A chip off the ole blockhead

Kye is my "easy" child. Supposedly. Tweenie was too, until she turned 8 and found her inner diva.

It seems that the hero worship Kye extends to big brother Rascal has led to some completely foreseeable, though no less unfortunate, naughtiness.

Am I indirectly calling my boys naughty?

In a word, yes. But in their defense, it's not continuous and rarely do their shenanigans converge.

I guess I've been distracted by Rascal's antics, and so only just now clued into what was likely a slow escalation of rascally behavior. Being a toddler still, Kye is fortunately too young to get really inventive. The kind of imagination that keeps me awake at night in a mother's paranoid fear has to mature first before it can hope to compete with his big brother.

The scene of the "crime". Note the proximity to the fridge (at left).

Because of this, Kye only really does one dangerous thing, and does it repeatedly. He opens the dishwasher door and climbs aboard. With his vantage point thus improved, he reaches into the cutlery basket and selects with great purpose 2 steak knives. If such are not available, paring or bread knives will serve as adequate substitutes.

He then stands up, a knife in each fist (blades pointed upward) and begins to bounce with the springiness of the door. Unable to contain his joy, he will at some point begin to shriek with delight and in doing so alert me to his activity.

The moment comes to a screeching halt, Kye is placed out of harm's way and watches regretfully as Mama stacks whatever large objects may be close at hand to barricade the dishwasher from future attempts. While Mama is distracted, Kye sneaks into the fridge, removes the French's mustard (not the dijon--only made that mistake once), and races off to a safe location where he can pry the lid open and jam the bottle into his mouth.

The knife block. Note the missing utensils. We continue our search for the stash.

The completion of a diaper cycle brings the whole episode to a close, and Mama slinks off to watch the Young and the Restless for some brain-numbing moments of relative peace.

Cluck away, you mothers-of-none. You have no idea what you're in for.

Another Christmas season survived

A little less insanity this year. That was the plan, and we actually managed to follow it this time.

Usually Christmas means 7 or 8 family shindigs, at least two Christmas concerts, running ragged from event to event and overeating at every one.

Ok, so we still did the last thing. Aside from 2 elaborate dinners and 1 sumptuous brunch, our diet was basically gingerbread and Lindt chocolate. However, I decided it didn't count when you're wearing your pajama pants and ratty old Bon Jovi T-shirt two days running. We watched syrupy-sweet classic Christmas movies, played Battleship and Connect4 for hours, and I even was roped into an hour or two of Webkinz World (and that's saying a lot).

Rascal was in charge of Christmas spirit. He decided when the candles would be lit, the tree lights put on, the proper removal of gift wrap, the distribution of cookies and eggnog, and enforced the in-house caroling. We all had to sing all the "Jingle Bell" parts, and he belted out the "one-horse open sleigh, hey!" for hours. Any deviation from his plan was strenuously opposed, with most of us sent to corners for Time Out or having privileges revoked at some point.

Laughing at his attempts to enforce the meted punishments was answered with an extension of said punishment. Looks like someone was paying attention after all.

For the most part, though, the children were wonderfully behaved. Who knew that plying them with gifts, unlimited Sprite and gingerbread, and allowing them to crash in our bed each night would produce such agreeable results? The challenge, I'm already seeing, is weaning them back off.

Now all we have to do is survive New Year's Eve. Husband promised Tweenie a few years ago that on this one night each year, she may stay up as late as she wants without restriction. She's been enjoying the special privilege and this time is looking forward to including Rascal in the tradition.

Needless to say, I'm not really looking forward to that.

It's not beginning to look a lot like Christmas

This entire blog could be about Rascal. I recently realized that the majority of the posts are inspired by his antics.

Well, he's the middle child - with all the stereotypes that the moniker implies.

About six months ago, I lost all my neighborhood credibility during a certain embarrassing episode that I must, in truth, take personal blame for. Now, visitors announce themselves with a phone call first (one from his cell phone while in my driveway - !!!). The mail guy is the exception - he winks and flirts outrageously. I thought I knew what to expect.

Yesterday, the DHL lady dropped off the last of the Christmas packages sent from the grandparents. Rascal saw a big truck coming down the drive and was terribly excited. He immediately devised the appropriate response, which was to strip down to his undies, stand on the sofa frame against the front window, and dance crazily while beating on the window and singing the alphabet.

Good thing the delivery lady has a sense of humor! She peeked past the door into the living room where the show continued in front of the Christmas tree (now decorated with a Barrel Of Monkeys - grr, where is my camera?).

"I think I've delivered here before," she commented.

I certainly don't remember her. But then, I think we are the ones who make the biggest impressions.

Looking Fab for the Holidays

All the mags are talking about the must-haves outfits for the season. Unfortunately, I have noticed a distinct slant in fashion tastes tending toward conformity and without a speck of imagination.

We'll set that all straight right now.

Husband and I put off setting up and decorating our Christmas tree as long as possible. It's crazy, I know - why would we delay putting out a tall object on a feeble-looking stand and decorate it with a variety of breakable objects and electric components? Somewhere between Tweenie's extravagant dancing to Barbie of Swan Lake and Rascal's Buzz Lightyear routine (sidekick Kye in tow, naturally), we wondered if we could possibly get away without decorating at all this year.

We were wrong. I suppose we should get used to that idea, since Tweenie is growing so fast. We'll hear all about that soon enough.

Last weekend the tree went up. 24 hours, 10 decorations, and 2 attempted electrocutions later, we stripped it down to the bare branches. I am really starting to warm up to this artificial tree thing. So much more convenient and less mess.

We found some sad-looking stockings to hang and put out the tree skirt my mother had lovingly quilted for us a few years ago. This was enough, no invitation necessary.

Rascal snatched down the stockings and pulled them over his pants (they fit like hip waders), then hung the tree skirt around his neck like a cape. "To 'finny and yond!" he shouted, as he vaulted himself off the coffee table in the general direction of the tree. Good thing we had removed the decorations, because that pathetic tree stand was no match for a 35-pound Space Ranger.


He wasn't hurt, just jumped right back up and started hollering for his Dark Bayder mask. I grabbed Kye just in time as he was about to duplicate Rascal's maneuver.

Remember this? I think Husband used it for kindling after this little episode.

I wish I had a picture the whole fabulous ensemble. All I have are the components, but I think you can see where this is going.

All I want for Christmas is...

I have never procrastinated with Christmas shopping this badly before. Here we are, a spare week or so before the holiday and I have gotten about half of the gifts I planned for. And that half basically consists of a variety of gift cards for my nieces and nephews, which I'm sure you can imagine required tons of forethought.

Earlier this week I was out with the boys buying groceries and grabbed a few free car sales mags from the rack on the way out. When we arrived home, we saw that a package from Amazon had been delivered. Christmas has officially arrived.

Add to this mix a RoomsToGo Kids brochure that Tweenie loves to browse and we're all done.

Kye spent the entire afternoon in the box. Rascal helped. He was in charge of cramming the packing material on top of his brother and closing the lid, then pushing the box around the house until Kye pops out like a Jack-in-the-Box screeching with delight. Thank you, fine folks at Amazon, for not using those foam peanut thingys.

My ideal Christmas present would be to go 24 hours without having to clean anything or anyone, and the house still look - well, if not immaculate, then at least - presentable. Instead, I learned last week that I have a dental cavity which is scheduled to be filled early next week.

Husband's Christmas list for the past 10 years or so has featured such items as a big ass TV, quad, and Jet ski. He's been spending a lot of time on eBay these days. Instead, we have come to a completely mutual decision to tighten our belts a little this year, pay off the remainder of our student loans and then revisit the question in a year or two.

In truth, I think what we all want this year is to spend 2 or 3 days lounging around in our bathrobes eating Lindt truffles and waffles in the morning. Playing Clue and lazing in the hot tub (hopefully minus the applesauce this time) in the afternoon. Sipping Merlot in front of the fire in the evenings.

My sister and brother-in-law decided to not give or receive presents this year. Instead, they have donated the sum they usually spend to a charity and have encouraged the rest of our family to be more charitable, too. Every year (including this one) I have been really careful to spend equally on my children, even to the point of buying extra crap just to remain fair. How ridiculous!

Tweenie and I have decided to go through all our toys and donate everything that's not being regularly played with to Goodwill. Then, we'll assemble kits for 3rd-world countries (see the MCC website, there are some fabulous ideas) with the money I was planning to use on filler presents. It will be a fun activity to do together and will teach her to think of others at this time of year - isn't that the point?

As for the boys, they are happy enough with their cardboard box and magazines. They found out recently about the Punchbuggy Rule and enjoy pounding on each other whenever they find a Beetle listing. Husband is delighted with this manly behavior.

What more could I want?

How Mama learned how to be more efficient

Rascal has recently shown interest in helping around the house. I should be happy about this, right?

"Clean up time" for him means "chuck everything you see into the toy box". This may include, but is not limited to, toys, bedding, laundry (both clean and dirty), mangled VHS tapes, McDonald Happy Meal toys, and various yard waste that has somehow migrated into the house.

Still, it does look cleaned up when he's finished. So I didn't have a problem in principle when he offered to help fold laundry.

I started by balling a single pair of socks and sending him down the hall to put it in the proper drawer. While he was gone, I frantically folded and stacked. When he returned, I carefully balled the next pair and sent him back with it. He looked over his shoulder at me suspiciously. I was making much too large a dent in the pile during his absence.

He returned and received the next pair. This time he stood there and demanded pair after pair until his arms were full. Then he raced to the room and back again. Since I didn't have a supply of socks ready, he was available to help fold other things. He found Husband's underwear and a sneaky look crossed his face. My curious gaze gave me away, so instead he stacked all the underwear (regardless of owner) in a neat pile.

Once we were done, I headed back to the dryer to pick up the next load. Rascal accompanied me.

When I headed toward the living room, he quickly rerouted me to the master bedroom. He then explained in exaggerated patient tones that it would be better to base our operations here to capitalize on the proximity to Mama and Papa's closets.

I looked at him incredulously. He rolled his eyes, then instructed me to put the basket down.

"Yisten Mama," he insisted (he can't pronounce the letter L). "I know dat. Dis very easy, so we do yaundry right here."

I suppose my university education was all for naught. Good thing I have a preschooler to set me straight.

I'm sorry, was that a question?

It figures.

Yesterday within the space of 3 hours or so, I learned two things:

1. Tweenie is being considered for the Advanced Learner Program because she scored in the 92nd percentile on her cognitive evaluation tests

and

2. Rascal went three rounds in Time Out at preschool for being a pint-sized bully. At preschool there is no Principal's Office which at least spares me the shame of slinking in, listening to the "let's be nice to others" pep talk sandwiched between positive reinforcements, and then trotting my dear little rascally boy out to the van and back home.

Husband tried to disapprove, but I think he is secretly relieved at this sign of macho behavior. Rascal has been parading around in my shoes lately, and I'm not talking about the grandpa loafers either. There is still the as-yet unresolved issue of a certain DVD that shall not be mentioned. It has since gone missing ... mysteriously.

In between all of this is Kye, whose hero worship of Rascal is (thankfully?) tempered by his equally fervent devotion to Tweenie. This could get interesting. Earlier, he changed some stuff on my cell phone that I can't figure out how to switch back. Even now as I type, he is whacking me on the arm. With a Barbie.

Husband, are you reading this?

Potty Talk

"I like windy poo!" Rascal announced.

I carefully set down my coffee mug and reached for a tissue. Coffee really burns when it comes out of your nose, I discovered.

Rascal watched me calmly, fiddling with his toy.

"I want to play windy poo right now."

I sat there confused. He looked at me for a moment, then trotted off calling for Kye. Now I knew I had to intervene. Not only can Kye pretty much poop on demand, our latest adventures at the change table have been kinda wild. I love my kid, it's just I'm really starting to wonder if the feeling is mutual.

Rascal heard me coming up fast and decided it was a game. He screeched with delight and ran wildly through the house, fearing and hoping I'd catch him. Our paths recrossed in the playroom.

"I play windy poo!" he crowed. He hadn't forgotten what had started this mad chase.

I started off with a "Now listen, young man..." and went through the whole (often rehashed) discussion about why poop belongs in the potty and is not a toy or other source of entertainment. Kye stood between us, watching the exchange curiously. As my speech wound down with a series of reminders on the main points, Rascal looked increasingly confused.

"I want play windy poo, Mama."

"Sweetie..." I warned.

"But why?"

"Poop is for the potty, mister."

Suddenly Rascal rolled his eyes. "No Mama, no poop! I play windy poo! WINDY POO!" He pointed at a box of Lego.

Hey look! It's Windy Poo and Trigger too! Duh.

My field trip to the Liquor Mart

Today the boys are at preschool, and while I should be catching up on all the tasks that have been piling up around the house I instead opted to go out and buy booze.

I was excited be out sans kids, so I couldn't resist primping it up a little. Some makeup, new sexy jeans, my avocado-colored long wool coat, and the b*tch boots I picked up on my recent trip to Toronto.

Yes, I've upgraded from the grandpa shoes at last. You can't go swanning around the shops with your shoes making shlupp-shlupp sounds on the floors; my b*tch boots make a satisfying thwock-thwock that draws just the right amount of ingratiating customer service from the clerks.

My b*tch boots (or so I hear they're called) vs. the grandpa shoes. I think we can all agree it was time to switch.

My first stop was the wine store. I don't think of myself as a connoisseur exactly, but I had certain labels in mind. The selection was overwhelming and my original plan to nip in and out was foiled. It was a pleasant diversion though, and aside from my ongoing struggle to avoid making gaffes (i.e. accidentally- on-purpose grabbing 6 bottles of cheap stuff) in front of the staff trolling the aisles, I managed to find a few old favorites. A particular Côtes du Rhône red was high on that list, which I thought would be easy to find only to discover that the name refers to a region.

It was a good thing I was prepared for my own foolishness. It was kind of like the first time I went wine shopping without someone knowledgeable. That time, I pranced up to customer service and asked for "merlot".

Later, I stopped at the ABC store for spirits. Here I was even more out of my league. As much as I consider myself something of a wine snob (which, clearly, I'm more like a wine doofus), I have no business shopping for hard alcohol.

Because I shop by price. So for example, I wanted to buy cognac. I had no idea but being all dressed up like I was, I had to pretend I was a savvy customer with a clue. I stalled for time by the Smirnoff and waited for a clerk to amble by.

"I'm deciding on a quality cognac", I fibbed.

He proceeded to explain the differences between the brands as I nodded intelligently. Not surprisingly, the one he recommended cost $49.99. I may act like a snob but I shop like a miser. There was no way I was going to spend that kind of money, but also no chance I would pick up the $19.99 bottle.

"It's more for my husband anyway, and actually he likes to pick it out himself." Nothing could be farther from the truth, but Husband isn't as big a poser as I am. So I passed that buck.

I walked out with my Smirnoff and Bacardi. My b*tch boots were pinching and it was time to go pick up my boys. I think I made out alright. And if not, I know where another ABC store is.

WebKinz. Need I say more?

A few nights ago Tweenie was surfing Amazon.

"Guess what, Mom? There are 61 WebKinz including the retired ones."

Mama (absently flicking through a Sephora catalog): "um-hmm."

After a while, she pipes up again: "Hey Mom! There are 53 not including the retired ones!"

I saw a nerdy teaching moment and lunged for it. "OK, so let's figure out how many WebKinz are retired!"

"I'll check!" She scrolled excitedly through the list.

M: "Sweetie, I meant let's figure it out with math!"

T: "That's OK, I like counting them online. It'll help with my Christmas list anyway."

M: "Yes, but let's first do the calculation. 61 minus 53 wou--"

T: "The math sounds fine but I'll go count, just to be sure!"

M (getting irritated): "It's ok, you don't need to check!!"

T: "But I like to!"

I rolled my eyes and started unloading the dishwasher. Rascal wandered by. "Kinz!!"

T: "Ya! Now we count the Lil'Kinz together, OK?" Then in a triumphant aside to me: "See Mom? I'm teaching him how to count."

I really need to clear my browser history and bookmarks, it seems.

Happy Turkey Day!

Being Canadian, we're new to this American-style Thanksgiving. Sure we've always celebrated Turkey Day, but without the addition of Pilgrims, cornucopia, and the time-honored tradition of passing out in front of the football game. Must be a Coors Light thing, eh?

Typically, Rascal brought home a variety of themed projects from preschool this week including a pilgrim's hat. I don't know if it was the cockeyed buckle placement or the aforementioned lack of cultural context, but it took me a while to figure out what it was. Rascal, of course, knew exactly what it was: a Dark Bayder mask--duh.

However, Rascal is over his villain phase and wanted to be Luke Skywalker, so Kye happily donned the mask, snatched up Tweenie's sparkle baton, and thus began Star Wars: the Ultimate Conquest.

What made this really hilarious is that Rascal insisted the mask cover Kye's eyes, just like in the movie. And so, our Star Wars proceeded with Kye wandering around blind and giggling, while Luke (dressed in Buzz Lightyear gear naturally) jumped off the couch aiming for Twit.

This was yesterday. Today Rascal is watching the Balboa-thon on TV with Husband. I'm terrified!

Not so much like Mary Poppins

Yesterday the chimney sweep paid us a visit. At least that's what his business card said.

Of course I had spent the half-hour before his arrival cleaning frantically, vacuuming, dusting, Windexing... Tweenie looked at me like I was brain dead.

"Seriously mom, he's a chimney sweep."

Well, mama has her standards and I had to tidy up as close to his arrival time as possible because it only takes 4.2 seconds for my boys to trash a pristine room. They are a little intimidated by the vacuum cleaner, so as long as it's running they sit in paralytic stupor on the couch.

I vacuum often.

Even so, by the time the sweep arrived there were bits of Count Chocula littering the carpet like crunchy little turds. Mr. IQ2000 asks: "So, you have kids?"

I could hear a naughty little someone rustling around in the pantry. I enlisted Tweenie and we both marched a boy over to the playroom, locking the door behind us.

Through the sounds of Dancing Elmo and the Shrek soundtrack we could hear all sorts of interesting noises coming from the living room. At one point I went to check, but all I could see was an enormous Shop Vac obscuring the view to the fireplace. Suddenly a gray isolation suit clad man emerged from the shadowy hearth, complete with a full head and face mask.

Rascal tugged at my pantleg. "Dark Bayder?"

The sweep saw him standing there and waved. But instead of running away to the relative safety of the playroom, he scooted into the kitchen toward the pantry.

I never did want to buy that stupid cereal anyway. Dump away, my son. I'll vacuum it up later.

The living room this morning. It was immaculate before I went to bed, and Tweenie only walked through this area once as she was getting ready for school. How do they do it?? But I shouldn't complain: this is the cleanest it'll be all day.

Bring it on, FaceBook

I have realized that I am often the last to find out about things in my extended family. FaceBook, it turns out, is one of them.

It was during a group Skype call with my sisters and cousins that my out-of-datedness was revealed. The gaggling conversation was almost unintelligible, even more so to me because of mombrain, when suddenly I realized I had misunderstood the context. Some photo or other was the topic of discussion, and when I asked about it someone offered to post it on my wall.

"What wall?" I had visions of a much-handled 4X6 print sticky-tacked next to my cheap Van Gogh posters above Kye's abstract Crayola artwork.

A moment of stunned silence, followed by a cacophony of cackling interrupted only by the jittery playback of my computer struggling to keep up with the DSL feed (must trade in those poor hamsters one of these days...) I signed up right after that.

But now I have to feed the beast. The albums to be posted (sorry girls, I'm backed up all the way to last Easter break), groups to join (and then promptly leave once I realize how useless they are), and personal info to fill in (then delete, then fill back in but restrict to "friends only").

I don't know why everyone says FaceBook is so addictive.

It can be hard not to overshare. The bane of my FB existence is the status updates. Mostly I just put--

Mama is... needing a cappuccino
or
Mama is... sleep deprived
or
Mama is... embarrassed because the neighbor got an eyeful.

What I'd like to put up is more like--

Mama is... going for glass #2
or
Mama is... not sure what that smell is, and right now doesn't really give a crap (pun intended)
or maybe even
Mama is... crazy horny but Husband doesn't get home for another 5 hours and by then I will be anything but.

Just for shock value, totally not because those things ever happen. Totally.

Let's go, FaceBook. I can so take you.

On buck-passing and distraction

Look at how cute he is! Exactly this is my problem.

Kye doesn't say much - "I dat", "no dat", "mamaaaa! (shriek)", "dadad?". He otherwise resorts to grunting and pointing.

I only recently caught onto the fact that my kids are far smarter than they let on. They feign confusion and cluelessness to avoid taking responsibility for certain doofish antics. Once in a great while, though, they slip up and Mama's mental light bulb fires on.

A recent dish-smashing session had me at my wit's end. Up to that point, I would have simply and firmly said "No!" and cleaned up the shards as quickly as possible. This time happened to be the third this week and was at the end of a long day of shenanigans and rough play.

I firmly pulled Kye away from the mess and scolded him thoroughly, then sat him in the corner. As I swept up, I glanced over at him. His lip was quivering, and when he noticed me looking he broke into a full wail. I stood up and rumpled my brow in frustration.

Kye's brain: "Oh, that didn't work. Quick! Plan B."

He pointed at the dustpan, shrugged his shoulders and said "Oops!" I stared at him in surprise, so he took advantage of my momentary paralysis and trotted out of the kitchen into the relative safety of the playroom where Rascal was beating on his Duplo blocks like a wild ape.

I made the fateful error of not going after him to finish our "discussion", instead choosing to pour myself a glass of wine and have a moment of peace. An error, because now he does this every time he's in trouble.

There's something about that lisped "Oops!" that foils me every time.

Separation Anxiety

I've been away.

Away from home, away from my kids.

There were no palm trees, cheap Mai-Tais or hunky snorkeling guides because this was a working vacation. It was, however, the first time I've gone anywhere on my own since Before Children.

In the years B.C., I slept in when convenient, shopped when I could afford to, read a good book during dinner, and lolled in the bathtub for a good hour when the mood struck.

Then the era changed to the years A.D. (After Delivery) - and I call it that only because After Oopsing doesn't sound as good. Now I never sleep in, shop at Target (when I'm lucky), share my measly 5-minute shower with at least 2 wriggling people, and the only reading I'm doing at the table is the Riot Act. You'd do it to, if Tarzan and Jane were swinging on the cord of the venetian blinds singing the "Lonely Goatherd" refrain to the excited clapping and cheering of little brother Kye.

Still, as I stood on the curb unloading my suitcase and preparing to leave, I had the paranoid urge to say goodbye properly. Just in case my plane would crash.

"I love you so much, sweetie! Tell me you'll always remember that?"

"Mommm, stop! You're embarrassing me!"

"Gimme a big kiss and hug."

"Mommmm!"

I discreetly wiped my eyes at the airline counter. I bravely put on a wobbly smile for the security checkpoint guards. I wore my sunglasses at the departure gate and stood facing the window.

And then, on the plane I sobbed. I was so sure that I had seen my family for the very last time.

While I was away, I slept poorly - there was no one to kick me. I lost my appetite - I haven't eaten a full meal in one sitting in years. My book went unread - I couldn't concentrate without the background noise of a full-blown ruckus.

I called every night, and sometimes during the day.

"Do you miss me yet?"

"It's awesome, Mom! Dad took us to McDonald's again, and then to Krispy Kreme after. Then we all watched Spiderman 3 and no one had nightmares! We're rockin' the house!"

"Soooooo, do you miss me yet?"

"Um, Dad thought I did, so he bought me two more WebKinz."

After that I got a little huffy with Husband explaining the "spoiling kids rotten" thing, which made me feel a little better (Riot Act, remember?). I then enjoyed the last few days of my time away properly.

Yodelay-i yodelay-i yodeloo!

My apologies to Dr. Seuss

Husband is the Preschool Grinch.

Overheard at bedtime recently...

Rascal: "Daddy, you sing Twinkle Twinkle Star now."

Husband: "Ask Mama."

R: "No, I want Daddy sing."

Husband doesn't sing. Ever. He often reminds me of Robert De Niro in the Focker movies (and I think H was secretly taking notes for any pimply boys that one day will come a'calling for Tweenie).

Rascal went through his list. Itsy Spider? Happy clap your hands? EIEIO? Theme song from Little Mermaid?

I heard Husband hollering for me. "He wants a kiss from you," he said as he beat a speedy retreat to the living room and the soothing sounds of Seinfeld.

I dutifully sang all the songs, although Rascal was still peeved that Daddy wasn't joining in on the fun. He was probably annoyed from before, because Daddy showed no interest in gluing pipe cleaners to the fireplace bricks and definitely wasn't going to double as a tent pole for the boys' playroom fort while making Polly Pocket talk.

Husband did, however, greatly enjoy the game where you knock over Barbies with a soccer ball - that he approved of.

I think he's waiting for the day when Rascal and Kye can go fishing without great peril to life and limb and fix lawnmowers and go for test drives at the dealership that sells BMW motorcycles.

It's just this disconcertingly androgynous stage of toddlerdom that has him sweating.

Portrait of a yummy Mama

"It's a bird!"

"No! It's a plane!"

"Hey, it's my neighbor!"

I guess my furtive dash toward the sliding automatic door at - shhh - Walmart did not go unnoticed. There's a teensy possibility the reason was I had all three kids plus Tweenie's BFF in tow. And I was hollering at all four to settle down and walk nicely across the tarmac-length parking lot.

Normally I am not a Walmart shopper, but Halloween is mere days away and I procrastinated. I had some vague idea that maybe the kids would want to dress up using old bedsheets or maybe my prom dress from 1993, and deluded myself by thinking I wouldn't have to brave the pushy crowds jostling between the checkouts, (Clearance!) seasonal merchandise, and McDonald's.

Being that I was out in public, I was in uniform - Mama style. The first (and most important) component are my grandpa shoes.

Actually, they're from Joseph Seibel and if I could sleep in them, I so would. Even Husband knows they don't conform to standard female guidelines regarding appropriate footwear and begged me to go shoe shopping. Begged. I returned with some sweet Brooks cross-trainers. Don't think me fashion-backward; I just know I need the comfort and support of quality footwear when I'm running across the parking lot after Rascal and Kye screeching like a harridan.

The second component of my ensemble are my pre-Rascal jeans with a with a 28" waist and 32" inseam. I may have to shoehorn myself in, but jeez they make my butt look good.


Not so much feelin' the wrinklies on the thigh, but I refuse to go up a size. Categorically refuse, because those last pesky 5 pounds are coming off any day now ... after the holidays (and by that I mean next Easter). Also for some reason, the leg seems a bit too long now. Have I shrunk? Does carrying around two toddlers compress my legs as well as my spine?

But I digress, since the important thing is that I caught a few glances while I picked through the last of the costumes. And once you've had 3 kids and are over 30, getting the odd once-over is really nice.

Add to all this my deliberately tousled, highlighted mane (ok, so I didn't have time to style and just fluffed it upside-down in the car before getting out) and my edgy makeup (again, a rushed job) - I was hawt!

And being a yummy mommy is hot.

I *heart* you - and I'm not just saying that

Ah, my poor neglected blog!

It's not you, it's me ... no, really!

You've been great, waiting patiently downstairs while I sniff fumes in Tweenie's room for hours. Which, by the way, shows no signs of ending. Ever. We're on coat #3 of primer now and I'm about ready to give up.

I gaze at you longingly as I swish past you to separate my boys clobbering each other. I sneak moments during supper prep to fill your draft box with random ideas for posts. I just can't commit right now!

I bemoan my dwindling readership in recent days, but I don't blame you. It's not your fault.

I'm sayin', I need some space right now but I'm not breaking up with you. We can still be friends, right? In fact, I made you a pretty craft to show you how I feel.

Here's lookin' at you, B!

XO, Mama

p.s. I didn't mean to make you look like a Jack-o-lantern; and I really mean that!

Mama makes time fly

I love winter! Not just because of snow or Christmas or the end of bikini season--no. I love the time changes.

Rascal only knows about one hour, which is 9 o'clock.

As in: "Tweenie, I don't care if you haven't fed your Webkinz. It's 9 o'clock, time for bed now!"

Or: "Husband, my shift ends at 9 o'clock and then you have to stuff Rascal back in bed when he gets out." This announcement is usually sufficient to send a stealthily sneaking Rascal scrambling for his room, as Husband doesn't read stories or sing Old Macdonald or whatnot. He lays down the law with a silent, sternly pointed index finger.

Either way, 9 o'clock in Rascal's world means "get your butt into bed this second!"

In summer the sun is still teasing the horizon at that hour, and bedtime routines are generally more rambunctious and difficult to enforce. This problem is naturally resolved as the calendar flips into the three-syllable months.

So, after a naughty supper-table episode, I might glance at the darkened windows and announce:

"Rascal, it's 9 o'clock! If you're a very good boy, Mama will let you have a quick bath first!"

Or Rascal, when pestered by Kye to share his cars, might come to me and point at his brother asking, "Mama, is it 9 o'clock?"

"Close enough, let's go boys!"

Yesterday, it was dark at 7:14. Oops, I mean-- at 9 o'clock. Only 17 more sleeps until Daylight Saving Time ends!

*evil laugh*

Laughing at myself for once (NOT!)

I dropped off the face of the blogosphere last week.

Where was I? That's a great question.

The short answer is - I was getting high in my daughter's roommmmmmmmmm ... still am a little bit, I fear.

What? You're still here? Your mommy radar is going ca-razy at the thought? Fine, you want the long story.

We're redecorating Tweenie's room. It started off looking like this; a boy's dream room papered in balls and pennants, offset by rich blues and maroons.

Tweenie has in mind something a little bit more girl-friendly. Like Tinkerbell designs on pink, lime, and lilac with posters of fluffy kittens and ballerinas. So you understand why the two are not entirely compatible.

The weekend was spent stripping and scrubbing the walls. We had to use chemicals to get it off because the overzealous previous owners did a really really good job of putting it up. I almost felt guilty undoing all their work. Then came patching and taping, followed by several coats of primer ... which is where we're at right now.

I have an environmental health degree, which in conjunction with my natural hypochondriac tendencies has made me a little loopy. I bought VOC-free pastel paints for the finish, but the primer only came in Chernobyl white.

I'm a little happy right now. Sha-winggggggggg!

The cool part is, I can blame recent mommy-brain moments on the chemicals. Like rushing to leave the house yesterday, then returning home to only then realize I didn't quite finish my makeup routine. A striking 'before-and-after' melange ... not attractive.

Or talking baby talk to Kye and Rascal in front of Husband. I usually try to keep this horrendous habit a secret; I know it's a big no-no, and Husband doesn't approve. But there's something about soft, squashy bellies (that aren't my own) that brings out the Elmo in me.

Or returning home from grocery shopping, realizing I forgot something I really need. Then returning to the store, coming back home ... and realizing another thing I forgot. At this point my eco-education guilts me into not making a third trip and we have a really interesting spaghetti dinner prepared with ketchup and pizza sauce.

I blame it ALL on the VOCs. Also, it's a lot funnier this way. In a few weeks when the fumes are undetectable, I'll have to own to my foibles as before--and that's not funny at all.

Say what?

"Ah Miss Blaine, you dance like a herd of cattle. You are a rare woman who lights up a room simply by leaving it!"

I love that line from the otherwise (sadly) forgettable Kate & Leopold. It's the one moment of this movie Husband enjoyed - what can I say, he's more of a Bruce Willis type.

My children have a fascinating way of relating to me, too. Some examples that stand out:

Most times when I pick Rascal up from Sunday school he bursts into tears at the very sight of me. Part sheer joy at my return, part fury that play time is over. Then he gets embarrassed for crying in front of his friends. I'm tellin' ya dudes, look the other way. Now.

In contrast, the last time I went to collect Kye he was so happy to see me that he farted powerfully. So powerfully in fact, that a diaper change was urgently required.

Tweenie tries to say the right thing and honestly, too. She recently told me--

"Mom, you look good enough for your age! Why do you always put on makeup when you leave the house? Dad's the one you should be trying to impress and, well, he's seen you without and still loves you. Can we leave now?"

That was supposed to be a compliment. I'm still scratching my head about it.

So to sum up, I look "good enough" and my mere presence drives my sons to tears and bowel movements.

I am terrified of the teenage years. You might say I'm soiling myself.

MamaNotes, Volume 1: Clothing your Child

Keywords: catching, naked, squirming, flexibility, underpants

Introduction

An experienced mother knows how to transition from the bathtub to pajamas smoothly and efficiently. With time, injuries may be kept to a minimum and this process will no longer be traumatic for parent or child. A beginner may experience time delays of 20 or 30 minutes, but with practice you will see great improvements into the single digit range.

Chapter 1

The experienced mama knows that an effective pajama routine begins before the child exits the bathwater. She anticipates the wet, wriggling body's escape attempt and is prepared.

Step 1: Select an extra large bath towel that has not been laundered with fabric softener; this will improve your grip. Shielding yourself with the towel draped between your arms, remove the squirming child from the bathtub and pinion his arms to his sides. Use a spider technique to quickly swaddle your flailing youngster with the extra material until they are tucked in mummy-tight.

The new mama makes the fatal error of lifting the child out of the bath without the traction of a coarse towel. A baby's body is far slipperier than a greased pig and more flexible besides. She will not regain control of her child until he's grown tired of jumping up and down on the top bunk and comes down by choice. A new mama does not realize that hollering for him to come "right now, OR ELSE!" makes it even funnier. For the kid.

Step 2: Have underpants and pajamas already laid out on the bed. Unwrap your child in stages while holding him on your lap, immobilizing each limb as it emerges from the towel. Should the child resort to such methods as head-butting, back arching, or scratching, use one of your legs to restrain him seatbelt-style across his lap and stuff one arm into your armpit. Use your idle hand to clamp his head against your chest and apply gentle pressure with your head against his to discourage his range of motion.

The new mama will have a momentary advantage here, as her child is exhausted from jumping on the bed. As long as the little fella doesn't see the clothes she holds behind her back, she may have a chance to make up some lost time.

Step 3: Using your arm (from the elbow down) that has his stuffed in your armpit, reach for the pajamas and underpants. Ignore the pajama bottoms briefly, hold the gitch waistband between your teeth and quickly slide the pajama shirt onto his head. Ensure that you do not pull the shirt all the way down; a short period of disorientation with the shirt over his eyes will give you a critical moment to sneak his legs into the holes of the underpants. Retain your grip on the waistband; he will immediately jump off your lap, at which time his downward motion will slide the underwear onto his bum. In his moment of consternation, you can pull the shirt off his face and over the belly.

The new mama will make the mistake of putting gitch on first. As soon as she starts scrunching up the p.j. shirt in preparation of dressing, he will pull the gitch off. She'll drop the shirt and pull up the pants, then start gathering the shirt again. He'll pull his underwear off again, and so the cycle will continue.

Step 4: Use the cumbersome attempts of your youngster to remove his p.j. top to your advantage; unless he is very experienced, it will take time for him to wriggle out past the point of no return. During this time, hoist him stomach-down onto the bed. Flop your leg gently but securely over his bum. His back-arching maneuvers will bring him no advantage in this position, and will actually deliver his flopping legs to your location. Take little heed of the sounds of popped stitches as you pull the pants up over stubborn ankles.

The new mama will never get this far. She will have given up and decided that pajamas are highly overrated anyway.

Step 5: Before your child has come to full realization that you've won, snatch him up into your arms and in a gleeful voice announce that it's time for a snack! Let him ride piggyback to the kitchen, whooping and "Yeeeeeehaw"-ing all the way.

***

I hope all of you childless readers took notes. There will be a test ... eventually.

Customer Service paging Mama

Have you ever suffered the cringing embarrassment of being paged in a public place because of your child - or worse, his behavior?

We flew back to my hometown this summer, and while the trip wasn't as bad as I'd feared I did have the pleasure of public humiliation at least once on the return flight. Rascal refused to be buckled up and spazzed around in his seat doing the back-arching-thingy and squawking. This is bad, apparently, as the tinny intercom voice informed me:

"Ma'am, you must control your child. Please secure his seatbelt immediately; this is for his own safety as well as the other passengers'."

Hmm, really?

It seems someone is always trying to get my attention, especially my three darlings. Even though I try to give everyone 33.33%, it just doesn't cut it.

Until recently, I read to each kid individually before bed. This meant that bedtime started around 7:30 and lasted until around 10:00. At some point I caught on that no one needs to pee 4 times in 15 minutes. For a while they even had me going with really long bedtime prayers. What a sucker!

I decided to streamline the whole process. House comes on at 9:00 and that is now my back-end limit on bedtime. I have decided on the following rules:

1) I read to everyone from a book of my choosing for 30 minutes.
2) everyone brushes their teeth only once.
3) everyone goes to the bathroom properly only once.
4) everyone gets one cup of water on their bedside table, and if you spill it accidentally-on-purpose, tough luck.
5) prayers can be detailed, but efficiently presented.

If all these demands are not met, I feel justified in bringing out the Dragon Lady.

Last night the new regime was in effect. Everyone was enjoying the book I had chosen, and since I knew it would only be one book, I indulged them by doing all the silly voices.

However, Rascal quickly realized that there were no cars in this book. He started to grunt his dissatisfaction. No reaction.

He jumped on the bed and whooped. Again, no response. (I'm trying that new-fangled theory my pediatrician is spouting which says you should simply ignore undesirable behavior instead of punishing or distracting. So far I think this is total crap.)

He persuaded Kye to jump on the bed with him. Unintentionally, my eye flicked over. He smiled; I was busted! It's hard to regain control after a breach like that.

I continued on, noting Rascal's approach in my peripheral vision.

One last warning: "Mamaaaaaa....."

I kept reading. He shoved his finger up my nose.

That got my attention. Everyone thought it was hilarious, even me - although not until this morning.

Selling out... big time

Overheard at the neighborhood McDonald's:

"Ma'am, I just had to come over and compliment you on your children. They are the best behaved little angels I ever did see! You must be doing something right!"

I gawped at the kind gentleman. Awkward silence.

"Well, y'all have a great day then." He backed away, waving at Kye who was shoving something up his nose.

I slowly swiveled my head to gaze at my children. Yep, you give 'em some greasy slop and a cheap toy and just sit back and enjoy the

Peace and Quiet.

I am a total sellout. But in my defense, I force them to take milk and apples instead of soda and fries (even though I get to have diet Coke, but that's because I need the caffeine). So actually I'm a mean cow who has my children's health in mind. At McDonald's.

There was a reason I caved this time. Somewhere in between the random acts of violence equally dispensed by my sons and the nasty pile of soccer gear from last Saturday rotting under Tweenie's bed, I had a teensy meltdown.

I called Husband at work to tattle.

"Babe, I can't hear you above the screeching in the background. Can you call me back when you've got things under control? ... Hello? You still there?"

Later Tantie called with some salacious gossip. The kids were still rampaging around the house.

"Is this a bad time?" asked Tantie.

"Oh no, there never really is a good time."

"Huh." She and her husband are bandying around the idea of starting a family. I'm her reality and birth control check.

30 minutes later I was the recipient of the wonderful compliment. Staring at the three of them with varying amounts of goo on their faces, I realized for the first time since I woke up to the mess of a double pack of Cinnamon Toast Crunch spilled all over the floor what great kids I have.

They are sweet and affectionate - at least once daily.
They are brave and daring - sometimes death defying.
They are smart and resourceful - especially when they work in tandem.
They are gorgeous!

And, most importantly, they're mine.

Perhaps Madame should try zee Vichyssoise

Chef Rascal decided today would be a good day to bake cookies with Mama.

I carefully measured out the ingredients and handed them to him. He reached his arm up high and trickled them into the bowl from two feet up. The kid's got good aim.

I realized late in the game that I would not have enough chocolate chips. Rooting around in my cupboard I managed to find some walnuts, bypassing the raisins altogether; I only made that mistake once. Call me crazy, but I think any recipe can be jazzed up with the simple addition of some nuts - especially one with 1½ cups of shortening in it.

The creamy mush was ready to be spooned onto the cookie sheets. I let Rascal lick the beaters. He finished before I did and immediately reached for the tempting bite-sized lumps on the tray.

"No honey, those have to bake first."

"What you doing? I have, I HAVE!" he screeched.

"First they go in the oven. Then you may have some."

He watched grumpily as I shoved a sheet into the hot oven. Thinking to himself how Mama was ruining some perfectly good dough. He stood with crossed arms by the oven window, eyebrows crumpled skeptically.

After 8 minutes it was time to take them out, and 5 long, mouth-watering minutes later they were ready to be tasted. Rascal crammed a whole cookie in at once. Chewed happily for a few seconds.

Slowly, a suspicious look crept over his face. His tongue started to sort out the cookie fragments. Moments later, 3 pristine walnut chunks were expelled onto the kitchen floor.

"What you doing, Mama? What dat?" he pointed accusingly.

Kye and Tweenie came in clamoring for a taste.

"What did you put in there, Mom?" accused Tweenie, as Kye spit most of his cookie out with a wet splat. "You know I don't like nuts!"

"Well I like them. You should try new things more often you know."

As Tweenie stalked off, I caught her mumbled complaint: "What's she gonna make us eat next?"

I guess escargots and sushi are out...

Back to School

I am a regular reader of this fabulous blog. Maybe it's because she's a geek like me?

She recently used a Venn diagram to tell one of her hilarious stories, and I was so impressed that I knew one day I'd follow suit.

My life yesterday was a study in grammar and math.

Why grammar? Because everything that happened must be described using superlatives. For example:

Yesterday, the house was the messiest it has ever been. Part of the reason is that the boys discovered my tampon stash. I discovered this after they had finished off the better portion of my new extra value pack of OB.

They performed a wonderful science experiment. The central hypothesis is that different fluids are absorbed differently by the tampon. So for example, toilet water vs. cereal milk leftovers vs. sippy-cup juice. They discovered that the tampon will expand to an equal extent in all test liquids. Another (unanticipated) result is that Mama gets maddest when the used experimental objects are flung around the living room.

They spent the longest amount of time sequestered in their room, approximately the time required for Mama to have the largest midday rum and coke. Ok, truth be told I never drink during the day, so it really wasn't that much. But the fact that I needed one tells you something!

Over the last week or so, I have had the worst headache. This happened a few weeks ago, just before our trip up north. At that time, I went to the doctor suspecting a sinus infection. It turned out I had runaway blood pressure. The symptoms being similar this time, I assume it is the same problem.

Here is where the math and grammar collide.

When I have high blood pressure, I have terrible headaches, insomnia, and general bitchiness. This is all inversely correlated to the hours of sleep I have lately enjoyed. Which is to say, very few.

As this diagram illustrates, as my sleep hours approach zero, my BP goes to infinity.


Time to deal out some Ferber, methinks.

Someone check this kid's midi-clorian count

Rascal is no longer a generic scary wowoff. He is Dark Bayder.

Apparently Husband and I have different standards with respect to age-appropriate movies. While I was busy ranting against Shrek 2 because of the sexual references, Daddy and the shrimps were watching The Empire Strikes Back.

I would soon learn that Grandpa approved. Our recent trip back home included a weekend at his cottage. In Rascal's world, the only things that occurred during that visit were:

1. Grandpa has a ski boat.
2. Grandpa has a jepski.
3. Grandpa drives very fast on the boat and Rascal gets to steer.
4. Grandpa gives great presents, say for example a light saber.
5. Dark Bayder wanted to joust with the saber on the jepski.
6. Mama is mean. She said no.
7. Rascal made a new friend. He also thought the light saber was the coolest thing ever.

Back in town, Rascal wanted to impress everyone with his new moves. The saber glows in the dark, so Mama had to quickly make a rule about Outdoor Toys. This was no deterrent; Gramma's doogy lives outside and looks enough like an Ewok to satisfy Dark Bayder.

Tantie and Gramma ran to doogy's rescue, but The Force alerted Rascal to their approach. We don't point weapons at people, Gramma reminded him. He hesitated briefly, threw down his saber, got down on all fours and went T-Rex on them. They screamed dramatically and he was immensely satisfied.

"Somehow" during the packing-up process, the light saber got left behind. Rascal was very disappointed. So now we're back to Buzz Lightyear, which is probably for the best.

Driver Ed 101

Kye, who I may start referring to as Rascal 2.0, is getting an education.

"Come, Kye! We go droving!" Rascal chirped. He snatched my car keys and headed for the van, little brother following in his wake.

And by "wake", I do not exaggerate. The as yet unpacked groceries were standing conveniently in the path to the back door. It seems that two 25-30 pound boys running through does a great job of uniformly strewing said foodstuffs around the back end of the kitchen. It was all I could do to hurdle over the upturned Bisquick and Special K boxes to reach the giggling twosome before they keyed our van.

Undeterred, they made a beeline for the shed. Rascal and sidekick Kye vaulted onto the PowerWheels Harley and buzzed around the yard. This was Kye's first time on, and he fell off the back several times.

I decided it was time to intervene. Kye now sat up front and steered while Rascal pressed the accelerator. This unit has 2 speeds, fast and slow. I set it to the latter and walked alongside.

Enough of this, thought Rascal, and punched it into high gear. They went careening over the lawn and dangerously close to the creek. I shrieked and ran after them. Mission accomplished! Their gales of laughter were contagious and I lost all credibility by chuckling along.

Well, it could be much worse - they could both be yaykit.

It's music to my ears

I'm turning into my mother.

Not that this is necessarily a bad thing, but it's something every girl swears will never happen when they grow up. Interesting, since as a Gen X-er, I am supposed to be breaking free of whatever came before and forging ahead into uncharted territory.

Maybe it's that the terrain is new to me, and these are my kids we're talking about here. In other words: bring on the long johns, healthy snacks, G-rated movies, and Sunday School CDs.

Growing up, we weren't allowed to listen to Michael Jackson or Madonna and I didn't even know about Guns 'n Roses or AC/DC. Our friends' parents were less worried about such things, and after we got over our initial shock at hearing such music for the first time, we quickly invented new lyrics to sing over the original ones. We figured we'd get in less trouble if we ever got busted.

One year after a particularly successful chocolate bar fundraising drive at school, I was awarded a Top Gun soundtrack cassette. I was so excited (even though I had certainly never seen the movie and had no idea what to expect), so you can imagine my consternation when mom confiscated it and blanked the tape out. She tried to make a big deal about how I could now dub my Rapunzel LP so I could listen to it on my Walkman.

I stared at her, not amused. In those days, I had to whip that one out quite a bit.

Soon after that everyone was listening to Nirvana. Looking back, I'm sure she was nostalgic for a little MC Hammer.

As a mom now, I didn't deliberately keep my kids from popular music. We just wouldn't show them our collection, other than a brief stint with some classical and opera while they were still in utero. Lately this is changing.

It is probably totally unrelated to my recent clamping down on TV time and banning anything rated higher than PG for movies. We've started listening to more music, and as long as that included a lot of Josh Groban and Michael Bublé, I was happy. Husband-- not so much. I have banned Def Leppard to his car stereo.

One day, Tweenie was sifting through our collection and happened upon an Aqua album. "Barbie Girl?" 'Nuff said. Anyone who's familiar with the song knows it starts with Ken and Barbie going for a ride, engine revving. Parlez-vous vroom-vroom, Rascal?

So now I spend my time inventing harmless lyrics again, except this time it's to protect them (not me!). Looks like some things never change...

I've got that certain "je ne sais quoi"

The word on the street is that I'm bossy.

Moi?

I overheard Tweenie scheming with BFF for a possible weekday sleepover, or at least a bowl of ice cream before dinner.

"Mom's not the type, like if you beg and beg and beg, she totally won't give in. Even the fluttery eye thingy only works on Dad anymore."

Indistinct mumbling from BFF.

"Anyway, she said I have to clean this pigsty up this instant. And, well, I believe her. She's kinda, you know, bossy."

That's kids for you, right? They always think their parents are tyrants whose only pleasure lies in inventing odious chores.

Recently, Husband tried to help out by throwing a load of laundry in the washer. I came swooping from another room and shooed him away. He doesn't read the tags, ok? Doesn't make me bossy.

"Helping" Tweenie pick out her clothes for school isn't bossy either. It's a teachable moment.

I was observing Rascal today in a quiet moment. I have always said he takes after Husband, in looks and attitude.

He was "helping" Kye.

Lesson #1: When pouncing on Big Sister, you must land on the soft mushy stomach part, not the bony pelvis. If you make a mistake, you will have to repeat the maneuver until you have it right.

Lesson #2: When tossing rocks at the cat, you must throw overhand. No sissy stuff, got it?

Lesson #3: You are not allowed to eat the part of the sandwich that has no peanut butter smeared on it, even if Mama has taken care to cover every millimeter. Also, Mama is not allowed to re-smear or cut the offending part off. The whole sandwich would be ruined.

Rascal: "No, Kye. Nooooooooo dat. I show. Dis, okee?"

Kye: "Deh?"

I guess he was paying better attention than I thought.

Not so funny anymore

You may have noticed that I try to find any scrap of humor that may be found in what are otherwise exasperating situations.

Sometimes, I think the most intolerable circumstances eventually yield the best stories. But then there are times when Mama is just worn down and the smallest problem is overwhelming.

Today was one such day. I hate to write a bummer post, but in the interest of authenticity I figured my readers should know that for this camel, that straw weighed a freakin' ton.

Those of you who have been keeping up to date know that I was recently away visiting family with my kids. Husband was enjoying the peace and quiet because he had to "work". Apparently that also covers going over to his friend's place to admire the rifle collection. Not that I'm upset; I'd rather he admire someone else's deadly weapons than collect them himself.

During my trip, we tried to control our Hectic.
Hectic Rule #1: only one outing per day, or only one batch of visitors invited to my mom's house per day.
Hectic Rule #2: get kids to bed at a reasonable hour, with some small allowance for the fact that we were on vacation and leaving places at 7:30 pm is (surprise, surprise) an unpopular idea.
Hectic Rule #3: get in a nap every day, even if it's only 10 minutes.
Hectic Rule #4: resort to alcohol if Rules 1-3 fall through.

I relied on Rule #4 a lot. But then, so did Tantie and all the other adults scattered around the house. Both of my sisters plus husbands were staying there too. I think they were even more tired than I by the end.

I go on autopilot when I'm in stress. Like cramming for finals or finishing my term paper in the few small hours before it was due, and still feeling alert at 4:23 am. Like going through my wedding day all serene and calm.

When it's all over I crash. In my pre-child life, it meant getting a roaring migraine shortly after the fireworks ended. These days I don't have time for migraines, so it basically means I turn into a fire-breathing dragon with no fuse and black periods of self-pity.

Luckily these don't last long. I can already feel the fog lifting, although that might have been one too many hits with the nasal spray (oh yeah, I also always get a cold after repressed stress). I think there might be a Coors Light in the fridge, too.

Today's freak out started with Kye's fever and fussing (who also has a bad cold), continued with a long wait at the doctor's office, compounded by Tweenie's soccer practice on a crunchy field under a scorching sun, and topped off by a tantrum from Rascal who didn't want to use his usual brand of toothpaste - at least, that was his jumping-off point. He branched out from there.

I of course kept my cool through it all. Ok, I lie. I spent the day in simmering anger. I must not hide it very well, because my kids are like mirrors of my moods. I didn't blow until much later, but my black mood was infectious from the first moment. I am annoyed at myself that I couldn't get a grip.

And so I sit here now, spilling my catharsis into cyberspace for all you fine folks to read. Feeling a lot better already. Hoping for a better day tomorrow.

Sleep: the Final Frontier

We fogeys (a.k.a. pretty much anyone over 25) have vastly different priorities than them young'uns.

So, for example, we appreciate:
-spinach
-road trips
-sleep

This last is particularly underrated by the ankle-biter gang, as I discovered over the course of the last 24 hours.

I assumed myself more or less in the clear once we completed the infant-based night schedule. I cheerfully accepted the maximum 6-hour nights dictated by the twin demands of Husband/Mama Quality Time and freakishly early school bus pickups (we were lucky to pull the last stop on the route, which is 7:12 am).

While I held out some vague hope of the occasional nap, I have developed the (instantaneous) ability to squeeze 5 winks out of an episode of Berenstain Bears. Or, just hypothetically speaking, watch my boys play with their cars on the dining room floor and fall asleep beside my breakfast plate unexpectedly.

Fast-forward back to recent events...

Last night, Tweenie and Rascal decided they wanted a sleepover. I didn't care one way or another; they weren't going to sleep on their own anyway after nearly an hour of shenanigans. They both solemnly promised to go to sleep instantly (those were my exact instructions) and not be heard from until the next morning.

I wasn't even 10 steps out of the door when I heard a rasping sound from my boy. With a sigh of resignation, I turned back to deliver the threatened consequences but paused at the door when Tweenie said,

"What are you doing?"

"I seeping. See? Zzzzzzzzzzzz."

"Be quiet!"

"I seeping. Shhht! Mama be angey."

More snores.

"Maaaaaaaa!"

Of course I had to separate them after all, but at least they didn't want to share a bed after that.

After preschool today, Rascal wanted to play with Kye. Unfortunately, this was during the planned naptime. Rascal was not impressed. He stomped outside and sulked. I ignored it and brought Kye up to bed, then started on some chores.

Eventually I heard Rascal come back in and head for his stack of cars. I didn't check on him right away and this was just the opening he needed. From Kye's bedroom upstairs, I heard Rascal's characteristic singsong:

"'Ake up, Kye! You come play me."

I zoomed up the stairs.

"Come, Kye! We play now, okee?"

I discovered them both sitting in the crib, proud of themselves. I scowled, banished Rascal, and tucked Kye back in. He howled.

Later, I attempted to sneak a catnap while Rascal watched TV and ate soda crackers.

"Mama, 'ake up! Noooooo seeping, okee?" Crumby fingers jabbed my eyelids open before they could crack voluntarily. I yelped as salty bits burned in my eyes.

"Sowwy, mama! Is you hurtid? Nooooooo seeping, okee?"

Message received loud and clear. I went upstairs and woke Kye up myself.

That Sweet Child of Mi-y-ine

Maybe I'm too new to this game.

I take an excessive amount of pleasure in rolling Tweenie's eyes, especially when it's with my inherent geekishness. Exaggerative efforts are like cheating, because I know I can achieve my ends almost instantly.

We were driving somewhere the other day, just the two of us. I flipped through stations, trying to find something mutually enjoyable. I landed on one of those Top 100 channels where they play Justin Timberlake at least 10 times each hour.

"Mom, this is totally lame."

"Oh reeeeeeally?" I started switching.

Axl's powerwhine came wailing over the airwaves. I haven't listened to his captivating caterwaul since high school, which was--

...um...

--several years ago.

I cranked it, boosted the bass, started grooving at the wheel. I sneakily glanced over, expecting to see white orbs centered in a scowling face framed by hands jammed over ears.

I only saw air guitar.

"This is awesome!" she hooted.

Now, whenever it's just us in the car, we turn to the 80s power rock station and bond in a strangely fascinating way. Husband would most definitely approve.

I

My life has been dissected, investigated. Were it not for an untrained lackey at the quickee photo studio conveniently located inside a certain discount supermarket, I would have had a reward waiting at the end of a long five month finger-drumming spring.

I refer, of course, to the insanity that applying for a passport has become.

I am not an American. My life in the U.S., therefore, is greatly facilitated by the possession of valid, non-expired paperwork. If the system was not in the greatest crisis known to mankind at this time (because surely they could not foresee the frantic increase in passport demand the recent change in U.S. border policy created), I would not have had to sit and watch my window of opportunity shrink steadily and ultimately close while I waited for a crisp new booklet featuring my scowling face and full biographical details.

My relief was instantaneous when I saw the DHL van pull into my driveway. I ripped open the package in Christmas-morning anticipation, only to see my pile of notarized photocopies and applications butterfly-clipped to my rejection letter.

What? They can reject me?

Supposedly the photo was overexposed. Which means that my skin was too pale (someone should have told them about my natural aristocratic teint that refuses to take on any color other than lobster-red). Also, my notary stapled together what she should not have and failed to staple that which she ought.

At this point, I was sitting without a valid passport. My enquiries to the consulate of my home country provided only the suggestion that I travel back home to rectify the problem in person. This was a big part of the reason for my recent trip.

The first opportunity after my arrival, I ran down to the local passport office a half-hour after opening. There were at least 100 people ahead of me in line. Coming earlier would not have helped, though, as some of the bored applicants had stood in line for an hour before the place opened up. This joint was hotter than Justin Timberlake, it seemed.

An older gentleman in uniform was obviously in charge of crowd control. "No rioting or singing, please" he half joked.

He asked each applicant if they had all their paperwork and photos together. I was surprised by how many people rolled their eyes at their spouse and shuffled back out the door. I smirked, clutching every identifying document I have ever owned, neatly labelled and organized, in my used DHL rejectelope.

I watched long minutes tick by, I noticed people rushing out frantically to feed expired meters. I sat with ticket #A099 folded in my hand. When the lighted board summoned #A065, the woman sitting beside me leapt up.

"I won!" she shrieked, holding her golden ticket aloft. The snowy-haired bouncer looked over in mild annoyance.

After a 2-hour wait, my number clicked onto the board. I dutifully paid the extra fee for expedited service. Then I went back to my car and drove to the wine store.

Yesterday I returned. The passport pick-up window had a lineup of one, and I walked out with a shiny new passport. Now all I need to do is get back home...

p.s. Rascal's passport expires next summer. I'll keep you posted.

The Importance of Role Models

We are visiting family these recent weeks and it's been a busy time.

We haven't been back since our relocation; most of our friends and family have never met Kye. Back then, Tweenie was adorably toothless and Rascal still deceivingly calm.

It was, of course, purely coincidental that I conceived our planned third child right around this time. As it happens, Kye is starting to break out of his deliciously catatonic state that had my ovaries in an uproar a few months ago. His budding hero worship of Rascal has indeed convinced me that a fourth child would not be such a swell idea.

We spent this last weekend at the cottage with relatives. Their son is just a few months younger than Tweenie and of a similar mindset as Rascal. It was no surprise that the two of them got on famously. They share a love of all things motorized and spent most of their time on the boat and SeaDoo.

Uncle and Tantie were with us. Big Boy insisted on giving everyone a ride on the SeaDoo. He's quite possessive of the jet ski, and when Uncle asked to have a turn he was not impressed.

"You're probably going to crash it into those rocks on purpose just so we don't get to have a jet ski any more," he accused. He's the ripe old age of seven, by the way.

His dad hollered for BB to share. BB ran away, the key still dangling from his wrist.

"If I have to chase you, you're dead meat!" threatened his father. BB glared belligerently and cooperated at last.

I was in pain with abdominal spasms; I was trying not to laugh in front of Rascal. I glanced over at him once I caught my breath. He was staring at BB, eyes wide and with a fascinated smile on his lips.

How're y'all, eh?

We're transplants to the south, victims of corporate restructure and our own greed. We have been living in the US of A for nearly two years and the grandmas are getting antsy.

And so I found myself booking flights back home to the True North (Strong and Free) - sans Husband who begged off due to work conflicts.

They say flying is the safest form of transportation. It's easy, see: you get into this metal tube with metal flaps riveted to the sides, and then you jet yourself a zillion miles an hour 30,000 feet closer to outer space, all to save 30+ hours of driving cross-country.

That was my mantra: this is better than driving 30 hours, this is better than driving 30 hours...

Actually, I'm not a nervous flier. My problem was wrangling three kids on said metal tube of death, while surreptitiously profiling the other passengers.

Does that granny with her crotchet project hate screaming kids on a flight?

Will that pierced teenager be listening loudly to his iPod in the seat behind me?

Surely they won't seat me next to that portly gent? (Ok, so that wasn't very P.C. of me, but let's be honest - personal space is a big deal.)

This is better than driving 30 hours...

Oh yeah right. At least in my van the DVD player can pinch hit.

I must give my kids more credit. For the first leg of our journey, they behaved like perfect angels. I don't know if they were fascinated or stupefied by fear. Even in the airport during our stopover, they stayed close to me and were content.

At the gate, a very attractive man was smiling cheekily in my direction. Kye trotted over and gabbled at him. He winked at me.

I've been married for well over 10 years. It's a big deal, ok?

Once the plane was in the air, the performance started. Rascal ran up and down the aisle. Kye pestered Mr. Handsome. Tweenie began a running commentary to occupy herself and distract away her lingering nervousness.

"Okay, I can see cars. Little little cars. Ooh, there's a train. Okay, now we are going into the clouds. Okay, now we are in the clouds. Coming, coming, okaaaay, now we are on top of the clouds...." And so it continued.

This (amusing only to me) behavior continued for an hour or so, and then all three revved up for the finale. Kye began to howl. Rascal flopped around in his seat and made loud zooming and growling noises. Tweenie read loudly from her activity book.

In the end I apologized to the passengers seated nearby, and Mr. Handsome was over his little flirtation. I truly didn't care about any of it. I was back on solid ground and my children would have 2 weeks to recover before their encore presentation, bless their hearts.

Back to other eh-sayers who speak like they have hot porridge in their mouths. Back to farm fields bisected into neat postage-stamp squares. Back to comfort food and good-natured ribbing from my uncles. Back to passing off screaming kids to aunts and grandmas who coo at them and stuff their faces with homemade cookies.

Back home.

The herd mentality

We see the laws of the animal kingdom demonstrated daily in this suburban jungle.

Tweenie and friends have a clique they call the "Cheetah Team". This is no relation to the popular Cheetah Girls movies. Instead, it consists of an alpha girl bossing around 4 others ponytail-sporting subordinates and an omega dude (who I think has a crush on my daughter, which is the only reason he's there).

Tweenie is decidedly down the pecking order, owing to her natural "let's all get along" temperament. Many times I have been concerned that she does not assert herself but she reasons it all away, saying:

"Oh, K lets me do whatever I want, as long as I ask her first."

She believes that if she leaves the Cheetah Team she'll be doomed to have no friends all year. The Law of the Jungle is, apparently, obey without question or you're stuck with the girl who eats erasers.

Rascal is Head of the House here, and asserts his authority acknowledged or not. He is, after all, a very scary wowoff.

Kye is his deputy. Everything he does has first been demonstrated by Rascal and all completed according to big brother's approval. This most recently includes a certain daredevil stunt.

***

I made a Starbucks run yesterday. As we left, I caught our reflection in the large windows. Mama Duck - latté in hand, Reebok track pants and T, highlited mane in a ponytail with big sunglasses perched on top - followed by one, two, three little ducklings in a row.