Multitasking

Anyone who still thinks that staying home with your children isn't a real job is obviously a complete idiot.

Husband will grouse a bit about what goes on at the office - having to give the same instruction over and over again, having to mediate office squabbles (well, more like hide from them), working late, rewards few and far between, no time for lunch break, the boss pressuring about some overdue report, blabbityblabbityblab.

I listen, nod with sympathy. Then it's my turn. Yesterday I attempted to vacuum the house, Kye on my hip, Rascal sitting on my foot grasping my leg with peanut-buttery hands, both wailing because they hate the sound of the machine. Phone rings, I shlump over there still with both boys attached (still yelling). Like a total moron, I answer it even though I don't recognize the number on call display.

"Yaddayaddayadda war veterans blabbityblab?"

"Sorry, not interested," I holler above the boys' screeching.

"Oh, is this a bad time? When should I call back?"

"How 'bout never? Not interested, sorry."

"Well, don't you agree that our freedom has been provided at the cos--"

Can't say I didn't warn them. And anyway, if they can't deduce that I'm serious about this being a bad time to call, it's their own fault.

After vacuuming, it's potty-training session #4,523. Which pretty much goes as well as the previous 4,522 sessions. Bottom line: no peeing, lots of shouting, then escaping while Kye distracts and quickly run away and do our business on the carpet in Tweenie's room.

So eventually Husband comes home, the house is in shambles, barf on my shirt, Kye on hip clutching to bedhead hair, Rascal running around roaring like a dinosaur with his naked butt. Everywhere there are small signs that I was trying to make improvements, like the baskets of folded laundry, dishes drip-drying in the sink, the lawn mower and wheelbarrow sitting outside, the garbage can dragged halfway up the driveway, groceries half unpacked on the kitchen counter.

Then the phrase I never thought I'd hear him say: "What do you want me to make for supper?"

I almost fainted, I was so shocked. Someone once told me that it's best not to have everything looking perfect when the hubby comes home because it suggests that the job is much easier than it really is. Some days I do manage to have things looking tidy by 6 o'clock, and then he wonders why I pass out on the couch 15 minutes into "Deal or No Deal".

His job is very demanding; I would never assume otherwise. I'm just glad he notices that my day is busy too, and then I still pull nightshift.

Nope, that's not chickenpox

So there I was, doodling around the house cleaning up this and that. I was happy Rascal was off somewhere playing with his carcars and not underfoot.

Whoa, back that up a sec. I should have known better. Eventually I became worried and went up to check on him. This wouldn't be the first time he's colored on himself. It would, however, be the first time he's chewed right through a gel pen ink tube. Amazingly, he didn't swallow much that I could tell, but as you can see, he's well, um, decorated.

Very soon after this, Husband came home. Though I can't read his thoughts, his face had such an expression that could only mean,

"Did you HAVE to use pink?"

Yes, it's true. Although we have the full color range in gel pens, Rascal chose the Aurora (aka Sleeping Beauty) pen for his teint of choice.

Kye watched the exchange. "Eh-jeh!" he opined, as always.

Husband covered his eyes with his hand.

Mama took a picture.

Rascal just grinned.

p.s. don't try this at home - it does NOT wash off... Rascal kept his magnificent glow intact for at least 3 days.

When Corporal Punishment bites you in the arse

When Husband gets chauvenistic, I give him The Look.

When Tweenie has a sassy mouth, she loses TV privileges.

When Kye tries to stick his fingers into the VCR or fireplace, he gets a little swat on the hand.

When Rascal konks Kye on the head or yanks Twit's tail, he has to sit on the Naughty Chair.

Apparently when Mama fails to comply, she gets bitten in the @ss.

Turns out that when Rascal asks for the 4th granola bar in a row instead of eating his sandwich, he means business. Current "wisdom" directs parents to ignore bad behavior, as acknowledgment in the form of any reaction (even negative) reinforces that behavior.

It also happens to be true that when one turns one's back on an obstinate child, one presents one's derriere to aforementioned shrimp, who finds said fanny right at eye, er, tooth level.

That freakin' hurt.

Lessons learned from the animal kingdom

I received this as an email attachment this morning. Not being one to open, much less pass on forwards, I was in a charitable mood this morning (Kye and Rascal are still in bed, that's why!) and clicked on it.

And it's just too good not to pass along! Enjoy...

In this life I'm a woman. In my next life, I'd like to come back as a bear. When you're a bear, you get to hibernate. You do nothing but sleep for six months. I could deal with that.

Before you hibernate, you're supposed to eat yourself stupid. I could deal with that too.

When you're a girl bear, you birth your children (who are the size of walnuts) while you're sleeping and wake to partially grown, cute, cuddly cubs. I could definitely deal with that.

If you're mama bear, everyone knows you mean business. You swat anyone who bothers your cubs. If your cubs get out of line, you swat them too. I could deal with that.

If you're a bear, your mate EXPECTS you to wake up growling. He EXPECTS that you will have hairy legs and excess body fat.

Yup, gonna be a bear!