Time Out, Control Freak

So I currently have a control freak in my life. Doesn't everyone? This person drives me crazy because they must be in complete control of everything that happens every.moment.of.the.day. Frequently, I just want to tell this person to go try to control someone else because, really, I am pretty over the whole control freak thing.
You do things your way, and let me do them mine.
The world will survive without you controlling every little aspect of everyone's life. Truly, it will.
Live and let live.
And frankly, if you don't stop fighting with me over every.single.thing, I am going to take away your bed time story.

Oh, did I mention that my control freak is a three-year-old?
Three year-olds are all about control. I know this because I have a master's degree, and they taught us things like this. I know it because I have attended many day long vacations where they feed you a lunch that does not consist of peanut butter and jelly and where you don't have to change a single diaper or wipe anyone's nose for an entire eight hours continuing education seminars on child development, and they have talked in depth about the control issues that three-year-olds have.  I also know that three-year-olds are all about control because I happen to have a three-year-old. Duh.

 In addition to my own first hand knowledge, I know that three-year-olds have control issues because I listen very closely to the pediatrician at well child visits when he gives me his "this is all developmentally appropriate" speech. I listen carefully because I keep hoping that somewhere in his wealth of knowledge, there will be an actual solution that involves something other than dragging a certain child up the stairs to their room four times a day for the past two years for age appropriate time outs. Wow--do you realize that's 2,880 time outs?  Huh. Isn't the idea that they learn from the consequences of their behavior? In what other realm of learning is it acceptable to have to do something 2,880 times before you get it? I mean, would we let someone take their driver's test 2,880 times? No, I don't think we would. I think we would cut them off somewhere around try 47, because if you haven't gotten it by then, I'm thinking you're probably just not going to get it. Go get yourself a bike helmet, pal. Do they let you take your SATs 2,880 times? Hmmm, probably not. I'm thinking that after about try 16, someone starts suggesting a fabulous technical school that would be just great for you.

And yet, from talking to friends, it seems that 2,880 time-outs is considered the lifetime average for three-year-olds (ok, fine, maybe my three-year-old is slightly higher than average in this area. What can I say? He's advanced). When it comes to discipline, though, the experts all seem to say the same things:
Just continue to be consistent.
Give them consequences.
And my personal favorite: Keep trying, and eventually he won't do these things anymore.

This is what this morning looked like with my little control freak:
"Mom, can I watch Sesame Street?"
"Sure!" I say as I turn it on.
"No! I don't want that! I want Rex Ruffman!"
"You need to ask nicely"
He does. I turn on Rex Ruffman.
"NO! I don't want that! I want Sesame Street!"
At this point, I turn off the tv and go back into the kitchen, where I stick my head into a sink full of dirty dish water, to drown out the screaming from the other room.

A short time later, my little control freak informs me that he needs a diaper. I stopped telling him that he needs to be use the potty some time ago, because this is, of course, an example of him exercising his control, and I decided not to play that game anymore. Besides, I was losing, and I got tired of cleaning pee off my kitchen floor.

So, as usual, I said "Ok, lets go upstairs and change you".
"NO! I don't want a diaper!"
"You need a diaper or your bum will hurt".
"NO! I don't need a diaper!"
"Ok, let me know when you do need one."
I walk back into the kitchen and resist the urge to stick my head under the dishwater again. I actually start washing dishes instead. And then I hear, "Now Mom! I need a diaper RIGHT NOW!".


In case you think I'm not being consistent, let me share some other tid bits from our morning. Very early this morning, before I had even had my fifth cup of coffee, I had a pretzel thrown at my head. A time out followed. Then, as I was once again on the phone with my favorite people at my cable company, someone emptied an entire bottle of dishwashing liquid onto the kitchen counter. As I calmly explained to said child that we wouldn't have money to buy cookies if I have to buy more dishwashing liquid, this person became angry at the mere possibilty of not having cookies, and attempted to push me. Another time out followed.  When said child returned, they grabbed a new box of Diet Pepsi off the counter, and threw it on the floor, spilling cans everywhere. There are things I will tolerate, but this type of behavior is unacceptable. We do not throw pretzels at people's heads. We do not push. And we most certainly do not mess with mommy's Diet Pepsi. So, of course, another time out followed.

So I think I'm pretty consistent, as far as I can tell. And yet the behavior continues. I keep thinking of the advice from all the experts. Be consistent. Give consequences. And, of course, keep trying, and eventually he won't do these things anymore.

I think that last bit of advice was from one of our pediatricians. I think back to our visits there, and I realize, maybe I misunderstood. After all, someone is usually screaming, and it's not always easy to focus on what the doctor is telling me. Maybe I heard him wrong. In fact, now that I think about it, he probably didn't say "Keep trying, and eventually he won't do these things anymore."

He must have said,
Stop crying. Eventually your control freak will turn four.

Whose Blog is it, Anyway?

I like blogging. I like it because it's relaxing, and because it's something that is all mine. There is very little in my life that is just mine. I have recently considered installing a padlock on our bedroom door, because I've realized that all the stuff that is in our bedroom and is therefore, theoretically, at least half mine, is being taken over by the little people who live in my home. They use my lipstick--sometimes as lipstick, sometimes as a crayon. They use my hairbrush, my deodorant, and my toothbrush. No, they don't use my deodorant as deodorant. They use it as finger paint. And I don't want to know what they use my toothbrush for, but I'm fairly certain it is not to brush their teeth. Really, if you have an idea, don't even tell me. They sometimes sleep in my bed, which is ok in theory, until you figure that five people (and a dog) in a queen size bed usually means that someone is left clinging to the the edge--that would, of course, be me. I guess it's only fitting that I spend my nights clinging to edge of the bed, since I spend my days clinging to the edge of my sanity. 

They go through my jewelry box full of single earrings, knotted chains, and nothing that costs more than fifty bucks, all of which I am excessively attached to  extremely valuable family heirlooms. Occasionally, I will notice something out of place and I will go ballistic and tell them for the twenty-seventh time  gently remind them not to go through my things, but it never lasts long. Of course, they are sweet, kind, generous children, so they don't just take. They give back, too. On a typical night, I find three toy cars, two fairies, a Spiderman, and at least one dinosaur somewhere in my bed. Jimmy usually finds them first, but he is so kind that he just pushes them over to my side. (Yes, I am totally  mostly passing on the opportunity to make an inaccurate but incredibly funny joke about Jimmy being the dinosaur in my bed. NBO do get some of their kindness, sweetness, and generosity from me, after all).

My body used to be mine, but then three people took it over, one by one, each of them adding their own personalized touches. Someday I will have them each initial their respective stretch marks, which they currently find so fascinating. And yes, the fact that they find them fascinating means that they look at them. Occasionally, I have delusional episodes where I think I am actually alone. By myself. With no one there. At these times, I will attempt to do ridiculously self indulgent things like take a shower, get dressed, or go to the bathroom. And, as I am doing one of these things, someone will, almost without fail, slam open the door, or pop out of some corner of the room I didn't know they were in, and will often make their presence known with a comment or question about well, whatever part of me they happen to be staring at. "Mom, why do you have THOSE? Why don't I have THOSE? What are THOSE?" Sometimes the question implies that my body is missing something. "Mom? Where's your mickey? Did it fall off in the shower? Is mine going to fall off in the bathtub?" I will spare you further examples. I know you are incredibly grateful for this.

Suffice it to say, nothing about my life is my own. Lately, I have even started suspecting that someone has been investigating my underwear drawer. Trust me when I tell you, there is nothing interesting in there. I think maybe they want to see if the stretch marks come with the undies, since my version--that those things were not there until YOU, sweet child, were in my belly--just doesn't seem plausible.

What I am leading up to with all of this is that I am kind of protective of my blog as one of the few things left that is mine. So, when my sweet daughter asked tonight if she could write something in my blog, my initial reaction, as her loving, kind, generous mother, was to tell her to get her own damn blog wait til she was a little older. This was not only my reaction because I want to keep my blog as my own, but because when I read her a previous entry, she started telling me how I could improve it. Have high self esteem? Have a child. They will take care of that for you. When I suggested that N may want to get her own damn blog  wait a while, she looked disappointed and kind of sad, and I decided that her happiness was more important than me having something that was all mine. I told her to write what she wanted people to know about her or our family. Yes, I was incredibly fearful of what the results of this might be. As it turns out, it wasn't anything we didn't already know:

Hi!I am N! I am six years old.My mom says I eat with out my spoon,only sometimes.I have two little brothers B and O. B is three, O is one.They are craaaaaaaaaazy!Bye for now.

How sweet. She was concerned that I told people, in a previous blog entry, that she ate with her fingers. She asked me to read that part to her, so I did. She laughed hysterically. Then she cried hysterically. Then she said "DELETE THAT RIGHT NOW!". I didn't make the connection when she asked me a few minutes later if she could write an entry in my blog that she just wanted to make a rebuttal. Smart girl, that daughter of mine. Cute, too. She even made the text pink. She also changed the font, which I'm not sure I'll ever be able to get back to what I like. Oh well. Isn't it more important that N feels included in this? That she gets to share something with me, her mom? Isn't it more important that I encourage her means of self expression, and allow her to tell whoever she thinks is reading this that she only eats with her fingers some of the time? I think so.

There's just one thing that concerns me about what she wrote. Do you see it? "Bye for now".  FOR NOW? Clearly, she thinks this is the beginning of a long, distinguished partnership. We will have to talk about this. Maybe even put it in writing. This is NOT a partnership. This blog is totally, completely, 100% all mine, and I am not sharing.

I hope she'll understand. I'll still let her drool on my pillow, and steal my covers, and leave me clinging to the edge of my own bed. She can still look through my old jewelry, though if she wants to see some really old stuff, she should stick to looking in my underwear drawer. I'll still let her use my lipstick, and my hairbrush, and my deodorant--though I think it might be her brothers who have a preference for that. She can even keep using my toothbrush. In fact, because I love her so much, I don't even want that back.

Jeopardy!

Today I dropped N off at a play date and took B and O to the play area at McDonald's. I was a little anxious about this, given our last experience there...and the one before that...and possibly the one before that. But it was windy and cold and not really an outside play kind of day, given that we had two hours to kill, so I bit the bullet and went.

We stood in line to order their what's-so-happy-about-more-made-in-China-pieces-of-crap-to-clutter- up-my-house-meals, and eventually we were helped by a cashier named Ricco. Or maybe it was Nicco. Who can read a name tag while you're trying to hold onto a squirming toddler while also trying to keep your wandering three-year-old within eyesight. I asked for apples with their meals, thinking that might cancel out the toxins in the cheeseburgers. Ricco/Nicco looked at me and said, "Both".
Is he telling me it comes with both? Or is he asking me if I want both?Why do I always end up confused in this place?

I say "Just apples" and Ricco/Nicco repeats, "Both". I contemplate telling Ricco/Nicco that I really don't want the fries, but from the look on his face, it appears that I will be getting both. Wow, what great marketing. Making parents happy by including apples, while also ensuring that another generation will grow up addicted to large quantities of fat and salt masquerading as potatoes.

I order a grilled chicken sandwich and am looking for my money as I realize that Ricco/Nicco is asking me something. I really look at him for the first time, and I can't focus on his question, because I realize, wow, Ricco/Nicco really does a great job with his make-up. Way better than I ever do. Of course,  he is wearing way more of it than I ever do. Or more than I ever have. In my life.

Oh, he is, of course, asking me what kind of grilled chicken I want.
Why, oh why must this be so difficult.
I tell him just a plain grilled chicken.
He is not happy with this.
I must order by number.
I have flashbacks to the last time I was here.
Ricco says "Five, six, or seven?
Not this again.
Ricco is staring at me, irritated.
I don't want the one with bacon and cheese. I want the plain one. I am looking at the menu, trying to see which one that is. Ricco/Nicco is still staring at me, diva like. He is obviously channeling his inner JLo.
The pressure. I feel like a Jeopardy contestant. I hear the music.
Uh, a freakin plain grilled chicken sandwich for five hundred?

Ricco/Nicco is clearly amazed at the idiot before him, who doesn't even know what number she wants. I'm pretty sure he is also thinking that I have alot of nerve going out of the house without lipstick. I briefly wonder what kind he is wearing. It's a nice shade. I think it's too dark for me, though. Then I remember that it doesn't matter anyway, since the only place my lipstick ends up lately is on the bathroom walls and on my children. I bet Ricco/Nicco doesn't have to share his lipstick. I bet it doesn't end up on the bathroom walls. I bet his lipstick still has its perfect lipstick shape, and isn't worn down to a nub due to repeatedly being used as a crayon. I bet Ricco/Nicco even knows where the cap to his lipstick is.

Feeling pressured with a longer line growing behind us and two increasingly restless boys, and sensing that my time is almost up, I throw some number out at him. I silently hope I got it right.

Dammit! It's the one with bacon and cheese after all.

I should have picked a different category. Next time jeopardy calls me, I'm picking Obnoxious Lipstick Wearing McDonald's Cashiers for a thousand.

The Royal Treatment

I don't watch TV with NBO during the day very often, but today I sat down with B and O and watched a few minutes of Sesame Street. Abbie and her friends were dressed up as princesses, and kept getting into all kinds of princess trouble. Of course, every time they did, a prince showed up to help them. But, lo and behold, every time he tried to help, the princesses discovered that they could solve the problem themselves. They didn't need that prince.

With each new dilemma, the prince kept trying to help, but after a while, he clearly didn't know what to do. Use his physical strength to help? Nope. These princesses were pretty strong, plus they knew how to work together. Glass slipper? No. What good is that when you have two fellow princesses instead? Kissing the princess? Uh, definitely not. Ultimately, the princesses either solved it on their own or allowed him to help with their plan to fix it.  The part of me that is mother to a princess thought, All Hail the Princesses! Hooray for Girl Power! Girls Rock!

But there was another part of me--the part that is mom to two princes--that thought, wait...what about the poor prince? He looked lost. And confused. And kind of sad. He didn't know what to do. They didn't need him anymore. What good was a prince if no one needed him? After all, didn't we tell princes from the beginning of time that it was their job to take care of the princesses? And now, haven't we been telling them for years that  those princesses are strong and independent, and don't need their help, thank you very much? Oh, but please make sure you still open the door for them. And pay for dinner. And buy them a big sparkling diamond ring equivalent of a glass slipper. And if they fail to do these things, we modern, independent princesses complain that chivalry is dead. Poor princes. How can they possibly know what's expected of them? No wonder they're confused. They just can't win.

I wondered if my princes, at only three and a half and one and a half, could possibly have picked up on this confusion. So I asked them for their thoughts. I asked three-year-old B if he likes princesses. He shrugged. I decided on a different tactic, and asked him who he liked better: princesses, or mommy. His answer: Spiderman. I asked him if he knows what it is that princes do. He shrugged. Clearly, this is evidence that our princes are confused and ambivalent about their future roles in the world. Even my one yr old is confused. I asked O only one simple question. Who did he like better: Spiderman, or princes? His very articulate response: Spaderpince. This is obviously further evidence that there is a great deal of confusion within the prince community over this issue.

It probably goes without saying that I don't ever want my princess to have to be rescued by a prince, but I don't worry about that too much. If you've met her, you probably don't either. I think she has good examples in her life of strong, independent women who don't really buy into the whole prince thing all that much. On the other hand, she is well aware that her mother will do everything possible to avoid touching a mouse trap, because that's the prince's job. Hmm, mixed message? Maybe. I guess the princes aren't the only ones who are confused.

 I do know that I don't want her to need a prince to save her from anything, or need him to give her a glass slipper, or need him to have a castle for her to live in. I want her to be strong enough that she doesn't need saving by anyone, and to be secure enough to buy her own glass slipper, and to be self-sufficient enough to build her own castle--or at least be able to pay someone from the royal kingdom to build it. But at the same time, if a prince wants to give a strong, independent princess a glass slipper, is that really such a bad thing? And if she prefers to have him catch the mice in the royal castle, is that really the end of the world?

All of this, of course, might still be confusing for the princes. I don't want my princes to ever feel that they need to rescue a princess. But I do hope they will open doors for her, and let her walk in first, and give her their coat if she needs it. I hope that, if they give anyone a glass slipper, they give it to a princess who is perfectly capable of buying her own, but appreciates that she doesn't have to. I hope they won't hesitate to catch the mice in the royal castle, or at least agree to get a cat. I hope they find a princess who is capable of fixing some things for herself, but who will sometimes let them fix things, too, since that is, after all, one of the things that princes do best. I hope they find princesses who realize that, as good as it is to be an independent princess, princes can be pretty good to have around, too. And, of course, I hope they find princesses who don't mind Spiderman hanging around, scaling the castle walls.

As much as we want our princesses to be strong, independent women who can take care of themselves, I personally hope that my strong, independent  princess will settle for nothing less than a prince. And I hope that my princes will treat the strong, independent princesses in their lives like nothing less than queens.

I don't think I have to worry too much about N in this respect. Today as I was driving her home from school, I asked her if she liked princes. She looked at me funny as she answered, "How could I not like princes, mom? They help the princesses rule the world".

Customer Service...anyone?

Don't you just love a good customer service experience? It seems like it doesn't happen as often as it used to.  In one of my first jobs, I had wonderful bosses named Ted and Deb. Ted and Deb taught us, by example, that  it was important to keep the service in customer service, since after all, that's what we were providing (well, through the sales of ice cream, lobster rolls, and chicken patty sandwiches). At the same time, they also taught us by example that the customer did not always have to be right. If a customer was being rude or completely unreasonable, it was OK to get one of your bosses so that they could diplomatically tell the customer where to go to, um, find what it was they were looking for. Over twenty years later, I still find this to be an incredibly valuable life skill.

These days, my time for making phone calls is limited. In fact, I only call customer service numbers when there is absolutely no other way to resolve an issue, since I know that it's close to impossible to resolve something over the phone with two or three kids screaming, fighting, repeatedly calling my name, or having a syrup and peanut butter party happily playing in the background. Recently, though, I called the cable company and made changes to save money on our monthly bill. They were so amazing over the phone and were more than happy to save us money. But then I got my bill, and it wasn't exactly what they said it would be. There were some undisclosed charges to make these changes, as well as a difference in the amount that they had told me. So, I did something very brave and called them, with the kids screaming  happily playing in the background. I explained the issue, and the first person I spoke to said that, while all of those charges were, according to them, valid, they would give me a twenty-five dollar credit "to resolve the issue". Now, some days I would take the twenty-five dollar credit and be done. But the actual amount in question was thirty-five, and that particular day, I just wasn't going to take the twenty-five dollar credit. Plus, I know when I am being paid to go away--something I would happily do if they were actually paying me the amount in question. But they weren't. So I asked nicely to speak with a manager, who was, I'm pretty sure, sixteen.

The sixteen-year-old manager clearly never had anyone like Ted or Deb as a boss, because he was, among other things, incredibly rude. He told me that all of the charges were valid and that I didn't get the information about additional charges because I didn't ask for that information. But after going around and around with him, with B and O screaming and tearing the house apart  happily playing around me, I realized that it felt like, well, arguing with a teenager, and that I just did not have one more second to waste on this.  I nicely said "I don't agree with this, but just go ahead and give me the twenty-five dollar credit and we'll call it a day". And sixteen-year-old manager boy on a power trip said "Well, I can't do that. That was to resolve the problem. Once you asked to speak with a manager, that offer no longer stood."

I can't really explain what happened after that, other than that I decided that I was done being nice to rude sixteen-year-old manager boy on a power trip. I told him his customer service skills were a joke. I told him we would be switching to another company. I told him his lack of professionalism was appalling. And then, because in a moment of weakness I apparently decided to stoop to his sixteen-year-old level, I told him, rather loudly, that his cable company and their so called customer service sucked.  Then there was a pause. A really long pause. I was about to hang up, when he said "Ma'am, um, I can't close your account over the phone today. If you call back, we can handle that in our customer service department". I hung up. I did not call back. I sent a rather pointed e-mail where I may have happened to mention a blog I have where I write about these types of things and I may have implied that said blog has a much larger readership than it actually does and explained the issue, did not get a satisfactory response, and eventually I got over it. 

Today, in the mail, I got a cable bill. Low and behold, it has a twenty five dollar credit. Huh. I wonder how that happened. Who knows what conversation took place before someone decided to issue that credit, but I'm guessing it was along the lines of,  "Give her the credit. She's crazy".

Yesterday, I had a slightly different kind of experience-- one where I was floored by how helpful the company was trying to be. After our refrigerator motor caught on fire a few weeks ago, I sent an email to the manufacturer, making them aware that a fridge we bought in 2001, a two door model with a top freezer, had caught on fire a week earlier. I wanted to make them aware in case they needed to notify other customers, especially since the man who delivered our new fridge mentioned that he had seen this happen before. Here is part of the response from them:

Thank you for contacting our Customer Experience Center.  We regret the incident described in your email. Please provide the information requested below, retain the refrigerator, and disconnect the power to the appliance (unplug or flip the circuit breaker off), do not attempt to operate the unit, and advise all household users not to attempt to operate the unit until it is inspected and deemed safe to operate or repaired/restored to safe operating condition.We appreciate your taking time to write. Please return this email and provide the following:  address where appliance is located,
model number from appliance model/serial tag, date of purchase from purchase receipt, dealer (name only) where purchased.

Wow! How helpful are they?! And they even told me to unplug the fridge. Thank God for that. Otherwise, I might still be sitting here with a burned out refrigerator STILL PLUGGED IN...while my home was in ashes around it. If only I had retained the refrigerator, so they could have come and examined it. Darn, wish I would have known. I would have just kept it next to the new one. Of course, I'd have to tell my three children to NOT OPERATE THE UNIT UNTIL IT CAN BE RESTORED TO SAFE OPERATING CONDITION. And by the way kids, don't worry about the fact that the motor caught on fire. I'm sure they can just fix that. They were trying to be helpful though, so I thought the least I could do was respond to their email. So I did:

Hi-
I bought the refrigerator from (XYZ Dept Store) 10 yrs ago. Since it was ten years ago, I do not have the rest of the info on the model, nor do I have the receipt, since, after all, it was ten years ago. While I appreciate your specific instructions, we decided that we should probably unplug the model when it caught on fire. Actually, the fire department helped us with that decision. And, since it caught on fire, we decided it was probably just a good idea to get a new one. I would love to give you the address of its current location, but it is now gone from our home since, you know, it caught on fire. We had it sitting out front for a few days, but the neighbors weren't really liking that, so it's gone now. Thanks for your interest in helping us.

I don't know if that was the right email to send. I mean, I could have at least included the address of the local dump in case they want to go look for it. I guess I could have been a little nicer and not so sarcastic. But really, I think I handled it well. It's not like I told them their appliances suck.

Give me some credit. That would have been crazy.

Hot Mess Housekeeper Returns

As NBO Momma is busy cleaning her trashed house, we have another column from the Hot Mess Housekeeper.

Dear Hot Mess Housekeeper:

My husband has gotten better lately about giving me a break so I can get away for a couple hours. But when I get home, the house is trashed. Any tips on how to keep things neater?

Sincerely,
Depressed at the Mess

Dear Depressed,

Shouldn't your husband be asking this question? Why do you think he isn't asking me? I'll tell you why.  Because he does not care. He is, presumably, a man, which means that your house could fall down around him and he wouldn't notice. As long as he can still get to the beer and beef jerky, it's a non issue for him. Yes, I realize this is a huge generalization, and one that is not very PC these days. If you want PC, go to Miss Manners. You came here for a solution, so here is the solution: Do not go home. No, I don't mean don't ever go home. Just don't go home until it's clean. Make him send you a picture of each room in its current state (aren't cell phones great?!) and do not go home until they meet your standards.

Don't think this will work? Here's the thing. Your husband will no doubt be proud of himself for giving you this "gift" of a few hours away. He will be thinking what a great husband he is. He will be thinking what a great husband you think he is. He will be thinking that it's only right that you will want to express your, um, gratitude. But, of course, you wouldn't want to be too tired. And--this is the part he needs to know- if you have to come home and clean the house, you're going to be really, really tired.

If that doesn't work, threaten to take his beer and beef jerky away.

Dear Hot Mess Housekeeper,

Recently I decided to have a girls' night at my house--you know, just a few girls getting sloshed in the basement  playing bunco. We had so much freakin fun a really nice time. We even had a fabulous baby sitter named Kiana stay with the kids upstairs and we  threatened them with bodily harm if they so much took a step downstairs had lots of entertainment for them there. But now I'm noticing a few things I didn't notice right away. There is something on my curtains. It might be tequila apple juice, but I'm not sure. There's also something in the carpet. I think it's margarita mix lemonade. And there also appears to be something like margarita salt kosher salt sprinkled around the room. Any idea how to get these things out? Oh, and if you happen to have any idea how to lengthen the cord on a ninja food processor, I would appreciate that, too. It's really hard to make kick @$$ margaritas guacamole when the cord is too short to reach the bar  table. Thanks for your help!

Sincerely,

Margarita Momma Suzy Homemaker

P.S...if you know how to get footprints off the coffee table, that would be helpful, too.


Dear, uh, Suzy,

Pretend you never sent me this letter. Destroy the evidence. Then, the next time your husband gives you a few hours away, make sure you have him take pictures of the, um, bunco room before you return home. Tell him you are not coming home until all those apple juice and lemonade stains are gone. Period. Tell him he'd better get the foot prints off the table. And he'd better lengthen the cord on the food processor, since the kids obviously found a way to shorten that, too. Tell him that, if you have to come home and do all of these things yourself, you are going to be really, really tired.

If that doesn't work, go find a nice quiet spot where you can sit for a while and relax. Preferably some place that sells apple juice. And lemonade. And where someone else makes the guacamole.

And don't forget the kosher salt.

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Dinner Time!

It seems like we're always hearing about how important it is to have dinner together, as a family, as often as possible. Mental health professionals. Medical Professionals. Religious Leaders. They all say it.  It teaches children manners. It encourages healthy eating habits. It leads to family conversation, and encourages overall bonding within the family. The funny thing is, I don't think any of the professionals who recommend this have ever eaten with us as a family. In fact, I'm sure they haven't. I, however,  have eaten dinner with my family many times, and I most certainly do not recommend it. Maybe I should invite our pediatrician over for dinner, and then ask him, as he's wiping mashed potatoes off his glasses, if he still thinks it's such a great idea for us all to all eat together as often as possible. Maybe I should ask our priest to come over for dinner, and ask him, as B is repeatedly offering him beer or telling him how itchy his bum is, if he thinks it's a good idea for us to eat together. Something tells me, though, that they would find a reason not to come. After all, they haven't eaten with us, but they have met us. Several times.

In theory, eating together is a great idea. We actually do eat together more nights than not in our house. For some reason, though, it's not quite the joyful experience all of those professionals would have us believe. Maybe some day, it will help NBO learn manners , but right now it's usually just a display of how horrendous their manners actually are. Well that's an opportunity for parents to teach them better manners. Yeah. Of course it is. N is six-and-a-half. Six-and-a-half-year-olds should not still be eating with their fingers, and we should be cracking down on this. And we do. Until we are distracted by flying broccoli and spraying milk, at which point the fact that our six-year-old is eating with her fingers suddenly becomes a very minor issue. At least she is eating, unlike her three-year-old brother, who is alternately blowing bubbles in his milk and spitting the milk out of his mouth to see how high of a fountain he can make. Well that's an opportunity to teach him that that is just unacceptable. Yes. Of course it is. And we do. Well, we try to.

Recently, if B is playing with his food instead of eating it, we started removing his dinner. At which point he lays on the kitchen floor and screams, because he's three, and three-year-olds are particularly good at that. We ignore him, because we are his parents, and we are getting particularly good at that. We continue to eat. We remind N to use a fork. We make sure O's food is broken up into small pieces. We  try to ignore the fact that B is now standing up and, since he has no food of his own to play with, is now playing with the dog food. We ignore it until he starts throwing the dog food, and a piece lands in N's milk. This must be secret brother code for "Let the games being", because at almost the same moment, O grabs handfuls of broccoli and throws them up into the air. Clearly, we can no longer ignore this. Thinking maybe we still have a chance with O--after all, he's not two yet--Jimmy and I both give him a firm "No!". He drops the rest of the broccoli. He stares at Jimmy. He stares at me. He looks at N, and then turns and looks at B. He picks up more broccoli, aims for N's cup that has the dog food in it, and as he throws it in, he laughs at us.

Clearly, our family dinners are not doing anything for their table manners. Maybe at least it will help their conversation skills. They do communicate with one another more at the dinner table than at other times of the day. In fact, N will usually talk to B several times when we're eating dinner. Some examples of the sweet sisterly things she says to him include: "Move over. Stop touching me. Don't breathe on my food. Get away from my milk". And, because she is such a thoughtful sister, she wants to make sure Jimmy and I are involved with him, too. "Mom, look what he's doing. Dad, did you hear him? Mom! Did you see that piece of chicken land in your wine water?" At least they are learning that minor distractions don't have to completely end a conversation. I have taught them this by example, with phrases like "How was school today--get that carrot off of your brother's head right now, sit in your seat, and drink your milk--do you have much homework?"

I don't know what our children will ultimately gain from all of us eating dinner together. Maybe it will help B with his aim if he decides to play basketball. It will probably help N if she decides to be a secret agent and needs to keep track of what everyone around her is doing at every moment. Perhaps it will help O continue to develop the charm he seems to already use to diffuse potentially stressful situations. I do know that Jimmy and I have bonded more over these dinners, though. In the difficult moments--as someone is throwing broccoli or spitting milk, and the recipient of the broccoli and/or milk is screaming and/or returning fire--we often share the kind of look that only takes place between couples who have been married for a long time. The kind of look that says, We're in this together. The kind of look that says, We wanted this, remember? The kind of look that says, Will you go get us another drink, or will I?

Bath Time

I recently read a blurb in a parenting magazine about how bath time is the most relaxing time of the day for a mom. According to the writer, you can soak your feet, let the kids write on the walls without feeling that you need to yell at them, and you actually get to sit down. I loved reading this. I loved reading it in the same way I love reading novels about wealthy people who spend their days sitting pool side with colorful drinks. I would love to meet the writer of the bath time blurb. I would tell her that I loved her description of bath time, and that her imagery was so real that I could totally picture a scene like that. The same way I can picture a prince on horseback showing up at my door step, and doing something that would absolutely blow my mind...like the dishes, or the laundry. I would tell her that, and then, I would ask her this:  On what planet do you bathe your children?

I would ask her this because, while I love the idea of her description, my bath time reality is just a little different. When I bathe the kids, I'm either giving two baths back to back, or I am bathing three at once. I am probably pushing it putting all three in the tub together at this point, but some nights, the thought of two baths is more than I can take. On these nights, it's either bathe them all together, or bathe them with a large bottle of tequila at my side.

Don't be misled into thinking that all three together is somehow easier. It's not. It is, in fact, quite painful. But at least the pain is over relatively quickly, and I don't have to repeat it. Kind of like getting a shot. In your head. When I bathe all three, there are three kids fighting over who sits where, who has more room, who has more bubbles, who just squirted water into whose eye with which toy, and who gets that toy next. When I bathe two kids together, it's just like that, only with one less child. But then I still have to give another bath, the mere thought of which is sometimes enough to send me reaching for that bottle of tequila.

And then there is the fact that NBO are, of course, individuals. N likes lots of bubbles and wants to spread out in the tub like it's her personal jacuzzi. Unfortunately, it is not a jacuzzi. It is the same size tub that we had in 1982 in the house in which I grew up. And, often, it's not even her personal way-too- small-circa-1970-something tub, because she is sharing it with her two brothers. Who are yelling at her to move her feet out of their faces.

B loves water. This should be a good thing when it comes to bath time, right? Maybe I should clarify. When I say that he loves water, I mean that he loves to drink it (which, for some reason, I feel a need to discourage in the bath), dump it over his siblings heads (not something they are all that crazy about), and splash it. No, not splash it in the tub, Splash it out of the tub. Specifically, I think he attempts to see just how far water will travel. Great idea for a future science fair project. Not such a great idea for bath time, specifically one with a sibling or two. And a mother who, because she's either an optimist or an idiot, continues to be surprised that that she is soaking wet at the end of every bath.

O, at this point in his life, likes moving. Constantly. So he attempts to stand up in the tub. Or dance. Or jump. Or maybe run. What he doesn't do in the tub is sit. Ever. But if he decides he has enough--for example, if someone dumps water on his head, or has their feet in his face--he attempts to get out. By himself. By whatever means necessary. At which point, I have a toddler in a towel and a three-year-old I now also have to get out, because I can't leave him alone or with his six-year-old sister. I know I can't do this because it's not safe. All the books say so. The pediatrician says so. I also know I can't do this because leaving any of my children alone in a bathroom with a tub full of water would not just be a safety issue on my part, but would also just be really, really dumb. So, I have to take the others out, too. Which means I now have at least one wet, naked child running out of the bathroom, and I frantically hope that child doesn't slip and fall down the stairs as I get the others out and dried off. I know what you're thinking. And yes, I guess I could close the door and keep them all in the bathroom with me until everyone is out and dried off. And I would do that, if I didn't value my hearing or my sanity quite as much as I do.

Somehow, though, we make it all work. Well, I don't know that work is the right word, unless you're referring to how much work this is for me. In that case, yes, work is the perfect word. And it does work, in that my children are clean at the end of it. Along with me. And the floor. And the walls. Come to think of it, maybe I should leave the toilet seat up, and let them splash some soapy water in there during their next bath, so that will get cleaned, too.

But no, that won't work. If I left the toilet seat up, I'd have no where to sit, as I soak my feet, for this most relaxing part of my day.

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No Secrets Here

It's no secret that there are no secrets in our house. It seems like someone's always telling on someone for something. B, in case you haven't guessed, never does anything wrong. He is quick to tell me, though, that it's usually O who's done it. Whatever it is. Lately O has been climbing out of his crib, pulling a stool over to the kitchen cabinet, and taking the cookies out. Then he leaves crumbs everywhere, and climbs back into his crib. OK, so maybe what we're lacking in secrets, we more than make up for in lies.

If B's not telling on O, then N is telling on B. That he hit her, kicked her, sat too close to her, or breathed on her. The nerve of that boy, breathing like that. Even our dog Bella gets more than her share of the blame. Usually it's when someone has tooted. Poor Bella. These kids better hope science never figures out a way to make dogs talk. She'll be singing like a canary.

Jimmy usually only gets blamed for the things he actually does, but unfortunately this includes what he does in the bathroom. B wants to make sure he gets it right, so he sits outside the bathroom door and asks Jimmy what he's doing first. "You poopin, dad?" Then he gives a play-by-play to whoever happens to be around. If you know us in real life, you should hope this is never you. Sometimes it's TMI,  and sometimes it's way beyond TMI. I'm thinking of instituting a "What happens in the bathroom stays in the bathroom" policy.

Jimmy got home late today and hadn't had time to get anything for me for Valentine's Day. Well, you know, he hadn't had time to get me anything today for Valentine's Day. We won't talk about yesterday, or the day before that, or the day before that. (oh I'm kidding! I really don't expect anything for Valentine's Day, but I did hope he'd get me something so I had something to write about). In any case, he and N went on a stealth mission to the drug store and returned with a bag, with which they retreated to the living room. B followed. There was lots of whispering.

From the kitchen, I could only hear bits and pieces, like N telling B, "Shh!! Don't tell her!"
and B responding "I'm NOT!"
And N repeating, "DON'T TELL!"
and B responding, "N! Stop IT! I'm not gonna tell her it's a BEAR!"
And N chastising him with more "SSSHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"
While I'm excitedly thinking, wait, did he say beer? Or bear?
And B responding with "I'm not telling her! Stop telling me! I'm not telling her that it's a BEAR! And I'm not telling her it's FLOWERS!"
Oh. I'm pretty sure he said bear.
N made a last ditch effort. "B! Be quiet! Don't tell!"
And B re-assured her once more "I'm NOT telling her that it's FLOWERS and a BEAR! Mom! I'm not telling you that you got flowers and a bear!"
Yup, definitely bear.

"B," I said, "Don't tell me what I got. I can't hear you. It's a surprise".
And then, because B is an incredibly thoughtful boy, he yelled much louder, "MOM! CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW? I SAID I"M NOT TELLING YOU THAT YOU GOT FLOWERS AND A BEAR!!!"

Want to know what I got for Valentine's Day? I'd tell you, but it's a secret.

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Why We Love Fire Trucks

Everyone in our house loves fire trucks.

O loves them because they are shiny, and they make noise, and it's fun to see your big brother's reaction when you take one away from him.
N loves them because she remembers going to Uncle Mike's firehouse when she was four. She remembers that Uncle Mike let her and B sit in one, and also gave them their first chicken wings.
B loves them because Uncle Jim works on a fire truck, and he thinks Uncle Jim is really funny. Uncle Jim also sings the chicken wing song, which B also thinks is really funny.
None of us are really sure what the relationship between chicken wings and fire trucks is. We just know there is one.

Jimmy loves fire trucks because he loves to tell the story of how they showed up at our house one summer night in response to an anonymous report of an "open fire", which consisted of about 3 embers in a fire pit in our back yard, which Jimmy and a couple friends were still sitting around.

I love fire trucks because my dad was a fireman, and when your dad is a fireman you learn to love fire trucks. I also love them because, when you are home on a Saturday afternoon, and your husband and daughter are out, and your boys are napping upstairs, and you hear a funny noise, and then smell something, and then realize that there is a haze of smoke in your kitchen, you can call them. And that shortly after you have dragged your sleeping boys out of your house, with your dog following, they come. I love them because they bring the firefighters, who tell you, after a thorough search of your home, that it is just the refrigerator. That you will need a new one, but that is all.

I love fire trucks because they remind me by their very presence that the after effects of this may have been much more than just a broken refrigerator and a smelly kitchen. If it happened at 4 in the morning and not 4 in the afternoon. If I had fallen asleep with B when I laid down next to him at nap time. If I had stored paper grocery bags between the fridge and the wall, as I sometimes do (did).

I love fire trucks because they remind me of all that I have. A smelly kitchen. A broken refrigerator. A house. Three kids, a husband, and a dog.

Some of that is not a big deal at all.

And some of it is.

Have you checked your smoke detectors lately?

Housekeeping

Oh stop laughing. It's not that funny that I'm writing about housekeeping. But, as it happens, since NBO didn't do anything remotely cute, entertaining, or exasperating today (ha! Almost had you believing it until that last part, didn't I?), we have a special housekeeping column, featuring the Hot Mess Housekeeper.

Dear Hot Mess Housekeeper:

I cannot figure out how to vacuum under my bed. Can you help?

Sincerely,
Dusty

Dear Dusty,

Improvise! Don't you have some dirty socks under there? If not, you need to stop picking them up so often. If you leave them long enough, they will bring the dust bunnies with them when you pull them out. Hope this helps!

Dear Hot Mess Housekeeper:

How can I keep dog hair off my carpet? I have a baby who is crawling.

Sincerely,
Perfect Momma

Dear Perfect Momma:

Think outside the box! You already have the perfect solution--a baby who's crawling! Tape a couple lint rollers to that baby's hands and let him go! Good luck!

Dear Hot Mess Housekeeper:

How can I get my windows sparkling clean? My three kids and two dogs are constantly messing them up.

Sincerely,
Desperate

Dear Desperate:

Simplify! Right now, you are desperate for clean windows, but once you clean your windows, only to find that your beautiful, sparkling windows are covered in hand prints and dog saliva five minutes later, you will be desperate for tequila. Skip the middle man! Forget the windows. Go straight for the tequila.

Dear Hot Mess Housekeeper:

I feel like I am always cleaning up toys, and I never have time to do important things like match up everyone's socks. Help!

Sincerely,
One Sock wonder

Dear One Sock Wonder:

Minimize! Get rid of some of those toys! Do your kids have a memory game? Trash it. Make them match up the socks instead. Problem solved!

Dear Hot Mess Housekeeper:

As a stay at home mom, I think it's so important to maintain a clean house. Do you have a schedule for when you clean certain areas of your home?

Sincerely,
Amazing mommy

Dear Amazing:

Wow--You ARE amazing! I totally agree that its important to maintain things. I think it's particularly important to maintain 1) my sanity and 2) a stocked liquor cabinet. Sometimes it can be hard to multi- task, though, so I find that if I just focus on maintaining #2, #1 often takes care of itself.

I do have a schedule, and it looks like this:

When the socks that you pull out from under the bed no longer look like socks, but giant dust bunny slippers, its time to vacuum under the bed.

When the fingerprints and dog saliva on the windows are dense enough that people think we have frosted glass, its time to clean the windows.

When the last child stops crawling and/or we no longer have a dog, its time to vacuum the dog hair.

As for the rest, I'm thinking I will tackle it in 2028, when my youngest child will be 18. Until then, I'll just work on maintaining.

We hope you found these tips from the Hot Mess Housekeeper most helpful!

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Beware of Simple Questions...

Sometimes a question is so simple, it leads you to believe that the task in question will also be simple.
So when Jimmy asked this morning if I could pick up our taxes from the accountant, I thought, of course I can pick up the taxes. Run in, grab the taxes, leave. I would have B and O with me, but no big deal. Our accountant has a home office, so it's not even like we would need to walk through a busy parking lot or walk far from the car to get there. Much simpler than, say, a trip to K-Mart for a coffee maker, or taking all three to N's dance class, or taking B and O to the play area at McDonald's.

What I hadn't foreseen was that the accountant himself would be with a client, his assistant would be busy, and the office would be filled with other people. So we waited a few minutes for the assistant to get our paperwork together, and as she attempted to explain things to me, B and O discovered the book shelf, and decided that the books would look better on the floor. I also hadn't foreseen that, unlike in past years before Jimmy had started his business, this was not a simple "Here's your tax return. Sign it and mail it". This was business taxes, and personal taxes, and state taxes, and federal taxes, and tax paperwork for the business for 2012, and oh, by the way, write a check for this rather large sum right here and send it off by April 15th, thank you very much.

I kept looking at that sum, thinking, wow, that is a lot of money. And, no, this does not mean we made a lot of money. Trust me on this. You might think that's the case, but I am certain that is not the case, so as I stared at the rather large sum, I started to feel somewhat overwhelmed. And as I stared at that sum, the assistant started telling me about another sum-fortunately much smaller--that needed to be mailed to the state, and about checks that needed to be written later in the year, and forms that needed to be signed and returned to them, versus the forms that needed to be returned with the checks. I started thinking there was no way I was going to keep all of this straight.

At that moment, of course, B and O pulled more books off the shelf. O brought one to me that was titled something to the effect of  "Holistic Remedies Your Doctor Won't Tell You". I briefly wondered if this was required reading for CPAs, and then decided it was probably useful for when their clients pass out in shock after seeing the numbers on their tax forms.

The assistant is talking about this check, and that check, and in a few months this other check, and this one goes in this envelope, and this other one goes in that envelope, all while B and O are pulling books off the shelf, and running around the office, and starting to scream. Oh no, not the screaming. And I think, wait, I have three children...aren't they supposed to be good tax deductions? It also occurs to me that it's really unfair that everyone gets the same deduction per child. I mean, has the IRS met my children? Then I think, well, actually Uncle Pete (finally! someone in this family with a normal name!) works for the IRS, and he knows my children very well. Maybe he could explain to the powers that be that they are each worth at least a double deduction. I mean, what about all the necessary expenses directly relating to their care?  Like wine. And tequila. And, eventually, xanax.

I see the rather large sum again and I think I am going to pass out. Good thing the accountant has that holistic remedy book. I think maybe I should talk to Jimmy about having another deduction child. I quickly realize that what we save from an additional deduction we would end up spending on Jimmy's mental health care and/or beer. Probably not worth it.  I think of joining the Tea Party. Or the Libertarian party. Or maybe I'll start my own tent city with a sign that says "We are the 99% who pay too much in taxes while the 1% sits around and whines".  I decide this is probably the best option, since we might need a tent to live in once we pay this rather large sum to the IRS.

The assistant is still talking. I am putting books back, and chasing O, and telling B to stop screaming, and I am totally confused about who is supposed to get which check when and which form goes to the state, and which goes to the feds, and which comes back to the accountant. O is now also screaming, happily, but very loudly. I am starting to sweat as I realize that I am going to mess this up and they are going to take Jimmy to jail, all because my children were out of control in the accountants office and I,  brain dead and with no attention span even in the best of circumstances, got it confused. I think of the prison show I saw recently that gave me nightmares, and then I realize, wait--this would be federal prison. Don't people say that's like a country club? It occurs to me that part of our taxes are going to fund country club prisons for other people who don't pay their taxes. Then it occurs to me that maybe they intended to pay their taxes, but just got it all confused, because their children were screaming and throwing books in the accountant's office.

B and O have disappeared into a back office, with the accountant's books. I am trying to round them up, while putting back books, attempting to make them be quiet, and listening to the assistant, who clearly just wants me to leave. Now. The accountant comes out of his office and appears to be, well, scared. New people come into the office and take all of this in with looks of fear and/or apprehension. The accountant asks if I have everything, and tells me to make sure I take the children with me. I think of Jimmy going to the country club prison, and I think no, it doesn't have to be this way. I will write a letter to the IRS. I will tell them to talk to Uncle Pete--surely he will tell them that my children are worth a double deduction. And then I will beg, plead if I have to, No! Don't take Jimmy to the country club prison!

Take me instead.
Please.

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Don't be a Leader...Be a Follower!

"I have found the paradox that, if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love."

Mother Teresa said that. I love Mother Teresa., Who doesn't? I mean, she's Mother Teresa. I love that quote, too, and I often think that's what I should be aspiring to. And some days, I do. Aspire to it, that is. Usually I fail miserably. I am too focused on other things to think about how I should be loving people more. I should probably work on that. Speaking of the other things I am focused on, we have our own version of this quote in our house. It goes like this:

"I have found that, if you scrub syrup off the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling, until you think there can't possibly be more syrup, there will still be more syrup."

There's another quote I think about alot. It's this one:

"Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow.
 Don't walk behind me, I may not lead.
Just walk beside me and be my friend".

I've always loved that quote. With NBO, though, it's a little different. In our house, it's more like this:

"Don't walk in front of me, I'm likely to push you down the stairs.
Don't walk behind me, you're likely to step in the pieces of banana I just dropped.
And, come to think of it, don't walk beside me either, cause I'm gonna hit you and tell you to get away from me".

In spite of this, or maybe because of it, I hope my kids won't be followers, unless they are following something or someone good. And I hope that, if they are leaders, they will lead in a good direction. N, as the oldest, already shows great leadership potential. I'm just a little afraid of what might happen to the people who have the audacity not to follow her. And B, well, I think he's probably a good leader, too. I'm just nervous about what exactly he will lead people into. O, as the youngest, may very well be a follower, at least until he comes into his own. He's pretty used to following N and B. Sometimes this is good, and sometimes it is very,very frightening. My guess is, like most of us, they will each have times of being leaders and times of being followers. Hopefully, though, whether they are at the front of the line, or the back, or somewhere in the middle, they will be going in the right direction.

And that brings me to you. Yes, YOU! I would love for you to be a follower--it's not always a bad thing! So, if you like what you read here, please consider clicking on that "join this site" button on the right hand side of my page. You don't even have to use your real name! I can't promise that I will always lead you in the right direction, but I can promise that you will smile, laugh, or at least breathe a sigh of relief that you are only reading about my life, and not living it.  At some point, I may stop linking this from facebook, as I sometimes wonder if I am being annoying to the people who don't want to read this. And, selfishly, I like to know that people are reading. Either way, as always, thanks for reading!

The decision, of course, is yours.
After all, you can lead a camel to water, but you can't make him drink.
Or, in this case, I can lead you to tequila, but I can't make you lick it off the floor.

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On the Struggle...

When N was a baby, she did not sleep all that well. And so, of course, neither did I. And I discovered that I am not quite at my best when I have gone without real sleep for days or weeks at a time. I was exhausted and hormonal and probably slightly depressed, and though I was incredibly grateful that I got to be her mother, I was just.so.tired. And yet, all around me, when people would see N in her eight-month-old cuteness, they would go on and on about what an absolutely wonderful stage it was. And sometimes it was. Smiles, babbling, playing patt-a-cake, crawling. Sometimes, though, it wasn't. Teething, crying, clinging, not yet sleeping through the night. Aren't they supposed to be sleeping through the night by eight months? Sometimes--most days perhaps- it was a wonderful stage and a not so wonderful stage, at the very same time. But no one ever said that. They only said how absolutely amazing it was.

 I'm thinking that the vast majority of these people had children long past N's stage of development. Coincidence? They say that time heals all wounds. Does it also help us forget that our babies cried for the first 9 months of their lives? Or never slept for more than three hours at a time? Or wanted to eat every half an hour until they were six months old? Or maybe their children's infancies just weren't as much of a struggle for them as N's sometimes was for me. Maybe their babies were better sleepers. Maybe they were just better parents. Maybe they were taking incredibly high doses of xanax. Whatever the reason, it seemed that no one was talking about how hard this motherhood thing could be at times.

On a couple of occasions, when I had a brave moment, I actually said, out loud, "Some days this is so hard" and the responses I got were along the lines of  "No! This stage isn't hard! This stage is fun! Hard comes later". While I could appreciate that maybe their experiences had just been different than mine, I also couldn't help but feel that I had broken some rule of motherhood by speaking, out loud, that sometimes it wasn't all sunshine and roses. Why wasn't I allowed to say that it was hard? Did they think I was complaining? Well, I was I guess, but about the difficult parts, not about motherhood in general. So, I started keeping my mouth shut, and wondered why no one else ever thought it was hard--or at least why no one felt that they could say it was hard. I fully agreed with those who talked about what a joy and blessing it was. But inside, I longed to hear someone also acknowledge what a struggle it could be. Honestly.

And then, we went to the grocery store one day when things had started to seem a little easier, when we were sleeping more at night, and therefore having better days, on a day when it wasn't really bothering me that N was grabbing at everything, and wanting me to hold her, and getting fussy. A woman who was also shopping looked at me, smiled, and said not unkindly "Wow, I am SO glad I'm long past that stage. It's so hard."  I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to ask her where she'd been six months--or six weeks--earlier. I wanted to ask her to go have a cup of coffee with me. I wanted to ask her to be my best friend. Instead, I just smiled and headed for the baby care aisle, where I spent so much of my time those days.

The irony is that, on that day, I didn't particularly want to be past that stage, in spite of the fact that it was often hard. At that point, I wanted to have another baby and do that stage--and those before it-- all over again. But not because it wasn't hard. In spite of the fact that it was. Nevertheless, I was so incredibly grateful for this woman's honesty and willingness to say out loud that it could be hard, that six years later, I can still tell you exactly what she looked like.

So, in the name of honesty and solidarity, I just want to say: today was hard. There were parts of it that, given the choice, I wouldn't really chose to repeat. I changed too many diapers. I broke up too many fights. I found B feeding O my diet Pepsi. I had a crappy mommy moment when I realized that O had 3 new bumps on his head...one from a brother, one from the floor, and one from the piano. I got disgusted when I thought of how many times I had cleaned the same area of the house only to have it trashed 20 minutes later. I got depressed when I thought of how much laundry I do, and how it never all gets put away. I got tired of B fighting with me when its nap time and again when we have five minutes to get out the door to pick up N from school. I got tired of rushing all the time. So yes, much of today was a struggle.

But you know what? It was also a really good day. I got to be the one to break up the fights. I got to be the one to kiss the three new bumps, and see for myself that there was no blood. I got to read B a book at nap time. I got to pick up N from school, and hear her talk for a hundred minutes about the 100th day of school. It wasn't all sunshine and roses. Like every other day, it was messy and loud and exhausting. And when I think about changing more diapers tomorrow, or doing more laundry, or cleaning the kitchen floor yet again, I am very aware of the struggle. I don't particularly want to do any of those things again tomorrow. But, God willing, I also get to read B another book, and give O another kiss, and pick up N from school. And those things, I would do a thousand times over.

So I guess if I have to deal with the hard parts to get the good parts, then so be it. It doesn't mean it's not hard. It doesn't mean it's not sometimes a struggle. It just means that the struggle, in the end, is worth it. Honestly.

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Thoughts for the Day...

A couple of things have come to my attention recently. First, it was mentioned to me by several different sources that a few teenagers who are near to my heart but in some cases far from me geographically are regular readers of my blog. This makes me incredibly happy, mainly because I am always thrilled to hear that someone is actually reading this, but also because, when it's someone I know and love but don't see nearly enough of, it makes them seem just a little bit closer.

At the same time, though, it caused me wonder...hmmm, is my blog really teenager appropriate? Obviously, I try to keep in mind that what I'm writing could be read by anyone and everyone (or, alternately, no one at all!). This is why you don't see the kids names or pictures (So far, at least. I may get over that at some point, but at this point, I'm continuing my freakish ways when it comes to potential weirdos...which of course none of you are. I'm talking about all the other potential weirdos). And, sometimes, believe it or not, I do censor myself because after I write something, I think, no, that's probably not appropriate for a blog that anyone could be reading. Having said that, this is my life that I'm writing about, and well, it is what it is.

I also try to keep in mind that I want NBO to be able to read this...eventually. Obviously, though, some of it will have to wait until they are much older because it would be highly inappropriate for me, as their mother, to show them something with so many references to alcohol at this point in their lives--or anytime in the near future. Oh, but apparently, it's OK for your kids (or you, if you're the kid) to read so many references to alcohol. See where I'm going with this?

So, here's my disclaimer to the teenagers in my life: just because I have mentioned alcohol and/or xanax 31 times over the course of 26 posts doesn't mean that I am suggesting that either of those things would be a good idea for you, recreationally speaking. They would not be. (Although, I have to tell you, I counted, and I thought the number of alcohol and xanax references was going to be way higher than that!).  Keep a few things in mind: I write about drinking way more than I actually do it. I am legal. I drink in moderation. I do not take xanax, but when if I do, it will be because my doctor prescribes it because I am on the verge of losing my mind. The most important thing you should keep in mind is that my parents are no longer here to kick my @$$ ground me. The same cannot be said for yours.

This brings me to the second thing that has come to my attention. Two words seem to come up a lot when people comment on my posts. Can you guess what those two words are?

Crazy momma? No, but that's a good guess, and highly accurate!
Sleepless Nights? Nope, but also accurate!
Undisciplined Children? No, but I'm sure people are thinking it.
White Russians? Oh shoot..make that 32 times.
Heavily Medicated? Nope. Wishful thinking...
Saint Maryann? No. That's a GREAT guess though.
Poor Jimmy? Also accurate.
Bud Light? Fine, 33 times.

Give up?
The two words that come up the most are probably also the most obvious:
Birth Control!

So, with that in mind, to the teenagers in my life, I say this:
Please keep reading. Just pay attention. Very, very close attention.
And remember, I don't make this stuff up.

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Your Dad Taught You WHAT?!

Recently, when Jimmy and N came home from spending an afternoon on a friend's farm, they showed me a picture of N that Jimmy had taken. In the picture, N was standing outside, wearing her ear muffs as well as Jimmy's sound proof head phones that he wears for work. Next to her was a rifle. Which she was holding, upright, with one hand. As I stared at the picture of my six-year-old holding a gun, Jimmy and N excitedly informed me that N, under her father's watchful and experienced eye and with adequate ear protection, had not just held the rifle, but had also shot it.

Although my initial reaction was to go postal  ask Jimmy if he really thought it was appropriate for a six-year-old to shoot a gun, something told me to keep my mouth shut long enough to process this incident (this in itself is quite an accomplishment for me. Truly). Mentally, I reserved the right to go postal have an in-depth discussion later, if I still felt the need. Let me say, I am not anti-gun. Not at all. But I never really thought that my six-year-old would be shooting one, and I can say with complete certainty that I would never have allowed her to shoot a gun at six. Or sixteen. Or, in all likelihood, twenty-six. Unless, at twenty-six, she becomes a police officer and it's necessary for her job. And, really, shouldn't Jimmy have asked for my opinion before he let our six-year-old shoot an actual gun? Guns are dangerous. They kill people. Yes, they also help people defend themselves. And they help people get food. I have no problem with these things in theory. But this is my six-year-old. Children and guns are not a good combination.

As I continued to process my strong reaction to this, I told N just how dangerous guns could be, and that she was never, ever to touch one unless daddy was right there and told her it was okay, and that they were never, ever toys, and that you never knew if they were loaded or not, because even if you thought they weren't loaded, they could be. And that if anyone ever tried to show her a gun, she should leave, no matter what, and get an adult right away. I tried to think if I had covered everything. I mean, if my daughter is shooting guns, she needs to know all of this, right? N was just staring at me, nodding, as she said "Mom, I know all of that already. Dad told me." Oh. Right. Of course he did. I mean, of course he wouldn't let his six year-old daughter shoot a gun without telling her these things. And then she said, "I really wanted to shoot it again, but daddy said we had to go". Great. She's not only shooting guns. She likes it.

In spite of this realization, my reservations had started to fade somewhat. I wouldn't have allowed her to shoot a gun, because as her mom, my job is to keep her safe, and nurture her, and maintain my sanity, the last of which I would have been unable to do if I had to watch my six-year-old with a gun. But maybe a dad's job, while it certainly includes those same things, is slightly different. Maybe part of his job is to teach her that she can shoot a gun, just like he's taught her that she can catch a fish, and hammer a nail, and belch really, really loudly. Of course moms can teach those things, too, but in our house, well, we'll just say that none of those things are really my strong point. So no, I still wouldn't have let her shoot a gun. But maybe this is just one of those differences between mothers and fathers that is just, well, different. If Jimmy had asked my opinion, I would have told him, without a doubt, that he had better keep my child away from any and all guns at all times. Which is probably why he didn't ask me.

This morning, B had put his Spiderman mask from Halloween on one of N's dolls. He handed Jimmy a teddy bear as he hopped up next to him at the kitchen counter. B made the doll and the teddy bear talk to each other for a minute, and then he had the doll lean over and give the teddy bear a kiss. A KISS! I know this may surprise you, but that is not how B usually plays. Typically, he would have the doll kick the teddy bear in the head, have the teddy bear announce to the doll that he was going to smack her now, or maybe have the doll tell the teddy bear to get out of her way and go back to wherever it is teddy bears come from. So when I saw him make the doll give the teddy bear a kiss, I was elated, and my thinking went something like this: Finally! A breakthrough! He's getting in touch with his sensitive side! Maybe he won't get kicked out of pre-school (if he ever goes) for aggressive tendencies! Maybe he's not destined to a life of social isolation as an adult! Maybe he will not be living in our basement when he's forty! Thank You God!

Meanwhile, Jimmy's response went something like this: Give me that doll! (Body slams teddy with doll). Take that, teddy bear! Boom! (Has Teddy kick doll in head). Pow! (has doll punch teddy several times). Game over!

Really? We wonder why B has aggressive tendencies? Huh. Wonder where he gets it. I told Jimmy that B had just been getting in touch with his tender and sensitive side, and he took him right back to violence and aggression. Jimmy looked at me, nodded, and said, "Yup. Sure did. Right where he belongs."

Maybe this is another one of those things that a dad is, for some reason which is completely unknown to me, supposed to teach his children. If it was up to me, they would all play nicely and quietly with nothing even resembling a gun or violence (yes, I realize this does not even remotely come close to resembling my reality. Please. Allow me my fantasy). If it was up to Jimmy, I'm pretty sure they would all be using the teddy bear and the doll for target practice in the back yard. At midnight. While eating pork rinds. I can only hope that, somewhere along the line, we balance each other out.

When N was telling me about shooting the gun with Jimmy, she suddenly stopped and said "Oh! You know what else I did, mom?" I was kind of afraid to ask, but she told me anyway. "I peed outside! I couldn't go at first, but dad just told me to wait a minute and then I peed. Right outside!".  I realized that I was going to have to process my emotions about this, as well.

I had really hoped I'd be the one to teach her that.

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Hey kids! Look Over There!

 Jimmy frequently complains that I don't let him watch anything on TV when the kids are awake. This is pretty much true. News? Are you kidding me? Even if you think its a slow news night where they are just talking about parking meters or election polls, the next thing you know, in the same sing song voice, they throw out the murder tally for the month, or tell you the details of a break-in last night. No thank you. Weather? OK, unless there are major, potentially traumatizing storms, which there are pretty much somewhere every day. Prime time anything? Yeah, Not happening. Plus, prime time seems to start at 7 pm these days. So when the kids are awake and we can't stomach one more episode of Caillou, we watch the Discovery channel or Animal Planet, assuming it's not a predator show or one about mating. These are my rules. Jimmy grew up on a farm. He thinks I am way over the top about this. I, on the other hand, am the one who will have to answer the questions that come up the following day, or the next week, or six months later. "Hey mom...remember that time on the Discovery Channel show with the mommy lion and the daddy lion?" No, honey, I sure don't remember that. Maybe daddy does. Ask him. But of course, he is usually working when these things come up, and since I am not mentally or emotionally prepared for these conversations, I must focus on prevention.

You would think, though, that with these rules, it shouldn't be hard to know what they can and can't watch. No news. No violence. No storms. And, for sure, no mating. Animal or otherwise. I am, however, caught off guard at least once a week. Specifically, if you let them watch an On Demand kids show before bed, and the show goes off while you are in the kitchen, it will randomly start showing movie trailers. Not for kids movies. For all movies. It's at these times, when my attempts at prevention fall flat, that I must switch my focus to techniques of distraction. N continues to wonder why I sometimes come running into the living room and start dancing and singing loudly in front of the TV while hitting any button on the remote that may turn that thing off. Or I suddenly insist that she tell me more about her day at school. Immediately.  More than once, I have, in desperation, told N and B to "Quick! Look at the fish tank! Wow! Did you see that!" When that stopped working, I started telling them to look out the window at the uh, bird! Yes, the bird! It was huge! Did you see it? My poor children are going to have whiplash. And disappointment that they keep missing these huge animals that only their mother manages to see.

Tonight I let them watch part of Marley and Me, since it was a new free movie in the "Family movie" section. Silly me, I assumed this meant that it was totally acceptable for families, which I guess it is if everyone in your family is over age 12. In my family, however, most of us are under age 7, though one is barely under age 7, and quite astute. I am getting better at handling this with some topics. With other things, I am just not touching that with a ten foot pole for at least another ten two or three years. The problem, though, is that N is much harder to distract these days, and when she's into something on TV, she's really into it. So when the couple in Marley and Me started talking about "trying" to have a baby, I did what any responsible parent who believes in honesty and open communication would do. I jumped up, grabbed the remote, and said I needed to check to see if the movie was working right. As I turned it off. N looked at me like I lost my mind, said it was working fine, and asked why I turned the TV off. I played dumb, and fast forwarded to a safer part, though since I've never seen the movie myself, it's kind of hard to know exactly where the safe parts are.

A few minutes later, as I realized that Marley was "attacking" someone's leg in a  rather amorous fashion, I tried to think quick and ended up asking N if she had seen our dog Bella, and asked her to help me look for her. Right Now. It turns out, the um, episode didn't last long, so I told N I didn't need to find Bella after all. She gave me a funny look and went back to watching the movie. Several minutes later, the talk about trying to have a baby apparently turned into the actual trying--or at least the prelude to trying-- though with little warning. I started hitting random buttons on the remote but none were working. "Hey N! Look at B over there!" I said loudly as I tried more buttons.This time B and N stared at me like I'd completely lost it. I finally found the button that turned it off. N asked why I did that, and said she wanted to see what happens. Um, I'm pretty sure I know what happens. And you're not watching it. I told her it was late and we wouldn't be able to finish the movie, but the Berenstein Bears were on!

I suppose we could get rid of our TV. Or just never have it on while they're awake. Maybe we could cancel our cable. But there's something about doing it this way that keeps me on my toes. And besides, how many people do you know that can tap dance on the coffee table while hitting every button on the remote and singing Don't Cry For Me Argentina at the top of their lungs, while also showing their kids the giant squirrel out the front window?

That's what I thought.

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Training Day

Today after picking N up from school, we ran a few errands before going to the park.
We went to the drive through at the bank, and then the post office. I try to avoid taking NBO to the post office. N--fine. B--fine. O--fine. But not NBO together. The Post office is not kid friendly. There are no carts in which to confine B and O, and there is no food with which to bribe them. There is always a line. The Post Office also started selling greeting cards. Racks of them. Bad idea.

There was only one person in front of us. How bad can this be? I thought. That'll teach me. The woman in front of us apparently didn't get a package she was expecting. The woman working told her to call tomorrow and speak with the manager, who could track it for her. A five minute exchange followed, in which the customer first felt a need to verify that, in fact, the manager would answer the phone tomorrow, on a Saturday, but then decided that maybe she would call Monday instead, and wanted to verify that the manager would in fact answer the phone Monday, or maybe Wednesday, as actually, that may work better for her. The longer their conversation continued, the more antsy I got, knowing our time was limited. B and O were relatively quiet, but getting restless. The woman is still asking about the manager's availability, and maybe for his home address. I just need stamps. Could we please hurry this along?

B and O are starting to get louder. They are wandering. O is behind the other counter (good--maybe he can sell me some stamps). B is taking out greeting cards. More people are coming in behind us. We are still waiting while the woman in front of me talks more about her package that she didn't receive. I'm starting to guess that the package contains her OCD meds. O finds a Mickey Mouse card and starts yelling "Hot Dog!", as this is the song Mickey sings on TV. "Hot Dog! Hot Dog!" B is arguing with him, rather loudly. "That's not a hot dog! That's Mickey Mouse!" N is rolling her eyes. B takes off and runs to the other end of the post office.  The woman behind us smiles and comments on how much energy they have. She clearly thinks it's wonderful. I wonder what drugs she's taking and if she might be willing to share.

I finally get my stamps and move to the mail box area to put them on. B and O are nowhere to be seen, but can definitely be heard. The post office is now full of people. B nearly bumps into several of them as he runs around, weaving back and forth between people. N tells me she can't find O, and then discovers him behind the other counter again. I am almost done. I know our time is almost up. No, it's not almost up. It's up now, as O lets out a high pitched scream, and B counters with one twice as loud. Just because they can. Repeatedly. I am making sure I have my keys, and my purse, and my stamps, and telling them to stop screaming, though they can't hear me, because, well, they are screaming. The nice woman who was behind me in line laughs. Three others just stare. One man gives me a look that clearly says he can't believe I take these children out in public. Yeah, bud. That makes two of us.

We get in the car, and B asks for his lollipop from the bank. I tell him boys who scream like that do not get lollipops. He screams more. He calms down and asks again. I tell him firmly "B, you are not getting a lollipop. You didn't listen to mommy. You cannot scream like that in the liquor store!"
N asks why I said liquor store, when we were just in the post office. Oh. I did? Whoops. I briefly consider explaining what a Freudian slip is, but decide my six-year-old doesn't need this information just yet.

We stop at home to pick up our dog Bella, and go to the park. I wonder if I am sending B a mixed message by taking him to the park, but decide I don't care since clearly, this child needs to run. We play for a while and then get Bella and the double stroller out of the car to walk the trail. We turn a corner and see a man walking his rather large dog, so I take Bella from N. Now I have Bella and the double stroller. Bella decides she is really interested in the other, very well behaved dog, and proceeds to wrap herself around the stroller in an attempt to meet him. The man just looks at me as he tells his dog to stay and she does. I am trying to unwrap Bella while not letting the stroller roll down the hill, since I can't seem to find the brake. I know there is some dog etiquette about asking if our dogs can meet, but I decide I don't care because I don't want our dogs to meet. I just want to keep walking, if I can ever get us all untangled from this leash.

Eventually, we get untangled and the well behaved dog and his owner go their own way. We get to the other end of the trail, and B and O are now out of the stroller trying to catch up with N. And we run into...the same well behaved dog and his owner. Bella once again goes nuts trying to meet him. His owner tells the dog to sit, and he does. I guess they are going to let us pass. Only we aren't passing, because B and O are running in circles in front of his dog, who is looking at them with interest. I hope the dog doesn't think they are small animals he is supposed to chase, but then I realize that the dog has the same look as the man in the post office, and he's probably thinking that he can't believe I take these children out in public. I try to get B and O to walk, but they are only interested in the dog, and I can't just pick them up and put them in the stroller since I am holding onto Bella. I apologize to the owner, and laugh and say something about how my children aren't just making my life difficult, but his, too. He agrees with me. He doesn't laugh.

Eventually, the man and his very well behaved dog just walk around us and continue on their way. Then he takes his dog off his leash, because he is obviously so well behaved. B and O have now turned around and are running down the hill we just came up. N has taken off in the other direction--I'm pretty sure because she's decided she doesn't want to be seen with us. I wonder if that really well behaved dog had special training. I grab the kids and head back up the hill, and hope we run into that man and his dog again. I need to get his trainer's number.