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.