confessions of a mama

'Tis the Season

2009-08-19T12:42:00.004-04:00

I love being with my kids. Love. This whole 24/7 thing has been awesome! What could be better than having them all to myself for 3 months? Sharing them. Yes. That's what they taught us in Kindergarten - to share.

Bring it on, 16/7!

All the Things I Said

2009-07-27T16:09:00.003-04:00

I said I'd check in at this blog from time to time.

I said I'd never use the phrase "just you wait until your Dad comes home!"

I said I'd cherish every day with my kids because they grow up so fast.

Yes, I've said a lot of things. And really, I meant all of them. I recently sat down and took stock of all the things I've committed to, and was shocked to see that the list wasn't that long. But every job is a huge project.

* go through everyone's wardrobes and donate old clothing to GoodWill
* restock everyone's wardrobe... quite possibly at GoodWill, since I'm already there.
* save 50% on grocery budget by becoming a coupon ninja
* find time to squeeze in deal hunting
* score two kids-worth of school supplies for less than $5 total
* work VBS at our church for one week
* agree to run the craft section of our moms group
* wonder what the heck I was thinking, considering I'm not crafty. But I will save them money.
* sneak some summertime learning into our activities so the tiny brains don't turn to porridge
* regain mastery over my flower beds and lawn... ok ok-- over my potted plants on the porch
* put in half-time hours on the job, preferably not between the hours of 11pm and 7am
* keep my house in some sort of order
* go on outings
* have fun
* relax
* stop making so many "to do" lists and actually, y'know, "do".
* wash my face, put a fresh ribbon in my hair and have dinner on the table when the Mister comes home

I'll keep you posted. Really.

Leave of Absence

2008-07-25T10:30:00.002-04:00

I haven't posted for a long time (perhaps you noticed?), but it's not for lack of material. The truth is, I have recently taken on more responsibility at work and with the summer holidays (i.e. double overtime) here, my mommy duties have also increased.

Which means I'm all work and no play now, but thank goodness I tend towards dullness in my downtime anyway. A good time in Mama's house means Seinfeld reruns and Brie with crackers. I fall comatose into bed each night and wake reluctantly to the sounds of my kids squabbling over the remote control in the morning. So blogging has unfortunately been the extra weight I've had to shed (although I really wish it was that last bit of muffin top from my last pregnancy instead, but that would've been yet another task on my overloaded schedule), and I'm thinking it'll be until the start of school before I can make regular appearances here again.

I'll check in from time to time, though, and you can always find my comments - both informative and irreverent - over in the other blog I co-author. Plus (and here's my shameless plug) it's a pretty good site.

'Til then, my dears, adieu.

The Beginning of Something ... (insert adjective here)

2008-06-16T12:13:00.003-04:00

And yes, those goggles are upside down

"Your brother is sooooo cute!" squealed Tweenie's friend.

We threw a "School's Out!" pool party for Tweenie's Girl Scout troop - eight giggling 9 to 11-year old preteens. Husband dutifully passed on his usual Saturday morning office run to look after Rascal and Kye while I handled the pizza and lifeguarding assignments.

Rascal and Kye were supposed to play nicely in the sandbox or playroom far from the girls as per Tweenie's express request, but apparently they didn't get that memo. Instead, they batted their long lashes (as only little boys have) at the girls and acted uncharacteristically sweet and well-behaved.

At some point, Kye got hold of a pair of swim goggles and wore them for the rest of the afternoon. Swimming. Eating pizza. Watching SpongeBob. It didn't matter. Eventually I had to confiscate them because they were grooving red marks into my baby's tender skin-- it didn't go over very well.

The sight of a diapered boy wearing goggles and eating watermelon prompted Tweenie's friend's comment, and I realized that eventually such a comment will lead to similar, less welcome breathy announcements.

"Oh my gosh, your brother is so cute!" As in date bait.

This hits a little close to home, because you see, I married my best friend's brother. I know where this is going. My then-BFF constantly waffled between 3 trains of thought:

1. Ew! Like, he's my brother! Don't tell me about how he kisses, seriously.

2. Thank God-- I guess we don't have to compete over Dale anymore :)

3. Well, if my bro has to date somebody, it may as well be someone I trust and actually get along with...

Geez, it starts earlier than I thought.

Other People's Children

2008-06-12T11:44:00.003-04:00

An open letter to 80% of parents out there (or at least, living in the southeast US)--

To Whom it May Concern,

I'm writing this letter to voice my frustration with your current practice of parenting my children, particularly in my presence. While I completely agree with your intentions of protecting your own brood and the general public, I must take offense at the excessiveness of your paranoid concerns.

The following recent events may give context to my comments:

1. Splish splashing with Rascal in the shallow end of a swimming pool while your child is safely wrapped in a padded life vest-style Diego swimsuit plus arm swimmy things AND seated in an inflatable is not dangerous. Especially while I'm standing within arm's reach. And let's be clear: both our sons were splashing (even though Rascal started it - I can admit that much).

2. Running around the playground at a public park should be an automatic invitation for my children to holler like cowboys. That is what a playground is for, so if you're looking for a quiet place to play, allow me to give you directions to the library.

3. Children have a tendency to weave around on the road while learning to ride a bicycle. Since the stretch of road in question is within 100 feet of my driveway and a dead-end cul de sac, maybe you should rethink your speed while traveling said road to allow for more stopping room. Our street has maybe a dozen homes and at least half of those house kids aged 2-14.

4. When kids play together, they will give each other bad ideas. This is (a) part of growing and learning, (b) a teachable moment for you, and (c) inevitable. If your kid starts wanting to use the slide all by himself or maybe even say "stupid" (which I agree is not a good word), is it wholly my kids' fault? I will also take this opportunity to mention that time my son learned about Doritos from your son. Before that, he was perfectly happy eating Wheat Thins.

In any event, most of these problems stem from (1) kids being kids and (2) our slightly more relaxed parenting style. If anything, the fault is mine. Please direct all future bitching to the source, not at my children.

Actually, please feel free to bitch about it with your friends behind my back instead. You will not only have the satisfaction of voicing your complaints, you will also have a receptive audience. I will simply stare blankly at you as you list off all the non-life threatening issues you have and then promptly forget them. What I will remember, however, is to not arrange any more play dates with you.

I appreciate your prompt attention to these concerns, y'all.

Regards,

Mama

It's Gettin' Hot in Here

2008-06-07T11:07:00.003-04:00

Whew! It's the dog days in southeastern US and we are broiling. Husband set up our aboveground pool and it's the only thing that makes this weather bearable.

It's also time for my kids to display never-before-seen levels of silliness as they all turn another year older this season.

Tweenie starts to worry about her physique when confronted with her bikini-clad bod. "Oh my gosh, mom! I'm fat!" She totally isn't, but it horrifies me to see she's picked up on what goes for societally acceptable body image these days (despite the Dove ads).

"I'm gonna run 1 hour on the treadmill, plus half an hour biking, plus 15 minutes of soccer drills every day!"

Five minutes later: "What? We're having grilled veggie kabobs? I want chicken nuggets!" And that exercise regime was in place for ... 20 minutes. It's never been spoken of since.

Now, I must say that I've seen the obesity issue much more prevalent in the south. No one can accuse me of being bone thin, and I would personally love to lose 5 pounds especially in the spare tire area. In comparison to many around me now, though, I am the thinnest by at least 50 pounds.

How did we get here? For starters, it's the fast food - driving down the interstate, every exit has signs for Wendy's, McDonald's, and Bojangles (fried chicken). Second, there are no sidewalks or large shoulders on the roads except in downtown, and with the speed limit on country roads set at 50mph, it is not remotely safe to go for a family bike ride or a jog. Our bikes have lain dormant in the garage since we moved in almost 3 years ago, except for the occasional ride around our backyard or up and down our short residential street. Third (and this really ticks me off), it is cheaper to eat Kraft Dinner or Hamburger Helper than to cook something half-decent from scratch. My grocery budget is at least 25% more than most of my friends because I cook almost everything we eat myself.

(ok, now I'm done with ranting and raving)

Rascal is turning into textbook boy, even more than he already was. His main source of hilarity is farting on purpose and mooning his sister. "Did it again!" he crows with delight. Did any of you read the Judy Blume "Fudge" series? Soooo worth it. We just bought it from the Scholastic book order and Tweenie is eating it up. She comments constantly on how she identifies with fourth-grade Peter suffering the existence of rascally little brother Fudge.

Kye is transitioning from being my baby to a real little person. He started speaking in full sentences suddenly about 2 months ago, and yesterday counted to 10 without prompting (I didn't even know he knew how). He's also decided to start defending his rights and personal property with respect to Rascal's attempted appropriations.

Discipline gets complicated now, because until recently I could safely assume that Rascal "started it", pushed, bit, yanked, stole, etc. Now, if I'm not present during the altercation, I have to try to sort it out by relying on this supposed inability of a young child to lie.

"Did you spill Kye's Cheerios?"

"No. He did it hisself."

Kye turns his huge blue eyes on me, welling tears shimmering. I'm stuck because I want to believe Rascal, but who can punish that little sweetie? They've both got my number, that much is certain.

This hot weather is getting to us all. With my baby growing up and bio clock ticking, I am oohing and aahing far too much over my friends' babies. Starting to think dangerous thoughts. Husband had at one point wanted 6 kids, but now we're outnumbered has rethought that strategy. We've now swapped positions on the family planning issue, and the debate on permanent (though presumably reversible) birth control is on.

I mean, I know it's probably a bad idea. But still.

Still.

Maybe when the weather changes I'll come to my senses...

A Certain Eventuality

2008-05-20T09:25:00.002-04:00

I'm not one to send around email forwards. On occasion, I have even deleted them without reading, especially since the ongoing epidemic of "send this email to your 15 closest friends to show them you care-- right now".

Either I really don't care, or I choose not to associate myself with such mushy gushy sentiments. I'm figuring my friends already know that I love them and don't need a chain email to tell them so.

However, this morning my cousin sent me a pretty funny one that rang all too true for me. It highlighted the difference between a first-time mom and a hardened professional like myself... check it out.

The First Kiss

It's your First Kiss and several questions might come to mind:

Is it the right time?

Is anyone watching?

Does your partner even want to?

Is your breath fresh?

AND,---Should you use some tongue?

Then you say . . .

'What the heck!' and Just Go for it!!!

This must be a 2nd or 3rd child... because Mom grabbed the camera and not the kid

My bad

2008-05-12T13:21:00.002-04:00

I do apologize for my extended absence from this blog. I have been lurking more than usual at my day job at ChickAdvisor and writing all my wisdom (or prattling on to fill cyberspace, depending on my mood) at ChickLit, our site blog. You should go for a visit sometime. It's wickedawesome!

In other news, I feel like I'm still recovering from 3 weeks of family fun. We had such a fabulous time but for some reason it's taking me forever to bounce back. Like I've had a month of PMS or something (just as long as I'm not pregnant again, I say!).

Because of this and the fact that soccer season is in full swing, school's drawing to a close, and my flower beds have taken on a life of their own, I find myself with precious little spare time to rant and rave over here. I'm sad about that, and I hope to start finding more time soon. In the meantime let me leave you with yet another classic Rascal moment...

(in the van going home from preschool)
Mama: What d'you got there, buddy?
Rascal: It's my craft. I maked it all all all myself! It's soooooo pretty.
M: Tell me about it. Is that Noah's Ark and the animals?
R (angrily): It's not Noah's! It's mine! MINE!
M: I don't mean your friend Noah, I mean the other one... from the story.
R (emphatically): I maked it! I did! It's not Noah's! It's my boat, and that's Elmo in it! OK??

Gotcha.

Inconceivable!

2008-04-22T08:47:00.003-04:00

Lessons learned while hosting guests for 3 weeks in a row:

1. I can function on 4 or less hours of sleep. However, I cannot hold my liquor whatsoever in this sleep-deprived state.

2. My brother-in-law could care less if my legs are hairy. Hiding in my bathroom for 2 hours trying to wax various body parts while my little boys are emptying my makeup bag is an exercise in futility.

3. I am a much worse parent than I thought. My nephew does not act like Tarzan, and it is - apparently - possible to put babies on a schedule that is not interrupted by vacations. My sister-in-law is a freakin' genius.

4. I am a much better parent than I thought. My kids are not afraid of heights, dogs, Costco, or stairs because the Law of the Jungle employed by Husband and I (i.e. "I warned you 4 times not to touch that. You can stop crying now.").

5. That thing under my nose was not a zit. It was a cold sore.

6. Cold sores should not be fiddled with, as it may lead to a growth of ginormous proportions.

7. Cover-up makeup only goes so far, and then you have to walk around casually holding your hand against your nose. I find a contemplative facial expression helps with the illusion.

8. Getting out of a guest-filled house at 8:30 on a Saturday morning to take Tweenie to soccer is actually pretty awesome. Especially since we have to pass by Starbucks on the way to the field.

9. There is nothing wrong with letting Uncle or Auntie take a 3 a.m. shift. It makes no difference to Kye who fetches his bottle of warmed milk and rummages under the bed looking for Birdie.

10. I love my family and I think I need a vacation.

Relativity

2008-04-13T22:40:00.002-04:00

Rascal: "Mamaaaaaaaa! Come play cars wif me."
Mama: "In a few minutes." (clickety click on Spider Solitaire)
Rascal: "Mamaaaaaaaaa! Coooooooome!"

and then last night...

Rascal: "Mama, you sleep wif me."
Mama: "I have to go tidy up the kitchen. I'll check on you soon."
Rascal: "You stay a feeeeewwwww minutes. And den da sunshine comes and you can go."

*oops* He's on to me.

Headless Chickens

2008-04-05T15:43:00.003-04:00

It becomes increasingly clear to me what the phrase "running around like a chicken with it's head chopped off" actually means.

We have long-awaited guests in the house, and they'll be staying for 2 weeks. Immediately upon their departure, another couple will arrive and stay for a week.

Disclaimer: this is freakin' awesome! We are very excited to have family come down and we haven't seen the first set of guests in almost 3 years. It's all good.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch-- this means planning sleeping arrangements, trips to Costco, and a few odd presents for my nephew, in addition to dealing with the yearly scheduled Spring Cleaning and the unfortunately unscheduled leaking of our septic tank. It just so happens to be situated near our front walkway and the spillage sheets over the path every time a toilet is flushed. It's gross.

And of course, there are the daily chores and commitments that still need to be addressed.

The End Result: nothing gets accomplished, soccer practice and Girl Scout meetings are forgotten, personal hygiene falls by the wayside, and my on-again off-again adult acne goes into overdrive.

Yet by the time Husband delivered Brother, Sis-in-Law, and Nephew from the airport, I had a warm snack prepared, a house tidied to 95% cleanliness, and cover-up smeared in all the right places. This chicken pulled it all together at the last minute, but I'm tellin' ya I needed a glass of Chardonnay when all was said and done.

Update on the hyperlinked story above: it turns out my friends were not impressed by my boozing and reported me to the mom's group coordinator at church. Apparently this was an official church function and they did not appreciate my behavior. I was called in for a sit-down meeting and everything. Sheesh.

Girly Geek meets Girly Chic

2008-03-28T08:16:00.002-04:00

"Mom, what travels farther? If you throw a ball really high in the air, or if you go more slanty?"

"Well..." I began to gush excitedly. I was one of the only kids my age who actually enjoyed high school physics. I started waving my arms around wildly, explaining about vectors and gravity. Tweenie followed along, interested for the moment (remember, she's my genius child).

"...and so, the ball stays in the air only as long as it takes for gravity to bring it back down again, but travels at an equal rate in a forward direction until it hits the ground!" I finished with a flourish.

"But what if you threw it off the cliff?"

"I'm glad you asked!" I ran for a sketchbook, tingling with excitement at this learning opportunity.

She must have figured out where this was going, because--

"Um, can we go to Target now? I need new Sunday shoes and my lip gloss ran out."

"But we're not finished here..." I whined.

"Yah, but I'd rather go shopping now."

Hmm. Just the two of us in the van for 20 minutes? That'll work.

Another Family Holiday Survived

2008-03-24T12:31:00.007-04:00

What luck for me that Spring Break falls right after Easter this year! I'm being ironic.

Whereas I might have had a half-day of alone time to clean up the blotches of chocolate ground into the carpet and such while the kiddies were off at (pre)school, instead I find myself running around changing junk food-charged nappies that would otherwise have fallen to Kye's wonderful teachers and trying to amuse a bored Tweenie who can't seem to connect with any friends for a quick playdate today. Rascal is the only one who remains more or less at status quo, which is to say that yesterday's chocolate rush did not affect him like the others since he has a naturally high temperament.

I'm exhausted. Kye won't take a nap but I think I might have to. Just lock the door and let them deal with each other, I'm thinking.

This weekend was filled with one Easter Egg hunt after another, and at our house it could hardly be different. The only exception is that I'm a serious chocolate snob and won't spring for Tootsie Rolls or Dollar Store chocolate bunnies. Also, if I'm going to snag the odd treat, it may as well be Ferrero Rocher or Lindt truffles, y'know?

Another project I undertook was to make my grandmother's Paska recipe. This Ukrainian Easter staple is a wonderful sweet bread that you slather with icing and eat with homemade jam. It was my first try and I must say I did my Oma proud.

It only took 5 hours with rising time and it was a challenge convincing the kids they shouldn't help with the kneading...

...but here's the finished product! I was so proud of myself I cut some up and handed it out to our neighbors. That seems to be another trait of my cultural heritage sneaking through: the fobbing-off of baked goods to friends (in lieu of gifts? Yeah, we do tend toward cheapskate-ness also) whether they want it or not.

At the end of the day, we confiscate the goodies to the least accessible place in the house. Also up on that shelf: the BBQ lighter, Jolly Jumper (don't ask), and a Fruit Snack maker from Christmas. The Jack 'o Lantern bucket is not up there from Halloween; within 2 hours of buying 3 Easter buckets, one was lost. Sadly, this is not atypical.

Recent goings-on at Mama's house (and it's not even lunchtime yet)

2008-03-21T10:01:00.014-04:00

Nemo Band-Aids: 100% ketchup-soaking guarantee

Rascal: "Mama, dere's ketchup on my footie."

Mama: "You have a boo-boo, and that's not ketchup. It's... um... oh, right. That's ketchup."

It occurred to me (belatedly) that I had made such comments in the past like It doesn't hurt that badly, right? It's not even bleeding!

Thus, pointing out a bloody scrape will almost certainly lead to unnecessary screeching. In this case, he had been picking at a ragged toenail. I reached over and quickly snatched it off, wanting to prevent the drama and pain of a more gradual removal.

Later, on the phone to Husband: "Mama breaked my footie, and now dere's ketchup on it."

Husband: "Can I speak to Mama real quick?"

Just now I was trying to load a CD-ROM on my laptop when I noticed Kye's half-disintegrated Flintstone vitamin jammed inside. The boys have been rebelling against my switch from Gummy Vites to Flintstones since the last Costco coupon book came out. (Hey, they're the #1 Pediatricians' Choice! And who am I to argue with authority, or at least the stuff that those marketing folks wrote on the box?)

Maybe it would help if they knew who the Flintstones are, but we are cheapskates and only have crappy basic cable. Their TV choices are limited to whatever PBS is running (which is in my opinion probably a good problem to have).

Let's review: Flintstones bad, Gummy Vites gooooooood.

So now it's 10 am and we have an Easter egg hunt to attend. Toodles!

When in Rome, sit on your ass

2008-03-19T10:14:00.003-04:00

Tweenie's school held the All American Fun Run last week to raise funds for their school. It's your basic Thon, and brought back memories for me of the events I participated in at that age.

Here's the thing - I remember these events as following a basic pattern:

(1) publicize your participation among family and friends,

(2) raise funds based on performance (i.e. 25¢ per lap around the gym, or $5 per 100 skips),

(3) a 1-2 hour commitment on the day of the Thon, featuring a cheering section filled with the kids who packed it in early,

(4) and crappy freebies based on your level of achievement

But this is how Tweenie's event went down:

(1) sent out a preprinted letter provided by the school asking for sponsors; it was a fill-in-the-blank form (I just love that personal touch, don't you?).

(2) "...and they said all we have to do is send out the letters. Raising the money is not our concern," Tweenie stressed. "So it doesn't matter if no one responds?" I wondered. "Raising the actual money is not our concern," Tweenie repeated slowly, as if I was dimwitted.

(3) a 10-minute walk inside the gymnasium. Apparently there were too many participants this year so running was deemed unsafe. Even though it's technically The All-American Fun Run, the moniker clearly holds little sway over the actual proceedings.

(4) Awards ceremony recognizes those over-achievers who managed to mail out the most letters. Tweenie made it to the second highest tier and is now the proud owner of a wind-up bird. This high-quality Made In Timbuktu toy is advertised to fly "up to 50 yards!", but I think we have air quality problems at our house because it only manages to stay aloft as long as it takes for gravity to yank it earthward. In retrospect, my super awesome idea to throw it out of an upstairs window might not have been the brightest. But I was so enthralled with the idea of !50 yards! that I got carried away. I guess I should have said that Tweenie was the proud owner of a wind-up bird.

Introducing: The All-American Sit-On-Your-Ass-a-Thon (sponsorships welcome)

My Dog Ate My Homework

2008-03-16T16:02:00.003-04:00

This Ebola got somewhat out of control. I am pleased to say, that after roughly 3 weeks of slapdown fight (winner TBA), we have cycled through the sickness in our house.

Our final holdout, Kye, had his first Advil-free night last night and so far shows no sign of relapse (knock on wood). What little time I had for work and blogging was spent with a screaming 1-year-old on my arm and my 3-year-old taking advantage where one could be found, hammering on the keyboard and yanking cables.

The path of least resistance here was to leave All Dogs Go To Heaven running in a continuous loop and keep the pantry fully stocked with ~~alcohol~~ I mean Diet Coke. Much whining to Husband and manic calls to Tantie later, I eased out of this illness psychosis and straight into P.M.S.

Yeah, it's been a fun few weeks. Which is why I haven't been blogging, and quite frankly, you should be glad of it.

Now that we are hopefully in the clear, I hope to be bringing you more tales of mischief and mayhem from a lighter note as per the old Mama (at least, once the P.M.S. phases through).

Someone call the CDC

2008-03-07T17:49:00.003-05:00

I think I'm dying of Bubonic Plague.

This week has seen it's ups and downs, and my relapse into illness (and seemingly certain death) has been the anti-highlight.

I called Tantie this morning to gripe. As soon as she heard my shivery raspy voice, she demanded I call Husband at once to take me to the doctor.

"You could have pneumonia, or worse!" she worried.

"Actually, I'm pretty sure it's Ebola," I teased. My joints and kidneys ache, my face is throbbing, and I'm shaking violently from fever. This little cold is seriously kicking my ass.

I summoned Husband home from important meetings and such to take me to the Urgent Care clinic. He made sure to remind me just how inconvenient all this was. "Shall I cough on you now?" I threatened. There was no more backtalk after that.

Of course, my diagnosis was merely a bad cold with possible sinusitis. "Plenty of rest and fluids," Doctor recited. I left with a scrip for nasal spray. Satisfied that the love of his life was in fact not dying from tuberculosis, Husband headed back to work.

Darn it. I should have milked it a little more.

Incapacitated... and the results thereof

2008-03-04T14:53:00.002-05:00

We had a nasty stomach bug

**Update: ... and sinus thingy...**

run rampant through our family this week, which is why I haven't posted in a while. We're on the rebound now but dealing with the fallout: 18 loads of laundry, 46 doorknobs and light switches to Clorox, and planning a trip to Costco for more Kleenex (on the upside, we were able to collect a lot of BoxTop$ this week).

Husband took off on Friday for a Guys' Weekend Away to watch ACC Basketball's March Madness and drink beer away from wives' watchful eyes. That morning, Rascal started off our run with the flu.

It took 24 hours for the rest of us to catch up, and in that time Kye, Tweenie, and I were sick together while Rascal was well on his way to recovery. A recipe for disaster. Luckily/unluckily, Husband arrived home refreshed and plunged into the maelstrom with vigor. The next day, he was fighting me for the best porcelain in the house.

As I shlumped weakly around the house cleaning up accident after accident, Rascal's return burst of energy was more than I was willing to deal with. I rationalized every lack of response with the thought that I didn't have the strength or even desire to bother with discipline. I should have anticipated that this would yank us back to Square One.

I could go into detail about all the ways Rota and Rhino (the viruses, people) made our lives miserable, but frankly most of those details would involve various bodily fluids, scents, and sound effects better left undescribed. As we pull out of this week-long drama, Rascal is the only one in perfect health (convenient, no?) while Tweenie's just achy enough to squeeze a few days away from school. I have that cough where you know you'd better not start because it'll keep going for at least 5 minutes, leaving you with a red, teary face and suspicions of incontinence.

Have I said too much? I'll just leave it at that, then.

Various comments heard around Mama's house

2008-02-27T14:41:00.005-05:00

Rascal (brandishing a whisk): "I keel you! I keel you! You keel my favver, prepare to dieeeeee!" We need to hide The Princess Bride for a little while I think.

Actually, we all love that movie. Unfortunately, we may be more like Miracle Max and Valerie than Westley and Buttercup (although arguably, Valerie is much smarter - so there). As in:

Husband: "I'm not eating that." Referring to the Cashew Chicken I made last night. I may have gone a little heavy on the veggie component.

Mama: "That'll be one 'No Thank-You helping' for Daddy."

Other comments that could be really interesting, when taken out of context...

Kye (who up until about 2 weeks ago could barely speak at all): "Come, Mama. We be 'aked." Think naked, without the 'n'. This is how he asks to go in the shower with me.

Tweenie: "I would rather walk around stark naked." Referring to a very cute sweater given by a loving friend last Christmas. It's warm, and as a mom this is my only criterion. So what if she looks like Strawberry Shortcake?

Remember this the next time you're at Wal-Mart and hear some outrageous comment. There's always a back story.

The times are a'changin'

2008-02-24T14:44:00.005-05:00

My grandparents, so the story goes, walked to school through neck-deep snow uphill in both directions. They had to wake up at 4am to milk the cows and their only toys were whatever they could fashion from hay and loose twigs, fastened with bits of cloth pulled off their raggedy clothes.

My parents had it a little better. They lived in the city and only had to walk 17 blocks to school on a level sidewalk. There were plenty of trees to escape into when the bullies came around, and after school they were permitted a half hour of listening to Sunday School records before taking a crack at their mountain of homework. They didn't play on Saturdays because they had 8 hours of chores and a paper route.

I tell my kids that I rode the stinky bus to school. I played with Cabbage Patch knockoffs and collected Strawberry Shortcake scratch 'n sniff stickers that I bought with my allowance. This allowance was earned through daily chores plus yard duty on Saturdays. We had a TV with rabbit ears that beamed 3 fuzzy channels on a good day. I remember when my dad bought our first VCR and standard tape deck.

My kids moan and groan under the load of making their beds and putting dirty clothes in the hamper each day. Their 2-hour TV limit can be selected from a range of programs (but we only have basic cable, so we're in the Dark Ages), and on the weekends they are expected to help out here and there as requested. With all the griping that usually follows, the path of least resistance is to not ask very often. I know this is not the right way to do things, but it might be the sane way. We have high-speed internet, 3 computers, a full entertainment center with all the gizmos, and an Xbox system. Heck, even our van has a DVD player.

Yeah, we're really slumming.

Many things have changed "since we were young". This post was precipitated by a recent article by WebMD on tooth fairy inflation. The going rate in our house is a shiny new quarter. According to friends and family, we are the biggest cheapskates on the block by a huge margin.

I'm just curious--what do you pay for those little bits of enamel that your child's body rejects on its path to adolescence?

Drive Yourself to Drink in 5 Easy Steps

2008-02-22T11:02:00.005-05:00

Redecorating Tweenie's room has turned into an epic saga--unfortunately minus the half naked warriors, mythic beasties, and squabbling of bored deities. The paint fumes have made things interesting though.

Yesterday was a miserable damp day, and with little else to amuse ourselves since we downgraded to peasant vision (read here: basic cable), I decided it was finally time to tackle the beanbag chair. Remember that one? I've been trying not to, but some recent pointed remarks on Husband's part have motivated me.

It quickly became clear I was headed down a dark path. Here's how I drove myself to drink - in 5 easy steps....

1. On an idle Sunday afternoon, browse through your local big box furniture store for home decorating ideas. Allow your tweenaged daughter to lead the way through armoires and bunk beds directly to the PlayStation section, featuring beanbag chairs and other themed accessories.

To discourage any possibility of begging, prep for a full eye roll and snort when you flip the price tag. Convince yourself that your 'A' in 8th grade Home Ec is a more than sufficient qualification for reproducing something as basic as a beanbag chair.

2. Procrastinate for a few weeks under the guise of having to finish up other outstanding projects until the pleading forces the issue. Make another Sunday afternoon outing to the fabric store, congratulating yourself on the money you've saved so far. Try not to dwell on the fact that this is a considerably more expensive project than you originally assumed.

3. Select a dull, wet day to begin your project. You'll belatedly realize that you can't send the kids outside in such weather when they're pawing through your notions, but note the title of this post is not "How to Whiz Your Way Through a Simplicity Pattern in 15 minutes or less".

Since your preschooler will be eager to participate, enlist his help in (what you assume to be) an age-appropriate manner. Sound really convincing when you explain that his cutting of the remnants into teeny pieces and gluing them on construction paper is the same as making the actual beanbag chair. Try not to feel guilty when he realizes the truth and begins to sob. To be true to this process of driving yourself batty as quickly as possible, plant him on your lap and attempt to cut the slippery fabric at the same time. Thank your lucky stars that you had the foresight to buy extra yardage.

P.S. If you're stupid enough to ask your kids to take some action shots for your blog, don't be embarrassed about the result.

4. As you assemble the pieces, ignore those suspicious crashing noises the baby is making in the kitchen. Until you hear crying or samurai shouts, assume that the situation is not yet dire enough to warrant stepping away from your sewing. Later, conscript all children into stuffing duty. Maintain a vague idea of the geographical spread of project supplies for quick and easy clean-up when finished.

When all attempts to enforce group tidying have failed, herd all children into playroom. Instruct them to not exit the area upon pain of death or revocation of all WebKinz privileges. Call Husband to remind him that you have plans this evening and he was supposed to be home already. Clean up alone, secretly glad for a few moments of peace. Take some extra strength Tylenol. Admire finished product (minus the hole for stuffing that you'll hand sew shut... eventually).

5. Realize you are going to be late meeting your friends. Rush through your beauty routine (or at least, removing traces of packing peanuts from your hair and changing your shirt) and head out for the evening. Forget to check the address, then call Husband in a panic asking him to MapQuest the location for you.

Show up at the restaurant 30 minutes late. Order a glass of chardonnay before realizing your friends are all drinking virgin Margaritas. Laugh it off and order an extra large portion of garlic bread. Your friends are busy moms too and won't judge you for it. Have a fabulous time and stay out late enough to guarantee that all the kids will be asleep by the time you get home.

Since it all ended so well, I think I'm up for the next project.

A little Retail Therapy

2008-02-20T10:24:00.002-05:00

Tweenie's BFF is an only child. As a result, we receive at least 4 or 5 phone calls a week for the sole purpose of gushing about this or that new toy. Tweenie is, as you can imagine, devastated each time.

She puts up a really good show. Some expected comments like "Oh cool!" or "I can hardly wait to see it!", then a speedy effort to get off the phone so she can have a good consoling cry in Mama's arms. She's been so good, understanding that a young family of 5 can't compete. And it's not like we don't spoil our kids either - we were just in Florida!

Still, as BFF's collection has now burst the confines of her bedroom and is rapidly filling the guest room plus every available corner of the living room and den, Tweenie's 8-year-old heart overwhelms her more mature mind. I too was a first-born child in a large family, with several wealthy friends. There was only so much vicarious suffering I could endure before the specters of my childhood demanded a response.

On the excuse of having to quickly stop by Linens 'n Things, we decided to pop into Target next door. Normally I would never do this on a Saturday, especially since I also had both boys with us, but it was convenient and I was in a rare mood to shop.

There were a few necessities to get out of the way first: some new pants for Rascal (I really should look for those clothes with the wear-out guarantee because we'd claim it at least once a month) and sneakers for Tweenie. That opened the floodgates.

In the changeroom...

Tweenie: "I really don't know what to pick! It all looks so fabulous on me!"
Mama: "Let's limit it to three things. You really don't need new stuff, this is just for fun."
Rascal: "Pink! Pink!"
T: "The blue one looks really sophisticated... What do you think?"
R: "PINKKKKK!"
M: "You're the one who'll be wearing it, so you decide."
R: "You take PINKKKK!"
M: "Shh, sweetie. Be a good boy and we'll get some snacks later."
Kye: "Food? Oh YUM!"
T: "BFF has one just like this, only in yellow."
R: "PINKKKK!"
K: "EAT!"
M: "Please pick quickly. The boys are getting restless."
R: "PINKKK!"
K: "FOOD!"
T: "I just look so great in all of it, I can hardly decide!"
M: "Executive decision--the pink bathing suit, red sundress, and tan pants."
T: "Maybe we could take one more quick check through the racks..."
M: "If you are happy with these choices, we're leaving. We can always come back."
T: "Yeah, like next week! BFF's sure to have a bunch of new toys by then!"

I have to admit, it served it's purpose. I'm just scared about this precedent I've set.

Unintended Poetry

2008-02-18T10:53:00.004-05:00

Husband is washing some unidentified dirt off our son in the ocean. I don't even want to know what it is...

As our lives get fuller and busier, certain things automatically decrease. Like the criteria of 'cleanliness', 'what we can afford', or what qualifies as 'laundry-ready'.

Another casualty of Becoming Parents is a steady decline in quality conversations. I was once the person who would never shut up, given the right topic (now, my brother would argue that this is still true, but only after 9pm when the kids are in bed or preferably, at Grandma's house).

Lately I have noticed I speak in haiku.

Let's go, we're late now!
Please stop hitting your sister!
I'm the parent here!

What did the cat eat?
What is that disgusting mess?
I'm not cleaning that!

Behave in the store,
or I'll tell Dad about this.
He will not be pleased.

You're eating that now.
I worked on that for hours--
it tastes delicious!

You all be quiet!
I don't care who started it,
because I'll end it.

And then...

You made that for me?
All by yourself? That's so sweet!
Mama loves you, my monkeys.

It always amazes me that I can go from crotchety irritableness to weepy sentimentality in 0.4 seconds. Are my kids using some sort of crazy psychology to get their way or is it love? Most days, I think it might be both!

The logistics of a family trip is no vacation

2008-02-15T10:52:00.004-05:00

I was thinking over our recent trip and certain things keep passing through my mind, many of the "how did we survive it all?" variety. It's funny how you look back on your time away and quickly forget all the crazy hoops you jump through in order to enjoy yourself.

So, for example:

1. Realizing that one's struggle with road rage does not diminish over time. It gets worse.

It is also very difficult to deal with when you're trying to be very quiet because the children, who until half an hour before had been little rapscallions who refused to remain buckled in and fought for hours over some ridiculous Happy Meal toy, have finally conked out and you desperately hope to get a few miles behind you before the next wave of irritating behavior.

So when the moron in front of you is driving below speed limit, and an equally annoying driver in the passing lane is creeping ahead at a snail's pace... plus the big rig sitting on your back fender with his high beams searing your retinas, you realize just how many curses you can scrounge up and hiss under your breath before your repertoire gives out. This might just be the point where you suddenly realize just how reasonable airfare can be if you were to book well in advance.

2. Realizing that road rage can easily transfer to other situations, such as suffering through a timeshare presentation or standing in line for an hour with tired kids. The former happened during our first trip to Disney, the latter was this time.

Having spent around $350 on admission, parking and food, we were determined to milk this outing for all it was worth. We dutifully consulted the park brochures and showed up for as many parades, meet-n-greets, and rides as we possibly could. The park was set to close early for a Princess and Pirate party that we couldn't justify paying for, so when the witching hour of 7pm arrived, we along with all the other cheapskates who weren't sticking around began a Pamplonian stampede for the exit.

Considering that our parking spot was probably no more than a 15-minute walk from the main gate, we made the silly mistake of waiting for the parking shuttle (along with everybody else). At the time, our decision was heavily influenced by tired kids whining that they couldn't go one step further, and the line really didn't seem that long. This was before we realized that the shuttle capacity was so small that we ended up waiting for about an hour. 45 minutes in, our kids suddenly decided that they did have enough energy to walk the half-mile or so, but we were tantalizingly close to the head of the line and decided to wait it out.

By the time we actually hit the road for the 10 minute drive back to our hotel, I was not in the mood to tolerate any adverse driving conditions. Husband insisted that he would drive and that I should tilt my seat back and relax. I guess he saw the dangerous glint in my eye and could see I was raring to screech at someone.

3. Never underestimate the tween. Last time we only managed to meet one of the Princesses, but this time we caught up with all of them. In each case, as soon as the book had been autographed and pictures taken, Tweenie started screaming with delight. Literally.

It reminded me of the time my friend met Drake Hogestyn at a car show (?) and screamed while she was meeting him. She later confessed that he actually staggered backward while she clutched him in her arms, squealing in his ear. That summer, she went to Boston to track down the New Kids On The Block. I never heard the whole story, but she remained a fan long after they split so it must have worked out.

Luckily for Ariel & co, Tweenie waited until she was further away before she started up with the fist-pumping air punches and various noises only audible to canines.

...

And yet, even as I write these memories down I find myself forgetting a thousand details that irked me at the time.

Instead, I think of riding the carousel with Tweenie and Rascal, who whooped like a cowboy (despite the fact that his steed was bedecked with pink roses); running after Rascal and Kye who spotted Tigger and tried to chase him down; sitting on a Naples beach in the middle of February getting the barest hint of a tan.

Good times!

Florida or Bust!!

2008-02-12T21:03:00.002-05:00

Husband's friends are snowbirding in Florida. We haven't seen them in about 5 years, so when they called and asked if we'd like to join them last minute it was a no-brainer. Partially also because we are impulse travelers.

You've heard of impulse shopping? Well, we are tightwads at the grocery store but have no conflicts about blowing the budget on a mini-break. And since Florida is right around the corner (ok, so a 10-hour drive but whatev) and our region has been sitting under a dense damp cloud hovering just above freezing, the Florida beaches sounded mighty tempting. I told you it was a no-brainer!

We started out driving through the night to Orlando. Rascal is old enough to take in the Magic Kingdom and as we all know, he's a fan. Husband made some vague noises about shopping for a plasma TV, but then shocked me by deciding to join us after all. He "wanted to see what all the fuss was about". Riiiiiiight. I suddenly understood Rascal a lot better. Interestingly, Rascal didn't want to meet the princesses, but had a jolly time chasing after Captain Hook. Husband approved.

After a few days in Orlando, we headed over to Naples to visit our friends. Although the kids had slept through 90% of the first leg of our trip, the 3 hour drive during the day was torturous. Then Kye surprised us. He's been picking up an enormous amount of vocabulary lately. He started out complaining, "I out! I out!"

He realized he wasn't getting anywhere when we attempted to placate him with granola bars, gummy bears, and pretzel sticks. Shortly afterward, his tune changed: "I stuck! I stuck!" We pulled over and I got out to examine his seat. As I unbuckled him to get a closer look, he squirmed away and shouted with delight. Frowning, I manhandled him back into his chair to his protests of "Hey! HEY!"

As we pulled back into traffic, he was so furious that he filled his pants. Now we had to stop, just a few miles short of our destination. Crap.

Once in Naples, we had a fabulous time. Our friends' children are around the same age as ours, and they got along famously. We stopped for dinner in a pedestrian zone, perched at the closest table to the thoroughfare. We enjoyed our fish 'n chips while the kids ran around like wild apes, hooting and hollering. We endured the stares of fellow diners imagining to ourselves the quiet ride home as the monkeys zonk out in the back seat.

Following in brother's footsteps...

We hit the interstate later that evening, intending to power through the night and crash at home. While the big kids fell asleep almost immediately, Kye was wired from overexcitement, disorientation, and too much soda. We had to stop at least once every hour because he was stuck (and subsequently, full of poo).

Eventually we made it home, where Husband and I lay comatose in various locations around the house. Kye was so thrilled to be back in familiarity that he eagerly accepted a long nap, while Tweenie caught up with BFF and wistfully reread her Princess autographs. Rascal spent most of the time trashing the house unimpeded since Husband and I weren't up to parenting properly. Eventually he got bored and pounced on us. Once fully awakened, he announced:

"Let's go back to the beach now!"

This impulse traveler is glad to be grounded, at least until we recover from our last vacation.

Talking to Your Kids About Sex... Or Not

2008-02-05T08:57:00.000-05:00

"Mom, can I have a Bratz doll?"

"No."

"Why? Everyone else has--"

"No."

Exaggerated sigh.

"I don't think they are appropriate for you."

"'Appropriate'?"

"Right. They have too much makeup on and their clothing is far too promiscuous."

"'Promiscuous'?"

"You know, hootchie gear."

"'Hootchie'?"

"If you dressed like that, the boys would get... ideas."

"'Ideas'?"

"They'd want to do... things with you."

"'Things'?"

I sat there with my head in hands, searching for the right words to communicate my concerns. I come from a very conservative Mennonite background and must blush whenever naughty words are used. Unfortunately, using vague ideas and euphemisms doesn't quite capture the message.

Recently I had decided to get over my heebie-jeebies and start using proper names for certain body parts. I quickly learned my lesson, and publicly. It turns out that when one is in Costco and one's son is calling his brother a "penis head", one wishes one would have stuck with "winkie".

I had The Talk with Tweenie last summer. It took a good hour to get through the main points with plenty of awkward silences and beating around the bush, but I managed to muscle my way flame-faced past all the terminology and whatnot. I had prepped for this little chat by reading up on another mommy blog who clearly is much more comfortable with such things than I, but yet I still found myself struggling. It was a lot less embarrassing for Tweenie - is that weird?

Still, talking girl to girl is one thing. I told Husband that the boys are his department. He agreed, and yet I feel uneasy. Will he actually talk it all out with them? Or will it be more like: "Dudes, don't get into trouble with the ladies."

"'Trouble'?"

Will they choose to interpret this as "don't get caught" or "don't do anything I wouldn't" - neither of these choices is acceptable to me. I dated him, remember? I know what went on; I was there.

When I was that age, my mom sat me down on the sofa with the B volume of the World Book Encyclopedia. She turned to Body and showed me the various transparencies.

"Let me know if you have any questions," she called over her shoulder as she got the heck outta there. And so I received a very clinical education, peppered with words like "scrotum", "urethra", "fallopian tubes", "glands", and "coitus".

Would it have been a more educationally satisfying conversation if we had resorted to "boobies" and "willies"? Hard to say.

Gettin' my geek on

2008-02-01T22:24:00.000-05:00

So I decided that my blog with its cookie-cutter Blogger template just isn't real sexy. I'm gonna try something.

Something.... something awesome. Something... insane.

Having learned how to speak German as an adult has empowered me. I figure, how hard can HTML really be? If anything, I am more worried about how to come up with compelling illustrations that encompass my blog's feel than how to code it.

This is my inner (and let's face it - dominant) geekish tendency that is also a die-hard optimist. How could this fail? It has the wonderful marriage of ultimate control over creative efforts and budgetary concerns. The latter which, if you haven't noticed, is pretty influential seeing as how my ship is still somewhere way beyond the horizon and who knows when or if it'll actually arrive at my dock.

It should be interesting. After all, it took me six months to figure how to go from a 2-column template to 3. Anyway, I only needed about 3-6 months to learn German (ok, so I was living there and it was a crash-course immersion thing, but still...) so I figure a techy language written in English can't be that difficult. Right??

I also think of this as yet another attempt to stave off the increasingly persistent ravages of mommy-brain on my Self. I had a dream last night about comparative shopping for car snacks. I read labels in this dream. I knew I was in trouble. However, the idea of starting up with a new foreign language seems too intimidating for me at this stage, so we'll go with HTML and see where it takes me.

I'd like to apologize in advance for any weirdness you may encounter over the next few weeks when you stop by. I have a dummy blog to test with until I have a finished product, but you just never know.

Why did I think to mention all of this to you on a Friday night when I should be doing something more valuable with my time (like watching Ghost Whisperer perhaps?)? Maybe it's because I just finished the final touches on Tweenie's room (I'll post a pic soon, when I'm done with the beanbag chair) last weekend and am still riding out the after-effects of paint fumes. Good thing that like the tree-hugger control freak I am, I chose VOC-free paints. But still....

...feeling the effects.

What did you do all day? Let me tell you...

2008-01-28T16:39:00.000-05:00

Husband has often commented that he does not enjoy coming home to a steam-snorting frazzled wife and a hastily prepared Tuna Helper with salad (still in the bag) dinner.

Ha, say I. Pardon monsieur, that I don't have the kids dressed, pressed, washed and brushed, lined up at the door to calmly and politely chorus, "Welcome home, dear Father." I will meet him halfway, though, and at least make a super good impression of a busy but upbeat mom with a pot roast and baked potato supper on the table and ready to eat.

As for the children, that is my slacking point. Tweenie will be doing her homework spread all over the living room, Rascal will be in some state of undress, and Kye will have unidentified food (?? let's hope it's food) remnants on his face and shirt. I try to leave my tales of frustration until after dinner is eaten, because bad news usually sits better on a satisfied stomach.

So now that I've done my best to compromise, you might well assume I'd have little patience for snarky comments, such as: "What did you do all day?" Previous indignant assertions that the house is spic and span at least once per 24 hours fall on deaf ears. The gradual repigmentation of my skin from peachy to mottled red is only noticed somewhere just shy of crimson.

I decide to track my waking hours for a few days and present him with evidence that I don't wile away my time gabbing on the phone and watching TV. Not that I actually believe any of this nonsense should be necessary, but I want some sort of proof so that he can't claim my heated rebuttals as excuses invented on the fly.

The First Day
6:30am - Wake up Tweenie, get her fed and off to the school bus
6:45 - Kye up, interferes with the above, fills his pants
6:50 - Try to change diaper quietly so Rascal doesn't wake up, but Kye isn't cooperating
7:00 - Frantically look for lost homework while putting final touches on school lunch
7:10 - Tweenie out the door in the nick of time
7:11 - Rascal up, woken by the slam of the front door
7:15 - Breakfast with the boys (although I don't actually get around to eating)
7:45 - change boys into day clothes, throw breakfast-stained pajamas in the wash
8:15 - bring boys into playroom, I plan to work on my laptop while they play
8:45 - first Time Out
9:15 - second Time Out
9:25 - third Time Out
9:30 - put on a movie for the boys, I try to work again
9:45 - realize Rascal sneaked away
9:55 - find Rascal with hair full of diaper cream
10:00 - realize Kye sneaked away
10:05 - find Kye eating cat food in the closet
10:10 - shower with the boys
10:30 - dress the boys in outfit #2 and jackets, go outside
10:45 - Time Out #4
11:00 - go for a drive... it doesn't matter where
11:30 - end up at McDonald's. They don't deserve to have this treat, but I'll do anything to make the screeching stop
12:30pm - come home, Kye goes for a nap
12:45 - quiet activities with Rascal
2:00 - Kye gets up, back into the playroom
2:30 - sneak away while boys are distracted and frantically start tidying up (notice this is the first moment I have had for this)
2:40 - hear suspicious sounds from playroom, go to investigate
2:45 - Time Out #5
3:00 - Tweenie home, make snack
3:30 - help Tweenie with homework, try to tidy up here and there at the same time
4:00 - business related phone call
4:15 - draft kids into housework
5:00 - some semblance of cleanliness in the house, start dinner prep
6:00 - finish making dinner
6:05 - while setting the table, notice that the whole house is a disaster once again
6:15 - Husband strolls in. Takes stock. "What did you do all day, honey?"

I inhale, ready for a tongue-lashing.

"I called you 'Honey'," Husband lamely notes. Realizing he's still in deep trouble, he hastily apologizes.

"Would you like to see my time card?" I ask sarcastically.

"How 'bout you just sit down and enjoy this really nice supper, and then afterwards I'll put the kids to bed and we can watch a movie together?" he attempts.

He salvages the evening, barely. The next day, he calls from work in the early afternoon and suggests we eat out for dinner. It seems he got the message.

An E-Mail Forward that made me laugh

2008-01-24T00:51:00.000-05:00

I got this e-mail forward from a friend who hates forwards almost as much as I do. So when I saw it in my inbox I knew it had to be a good one...

Jack wakes up with a huge hangover after attending his company's Christmas Party. Jack is not normally a drinker, but the drinks didn't taste like alcohol at all. He didn't even remember how he got home from the party.

As bad as he was feeling, he wondered if he did something wrong. Jack had to force himself to open his eyes, and the first thing he sees is a couple of aspirins next to a glass of water on the side table. And, next to them, a single red rose!

Jack sits up and sees his clothing in front of him, all clean and pressed. He looks around the room and sees that it is in perfect order, spotlessly clean. So is the rest of the house. He takes the aspirins, cringes when he sees a huge black eye staring back at him from the bathroom mirror. Then he notices a note hanging on the corner of the mirror written in red with little hearts on it and a kiss mark from his wife in lipstick:

'Honey, breakfast is on the stove, I left early to get groceries to make you your favorite dinner tonight. I love you, darling! Love, Jillian'

He stumbles to the kitchen and sure enough, there is hot breakfast, steaming hot coffee and the morning newspaper. His son is also at the table, eating.

Jack asks, 'Son... What happened last night?' 'Well Dad, you came home after 3 A.M., drunk and out of your mind. You fell over the coffee table and broke it, and then you puked in the hallway, and got that black eye when you ran into the door.'

Confused, he asked his son, 'So, why is everything in such perfect order and so clean? I have a rose, and breakfast is on the table waiting for me??'

His son replies, 'Oh THAT!... Mom dragged you to the bedroom, and when she tried to take your pants off, you screamed,

'LEAVE ME ALONE, I'M MARRIED!!'

Broken Coffee Table $239.99
Hot Breakfast $4.20
Two Aspirins $.38
Saying the right thing, at the right time: PRICELESS

4 Ideas for a Fun Family Night In

2008-01-22T00:04:00.001-05:00

It's impossible for me to plan anything with my friends on Friday evenings. Somehow, this night was universally reserved for Family Night Out - a concept I cannot fathom.

Not in the sense of "Why would I want to spend Friday nights with my kids?", but rather "Go out??" You see, my children behave like complete hooligans whenever we leave the house. Well actually, they behave like hooligans at home too, but at least I'm not publicly humiliated by the goings-on.

The only place my kids can be counted on to set aside the 98% of the DNA we share with chimpanzees and use higher reasoning with the other 2% is at MacDonald's. The simple reason their behavior seems to blend in with public expectation at McD's is because the other children at the restaurant are also behaving like hooligans.

So, when the rest of the world is enjoying a quality meal at the local Chuck E. Cheese's, we stay home. Another hidden benefit of hugging home base is the magical moment when you see them begin to crash, you can pop them into bed immediately and they'll actually accept it.

In our experience, there are 4 sure wins for a great family night in.

1. Movie Night

With the age range in our family, it has to be something we can all enjoy. One of our big favorites is The Swiss Family Robinson - action, romance, ostrich racing, and dueling with pirates. What more could you want?

Unless, of course, it's The Princess Bride. I really shouldn't think it so funny, but I get a kick out of Rascal's Inigo impression as he brandishes his Dark Bayder lightsaber: "You keel my favver. Prepare to die!"

A recent addition to our DVD library is Ratatouille. We've watched it many times already and love to pick up the little nuances those clever Pixar folks include. We're also big fans of Cars.

2. Games Night

Candy Land is one of those classic games you should have around. Rascal's been playing it since his 3rd birthday and can go several rounds before he's bored. Every Christmas we expand our game selection, particularly the classics.

Carcassone is better for older kids because it requires some basic strategy, yet it's a quick game to play (especially compared to, say, Monopoly). You can buy expansion sets to make the game more complex.

Uno is a must-have in our house. We actually own 3 different sets (Princess for Tweenie, Sesame Street for Rascal, and an aged classic version from who-knows-when), and nothing gives our kids more pleasure than when they can wallop Husband or I with a Pick-Up-4 Wild Card.

3. Book Night

Sometimes we're in a more mellow mood, have the fire going and are drinking tea or hot chocolate. The kids love when I read them a book (with character voices, obviously). We've been reading the Narnia series, which has just enough adventure but not too scary to give nightmares later on. The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe is undoubtedly the best of the bunch.

A friend recommended The Polar Express to us one year. It's a sweet story, but I love it for the amazing illustrations. It's Christmassy though, so we don't usually pull it out any other time.

I started collecting Dr. Seuss after some unscrupulous marketer called me during my Tweenie postpartum days. I had the opposite of PPD; I was so elated to be a new mom that I was unusually friendly to telemarketers and ended up signing on for several children's book collections. I don't regret the Dr. Seuss club though, and our copy of Green Eggs and Ham is in desperate need of replacement. Not only are the books humorous enough, but they are fabulous for new readers.

4. Baking (and eating!)

This can happen on its own or together with another activity. With Tweenie I can bake something special from scratch, but once Rascal was old enough to figure out something fun was going down without his participation, we have had to change our strategy some. Now Kye is at the right age to join in, and so we have defected to Pillsbury. The pre-cut cookies are the easiest for everyone to help with, and you can usually find a generic brand (although not in the variety of flavors).

Another idea we like is to take a cake mix and make cupcakes. I buy the most outrageous muffin cups I can find (after-season is great) and always have icing and food coloring on hand. Depending on how elaborate the creations get, the kids may be distracted for a few hours.

5. Crafts Night. . . NOT

This post is labeled "4 Ideas for a Fun Family Night In", not 5. That's because there is nothing fun about doing crafts with my children. There is only so much tidying up I am willing to do after everyone's in bed, so we leave the craft stuff for the community center. Or if I'm at my wit's end and wiping glue and glitter off of baseboards seems more appealing than any other alternative.

Any more ideas out there? I always like to have a few alternates planned, in case my evening goes horribly horribly haywire.

A Special Night Out

2008-01-16T15:31:00.000-05:00

It's that time of year again.

As a child, you eagerly count down the days starting months in advance; as an adult (especially women), you duck your head and hope no one notices the date (although secretly hope that your special someone will make a big hoopla about it).

I'm talking about birthdays. Yesterday was mine.

My good friend informed me that she was coming over at 6 to babysit and expected us to be on our way for a rare evening out by no later than 6:02. I dropped a few hints to Husband that this is one occasion he needs to plan without my help. He obediently obliged.

However, the night didn't exactly go as planned. I'll tell you the story in chronological order, although I only heard the details well after the fact!

Husband (at the office): "Hey guys, need to take the wifey out for her birthday. Some place classy."
Friend: "mumble mumble mumble High Point mumble mumble mumble swanky mumble..."
Husband: "Thanks, dude."

Later, on our way to the restaurant...
Mama: "So, where are you taking me?"
Husband: "I can't remember the name - Marceau's? Marcella? It's in High Point."
M: "As in the city of High Point? Do you have an address?"
H: "We'll find it, I'm sure."
M: "What time is our reservation? Y'know, in case it takes us a little longer to get there?"
H: (with a withering look) "I didn't make one. What's the worst that could happen?"
M: "Uh, they'll send us away!"
H: "No they won't. I'm persuasive."

Still later, as we drove through town for an hour...
M: "Would you please text your friend?"
H: "It's the supper hour, that would be rude."
M: "I'm hungry and it's my birthday! That's rude."
H: "Yes, dear."

Even later, having not received a response yet from his friend...
M: "Let's just go to that Italian place we went to last time."
H: "I'll humor you, since it's your birthday."
M: (sarcastically) "Yes, dear."

Finally at the Italian place, about 1½ hours after leaving our house...
H: "Oh look, got a text from my friend. 'Marisol - 5800 block of High Point Road'." (High Point Road does lead to High Point but it's a very long stretch.)
M: "Maybe we'll try that next time we go out."
H: "Sure, if you'll take care of the arrangements."
M: "That's the plan, my love."

After a satisfying meal of all things cheesy and garlicky, we talked about going to a movie. It was a difficult conversation because we were so overfull and I was tipsy besides. We sat there glassy-eyed and bloated, then finally agreed we were too tired from eating to sit through a movie.

However, it was only 8:30 and I worried that we'd arrive home too early and have to put the kids to bed ourselves (this is a huge ordeal). Plus, I'm pretty sure it's pathetic to come home from a date at that hour.

We debated in the car for a few more minutes about what to do, but then concluded that we'd just go home after all.

"Drive really slowly," I advised. "The later we arrive, the better chances the kids are asleep when we get there.

Suggesting that Husband drive slowly is a ludicrous proposal, as our insurance premiums make clear. In honor of my birthday though, I was able to convince Husband to squeeze it back to 75 mph (the posted limit was 65). We returned home in record time and the noise of the opening garage door easily woke the kids and brought them thundering down the stairs. The frazzled sitter gave us a pitying look and then escaped to her car.

As my sister-in-law pointed out to me this morning, this date was memorable. I was laughing as I related the story to her, so you might also say that the date was a success.

Warning: Creativity requires Chaos

2008-01-14T10:04:00.000-05:00

This is what the back seat of the van looked like when we got home. The trunk area was full with... other stuff. I take the Fifth Amendment on that one.

We've been remodeling Tweenie's room, as I've mentioned before. After 5 coats of primer and 3 of lilac and wild rose, I need only touch up the goobs of paint carelessly brushed against the stuccoed ceiling.

I was at this point 2 weeks ago already. Shouldn't I have finished by now? So you'd think.

Instead, Tweenie and I have already planned for the next project, which is a beanbag chair (except it will be stuffed with packing peanuts - I can't even find beans, go figure). We saw a gorgeous one at Rooms To Go Kids for $150, and of course I assumed I could make one for way less. So far, material costs are $75 and I haven't even started yet. This is also assuming I don't make mistakes and have to back for more material.

Wow, it's been an awfully long time since Home Ec in 9th grade.

Husband was quite annoyed when we burst through the door yesterday laden with huge bags of fabric and 8 cubic feet of styro peanuts.

"What are you thinking? Finish the painting first!"

I was affronted, since he has been reluctant at best to help with any of the renovation efforts. I searched around to find a place to store our materials. My closet has gotten quite full, I saw.

I shoved aside 3 poster frames plus wrapped posters and another gallon of paint (intended for artistic swirly things on Tweenie's walls). I huffed and puffed as I restacked the 2 Rubbermaid totes full of scrapbooking supplies and 4 years worth of photos. A half-finished summer top for Tweenie (that no longer fits, and I'm out of material), dumbbells and an exercise ball I bought last January in an inspired moment of fitness resolutions yet to be fulfilled, a Porsche model still in its box and shrinkwrapped (bought for Husband 10 years ago), plus a few other odds and ends that I totally plan to get finished one of these days.

Like I said, I have no idea why Husband was pulling such an attitude.

Back when we were dating, my borderline OCD tendencies demanded that I not even consider beginning something (even urgently required) until all outstanding projects were complete. He said I had a pole up my butt. Now I have obviously overcome this attitude - why isn't he pleased?

In the meantime, Tweenie shares Kye and Rascal's room. They have a fabulous time in there, goofing around when they should be sleeping. It makes for difficult school mornings for her, but glorious early hours for me - the boys are zonked out until at least 9 am. Maybe that's why I still procrastinate.

I love this positive reinforcement thing!

An onorous task turns odorous

2008-01-11T12:42:00.000-05:00

This is what this post will be about. Read on, at your peril.

I was washing the dishes - easily my least favorite chore- and Rascal was helping.

"Helping": a.k.a. explaining loudly how to wash and sort each item to the minutest detail. Adding extra soap (it's concentrated, so four squirts really goes a long way), elaborating on the general yuckiness of steamed veggies, and insisting on rinsing each item personally.

Kye was doodling around in the background, pushing random buttons on the computer (QuickTime doesn't work anymore but everything else is fine) and emptying pencil shavings from Tweenie's sharpener onto the floor.

Suddenly, Rascal cracks off a really loud fart. Kye's head whips around, momentarily confused. He trots over to where Rascal is leaning over the sink and lifts his shirt, looking for the source of the strange noise.

Kye is no stranger to farting; more often than not, he is the author of such outbursts. Apparently it's much more interesting when someone else does it, though.

Rascal is oblivious to the goings-on at the back end of his digestive system, engrossed in scratching meatball crud off a dutch oven. As Kye peeks under his shirt, he lets another one loose. Like other aftershocks, this second explosion is a good deal louder and smellier than the first.

Kye drops the shirt hem and staggers back, blinking. "OOH!" he exclaims. Then he retreats to the living room and relative safety. Husband and I crack up. Rascal has noticed none of this. The stench begins to spread through the kitchen and we all escape.

The dishes can wait until later, I reason. This chemical warfare is simply not worth the fight. Now imagine he had eaten those steamed veggies? I guess he was right to turn his nose up at them.

Why didn't you mention this before?

2008-01-07T14:17:00.000-05:00

My life is Tantie's very best birth control solution. I love my life and my kids, but there are so many things my mom and aunts never mentioned about the realities of life with children.

"Surely my kids never did that!" they'll exclaim. Or: "I only remember the good times. You'll forget your trials soon enough."

Yeah, conveniently forget. Just in time for when Tweenie starts having her own family I suppose. However, it's one thing to glam things up when you're hankering to become a Grandma, but another when you're in the trenches. And so, new moms and moms-to-be, this post is dedicated to you.

5 Things They Really Should've Mentioned Earlier

1. Newborn poop doesn't smell... compared to a toddler's jobbie. Enjoy those months while they are still breastfeeding because it truly is the best time of your diapering days. Delay introducing solid foods as long as possible. Seriously.

2. There is no such thing as too many toys. You can try to convince your 8-year-old that she doesn't need any more Barbies or WebKinz, but you will lose that battle. If you are concerned that she won't play with everything she has because it's too much, take a tour through her bedroom after a sleepover and prepare to be proven wrong.

3. Potty training will probably take a good year from start to finish. Just when you think you're in the clear, they'll hide behind a curtain and fill their Diego underpants. You don't want to deal with this, so just chuck the whole mess into the outdoor trashcan. You can always buy more underwear later. Also, don't bother with licensed stuff. Plain white Hanes can be bleached if necessary and costs much less to replace.

4. There is nothing wrong with using babyish names for private parts. Do you want to be standing in line at Costco when your little guy starts calling his brother "Mr. Penis"? Didn't think so.

5. Children can survive for years on apple juice and Ritz crackers. Don't take it personally, they will grow out of it. You can't force them to eat their veggies, because they might store it in some corner of their cheek and spit it out after dinner. I know this because I did it when I was little. My parents definitely remembered that one.

There are at least 50 zillion other tips I could give you, but as I write this I realize why such things are kept so quiet. I'm pretty sure it's inappropriate for parents to take revenge on their children for all the gross and naughty things they do, so they take a nasty delight in watching new parents flounder about. That's why you'll only get five from me today.

p.s. You may think I'm being overly negative here. Let me assure you that I love being a mom and absolutely would not change a thing, but mushy chirpy posts don't read nearly as well as brink-of-disaster tales and anyway, I'm just trying to keep it real :)

5 Great Distractions when your kids are driving you bonkers

2008-01-02T20:08:00.000-05:00

This Christmas we stayed home and relaxed. Two weeks of intense family time with few social events to fill the calendar sure sounds great, but eventually all of the pancake breakfasts, loads of presents, and nonexistent bedtimes will turn 3 angelic children into 3 complete psychos.

It tends to wear on a Mama's nerves.

I started with an oldie but goodie: "Go play outside with your brothers." Tweenie looked at me with a face that billboarded I'm-pretty-sure-that's-the-stupidest-idea-I've-ever-heard.

"Why don't you guys go help Dad with some yard work," I hinted in Husband's direction.

"Who wants to go grocery shopping with Mama?" he shot back.

OK, fine. So we were going nowhere. It was time to rely on Google for some help. I had to be creative because I had banned certain sites for various reasons ranging from age-inappropriateness to characters or songs that annoy the crap out of me. Thankfully, we came up with some winners.

1. Check out Puke the Pirate. He uses fart power to fly and kills monsters with - what else - puke. Rascal mastered Level 1 while the rest of us giggled at every burp and flatulent outburst. The background music is tolerable too.

Puke the Pirate hurls on an unsuspecting crab interfering with his treasure.

2. As much as I hate the whole WebKinz hype, the site has impressed me with the number of educational games it has. Tweenie is well entertained by several nerdy time killers that manage to sneak some math or science skills under the radar. Rascal and Kye love to watch and shout random suggestions at the monitor.

3. Another wonderful site for preschoolers is FunSchool. Rascal can handle all of the preschool games and Tweenie squeezes in one or two older kids' games between WebKinz sessions. There is a certain snowman game that Rascal plays over and over again until Internet Explorer crashes. He shrieks in rage and pounds like a wild ape on the keyboard until I restart the same game in Firefox.

4. I am a huge fan of pretty much everything on the PBS Kids site. Tweenie loves Cyberchase (a math-based show) and Rascal is all about Super Why (a learn-to-read show). The PBS station runs almost all day anyway, and since I can tolerate most of the shows I must say I am happy to sell out in this particular case.

5. When all else fails, nothing distracts quite like Michael Jackson's History album. We just pop that CD into the stereo, turn up the volume and dance like a couple of maniacs. I can't dance at all, but my efforts burn a lot of calories which in the post-Christmas season is a particularly good idea. It never fails to amaze me how much the kids like this music. Before I realized they thought our music was cool, I used to put on Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker or Swan Lake for Tweenie. Husband was not impressed with the "sissy" music and threatened to haul out his old Def Leppard stuff. I caved.

Now all I have to do is figure out 5 fab suggestions for distracting kids that are driving you bonkers while on a road trip. So far the only suggestion I have is to not go on one. I'll keep you posted, though.

A chip off the ole blockhead

2007-12-30T23:06:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-28T22:06:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-23T15:40:00.001-05:00

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

2007-12-20T08:14:00.000-05:00

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...

2007-12-15T11:38:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-09T21:34:00.000-05:00

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?

2007-12-07T11:23:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-03T10:57:00.000-05:00

"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

2007-11-29T11:18:00.000-05:00

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?

2007-11-24T22:40:00.000-05:00

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!

2007-11-22T19:08:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-20T07:55:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-18T21:03:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-14T10:39:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-08T22:38:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-29T10:01:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-27T00:20:00.000-04:00

"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

2007-10-25T08:08:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-17T10:58:00.000-04:00

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!)

2007-10-16T10:20:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-10-08T23:16:00.000-04:00

"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

2007-10-06T17:47:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-03T11:00:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-01T21:46:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-28T18:10:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-26T10:08:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-23T20:38:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-19T18:31:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-15T16:30:00.000-04:00

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"

2007-09-12T20:11:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-10T22:12:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-07T21:11:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-04T23:12:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-31T15:32:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-28T22:40:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-08-20T14:38:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-15T20:09:00.000-04:00

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.

A sobering reminder and a PSA

2007-08-13T23:25:00.000-04:00

It's another reminder of how time (and technology) flies.

When I was Tweenie's age, I sat happily with our LPs listening to the Disney stories that chimed when you were supposed to turn the page. We didn't have a TV, much less a computer or game station, until I was in junior high.

Ok, so we were weird.

When we eventually got on the Modern World train and started the brain-sucking habit of Saturday morning cartoons and after-school Cosby show, my mom thought herself very clever when she'd unplug the TV and VCR, scrambling around the cables so we couldn't watch any more.

She'd chortle to herself upstairs, imagining us looking at the TV in dismay, then shrugging our shoulders and turning to the copies of Dickens she had casually laid out on the coffee table. Little did she realize I knew where the user manual was kept, and my sister and I would be watching the Young & the Restless lickety-split. Of course we did so with the volume down so low we had to sit right beside the speaker, finger on the on/off button in case we should hear her footstep on the stairs.

Now, we have one TV in our house and the computer sits in a corner of our kitchen. I'd like to say this is because I've learned from my own deviousness and the actions of my friends to hide undesirable behavior from their parents, but the truth is we're too cheap to buy a second TV and don't have another convenient space for the computer where the RoadRunner people can drill through my floor and baseboards to provide the basic necessity of life only high-speed internet can offer.

How do those people on dial-up exist?? Just a quick thought...

Last week it paid off in spades. Tweenie was on one of her dozen kiddie sites with BFF. It's one of those interactive ones where you can communicate with other users, and she is quite addicted to it. I heard them giggling over another user's comment, and then snorting laughter and "ewwwwww!"

I glanced over. The message read: "I am really a dude, so do you want to go out with me?"

The two girls were about to continue on with their game paying no further notice to the user whose question hung in cyberspace, forgotten.

I freaked out. I made them sign off and I shut the computer down. BFF went home soon after and I had a chance to talk it over with Tweenie. She had, of course, not taken any of this seriously and assumed it was a stupid joke. I went on at length about the importance of internet safety and anonymity, which led to the carefully treaded discussion of the people (and I use that term lightly) who would exploit children online.

Her eyes grew wider. "So, we're supposed to lie about our name and age on the computer?"

"It's important to not give out any information to someone you don't know because they might use that against you."

"But the dot-com company makes us tell them."

"So we make something up. Choose a new name and birthday, and just put that in each time."

"But then I'll get the birthday points on a different day, not the right one!"

"Trust me, it's important."

"You said it's a sin to lie."

"Ok missie, if you don't believe me you can ask Dad."

Husband was even more upset. He demanded I contact the site administrator, the police, and possibly also the FBI. He talked about getting a new IP address and installing a firewall. He mentioned the possibility of Tweenie avoiding the site altogether. Faced with this two-pronged attack, Tweenie agreed to avoid the site until we had a chance to contact the appropriate entities and deal with the situation.

The next day, I heard her talking to some neighborhood friends. "Yah, I was, like, totally creeped out!"

On the phone to another friend: "That was sooo creepy! And also, like, gross!"

She wore it like a badge of honor. Bragging rights. But I think she got the message.

***

And now for my PSA.

I've noticed that many toys and TV shows advertise websites with games and interactive play. Many of them require that kids create a profile to use all of the features, often asking for detailed personal information. Many of the input fields are not required for site access. Even if the site does not display your information on a profile, it accustoms your child to sharing personal details online and they may not be as wary when other users ask.

Talk to your child about internet safety. If you are comfortable with him/her using certain sites, consider creating an alias. Use a non-identifying email account where required and monitor your child's online activity closely.

Buzz Lightyear, Space Ranger

2007-08-10T08:21:00.000-04:00

"To 'finny, and 'yond!" Rascal shrieks, as he hurtles himself off the ladder into the pool.

The best way to perform this trick is to wait until Tweenie and BFF are engrossed in their pool-side Barbie world:

"Like, I totally love your bathing suit, Maxine!"

"Yah, like, when Ken and I were shopping it was on sale. And then he, like, asked me to marry him!"

"Ewww!"

"Ok, pretend she didn't say that. Pretend your girl is like "ooh, true love!", 'k?"

This will ensure that Brother's approach goes unnoticed. The resulting furor is most definitely worth the wait.

If Mama is the target, the best launching position is from the sofa toward the loveseat. As this is a Evel Knievel death leap of over 4 feet, the chances of injury are fair to good and as such will guarantee a speedy response.

This week, Rascal and Tweenie have been attending Vacation Bible School at a little church down the road. When I drop him off, he looks at me with liquidy blue eyes, lip trembling, and a very brave but shaky "Bah-bye mumum". He follows the teacher into the room and sits obediently in front of the Play-Doh.

The parents come to collect the kids at the end of the night in the sanctuary. They wrap up their evening with a few songs and a talk about "what they learned today". The windows overlook the parking lot, so I peek in first to see if they are finished.

During the final bouncy song, Rascal sat in the pew quietly with his hand folded in his lap. As soon as the leader got up to pray the final blessing, he jumped up onto his seat and crowed,

"To 'finny, and 'yoooooooooond!"

Other People's Children

2007-07-31T23:51:00.000-04:00

I am by turns endlessly amused and irritated as heck by other people's children. Why are my kids the only normal ones?

Imagine my affront when, during Rascal's recent wellness checkup, the doctor suggested he be evaluated by a speech therapist because he's a late bloomer on the communication chart. Although Dr. Knowitall was polite and diplomatic with his expressions of concern, it baffled me that he could not decipher Rascal's lingo.

What part of "Shinofing dat oh me past is dooty, dat Kye!" did he not understand? Idiot. So now we wait for an appointment and hope fervently that insurance will cover us. Moron.

Like, other people's children?

The other day I babysat for my friend's grandkids. I've met them once, months before and typically, the 2- and 4-year-old didn't remember me. Which didn't stop them from requiring hugs, kisses, and showing me all their mosquito bites. Yeah, weird!

While fixing a snack in the kitchen, I heard a thonk followed by a scream from the living room. "Somebody!" called Big Missy. "Somebodyyyyyyyy?"

I assumed she was just generally calling for assistance, and of course I rushed over to take stock of the situation. Little Missy was sitting on the floor crying angrily.

"Somebody? That boy spilled water." Oh, that must be my name. Somebody. As for That Boy, she waved generally in the direction of Rascal and Kye.

I am making a huge effort these days to not automatically assign the blame to Rascal, and so I tried to discover from BM which That Boy she meant. She had already forgotten.

About two seconds later the same crisis erupted with someone else's water cup. My bad - the sippy cups were all in the dishwasher. Once again, the blame could not be determined.

Later on, after snack and the refilling of the cups (about an ounce of water apiece), the big kids thundered off into the playroom leaving Little Missy and Kye alone in the living room. I turned on PBS and put my feet up. Then watched as Little Missy calmly toppled over all the cups onto the coffee table.

She looked up at me, stuck out her lower lip and pointed at Kye.

P.S. For all the rest of you illiterates, Rascal's comment referred to the snotty deposit Kye had just swiped onto his pants. See? Told you it was completely understandable.

The best medicine

2007-07-26T00:27:00.001-04:00

There are two cure-alls in this world: a sympathy Band-Aid and kissing the ouchie better. I discourage the first and encourage the second in our house.

When I can't dispense this tender First Aid I expect others to jump in, and so it happens on occasion that Tweenie or Rascal have to pinch hit. It usually works pretty well.

Of course, when we're in public someone invariably gets hurt, either by accident or while misbehaving. It happened again during my recent physical exam.

Alert: stirrup deets to follow. All squeamish persons must click away from this post immediately! That means you, Alejandro.

I was splayed out on the exam bed in nothing but a hospital smock. The doctor began his exam. Rascal was yanking latex gloves out of the dispenser one at a time. He reached over to the female anatomy flipchart and slipped off the rolling stool onto the floor.

He started to bawl. He pointed at his skinned knee. "Big ouchie, mama! Kissy!"

I asked Tweenie to take care of him.

"Nuh-uh, he's bleeding. I'm not touchin' it. Eww!"

Kye wandered over and poked at it. "Deh?" he asked.

Rascal bawled louder. My cooing noises from atop the table weren't helping.

The nurse leaned over. "Oh, bless your heart!"

The doctor looked over. "Hey, little fella. Bless your heart!"

We learned when we first moved to the south, you always bless each others' hearts. You can pretty much say anything you want to a person, as long as you bless their heart at the end.

Everyone was trying to placate Rascal. He was loving the attention, but I could see it was only a tiny scratch. Although I felt sorry for him I was in a certain discomfort myself, being exposed below the waist. "Um, excuse me?"

They couldn't hear me over the wailing and their blessings.

"Hello?"

Slowly, the doctor and nurse returned to my side and finished up. Rascal quickly realized a kissy was not immediately available, and so he improvised and kissed himself better. Then he looked up at me and smiled.

All better!

Drunk with power

2007-07-24T23:20:00.000-04:00

I can make my children believe just about anything. I can make them squeal with laughter or tremble in fear just by adjusting the angle of my eyebrow. I can still use comments like "I'm your mother, I know everything".

Sometimes the absolute power ~~thrills~~ scares me. I have these Zach Braff moments, where time stands still while I recognize the moment before me and have to decide, do I behave like the adult or seize this chance to wield my control and selfishly act on impulse? For example, the time I tricked Rascal into giving me the bigger piece of birthday cake-- but I digress.

When I was young, I was the most gullible kid in the neighborhood. My playmate next door would spin stories about his escapades as I sat there in total awe. The hero worship opportunity must have been irresistable to a 7-year-old boy.

"And then I killt him with my magic sword. For real!"

"Gosh! You gots magic? How come I don't got any?"

"You're a girl, you have girly magic. It's invisible and anyways, it don't work on us boys."

"No way!"

"Yuh-huh. Now I'll do a magic trick on you. See how many rhymes you can make with the word 'duck'."

"Yuck, muck, buck, f---, puck, gu-"

"She said a bad word!" he hollered to his mom down the hall.

I burst into tears and ran home. I didn't even know which one I said was the wrong one. My mom didn't know what to make of it all, with my face mashed against her lap and me blubbering about a duck. It was years later when I suddenly realized how that trick worked.

Ohhhhhh.

My family and friends say Tweenie is my clone. We look alike and, according to those in the know, we have very similar personalities. Turns out she's every bit as gullible as I am was. When I'm in a smartass mood, I like to lead her down the garden path a bit. We usually have a good laugh about it afterward.

There are certain things that I don't feel right about tricking her, such as Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. Early on, I decided that if she asked me straight out if they were real, I would answer truthfully. And I did.

It turned out that was the wrong answer, but you can't unring a bell (although I sort of tried and then lost a ton of credibility. It took a few days of persistent lobbying to re-establish my position as Person of Absolute Knowledge and Trustworthiness). Now, any time I try to tell her anything she challenges me, as in:

"Mom, seriously, don't mess around. For real? I am not joking here."

"Mom! I know what you're doing when you cover your mouth with your hand! Mother! Why are your eyes watery? Why are you breathing like that?"

So there were a few holidays where we had to have the fantasy-character discussion again, which always ended in my earnest assertion that there are no such things as elves (jolly or otherwise), flying reindeer, rabbits that poo chocolate eggs, or fairies that buy teeth. Although, on that last one I am diligent in paying up. She knows who to lecture if I forget or leave a measly quarter.

Now that she knows the truth, she has taken it upon herself to educate her starry-eyed cousins, brothers, and friends. She is universally met with staunch denials and hurt feelings. This often sets off a new round of inquiries to her all-knowing mama, who each time has the renewed opportunity to announce it was all a big joke and by the way, Santa prefers oatmeal raisin cookies and skim milk for his girlish figure.

But the memories of my friend and gullible past prevent me from using my power of persuasion and force me to tell the disappointing truth. I kick myself each time as I see her little face fall, and then, in desperation I say that we can pretend it's all real and oh my goodness, did I just hear sleighbells?

"Mom, seriously. Mother!"

mwa ha ha ha ha haaaaaa!

A little self-discipline is always good

2007-07-20T21:24:00.000-04:00

Today I put myself in Time Out. Not because I misbehaved, but it was a freakin' close call.

It was one of those days that started off bad and didn't improve. There was a general outcry at the cinnamon french toast on the breakfast menu, followed by a failure to come to a consensus on the Dora The Explorer vs. Berenstain Bears post-breakfast TV time (more accurately known as Mama's coffee break). It kind of went downhill from there.

Eventually I realized I was at a critical point, beyond which lay the uncertain realm of parental behavior generally regarded as heinous and pathetic. In short, I was about to bellow at my children and then quite possibly burst into tears. This would achieve the dual aim of both letting off steam and frightening my children into a temporary submission.

I fled for my bedroom and locked the door. Ignored the pounding on my door. Breathed deeply. Eventually the pounding stopped. I picked up Pride & Prejudice and shut out the rest of the world for a chapter.

When I read everything else ceases to exist. I don't hear suspicious sounds, smell suspicious odors. Situationally speaking, this can be a very good thing. As in this situation. I think it's a little like delta-wave sleep. I once tuned out a fire alarm at school while reading--but I digress.

When I allowed myself out of Time Out, it was strangely calm. Tweenie bopped to some music on her computer game, Rascal and Kye doodled around in the backyard. There was a uniform path of destruction running through common areas, but nothing extraordinary.

I went outside after the boys. They were plucking my tomato plants bare. My tomatoes have shown tremendous resilience this summer. At this point I am down to two plants, of which one came up wild from last year's compost I used to fertilize the bed. Neither of them has more than 3 leaves and the six tomatoes formerly attached to the vine are now stuffed into Twit's kibble dish.

Breathe. Breathe. Shoot evil eyes. And breeeaaaathe.

Back inside again, cleaning up the carnage. At some point I happened by the phone and noticed the answering machine blinking. My friend was laughing at the message greeting. Huh??

"Ma-aa, you better get over here, Rascal's doing something to the pho-one!" Beeeeeeep.

I went back to P&P for more therapy.

Brrrrrrring! Mom, it's for you...

2007-07-18T00:38:00.000-04:00

My kids love the phone. None of them were ever fooled by the realistic-looking Barney phone, and for that matter the FisherPrice keys and carseat steering wheel attachment weren't big hits either.

Kye runs around with it clutched in his chubby hands, turning it onoffonoffonoffonoff. He lives for the moment when the automated message finally comes on.

"We're sorry, we are unable to complete your call as dialed."

Rascal punches in random numbers, talks to whomever picks up and then abruptly hangs up on them. So far we haven't been *69'd. He's a sweettalker.

Tweenie always answers with an enthusiastic "Oh, hi!", except when Husband calls from work. I always know it's him when I hear her say, "Uh, who is this?"

Today I was scrubbing the toilet. I heard her chattering to someone, assumed it was BFF. Eventually she came upstairs to find me.

"Mom, phone's for you."
"Kinda busy here, who is it?"
"I have no idea. Somebody important."
"Find out who it is, please."
"Mom, they asked for Mizz Rain. It's someone really important."

This whole conversation passed with her waggling the phone in my face, the caller listening in on our exchange. I sighed. It seems we have such a freakish last name that no one can pronounce it. I had a sneaking suspicion about this one.

"Hello, ma'am! May I say what a pleasure it is to speak to someone who doesn't hang up right away! I'm calling with a very special offer tod--"

An earnest discussion followed, with the take-home message that anyone inquiring for the "Rain" family is not a desired caller. Yeesh.

I'm steamed

2007-07-16T19:54:00.000-04:00

A recent blog post in the online edition of the Orlando Sentinel caught my eye. Entitled "Captain, we have an evil-doer aboard this flight", it discussed a recent news bulletin about a mom and her tot who were removed from a plane because the toddler was being disruptive. Disruptive because the child was calling "bye-bye, plane" to other aircraft on the tarmac during the safety announcements.

I don't know about you, but I always listen to the super important information and take the time to peruse the safety card conveniently located in the seat pocket. And by always, I mean never. Which makes me a stupid passenger, I suppose, but at least I'm not the hyper teen gabbling to my friend on my cellphone whilst the plane free-falls to the ground, nor am I the obnoxious businessman in first class downing scotch and laughing loudly at Seinfeld reruns while people are trying to sleep in the next row.

Ok, to be fair, apparently the mother was not attempting to quiet her son and he wasn't using an indoor voice. That is irritating, and in my pre-kid days I would certainly have whipped out the death glare I ordinarily save for idiots on the interstate and probably asked the steward for a seat change.

But to kick them off the plane? Not only this, but the stewardess told the mother to shut her kid up and drug him with Benadryl. Wow.

Reading further, I came upon the comments section. Here I feel the need to warn you that in case you are stupid enough to empathize with the mother at all, you may become so enraged at the asinine submissions of some less sympathetic readers; I cannot be held accountable for your reaction. In fact I won't even spoil it for you, you should read them yourself. I think you'll figure out very quickly which comment is mine.

Oh crap, now I outed myself.

Perhaps the reason this hits a little close to home is that I'm planning a trip back to my hometown next month and am already dreading the flight with 3 children sans Husband. Tantie will be joining me, bless her heart, and another such brave soul I have never met in my life. I expect some stressful hours and aforementioned death glares from other passengers. I did not anticipate, however, the possibility of being hauled off to the airport security office at some point along my way. This has me up nights, no exaggeration.

I am the type who has imaginary arguments in my head, for planning purposes I tell myself. In the end, though, I decided that a shouting match with airline employees and other passengers would not well serve my purposes, and so this is what I do intend to do, should this situation arise.

I will smile sweetly. I will invite all offended parties to the airport bar so that I can atone for my children's atrocious behavior by treating everyone to a few drinks. I will charm them with kindness and they will feel horrible for their reaction. They will apologize and offer me free flights for life to any destination.

What in truth will happen is that Tantie and I will give it to them with both barrels in stereo. We will attempt to outshout each other in our violent defense of the, at this point probably petrified, children. We will be arrested and barred from air travel for the rest of our lives. We will run tattling to the newspapers and parade my beautiful children in their Sunday clothes for the cameras. I will cry quietly, with dignity. We will sell our story to A&E and make a bajillion dollars.

See you on The View!

Teaching independence - my bad

2007-07-14T01:08:00.000-04:00

Rascal is 3 years old now. He's potty trained, can sort of dress himself, and clears his own plate from the table. He imitates every move Husband, Tweenie, and I make.

Oops.

This morning I made a vague comment about grocery shopping. Actually, I was planning on goofing off until 12:30 (when Y&R comes on), then afterwards halfheartedly finishing my chores and running out for groceries and take-out at the last minute. I didn't explain all these other plans to Rascal though, and so he assumed we'd leave right after Cinnamon Toast Crunch brunch.

He raced off, shouting about his scawwy wowoff shoe-ies (new Spidey sandals) and favorite dino tee. I shuffled off to the shower first. He was annoyed about this, but quickly stripped down and jumped in with me. He insisted on using Husband's Adidas bodywash.

"I too, mumum, I be saxy," he told me seriously. (Where did he get that??)

Later I herded Tweenie toward the van, while Mama's big helper attempted to carry Kye. There's an 8 pound difference between them, so he was using something like a choke hold to drag Kye to the door. A strange grunting noise quickly alerted me to the situation - it was Rascal. Kye was completely indifferent to it all.

Shopping involved even more helping. Mostly the cart-pushing (aka "droving") was a sticking point. Also, he felt Husband should get Heineken instead of Coors Lite - which was on sale, by the way, and therefore not negotiable.

At home later, he noticed an abandoned pair of safety glasses and decided he wanted to wear them for the rest of the day.

"Okee, we cheese now mumum."

??

"Cheeeeeeeeeeeeezzzzzze!!!!"

Right-o.

Don't say I didn't warn you

2007-07-11T09:15:00.000-04:00

I am a stay-at-home mom, largely isolated from the sanity-preserving effects of adult interaction. I operate on Mama Standard Time. I spend an embarrassing amount of time reading the grocery flyers and am addicted to Y&R. Despite having provided myself with a university education, I spend much of my day blabbering in babytalk.

Sometimes, however, my world collides with Everyone Else. It is at such times that a sign like this would come in handy, like a warning label. I'm sure my neighbor and the mail carrier would've been grateful for it.

The problem is, since my clock is set to MST, my schedule is skewed. I may just be getting out of the shower at 4 pm or still in my pajamas at lunchtime.

Or giving myself an armpit wax in front of my bedroom window (that conveniently overlooks the front walk) because I need the natural lighting, then seeing a much-awaited package arrive tucked under the arm of the mailman. I hurredly yanked on some clothes while cowering in the shadows of my bedroom and ran for the door.

Then, in true idiot fashion, I stood there gabbing with the guy about my recent trip to DisneyWorld while I signed the delivery slip. My waxy fingers goobered up his pen, and while sheepishly apologizing I reached up to push my hair out of my face. I stood there, still jabbering on about Mary Poppins as I yanked my hand free.

See, I was that desperate for adult conversation.

Now, when the mail guy sees me, he winks and smirks a little.

Then there was my poor neighbor who came by unannounced to drop off some squash he promised me. He caught me sleeping in after a night up with Kye and the flu. The doorbell rang, I foolishly stumbled to the door in my grotty Molson Canadian Tshirt and skivvies, squinted through the side window, caught his eye, reacted in horror, raced to the bedroom, frantically put on the first thing I found, patted my hair down, and casually sauntered to the door pretending like nothing happened.

He doesn't bring by any more squash.

At the Seaside

2007-07-06T21:42:00.000-04:00

We just came back from a short week at the beach.

My children, despite my efforts with sunblock, have glowing tans and sun-streaked hair.

As for me (despite other efforts), my natural aristocratic teint is now offset by patchy burnt accents on my cheekbones and forehead. Conveniently, I wore my sunglasses the whole time and now have a lasting memory of our vacation. Well, until the skin peels anyway.

I learned quite a lot on this trip, like how little sleep kids can really get by on or how good McDonald's coffee tastes.

Or after learning I was swimming all week with sand sharks that I no longer need to freak out and flash back to that innocent childhood time when I snuck out of bed and caught the last few scenes of Jaws when my dad was watching it on TV.

Also that body surfing is funnest when you scream as loudly as possible, and that being buried in sand is a great way to exfoliate with zero effort on my part.

I was stepping into the shower one evening as Rascal sauntered in. "Yaykit!" he exclaimed, then set about stripping down to join me.

"See, mumum? I have 'oobies." He pointed proudly. "One, free, seben, two 'oobies!" He included a bruise and mosquito bite in his tally. "Mumum too, 'oobies. Big 'oobies!"

"Yes sweetie, but please don't poke Mama."

"Okee. See mumum, my bum."

"Mm-hm."

"Mumum too bum. Ooh, BIG bum!" He started giggling.

I hollered for Husband who came and took Rascal out. I assumed he would dress him in pajamas but when I came out of the shower Rascal was wearing his trunks backwards and struggling with his water wings. Husband was taking advantage of the full cable offered by our swank little motel and paying no attention whatsoever.

"Swomming, mumum?"

Now that just sucks

2007-06-28T22:37:00.000-04:00

Today was a sad day. I only just told you about how we came to have 2 dogs, and now we do not.

During an otherwise very pleasant dinner on the patio, and while we were discussing (ironically enough) the dogs, the "rightful owners" showed up and asked for their pets back. Having been led to believe by the neighbor who brought them over that these were abandoned strays, this came as quite a surprise.

And now Tweenie's heart is
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Lessons learned at a 3-year-old's birthday party

2007-06-27T00:31:00.000-04:00

Numero Uno: Don't bother putting pants on little boys. Not only will they become completely filthy, food will be shoved into all sorts of "areas" whether they be covered or not. A bath is pretty much a given.

~~Duh~~ Deux: Grapes make excellent missiles.

Three: Coke, chocolate marble cake, and fruit with whipping cream combine to create A Perfect Storm. And by storm I mean royal fit. It's a trifecta, really.

Fore! Even birthday boys can be put in Time Out. They reserve the right to continue aforementioned snit alone in the bedroom and may resort to launching any and all breakable objects stupidly forgotten there by mama.

Five: Following the food fight, it may take ~~one~~ ~~several~~ many hours to tidy up. Blogging is not a good way to pretend elves will arrive while your back is turned and magically clean it for you (but it's worth a try).

Next year I'm going to make the fun folks at McDonald's PlayLand deal with this for me.

What every little boy needs

2007-06-25T19:45:00.000-04:00

Tonight we increased our four-legged population by 200%. A well-meaning neighbor found an abandoned mama hound-dawg with two puppies and set right to finding them all new homes.

And so we now have mama and little girl staying in an old dog run I had intended to make Husband tear down, which has of late been home to one bad@ss black snake Twit has been stealing offspring from all year.

Husband has been trying to sell me on the idea of a dog for years. I don't mind in principle, but the nearly instantaneous reassignment of Twit-related care that befell me (despite the most ardent of promises) has soured me on the entire pet conversation. When our neighbor showed up and little girl howled at me, I hesitated for the briefest of moments. This was Husband's cue.

Later, I ran down my list of demands:
1. The dogs are not permitted entry into my house.
2. I will not be collecting poo from various places in the yard.
3. I will not be the only person feeding and bathing them, nor will I take part in any tick removal.

Husband listened seriously to my finger-waggling diatribe and agreed to these and any future demands of mine. Still, I'm not holding my breath.

I do take some consolation, however, in the fact that tomorrow is Rascal's 3rd birthday. If there is anyone that can keep up with him, I think it will be this puppy.

My cousin, proud mommy to her own little handful, told me it would end this way. "Every little boy needs a puppy!" I guess I'd better go find a big red bow.

Edited to add pictures of Shasta (mama) and Lily (baby). We have since learned Shasta is a Bluetick Coonhound; Lily's coloring suggests her father may be a Rottweiler, but who knows?! Lily was being very rascally and wouldn't pose for a proper pic - sorry.

A fairy tale come true

2007-06-25T00:28:00.000-04:00

I forgot to mention this in my recent Disney post.

A highlight of our Magic Kingdom visit was going to be the parade. Tweenie was so excited to see Cinderella, the Prince, and everyone else "in real life Mom, can you believe it?!"

When the pumpkin coach passed by, Cinderella waved and smiled at her. The Prince winked, and then bowed to her. Tweenie giggled, turned her head bashfully away and blushed. A real scarlet-cheeked eyelash-fluttering blush, and the first time to my knowledge.

She smiled shyly about it all day. I think she's officially in love.

I know this picture is crapola, but in my defense I had a squealing 7-year-old yanking on my arm at the time.

Now who's scary?

2007-06-22T00:15:00.000-04:00

Rascal thinks he's a "scawwy wowoff".

He received some hand-me-down clothes recently, most of them featuring dinosaurs. His current fave is a T-shirt with a very realistic T-Rex graphic. He wears this as often as possible, roaring and stomping around the house. Kye is terrified of him.

This is Fwog.

Actually, it's a hand puppet stolen from Gamma's house that belonged to Uncle once upon a time. Tweenie uses him as the bad guy for her Barbie stories. Rascal says Fwog is a vewwy scawwy wowoff.

Fwog is not allowed to sleep in Rascal's room. Mama has to move Fwog out of Rascal's way for him. Rascal will not roar at Fwog because he says Fwog will scare him back. Kye found out about this and carts Fwog around with him -- I must assume -- for protection.

So far it's working.

Disney, wild creatures, and a super fun roadtrip (aka What Happened On Stupid Idea #2)

2007-06-19T22:08:00.000-04:00

So we're back from vacation in one piece. A stupid idea after all? Let's see...

After an all-nighter drive to Orlando, we caught a few winks at the hotel, scarfed down some breakfast and went in search of cheapo Disney tickets. Which eventually led us to a certain overcaffeinated chap behind a gaudy brochure-stuffed desk declaring "Ask me how you can save $100!!"

Somehow we ended up listening to a timeshare sales pitch for 3 hours over a free but questionable meal. Hey, you gotta try it once, right? Wouldn't $100 off day passes to the Magic Kingdom be worth it to you?

Indeed, this was a very stupid idea. I have no idea how others vacation using cheap timeshare offers every year, and it was not worth the $100 saved on tickets.

After we picked up our freebies, Tweenie and I headed over to DisneyWorld (and the boys to the JVC outlet stores conveniently located next door to our hotel). I must admit, I enjoyed myself way too much. Around 9 pm Tweenie started asking when we'd return to the hotel.

"But the parade starts soon, and then there'll be fireworks," I whined.
"Ma, I'm all Disneyed out here."
"Hey, I didn't sit through 3 hours of BS for nothing. We're staying!"
"Fine, since it means so much to you."

When we left around 10:30, I freely conceded that this was a great idea.

A day of driving later, we arrived in the Keys for the second half of our mini-vacation. We stayed in a simple but sweet mom-'n-pop-style motel with a room overlooking the Bay. I chatted up the owner to get the scoop on the local wildlife (you may recall I was nervous about the indigenous creatures).

"Sharks? Oh sure, we gotta lot of 'em right out there in the Bay. Mostly littl'uns though, mebbe up ta 10, 12-footers. A feller caught an itty bitty baby one off that dock there, 'bout 2 foot just this mornin'. We seen bull sharks, hammerheads... no Great Whites that I know of though.". My expression hastened him to add a reassuring remark. "I never got bit, and anyhow there aren't hardly any compared to the barracudas. Now that there's a funny story I oughtta--"

"No, no no no, thanks anyway." I'd heard enough. "At least we're away from the mainland and the crocs, right? Ha ha ha!"

"Well, they can come around ma'am, so watch your kids near the bush."

Great; what a fab idea.

The next day we rented a boat and explored around a bit. We had no luck finding a little private piece of beachy shoreline, so we hooked up to a mooring buoy a little way from shore. There were other boats nearby, people swimming and jet-skiing. I figured it was probably ok to jump in for a few minutes.

Naturally, the safe thing was to send Husband in first. Tweenie jumped in after him, enthusiastically swimming and splashing. After 30 seconds, he made her come back onto the boat with him.

"Something wrong?"
"We don't know these waters."
"You nervous about the you-know-whats?"
"We don't know these waters."
"Soooooooo... you're scared."
"We don't know these waters!"

Bottom line: we're nearly soiling ourselves with paranoid terror.

I went in briefly with Rascal. "Watch for fins, honey!" I laughed in a false-sounding falsetto, clearly on the verge of panic. After that, we were all funned out and brought the boat back to the dock 45 minutes ahead of schedule. Apparantly going for a boatride in barracuda/shark/alligator/etc-infested seas with irritable children on a hot day when all you want to do is swim happens to be a very stupid idea indeed.

The trip wrapped up with two days of driving home. I now understand why my father threatened every year that it was the very last time he would take us anywhere. Driving during the day means a bazillion bathroom and food breaks. Food stops mean taking hyper children into public places and expecting them to behave after sitting in one position for the last 6 hours (not including bathroom breaks of course). Driving during the day (i.e. when kids are awake) is the stupidest idea of them all.

Somehow we survived. In two weeks, we leave for the next adventure that we planned back in January. We are going on vacation with BFF and family. This'll be ... interesting.

Stupid Idea #2

2007-06-13T00:22:00.000-04:00

Pretty soon I may be the ~~proud~~ ~~tolerant~~ ~~idiotic~~ "best mom ever" owner of one of these bad boys.

Much later today (seeing as it's already tomorrow and instead of sleeping I'm here on blogger) we will be leaving our house and driving what is sure to be 10 quiet, adult-conversation-filled, wonderful hours all the way to Orlando.

Yeah right. These are the conversations I actually expect:

"I spy with my little eye, something that iiiiiiiiiiiiiissssssss, uhhhhhhh, iiiiiiiiiiiisssssssss...."

"No, we are not watching Christmas of Enchantment."

"Who farted?"

"Babe, will you just please look at this mapquest printout?"

"I don't care who started it, 'cause I'm certainly gonna end it!"

"That's it-- you are ALL going to the restroom."

When we relocated last year, a major selling point with Tweenie was that we were about 1500 miles closer to DisneyWorld. That was 17 months and one baby ago. She's starting to get a little ticked.

Finally we stopped waiting for "a convenient time" and "enough money", knowing all along deep down that such a cosmic convergence simply won't happen. We're off to visit the (shudder) Happiest Place on Earth. After a day at the Magic Kingdom stalking princesses and unloading our van payment on worthless souvenirs, we head further south to the Keys for 3 days of avoiding sharks, alligators, and hurricanes.

This northern prairie gal ain't scared of black bears but is petrified of the beautiful state of Florida. The entire state. I'm also paranoid about skin cancer. What a fab idea this was! Does anyone know where you can buy SPF1000?

Oh, and this is all a huge surprise for Tweenie. This afternoon I shipped all the kids off to my friend's house so I could pack secretly. A good move too, because I was told Rascal had an agusting 'tinky twice in one hour. Which I for once didn't have to clean up. I love my friend, but I'm pretty sure she hates my guts now.

So basically the plan is to have a nice couple of days away together and quite possibly chuck Husband's Blackberry in the Atlantic if it intrudes too often. As I said, that's the plan...

What was Stupid Idea #1? Stay tuned, I'll be telling you that story soon.

And just like that I'm not cool anymore

2007-06-10T23:31:00.000-04:00

Rascal skinned his knee today. I hugged him and bent down to kiss his owie.

"Mama! Dat agusting! Is grooss!" He wiped off my kissy vigorously and then leaned over and kissed it better himself. I guess I must have cooties.

Later on, I was goofing around with Tweenie. Usually she loves when I act outrageously and over-emote. Unfortunately (for me), during my little performance I used the word grody. Not only did she not know what that meant, she gave me the most elaborate eye-roll I have ever seen and then buried her head in her hands.

"Mom, seriously."

D-oh!

Now I'm doing it to myself, see?

Yeah, I'm intolerant. So sue me!

2007-06-07T11:56:00.000-04:00

There are certain things I can't stand. One day, when I've been installed as supreme planetary dictator, I intend to do something about it.

1. Customer service department idiots who gab with their coworkers while they are supposed to be processing my return (and the other 500 people in line) so that I can oblige all the angry starers and remove my shouting children from the store.

2. Telemarketing (the job, not the person - I can differentiate). While this requires no extra clarification, I feel that a little story will demonstrate my antipathy. One such person called on a Saturday at 8:15. I answered very groggily. "Have you had your morning coffee yet, dear?" - her opening line. Yeah, that's gonna win you points. Maybe you're just trying to make ends meet because you're going through a messy divorce and desperately need the cash. Guess what? Not my problem.

3. Uber-friendly ~~waiters~~ servers. Be professional and helpful, not falsely flirtatious. I don't care about what you did last weekend, nor do I want to hear your hilarious dog story. Oh, and don't forget to wear the appropriate number of pieces of flair.

4. Croc wearers. Nurses and garden center workers are exempt from my revulsion, but everyone else - please, say no! Particularly to those who wear socks with crocs, I don't care how trendy they are. They are upsetting my delicate balance and hurting my eyes.

And on a more serious note...

5. Drunk drivers. They oughta throw the book at you people. You could kill someone in your condition. Don't make the rest of the world pay for your fun night out.

6. Celebrities and other high-profile people convicted of crimes but receive special treatment from the judicial system. I heard today on the radio that a certain heiress was released from prison after serving 5 days of 23-45 days due to "health concerns". I guess jail must not be "hot". Given the fact that she was in there because of previous DUI convictions, I refer you to point #5. I wonder if they wear crocs in jail?

7. Child molesters and people who kill their own children. That's right, you are insane. Go get your therapy in the joint. Don't get me started on elective abortion.

Whew, maybe that's getting a little too heavy.

I looked in an atlas and noticed that St. John's, Newfoundland (Canada) is the easternmost tip of North America. Line up, y'all; here's the coast. Start swimming.

Making some sweeping generalizations

2007-06-06T22:09:00.000-04:00

As I see it, there are three types of mommies in the world.

Type 1: Booby Warrior
She wouldn't dream of offering formula, at least not for the first year. She organizes and participates in nurse-ins with fellow lactivists and threatens legal action to any passersby who look disapprovingly in her direction.

Type 2: Those-are-not-yours-they're-mine Formula Freedom Fighter
She is the arch enemy of lactivists, offended by public displays of boobage and enjoys the convenience a bottle offers. She doesn't care what you do in private, just don't let the rest of the world - or restaurant - enjoy the show. Don't come to her with your factoids, because several generations of breast-eschewing mothers have produced intelligent, healthy kids (gasp).

Type 3: What's-the-big-deal Mom
She says breastfeeding isn't for everybody, so do what works best for you and your baby's comfort level. Most of us probably fit into this category. Getting all huffy about to boob or not to boob... is that the big question? Sure she has an opinion on the subject, but what's the big deal?

Oh yes, and there's one more type I almost forgot to mention. Have a look-see...

Tres chic

2007-06-02T11:39:00.001-04:00

My SIL once teased me about my kids' wardrobes.

"So preppy, so GAP," she laughed.

I purposely don't shop at GAP so I didn't really agree with her. We have mostly hand-me-downs and gifts from other people so their clothes are as varied as it gets - or so I thought.

A few days ago we made an unavoidable stop at Toys 'R Us. This being a favorite shopping destination it was no surprise to me when, instead of the usual whining and begging to stay in the car and watch DVDs, Rascal and Tweenie tore off their seatbelts, jumped out, and ran across the parking lot toward the front doors shrieking with delight.

I shouted at them to hold hands and watch for cars. They turned toward me, and then for some reason their outfits caught my eye. Tweenie was wearing a dark blue denim skirt with discreet pink stitching and a pink polo shirt with an embroidered tennis racquet on the pocket. A matching pink scrunchy and (surprise) GAP sparkly flipflops completed the ensemble. Rascal was wearing a striped blue-and-white button-down offset by a red T-shirt and khakis. They were both impeccably attired.

Thinking this was just a strange coincidence (at least on Rascal's part), I thought nothing more of it until yesterday when I was folding laundry with Rascal.

Apparantly he's ok with wearing gitchies now; however, he has discriminating taste. He stood yaykit beside me as I fluffed and folded. Then he reached into the basket for a pair of underpants, held it up and gazed at it with a discriminating eye.

"No dis gitchy mama," he said, pointing out the dangling thread. He found a more suitable pair, then started to dig for clothes. I suggested a cute sporty outfit with State Champ emblazoned across the chest.

"Nope, no dat." He didn't approve of the Winnie-the-Pooh shirt and shorts set either.

Finally he found his striped shirt and khakis from the other day and held them up triumphantly. He started looking for the perfect T to finish off his look, but I objected since it was at least 90F outside and his choices were too warm to begin with. He was mad but eventually allowed me to dress him. His pants were to be cuffed just so, as was his shirt. He admired himself in the mirror.

"Is my buddy a handsome boy?"

"Yeahhhhhh!" He pranced and giggled, then ran outside and promptly plopped himself down in the flower bed. He came to me later in tears.

"Is dirty, mama."

I undressed him and went in search of replacement clothes. While I was gone, he escaped outside and shrieked "YAYKIT!" to the neighbors. He refused to wear anything else that day and personally oversaw the reloading of the washing machine, including his vêtements beaux.

So You Think You Can Dance?

2007-05-30T23:27:00.000-04:00

We had the pleasure of attending the PTA program last night; 100 or so remarkably well-behaved 2nd graders, assorted staff members and PTA-ers, and bleachers-full of fanning sweating parents and younger siblings.

What could have been a most odious evening in a non-climate controlled box of gymnasium was surprisingly entertaining.

Each class had to present a choreographed dance and then they combined to shake their groove thang to the Macarena and several other numbers. Their gym teacher must have quite the sense of humor because those kids had moves! They actually know how to do the sprinkler move, which despite my swell style I haven't yet mastered. The John-Travolta-eye thing, the putcha-hands-ina-air (whoo whoo), even air guitar; I tell ya, these kids were cool!

Any time I try gettin' jiggy wid it I get shouted down and banished from wherever the music is playing. Sheesh, my kids haven't even reached double-digits yet and already I embarrass them.

(evil laugh)

Nekkid no more--sorta

2007-05-29T23:13:00.000-04:00

Rascal has consented to use gitchies after all. I don't think he really gets it, though.

Today while sorting laundry, for example, he wore his undies on his head. Then his bear wore them. Last, Kye had the pleasure... he was a little less pleased. Rascal laughed so hard he almost peed his--

well, he would have peed his pants if he would have been wearing them.

Back to sorting laundry. After the Nemo gitchies had all been tried out, he moved on to Husband's pile. He held them up in front of his eyes, thought for a while and then--

"Ooh, big gitchies!"

He whipped them on his head and ran around the house roaring. Kye squealed with laughter and scooted over to the change table, ripped out the carefully stacked diapers and chucked them around the room.

I ranted and raved at the two of them, but apparantly my red face, flaring nostrils, and huffy noises were just fuel for the fire. For a brief second they looked at me surprised, then giggled and finished the job.

Rascal logic

2007-05-26T13:52:00.000-04:00

"Dat agusting, mama!"

Agusting. Rascal's word du jour, usually delivered with hysterical laughing and pointing. Although we've completed the main potty-training stage, there are still many accidents. Current "wisdom" says parents should simply disregard undesirable behavior because reactions (either positive or negative) validate it.

Whatever!

I can't stop myself from at least informing Rascal how gross stripping soiled underwear and pants off wriggling legs is to me in the hopes that he will be sufficiently repulsed and do his nasty on the potty for a change. I can dream, can't I?

The upside is that Rascal now finds poopy accidents agusting. The downside?

"Mama, me no eat. Dat agusting!" Giggling at his pile of mashed potatoes.

"Mama, Kye have 'tinky. Dat agusting!" Shrieking with delight when Kye farts.

"Mama, no clothes. I yaykit. Dat agusting!" Remember, he prefers more casual attire.

"Mama, you no yaykit. Dat agusting!"

Uh, wait a sec...

Battle Scars

2007-05-21T23:52:00.000-04:00

Today I got a hickie. It's been a while.

Last time I got one, my father laughed. It wasn't, needless to say, the reaction I expected.

Today's scarlet beauty came courtesy of Kye, clutching a little bit of loose-ish chest skin somewhere between my neck and boob in his talon-tipped claw. Twisting. Yanking.

Me - Shouting. Frantically loosening. Checking for Permanent Damage.

When Husband saw it, he laughed.

Yes, this is what I have to deal with. If it's not The Claw yanking my bottom lip down over my collarbone or my eyelid across my nose, Big Tooth makes an appearance.

Incoming!!

Wet, dripping jaws of Death distract me from its approach with peals of baby laughter and a fat little body pinioning Mama on the picnic blanket with ominously foul-smelling diaper firmly planted on my ribcage.

Bottom line: were it not for the bony nature of a nose, it would have had a hickie today too.

Mama's new best friend

2007-05-18T23:03:00.000-04:00

MissChickie has a best friend. She calls it the Braun Silk Epilator. I called it 'attack of the killer bees'. Somehow I just don't get the idea of yanking out the hairs God put there for supposedly some perfectly good reason. ;)

I have a different best friend. He does many things for me - provides exercise, performs a necessary task, and drowns out the shouts and screeches of my children. Obviously, the perfect multi-tasker. I am talking about--

my lawn mower.

Sure, he's stinky and rattles, but many an unwanted toy has been conveniently "taken care of" when left in his path. Even some of Twit's corpses, although it was unintentional!

Take today, for instance. Several Freezie-pop wrappers, an absolutely disgusting tiny bath toy left behind by the previous owners and tasted by Twit, Rascal, and Kye over the last few months (why didn't I get rid of it sooner? One of the three has been harboring it in a secret location), and assorted twigs and sweetgum balls (pictured) that pepper our lawn by the berzillion. All choppity-chop lawn fertilizer now.

But getting back to the most important aspect. I usually do two or three swipes of the lawn and then go looking where all the kids have wandered. This time, I caught them waiting for me. Standing there completely calm (but with faces screwed into position), 2 of them broke into wails as soon as they saw me coming. Great timing kids.

Yes, I must be that dumb. Actually, I just turned around, yanked on the cord and spent more quality time with my best friend.

When it rains, it pours!

2007-05-17T11:10:00.000-04:00

During a momentary lull in our daily chaos, I urgently needed a telephone break with my sister. I was behind on the family gossip and then there was recent plot developments on a certain show we watch (which I will never admit in public) that required detailed analysis. We gabbed for maybe 3 or 4 minutes.

Then the lull passed. I suppose it was the 'calm before the storm' or something.

Kye began to hitch his way up my pant leg, grunting with effort. The noises drew Rascal away from Christmas of Enchantment, who decided now would be a good time for a snack. I hobbled over to the fridge with Kye still firmly attached to my calf and pulled out a yogurt - usually a safe choice.

Well it was the wrong thing this time, and Rascal started to wail. When he gets into full turbine-strength bellows, there's not much you can do to stop it even if you have the sheer luck of figuring out what, exactly, you did wrong.

So at this point, I asked Tantie to "hang on a sec" because not only was the ambient volume an issue, but I also couldn't keep the handset wedged under my chin with two squirming boys fighting for total lap domination.

Somewhere in the midst of all this wonderfulness, Tweenie came in asking if BFF could come over. She had to shout to be heard. At this point, Tantie had been hanging on for many secs, so I snatched up the phone so she knew I was still there.

"I'm sensing this isn't the best time to talk," she brilliantly deduced. But I wasn't ready to relinquish the few moments of adult conversation I get in a day, so I struggled to talk, pacify, and keep from injury as best I could.

That's when Rascal bit me in the butt. You may recall this has happened before. By the time I had all the kids sorted out (Kye in his crib, Tweenie working on homework, and Rascal in Time Out), Tantie had to go.

Apparently she has a life. Go figure.

confessions of a mama

'Tis the Season

All the Things I Said

Leave of Absence

The Beginning of Something ... (insert adjective here)

Other People's Children

It's Gettin' Hot in Here

A Certain Eventuality

My bad

Inconceivable!

Relativity

Headless Chickens

Girly Geek meets Girly Chic

Another Family Holiday Survived

Recent goings-on at Mama's house (and it's not even lunchtime yet)

When in Rome, sit on your ass

My Dog Ate My Homework

Someone call the CDC

Incapacitated... and the results thereof

Various comments heard around Mama's house

The times are a'changin'

Drive Yourself to Drink in 5 Easy Steps

A little Retail Therapy

Unintended Poetry

The logistics of a family trip is no vacation

Florida or Bust!!

Talking to Your Kids About Sex... Or Not

Gettin' my geek on

What did you do all day? Let me tell you...

An E-Mail Forward that made me laugh

4 Ideas for a Fun Family Night In

A Special Night Out

Warning: Creativity requires Chaos

An onorous task turns odorous

Why didn't you mention this before?

5 Great Distractions when your kids are driving you bonkers

A chip off the ole blockhead

Another Christmas season survived

It's not beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Looking Fab for the Holidays

All I want for Christmas is...

How Mama learned how to be more efficient

I'm sorry, was that a question?

Potty Talk

My field trip to the Liquor Mart

WebKinz. Need I say more?

Happy Turkey Day!

Not so much like Mary Poppins

Bring it on, FaceBook

On buck-passing and distraction

Separation Anxiety

My apologies to Dr. Seuss

Portrait of a yummy Mama

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

Mama makes time fly

Laughing at myself for once (NOT!)

Say what?

MamaNotes, Volume 1: Clothing your Child

Customer Service paging Mama

Selling out... big time

Perhaps Madame should try zee Vichyssoise

Back to School

Someone check this kid's midi-clorian count

Driver Ed 101

It's music to my ears

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

Not so funny anymore

Sleep: the Final Frontier

That Sweet Child of Mi-y-ine

I

The Importance of Role Models

How're y'all, eh?

The herd mentality

A sobering reminder and a PSA

Buzz Lightyear, Space Ranger

Other People's Children

The best medicine

Drunk with power

A little self-discipline is always good

Brrrrrrring! Mom, it's for you...

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