Searching for Happy

Last week, I honestly wondered if I was having a nervous breakdown.  But then I thought, if I’m aware of the nervous breakdown, is it actually a nervous breakdown?  Or am I just throwing a tantrum?

Jamie is four years old, almost five, and thank you, God, he is starting to show signs of moving out of the Fucking Fours.  I understand the Fucking Fours, though: his emotions outpaced his ability to cope with them.  Well, I think that’s what happened to me during the two weeks that followed spring break; my emotions outpaced my ability to cope.  So maybe Jamie’s not growing out of the Fucking Fours but my ability to empathize is increasing.

Do you know what’s not a good coping mechanism when you’re overtired, overstressed, and overwhelmed?  Texting your overworked, overtired, overstressed husband, “I quit.”  He couldn’t do anything about it.  I probably should have just given in and let everyone eat ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinnner for a couple of weeks. 

And then, at the culmination of tax season, we said our sobbing goodbyes to Buster.  He was physically healthy but mentally very unhealthy.  He perceived everyone outside of the family as a threat.  He was unsafe.



I miss him.  God, how I miss that stupid dog.  He wasn’t a very good dog – he never learned to fetch, he stopped being able to run with me a couple of years ago, his belches could clear a room, and he was aggressive – but I loved him.  The house is rather lonely without him, despite the tribe of rambunctious boys.  It hurts when I think of how he used to be many years ago, when I think of the dog he became over time, and when I remember our last moments with him as he slipped away.

Posting might be light here for a few weeks.  I need to find my happy place, the one inside my head, again.  I laughed with Tony a couple of times this past week, I mean really laughed, and it felt new.  I realized that I hadn’t laughed in a long time.

The thing is, it doesn’t matter how funny the joke is; it matters how light your heart. 

I’ll be back when I can be back, friends.

Thirsty

Freddie is 20 months old.  He has many words: car (“dar!”), da-da, doggy, Charles (“Darl!”), truck, cat, roar, frog, fish, night-night, ribbit, woof, choo-choo, mine (“maaaah!”), and outside, to name a few.  Also “agua.”  He knows how to ask for water, he knows where the clean cups are stored, and he knows that water comes from the tap or the fridge.  We have sippy cups full of water scattered throughout the house.  I couldn’t find any clean OR dirty ones a week or two ago, so I bought several new ones.  Right about the time they made it through the dishwasher, I cleaned underneath the boys’ bunkbed.  Apparently, that space is a cozy nest for the kids; it was filled with sippy cups (all only water, thank God), candy wrappers, flashlights, and books.

Anyhow, Freddie knows how to ask for water, but apparently we weren’t listening very well the other night.  We’re busy, we’re tired, normal brain function is inhibited, especially the “interpreting baby’s insistent cries, whines, and yelps” part, and we missed it.  So Freddie did what he does: he found a toilet, lifted the lid, grabbed a handful of toilet paper, dipped it in the toilet, and then sucked the water out of the paper.



Tony found him in the laundry room doing this, God only knows for how long.  He hauled him up the stairs with the most disgusted look on his face, pulling bits of paper out of Freddie’s mouth.  We are experienced parents who cloth diaper and who have a dog.  We’ve seen our share of disgusting, gross things in the past eight years.  Once, Buster ate some plastic wrap (it probably had some chicken on it) and when he pooped it out, half of it was stuck in his butt.  I had to quash my gag reflex and pull plastic wrap out of my dog’s butt.  Tony has dealt with every monster spider, dead bird, squirrel, or mouse we’ve ever had the pleasure to watch our dog masticate.  The kids have barfed and pooped all over us and the house and the cars.  We’ve done gross in this family, but I honestly can’t remember ever seeing Tony look so horrified as he did when he carried Freddie up the stairs and tried to wash the toilet water out of his mouth.



Now, if I pick up a stray sippy cup of water in the house, I make sure to place a clean, full one back in that room.  I’d rather have full water cups in each room than a child who drinks from the toilet.

Shoe Leather

I am unbelievably absent-minded when I am tired.  My house, desk, phone, and purse are littered with lists and appointments and Post-Its and notes to remind me to do things and sometimes they STILL don’t get done.  I’ve often wondered how Tony manages on so little sleep.  I also wonder why people insist on dropping off their tax information way into March when it’s pretty much guaranteed that their tax professional is living on coffee and a prayer.  Now, this is just speculation here, and I’m sure that Tony and his colleagues do a great job on tax returns no matter the day, but I think quality must be better the earlier you turn your stuff in.  You know, when the preparer is well-rested and less stressed.  They’re bound to appreciate you more, at the very least.

Last Tuesday, a day of school, work, the housekeeper coming (so I have to scramble to pick up ahead of time so she can get to the floors to clean them), gymnastics class, and my Y workout class, I forgot to plug the crockpot in.  Well, first I forgot to put the corned beef in the crockpot, but I put it in at noon.  Jamie came to work with me because he was still getting over having a bad case of the barfs on Sunday night (why must these things always happen in the middle of the night?), so we went home for lunch and a nap at noon.  I put the corned beef in the crockpot then, turned it on high, and forgot to plug it in.  Turns out it doesn’t work so well when it’s not plugged in (when, oh when, will appliances run on my desires alone?)  Three hours later, I realized my mistake.  Then I forgot that I had such an appliance as a pressure cooker even though my mom was just talking about cooking corned beef in a pressure cooker the day before.  Instead, I tried to cook it on the stovetop, which is a legitimate way to cook a corned beef if you can cook it all day.  However, I refuse to leave the stove on when I’m not at home, so I cooked it for an hour, turned it off, went to gymnastics, cooked it for another half hour, and left for my Y class.

Needless to say, it was as tough as shoe leather when Tony served it for dinner.  That’s kind of the point of corned beef, you know?  It’s a cheap, tough cut of beef that turns edible after hours and hours of slow cooking.  Except now it’s a novelty food served for Saint Patrick’s Day, a holiday that means next to nothing in our family, so it’s not so cheap.  Tony tried to make the kids eat it, regardless of how tough it was, and he’s too nice to say anything like “mom surely screwed this one up, you don’t have to eat it, I’ll make nachos.”  Or maybe he was just too tired to remember how to make nachos.  I wasn’t there to admit to everyone that I made a horrible mistake and we should just have nachos instead, so everybody cried, and Tony sent a paniced text around 7 stating simply, “everyone’s crying and they hate me.”  Been there, my love.

I won’t say all’s well that ends well because it really didn’t that night.  Dinner is not currently an area of success in our house.

At any rate, even without a note to remind me, I’ll probably remember these lessons: turn on the crockpot; remember your pressure cooker; nachos have the power to fix things only if you recognize them as a viable alternative.

Beating Our Heads Against the Wall

Tony and Charles are the same person and it’s driving everyone nuts.  “Like father, like son” is cute and all, but right now this phenomenon has me careening wildly between exasperation and rage.

And Tony, bless his heart, doesn’t see it.  At all.

“He’s just like you,” I say.  “He gets absorbed in what he’s doing and he tunes everything else out.”

“He’s stubborn, and just like you, the more you push, the more he will entrench his position.”

“Tony, you have to cut him some slack, even if you would never cut yourself slack in this situation.  He’s seven years old.”

“Kind words, please, boys, KIND WORDS.”

Charles, for his part, has taken to saying, “Daddy’s just grumpy because he has to work all the time.”

Now there’s the understatement of the century.

Is clash of wills a short-term phenomenon or will we have to endure the two of them butting heads forever?  I don’t know, but I can tell you that I do not relish my role as mediator.  I sometimes feel like yelling, “Everybody CALM THE FUCK DOWN!”  Not sure how helpful that would be.

I get it, though.  I understand Tony’s extreme irritation.  I understand why he just wants to throw up his hands and walk away.  That child, our child, pushes us to the brink of insanity every damn day and I’ll tell you what: there’s no quicker way to feel like a failure as a parent than to go a round with Charles.

On Monday, Charles, my little nihilist, decided not to go to school (again).  Why should he, after all, when school is “boring and stupid” and he doesn’t like it?  No reason I give is good enough, that’s for damn sure.  I LOVED school, at least until I realized that I was “different” for loving learning and wanting to be the best.  I was naive and had poor social perception, much like Charles does, so I anticipate him not understanding why some kids don’t like him in a few years.  Then again, maybe it’s cool to be a nerd now.

Refusing to go to school is Charles’s new thing.  It was so bad a couple months ago that four administrators and I couldn’t coerce or even physically pull him from the car.  This time, instead of getting into the car when it was time to go, he hid.  He hid so well that I couldn’t find him for fifteen minutes and I started to panic.  Did he get on the bus (that goes to a different school)?  Did he start walking to school?  Did someone kidnap him from the front yard?  Did he fall off the roof and break his neck? 

He was curled up in a cupboard, as silent as a mouse.  I very nearly cried with relief.

Every day that kid insists that school has no purpose and every day I chirp in my best Pollyanna voice, “Guess what YOU get to do TODAY?!”  And then I extend the carrot that either convinces Charles that it’s worth bothering with school or distracts him from the fact that he must spend the best part of the day in school instead of playing LEGOs or reading or climbing trees.  I don’t give him a reward, but I do highlight the positives in a way that is unbearably cheerful (“Reptile Man is coming today for an assembly!” “Remember!  We’re going to ninja gymnastics tonight!”).  And if things really go south, I break out the chocolate because a jolt of sugar can sometimes bring his mood back to even when nothing else can.

He’s only seven and he’s bored.  From the time he was a baby, he has needed to be constantly engaged, constantly stimulated in order to be happy.  He’s not old enough to talk himself into doing the drudge work to get to the good stuff, so it falls to us to keep him occupied with frequent trips to the library, multiple activities, begging his teachers for more challenging math homework, and the occasional kick in the ass to “go outside and play already!”

There is no easy answer, but grace.  I try to keep my cool.  I’ve resolved to yell less and I’m slowly making strides in that direction.  I can usually identify the look on Charles’s face that tells me he’s about to freak out about school or homework and I try to head it off with chocolate and love and silliness and absurdly happy retellings of the good things to come.  I remind him that his daddy loves him, even though he gets frustrated.  I remind Tony that Charles loves him and looks up to him, even when he pushes back and stubbornly refuses to eat his dinner.

And when they all go to bed, I sip my tea and worry.  How did we make it through another day with such a strong-willed child?  How can I help him to deal with his emotions without crushing his spirit?  Am I neglecting his more easygoing brothers?  When will it get easier?

Get Right Outta Town!

There is a serious issue we have to discuss right now: WHY do children have to pee at the LEAST opportune times during a roadtrip?  I mean, come on kids.  If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: LISTEN TO YOUR BODY.  Don’t just ignore it until we’ve reached a traffic jam in the Tacoma S-curves and you have to go URGENTLY RIGHT NOW IMMEDIATELY MOM PLEASE I HAVE TO GO.

My kids have peed out the door of the van in rush hour, on the off-ramp at the Ft. Lewis – McChord Army/Air Force Base (forcing me to go through the checkpoint and then be officially turned back around as a soldier stopped oncoming traffic for me and waved me through), in vast numbers of McDonald’ses and gas stations and in bushes by the side of the road.  I don’t think they enjoy such improvised bathrooms, but damned if they’ll change their ways.  This latest trip had us squealing into the parking lot at Krispy Kreme for Charles to run inside while I gathered the others – there are worse places, I’ll admit.  While I didn’t indulge in a donut, I did enjoy smelling the donuts.  Odors don’t have calories, right?  I’m down to one run per week due to schedule constraints, so donuts are off-limits.  Sad face.

I can’t recall being this antsy this early in tax season before.  Tony has been up and gone to the office before 4 am for weeks now and though he doesn’t like to beg, I can tell he wants to ask me for more time to work.  I pulled the kids out of school at noon on Thursday and we hit the road.  We listened to our favorite songs from the Cars soundtrack at least fifty times, had an earnest discussion about Ninjago, and generally made the most of 5 hours in the car together.  It helped that no one farted the whole drive, not even the dog.

This is what weekends at the beach are for:

Eating cake with your hands.



Hanging out with Grandpa.



Walking on the beach.





Playing in the sand.











Exploring.



Good friends.



Watching Victor Borge on the big screen.



Not pictured: My mommy making me dinner, Jamie handily beating me and Liz at Sequence Jr., that one glorious nap I took with Jamie, that one run I went on (did I mention I’m down to one run a week, even on a weekend away, and it’s KILLING ME), staying up too late drinking wine and watching TV with my dad, and general lazy relaxing during the day because nobody went to bed at a decent time or slept through the night while we were gone.

Does Tony appreciate our absence?  I think so.  Kinda hard to tell because less family time means more working time for him.  In his shoes, I’m not sure I’d relish the trade.  I mentioned to our doctor this morning that he didn’t even shower while we were away and the doc said, “Geez, he’s not in college.”  So now I know that my doctor thought showering was unnecessary in college.  I’m not sure how that makes me feel.

Swim Monsters

Swim lessons are one of my non-negotiables: my kids will take lessons until they learn to swim, end of story.  They complain, but mostly because they complain about everything.  I’m the one who has created an hour-and-a-half of chaos and madness for myself as I wrangle them through the bowels of the YMCA twice a week for a 30-minute class.  But I don’t complain; I just have a glass of wine when they’re all in bed and congratulate myself on surviving.

While I continue to get the pitying looks from the other parents (“Wow,” they seem to say, “three boys!  I’m glad I’m not her.”), I’m trying to be sage about the whole swim lesson process.  Charles and Jamie get into their suits at home to minimize pre-lesson time in the locker room because being in the locker room is akin to giving them a direct injection of high fructose corn syrup: they immediately turn hyperactive and stop listening to anything I say or shout in that echo-y space.  All they have to do when we get to the Y is try not to die in the parking lot as they race into the building, then take their shoes off, put the bags in the lockers, go potty, and take a shower.



We’ve only gone two days so far, and Jamie only got locked in a locker once, so I’ll call that a win.



Freddie wishes he could swim, too.  He wishes it so much that several times a lesson he makes a beeline for the water, shrieking with joy that he escaped my clutches.  The lifeguards must have mild heart attack every time they see us walk in.  I bring books, snacks, and toys to keep him busy, but we still spend a goodly portion of the class walking around the pool and looking at the kids, his tiny hand in my iron fist to keep him from jumping in.

Selfies only distract for a few seconds.

Charles swims like a fish.  No, a shark.  He’s fast and he wants to be faster.  He has always been a rule follower, and in the pool is no exception.  He does what his teacher asks, he listens, he overshares completely irrelevant factoids about how well the characters in Ninjago swim before diving in and racing underwater or practicing his strokes.  I wouldn’t be surprised if he graduated out of the swimming lessons by next year.



Jamie, on the other hand, is a total spaz in the water.  Last year, he was apprehensive about the whole deal, eventually ending our three months of lessons by graduating to the second of the lowest pre-K classes.  This year, he cannonballs into the water, dog paddles away when his teacher asks the class to kick while holding onto the wall, and turns endless circles in the water when he’s supposed to be practicing his strokes.  He could not give a flying fuck about what his teacher wants him to do in swim class.  I’m certain the other parents are looking at this disrespectful kid who just goofs off the whole time (“Oh, it’s her child, the one with the three boys.”) and are grateful he’s not theirs, but honestly, he’s just so damn happy that it’s tough to get angry.  And what would getting angry help, anyhow?  Jamie marches to the beat of his own drummer, he’s not rude, he’s four, and he’s having fun.  Maybe he’ll even learn to swim in the bargain.

Blue lips – this kid has not an ounce of insulating fat on his body

Remind me to give his teacher a tip at the end of class, though.  She’s working hard to keep his flailing to a minimum.

So, should you endeavor to take three kids to swim lessons, here are a few tips:

Let them shower (with soap) for a nice, long time after the pool.  Free bath for the day!  One you don’t have to fight about or clean up after!  And bonus, if the kids shower long enough, the locker room clears out so you have plenty of room for the toddler to repeatedly slip and fall on his ass.

Eventually, he just sat down.

Take double the towels.  The first towel is used to quickly dry the hair and down the body and then goes on the floor to stand on.  The second towel dries the body after the suit is off.

Pack snacks.  My kids are ravenous after swimming and I reserve the purchase of the Y’s Red Vines for when they’ve been especially good.

Make them carry their own shit.  I carry enough.  Even Freddie has to get up the stairs by himself.



Swimming: the tax-season activity that may or may not kill me this year.

Big Kid Files

The other morning Charles said, “Mom, I’m the only one in our family who is thin.”  And I said, “What about me?” in mock horror.  He just looked at me like I was crazy.  The kid is, it turns out, old enough to know when to keep his mouth shut.

*****

For Christmas, my in-laws gave me a lovely box of handmade chocolates.  They were so good and even though they were in a one-pound candy box, they were really stuffed in there.  There had to have been nearly two pounds of chocolates that tasted remarkably similar to See’s Milk Bordeaux.  I might have cried a little bit at their sheer beauty.

I limited myself to one or two chocolates a day for approximately two days.  No, eighteen hours.  Okay, maybe one or two throughout the day on the Saturday after Christmas (when I received the chocolates) and then another one or two in the evening after the kids were in bed, and then another one or two on Sunday.  There were still so many!  It was the never-ending box of chocolates!  Heaven!

On the Sunday after Christmas, Tony and Jamie went to a friend’s house to watch football while Freddie napped and Charles and I read stories and played with the new Christmas toys.  Then Freddie woke up, so I went upstairs to snuggle him for a bit.  After Freddie was good and awake (this was during about a month of crankiness due to the appearance of two molars, so it was a bit touch-and-go with waking up for awhile), I called to Charles to come upstairs and snuggle with us.  He arrived and gave Freddie a big, chocolaty kiss.

I think you know where this is headed.

I asked him if he’d had one of mommy’s chocolates and he nodded his head. 

“How many did you have, Charles?”

“One.  No, two.  I’m sorry.”

“Okay.  Those are mommy’s chocolates and you need to ask before you eat one.  I forgive you.”

Later, I discovered that he had consumed THE ENTIRE BOX.  At least a pound of delicious, delicious handmade truffles.

He wasn’t even sick to his stomach.

I have since decided to hide all chocolate from my children.

*****

You might think that since I have all boys, I have escaped the daily fashion crises that mothers of girls deal with.  I’ll admit, the problems are usually uncomplicated; Jamie has a hard time deciding which “footies” to wear (he got several new pairs of footie pajamas for Christmas, and he rotates through his collection every day of the week) and neither of the boys has more than one pair of shoes or boots.  However, Charles is DEEPLY concerned about which pants match which shirt and can I just tell you that his opinions on matching are DEAD WRONG?  For a while he would wear all one color (black pants and black shirt or dark jeans and dark blue shirt) and now he wears only pants that “go” with his favorite shirts.  I’ve tried to apply years of matching colors and styles to his daily dilemmas about clothing, but logic and experience mean nothing to Charles.  Jeans that look great with a certain shirt “don’t go” and cause prolonged weeping and gnashing of teeth.

I came up with a couple of solutions.  First, I bought Charles more pants.  Now that the variety is greater, he has less trouble “matching” or whatever.  Second, we made a deal that resulted in more more TV for the kids (that’s the kind of deal they jump at).  I figured out that the fashion problem was a symptom of a larger issue: too much time in the morning.  Time to complain about clothing choices, time to stall before brushing teeth or donning shoes, time to bounce off the walls.

I’m not big on screen time, but in order to restore some sanity to my mornings right before tax season, I instituted the following program for both Charles and Jamie:

1. Get dressed
2. Eat breakfast
3. Brush your teeth
4. Do two pages in your workbook
5. Watch a 22-minute episode of one of your shows on Netflix (Ninjago, Clone Wars, Rescue Bots)

The boys have to have the first four items done by 8 am in order to earn the show and they have to agree on the show.  Any arguing and the deal is off.

In the three weeks since we have adopted this morning routine, fighting, fashion crises, tantrums, and yelling on my part have diminished considerably.  Plus, they’re learning.  Sure, they’re watching TV, but they’re also working through their workbooks.  Compromise: it’s what I do.


It’s just possible that I won’t disown them before the end of tax season.

One Thing

Freddie, as all 18-month-olds do, has reached Chaos Level: Expert recently, becoming a master of happy-shrieking, good-natured destruction.  Jamie, on the other hand, has reached the pinnacle of the Fucking Fours: angry defiance, extreme tantrums, and huffy pouting over such injustices as having to wear shoes or brush his teeth.  Charles is distracted and lethargic; he only wants to do what he wants to do.  Ninja class, reading, LEGOs: yes.  Chores, homework, participating in family anything: no.

The kids are inside almost all the time this time of year – the outdoor excursions end quickly and always demand immediate application of hot cocoa and snacks to offset the calories burned sustaining life in the just-above-freezing “so cold my toes are falling off!” arctic weather here in Northwest Washington.  Consequently, toys, costumes, crayons, and snack droppings are scattered among wet boots and discarded gloves ALL OVER THE DAMN HOUSE DO WE LIVE IN A FUCKING BARN and I can barely keep the three of them and any friend who comes over from tearing each other’s eyes out in shocking displays of acute cabin fever.  I’m campaigning to buy a trampoline so that when these boys are literally bouncing off the walls, I can send them out to bounce off each other instead.  Tony does not think a trampoline is necessary.  Tony thinks a trampoline will take up too much room in our yard.  Tony is not often home with these fire-breathing monsters.

When I’m not home making meals or holding my wee Tasmanian Devil because his teeth hurt and he simply MUST be held at all times or reading stories or negotiating truces between dueling brothers, I’m at work or ferrying children to and from their activities.  Also the gym, I go there a lot.  I won’t say it’s my “happy place,” but it is my “without children” place and I always feel better after I bust out a few quick miles on the treadmill or sweat through a boot camp class.  Despite this, my house stays relatively clean and organized, the laundry done, the dishes clean.  In fact, you might walk in and think to yourself, “Wow!  This place is amazing!  How does she keep things so clean and organized?  And her hair is awesome, too.  What is her secret?”  (As long as I’m dreaming, let’s make it good, shall we?)  (You would not actually think any of those things.  But you might think that things could be SO MUCH WORSE than they are.)  (My hair looks awful.)

First secret (it’s not a secret): I have a housekeeper, who is fantastic.  She comes every other week.  I think we can all agree that two weeks is long enough for a house with two adults, three boy children, and a dog to go to shit, but for at least a day after she visits, the floors, bathrooms, counters, and mirrors are all sparkling clean.

Second secret: The One Thing Rule.

The One Thing Rule is where I look around at my house/life in disarray and I ask myself, “Self, what’s one thing you can do to make it better?”  I don’t aim high, oh no.  I aim low, and I usually find that the one thing I can do right now to make things better is minor, like wiping up the table after breakfast or clearing the mail and newspaper detritus from the counter or starting a load of laundry or cutting some vegetables for dinner or organizing the pile of hats or making myself a cup of coffee and raiding my secret chocolate stash.  Then I do that one thing.  Often, when that one thing is done, I have time to ask myself again, “Self, what’s one thing you can do to make it better?” and I see yet another spill I can wipe up or I think of the meat I can take out of the freezer for dinner or any number of things that I immediately notice as I look around.  I continue to ask myself what one thing I can do until I either run out of time or I look around and feel better about my life and my house.

In the aggregate, all of these little things I need to do cause stress.  They’re overwhelming.  I look around and I can’t see the end of all the picking up and the putting away.  Feeling messy and disorganized leads me to feel like I’m sliding into mediocrity, which leads me to think such super helpful and inspiring stuff as “Why do I even try?” and “You’re never going to have a nice house” and “YOU ARE FAILING.”  I think we can all agree that no one wins when we pursue that line of thought, so I just ask myself “What’s one thing you can do to make it better?” and then I do that one thing and then I feel a small sense of accomplishment.

Yesterday, my one thing that I could do was to put something away in the garage closet (yes, we have a closet in the garage.  It’s just as stupid as it sounds).  Junk started falling on me because it’s a fucking closet in the garage and so of course it’s a convenient place to toss anything you’re too lazy to put away correctly.  I got cranky and frustrated with the mess that NO ONE CARES ABOUT BUT ME (seriously, do we live in a barn?), so I decided that one thing I could do would be to reorganize the boxes of gift bags and ribbons I had on the shelves (the source of much falling junk in the closet).  It took me ten minutes, which cut into my gym time a tiny bit (I ran faster to make up for it), but the closet is organized now.  I also threw away a bunch of garbage and moved some boxes around so I can walk around the entire car when it’s parked in the garage.  I can’t pretend that anyone else even noticed, but it made me feel much better.

The One Thing Rule works best in the afternoon or when there is plenty of time to burn before the next event (dinner, bedtime, etc.).  It does not work well when you’re trying to get out of the house in the morning and you know that life would be easier later if you just started the dishwasher/put in a load of laundry/prepped dinner for that evening.  There’s never enough time before work to do these things, so I don’t even bother.  I use the One Thing Rule when I have a few minutes of “spare” time and sometimes I even do just the one thing I can do with one hand, since Freddie is often in the other hand.


Go ahead.  Try it.  Just one thing.  It could change your life.

Yes, We Will Talk of Poop

I do not understand why “potty humor” is humorous, but let me tell you, my kids understand.  I have come to accept it, and I think that’s all we can really expect of this poor, outnumbered soul (ME) whose days are filled with fart noises and peeing contests (their favorite thing is to cross the streams while peeing into the same toilet or onto the same patch of grass – it always makes me think of Ghostbusters).

 

In addition to the funny stuff, we have many serious discussions about poop in our house.  Did you go today?  Does it hurt when you go?  Are you done yet?  (Honestly, WHY does it take the male half of the human race SO LONG?  Do they want to hang out with their own stink for half an hour?)  Since this summer presented my children with some constipation issues (not enough water, among other things), we have been militant about fiber and water consumption and as a parent, I’ve been on a crusade to make it all work out, so to speak.  We’ve seen the chiropractor, the kids take supplements, and then there’s this:

 

 

Each person in our family now poops with a stool under his or her feet (with the exception of Freddie, for obvious reasons), and I can assure you that the whole process is much faster and better.  The problem, of course, is that one of my children is too short for his feet to touch the ground in a public restroom and is no longer willing to poop without a stool. 

 

So guess what?  I get to be the stool.

 

 

I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve had to kneel on the floor in a public bathroom stall just so my kid can poop happily.  If that’s not a mother’s love, I don’t know what is.

 

I did, recently, find one poop experience funny: I had made some beet salad and was enjoying it when Freddie reached for some.  I let him try it, thinking that I would be treated to another of his “what the hell, mom?” faces, but instead he started shoveling in pieces of vinegar-soaked beets hand over fist until my lunch was gone (another example of maternal love: foregoing lunch for one’s tiny monsters).  We all know what beets look like, umm, later, so I warned Tony not to be surprised (spoiler: he was surprised).  After dinner, in a shocking display of good timing (for me), I left the boys to bounce off the walls together (I used to think that was just an expression, but oh no – it’s literal) while I ran an errand.  When I came back, there were purple spots all over the carpet, along with rags and carpet cleaner just waiting for a break in the action to be used (or, more likely, waiting for me to come home and deal with it).  Turns out the beets went right through Freddie and the resulting, fiber-rich movement could not be contained by his diaper.  I know I shouldn’t laugh at my husband’s distress, but I couldn’t help imagining him wandering around the house, wondering why on earth there was purple shit all over the floor.

Detritus of My Brain

Here are a few odds and ends of late:

 

Tony’s birthday was yesterday, but despite his best effort to be enthusiastic about his gift (a T-shirt for him that says “Sleep Deprived” paired with a onesie for Freddie that says “Sleep Depriver”), it was an utter disaster and we’re staging a re-do tonight.  You see, my dear husband was sick yesterday.  Violently ill is not something anyone wants to be on their birthday, so we’re planning the steak dinner and candles in the chocolate chip cookies for tonight.  I think maybe he doesn’t much care about birthdays anyway, but the kids and I do.

 

***

 

Charles and Jamie have been working on their Christmas lists all year long.  Their most-desired items:

• A rocket launcher
• Night-vision goggles
• A jet pack
• A skateboard
• Rocket shoes

 

I’m thinking there’s going to be some disappointment on Christmas morning.

 

***

 

We were at dinner the other night, talking about robots (as one does).  Jamie had been on a big trip with Grandpa Roger to pick up a large toolbox at Harbor Freight Tools for my business.  He got to watch the forklift unload the toolbox and was super excited about all of the new tools and claimed that he was going to go to the office to build a robot with all of those new tools.  Charles was excited at this prospect, too, until Jamie exclaimed, “Yep, and my robot will pick you up and put you in the garbage!”  Best purpose for a robot ever.

 

***

 

We have an Elf on the Shelf named Cheese (curse you, Liz, for starting this time-intensive tradition).  Much like Toy Story, the damned elf comes “alive” every night and encourages lying to my children in the name of Christmas.  They love the fucking thing.  Most nights he just moves from place to place throughout the house, but since this is the first holiday season in a LOOOOONG time that hasn’t been plagued by illness, pregnancy, hospitalization, or a major business event, I’ve started to get a bit more creative.  Thankfully, I have boys, so if Cheese the Elf’s antics reflect my disdain for the added stress of creating elaborate scenes for an inanimate object, they think it’s hilarious.  Pretty soon, the Elf will devolve to drinking whiskey with a straw.  Cheese was already strung up in Spiderman’s web (dental floss) the other night; even our other toys are already tired of Cheese’s shit, and it’s only December 2nd.

 

***

 

I continue to amaze myself with the words that come out of my mouth.  A few recent gems:

 

“Don’t sit on your brother’s face!”

“Don’t lick your shoe!”

“No, you may not pour syrup on the dog!”

 

***

 

My life is so glamorous.  The other night, as the kids were winding down before bed, I curled up in the recliner with a book.  Charles climbed in with me to snuggle and read his own book.  Just as I was thinking, “Ahh, this is so nice, the two of us snuggling and reading together,” he farted on me.  Loud and STINKY, I had to abandon my perch quickly or risk passing out.  Charles laughed uproariously.  Tony lectured him that farting on people is rude (speaking of conversations that I didn’t think we’d ever have: that bit or politeness seemed self-evident), but just as I began to breathe normally again, Charles came over, apologized, then FARTED AGAIN and laughed like he was the funniest person on the planet.  I screamed and began to asphyxiate on the indescribable stench – I swear, that kid can compete with the stupid dog for a stinky flatulence award, and if you have a dog, then you know how bad dog farts can be.  Then I promptly sent him to bed so as to confine the reek to his room.  Poor Jamie.  His dreams were undoubtedly noxious that night.

Writing About Vomit AGAIN

Three things I learned last night:

 

1. I have super vomit hearing.  The moment a child of mine begins to hurl, I pop wide awake, even from a dead sleep.  No baby should have to puke without the comforting presence of a parent to hold them, so I instantly wake up and then I immediately elbow Tony in the ribs so he runs to the sick child.  Tony was barfed on three times last night, I wasn’t barfed on at all, so I think that makes this a superpower.

 

2. Freddie doesn’t chew his food.  The first bout of stomach upheaval reminded all of us that we had chili for dinner and had me and Tony picking up whole beans from the floor and out of the bathtub (the bathtub is a convenient place to hold a puking child).  Granted, Freddie doesn’t have many teeth, but I thought for sure that he gummed more of his bites than that.

 

3. Buster values his sleep.  Not even the nearby chunks of baby vomit or the frantic activity of two parents waving their hands over a sick baby will get that dog to move from his convenient sleeping spot in the middle of the hall.  He snorted at us a few times, though, obviously perturbed by the activity.

 

 

Poor baby.

Another Installment of “Being A Parent Is Awesome”

My car smells faintly like vomit.  It’s as awesome as it sounds.

 

Jamie was the first to vomit in our car, almost a year ago, but this time, I was the hurler.  I came home from work, felt fine, went for a run, felt fine, picked up Charles, started to feel bone-tired, jumped in the van to go pick up the kids and all of the sudden was NOT FINE AT ALL.  I called Tony to go get the littles from daycare as I was going to turn the car around and hope to make it home before I spewed.  No such luck.  In an act of extreme disrespect for the dead, I started vomited just as I passed the cemetery.  I pulled off on the next street and finished the job while Charles and Buster hung their heads out the window, trying to get away.

 

In my defense, I had a plastic bag (hello, I drive a van, of course I had a plastic bag), but driving and vomiting is a tricky act, and I missed.  I drove the last quarter mile home with a sack of puke in my lap, riding the high before the next wave.

 

When you’re the mom, you have to clean up after your own damn self.  You have to rinse off the floor mat, you have to grab the windex and the paper towels, even if you still feel terrible.  You have to start the load of laundry after you strip your barfed-on clothes and shoes in the laundry room.  You have to make sure that the dog gets out and the children are okay before you can lie down and moan.  And then later you get to clean the toilet and then the car again and do the puke laundry and wipe down all door handles to inhibit the spread of germs.

 

I think we can all agree that life was better when our moms cleaned up after our sick messes. 

 

Much like the last time I got food poisoning (what did I eaaaaaat???), I have vowed never to get sick again.  It’s perhaps the main reason we’re not having any more children.

I could use some more coffee right now.

Before I had even turned on the car to take my littles to preschool this morning, I had screamed, and I mean screamed, at my kids twice, taken away Jamie’s toys for the rest of the day, soothed a devastated Charles after Jamie soaked his favorite shirt in an unauthorized (of course) water fight, mopped the bathroom after said water fight, and given Freddie his first taste of chocolate chips in an attempt to distract him from the horrifying contusion on his hand after Jamie shut it in the car console.  It was a shitty morning, made more so by an intense, although abbreviated due to child-minding, self-hatred session in front of my mirror.  All of my sweaters and leggings are still on my bed, the bedding from both bunks and the dog bed are strewn around the house, and the sink is piled high with dishes.

 

Jamie is just so four years old and I am running low on patience.  When Tony is there, we balance each other – I can see him getting stressed and impatient, so it keeps my own frustration in check.  Likewise, when I am at the end of my rope, Tony calms me and steps in to keep the kids on track.  Those days are few and far between; we are in the midst of the busy season of life, marked by long and stressful hours at work and multiple family demands.  Stress takes its toll, and more often than not, we have to captain this ship of fools alone.  I feel like I’m holding a bag of rabid, screeching, flapping bats closed and losing my grip.

 

The negative self-talk doesn’t help, but it’s absurdly difficult to stop.  Sometimes, I feel decent-looking.  Yesterday, even though my skin is more awful than usual and trending toward the most awful skin time of the month, I felt pretty.  Today, when I looked in the mirror, I felt haggard and old, droopy and saggy.  I want to be fashionable, but my body type is not fashionable; ten years ago, my silhouette worked well with midi-hem skirts and boot-cut jeans, but in the modern era of skinny jeans and maxi- or mini- skirts, my pear-shaped form simply looks ridiculous.  Shopping for clothing that is both fashionable and not cringe-worthy on my form takes time and money that I don’t have.  I am getting old, and my skin, breasts, and belly show it.  I exercise all the time for minimal results, and I bear the consequences of each missed workout or run in the fit of my jeans the very next day.  If only I could reconcile the instant gratification of chocolate and alcohol with the self-deprivation truism, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.”

 

I wish I didn’t blow up so often, but it happens.  And then I apologize.  And then the kids apologize.  Then we talk about why I got frustrated and what we can all do better tomorrow.  Then I feel terrible, the pit in my stomach growing with each daily confirmation that I am a despicable parent.  I kiss and hug and reassure them of my love, berating myself in my internal monologue.  Wash, rinse, repeat.  I’m hopeful for a better day tomorrow, and the crazy thing is that somewhere in the deep recesses of my soul, I actually believe it could happen.  Like, one magical day, my clothes will all look good and my kids will do what they’re told and we’ll have a totally harmonious morning and I’ll think, “Ahhhh… this is the life!”  Dreams: they keep me going almost as much as caffeine.

Chocoholic

It’s National Chocolate Day.  We interrupt our usual complaints about life to bring you these important chocolate-related distractions:

 

Mug Cake.  I probably don’t need to say any more.  I mean, those two tiny words imply volumes.  Cake?  In a MUG?  Yes, and in the microwave, too.  I *might* be the type of person who eats her feelings, and this cake has served as a “fuck you all, I’m having cake” cake and an “Aaaagh!  I can’t take it anymore, I need cake” cake.  Other occasions for mug cake include: “I’m exhausted,” “I hate ironing,” “These fruit flies are seriously driving me nuts,” “Why won’t the dog stop barking?” and “I’m pretty sure there’s something spilled under the couch but I just can’t right now.”

 

Use a big mug.  One of those stupid, oversize ones that are only ever used for soup and novelty gifts (or use a soup bowl, but don’t use a standard mug) (maybe this should be re-titled “bowl cake”).  Mix 1/4 C flour, 1/4 cup sugar, 2 T cocoa powder, 1/2 tsp baking powder, and a pinch of salt together.  Add 3 T melted butter, 3 T whole milk or cream or half-and-half, 1 egg, 1/2 tsp vanilla, a handful of chocolate chips or a big spoonful of nutella, and 1 T of water and mix.  Microwave for 80 seconds and eat the WHOLE DAMNED THING BY YOURSELF.

 

Red wine is starting to give me headaches the morning after I drink it.  I still buy it by the box (so classy), but I’ve cut my consumption like crazy.  I feel better, and I’ve slimmed down, but sometimes a girl needs a little something to pair with those milk-chocolate-salted-caramels she buys at Costco (God help me).  Here are other drinks that go with exhaustion, laundry, and chocolate at the end of the day:

 

• Scotch
• Spiced Rum over ice
• Rum in hot tea
• White Russian
• Tequila – sip to savor, shoot it if your day’s been tough

Brandy, nicely warmed

• Port, in one of those nice crystal port glasses you got as a wedding gift but never use

 

Need a midday boost?  I like to put a couple of scoops of chocolate ice cream in a pint glass and then pour the rest of the morning’s cold coffee over the top.  I let it sit for a minute, then I stir it around to make a nice, caffeinated coffee shake.  Pairs well with the shattered dreams of all you thought you’d accomplish today but didn’t and counting down the rest of the busy hours until you can make that mug cake and a drink.

 

National Chocolate Day.  National Chocolate Life more like it.

AWOK (Away WithOut Kids)

 

My husband, God bless him, is not a gift-giver.  I used to really like receiving gifts, so this was tough on me early in our marriage.  I buy little gifts all the time and I save up big gift ideas for Christmas and birthday, which, in Tony’s case, come back-to-back.  Often, however, Tony will ruin my gift-giving ideas by just going and buying himself whatever he wants when he wants it.  Clearly, he does not punish himself with delayed gratification like I do.

 

When Tony does give a gift, though, it ends up being super thoughtful and extravagant.  Gorgeous sapphire drop earrings one Christmas, pretty, delicate wine glasses one birthday, and then, for no reason whatsoever, a night away from the kids and the house last weekend.

 

Okay, it’s not for no reason whatsoever.  It’s because I’m going batshit crazy.

 

It’s because Charles throws a tantrum about stupid math homework every other day – he could breeze through it in 30 seconds, but he thinks it’s so. stinking. dumb. that he has to do counting and basic addition and subtraction problems that he whines and cries about how he wishes he could go back in time and stop the first teacher who ever assigned homework from doing so, thereby preventing this demonic concept of “homework” from ever being invented.  Guess who gets to be the homework parent right after school each day?  Yep, me.  I talk that kid off a ledge all the time about that ridiculous homework and honestly, I think half of the reason I have so much trouble is that Charles thinks that I am possibly too dumb to understand his homework.  He won’t listen, no matter how I try to explain the concepts.

 

It’s because Jamie’s emotions outrun his reasoning skills 8407256 times each day, and I have to employ every negotiating tactic I’ve ever learned from watching formulaic cop-dramas (“Put the stick down so we can talk about it, Jamie.  Why don’t you come over here and give me your list of demands?  You don’t really want to hurt anyone, so just let go of your brother’s ear and walk away.  Time-out is no fun, kiddo, put the rock down.”) just to get through the day.  He’s often in time-out and he often loses privileges.  He just as often snuggles up to me and asks me to read stories, but geez, it would be nice to have some middle ground between “infuriating” and “sweet as sugar.”

 

 

It’s because Freddie never sleeps and he never, ever wants to stop nursing.  I can’t really remember what it feels like to be well-rested.  At this point, it would take me a month just to fill the giant hole of sleep debt in my life.

 

Tony, apparently, has been making plans for me to have a night away with some girlfriends for MONTHS.  That’s love, people, plain and simple.  My friend Jodi picked me and two other friends up on Saturday morning and drove us to Canada.  I felt like yelling to my children, “Sorry, SUCKERS.  I’m going to be in A DIFFERENT COUNTRY for the next 36 hours!”  Oh, sweet freedom.  We drank all day long, soaked in a hot tub, went shopping and walking, shared laughs, and gorged ourselves on fantastic sushi.  And then I didn’t get out of bed to nurse a screaming child once, all night long.

 

36 whole hours of ADULT TIME.  Best gift of the year.

Boys Are Gross, Entry #9143

I don’t know how they figured it out, but my boys now know that I am disgusted by the sound of gargling.  I tried not to let on, to disguise my flinching when they would gargle their saliva as I brushed their teeth, but they figured it out.  And now they gargle their own spit ALL THE TIME.  It’s like nails on a chalkboard to me.  Gargling water is not so bad, or even orange juice or milk, but saliva?  *Shudder*  So. gross.

 

It wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t know that I hate that sound, but they do.  It’s become apparent to me over the past seven years that you must not, as a parent, EVER let on that something weird bothers you.  Your children will exploit your weakness long past the point where it is funny to ANYONE except them.  Vultures.  Tiny, adorable vultures.  Tiny, adorable vultures who GARGLE CONSTANTLY.

 

*****

 

What is it about babies that makes them instantly shove their fists down to their butt as soon as their diaper is off?  I swear, I no sooner get the diaper unsnapped than Freddie shoves his baby-strong arms down so he can grope himself, poop and all.  I can’t hold his arms up and wipe him down and change him simultaneously, of course (where is that third arm when I need it?), and he’s started to do that thing that all babies do (don’t you dare tell me that your sweet, little muffin doesn’t do this – I don’t want to hear it!) where if he’s not actively grabbing at his junk, he’s squirming his little butt right off the changing table.

 

It seems cruel to handcuff a baby to a changing table… and yet.  Have we invented baby handcuffs yet?

 

*****

 

We all went to a little girl’s birthday party on Sunday: pink and ribbons and My Little Pony and a craft with glitter and stickers.  We also swam, and my boys pretty much ignored the pink things and made their own fun by kicking around a balloon and eating copious amounts of popcorn and Red Vines (it helped that they absolutely adore the birthday girl).  As all the kids were huddled around the birthday girl, watching, rapt, as she opened her presents, Charles surreptitiously put his hands up to his face and started squeaking out fart noises.  Quietly at first, then louder and a little longer on each “fart.”  Pretty soon, kids in front of him began to look around to see who was farting.  Adults behind him, those who couldn’t see his elbows raised straight out from his face like wings, began to wonder who was tooting up a storm.  One dad was silently laughing so hard he was red in the face and looked like he was suffering from a seizure.  At that moment, Tony and I decided it had gone on too long. 

 

“Charles…” we both said, in that adult warning voice that you know you all do, stretching out the syllables so the kid knows he’s going to get in trouble if he keeps it up.

 

He turned and looked at us with a mischievous grin.  So hard to ruin his fun when I was dying with laughter inside, too.

 

Many of the other adults laughed out loud, though, thereby reinforcing his behavior.  I anticipate many more stealth fart symphonies in the future.

Sleep Wanted

Before his haircut… clearly, it was time.

 

Every once in awhile, one of my friends talks about how their child didn’t sleep through the night until he or she was four months old and it nearly killed them.  Like, the parents in this situation nearly died because they were so tired.

 

I am so jealous of them.  When I think of the things I could do if only I could get enough sleep…

 

 Riding at Grandma’s

 

A couple of weeks ago, after YEARS of sustained sleep deprivation, I texted Tony at about 5:15 PM, begging him to come home from work so I could take a nap.  I did, then I got up around 7 and ate dinner, then went back to bed around 9 and slept until 9 the next morning, except for the three times I had to get up in the middle of the night to nurse Freddie.

 

Sure, HE gets plenty of naps.

 

Yes, he’s still nursing.  All night long.

 

 

You know, most people get over the “baby brain” thing when their children start sleeping through the night.  It’s no wonder I’m such a scatterbrain all the time; I’ve had “pregnancy brain” or “baby brain” for over 7 straight years.

 

 

It’s a damn good thing that my children are so cute and lovable because mine are trying to fucking BREAK me.  A day in the hospital?  A tantrum about wanting to eat “two halves” of a banana instead of a whole banana?  Climbing onto the chair and rocking until it falls over every time I turn around?  We’ve got it all in this madhouse.

 

 

Especially the climbing, both on and in things.  Climbing everywhere.

 

 

I shouldn’t complain.  I mean, just look at these cute boys:

 

 

But I sure would like a little more time to read, maybe even relaxingly enjoy some free time, instead of falling onto the couch in an end-of-day stupor, unable to focus on, well, anything.

 

 

I try to imagine my life in a few years, when Freddie is finally sleeping through the night and I have all three children in school.  I can’t, though, because other than on a few isolated vacations, I haven’t had a full-night’s sleep in so long that I can’t accurately predict what that will feel like.  I could be a totally different person!  Maybe, underneath these under-eye circles, I’m the type of person who does the NYT crossword every day!  Or someone who learns to play the piano in her 40s!  Or someone who has time to do volunteer work at the humane society!  Or someone who learns a third language!  Or someone who gardens seriously!

 

In all likelihood, behind the sleep deprivation is a mom whose voice is a little less shrill, whose patience is a little more consistent, and whose car is a little less dirty inside.  Only time will tell, but I have to live that long, first.

The Worst Kind of Rush

My train derailed at 8:42 yesterday morning.  That was when Charles suddenly started wailing, and I mean wailing, about a tummy ache.

 

I did the normal mom things (have him drink a glass of water, have him try to go poop), but Charles went from zero to doubled over in excruciating pain in about three minutes.  By 8:45, we were headed to the Emergency Room.  Charles couldn’t walk, so I carried him, all 68 pounds of him, from the couch to the car and the car to the ER, his shoes in my purse.  He screamed like I did when I gave birth.  His hair was sweaty.  He writhed in pain.

 

 

I thought, for sure, that we were headed for surgery.  Appendicitis?  Bowel obstruction?  Testicular torsion?  The doctors didn’t know either.  After pain and anti-nausea medications were administered via IV, he began the rounds of testing: blood, urine, x-ray, ultrasound, and finally, a CT scan.

 

I spent six hours alternately praying that he would be okay, holding back tears as I watched him struggle against the pain, and reading Voyage of the Dawn Treader when he was awake (I was hoarse after a couple of hours).

 

 

At 2:45, we got the results of all the testing: mesenteric adenitis, an inflammation of the intestinal lymph nodes most likely related to constipation.  We were instructed to treat the constipation aggressively and the adenitis with pain medication.

 

The doctor looked at me, somewhat worse for the wear after six hours of adrenaline and anxiety, and stated the obvious because I clearly hadn’t internalized the results yet: “This is a good thing: no surgery.”

 

The relief was profound.  I left the hospital in a daze.  Charles was able to walk out.  He hadn’t eaten all day and he said he was hungry.  I administered my first ever (and his first ever) suppository and I was still so shell-shocked from the day and the fact that I wasn’t wringing my hands while my baby underwent surgery that I didn’t even bat an eye.

 

He’s mostly fine now.  I, however, have an adrenaline hangover. 

 

That’s a real thing, you know, an adrenaline hangover.  I treated it with a giant glass of wine and an early bedtime.  Tony treated it by tending to Freddie in the middle of the night so I could sleep.

 

Today, I’m simply grateful.  Grateful for the first-class hospital and the first-rate doctors and nurses and other medical staff.  Grateful to God that my child doesn’t have to have surgery.  Grateful for the continued health of my family. 

 

No surgery.  Those are beautiful words. 

The OTHER Response

Sometimes, when the kids talk to me, I have an entirely different conversation with them in my head than what I actually say.

 

****

 

Charles: Mom, what’s that?

 

Me (what I wanted to say): That’s a type of French cheese called brie, and it is a great demonstration of the virtue of patience.  I bought this round of brie six weeks ago and I have resisted the urge to sample it until now because I knew it needed to ripen in the refrigerator.  See the orange-y tint under the rind?  See the gooey center?  Smell the subtle bouquet?  Taste the complex flavor?  None of that would have been possible if I had been impatient and consumed it a month ago or even ten days ago.  But now!  Oh, how glorious!

Me (what I actually said): That’s a type of French cheese called brie.

 

Jamie: I want to try it!

 

Me: Charles, do you want some, too?

 

Charles: No, it looks gross.

 

Jamie: I don’t like it.

 

Me: More for meeee!

 

*****

 

Charles: But Mom!  It’s not fair!

 

Me (what I wanted to say): No, Charles, what’s not fair is the ENORMOUS amount of time I spend reminding you to complete normal daily operations, like getting dressed, brushing your teeth, and putting on shoes before school.  What’s not fair is that you complain about what I make for dinner every. single. night. without fail.  What’s not fair is that I still experience teenage-level acne as a 34-year-old adult.  What’s not fair is that chocolate and wine have calories.

 

Me (what I actually said): Charles, this is fair.  You made a poor choice, you deal with the consequences.

 

******

 

Charles:  Mom!  I’m bleeding!  There’s blood on my hand!

 

Me: Where?

 

Charles: Right here!

 

Me, barely noticing his tiny wound, a pinprick of blood on the palm of his hand: Oh, no!  Charles is bleeding!  SO MUCH BLOOD!  Call the newspaper!  Call the doctor!  Call the President!

 

Charles: Mo-om…

 

Me (what I wanted to say): Honey, I’m on the second day of my period, and it’s like Carrie at the fucking prom up in here.  You have no idea what bleeding is.

Me (what I actually said): Honey, you’re fine.  You don’t even need a bandaid.  Go play.

I Shouldn’t Be Surprised

You know how there’s always that one idiot friend in college who, love her though you do, is always doing stupid shit when she’s drunk?  Not, like, dangerous stupid, but potentially dangerous stupid and just plain make-sure-the-sober-sister-watches-out-for-her stupid.  It’s the girl who insists on insists on attempting feats of skill and strength while inebriated, such as climbing a giant metal sculpture of a horse.  It’s the friend who thinks she’s an amazing dancer (she’s not) and persists on loudly singing her own tune while dancing in the middle of a residential street at 2 am, despite her friends’ attempts to shush her.  It’s the girl who convinces everyone that it is a wonderful idea for someone else to push her around campus in a shopping cart while wearing a motorcycle helmet she found in a res hall storage room.  It’s the friend who thinks she’s hilarious and sneaky when she finds some poor child’s abandoned sidewalk chalk while walking home from a party and proceeds to tag the sidewalk the entire 1/2 mile walk home with illegible Strongbad quotes and sorority symbols.  It’s the friend who wants to make pancakes while totally sauced and begins by placing a bag of flour on a hot burner.*

 

Toddlers are like that drunk friend (except, of course, that they’re not drunk).  They throw food on the floor.  They are loud at the most inappropriate of times.  And they cannot resist doing stupid shit.

 

All done, so I’ll throw it on the floor!

 

Freddie, in particular, likes to stand or sit in things.  Buckets, boxes, bowls… Things with the potential for “in” hold a powerful attraction for that boy and, consequently, I am always pulling him out of the dog dishes or the plants or the toy box.

 

The real reason he goes through so many clothing changes each day

 

 

And then there’s the stove and any cupboard, but especially those with harmful chemicals, that any of us have been stupid enough to leave open.  He climbs in, on, and over anything and he will do it repeatedly and with gusto if he is told “no.”  Especially if he is told “no.”

 

I know you said it was hot; I just want to see!

 

Of course, Freddie has two excellent examples of ridiculous behavior with no attention to consequences.

 

There was a dirt pile – no other reason necessary.

 

You think you have escaped the drunk friend when you leave college, but really, she just lives on in her children.  Of course, this time, I’m dealing with them, instead of someone else dealing with me.

 

Right before he decided to throw all of the cereal in his bowl at the dog.

 

*Only one of the “friends” in the anecdotes above was not me.