Today, I made a choice to do something that I thought was very brave. I decided to take N and B to K-Mart. What's so brave about that, you say? You didn't even have all three! True, as Jimmy had come home for lunch and offered to stay with O, who was already half asleep. As it turns out, this was probably a really good thing. However, I didn't just take N and B to K-Mart. I took them to K-Mart when B hadn't had a nap, and it was way past nap time. I knew this would require a great deal of strength on my part. In fact, there was a little voice telling me, "This is NOT a good idea. You just get this whole K-Mart idea right out of your head, put that child down for his nap, and go later". But I didn't listen. Instead, I ignored the voice. I thought I was doing something very brave, but it turned out I was just doing something really, really stupid. Never, ever ignore the voice.
The reason for my obsession with going to K-Mart? Coffee. Our coffee maker has been broken for a couple of weeks. A couple of weeks! I don't know how I have survived that long, but I have. Since I am the only coffee drinker in our house, it's only impacted me, and coffee runs to Dunkin Donuts, Starbucks, and Caca's (no, not like WaWa's...she's my sister) have gotten me through. I've even started drinking tea in the morning, but today when I was contemplating a third cup of tea to help me wake up, I finally accepted that it was time for a new coffee maker.
On the way to the coffee maker aisle (no, I know it's not called the coffee maker aisle, but in my mind, that was the single most important thing in that aisle, so that's what I'm calling it), B decided he wanted to be a mannequin. Just like the ones in the store. Well, except that he wanted to keep his head. He did, however, want to be up on the little stage that they're on. So that's where he went. Several times. He did a perfect mannequin imitation. Several times. Not that hard, you say? It involves standing completely still. And this is B. Need I say more? Eventually, he agreed to come with us to the coffee maker aisle, but only after he had waved good -bye to the mannequins, and eventually accepted that they weren't going to wave back.
I had no idea there were so many different kinds of coffee makers. I am amazed by all the choices. I wonder if I should go cheap and simple or get something a little more expensive that will brew individual cups on a timer. I imagine coming downstairs in the morning and having a fresh hot cup of coffee waiting for me. Then, the fireman's daughter in me thinks that can't possibly be safe, and I decide a timer is not a good idea. But maybe the individual cups are. I am contemplating all this as N and B are behind me...somewhere. I look to see N curled up on a lower shelf. B is telling her to push over. N says "Hey mom! Didn't you get left in a store once when you did this?" I tell her no, that was Caca...or Uncle Pat. Who can remember. I wasn't even born yet. I just know it wasn't me.
I know I should tell N to get down, but she is usually so set in her role as responsible older sister that part of me is happy to see her laying on a shelf in K-Mart, and I decide to let her stay there. Besides, it looks sturdy, and it's keeping them relatively quiet. I go back to looking at coffee makers, and start thinking that maybe timers are a good idea after all. I discover that the prices go up to a hundred bucks, and I wonder if one of the more expensive ones will make me a single cup of coffee on a timer, add cream and sugar, and bring it to me in bed. N is off the shelf and standing behind me talking about...something. B has taken N's spot on the shelf, and I realize that N is talking about martial arts. I briefly wonder why she is talking about ninjas, but realize I will hear the whole story again on the way home anyway, so I don't focus too much on what she's saying until I hear these magic words..."Look! It makes frozen drinks!"
A machine that makes coffee AND frozen drinks? Why didn't I think of that?! Whichever one it is, I am getting it. What a perfect combination! I turn around to see her standing in front of a large blender looking thing. "Look mom! It's a Ninja! I've seen it before. It makes frozen drinks and salsa!" I have a crappy mommy moment when I realize that my daughter must have seen this on an infomercial, and yet I have never seen it, or heard of it. And aren't those infomercials on at 3 am? I make a mental note to check the parental controls on our TV. And then I get back to the Ninja. It does not make coffee, but it does make frozen drinks and salsa. The box has the most beautiful picture I have ever seen--of a frozen strawberry something-or-other, and it is talking to me. "Buy me! You won't regret it!". Never ignore the voice! I decide that a cheap coffee maker and a Ninja is as good as a two for one deal, and put them both in my cart.
B had been very quiet during this time, but at this point, he decided he was done. He was so done, in fact, that when I said it was time to go, he just laid on the floor. And stayed there. No tantruming. No screaming. Just kicked back. Arms under his head. In the middle of the ninja aisle. N and I walked an aisle over and came back to find him in the same spot. Twice. He was not budging. Someone made an announcement over the loud speaker, and I told him, "Didn't you hear, B? She said that little boy needs to get up off the floor". Believe it or not, this has worked for similar situations in the past. Not this time. This time, he just looked at me and said, "No. I don't think so. I didn't hear her say my name". We tried walking away again. He didn't budge. Finally, I went back and said "Bye, B. We love you. We hope you enjoy your stay here. We'll come back to see you on alternate Wednesdays." A staff person walked by and then came back and waited to make sure I wasn't really leaving him there. Whatever.
Eventually he got up, and as we headed for the register, he and N decided to look at kids place mats. And then they decided to take them out. And then B decided to throw them all over the floor. Repeatedly. A woman walking by observed this, and shook her head at me as she walked by. This was not a smiling head shake. This was not an "I've been there, honey" head shake. This wasn't even a "Better you than me" head shake. No, I've seen my share of head shakes, and this was definitely a "your children are going to end up in prison" head shake. So, I did what any good mother wanting to model appropriate social skills for her children would do. I smiled and said somewhat loudly, "Yup, They're mine. Lucky, aren't I?"
We finally made it to the register, and B was holding on to the front of the cart, facing me. I've heard you're not supposed to let them do this. I've heard it's because the cart may tip over. I've heard it's because they may fall. I've never heard it's because their foot may get stuck in the bottom part of the cart, and they will be unable to move, and that, even though you are just a cart's length away from them, at the cash register, surrounded by people, they will loudly and repeatedly scream, "Mommmmmm!!!!! I'm STUCK! Get me OUT!!!!!" I've never heard that it's because it's very awkward to try to remove a foot from the underside of a shopping cart while also holding onto the child whose foot it is, to prevent him from falling face first onto the dirty K-Mart floor (that he was just laying on) once you eventually remove his foot. I've never heard that. But now you have. So don't say you didn't know.
The other thing I never heard is that, once you realize that your child is not injured, and that he's not screaming in pain, you will laugh uncontrollably as you attempt to remove his foot from the shopping cart. This really doesn't help the process. However, it does provide great entertainment to the man behind you in line, who is buying newborn size diapers and bottles, and in all likelihood has no idea that his life will, in a few short years, look very much like yours.
Fortunately, we left without having to call the fire department, but I realized that I needed to pick up my W2 at work, only a two minute drive away. I decide it couldn't be any worse than K-Mart, and I really needed to get it today. So, I ignored the little voice again and took them with me to my office. We took the elevator up to the second floor, where B was excited to see that we could look down on the lobby below. He stood at the railing and looked down, and as a man I assume is a client of a co-worker came out of my office suite and stood next to us to wait for the elevator, B announced loudly, "Mom! I'm gonna jump! I'm gonna jump!". The man was kind enough to talk him down, and tell him that while it did look like fun, it probably wouldn't have great results. Why did I ignore the voice? Never ignore the voice!
Some days I come home fairly surprised that we are all still in one piece. Today I also came home happy that we didn't have to call the fire department to remove B's foot from the shopping cart, thankful that B only talked about jumping over the railing in my building, and glad that no one was left--voluntarily or otherwise-- at K-Mart.
I also came home thinking that, in spite of days like this, life is good. At least I have a sense of humor to get through these moments. These are the small things, and in the big picture, the only parts of them that we'll remember are the parts that made us laugh. And, if my biggest problem--today, at least-- is working around nap time (or not) to go get a coffee maker, then I am truly, incredibly fortunate.
Life is good.
Cause I have a Ninja.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
For the Love of...Sleep
It recently occurred to me that I have turned into a freak. Not about everything. I am not a germaphobe. I don't have to have my children in my eyesight every moment of the day. Their rooms don't have to be spotless (In addition to not being a freak about this, I am also not delusional enough to think that it would ever actually happen--hey, maybe my mental health is better than I thought!). I am a freak, however, when it comes to sleep--particularly nap time. I admire those parents who are OK with having a child with them every waking moment. I, however, am not one of them. I need some child free time in my day, however brief. This is not optional. It is required. For three reasons:
1) As it is, most days I manage only to repeatedly clean the kitchen, hopefully pick up the living room, run the dishwasher, get dirty laundry out of rooms, continually run the washer and dryer, and possibly fold, but rarely actually put away, laundry. When I try to do these things when my children are awake, I have lots of help. More, in fact, than I ever need. The dishwasher gets filled more quickly, but not run, because I have to remove the assorted cars, trucks, trains, and Little People that O has so helpfully placed in there before I can run it. I'm not sure what would happen if I left them there. Maybe I'll try that next time, but I would hate to have to buy a new dishwasher because, in a moment of weakness, I went along with O's plan to turn the dishwasher into a car wash for Hot Wheels. Meanwhile, B is taking all the toys that I just put in the play room back into the living room. If I attempt to do laundry while they are awake, they start grabbing random clothing items from wherever they happen to find them--including drawers and closets--and throwing them down to me. If I try to make dinner while they are awake, they are cracking eggs for me, even when no eggs are necessary. I'm lucky to have such helpful children. But it doesn't really help with productivity.
2) The stories I write about are, believe it or not, generally from the good days, when they have slept. You don't read about what happens on the days when they haven't slept, because I amlicking tequila off the floor nearly asleep by eight o'clock those nights, and have no energy left to write about the day's adventures. Not to mention, I don't want to relive them.
3) If I don't have an hour or two of relative silence during the day, I will lose my mind even sooner than predicted.
So, yes, I have turned into a freak about nap times.
Unfortunately, B and O are not quite on the same page as I am. Recently, in spite of my best efforts, they have started staying awake during nap times. If they stayed in their room playing and talking quietly, I would probably be OK with this, as they would hopefully be getting some rest. As it happens, though, they stay in their room laughing, screaming, yelling, throwing things, and taking O's crib apart. Not exactly restful. For any of us. I have tried to remedy this several different ways. Separate rooms--they just scream louder. Separate nap times-someone gets over tired (usually me), which defeats the whole purpose. Separate houses--the neighbors were unhappy when they found a strange child in their house. Whatever.
This is my long winded way of explaining that, when my children do go to sleep, I will do whatever I can to keep it that way. This has the potential, however, to impact my behavior in other areas of my life. I am not proud of this. I wish I could just go with the flow, like I can with so many other things in life. But, my children need me. They need me to be sane. And if that is to happen, they need to take naps.
In general, if people come to our home, I try to be welcoming. We like having company, and that's what we're supposed to do, right? Mi casa es su casa. If you can find a spot that's not covered in trains, fairies, yogurt, or dog hair, by all means, please make yourself at home. I'll even try to find something besides cheerios to feed you. If you stay long enough, I will beg you to drink with me and offer you a couch to sleep on, and then I will make you drink more so you don't notice that it's the one covered in yogurt and dog hair. Jimmy is even more welcoming than I am. He goes right to the part where he offers you beer.
If you come during nap time, however, it's a little different. If I know you're coming, I will meet you at the door and we will quietly go talk outside. You may wonder why I'm taking you outside when it's 30 degrees. It's because they are sleeping. If you don't like the cold, come back in the spring. Or at least when nap time is over. If you unexpectedly come to my door during nap time, all bets are off, but here's what will likely happen from your perspective:
You knock. I don't answer. You are vaguely aware that a dog is barking inside. You knock again. You are vaguely aware of a crying baby. You probably think some warm fuzzy thought about babies and dogs as you wonder why we aren't answering since we're obviously home. You knock again. This time, I answer the door, baby on my hip, dog at my side, three-year-old running in circles behind me, and you briefly wonder about my crazed expression, but you're happy that your mission--whatever reason you have for knocking on my door--is one step closer to being accomplished.
Here's what happens from my end: You knock. I cringe and silently curse, awaiting the barking dog that I know will awaken the sleeping children that it just took an hour and a half to convince to go to sleep. I ignore you, hoping you will go away (unless, of course, it's something important, like you are are locked out of your house, your car has broken down, you haven't eaten in two days, or you have brought me tequila). Nothing personal. I probably don't even know who you are at that point. But did you just see the part about it taking an hour and a half to get those children to sleep? But you don't go away. You knock again. If the dog didn't hear you the first time, she does now, and she is barking. My cursing is no longer silent. I hope she won't bark long enough or loudly enough to wake sleeping children, but she does, and now we have a barking dog and a crying toddler. A minute later, we have a barking dog, a crying toddler, and a three-year-old old repeatedly asking "Mommy, who's here? Mommy, who's here? Mommy, who's here?"
I know, of course, that these children will not go back to sleep, and that even if they do, I will have to wake them as soon as they fall asleep to go pick up their sister at school. I also know that they will be grumpy and whiny, if not outright combative, by dinner, which will likely consist of something frozen and barely edible, since I will have tried to get dinner together while also attempting to do the three loads of laundry that I didn't get to do while they should have been sleeping. This is why, when I answer the door, I may look like a crazed woman on the verge of tears. It's not that I'm not happy to see you. It's just that, you know, it's nap time.
I've been thinking though, that it's just not right for me to be so unwelcoming. After all, mi casa es su casa, even if you do come to my casa during nap time. So, from now on, I'm going to be more welcoming. I'm going to tell whoever it is to please, by all means, come in. After all , it must be important if you came in person. During nap time. Without calling first. Please, sit down. Don't mind the yogurt on the couch. Just push those toys over. Make yourself at home. Stay a while. Can I get you some cheerios? Or maybe something different--like cornflakes? I'm so glad you're here. Will you hold O for a minute? I'm just going to pop out to get the mail. No, B can stay with you. I'll be back in a flash. Oh no, I always take my car keys to the mailbox. In fact, I like to drive there, so don't worry if you see the car leaving the driveway. Why don't you try to get the kids to lie down? They love that.
I'll be right back.
Just as soon as you get them to sleep.
And don't worry. I'll knock.
1) As it is, most days I manage only to repeatedly clean the kitchen, hopefully pick up the living room, run the dishwasher, get dirty laundry out of rooms, continually run the washer and dryer, and possibly fold, but rarely actually put away, laundry. When I try to do these things when my children are awake, I have lots of help. More, in fact, than I ever need. The dishwasher gets filled more quickly, but not run, because I have to remove the assorted cars, trucks, trains, and Little People that O has so helpfully placed in there before I can run it. I'm not sure what would happen if I left them there. Maybe I'll try that next time, but I would hate to have to buy a new dishwasher because, in a moment of weakness, I went along with O's plan to turn the dishwasher into a car wash for Hot Wheels. Meanwhile, B is taking all the toys that I just put in the play room back into the living room. If I attempt to do laundry while they are awake, they start grabbing random clothing items from wherever they happen to find them--including drawers and closets--and throwing them down to me. If I try to make dinner while they are awake, they are cracking eggs for me, even when no eggs are necessary. I'm lucky to have such helpful children. But it doesn't really help with productivity.
2) The stories I write about are, believe it or not, generally from the good days, when they have slept. You don't read about what happens on the days when they haven't slept, because I am
3) If I don't have an hour or two of relative silence during the day, I will lose my mind even sooner than predicted.
So, yes, I have turned into a freak about nap times.
Unfortunately, B and O are not quite on the same page as I am. Recently, in spite of my best efforts, they have started staying awake during nap times. If they stayed in their room playing and talking quietly, I would probably be OK with this, as they would hopefully be getting some rest. As it happens, though, they stay in their room laughing, screaming, yelling, throwing things, and taking O's crib apart. Not exactly restful. For any of us. I have tried to remedy this several different ways. Separate rooms--they just scream louder. Separate nap times-someone gets over tired (usually me), which defeats the whole purpose. Separate houses--the neighbors were unhappy when they found a strange child in their house. Whatever.
This is my long winded way of explaining that, when my children do go to sleep, I will do whatever I can to keep it that way. This has the potential, however, to impact my behavior in other areas of my life. I am not proud of this. I wish I could just go with the flow, like I can with so many other things in life. But, my children need me. They need me to be sane. And if that is to happen, they need to take naps.
In general, if people come to our home, I try to be welcoming. We like having company, and that's what we're supposed to do, right? Mi casa es su casa. If you can find a spot that's not covered in trains, fairies, yogurt, or dog hair, by all means, please make yourself at home. I'll even try to find something besides cheerios to feed you. If you stay long enough, I will beg you to drink with me and offer you a couch to sleep on, and then I will make you drink more so you don't notice that it's the one covered in yogurt and dog hair. Jimmy is even more welcoming than I am. He goes right to the part where he offers you beer.
If you come during nap time, however, it's a little different. If I know you're coming, I will meet you at the door and we will quietly go talk outside. You may wonder why I'm taking you outside when it's 30 degrees. It's because they are sleeping. If you don't like the cold, come back in the spring. Or at least when nap time is over. If you unexpectedly come to my door during nap time, all bets are off, but here's what will likely happen from your perspective:
You knock. I don't answer. You are vaguely aware that a dog is barking inside. You knock again. You are vaguely aware of a crying baby. You probably think some warm fuzzy thought about babies and dogs as you wonder why we aren't answering since we're obviously home. You knock again. This time, I answer the door, baby on my hip, dog at my side, three-year-old running in circles behind me, and you briefly wonder about my crazed expression, but you're happy that your mission--whatever reason you have for knocking on my door--is one step closer to being accomplished.
Here's what happens from my end: You knock. I cringe and silently curse, awaiting the barking dog that I know will awaken the sleeping children that it just took an hour and a half to convince to go to sleep. I ignore you, hoping you will go away (unless, of course, it's something important, like you are are locked out of your house, your car has broken down, you haven't eaten in two days, or you have brought me tequila). Nothing personal. I probably don't even know who you are at that point. But did you just see the part about it taking an hour and a half to get those children to sleep? But you don't go away. You knock again. If the dog didn't hear you the first time, she does now, and she is barking. My cursing is no longer silent. I hope she won't bark long enough or loudly enough to wake sleeping children, but she does, and now we have a barking dog and a crying toddler. A minute later, we have a barking dog, a crying toddler, and a three-year-old old repeatedly asking "Mommy, who's here? Mommy, who's here? Mommy, who's here?"
I know, of course, that these children will not go back to sleep, and that even if they do, I will have to wake them as soon as they fall asleep to go pick up their sister at school. I also know that they will be grumpy and whiny, if not outright combative, by dinner, which will likely consist of something frozen and barely edible, since I will have tried to get dinner together while also attempting to do the three loads of laundry that I didn't get to do while they should have been sleeping. This is why, when I answer the door, I may look like a crazed woman on the verge of tears. It's not that I'm not happy to see you. It's just that, you know, it's nap time.
I've been thinking though, that it's just not right for me to be so unwelcoming. After all, mi casa es su casa, even if you do come to my casa during nap time. So, from now on, I'm going to be more welcoming. I'm going to tell whoever it is to please, by all means, come in. After all , it must be important if you came in person. During nap time. Without calling first. Please, sit down. Don't mind the yogurt on the couch. Just push those toys over. Make yourself at home. Stay a while. Can I get you some cheerios? Or maybe something different--like cornflakes? I'm so glad you're here. Will you hold O for a minute? I'm just going to pop out to get the mail. No, B can stay with you. I'll be back in a flash. Oh no, I always take my car keys to the mailbox. In fact, I like to drive there, so don't worry if you see the car leaving the driveway. Why don't you try to get the kids to lie down? They love that.
I'll be right back.
Just as soon as you get them to sleep.
And don't worry. I'll knock.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Judgement Day
Sometimes it feels like every day is judgement day when you're a mom....
When N was three, she started taking dance. B was an infant, and, for most of the first year at least, I would take her to class and sit in the waiting room, rocking B in his carrier, drinking coffee, and talking to other moms. I remember thinking , "Well this isn't bad. I can do this". This week, as I took N to dance, B and O were with me, as they always are unless Jimmy happens to get home from work early that day. This week, as I thought back to how it was that first year that N took dance, I realized that this was one of those occasions where a previous thought comes back to bite you in the...um, arm.
N goes to a great dance studio, that is just a little on the small side. There's not a lot of room in the waiting area. This is sometimes difficult for B and O, because while N is doing something that she loves just in the other room, they don't really get to do the things that they love. For example, jumping from chair to chair is not encouraged. Standing at the door watching the dancers and doing your own dance while screaming "Hi N!!" is not encouraged. Running and screaming in the waiting room-- not encouraged. Continually filling up and pouring out cups of water from the water cooler--also not encouraged. All of this is, of course, completely understandable, but as you can see, some of B and O's favorite activities are highly frowned upon. That does not, however, prevent them from participating in them anyway. Usually, though, we manage to keep the disruption to a minimum. This week, for some reason, we did not. B was restless. O was restless. I was tired from spending much of the previous day cleaning up syrup and peanut butter. Although I read to them, distracted them with toys, and took frequent breaksto the bar next door to let them run around outside, it was clearly not enough.
When we came in from outside toward the end of the class, B decided he was fascinated with the long vertical blinds in the picture window. I asked him nicely not to touch. He ignored me. I told him firmly not to touch. He ignored me. I did the best mean mommy voice I could, considering we were in a small waiting room surrounded by other people. He ignored me. Instead, he gave the blinds a yank. I didn't see or hear anything fall, though it's possible that something did fall and I missed it because, after all, I was also chasing O during this time. After a moment, when we had moved on to other things, an older woman who was there with her grand-daughter came over, started fidgeting with the blinds, and said, "Oh here, let me help you fix that". Help me fix that? Hmmmm. While I appreciated the, um, helpfulness, I had to wonder... are you sure the word for this is helpful? Cause it just didn't feel all that helpful from my end. It felt like...something other than helpfulness. Several thoughts went through my mind, but I decided that maybe, like beauty, helpfulness is in the eye of the beholder, and I put a smile on my face that clearly said, "Whatever".
B eventually settled down and even shared his cars from home with another little boy. As N's class ended, I asked B to nicely ask for his car back since we were leaving soon. He did--very nicely- and the little boy looked at him and said ,"NO". B came back to me to report. "Mom, he said he's not giving it back.". "It's OK, B, " I told him. "Just ask him again nicely", I said a little louder this time, just in case his mom had missed the first exchange. And B walked calmly back to him, and said in his loudest three-year-old tough guy voice, "HEY! YOU GIVE ME MY CAR BACK RIGHT NOW!". "B, not like that". I told him. The little boy's mom glared at me. Maybe I'm supposed to make B apologize, I thought. That might be the right thing to do. But he did ask nicely the first time. I no longer knew what the right thing to do was. What I did know was that it was hot, crowded, my kids were out of control, we were all getting hungry, and I wanted to leave. More than anything. I also knew that trying to make B apologize for yelling at someone who just refused to give him back his own toy was not going to end well. So I just smiled. Whatever.
We finallyescaped left with some shred of our dignity in tact, though I'm quite sure we were the talk of several dinner tables that night. I was feeling somewhat defeated as I took NBO to the grocery store to pick up a few things. O started grabbing everything out of the cart and throwing it. I put it in. He took it out. I told him to put it back. He ignored me and threw it. N would pick it up, unless B got it first, in which case it turned into a game of catch in the frozen food aisle. I would then tell B to put it back in the cart. He would ignore me. You get the picture.
We had been playing this game for fifteen minutes or so and I knew it was time to get out of there, when O threw a pint ofBen and Jerrys frozen broccoli onto the floor, and B grabbed it before N could. B ran to the opposite end of the aisle, and threw that ice cream broccoli back to us as hard as he could. Wow. What a great arm that child has. He's clearly picked something up from watching football with daddy.
I don't think the couple that turned the corner at that exact moment appreciated what a great arm B has, though. No, theice cream broccoli didn't hit them. However, their disdain was pretty apparent. It was quite obvious that they were appalled by the scene they had stumbled upon: a toddler emptying the contents of our cart onto the floor, his three-year-old brother using the frozen food aisle as his personal football field, and their sister and now nearly deranged mother watching, laughing, and doing absolutely nothing about it.
OK--maybe it wasn't entirely appropriate for me to give B a high five and tell him what a great throw that was. Whatever.
When N was three, she started taking dance. B was an infant, and, for most of the first year at least, I would take her to class and sit in the waiting room, rocking B in his carrier, drinking coffee, and talking to other moms. I remember thinking , "Well this isn't bad. I can do this". This week, as I took N to dance, B and O were with me, as they always are unless Jimmy happens to get home from work early that day. This week, as I thought back to how it was that first year that N took dance, I realized that this was one of those occasions where a previous thought comes back to bite you in the...um, arm.
N goes to a great dance studio, that is just a little on the small side. There's not a lot of room in the waiting area. This is sometimes difficult for B and O, because while N is doing something that she loves just in the other room, they don't really get to do the things that they love. For example, jumping from chair to chair is not encouraged. Standing at the door watching the dancers and doing your own dance while screaming "Hi N!!" is not encouraged. Running and screaming in the waiting room-- not encouraged. Continually filling up and pouring out cups of water from the water cooler--also not encouraged. All of this is, of course, completely understandable, but as you can see, some of B and O's favorite activities are highly frowned upon. That does not, however, prevent them from participating in them anyway. Usually, though, we manage to keep the disruption to a minimum. This week, for some reason, we did not. B was restless. O was restless. I was tired from spending much of the previous day cleaning up syrup and peanut butter. Although I read to them, distracted them with toys, and took frequent breaks
When we came in from outside toward the end of the class, B decided he was fascinated with the long vertical blinds in the picture window. I asked him nicely not to touch. He ignored me. I told him firmly not to touch. He ignored me. I did the best mean mommy voice I could, considering we were in a small waiting room surrounded by other people. He ignored me. Instead, he gave the blinds a yank. I didn't see or hear anything fall, though it's possible that something did fall and I missed it because, after all, I was also chasing O during this time. After a moment, when we had moved on to other things, an older woman who was there with her grand-daughter came over, started fidgeting with the blinds, and said, "Oh here, let me help you fix that". Help me fix that? Hmmmm. While I appreciated the, um, helpfulness, I had to wonder... are you sure the word for this is helpful? Cause it just didn't feel all that helpful from my end. It felt like...something other than helpfulness. Several thoughts went through my mind, but I decided that maybe, like beauty, helpfulness is in the eye of the beholder, and I put a smile on my face that clearly said, "Whatever".
B eventually settled down and even shared his cars from home with another little boy. As N's class ended, I asked B to nicely ask for his car back since we were leaving soon. He did--very nicely- and the little boy looked at him and said ,"NO". B came back to me to report. "Mom, he said he's not giving it back.". "It's OK, B, " I told him. "Just ask him again nicely", I said a little louder this time, just in case his mom had missed the first exchange. And B walked calmly back to him, and said in his loudest three-year-old tough guy voice, "HEY! YOU GIVE ME MY CAR BACK RIGHT NOW!". "B, not like that". I told him. The little boy's mom glared at me. Maybe I'm supposed to make B apologize, I thought. That might be the right thing to do. But he did ask nicely the first time. I no longer knew what the right thing to do was. What I did know was that it was hot, crowded, my kids were out of control, we were all getting hungry, and I wanted to leave. More than anything. I also knew that trying to make B apologize for yelling at someone who just refused to give him back his own toy was not going to end well. So I just smiled. Whatever.
We finally
We had been playing this game for fifteen minutes or so and I knew it was time to get out of there, when O threw a pint of
I don't think the couple that turned the corner at that exact moment appreciated what a great arm B has, though. No, the
OK--maybe it wasn't entirely appropriate for me to give B a high five and tell him what a great throw that was. Whatever.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Sticky Situation
There's not much I miss about my life before kids. Yesterday, though, I was reminded of something that I do miss. I really miss being allowed to be sick.
There is no good time to be sick, but at least before kids, I was allowed to be sick once in a while. Call in sick, and back to bed with tea and Jerry Springer. Oh wait, this is one of those tricky grammatical situations where one or two words changes the whole meaning. Let me clarify: I actually have an extremely low tolerance for Jerry Springer. It depresses me and makes me sad for the future of our country. But before kids, I at least had the option of watching Jerry Springer. Not anymore. So when I woke up yesterday with every part of my body aching, I knew it probably wasn't going to be a great day. (For the record: I admire those of you whose motto is "Make it a Great Day!". However, I am a realist. Some days are just not going to be all that great. On these days, my personal mottos include: "Make it a Survivable Day", "Make it a Day Where No One Gets Hurt", and "Make it a Day Where I Don't Want to Drown Myself in a Vat of Whiskey.")
I struggled through breakfast, wondering if I could somehow make waffles and lay on the couch at the same time. When everyone had eaten, I retired to the couch with the new comforter that my sister gave me for Christmas. I love this comforter. It is my new best friend. And yes, she gave it to me. I do not have to share it with anyone. And I don't. Not even Jimmy. And yesterday, I really loved it. If I didn't have the option of watching mindless grown-up TV, at least I had my new, warm, incredibly fluffy comforter.
I was vaguely aware that there was chaos going on around me, but I felt powerless to stop it. So, I encouraged lots of mindless kid TV and fortunately, N was off school and could alert me when her brothers' antics were turning dangerous by screaming "MMMMOOOOOOOOMMMMM" loud enough to burst my eardrums, which were already aching like every other part of my body.
I struggled through lunch. I can't tell you what they had for lunch, but it was something edible, and I know that preparing it required me to leave my couch and comforter for some period of time. I struggled through diaper changes--struggled really being the key word here--and I think one of my three children may have gotten dressed at some point yesterday.
I finally decided that a shower was in order, though I wasn't really sure I could make myself leave my couch and comforter again. Eventually, I made my way upstairs and discovered that the hot water made things stop aching. This caused me to take a longer shower than usual. Well, that, and the fact that I think I may have briefly fallen asleep in there. When I heard N say in a very controlled, yet very angry voice "You...Had...Better..Put...That...Down...Now.", I thought I should probably get out. Wow. She does a really good angry voice. This is not good. I make a mental note to watch my tone and/or start taking xanax. When I heard her add a not so controlled "NOW!", I was afraid of what I was going to find. And I should have been.
I threw on clothes--well, as much as you can "throw" on clothes when everything is starting to ache again--and was looking forward to returning to my couch and comforter. As I came downstairs, I immediately noticed a strong smell of....something sweet. I couldn't place it immediately. But as I stepped in something sticky, I realized that it was syrup. N and B love syrup. N and B love it so much in fact, that they lick it off of their plates. (No, I don't LET them do this. I let them do very little. That doesn't mean they don't do it). Until yesterday, O hadn't had syrup. I'm pretty sure he loves it now, too.
Although I was now standing in a puddle of syrup, I still couldn't figure out why the smell was so strong. Until I looked around. And realized that there was syrup everywhere. Living Room floor: syrup. Kitchen Floor: Syrup. Kitchen walls: syrup. kitchen door: cap from bottle of syrup. Stuck to door with...syrup. O: syrup (I had remembered to put him in his pack and play. But if you can't go to the syrup, apparently the syrup comes to you). B's hair: syrup...and something else. I smell his head and realize that peanut butter had also been involved. There has been a peanut butter and syrup party while I was in the shower. N is trying to fill me in on B's escapades while I am walking around, finding more puddles of syrup. I want to cry. And then I remember my comforter, and pray that the syrup hasn't made it that far. To my shock, there isn't a drop. Thank you God.
So, while I really wanted--needed-- to be on the couch with my new syrup-free comforter, I was scrubbing syrup and peanut butter off the floors, the walls, the doors, and my children, while I was also sweating, wondering if I was going to pass out, and thinking that syrup and peanut butter really smell pretty gross together. As I found a puddle next to the trash can, I thought of N and B's love for syrup, and hoped no one had licked any off the floor. And then, when I thought I was done and found yet another puddle, I thought, why would that have been a bad thing, exactly?
Come to find out, yesterday was National Peanut Butter Day. They were just celebrating! And National Maple Syrup Day was December 17th, but we didn't know that then. Thus the joint celebration yesterday. I briefly thought of banning all future celebrations, but that just wouldn't be right. In fact, we should celebrate more.
National Margarita Day is February 22nd, but I'm just going to start a little early. If you're looking for me, I'll be licking the tequila off the floor.
There is no good time to be sick, but at least before kids, I was allowed to be sick once in a while. Call in sick, and back to bed with tea and Jerry Springer. Oh wait, this is one of those tricky grammatical situations where one or two words changes the whole meaning. Let me clarify: I actually have an extremely low tolerance for Jerry Springer. It depresses me and makes me sad for the future of our country. But before kids, I at least had the option of watching Jerry Springer. Not anymore. So when I woke up yesterday with every part of my body aching, I knew it probably wasn't going to be a great day. (For the record: I admire those of you whose motto is "Make it a Great Day!". However, I am a realist. Some days are just not going to be all that great. On these days, my personal mottos include: "Make it a Survivable Day", "Make it a Day Where No One Gets Hurt", and "Make it a Day Where I Don't Want to Drown Myself in a Vat of Whiskey.")
I struggled through breakfast, wondering if I could somehow make waffles and lay on the couch at the same time. When everyone had eaten, I retired to the couch with the new comforter that my sister gave me for Christmas. I love this comforter. It is my new best friend. And yes, she gave it to me. I do not have to share it with anyone. And I don't. Not even Jimmy. And yesterday, I really loved it. If I didn't have the option of watching mindless grown-up TV, at least I had my new, warm, incredibly fluffy comforter.
I was vaguely aware that there was chaos going on around me, but I felt powerless to stop it. So, I encouraged lots of mindless kid TV and fortunately, N was off school and could alert me when her brothers' antics were turning dangerous by screaming "MMMMOOOOOOOOMMMMM" loud enough to burst my eardrums, which were already aching like every other part of my body.
I struggled through lunch. I can't tell you what they had for lunch, but it was something edible, and I know that preparing it required me to leave my couch and comforter for some period of time. I struggled through diaper changes--struggled really being the key word here--and I think one of my three children may have gotten dressed at some point yesterday.
I finally decided that a shower was in order, though I wasn't really sure I could make myself leave my couch and comforter again. Eventually, I made my way upstairs and discovered that the hot water made things stop aching. This caused me to take a longer shower than usual. Well, that, and the fact that I think I may have briefly fallen asleep in there. When I heard N say in a very controlled, yet very angry voice "You...Had...Better..Put...That...Down...Now.", I thought I should probably get out. Wow. She does a really good angry voice. This is not good. I make a mental note to watch my tone and/or start taking xanax. When I heard her add a not so controlled "NOW!", I was afraid of what I was going to find. And I should have been.
I threw on clothes--well, as much as you can "throw" on clothes when everything is starting to ache again--and was looking forward to returning to my couch and comforter. As I came downstairs, I immediately noticed a strong smell of....something sweet. I couldn't place it immediately. But as I stepped in something sticky, I realized that it was syrup. N and B love syrup. N and B love it so much in fact, that they lick it off of their plates. (No, I don't LET them do this. I let them do very little. That doesn't mean they don't do it). Until yesterday, O hadn't had syrup. I'm pretty sure he loves it now, too.
Although I was now standing in a puddle of syrup, I still couldn't figure out why the smell was so strong. Until I looked around. And realized that there was syrup everywhere. Living Room floor: syrup. Kitchen Floor: Syrup. Kitchen walls: syrup. kitchen door: cap from bottle of syrup. Stuck to door with...syrup. O: syrup (I had remembered to put him in his pack and play. But if you can't go to the syrup, apparently the syrup comes to you). B's hair: syrup...and something else. I smell his head and realize that peanut butter had also been involved. There has been a peanut butter and syrup party while I was in the shower. N is trying to fill me in on B's escapades while I am walking around, finding more puddles of syrup. I want to cry. And then I remember my comforter, and pray that the syrup hasn't made it that far. To my shock, there isn't a drop. Thank you God.
So, while I really wanted--needed-- to be on the couch with my new syrup-free comforter, I was scrubbing syrup and peanut butter off the floors, the walls, the doors, and my children, while I was also sweating, wondering if I was going to pass out, and thinking that syrup and peanut butter really smell pretty gross together. As I found a puddle next to the trash can, I thought of N and B's love for syrup, and hoped no one had licked any off the floor. And then, when I thought I was done and found yet another puddle, I thought, why would that have been a bad thing, exactly?
Come to find out, yesterday was National Peanut Butter Day. They were just celebrating! And National Maple Syrup Day was December 17th, but we didn't know that then. Thus the joint celebration yesterday. I briefly thought of banning all future celebrations, but that just wouldn't be right. In fact, we should celebrate more.
National Margarita Day is February 22nd, but I'm just going to start a little early. If you're looking for me, I'll be licking the tequila off the floor.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Fairy Tales
Fairies are big in our house. Well, they're not big, since after all, they are fairies. But they are popular. Some have even left notes at times, or confirmed their existence by leaving little fairy footprints on the notes that were left for them. It used to just be N who was fascinated with them. At least once a week, she comes home with stories about who she played "Fairies" with at school. She rolls her eyes as she tells me that some girls don't even believe that fairies are real. Silly, silly girls. The fairies that visit us used to be the invisible kind--I liked them the best. At Christmas, though, N received a total of 12 new fairies. She loves them all, and she recently informed me that, at night, some of them even come to life.
Since the arrival of the twelve fairies, we are all developing an interest in them. My own interest is generally limited to trying to figure out if they can really fly, and if so, why they don't fly themselves back to N's room at night. I gave up trying to figure out their names. When I was N's age, there were two fairies: Tinkerbell and the Tooth Fairy. Easy to keep track of. Not anymore. Now we have Iradessa, Rosetta, Fawn, and Silvermist, among others. Or maybe it's Iradescent, Risotto, Bambi, and Goldenfrost--I can't keep track. I can pretty much tell you which shoes go on which fairy, though, since I find their magical little shoes everywhere and put them back on 12 times a day--that is, when their magical little shoes don't magically find their way into the magic trashcan first. Jimmy spends time with the fairies, too. I wouldn't really call his interactions with them an "interest", though. He usually just curses at them when he steps on one or finds one under his pillow. Geesh--what kind of a way is that to treat visitors?
I've recently noticed that B and O are becoming enamored with the fairies. In O's case, I'm pretty sure he just wants their teeny tiny little fairy shoes so he can stick them up his nose. Occasionally, he sticks a fairy in his mouth, looks disappointed that she doesn't taste nearly as good as she looks, and throws her across the room (huh? what happened to flying, fairy?). Then he goes back to looking for other things to put up his nose.
B, on the other hand, has been spending a lot of time playing with the fairies lately. Since the fairies are "off limits" in N's room during the day, he has to be sneaky to get to them. (But we already know that he's a sneak). Somehow, he found a way, and I would occasionally catch him with a fairy. Whatever. He's only three. It's probably just a phase. After finding him with Fawn, or maybe it was Rosetta, for the third time in as many days, I started thinking maybe there was more to it. Fine. So maybe it's not a phase. This is the 21st century. Boys can play with dolls all they want. Gender roles are over-rated. And then, when I found him sneaking out of N's room yet again today with a fairy, I thought, well, maybe this is just part of who he is. That's OK, too. He's my son. I will love and accept him no matter what.
Today, he had Silvermist, or Goldenfog, or whatever her name is, and since I figured this would start World War III when N saw him, I told him he needed to go put her back in N's room. N overheard and, to my surprise, said "It's OK, mom. He can play with her". Wow. What a sweet girl, letting her brother play with one of her favorite toys. "Mom, " N tells me, "She's the mean fairy anyway." The mean fairy? I ask N to elaborate, but all I get is a shrug and "She's just mean" as N goes in search of the other, kinder fairies.
I watch B play with the mean fairy for a few minutes, making sure she is behaving herself. And, as I do this, I realize that I haven't really looked at this particular fairy, or her outfit, before. I mean, I've looked at her as Ithrow her help her fly up to N's room at night, or as I put her freakishly small pain in the @$$ adorable little shoes back on, but I haven't really looked at her. Until now. And as I look at her, I realize...this fairy is dressed like a hoochie mama. Cleavage? Why does a fairy need cleavage? And her dress is way too short. Or, does it just look like that because B has it hiked up to her belly button? I can't really tell. But, as I remember what N said about this being "the mean one", I decide it's that her dress is too short.
B is holding her in front of me, a leg in each hand. "Look mom! She can do the SPLITS!". I force a smile and say "Oh, yeah, she sure can". Only it's not really the splits she's doing. It's...close to the splits. It's....kind of similar to the splits. But it is NOT the splits. I look to see if Tarty Fairy is even wearing undies, and see only something that resembles a g-string. And then I finally get it. B doesn't like fairies. He likes fairies. I can't decide if this makes me feel better or worse. I picture him in twenty years, bringing home a real life version of Tarty Fairy, minus the wings-- someone named Bambi or Fawn, who is wearing a human version of Tarty Fairy's dress. I imagine him telling me, "But mom, she can do the SPLITS!".
I grab a truck and give it to him as I take Tarty Fairy away. I look her right in the eye. "Look here, Angeldust, you stay away from my baby boy." And then, I got my answer. Fairies really can fly. Sometimes they just need a little help.
Since the arrival of the twelve fairies, we are all developing an interest in them. My own interest is generally limited to trying to figure out if they can really fly, and if so, why they don't fly themselves back to N's room at night. I gave up trying to figure out their names. When I was N's age, there were two fairies: Tinkerbell and the Tooth Fairy. Easy to keep track of. Not anymore. Now we have Iradessa, Rosetta, Fawn, and Silvermist, among others. Or maybe it's Iradescent, Risotto, Bambi, and Goldenfrost--I can't keep track. I can pretty much tell you which shoes go on which fairy, though, since I find their magical little shoes everywhere and put them back on 12 times a day--that is, when their magical little shoes don't magically find their way into the magic trashcan first. Jimmy spends time with the fairies, too. I wouldn't really call his interactions with them an "interest", though. He usually just curses at them when he steps on one or finds one under his pillow. Geesh--what kind of a way is that to treat visitors?
I've recently noticed that B and O are becoming enamored with the fairies. In O's case, I'm pretty sure he just wants their teeny tiny little fairy shoes so he can stick them up his nose. Occasionally, he sticks a fairy in his mouth, looks disappointed that she doesn't taste nearly as good as she looks, and throws her across the room (huh? what happened to flying, fairy?). Then he goes back to looking for other things to put up his nose.
B, on the other hand, has been spending a lot of time playing with the fairies lately. Since the fairies are "off limits" in N's room during the day, he has to be sneaky to get to them. (But we already know that he's a sneak). Somehow, he found a way, and I would occasionally catch him with a fairy. Whatever. He's only three. It's probably just a phase. After finding him with Fawn, or maybe it was Rosetta, for the third time in as many days, I started thinking maybe there was more to it. Fine. So maybe it's not a phase. This is the 21st century. Boys can play with dolls all they want. Gender roles are over-rated. And then, when I found him sneaking out of N's room yet again today with a fairy, I thought, well, maybe this is just part of who he is. That's OK, too. He's my son. I will love and accept him no matter what.
Today, he had Silvermist, or Goldenfog, or whatever her name is, and since I figured this would start World War III when N saw him, I told him he needed to go put her back in N's room. N overheard and, to my surprise, said "It's OK, mom. He can play with her". Wow. What a sweet girl, letting her brother play with one of her favorite toys. "Mom, " N tells me, "She's the mean fairy anyway." The mean fairy? I ask N to elaborate, but all I get is a shrug and "She's just mean" as N goes in search of the other, kinder fairies.
I watch B play with the mean fairy for a few minutes, making sure she is behaving herself. And, as I do this, I realize that I haven't really looked at this particular fairy, or her outfit, before. I mean, I've looked at her as I
B is holding her in front of me, a leg in each hand. "Look mom! She can do the SPLITS!". I force a smile and say "Oh, yeah, she sure can". Only it's not really the splits she's doing. It's...close to the splits. It's....kind of similar to the splits. But it is NOT the splits. I look to see if Tarty Fairy is even wearing undies, and see only something that resembles a g-string. And then I finally get it. B doesn't like fairies. He likes fairies. I can't decide if this makes me feel better or worse. I picture him in twenty years, bringing home a real life version of Tarty Fairy, minus the wings-- someone named Bambi or Fawn, who is wearing a human version of Tarty Fairy's dress. I imagine him telling me, "But mom, she can do the SPLITS!".
I grab a truck and give it to him as I take Tarty Fairy away. I look her right in the eye. "Look here, Angeldust, you stay away from my baby boy." And then, I got my answer. Fairies really can fly. Sometimes they just need a little help.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
What I Didn't Know
There's so much no one tells you before you have kids.
I didn't know, for example, how little sleep I would actually get, and that for a time, at least, I would have only two goals in life: 1) to take care of this child and 2) to find a way to get more than twenty minutes of sleep at time. Unfortunately, these goals are often mutually exclusive. No one told me that. I also didn't know that my failure to meet goal #2 would, at times, turn me into a crazy, sobbing, irrational mess. I didn't know how many times a newborn could actually poop, and I definitely didn't know that poop can be a projectile. I didn't know there were so many different colors of poop, and that this would be something I would need to know. I had no idea that it was possible that so much of my time could be consumed by dealing with, thinking about, and keeping track of poop.
I didn't know that a baby could cry for so much of the day, or sleep for so little of the night. I didn't know that a toddler could say "No" twenty-seven times in one hour, or that a five-year-old could literally make me question which of us was smarter (I no longer question that. Now I know). I didn't know that any of these things alone would be enough to cause me to feel my sanity slipping away, and that, all together, they could cause me to come very close to going over the edge.
I didn't know that it was possible to literally not be able to hear myself think, and that the sound of three kids screaming in unison would cause me to wonder if I really had just lost my hearing in one ear. I didn't know how much I would sometimes crave a few minutes of silence, and just how hard that would be to find.
I had no idea that, when people said, "Things will never be the same," they were referring to my butt, my thighs, and my va-, um, various other body parts. I didn't know that stretch marks could be so fascinating to a two-year-old. Forget the toys! Come look at these things on mom's stomach!
I didn't know that a three-year-old, a dog, and a bag of confetti could be such a bad combination. I had no idea that so many hours a day could be spent cleaning up after three kids (and, sometimes, their father). I didn't know just how quickly these same three kids could trash the house that I just spent hours cleaning, and I definitely didn't know that I'd eventually decide just to leave it, and clean it all up when they turn eighteen.
I didn't know that two boys and a jar of peanut butter could do so much damage (but I should have). I didn't know that, after three kids, I'd still be dumb enough to leave two boys alone with a jar of peanut butter. I didn't know they could also reach the jelly.
I didn't know that I would spend so much time breaking up fights, or telling everyone to be nice, or sending people to their rooms. I really didn't know that, when my youngest child was approaching age two, some days I would still be this tired. And I had no idea that I could worry so much.
I don't know why I didn't know some of these things. Did people not tell me? Was I not listening? Did they figure I would find out on my own, just like they did? I'm not sure why I didn't know. But I'm glad I didn't. If I'd known, I might have missed out on all the other things I didn't know.
I didn't know that I could laugh so much, or love so much, or cry so much. I didn't know that a first step, or a first word, or a first report card could be the most exciting thing in my life. Ever. No one told me that a pre-school Christmas pageant, or a ballet recital, or a chorus concert, could also turn me into a sobbing mess. I didn't know that "I love you mommy" could be the most amazing thing I'd ever hear, and I had no idea that the sound of my children laughing would make me laugh so hard myself.
I didn't know that watching them play together would more than make up for all the fighting, or that hearing a brother tell his sister "Of course I love you. You're my sister," would make me want to cry. No one told me that a sister reading a book to her brothers would be a sound I'd want to hold onto forever, even if I can only hear it in one ear.
I didn't know how happy I'd be when they finally took a nap, but I also didn't know that I'd miss them when they were asleep. I didn't know that watching a sleeping child could be such a perfect ending to an incredibly crazy day, and no one told me that it would make me think, "Well of course there's a God." I didn't know that seeing them--and even hearing them--first thing in the morning could do the same thing.
I didn't know how they would turn my world upside down, and I think I know why no one told me. Some things are just hard to explain. Some things are indescribable. And some things you just have to see for yourself.
I didn't know, for example, how little sleep I would actually get, and that for a time, at least, I would have only two goals in life: 1) to take care of this child and 2) to find a way to get more than twenty minutes of sleep at time. Unfortunately, these goals are often mutually exclusive. No one told me that. I also didn't know that my failure to meet goal #2 would, at times, turn me into a crazy, sobbing, irrational mess. I didn't know how many times a newborn could actually poop, and I definitely didn't know that poop can be a projectile. I didn't know there were so many different colors of poop, and that this would be something I would need to know. I had no idea that it was possible that so much of my time could be consumed by dealing with, thinking about, and keeping track of poop.
I didn't know that a baby could cry for so much of the day, or sleep for so little of the night. I didn't know that a toddler could say "No" twenty-seven times in one hour, or that a five-year-old could literally make me question which of us was smarter (I no longer question that. Now I know). I didn't know that any of these things alone would be enough to cause me to feel my sanity slipping away, and that, all together, they could cause me to come very close to going over the edge.
I didn't know that it was possible to literally not be able to hear myself think, and that the sound of three kids screaming in unison would cause me to wonder if I really had just lost my hearing in one ear. I didn't know how much I would sometimes crave a few minutes of silence, and just how hard that would be to find.
I had no idea that, when people said, "Things will never be the same," they were referring to my butt, my thighs, and my va-, um, various other body parts. I didn't know that stretch marks could be so fascinating to a two-year-old. Forget the toys! Come look at these things on mom's stomach!
I didn't know that a three-year-old, a dog, and a bag of confetti could be such a bad combination. I had no idea that so many hours a day could be spent cleaning up after three kids (and, sometimes, their father). I didn't know just how quickly these same three kids could trash the house that I just spent hours cleaning, and I definitely didn't know that I'd eventually decide just to leave it, and clean it all up when they turn eighteen.
I didn't know that two boys and a jar of peanut butter could do so much damage (but I should have). I didn't know that, after three kids, I'd still be dumb enough to leave two boys alone with a jar of peanut butter. I didn't know they could also reach the jelly.
I didn't know that I would spend so much time breaking up fights, or telling everyone to be nice, or sending people to their rooms. I really didn't know that, when my youngest child was approaching age two, some days I would still be this tired. And I had no idea that I could worry so much.
I don't know why I didn't know some of these things. Did people not tell me? Was I not listening? Did they figure I would find out on my own, just like they did? I'm not sure why I didn't know. But I'm glad I didn't. If I'd known, I might have missed out on all the other things I didn't know.
I didn't know that I could laugh so much, or love so much, or cry so much. I didn't know that a first step, or a first word, or a first report card could be the most exciting thing in my life. Ever. No one told me that a pre-school Christmas pageant, or a ballet recital, or a chorus concert, could also turn me into a sobbing mess. I didn't know that "I love you mommy" could be the most amazing thing I'd ever hear, and I had no idea that the sound of my children laughing would make me laugh so hard myself.
I didn't know that watching them play together would more than make up for all the fighting, or that hearing a brother tell his sister "Of course I love you. You're my sister," would make me want to cry. No one told me that a sister reading a book to her brothers would be a sound I'd want to hold onto forever, even if I can only hear it in one ear.
I didn't know how happy I'd be when they finally took a nap, but I also didn't know that I'd miss them when they were asleep. I didn't know that watching a sleeping child could be such a perfect ending to an incredibly crazy day, and no one told me that it would make me think, "Well of course there's a God." I didn't know that seeing them--and even hearing them--first thing in the morning could do the same thing.
I didn't know how they would turn my world upside down, and I think I know why no one told me. Some things are just hard to explain. Some things are indescribable. And some things you just have to see for yourself.
Friday, January 20, 2012
May I have your attention...please?
At breakfast this morning, B asks what O is having for breakfast (because, you know, God forbid they have the same thing. Or God forbid they have something different. Depends on the day).
"Oatmeal is having O" I answer. Twice.
"Mom!" he asks, "Why are you talking funny?!" He is staring at me. His face clearly says..."my mother has lost her mind".
I am? What did I say? Oatmeal is having...oh, right.
"Sorry B, O is having oatmeal for breakfast".
He smiles and says "Mom, you are so funny."
Yes, I am. Too bad it's not intentional.
A few minutes later, I tell N to brush her shoes and get her teeth on. She laughs, thinks very little of what I have just said, and does what she knows I meant to say.
The other day we were in the car and my mind had wandered...to what we needed to get at the store, what I was going to make for dinner, how nice it would be to be sitting on a beach somewhere with a drink with a colorful umbrella in it...or a colorful drink with an umbrella in it..see what I mean? I was jolted out of my little fantasy by N screaming "Ow! Stop it!"
"B! Don't hit your sister!" Iscream say firmly.
"Well mom, you just told him it was OK," N informs me.
I did?
"He just told you he was going to hit me, and you said OK!"
Whoops. Sorry. I have no recollection of this. I must have thought someone was asking me if I wanted another colorful drink.
"Um, Mom, you can't tell him it's OK to hit me and then yell at him for hitting me". Love this girl. She is so smart. I just wish she wouldn't use it against me.
I think this all started when I had O. We were in the hospital, with our cute, sweet, adorable baby boy, and the nurses would come in and ask his name. I loved that N was there, as the proud big sister, to tell them her new brother's name. I loved that when someone came in and said "How cute! What's his name?", I could look at N, smile brightly, and say "Go ahead. Tell them what his name is, honey". I loved this, because I couldn't remember my brand new child's name to save my life. Granted, I was in a post c-section haze, and I've since heard that the effects of anesthesia may stay with you for months--even years--after surgery--a fact I am now clinging to with every brain cell I have. Yup, both of them.
I'm pretty sure I was smarter before I had kids. I was at least more articulate. It's hard to remember back that far (my oldest is six-and-a-half. Not all that long, you say? Try it in parenting years. It's like dog years) but I'm pretty sure that I used to be able to have a real conversation, on the spur of the moment, and not sound like someone for whom English is a second language.
From what I can recall, I used to be able to call, for example, the cable company, succinctly tell them what I needed, and have it taken care of. Now, by the time a real person comes on the phone, I have no idea why I've called them. I usually try to make small talk until it comes back to me. They probably get off the phone and think "Wow! That lady was so friendly". Nope. Just brain dead.
And though it's hard to believe now, I used to be able to have an actual phone conversation with a friend, and really find out what was going on in their life, and tell them (effectively) what was going on in mine. These days, of course, I rarely talk on the phone, because someone is always grabbing me, hanging off me, screaming for me, or spilling something. But on the rare occasion when I have the house to myself (OK, that hasn't actually happened since 2005. But occasionally I do have a room in the house to myself) and try to have a phone conversation, I realize...this is still much harder than it used to be.
Maybe it's my attention span. I try, I really try, to give that conversation my undivided attention, but there's always something there, just at the back of my mind..that wont stop calling my name..Mommy! Mommy! Oh, wait that's not my actual name. Maryann....did you take something out for dinner? Did you check N's homework? Did you throw that laundry in the dryer? Did you refill your wine glass? (ha! like I'd ever need to be reminded of that!). If there's not something on my mind, there's always something that grabs my attention. Who left a crayon in the dishwasher? Why is there mud on the toaster? How did those children pick the lock and get out of their rooms? I feel like a walking advertisement for ADHD meds.
Maybe I just have too much going on. When O was about ten weeks old (or was it B?) I went back to work. It was only three hours a night, two nights a week, but three hours is a long time for a nursing infant who doesn't like bottles all that much, and even longer for his father who was home with him. So, since my office is five minutes away, I would nurse, go see a client, come home and nurse, and go back and see a client. Stressful, but it worked for the most part, and to my knowledge, I only met with one client with my nursing bra still undone. I still picture that (poor, traumatized) man writing on an evaluation form, "Maryann is so laid back. She really lets it all hang out".
Eventually, whichever child that was nursing stopped, and things got easier, though I would often feed little whoever-it-was their baby food right before I went to work to lighten the load slightly for Jimmy. As in, I fed him, walked out the door, got to work, and saw a client. And again, to my knowledge, I only met with one client with a very large clump of baby food in my hair, which I didn't notice until I got home that night.
So, what is it? Am I not as smart? Do I no longer have an attention span? Is it just stress? Who knows. All I know is, somewhere between becoming pregnant with my first child and giving birth to my third (do they still call it "giving birth" if you've had c-sections? I've always wondered that...), I have apparently lost....something. The good thing, though, is that I have been forced to lower my standards. If I haven't told anyone to beat up their siblings, if I've called everyone by the right name for the whole day (OK, fine, most of the day), and if I don't inadvertently expose myself to a client, it's a good day.
As long as I don't forget where I left my wine.
Copyright 2012 Author of The NBO Chronicles. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction without permission.. Simple template. Template images by Ailime. Powered by Blogger.
"Oatmeal is having O" I answer. Twice.
"Mom!" he asks, "Why are you talking funny?!" He is staring at me. His face clearly says..."my mother has lost her mind".
I am? What did I say? Oatmeal is having...oh, right.
"Sorry B, O is having oatmeal for breakfast".
He smiles and says "Mom, you are so funny."
Yes, I am. Too bad it's not intentional.
A few minutes later, I tell N to brush her shoes and get her teeth on. She laughs, thinks very little of what I have just said, and does what she knows I meant to say.
The other day we were in the car and my mind had wandered...to what we needed to get at the store, what I was going to make for dinner, how nice it would be to be sitting on a beach somewhere with a drink with a colorful umbrella in it...or a colorful drink with an umbrella in it..see what I mean? I was jolted out of my little fantasy by N screaming "Ow! Stop it!"
"B! Don't hit your sister!" I
"Well mom, you just told him it was OK," N informs me.
I did?
"He just told you he was going to hit me, and you said OK!"
Whoops. Sorry. I have no recollection of this. I must have thought someone was asking me if I wanted another colorful drink.
"Um, Mom, you can't tell him it's OK to hit me and then yell at him for hitting me". Love this girl. She is so smart. I just wish she wouldn't use it against me.
I think this all started when I had O. We were in the hospital, with our cute, sweet, adorable baby boy, and the nurses would come in and ask his name. I loved that N was there, as the proud big sister, to tell them her new brother's name. I loved that when someone came in and said "How cute! What's his name?", I could look at N, smile brightly, and say "Go ahead. Tell them what his name is, honey". I loved this, because I couldn't remember my brand new child's name to save my life. Granted, I was in a post c-section haze, and I've since heard that the effects of anesthesia may stay with you for months--even years--after surgery--a fact I am now clinging to with every brain cell I have. Yup, both of them.
I'm pretty sure I was smarter before I had kids. I was at least more articulate. It's hard to remember back that far (my oldest is six-and-a-half. Not all that long, you say? Try it in parenting years. It's like dog years) but I'm pretty sure that I used to be able to have a real conversation, on the spur of the moment, and not sound like someone for whom English is a second language.
From what I can recall, I used to be able to call, for example, the cable company, succinctly tell them what I needed, and have it taken care of. Now, by the time a real person comes on the phone, I have no idea why I've called them. I usually try to make small talk until it comes back to me. They probably get off the phone and think "Wow! That lady was so friendly". Nope. Just brain dead.
And though it's hard to believe now, I used to be able to have an actual phone conversation with a friend, and really find out what was going on in their life, and tell them (effectively) what was going on in mine. These days, of course, I rarely talk on the phone, because someone is always grabbing me, hanging off me, screaming for me, or spilling something. But on the rare occasion when I have the house to myself (OK, that hasn't actually happened since 2005. But occasionally I do have a room in the house to myself) and try to have a phone conversation, I realize...this is still much harder than it used to be.
Maybe it's my attention span. I try, I really try, to give that conversation my undivided attention, but there's always something there, just at the back of my mind..that wont stop calling my name..Mommy! Mommy! Oh, wait that's not my actual name. Maryann....did you take something out for dinner? Did you check N's homework? Did you throw that laundry in the dryer? Did you refill your wine glass? (ha! like I'd ever need to be reminded of that!). If there's not something on my mind, there's always something that grabs my attention. Who left a crayon in the dishwasher? Why is there mud on the toaster? How did those children pick the lock and get out of their rooms? I feel like a walking advertisement for ADHD meds.
Maybe I just have too much going on. When O was about ten weeks old (or was it B?) I went back to work. It was only three hours a night, two nights a week, but three hours is a long time for a nursing infant who doesn't like bottles all that much, and even longer for his father who was home with him. So, since my office is five minutes away, I would nurse, go see a client, come home and nurse, and go back and see a client. Stressful, but it worked for the most part, and to my knowledge, I only met with one client with my nursing bra still undone. I still picture that (poor, traumatized) man writing on an evaluation form, "Maryann is so laid back. She really lets it all hang out".
Eventually, whichever child that was nursing stopped, and things got easier, though I would often feed little whoever-it-was their baby food right before I went to work to lighten the load slightly for Jimmy. As in, I fed him, walked out the door, got to work, and saw a client. And again, to my knowledge, I only met with one client with a very large clump of baby food in my hair, which I didn't notice until I got home that night.
So, what is it? Am I not as smart? Do I no longer have an attention span? Is it just stress? Who knows. All I know is, somewhere between becoming pregnant with my first child and giving birth to my third (do they still call it "giving birth" if you've had c-sections? I've always wondered that...), I have apparently lost....something. The good thing, though, is that I have been forced to lower my standards. If I haven't told anyone to beat up their siblings, if I've called everyone by the right name for the whole day (OK, fine, most of the day), and if I don't inadvertently expose myself to a client, it's a good day.
As long as I don't forget where I left my wine.
Copyright 2012 Author of The NBO Chronicles. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction without permission.. Simple template. Template images by Ailime. Powered by Blogger.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
These Things I Pray...
Recently, I received a survey in the mail relating to the longitudinal study I have been a part of for approximately twenty-three years. Note: if you are asked to participate in a longitudinal study, remember that the word "long" is in it for a reason. If you move, they will find you. If you change your phone number, they will find you. If you move, change your phone number, and don't leave a forwarding address, they will still find you. If you ignore their requests to fill out their annual surveys, they will talk to your family, your friends, and your neighbors, all in an attempt to hunt you down so that you will continue to participate in the study that your parents consented to in 1988, when you were in high school fifth grade. They're like a combination of a bitter ex-boyfriend, and the IRS. Eventually, though, you will relent and fill out the forms they send you because they offer to pay you 50 bucks every time you do you feel a moral obligation to keep your word. And no, just in case you're wondering, the study doesn't have anything to do with the long term outcomes of delinquent teens fifth-graders, or whether or not frequently truant high school elementary school students eventually go on to get a college degree.
In any case, one of the questions on the survey was "how often do you pray?" and I realized that was a hard question for me to answer. Not because I don't pray, but because I do. I pray so much that I couldn't begin to quantify how often I pray in the same way I could tell them how many times a week I watch TV, or read the newspaper, or visit a public library. The truth is, I pray all the time. Don't be impressed. Rarely do I set time aside to pray and give God my undivided attention, the way I should. But still, I pray. I pray every morning for God to give me strength, and patience, and to help me through the day. And then, I repeat this prayer. For each child. Individually. Several times.
As I put N on the bus, I ask God to keep her safe, and I sometimes say an extra prayer that everyone is nice to her today. And then, as I attempt to dress B and O as they are flailing, and crying, and laughing, and throwing clothes everywhere, I ask God to help me to resist the urge to just go back to bed and try again tomorrow. As I clean up spilled milk for the third time in half an hour, I ask God to please help me to keep my mouth shut instead of saying what I am thinking. As I break up a fight, I ask Him to please help them grow out of this stage soon. But not too soon. When I clean up spilled milk for the fourth time in forty-five minutes, I ask God to please help my children forget that word I just said, or at least not repeat it to their teachers.
When someone is sick, I ask God to please let this just be a cold, and not something awful. And after I find the two laundry baskets of clothes that I finally found time to fold strewn all over the house, I ask God to help my children grow into well adjusted adults, in spite of the fact that they just witnessed their mother briefly turn into a crazy, ranting, lunatic before their very eyes. And, let's not forget my nighttime prayer: Please God, watch over them. And please, please let them sleep.
I pray in Church, of course. I pray for those around us, for people that we know, for people that we don't know. I pray for us. Boy do I pray for us. And I often say a special prayer: that B will not offer beer to the person next to us today, that no one will grab their private parts and loudly announce, "But mommy! You said I could touch my OWN!", and that no one will get down on the floor in the middle of the homily "to scratch their itchy bum". Unfortunately, these prayers don't always work. I think someone around us must be praying for some laughter in their life.
I try to remember to say thank you, though not nearly as much as I should. Thank you God for another day. Thank you for children who are able to talk back to me, even though I wish they wouldn't, and for children who can run away from me, even though they are often too quick. Thank you that they have enough food to eat, though I wish it didn't end up on the floor...and the walls...and the bottom of my shoes. Thank you for children who remind me every day of the wonders of childhood, even when those wonders include: I wonder how that cheese got on the ceiling, I wonder who colored my white pants blue, and wow, I wonder what that is on the couch. Now that I think about it, I should probably thank God for showing me that you can apparently come back from the brink of insanity, often more than once in the same day. And, of course, I thank God for wine.
How often do I pray? I'm not sure how to answer that. More often than I watch TV, more often than I read a newspaper, and more often than I visit a public library. Not nearly as much as I should. And more than you will ever know.
In any case, one of the questions on the survey was "how often do you pray?" and I realized that was a hard question for me to answer. Not because I don't pray, but because I do. I pray so much that I couldn't begin to quantify how often I pray in the same way I could tell them how many times a week I watch TV, or read the newspaper, or visit a public library. The truth is, I pray all the time. Don't be impressed. Rarely do I set time aside to pray and give God my undivided attention, the way I should. But still, I pray. I pray every morning for God to give me strength, and patience, and to help me through the day. And then, I repeat this prayer. For each child. Individually. Several times.
As I put N on the bus, I ask God to keep her safe, and I sometimes say an extra prayer that everyone is nice to her today. And then, as I attempt to dress B and O as they are flailing, and crying, and laughing, and throwing clothes everywhere, I ask God to help me to resist the urge to just go back to bed and try again tomorrow. As I clean up spilled milk for the third time in half an hour, I ask God to please help me to keep my mouth shut instead of saying what I am thinking. As I break up a fight, I ask Him to please help them grow out of this stage soon. But not too soon. When I clean up spilled milk for the fourth time in forty-five minutes, I ask God to please help my children forget that word I just said, or at least not repeat it to their teachers.
When someone is sick, I ask God to please let this just be a cold, and not something awful. And after I find the two laundry baskets of clothes that I finally found time to fold strewn all over the house, I ask God to help my children grow into well adjusted adults, in spite of the fact that they just witnessed their mother briefly turn into a crazy, ranting, lunatic before their very eyes. And, let's not forget my nighttime prayer: Please God, watch over them. And please, please let them sleep.
I pray in Church, of course. I pray for those around us, for people that we know, for people that we don't know. I pray for us. Boy do I pray for us. And I often say a special prayer: that B will not offer beer to the person next to us today, that no one will grab their private parts and loudly announce, "But mommy! You said I could touch my OWN!", and that no one will get down on the floor in the middle of the homily "to scratch their itchy bum". Unfortunately, these prayers don't always work. I think someone around us must be praying for some laughter in their life.
I try to remember to say thank you, though not nearly as much as I should. Thank you God for another day. Thank you for children who are able to talk back to me, even though I wish they wouldn't, and for children who can run away from me, even though they are often too quick. Thank you that they have enough food to eat, though I wish it didn't end up on the floor...and the walls...and the bottom of my shoes. Thank you for children who remind me every day of the wonders of childhood, even when those wonders include: I wonder how that cheese got on the ceiling, I wonder who colored my white pants blue, and wow, I wonder what that is on the couch. Now that I think about it, I should probably thank God for showing me that you can apparently come back from the brink of insanity, often more than once in the same day. And, of course, I thank God for wine.
How often do I pray? I'm not sure how to answer that. More often than I watch TV, more often than I read a newspaper, and more often than I visit a public library. Not nearly as much as I should. And more than you will ever know.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Sneak Attack
Someone in my house is a sneak. I probably shouldn't single this person out by name, because they are otherwise sweet, funny, and at times quite charming, so let's just say it's a three-year-old boy. I thought the sneakiness was strictly food related, as I recently noticed that this person had starting sitting in a new position when he is on the couch watching Elmo, which is also when I try to take a shower (because I need a shower, and because I hate Elmo). It dawned on me that it's odd for him to a) be sitting on his side with his arms crossed in front of him and his legs pulled up to his chest like, well, like he's hiding something--imagine that, and b) be sitting.
When I investigated, I found him with an entire jar of peanut butter. No spoon, just his fingers (I promise we no longer have that jar, so please don't be afraid to eat peanut butter at our house). Subsequent investigations have found evidence of crackers, leftover pizza, and half a bag of stale, year old marshmallows (sneaky, yes. picky, no). I promise I feed him. Apparently this person has caught on quite well, and times his missions to begin when he hears the water start running and is usually sitting innocently, if uncomfortably, on the couch when I come out of the bathroom.
I have recently discovered that the sneakiness is not strictly food related, which makes me wonder if he is, well, just sneaky. Or maybe he's just three. Unfortunately, he is also smart. I recently heard a certain three-year-old voice tell me they were going to smack me, and when Ifreaked out explained that we don't talk that way, he informed me that "that's what you heard mom, but that's not what I said. I said I love you". Wow. He is not only sneaky. He's good. Just today, O somehow got a cup of water dumped over his head (poor youngest child) and a certain three-year-old boy said he "may have accidentally done it" and was going to hug him and apologize, until he saw just how wet O was, at which point he looked at me like I was a complete and total moron for even suggesting such a thing, and said "I can't hug him, mom. He's all wet. Someone dumped water all over him".
Recently, this otherwise sweet, funny, and at times quite charming little boy has been targeting his sister, with frequent reports of "N hit me!" which N vehemently denies. N has an unbelievable amount of patience for her brothers, but at times, she has had enough and retaliates (don't judge her--you try living with them). I can usually tell when N is not being entirely forthcoming, but if I'mlocked in my bedroom in another room for the actual alleged episode, I often have no way of knowing who's lying their @$$ off not being entirely truthful.
Today while I was in the shower, I heard familiar screaming outside the bathroom door, and a certain three-year-old boy yelling "N! Stop hitting me! Ow!" A moment later, it changed to "O! Get off me! Stop O!" Now I was confused, as I was quite sure I had left O in his pack and play, and to my knowledge, he is not yet climbing out (Dear God, please don't let this be one of those of those times when you show your sense of humor and make me regret that I said that. It might be the thing that sends me over the edge). So I quietly opened the bathroom door, to find a certain three-year-old boy screaming at his "attackers" while he stood in the hall....all by himself. He looked up, clearly surprised to see me, since this time, I may have accidentally left the water in the shower running. Yup, it's confirmed. He's a sneak. I don't know where he gets it.
Copyright 2012 Author of The NBO Chronicles. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction without permission.. Simple template. Template images by Ailime. Powered by Blogger.
When I investigated, I found him with an entire jar of peanut butter. No spoon, just his fingers (I promise we no longer have that jar, so please don't be afraid to eat peanut butter at our house). Subsequent investigations have found evidence of crackers, leftover pizza, and half a bag of stale, year old marshmallows (sneaky, yes. picky, no). I promise I feed him. Apparently this person has caught on quite well, and times his missions to begin when he hears the water start running and is usually sitting innocently, if uncomfortably, on the couch when I come out of the bathroom.
I have recently discovered that the sneakiness is not strictly food related, which makes me wonder if he is, well, just sneaky. Or maybe he's just three. Unfortunately, he is also smart. I recently heard a certain three-year-old voice tell me they were going to smack me, and when I
Recently, this otherwise sweet, funny, and at times quite charming little boy has been targeting his sister, with frequent reports of "N hit me!" which N vehemently denies. N has an unbelievable amount of patience for her brothers, but at times, she has had enough and retaliates (don't judge her--you try living with them). I can usually tell when N is not being entirely forthcoming, but if I'm
Today while I was in the shower, I heard familiar screaming outside the bathroom door, and a certain three-year-old boy yelling "N! Stop hitting me! Ow!" A moment later, it changed to "O! Get off me! Stop O!" Now I was confused, as I was quite sure I had left O in his pack and play, and to my knowledge, he is not yet climbing out (Dear God, please don't let this be one of those of those times when you show your sense of humor and make me regret that I said that. It might be the thing that sends me over the edge). So I quietly opened the bathroom door, to find a certain three-year-old boy screaming at his "attackers" while he stood in the hall....all by himself. He looked up, clearly surprised to see me, since this time, I may have accidentally left the water in the shower running. Yup, it's confirmed. He's a sneak. I don't know where he gets it.
Copyright 2012 Author of The NBO Chronicles. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction without permission.. Simple template. Template images by Ailime. Powered by Blogger.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Smug Like You
For all the perfect moms I know
Though I don't know any personally
I seem to see you everywhere
Or maybe it's just me.
You always speak to your child softly
Your tone is perfectly measured
You would never raise your voice at them
Every single moment should be treasured.
I'm pretty sure we scare you
When we come into your space
Oh don't look so alarmed
That's just chocolate on his face.
Wow! Your diaper bag is perfect
Everything exactly where it goes
Do you think I could borrow one of your wipes?
Mine has something on his nose.
Sorry that we have disturbed you
With all of our crazy noise
I wish I could make them be quieter,
But two of them are boys.
Oh, I should tell you--just so you know.
I was once smug like you, too.
I thought I had it all figured out.
Almost always knew what to do.
My little girl was dressed all in pink
From her head down to her toes
She listened to me perfectly
with never anything on her nose.
But then something happened
That changed things just a bit for me
I went from having one perfect child,
To having two, and then three.
And my world that before was full of things pink
Suddenly had a whole lot of blue
And the things that before were easy for me
Were suddenly much harder to do.
So I'm sorry that we have disturbed you
We don't mean to cause such a fuss
But if you think this is disturbing
You should try coming home with us.
There are crayon marks on the cabinets
though most of them are on the walls
And our house has been taken over
by tractors, trains, and balls.
There's fingerpaint in our carpet
And toothpaste all over the sink
I'm pretty sure when you leave our house
You'll be ready for a really stiff drink.
But I am really not complaining
That I sometimes have a lot on my plate
That my house is never perfect
And that I'm pretty much always late.
We can't all be perfect, I guess.
Life just isn't that way.
And no, I don't love every moment
But I really do love every day.
I do wonder, though, how you manage
To follow every rule in the mommy book
You never say anything out of line
Or even give a mean mommy look
I'm assuming, of course, that it's all real
It can't possibly be fake
But I really do have to ask you
How much xanax do you take?
Though I don't know any personally
I seem to see you everywhere
Or maybe it's just me.
You always speak to your child softly
Your tone is perfectly measured
You would never raise your voice at them
Every single moment should be treasured.
I'm pretty sure we scare you
When we come into your space
Oh don't look so alarmed
That's just chocolate on his face.
Wow! Your diaper bag is perfect
Everything exactly where it goes
Do you think I could borrow one of your wipes?
Mine has something on his nose.
Sorry that we have disturbed you
With all of our crazy noise
I wish I could make them be quieter,
But two of them are boys.
Oh, I should tell you--just so you know.
I was once smug like you, too.
I thought I had it all figured out.
Almost always knew what to do.
My little girl was dressed all in pink
From her head down to her toes
She listened to me perfectly
with never anything on her nose.
But then something happened
That changed things just a bit for me
I went from having one perfect child,
To having two, and then three.
And my world that before was full of things pink
Suddenly had a whole lot of blue
And the things that before were easy for me
Were suddenly much harder to do.
So I'm sorry that we have disturbed you
We don't mean to cause such a fuss
But if you think this is disturbing
You should try coming home with us.
There are crayon marks on the cabinets
though most of them are on the walls
And our house has been taken over
by tractors, trains, and balls.
There's fingerpaint in our carpet
And toothpaste all over the sink
I'm pretty sure when you leave our house
You'll be ready for a really stiff drink.
But I am really not complaining
That I sometimes have a lot on my plate
That my house is never perfect
And that I'm pretty much always late.
We can't all be perfect, I guess.
Life just isn't that way.
And no, I don't love every moment
But I really do love every day.
I do wonder, though, how you manage
To follow every rule in the mommy book
You never say anything out of line
Or even give a mean mommy look
I'm assuming, of course, that it's all real
It can't possibly be fake
But I really do have to ask you
How much xanax do you take?
Friday, January 13, 2012
The Things We Do for Love...
Last night was N's chorus concert. She has been excited all week, because she loves to perform and be on stage. I was also excited all week, not only because I couldn't wait to see her on stage, but because, after the performance, chorus would be over, and I would no longer have to get three kids up and out of the house an hour earlier every Tuesday to get her to practice. I am not a morning person. This part means more to me than you will ever know.
They performed a concert for the students yesterday during the school day, so they needed to wear their class t-shirt for both performances. The school was incredibly helpful in sending a note home to advise of this. It would have been more helpful, however, if it had included the following:
When stopping at Chic-Fil-A to get an early dinner since you won't have time to cook between school letting out and the concert, do NOT get Polynesian sauce with your kids nuggets. It will end up all over the t-shirt, though you will not notice this until half an hour before you need to leave, at which point it will be dry and very noticeable.
Yeah.
And this, while I am trying to dress two squirmy, screeching boys who are, well, squirming and screeching. I grab the shirt, spray it with the first thing I find in the laundry cabinet (hoping its stain remover and not mildew remover or flea spray), and throw it in with the load of laundry that's already on the rinse cycle. As I put it in the dryer a few minutes later, I know it won't possibly be dry in time. I start to go back upstairs, and feel something whizz by my head and hear a clunk. O is at the top of the stairs, scaling the baby gate, and laughing. He has a can of corn in his hand. I realize that it was a can of baked beans that narrowly avoided my head seconds earlier. He throws the corn, I duck. He stops to reload and I see a can of spaghettios hurtling toward me. I am being attacked by canned goods in my own home. What has my life come to?
To my surprise, the shirt is "almost" dry, but also still wrinkled. I wonder if I have time to iron. I wonder if I own an iron. I tell N to put the shirt on and follow me, and I get most of the wrinkles out with the hairdryer. I may not be a domestic goddess, but I am the queen of improvising.
The concert is beautiful. Well, what I see of it. Jimmy, Caca, and I take turns chasing B and O around the school while N sings. But I do see some of it, and they rock. I wonder if I will always start to cry when one of my children does something like this, or if I will someday outgrow it. Afterward, we trudge through the mud back to our car, and B decides he's tired of waiting for me to open the car door. So he throws himself on the ground, in the mud, and declares that he is staying there. For once, we are in full agreement. When we finally get home, B and O are in bed before you can say "If these children are not in bed in five minutes, I am going to drink an entire bottle of vodka. By myself."
N, on the other hand, has a hard time going to sleep. She is sad that chorus is over. She is crying. And crying. Poor girl, I think. So sweet. She loved chorus so much. She is still crying. Ok, lets just move on and think about all the other fun stuff we get to do. She is sobbing. Really? Get a grip. It's chorus. It's first grade. Move on! No, I didn't actually saymost any of this out loud.
I am so happy to see my own bed, and think how well I will sleep tonight.
And I do.
For some of the night.
Until B wakes up crying, and I go into his room, and he asks me to lay down with him.
"Mommy, I'm scared because I forgot to brush my teeth".
Hmmm...fears of gingivitis keeping you up at night?
Some things are better off not being explored, at least in the middle of the night. I know that laying down with him is not going to solve his apparent worries about gum disease. But it will keep me from listening to him scream.
So I lay down next to him, in his toddler bed, which is made for...well, toddlers, which I am not. I try to get comfortable. We fight over the covers. I get up and get my own blanket. And my own pillow. And really wish I was in my own bed. He tells me he loves me and turns over, clearly comfy and ready to go back to sleep. I lay on myeight inches side of the bed and notice that my arm is falling asleep, and my foot is falling asleep, and even my head feels like its falling asleep (is that possible?), but somehow, I am still awake.
This bed is too small, this room is too light, and I am getting really irritated that I am here and not in my own big, roomy, comfy bed. I try to sneak away, and he wakes up and grabs me "I love you mommy. Please stay with me. I'm scared.".
I still don't know what he's scared of, and I wonder if I have been over zealous with my warnings about what happens if you don't brush your teeth (Duh. They fall out. Yeah, I know. They do that anyway. Whatever). But how can I resist this sweet boy? I lay there for another hour, thinking of how tired I will be in the morning, but hey, at least I don't have to get up and take N to chorus! I wonder if I would be more comfortable on the floor, but don't really have the energy to try something new at this point. Eventually, I feel myself start to fall asleep, and I think maybe I can get a little sleep in his bed after all. And then B nudges me, and says,
"Mommy, my nose is leaking".
At least he's not worried about his teeth falling out.
They performed a concert for the students yesterday during the school day, so they needed to wear their class t-shirt for both performances. The school was incredibly helpful in sending a note home to advise of this. It would have been more helpful, however, if it had included the following:
When stopping at Chic-Fil-A to get an early dinner since you won't have time to cook between school letting out and the concert, do NOT get Polynesian sauce with your kids nuggets. It will end up all over the t-shirt, though you will not notice this until half an hour before you need to leave, at which point it will be dry and very noticeable.
Yeah.
And this, while I am trying to dress two squirmy, screeching boys who are, well, squirming and screeching. I grab the shirt, spray it with the first thing I find in the laundry cabinet (hoping its stain remover and not mildew remover or flea spray), and throw it in with the load of laundry that's already on the rinse cycle. As I put it in the dryer a few minutes later, I know it won't possibly be dry in time. I start to go back upstairs, and feel something whizz by my head and hear a clunk. O is at the top of the stairs, scaling the baby gate, and laughing. He has a can of corn in his hand. I realize that it was a can of baked beans that narrowly avoided my head seconds earlier. He throws the corn, I duck. He stops to reload and I see a can of spaghettios hurtling toward me. I am being attacked by canned goods in my own home. What has my life come to?
To my surprise, the shirt is "almost" dry, but also still wrinkled. I wonder if I have time to iron. I wonder if I own an iron. I tell N to put the shirt on and follow me, and I get most of the wrinkles out with the hairdryer. I may not be a domestic goddess, but I am the queen of improvising.
The concert is beautiful. Well, what I see of it. Jimmy, Caca, and I take turns chasing B and O around the school while N sings. But I do see some of it, and they rock. I wonder if I will always start to cry when one of my children does something like this, or if I will someday outgrow it. Afterward, we trudge through the mud back to our car, and B decides he's tired of waiting for me to open the car door. So he throws himself on the ground, in the mud, and declares that he is staying there. For once, we are in full agreement. When we finally get home, B and O are in bed before you can say "If these children are not in bed in five minutes, I am going to drink an entire bottle of vodka. By myself."
N, on the other hand, has a hard time going to sleep. She is sad that chorus is over. She is crying. And crying. Poor girl, I think. So sweet. She loved chorus so much. She is still crying. Ok, lets just move on and think about all the other fun stuff we get to do. She is sobbing. Really? Get a grip. It's chorus. It's first grade. Move on! No, I didn't actually say
I am so happy to see my own bed, and think how well I will sleep tonight.
And I do.
For some of the night.
Until B wakes up crying, and I go into his room, and he asks me to lay down with him.
"Mommy, I'm scared because I forgot to brush my teeth".
Hmmm...fears of gingivitis keeping you up at night?
Some things are better off not being explored, at least in the middle of the night. I know that laying down with him is not going to solve his apparent worries about gum disease. But it will keep me from listening to him scream.
So I lay down next to him, in his toddler bed, which is made for...well, toddlers, which I am not. I try to get comfortable. We fight over the covers. I get up and get my own blanket. And my own pillow. And really wish I was in my own bed. He tells me he loves me and turns over, clearly comfy and ready to go back to sleep. I lay on my
This bed is too small, this room is too light, and I am getting really irritated that I am here and not in my own big, roomy, comfy bed. I try to sneak away, and he wakes up and grabs me "I love you mommy. Please stay with me. I'm scared.".
I still don't know what he's scared of, and I wonder if I have been over zealous with my warnings about what happens if you don't brush your teeth (Duh. They fall out. Yeah, I know. They do that anyway. Whatever). But how can I resist this sweet boy? I lay there for another hour, thinking of how tired I will be in the morning, but hey, at least I don't have to get up and take N to chorus! I wonder if I would be more comfortable on the floor, but don't really have the energy to try something new at this point. Eventually, I feel myself start to fall asleep, and I think maybe I can get a little sleep in his bed after all. And then B nudges me, and says,
"Mommy, my nose is leaking".
At least he's not worried about his teeth falling out.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
What am I teaching these children?
When N was three, a typical conversation in the car went something like this:
N: Look mom! A stop sign! S-T-O-P. That spells stop. A stop sign is an octagon. Why are stop signs octagons and yield signs are triangles? Why do some roads have stop signs, and other roads have yield signs? Why do some roads have stop signs, and other signs have red lights? Why don't they have go signs?Who made the roads? Did God make the roads?
B is now three, and a typical conversation in the car goes something like this:
B: Mom! Watch where you're going! You're going to hit another trash can! (I plead the fifth). O, I'm going to smack you.
Children, obviously, are all different, and we shouldn't compare them. I am totally, 100% ok with that. But I have also been thinking about how our family's circumstances have impacted each of our children. With N, it was the three of us for three years. I didn't even work part time for most of that time. She didn't watch TV until she was two. She had my undivided attention pretty much all day, and Jimmy's pretty much all evening. Since she's been three, however, we've had B, we've had O, I started working part time, and Jimmy started his own business.
Things are different now, and while I would like to give B and O the same undivided attention I gave N, it just isn't always there to give. I know the benefits of siblings (hopefully) outweigh what may be lacking in parental attention, and I am incredibly glad they have each other. At times, though, I think back to how N was reciting poetry and performing George Thorogood songs at 3 (no, it was not I Drink Alone--we've taught her never to do that), and while I don't think either of these things are necessary (ok, and maybe not even healthy) for pre-schoolers, I do sometimes wonder if I am teaching B, at this same age, as much as I can or should be. I'm not comparing them. I'm comparing what I am doing for each of them, and sometimes I ask myself "What am I really teaching them?" After all, isn't that my job?
I thought of this recently when I was playing Candy Land with B. At three, N loved Candy Land. A game typically went something like this:
N: Oh, good, two reds. One. Two. Oh, I'm getting closer to the lollipops. Your turn, mommy.
Candy Land with B goes something like this:
B: Move over gingerbread man. There's a train coming.
Me: Ok, B, pick a card.
B: No, mom. This is a train track.
Me:B, please don't throw the cards on the floor.
B: Can I have a snack?
Part of me knows this is an issue of personality and gender differences, and is not a result of anything I did or didn't do. Not to mention, who cares if he won't sit and play Candy Land. Another part of me, though--the mommy guilt part--wonders if I am teaching him everything I should be. I picture him being kicked out of preschool for throwing toys and not following directions. Of course, for that to happen, he would actually need to get out of diapers--something else I haven't yet been able to teach him--and be allowed into a pre-school.
At least he learns a lot from his siblings. N, for example, has taught him that, if he smacks her, she will throw a shoe at his head. Cause and effect, right? O has taught him that little brothers grow and become strong and will tackle you repeatedly at a very young age, to make up for all the times you tackled them before they could even roll over. Human growth and development, yes?
I am thinking about all of us this as we're driving the other day. I try to get him to sing along with the CD that's playing. "I don't like that song, mom". Ok, so much for that. I picture one of his future teachers looking at me with pity at a parent-teacher conference and saying, "If only he had learned "The Wheels on the Bus..."
"Hey, B! Let's say Humpty Dumpty!" I wonder if I have taught him Humpty Dumpty. I know it's in a book we read. I know N knew it at this age.
"Humpty Dumpty Sat on the Wall. Humpty Dumpty Had a great Fall. All the kings horses......"
He says the whole thing. By himself. Yay! At least I have taught him Humpty Dumpty. Maybe I am doing ok.
"Mom?" he says
"Yes, B?" I am waiting for him to tell me something else I have taught him, or to ask about another nursery rhyme.
"Elmo taught me that. Elmo says Humpty Dumpty, too."
Oh.
I want to cry. Mommy guilt kicks in and I think that I have failed him somehow.
And then I think, I hate Elmo.
I am changing B's diaper that night (for the 6, 247th time, not that I'm counting) and he looks at me and says "Mom, I really love you. And I love Daddy, and I love N and O, too".
"You are such a nice boy," I tell him.
"That's why we're here, mom. God put us here to love each other".
I am amazed that he has actually picked something up in Church, especially considering that he is usually busy scratching his bum (our dog Bella taught him that) or offering pretend beer to those around us (Jimmy taught him that. At least he was sharing). Wow. He's actually been listening.
He is staring at me, and apparently reading my mind.
"You taught me that, mom. You said that God put us here to love each other."
Oh.
Of course I did.
That's my job.
Elmo's got nothin on me.
N: Look mom! A stop sign! S-T-O-P. That spells stop. A stop sign is an octagon. Why are stop signs octagons and yield signs are triangles? Why do some roads have stop signs, and other roads have yield signs? Why do some roads have stop signs, and other signs have red lights? Why don't they have go signs?Who made the roads? Did God make the roads?
B is now three, and a typical conversation in the car goes something like this:
B: Mom! Watch where you're going! You're going to hit another trash can! (I plead the fifth). O, I'm going to smack you.
Children, obviously, are all different, and we shouldn't compare them. I am totally, 100% ok with that. But I have also been thinking about how our family's circumstances have impacted each of our children. With N, it was the three of us for three years. I didn't even work part time for most of that time. She didn't watch TV until she was two. She had my undivided attention pretty much all day, and Jimmy's pretty much all evening. Since she's been three, however, we've had B, we've had O, I started working part time, and Jimmy started his own business.
Things are different now, and while I would like to give B and O the same undivided attention I gave N, it just isn't always there to give. I know the benefits of siblings (hopefully) outweigh what may be lacking in parental attention, and I am incredibly glad they have each other. At times, though, I think back to how N was reciting poetry and performing George Thorogood songs at 3 (no, it was not I Drink Alone--we've taught her never to do that), and while I don't think either of these things are necessary (ok, and maybe not even healthy) for pre-schoolers, I do sometimes wonder if I am teaching B, at this same age, as much as I can or should be. I'm not comparing them. I'm comparing what I am doing for each of them, and sometimes I ask myself "What am I really teaching them?" After all, isn't that my job?
I thought of this recently when I was playing Candy Land with B. At three, N loved Candy Land. A game typically went something like this:
N: Oh, good, two reds. One. Two. Oh, I'm getting closer to the lollipops. Your turn, mommy.
Candy Land with B goes something like this:
B: Move over gingerbread man. There's a train coming.
Me: Ok, B, pick a card.
B: No, mom. This is a train track.
Me:B, please don't throw the cards on the floor.
B: Can I have a snack?
Part of me knows this is an issue of personality and gender differences, and is not a result of anything I did or didn't do. Not to mention, who cares if he won't sit and play Candy Land. Another part of me, though--the mommy guilt part--wonders if I am teaching him everything I should be. I picture him being kicked out of preschool for throwing toys and not following directions. Of course, for that to happen, he would actually need to get out of diapers--something else I haven't yet been able to teach him--and be allowed into a pre-school.
At least he learns a lot from his siblings. N, for example, has taught him that, if he smacks her, she will throw a shoe at his head. Cause and effect, right? O has taught him that little brothers grow and become strong and will tackle you repeatedly at a very young age, to make up for all the times you tackled them before they could even roll over. Human growth and development, yes?
I am thinking about all of us this as we're driving the other day. I try to get him to sing along with the CD that's playing. "I don't like that song, mom". Ok, so much for that. I picture one of his future teachers looking at me with pity at a parent-teacher conference and saying, "If only he had learned "The Wheels on the Bus..."
"Hey, B! Let's say Humpty Dumpty!" I wonder if I have taught him Humpty Dumpty. I know it's in a book we read. I know N knew it at this age.
"Humpty Dumpty Sat on the Wall. Humpty Dumpty Had a great Fall. All the kings horses......"
He says the whole thing. By himself. Yay! At least I have taught him Humpty Dumpty. Maybe I am doing ok.
"Mom?" he says
"Yes, B?" I am waiting for him to tell me something else I have taught him, or to ask about another nursery rhyme.
"Elmo taught me that. Elmo says Humpty Dumpty, too."
Oh.
I want to cry. Mommy guilt kicks in and I think that I have failed him somehow.
And then I think, I hate Elmo.
I am changing B's diaper that night (for the 6, 247th time, not that I'm counting) and he looks at me and says "Mom, I really love you. And I love Daddy, and I love N and O, too".
"You are such a nice boy," I tell him.
"That's why we're here, mom. God put us here to love each other".
I am amazed that he has actually picked something up in Church, especially considering that he is usually busy scratching his bum (our dog Bella taught him that) or offering pretend beer to those around us (Jimmy taught him that. At least he was sharing). Wow. He's actually been listening.
He is staring at me, and apparently reading my mind.
"You taught me that, mom. You said that God put us here to love each other."
Oh.
Of course I did.
That's my job.
Elmo's got nothin on me.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Monkeys
Today I took B and O to McDonald's play area. This is a painful subject for me, as I'm pretty sure I have PTSD from a previous trip to the play area with NBO. In fact, I wasn't sure I'd be able to even go into another play area, as I was afraid it would lead to flashbacks and panic attacks. But, in a moment of weakness, I bribed B with a trip to the "inside" McDonald's (see, I've trained them not to even SAY "play area", as it causes me to break out in a cold sweat) if he got his flu shot this morning (which, much to my amazement, he did!).
I should have known in the parking lot that this was not a good idea. I told B to stay right at the back of our car as I got O out of his carseat. The problem is, B is three, and sometimes he listens quite well. And, other times, well he just doesn'tgive a rat's @$$ listen all that well to what I say. As I'm getting O out, I sense that B is wandering and give him my standard "Parking lot! Stay here!" reminder. This time, he listened, and decided to glue himself to my um, side, as I'm getting O out of the car, with the door still open, and our rather large car parked in the very narrow space very closely to the car next to us. (Disclaimer: yes, our car is way too big, but it holds three kids and all their crap necessary items, so I'm not complaining). While I'm glad B has listened, I am now using both arms to hold an increasingly heavy, and squirmy, toddler, I have a preschooler glued to my um, side, a parked car right next to me, and a car door open immediately in front of me.
"B, you need to move, bud", which is way nicer than what I am thinking, especially as my PTSD is beginning to kick in.
"No mom! It's a PARKING LOT! I have to STAY WITH YOU!"
What a great listener this child is. I try to be thankful for that as I explain that I still need to be able to walk, or even move, which I am currently unable to do. Eventually, painfully, we make our way inside.
After I ordered two what's-so-happy-about-more-made-in-China-pieces-of-junk-to-clutter-up-my-house-meals, I ordered myself a grilled chicken. Good for me, right? Like I'd really admit it if I ordered a big mac. But this time, I really did order grilled chicken, because I was thinking that maybe if I ate more grilled chicken, I would be less likely to repeat the parking lot episode we just experienced. O is now completely done being held and is running around, and B is trying to catch him, which generally has not so great results.
I'm waiting to give the lady my money when I realize she is staring at me. "What kind do you want?" she asks.
"What kind of what?" I ask her. I gave her my order 15 seconds ago. My mind has moved on. I have no idea what she's talking about.
"What kind of grilled chicken?"
Um, I don't know. Grilled? On a bun? I hear B scream somewhere next to me, and look around to see O narrowly avoid running into an elderly person with a hot cup of coffee in their hands (I know it's hot, cause it says so in a special warning on the cups. Besides, it's coffee. Everyone knows its hot, don't they?).
The lady is still staring at me "Do you want a five? With bacon? Or a six? The club". I briefly consider telling her than I'll take whichever one is tequila infused, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't have a sense of humor. I decide to make tequila infused grilled chicken a menu recommendation on a comment card before we leave, which I'm hoping will be very, very soon.
I settle for a club, because that's the only one I remember, and which is also probably the most unhealthy of the "healthy" grilled chicken options. I tell myself that it's still likely to decrease my chances of having to call the fire dept to use the jaws of life and/or crisco to extricate me from between two parked cars on our next visit (ha! like there's gonna be a next visit!). FYI...if you are trying to watch what you eat, this is actually a very helpful visual.
We make it to the play area, where I am happy to see that we are the only ones. B and O eat and go play, and I realize that McDonald's has completely re-modeled this play area since the last time we were here. I think maybe the new surroundings will be good for my PTSD. There is now a wall of glass between the play area and the rest of McDonald's. An older couple sits on the other side of the glass, drinking coffee (careful--it's hot) and watching B and O play. They are smiling. I smugly note that they clearly think my children are adorable. The husband says something to the wife and even with my less than stellar lip reading skills, I know he's said "how cute!". She smiles and nods in agreement. I wonder if this new design was intentional, like maybe the McDonald's people thought people would come in for breakfast but decide to stay for lunch if they have something cute to watch in the play area. Kind of like watching monkeys in the zoo.
B and O start to get a little restless. B wants to climb to the top ( hearing the words "the top" triggers my PTSD) but only if O goes, too. O wants nothing to do with climbing (thank you God) but instead wants to play "How close can I get to the exit before mommy catches me?". We play several times. I am sweating, and no longer know if it's from the PTSD. B announces that he is going to go find a place to poop and disappears into the play area. For once I am happy he still wears diapers. I feel the older couple still watching. I notice they are still smiling. They clearly think this is all very entertaining.Yeah, I think, I'm sure it's adorable from your side of the glass. Try living on this side, pal. I think of the poor monkeys in the zoo.
As I look to see where B is, O makes it past me into the regular part of McDonald's. I chase him. B chases me. The older couple seems surprised that we are now on their side of the glass. They point and laugh. I take B and O back into the play areas and attempt to get their shoes on. As I get B's shoes on, O takes off again, and we all once again go into the other side, though this time, B almost runs into someone carrying (hot) coffee. The older couple only half smiles this time.
As I get O's shoes on, B is now completely out of control, and I decide I don't care, as he is at least staying in the play area. He runs in circles, he runs back and forth in the play area, and eventually, he runs right into the emergency door, which sets off the alarm, which causes everyone in the restaurant to turn and stare. None of them are smiling. I look at the older couple. Surely, they will sympathize. They think we're cute--like monkeys! They are not sympathizing. They are not even smiling. He says something to his wife, and she nods in agreement. I tried to read his lips, and I'm pretty sure it included the words "Birth Control".
I should have known in the parking lot that this was not a good idea. I told B to stay right at the back of our car as I got O out of his carseat. The problem is, B is three, and sometimes he listens quite well. And, other times, well he just doesn't
"B, you need to move, bud", which is way nicer than what I am thinking, especially as my PTSD is beginning to kick in.
"No mom! It's a PARKING LOT! I have to STAY WITH YOU!"
What a great listener this child is. I try to be thankful for that as I explain that I still need to be able to walk, or even move, which I am currently unable to do. Eventually, painfully, we make our way inside.
After I ordered two what's-so-happy-about-more-made-in-China-pieces-of-junk-to-clutter-up-my-house-meals, I ordered myself a grilled chicken. Good for me, right? Like I'd really admit it if I ordered a big mac. But this time, I really did order grilled chicken, because I was thinking that maybe if I ate more grilled chicken, I would be less likely to repeat the parking lot episode we just experienced. O is now completely done being held and is running around, and B is trying to catch him, which generally has not so great results.
I'm waiting to give the lady my money when I realize she is staring at me. "What kind do you want?" she asks.
"What kind of what?" I ask her. I gave her my order 15 seconds ago. My mind has moved on. I have no idea what she's talking about.
"What kind of grilled chicken?"
Um, I don't know. Grilled? On a bun? I hear B scream somewhere next to me, and look around to see O narrowly avoid running into an elderly person with a hot cup of coffee in their hands (I know it's hot, cause it says so in a special warning on the cups. Besides, it's coffee. Everyone knows its hot, don't they?).
The lady is still staring at me "Do you want a five? With bacon? Or a six? The club". I briefly consider telling her than I'll take whichever one is tequila infused, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't have a sense of humor. I decide to make tequila infused grilled chicken a menu recommendation on a comment card before we leave, which I'm hoping will be very, very soon.
I settle for a club, because that's the only one I remember, and which is also probably the most unhealthy of the "healthy" grilled chicken options. I tell myself that it's still likely to decrease my chances of having to call the fire dept to use the jaws of life and/or crisco to extricate me from between two parked cars on our next visit (ha! like there's gonna be a next visit!). FYI...if you are trying to watch what you eat, this is actually a very helpful visual.
We make it to the play area, where I am happy to see that we are the only ones. B and O eat and go play, and I realize that McDonald's has completely re-modeled this play area since the last time we were here. I think maybe the new surroundings will be good for my PTSD. There is now a wall of glass between the play area and the rest of McDonald's. An older couple sits on the other side of the glass, drinking coffee (careful--it's hot) and watching B and O play. They are smiling. I smugly note that they clearly think my children are adorable. The husband says something to the wife and even with my less than stellar lip reading skills, I know he's said "how cute!". She smiles and nods in agreement. I wonder if this new design was intentional, like maybe the McDonald's people thought people would come in for breakfast but decide to stay for lunch if they have something cute to watch in the play area. Kind of like watching monkeys in the zoo.
B and O start to get a little restless. B wants to climb to the top ( hearing the words "the top" triggers my PTSD) but only if O goes, too. O wants nothing to do with climbing (thank you God) but instead wants to play "How close can I get to the exit before mommy catches me?". We play several times. I am sweating, and no longer know if it's from the PTSD. B announces that he is going to go find a place to poop and disappears into the play area. For once I am happy he still wears diapers. I feel the older couple still watching. I notice they are still smiling. They clearly think this is all very entertaining.Yeah, I think, I'm sure it's adorable from your side of the glass. Try living on this side, pal. I think of the poor monkeys in the zoo.
As I look to see where B is, O makes it past me into the regular part of McDonald's. I chase him. B chases me. The older couple seems surprised that we are now on their side of the glass. They point and laugh. I take B and O back into the play areas and attempt to get their shoes on. As I get B's shoes on, O takes off again, and we all once again go into the other side, though this time, B almost runs into someone carrying (hot) coffee. The older couple only half smiles this time.
As I get O's shoes on, B is now completely out of control, and I decide I don't care, as he is at least staying in the play area. He runs in circles, he runs back and forth in the play area, and eventually, he runs right into the emergency door, which sets off the alarm, which causes everyone in the restaurant to turn and stare. None of them are smiling. I look at the older couple. Surely, they will sympathize. They think we're cute--like monkeys! They are not sympathizing. They are not even smiling. He says something to his wife, and she nods in agreement. I tried to read his lips, and I'm pretty sure it included the words "Birth Control".
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Things I am Officially Tired of Hearing Myself Say...
Why are you crying? Why is she crying?
Why is he crying? Stop it!
Get off of him. Get off of her.
Stop kicking, and Don't hit!
Come down from there. Please stand up.
Stop spitting and don't scream.
No, you cannot have candy or cake.
It's too early for ice cream!
That is not yours so put it down.
Where does that belong?
No, I won't change the station again.
I'm sorry you don't like this song.
Be nice to your brother. Be nice to your sister.
Could everyone please just stop fighting?
What didn't you hear the first time?
I said to PLEASE stop biting!
Please flush the toilet. Please clean your room.
Please don't dump out the poor dog's food.
Yes, that really was a great big burp.
Now please stop, it's really rude.
Please wipe your feet. Please close the door.
For the third time, turn off that light.
Please brush your teeth and get in your jammies.
It's time to say good night.
And yet despite all of this, there are a few things
I'll never tire of hearing myself say
Night night. Sleep tight. I love you to pieces.
So glad I got to be your mommy today.
Why is he crying? Stop it!
Get off of him. Get off of her.
Stop kicking, and Don't hit!
Come down from there. Please stand up.
Stop spitting and don't scream.
No, you cannot have candy or cake.
It's too early for ice cream!
That is not yours so put it down.
Where does that belong?
No, I won't change the station again.
I'm sorry you don't like this song.
Be nice to your brother. Be nice to your sister.
Could everyone please just stop fighting?
What didn't you hear the first time?
I said to PLEASE stop biting!
Please flush the toilet. Please clean your room.
Please don't dump out the poor dog's food.
Yes, that really was a great big burp.
Now please stop, it's really rude.
Please wipe your feet. Please close the door.
For the third time, turn off that light.
Please brush your teeth and get in your jammies.
It's time to say good night.
And yet despite all of this, there are a few things
I'll never tire of hearing myself say
Night night. Sleep tight. I love you to pieces.
So glad I got to be your mommy today.
Monday, January 9, 2012
The Astronaut Playdate
On New Year's Eve, Jimmy and I packed up the kids and all their crap necessary items, and went to Caca and Uncle Eddie's. No, Caca is not her real name. Nor is it a pseudonym for blogging purposes. It's just who she is. She's Caca (she's also my sister). NBO love Caca and Uncle Eddie, and I knew they would be excited for a sleep over. They were not, however, excited to actually sleep. N was excited to stay up until midnight and kept herself awake by putting funny sticky notes on Uncle Pat's back (where does she get this? Certainly not the kind of thing her mom would ever do). B and O, meanwhile, took two hours to finally decide to sleep, at which point I was quite ready to join them. It was New Year's Eve, though, and since I think it's generally considered bad parenting practice to go to sleep before your six-year-old daughter, I made it til midnight.
Some time after all the other party goers hadpassed out fallen asleep, I was awakened by the doorbell. Doorbells at 4:30 am are generally not a good thing. I listened, heard voices talking quietly, and eventually decided I should probably get up and see what was happening. No lights on downstairs. No voices downstairs. I follow the voices toward Caca and Uncle Eddie's room, and realize that the voices actually sound like someone talking on a police radio. I briefly run several possible scenarios through my head (the police rang the doorbell, but no one answered, so now they are around the back of the house, talking on their radio? A bad guy rang the doorbell, and the police are looking for him? No, bad guys don't ring doorbells, I remind myself. You are an idiot idiot. A very tired idiot.). I listen for a minute, hear snoring, and realize that the "voices" are actually coming from a police scanner. Happy to have confirmation that everyone was safe and sound, and that I am, in fact, just an idiot, I went back to sleep. The lingering questions about the doorbell that I know I heard eventually left my mind.
That is, until very, very, early this morning, when someone rang our doorbell. The main problem with this is that we don't actually have a doorbell. I listened, and it rang again, and I realized "Hey! That doorbell sounds exactly like the one I heard at Caca's!" and then I heard a way too chipper voice say, "Someone's here!". Suddenly, I could picture the new Christmas toy which was sent to the kids by my dear friend Bubba, who lives in New Jersey (no, that's not her real name either, nor is it a pseudonym. That's just who she is). Of course, I have no recollection of taking that toy to Caca's, which means that the kids are either getting more adept at packing their own crap necessary items, or that thing has legs. That could be a good thing. Maybe it will walk itself back to New Jersey.
Happy to have the doorbell mystery solved, I begin to drift back to sleep as the same cheery voice says "Who's here? It's an Astronaut!!". Yeah. Cause astronauts just show up at people's doors every day. That's realistic. I fall into a deeper sleep, and begin to dream about astronauts, and doorbells, and repeatedly running over toys that werestrategically placed accidentally left under my back tire.
And then I feel it. The stare. I can tell there is a pair of eyes very close to my head, and I realize that a) it is way, way too early for this and b) whoever is staring at me is very, very, smelly. I open one eye and see three-year-old B inches from my face. "Mom?" he asks seriously, "Do astronauts have play dates, too?"
I have no idea. But if they do, I really hope they just knock.
Some time after all the other party goers had
That is, until very, very, early this morning, when someone rang our doorbell. The main problem with this is that we don't actually have a doorbell. I listened, and it rang again, and I realized "Hey! That doorbell sounds exactly like the one I heard at Caca's!" and then I heard a way too chipper voice say, "Someone's here!". Suddenly, I could picture the new Christmas toy which was sent to the kids by my dear friend Bubba, who lives in New Jersey (no, that's not her real name either, nor is it a pseudonym. That's just who she is). Of course, I have no recollection of taking that toy to Caca's, which means that the kids are either getting more adept at packing their own
Happy to have the doorbell mystery solved, I begin to drift back to sleep as the same cheery voice says "Who's here? It's an Astronaut!!". Yeah. Cause astronauts just show up at people's doors every day. That's realistic. I fall into a deeper sleep, and begin to dream about astronauts, and doorbells, and repeatedly running over toys that were
And then I feel it. The stare. I can tell there is a pair of eyes very close to my head, and I realize that a) it is way, way too early for this and b) whoever is staring at me is very, very, smelly. I open one eye and see three-year-old B inches from my face. "Mom?" he asks seriously, "Do astronauts have play dates, too?"
I have no idea. But if they do, I really hope they just knock.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
To Blog or not to Blog...
I've thought about blogging for a while (apparently since 2009, according to Blogger, who informed me that I'd already started, but never named or actually wrote in, a previous blog. I blame sleep deprivation). Shortly after having O in 2010, as I thanked God for sending us the third of these three incredible, amazing, longed-for children, I realized that, if I didn't do something to manage my stress, I was going to lose.my.ever.loving.mind.
Wine helped some. Still does at times. Other helpful stress relievers: yoga, meditation, exercise, beer, vodka, tequila, and well, who am I kidding, I'm really not that picky at this point. But, of course, alcohol is never really the answer to stress, especially when you consider that, every morning, I have three children with whom I have to get up, feed, dress, nurture, inspire, read to, play with, encourage, yell at, clean up after, feed again, dress again, clean up after again, yell at again, cry over, put in age appropriate time out that Super Nanny would be proud of (and hope it makes up for all the yelling) clean up after again (are you kidding me?!), and generally be the center of existence for. Besides, no one wants to be the hung-over mom that the other moms talk about at the bus stop.
So, as much as I might like it to be, wine cannot be my stress reliever all the time, and writing comes in a close second. So here I am.
Wine helped some. Still does at times. Other helpful stress relievers: yoga, meditation, exercise, beer, vodka, tequila, and well, who am I kidding, I'm really not that picky at this point. But, of course, alcohol is never really the answer to stress, especially when you consider that, every morning, I have three children with whom I have to get up, feed, dress, nurture, inspire, read to, play with, encourage, yell at, clean up after, feed again, dress again, clean up after again, yell at again, cry over, put in age appropriate time out that Super Nanny would be proud of (and hope it makes up for all the yelling) clean up after again (are you kidding me?!), and generally be the center of existence for. Besides, no one wants to be the hung-over mom that the other moms talk about at the bus stop.
So, as much as I might like it to be, wine cannot be my stress reliever all the time, and writing comes in a close second. So here I am.
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