny afternoon while out for brunch with friends. You, too once went to salons to get your hair done every (hah!) six weeks. Remember makeup? Nailpolish? Facials? Being able to wear black without any smudges marring the pristine expanse? C’mon! You even remember discussing the news, the latest movies, or books that weren’t authored by Dr. Seuss.

You feel like carrying around a miniature copy of your diploma, not to mention your master’s degree, so you can whip it out and show it to those sneering childless women.Then, you remember way back when, when you got scared, too. Then you laugh, head home, and hope you’ll see those women again next week.