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.