Taking the Plunge...

It may or may not surprise you to know that I have mommy guilt. Actually, I have a lot of mommy guilt. It's usually about, well, whatever area that I feel I'm failing in on that particular day, and whichever child I feel has been short changed at that particular moment. That usually means I'm feeling guilty about several areas of life and at least two children on any given day.

Lately, B has been the focus of much of my mommy guilt. When N was small, she had me all to herself for three years. We went to play groups. We went to baby sign language classes. We went to a kids gym. We went to mommy and me swim classes. We went to mommy and me dance classes (if dancing to the Wiggles really counts as dancing). We went to mommy and me gymnastics classes at our Rec Center. (Fortunately, my role in this class was quite limited, as was our time in the class. Apparently, almost head butting the instructors daughter is highly frowned upon. I know-- almost only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades, right? That's what I thought. But apparently, it counts in gymnastics, too. And no, in case you're wondering, I was not the one who almost head butted her).

Eventually, N went to preschool, and the mommies were no longer welcome in the activities she did. (Of course, I'm still more than welcome to drive her there, and pay for it, and chase two boys around while she participates, but for some reason, once she turned three, my participation was no longer encouraged. But I'm not bitter. Anymore. Most of the time).

When B was a baby, we took one mommy and me swim class. N did not appreciate that she had to play in the shallow end while B and I played "Humpty Dumpty Sat on the Wall" (Huh. Not so fun to be left out, is it?). After six weeks of trying to be attentive to the baby I was holding and the four-year- old who was calling me from the other end of the pool, I gave up. Then we had O, and logistically and financially, our options became even more limited.

I looked into activities for B last year, and some of the classes N had taken just weren't available. They don't offer mommy and me gymnastics at the Rec Center anymore. Coincidence? I think not. Dancing to the Wiggles wasn't even an option.  I took B and O to the library for a while, until it was becoming obvious that B was well over a year past the age cut off for the babies group. When the other parents started giving me dirty looks when he not only took their kids' toys, but rather articulately told them he wasn't giving them back, I thought we should probably stop going before we were kicked out. I mean, I've accepted that, at some point, he will be kicked out of something. But why rush it? I'm sure there will lots of other opportunities for that.

I thought he would start preschool last fall, but that whole "I'm wearing diapers until I'm thirty-five" attitude got in the way of that. A few months ago, I decided to try a free class at the kids' gym N had gone to. I told him that morning that we were going to play. It was going to be so much fun. There were all kinds of kids there. N even went there when she was little. As I excitedly looked at him and said "Doesn't that sound like fun?" He looked at me and said, quite clearly, "No."

I ignored the voice that told me this was not a good idea (Never ignore the voice), and he eventually got in the car, but only after he had gone back in the house to get a hat. The gym is only ten minutes away. Half an hour later, we finally walked through the door. Me, O, and B.  B had finally agreed to get out of the car only if he could wear the hat. Which was actually Jimmy's adult sized ten-year-old baseball cap that said John Deere on it, and it looked every minute of its ten years.

After more coaxing, he agreed to leave the lobby and go into the gym. Where he stood behind me for most of the next thirty minutes. He wouldn't talk. He wouldn't look at anyone. He had zero interest in the other kids, none of whom were wearing a cool, if way too big and disgustingly dirty, John Deere hat like his. At one point, he expressed vague interest in the ball pit, but when the instructor told him it was circle time and not ball pit time, he looked at me and said it was time to go. I thought he probably had a point.

Recently I started feeling guilty again that B has not been involved in nearly as many structured activities as N was at his age. And, since he will be starting preschool in the fall--diapers or no diapers-- he needs to get used to listening to someone besides me (not that you should take that to mean that he listens to me). So, today, I did something very brave, and took him to swim class. This was not a mommy and me swim class. This was all three-year-olds.  I wasn't sure how it would go, but I knew that it was time we tried. I also knew that there was a large sign on the door to the pool that said "NO Parents on deck" which I thought might be a good thing, once he got past the initial adjustment to me not being there.

When B was still clinging to the door and stating "I am NOT going in that pool" five minutes after the class was supposed to start, they asked me to come sit on the deck. Apparently, they made an exception for us. I always knew we were exceptional.

So I sat on the side of the pool, in my sweats, getting soaked, and attempting to hold onto O, who unlike his brother, wanted nothing more than to get in that pool. B, meanwhile, just watched us from the deck before eventually agreeing to get his feet wet. Fortunately, no one else showed up for the class today, which allowed the instructor to spend the entire class focused on B. Good thing, since he would have had to do that anyway.

B eventually warmed up a little and went in up to his knees when the instructor, Mr. Cory, threw water toys to him. In fact, B quite eagerly threw them back. At Mr Cory's head. Repeatedly. I suggested to Mr. Cory that he may want to wear a helmet to their next class. Mr. Cory was a good sport, and encouraged B to walk into the pool to get the toys back. B looked at the toys, looked at Mr. Cory, smiled, and said "No, thanks. You can get them". They repeated this exchange several times, as O tried harder to alternately jump, wiggle, and swim out of my arms and into the pool.

I was beginning to wonder if there would be a point to us coming back next week, or if Mr Cory might suggest that we try something different--like sedatives--when, at the end of the class, B surprised all of us by walking right into the pool, all the way up to his waist.

It just took O throwing his shoes in the pool.

If only I'd known that sooner.

I would have brought a few extra pairs.

Boys Are Like....Border Collies

As I called to make an appointment for our dog Bella's annual check-up, I was reminded again of what the Vet said when we brought Bella in as a puppy.

"Well, she's a Border Collie. Border Collies are great, but there are a few things you need to know....."

She went on to tell me how they are really high energy, that they need to be active, and that they need a job. They really need a job. She also told me to make sure Bella had lots of toys to keep her from getting into trouble.

All of this proved to be highly accurate. Fortunately, Jimmy didn't mind spending approximately six hours a day throwing a ball for her when she was a puppy. We soon found out that, if she didn't get to chase a ball for approximately six hours a day, she would pace around the house for approximately six hours a night. Because Border Collies are herding dogs, herding N became her job, though we did have to teach her not to grab N's arm with her mouth and attempt to pull her back toward the house. Since then, we have had B and O, and she now has more than enough work to keep her busy. In fact, I'm sure if she could, she would be demanding a raise by now. I'm sure her sweet, obedient, loyal mind is thinking, "Wait a minute. When I came here, you had one quiet, mellow, little girl. Since then you have added two more boys. This is not what I signed up for. Had I known, I would have licked the face of the old lady with the cat when she came to check me out at the shelter, instead of yours."

Because she's sweet, obedient, and loyal, however, Bella has taken it all in stride. She lets B drive her around in the back of his motorized tractor, in spite of the fact that he often yells at her to go away for no apparent reason, right before he starts crying for her to come back. She lets O lay on her, even though he seems to think she's his own personal teddy bear. She lets N hold her hostage in her bed at night, even though she would prefer to be on the couch, which she doesn't have to share with anyone. And while she is equally good to our friends and family, she's also quite protective when it comes to people she doesn't know. Just ask the UPS man.

If B and O occasionally get to be a little rambunctious for her, she doesn't usually let it show. Well, not outwardly, anyway. There was the time that something apparently didn't agree with her, and she threw up. On B's bed. I'm not entirely convinced that was coincidence. But really, haven't we all had days like that? I can certainly think of a few people whose beds I've wanted to throw up on.

I think the main reason Bella tolerates these wild boys so well, though, is because she knows that, in a  lot of ways, they are just like her. They, too, need to be active. In fact, Jimmy often throws the ball for Bella, B, and O. They race to see who can get it first. And just like with Bella, if these boys haven't run enough during the day, it's going to be a rough night. They also need lots of toys, or they will find their own. Some people call this creative. Sometimes it is, but since it usually means that whatever they find ends up creatively broken or creatively colored, I could do without the creativity. Just as Bella needs to have a job, so do B and O. This would not only keep them out of trouble, but would help pay for the diapers I thought at least one of them would be out of by now, as well as the forty-seven granola bars they go through in a week. I just haven't found anyone willing to hire and a one-and-a-half year old and a three-and-a-half year old. But I'm still looking.

In addition to the ways they are naturally like her, I think B and O have picked up on some of Bella's other traits just by living with her. There's a lot of growling in our house, and most of it is not done by the dog. And more than once, I have found myself telling someone to get their brother's arm out of their mouth. B also has also mastered Bella's butt scratching technique, though he usually only demonstrates it in Church. Fortunately, I have not found anyone licking their butt. Yet.

In some ways, Bella could probably teach these boys a thing or two. She's a pretty good listener. In fact, I sometimes think I could probably walk her without a leash. At some point this may even become necessary, as there are days when B and O definitely need the leash more than she does. When I feed her, she either eats it, or she doesn't. But she doesn't tell me she doesn't like it, or ask me for something better, or ask me for a snack half an hour later. I can't say the same for one of the boys in our house. I'm hoping he will eventually learn by her example. And, if she could teach him how to just let us know when he needs to do his business, the way that she does, that would be good, too. He doesn't even have to do it outside, though if he wants to, I'm OK with that.

In spite of these differences, boys and Border Collies are alike in the ways that matter most. They both love you unconditionally. They are always excited to see you, even it's only been ten minutes since you left. They are both quick to jump up into your lap--muddy paws and all. They are great to snuggle with, even though they will steal your covers and, if you let them, most of your bed. And, in our house, at least, they've both been known to lick us in the face.

I just wish the doctors had been as considerate when B and O were born as the Vet was when we brought Bella home.

It would have been helpful if someone had told us, "Well, he's a boy. Boys are great, but there are a few things you need to know...."

What's in Your Closet?

"Mom, how did you manage to hide the guinea pig from your dad for all that time?"
Um, guinea pig? You mean Flip, the one that we hid in our closet? For four months?
Until the day Flip climbed out of his box, laid next to the heat vent and uh, flopped?
I was so sad when Flip flopped.

I am thinking of all of this, but I have just woken up, and it will take me a good ten minutes before I can even attempt an explanation. If I want to attempt an explanation. Sweet N is staring at me, waiting for an answer. So, I just answer her the best I can at this current, sleep deprived moment, "Who said I hid a guinea pig from my dad?"

Did I tell her this?
Did Caca tell her this?
Did I mention this in front of her after a few Mikes Hard Lemonades?
I really need to stop drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade talking.
Because I really don't want her to think it's OK to hide guinea pigs from your parents. In your closet or anywhere else.
And I really don't want her to think that I purposely hid a guinea pig in my closet.
Even though I did.
But Caca was nine years older than me, so really she was the one responsible for hiding the guinea pig in the closet, right?
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

N gives me some non committal answer. "Um, you told me? I think. Didn't you? Or maybe Caca? I don't really remember..."
She is so good at these non-committal answers. I wonder where she gets it.

I think of telling her that it was Caca who hid the guinea pig. That would get me off the hook.
Or maybe this is a teachable moment, and I should confess that Caca and I did hide the guinea pig, but it was wrong, and not something we ever should have done. I'm not sure I'd sound really convincing though, since I still think it's really freakin funny that we hid a guinea pig from our father for four months.

I think of telling her that, in our case, it was easy, because our dad had so much on his plate, that scoping out our closet wasn't really on his To Do List.
Then I think I should clarify that our closet was the big walk-in kind, unlike hers, which would never be big enough to hide a guinea pig and its stench, should she ever get the urge to try it.
I think maybe I should tell her that our childhood was just a little different from hers, and we could do things like hide guinea pigs in our closet for four months without trying all that hard.
I think of how our dad looked shocked, and then laughed, when he found out a year later that we had hid a guinea pig in our closet for four months.

I think of how my childhood closets went from hiding guinea pigs, to cigarettes, to beer, to boxes that I couldn't wait to pack.
I think of my closets now, which hide Easter baskets, and birthday presents, and clothes I still tell myself I will wear again some day.
I think of their closets, which hide the few baby clothes I can't bear to get rid of.

I am thinking about all of this, but instead I say, "I think it was in a closet. Which reminds me, isn't it time you cleaned yours?"

She no longer wants to talk about guinea pigs. Or her closet.

Which could never hide a guinea pig.

Because I will be searching it weekly until she is twenty-seven.

It's a Conspiracy..

I am convinced that there are nights when all three kids, Jimmy, the dog, and various outside influences have a secret meeting where they decide that they will all do their part to make sure I don't sleep. I don't know why they would do this, because I am certainly more enjoyable to be around when I have slept, but trust me when I tell you--there is definitely a conspiracy going on.

Last night, after the kids had been in bed and allegedly asleep for well over an hour, B woke up, crying uncontrollably, and Jimmy went in to see him. I don't know what conversation took place, but the end result was that B was sitting on the couch, eating a ham sandwich, at ten o'clock last night. Shortly after this, N appeared downstairs, also crying uncontrollably, upset that B was allowed to stay up, and she wasn't. Eventually, after their mother freaked out calmly explained that it was important to get a good night's sleep, the sweet little cherubs found their way back to bed.

As I finally started to get into bed a short time later, next to the loud as a freight train on steroids soft soothing snores of my husband, it was O's turn to wake up crying. In order not to wake B, I brought O into our bed. He's not two yet. He shouldn't take up much room. But he does. Surely three of us should be able to sleep comfortably in a queen size bed. But we don't.

Every time I moved to try to get comfortable, O literally moved under whichever part of me was currently not in contact with the mattress. I repeatedly moved him over, but he was not content with this. Apparently he must be touching me at every moment. This is very sweet, and normally I would love to snuggle with this sweet boy.  But the thing is, I don't like anyone touching me when I am going to sleep. At all. I guess this didn't really matter, since I wasn't actually going to sleep, as long as I was clinging to the six inches of my own bed that my not yet two-year-old had allotted me. Eventually, though, my body decided that it was too tired to care that we only had six inches on which to sleep, and I started to drift off. And as soon as I did, I heard the BEEP BEEP BEEP of a truck repeatedly backing up outside our window.

It's now one o'clock in the morning. It's a little late...or early...for a big truck to be turning around on our street, which is what I assume it's doing. They seem to be having difficulty, because the back-up sounds continue for several minutes. Eventually they pull away, and I drift off again.

Until B comes in.
"Mommy, move over"
Well, I would...if I could.
I know there's no way we're getting any sleep if we all attempt to stay in this bed, so I give B my spot, and take O to his room. I put him in his crib and lay on B's bed. O likes this slumber party idea. He wants to talk.
"Mama? B Daddy bed? Bella, N, night night. Bankie, mom? More bankie? Momma, nudder bankie? Nudder bankie!" Told you he was a hoarder.
Eventually he is quiet and I start to drift off...until I hear BEEP BEEP BEEP again. Another truck is backing up outside. You have got to be kidding me. It's now two AM.  This truck sounds bigger...and noisier. The backing up sounds stop but the truck is idling loudly outside the window, and it's not going away.

I look out the window to see a large tow truck backed up to an unfamiliar minivan parked at the corner next to our house. No one ever parks on that corner, unless we're having a party, which we're not--mine and O's slumber party aside. We live in a pretty quiet neighborhood. The closest street is a dead end, so it's not like we're even on the way to anywhere else. Who calls a tow truck at two in the morning from here?

O is now standing up, watching me watch the truck.
"Tuck mommy?"
"Yeah O. It's a truck."
An obnoxious, noisy truck.
I hear chains, more backing up, some guys talking. Do they know it's two in the morning?
I look out again and see what appears to be one of the guys from ZZ Top. Only with a significantly larger beer belly than I remember the ZZ Top guys having. And he is not a sharp dressed man.
ZZ  is attempting to hook the car up to the tow truck, though he appears to be having some difficulty. He looks in the car windows for something. There's no driver of the car around.  The only other person is another ZZ Top guy driving the tow truck. Car thieves don't use tow trucks to steal cars, right?

I hear more chain noise, more backing up.  I wish if they were going to do this--whatever this is--they would be a little quieter about it. I think they know they are being watched. I wonder if I am making them flustered. It is now well after two in the morning, I have not slept. I hope I am making them flustered. But I'm pretty sure ZZ Top is not easily flustered.

As the ZZs continue to make noise outside our windows, I remember the earlier truck backing up... and then I get it. This is not a broken down minivan getting a tow. This is a non-paid-for minivan getting a repo. I really wish the ZZ Top Repo Men had picked some other corner.

I consider going outside and telling them this. After all, it is now two-thirty in the morning. I have not slept, and O has barely slept, all because the ZZ Top Repo Men have for some reason chosen the corner next to our house as the setting for Operation Repo Minivan. I imagine word about this new location spreading through the repo community, and I picture our quiet little corner becoming a hotbed of repo activity. I am seriously thinking of going out to have a little chat with the ZZ Top Repo Men, and then I think of the chain of events that will likely occur if I leave this room. O will cry. Jimmy will (possibly) wake up, and will (eventually) wonder where I went. He will look all around the house, growing panicky with the thought that something has happened to me and that he will have to raise these children by himself. When he eventually finds me outside at three in the morning, telling the moonlighting ZZ Top Repo Men to go find some other corner, he will know for certain that I have lost the last bit of my sanity that remained.

So instead of going outside to talk to the ZZ Top Repo men, I just continue to stand at the window, and watch. I think about going downstairs and making some popcorn, but I'm hoping the show's almost over.
O is looking for an update. "Tuck mommy?"
"Yup O. The truck is still there. Can you say repo man?"
"Repo Man".
Yay O!
I love it when he learns new words.

Eventually the ZZs get the minivan hooked up, and start to pull away. I realize that, in addition to the minivan they are now towing, there is a shiny SUV on the flatbed. Yup. Repo men for sure. Finally, it is quiet again, and we lay back down.

"Night night Mommy."
"Good night O."
I am drifting off, yet again, when I hear him say,
"Night Night Repo Man".

I feel kind of bad for the people who lost their minivan, but let's keep things in perspective. After all, I lost something way more valuable.
A night's sleep.

I Quit!

Before I was a mom, I was sure that I was NOT going to have over-scheduled kids. While I wanted them to do things they enjoyed, I was not going to spend my life running them all over the place, to the detriment of my own sanity. Not to mention, kids need down time. They need time to just hang out with their families. Family time is incredibly important, in that it teaches valuable life skills, like how to sneak into your sister's room and steal her fairies without being caught, or how to pinch your brother and make your mom believe that he was the one who attacked you, while you were innocently sitting there, minding your own business. Having time together as family teaches kids how to get along with people they often dislike, but still have to live with. And in some cases, family time teaches some really specific skills, like the importance of a good left hook.

Several years ago, though, something happened that changed my line of thinking about having over-scheduled kids. I had kids.

Like so many other things where parenting is concerned, the reality was a little different than what I had anticipated. This year, N really wanted to do a gymnastics class. It was just for a couple months, but I wasn't sure she'd like it, so I didn't want her to quit dance, which she really likes. (There was also the fact that her incredibly coordinated mother could never do so much as a cartwheel, so anything that was likely to help even a little in the coordination arena was probably not a bad idea, from my stand point). Of course, N was also in Girl Scouts, but that was only once a month. And the chorus thing she wanted to do was only once a week for a few months, so it would be fine. While she also had CCD,  that was just on Sunday mornings, when we should all be going to Church anyway. N was quite content with this schedule. I, however, was in a near constant state of stress, because we almost always had to be somewhere. I also discovered a few things:

Nothing is really just once a month.
Nothing is really just an hour a week.
Even if something is just an hour a week, an hour a week can feel like a lot when you have so many other hours of the week already accounted for.
We parents sometimes lose our minds when it comes to our kids and their activities.

After those few months, only dance and Girl Scouts remained. And yet, the reality is, I still often feel on the verge of a panic attack. Because dance and Girl Scouts sometimes fall back-to-back on the same day. Because its "recital time" when missing dance is highly frowned upon. Because "cookie sales" in Girl Scouts can be like having a part time job. Because I have two younger, very active boys who come with us pretty much everywhere, and yet can't be left to their own devices anywhere. Because about a year-and-a-half ago, when I had a newborn and was, in retrospect, in some hormonal haze, I said being a Girl Scout co-leader sounded like a great idea, and sure I could make it to all of those monthly meetings. (A bit of advice: if you have given birth within the past six years months, do not volunteer for anything. You are operating from a delusional, hormonal state in which you believe you are Superwoman, because after all, you not only grew a baby and gave birth, but are quite possibly feeding said baby from your very own body, all on little to no sleep. In reality, you are not at all equipped to make the decision to lead something like a Girl Scout Troop. In fact, until you are sleeping through the night again, you should probably refrain from leading anything, other than maybe rounds of Row, Row, Row, Your Boat. Remember-- the baby ate your brain cells during pregnancy. Just say no. By the way, I can only say this because I am a woman. If you are a man, do not even think about saying any of this to a woman. Don't say I didn't warn you).

I initially thought that maybe feeling overwhelmed was just an "adjustment issue", since I was new to having a child in school who was involved with activities. Surely when she got a little older I would have a handle on this, and not feel so stressed out. But then I was talking to a friend who has four older kids in school, and she happened to mention that incredibly stressed out feeling that she feels pretty much anytime she has to take anyone anywhere--which, in her case, is, well, always. With four kids in several different activities, and several volunteer commitments of her own, she is always rushing to get somewhere. And yet, to her, the idea that she was going to feel incredibly stressed out for a good part of every day was just a part of life.

I was recently talking to another friend, who finally went to the doctor after feeling that something just wasn't quite right. She just felt "off" and was concerned that something was seriously wrong. Like most of us, she tries to squeeze too much into her days. She works full-time and spends evenings in a whirlwind of homework and activities, before doing it all again the next day. Her diagnosis? Fortunately, nothing more than dehydration. Apparently five cups of coffee to one cup of water is not an acceptable daily ratio. Huh. Who knew? Of course she knows she needs to drink more water, but it's just one.more.thing. And who doesn't need several cups of coffee? But really, now we're not even taking time to drink water? We make sure our kids drink water. We make sure our dogs have water. We even make sure our plants have water. But we, somehow, don't manage to drink enough water.

Knowing I am not alone in this really doesn't make me feel any better. That just means that women running themselves into the ground--to a large extent for the sake of their kids' activities--has become so acceptable that it's now considered the norm. And of course, we're not just driving our kids around. We're also checking our messages, and making phone calls, and talking about homework, and planning what we're going to make for dinner. We are the queens of multi-tasking, and then beat ourselves up when we don't do it all perfectly.

I am thinking about all of this when we get home last night, as I try to get over my guilt that we ditched dance because there was no way we were going to make it anywhere close to on time after the Girl Scout meeting ran late. I am feeding NBO as I wait for the notary who's doing our refinance to show up. I wash the dishes, and help with homework, and give baths--OK fine-I gave one bath, to one child. The other two didn't get one. I justify this by telling myself that their faces get washed five times a day. So do their rear ends. I find a minute to go the bathroom, where I also change the bandage on my knee from when I so gracefully fell in the school parking lot the day before--while I was walking to the car, thinking of what I needed at the store, making sure the kids were all with me, and not paying attention to the huge pot hole I ultimately tripped into.

As I am doing this, O suddenly bursts into the bathroom with a book, and requests that I read it to him. I start to comply, and then realize that reading to my kids while I am, uh, in the bathroom and simultaneously changing a bandage would be taking multi-tasking to a new low. Besides, If I'm going to read in the bathroom, its not going to be Thomas the Train. Its going to be a trashy romance novel Better Homes and Gardens.

The refinance lady arrives.  I get her a glass of water. I break up a fight in the living room. We sign some forms. I break up another fight. I think the refinance lady must be wondering why our kids are so aggressive. Sign some more forms. Get someone a snack. Break up another fight. Listen to the refinance lady talk about the family she saw last night, and realize that tomorrow, she'll be telling people about these aggressive kids she saw tonight. I sign something else. I say good-bye to the refinance lady. I tuck the kids in. I check my work schedule for tomorrow. I check Jimmy's work email. I think about a glass of wine, and decide I'm too tired. I realize that if water was wine, my friend and I would both be better about drinking as much of it as we should.

This type of multi-tasking, I realize, is largely unavoidable. And this kind, I really don't mind all that much. As for the rest? Well, I've made a decision. I quit. I'm not sure what I am quitting, exactly, but I am quitting...well, something. I have two kids who aren't even really involved in activities yet. At this rate, I'll lose what's left of my mind way sooner than previously anticipated. Besides, when they all sit around the Thanksgiving table twenty years from now, I want their childhood stories to begin with something besides, "Hey, remember that time in the car, on the way to soccer practice?"

I hope NBO will all find things they like to do, and I will encourage them in that, to some extent. I'm trying to keep in mind, though, that there are a few things they need more than dance classes or soccer; more than piano lessons or Girl Scouts.

They need time with their family. They need time to just be kids. And they need a sane mommy.

Boxing gloves probably wouldn't be a bad idea, either.

Explain Yourself

It seems like someone's always explaining something in our house.
I used to think I was the only one explaining, since I seem to get most of the questions. Of course, it's important to answer kids' questions as honestly as possible so they'll know it's OK to keep asking questions. So, that's what I did. With N. Once B started asking questions, around the time I was pregnant with O, I just couldn't always think of the answers as quickly. So, mostly, I just made them up. I realize this may result in him asking fewer questions. I am OK with that.

Sometimes, though, I couldn't even think of a made-up answer that quickly, and I would have to resort to making some sound that hopefully passed for an answer in a toddler's mind. You see, I had lost a lot more brain cells by that point, due to the fact that babies eat your brain cells in pregnancy. It's true. I'm walking, grunting proof. And unfortunately, they don't come back. Soon O will start asking questions. Sorry, O, this is one of the hazards of being the third child. Your mother is too brain dead to answer your questions. So is your father, though I don't know what his excuse is--it's not like you ate his brain cells. Just remember that, if you ask a question and you don't hear us answer, the answer is either: "Because I said so", or "Because I'm the mommy".  If it can't be answered by one of those two phrases, it probably wasn't worth asking in the first place.

Fortunately for O, he has two older siblings who love him and who are really good at explaining things. For example, B recently explained that he wasn't the one who took a pack of cookies out of the cabinet at six-thirty in the morning and brought them into their shared bedroom. Apparently, it was O. B explained in great detail that O, at twenty months, climbed out of his crib, came downstairs, pulled a stool over to get the cookies, gave them to B, then went back upstairs and climbed back into his crib. What an amazing brother.

B also recently explained that he wasn't the one who poured hand lotion all over the kitchen counters. It was Daddy. Same for the dish washing liquid. You know Daddy. He just does stuff like that.

Even when B gets caught in the act, he has an explanation. When I caught him sneaking downstairs one night and opening the refrigerator (I feed them. I swear), he looked at me innocently and said, "I was just looking to make sure we had food, mom". The next day he informed me that the crayon marks on the wall were there because "I was just trying to make the house look prettier".Wow--what an incredibly thoughtful boy.

N is also good at explaining things. When I recently noticed that the channel on the TV had been changed from the cartoons I'd put on, she explained that she had accidentally sat on the remote and it changed the channel. To one of her favorite shows! And let's not forget the Leprechaun who always messes up her room. Also, I sometimes notice that N is wearing what appears to be eye shadow, though it's actually oil pastel from her art set. Apparently B sneaks into her room early in the morning and applies it...perfectly, and without her knowledge.  Truly an amazing three-year-old. (This should not be confused with the times that he really has snuck into her room and drawn on her. Those times, he used pink marker and it was not confined to her eyelids...or to her face).

Sometimes their explanations don't quite make sense, like when I asked B why he was hiding, and he said , "So N can't smell me". At these times, I've found that it's just better not to ask for further explanation.

Occasionally, they decide they don't even like their own explanations all that much. Today after nap time, I noticed a perfect number 3 written in crayon on the wall next to B's bed. When I asked him how it got there, he said O did it. When I said that O couldn't reach that spot from his crib, he said N did it. Then he looked at that perfect number 3 for a minute, and realized that N was going to get all the credit for it. "I drew a really good three, didn't I, mom?"

At least N and B are sharing their talents with O. Thanks to them, he's already gotten good at explaining. His favorite phrases include the following:
"B did it."
"N did it."
"Daddy did it".

On a rare occasion, you might hear him say this one:
"Mommy did it".

But wait, I can explain...

Stop the Madness! Please...

When N was in kindergarten, she came home one day in March and asked me if leprechauns were real. This was a no brainer for me. Santa? Real. Tooth Fairy? Real. Tarty Fairy? Unfortunately, Real. Easter Bunny? Real, of course. (An aside-I don't know when people started getting their kids' pictures taken with a person in a big stuffed bunny suit for Easter, but I don't really get it. In fact, it kind of freaks me out, and I'm allegedly a grown up. Do kids really think this big headed bunny suited thing is going to come hopping through their yard on Easter morning? And if so, do they hope to catch a glimpse of him? Or do they hide, cowering in the corner, hoping he just drops the basket on his way past?  Just leave the basket, Bunny, and keep on hoppin. I would be quite interested to know how much bunny phobias have increased since we started this practice. I'm guessing ten fold. At least).

But I digress. Leprechauns? Not real. So that's what I told N when she asked me, and I thought this was a perfectly acceptable answer. Until she looked at me with a mixture of confusion and devastation, and I realized that I had majorly screwed up. "Oh, are what real? Leprechauns?" I back tracked. "Of course Leprechauns are real. I thought you said something else".  She was clearly relieved to know that my answer was due to a misunderstanding, but then she wanted to know what I thought she said. "Um, I thought you said Metrachauns." She looked at me, clearly confused, and said , "What's a Metrachaun?". "It doesn't matter," I told her, "Because Metrachauns aren't real. Unlike Leprechauns, which most definitely are real. Very real. For real". When N informed me that she was going out to look for leprechauns,  I figured the damage had been undone, and I was relieved that I could stop talking.

Clearly, that was not my finest mommy moment. But here's the thing. When I was N's age, Leprechauns weren't real. We didn't look for their foot prints. They didn't make mischief around our house. My school didn't organize a leprechaun hunt. In fact, the only leprechaun we saw around St. Patrick's Day was a little paper cut out on our classroom door. It's not that we didn't celebrate St. Patrick's Day. My family was all about St Patrick's Day. In fact, St Patrick's Day was as big as Christmas in our house. But it wasn't about the leprechauns. I would like to say it was about honoring St Patrick, and that was a part of it, but it was probably more about other things. It was about the parade. It was about celebrating our Irish heritage. It was about the beer.

This year, Caca and I took the kids to the parade the weekend before St Patrick's Day, and the only leprechaun they saw was some guy dressed up as one who threw candy and temporary tattoos at them. Ok, I guess I should say he was throwing it to them, but really, he was throwing it at them. They didn't ask to see any other leprechauns, because the parade wasn't about leprechauns. It was about Irish music, and Irish dancers, and Irish wolfhounds, and how disturbing it is to see your bag pipe playing Uncle wearing a kilt. Who needed leprechauns? This parade was about being Irish, even if you really weren't. It was about being there with your family. It was about celebrating. It was about trying to scrub the temporary tattoo with the picture of a pint of Guinness off your six-year-old's arm before school the next day.

Once back in school in the week leading up to St Patrick's Day, however, it was all about leprechauns again. Apparently they leave their mark in the classroom on a fairly regular basis. Green footprints, little pieces of leprechaun gold, things on desks apparently re-arranged. I'm thinking this is a lot of work for N's already over-worked teacher. N kept looking for signs of them at home, and would occasionally tell me she'd seen one. Works for me. I'm all for an NBO letting their own imaginations and/or hallucinations run wild if it means I don't have to find something green to put in the bathroom and say it's leprechaun poop. It started to become a slight problem, though, when I would ask her to clean her room and she said "Mom, I didn't make that mess. It was either the boys, or the leprechaun".

N did complain on St Patrick's Day that the leprechaun didn't seem to visit our house as much as some others. So I grabbed some green icing when she wasn't looking and made leprechaun footprints on our siding. It appears that the leprechaun climbed up to our roof. Just fyi: green icing doesn't wash off siding nearly as easily as you'd think. That crap's never going away. Come next St Patrick's Day, I'll probably be grateful for that. "Look kids, the footprints from last year are still there! I don't know why there aren't any new ones. Maybe he drank too much green beer and fell off the roof."

Apparently my leprechaun footprints are nothing compared to the leprechaun magic that some parents work. I was talking to a neighbor the other night who told me that, in her house, leprechauns turn mattresses upside down, throw clothes around, and sometimes even bake and leave a huge mess behind. Now, I love this neighbor. She is a great mom, and obviously a really fun person. But I have to ask: Why the hell would I want to mess up my own house, on purpose? I have enough real people who mess up my house. I don't need to help the imaginary people mess it up. Not to mention, my kids probably wouldn't notice the difference.

It's now March 19th. I'm thinking the leprechauns should be packing up about now. But N is still blaming them for messing up her room, and just tonight she made a little house for them. I guess I'll have to put up with them a little bit longer. Fortunately for me, Easter is only a few weeks away. I'm counting on the big headed Easter Bunny to scare em off.

The Benefits of Membership...

I don't really consider myself much of a "joiner", but I am, in fact, a member of several groups.
I belong to a Church.
I belong to my professional association.
I belong to the PTA.
I belong to Girl Scouts (ha..that one threw you, didn't it? Its true).

Recently, I become a part of another kind of group, though I hesitate to tell you about it because membership is apparently reserved for an elite few, and I don't want it to seem like I'm bragging. On top of that, I didn't even have to sign up. They chose me.

You see, a few weeks ago, when I had just paid at the grocery store and was walking toward the exit, a shift manager walked over, greeted me by name, congratulated me, and stood there smiling at me. I wondered why she was congratulating me. I briefly wondered if I was pregnant and had just been too tired to notice, but she quickly explained that I had been selected to be a member of the Manager's Club at the grocery store.

The benefits, she assured me, are endless. I get three cents a gallon off gas--and all the time, not just when I spend ridiculous amounts of money on groceries. Though, come to think of it, I spend ridiculous amounts of money on groceries all the time. I can also get prescriptions filled any time I want. Well, any time that the store is open. And there's a pharmacist there. I am even part of their concierge service. I have no idea what this means. But it must be good. And get this:  I have the managers direct phone number. They even wrote it on a card for me. I'm sure you could never get this by, say, asking for it. As she congratulated me yet again, I started wondering why there weren't balloons for this huge occasion, or streamers. Or champagne.

As I listened to her describe all these great benefits, and congratulate me a few more times, I was somewhat unsettled by the fact that she had just showed up out of nowhere, knew me by name, and knew that I had apparently just surpassed some standard that now made me eligible for membership in this elite club. I'm guessing the standard might have something to do with the ridiculous amount of money that I spend there. Or the ridiculous frequency with which I shop there. I'm guessing both. In any case, since this was clearly such a huge accomplishment from their perspective, they could have at least had a banner made up, "Congratulations! You have now spent the equivalent on a college education on groceries! And, you shop here an average of twelve times a week!" Of course, they would know all about my shopping and spending habits since I put in my little savings card number every time I'm there. Still, there was something rather big brother-ish about all this. The fact that the shift manager cornered me after I had left the register confirmed what I had long suspected: someone has been sitting in that little manager booth, watching us as we shop.

With this realization, my grocery store life flashed before my eyes.
 B throwing ice cream the length of the frozen food aisle like it's his own personal football field.
 B and O bowling with canned peas down the canned good aisle.
 N pirouetting through the produce section, occasionally stopping only to do the splits in front of the broccoli.
B and O playing catch with the tomatoes, and the lemons, and the cantaloupe. None of which we bought.
B strutting down the juice aisle, loudly singing, "Come on everybody help me raise this roof, raise this roof, raise this roof..."
N and B physically fighting, and screaming, repeatedly, over who gets to sit in the car cart.
B briefly napping on a pile of rolls...and me rearranging them to hide the smooshed ones.
O repeatedly throwing loaves of bread on the floor..and me putting them in the back so no one would know.

I'd always wondered if someone was watching, but this confirmed it. I wasn't sure how I felt about this. I took the information on my elite Manager's Club membership as the shift manager congratulated me yet again, and told me to please make sure I let them know if there was anything they could do to make my shopping experience more enjoyable.

Well, since they asked...I'm thinking I'll request the following:

Since you seem to know when I'm there, how much I spend, and when I check out, could you pay closer attention when you see me pull into the parking lot? When you do, please send someone out to meet me, with a cart and a grande vanilla latte from your Starbucks. Preferably bring a car cart, since the kids always drive me crazy wanting those. This way, they will be much easier to handle for whoever is pushing them around the store while I am sitting in the car, drinking my grande vanilla latte.

While you're doing that, if you could keep your eyes out for a few things I've lost in previous trips, I'd appreciate it:

I think I lost my patience in the frozen food aisle. If you find even some of it, that would be great.
I'm fairly certain I lost most of my sanity in the produce section. But maybe it was canned goods.
I definitely lost my mind in the bread aisle. I think I got some of it back, but I'm hoping the rest of it is still floating around there, cause I don't know where else it would be at this point.
And you may want to look for some of my dignity in the feminine hygiene aisle. I think I also lost some of my hearing there--though perhaps selectively--after being asked "What are those? Well then what are those? Why do you need those? and Why don't I need those?" one too many times.

I know I don't need to explain. Of course you know all of this, since you've been watching us.
That brings me to the last thing I'd like to ask you for.
A check for 61, 943.00 dollars.

That's roughly what we've spent at your store over the past six years.
I figure it's also approximately what you would have had to pay a team of musicians, athletes, dancers, and comedians to entertain you the way that we have over that same period of time.
And you've been getting it all for free.

Once you do that, we'll enroll you in our elite club, Parents Tired of Shopping without being Drugged. You can remember us by our acronym, PTSD.

Congratulations!
The benefits are endless.

The Hot Mess Housekeeper...Again...

Dear Hot Mess Housekeeper:

I am really excited to get one of those foam alphabet puzzle mats with the removable letters for the floor in our playroom. I think it will be great for the kids, and all the online reviews are great! Do you know how to keep them clean?

Thanks for your help!
Sincerely,
Excited


Dear Excited,

I will be glad to help! First, I think it's important that you know some of the history behind foam alphabet puzzle mats. For example, did you know that they were invented by Satan? I'm quite sure that he is the only one who could have created such an item. As for all of those glowing reviews, go back and check how old their little darlings were when the parents wrote those. I'll bet you a box of wine that the majority were under a year. Of course it seems like a great purchase then. Those sweet babies just roll around on the colorful mat, and their parents think how great it is that their little prodigy will learn the alphabet so young. They picture their little Sweet Pea graduating from Yale in 20 years or so, and they think, it all starts now, because we're exposing our future little Einstein to the foam alphabet puzzle mats.

Now let's fast forward a year or two. That kid is removing every letter and shape from that floor six times a day, using the letters as frisbees, and playing his own version of ring toss as he attempts to throw the shapes around his brother's head.  There won't be money for Yale, because his mother has spent that money on xanax, since she has just about lost her mind from picking up letters and shapes six times a day, and then trying to find which letter or shape goes where. Think you'll teach your kids to put the shapes back? You might. When they're twelve. Until then, it will be you. And I hope you did well in geometry, cause this is more than just circles and squares. Octagons, hexagons, pentagons--they're all there. Designed to make you lose your mind.

You should also keep in mind that when the shapes come out, there is now a hole in that spot. Over the years, alot of stuff gets in those holes, and down under the mat. Not only will you find an amazing amount of dirt under there, along with two dead crickets, some macaroni, and a toothbrush, but the color will come off some of the mats, and will leave an imprint of the letter I on the play room floor. Of course, the letter F would have been more appropriate, for the F in foam alphabet puzzle mat.

Oh, sorry--I didn't answer your question. The way you keep foam alphabet puzzle mats clean is to leave them in the damn store.

Hope this was helpful!


Dear Hot Mess Housekeeper:

I love for my kids to read, but they can't seem to leave books on the bookshelves and I get tired of picking them up all the time. Any ideas?

Sincerely,

Bibliophile

Dear Bibs,

I think it's so great that you want your kids to read. I, however, believe in starting small. So start with one book. When they can not only read that book, but can also put it back on the shelf without being told, they can have another. I know what you're thinking...you probably have way more than one book in your house, so what are you supposed to do with all the others? And I have the perfect solution for you. Use them to make a floor in your playroom. Who knows--it may help your little Sweet Peas get into Yale.


Have a question for the Hot Mess Housekeeper? Feel free to leave it in a comment below. I will do my best to answer it as soon as I'm done with my wine...or maybe a little sooner than that.

Hello Spring

I love Spring.
Spring means warm days when we can finally play outside without coats, mittens, and hats. Spring means Easter. Spring means saying hello to new things...longer days, baby birds, daffodils, and butterflies.
But sometimes, Spring also means saying good bye to some things.
So today, in honor of Spring, I said good-bye.

Good-bye stuffed monkey. I have picked you up 47 times in the past week alone. I didn't mind so much when you were loved and I was picking you up to tuck you in bed next to someone, but now I just pick you up after you fly dangerously close to my head, because someone has used you as projectile. No offense, monkey, but it's not really about love anymore. They were only using you as a weapon. I can't let you be treated like that. I will miss you. But, at the same time, I'm glad you're gone. To be honest, I'm sick and tired of finding your stuffing all over the house. Huh. I guess that makes you a half stuffed monkey.

Good-bye broken car.  B insisted on hanging onto you in spite of the fact that you were missing wheels and you could no longer even drive. In fact, all you did lately was make some obnoxious sound like your battery was half dead. B will miss you when he eventually realizes that you're gone, and I will likely feel something that vaguely resembles guilt as I tell him that you must have gone to the broken car junk yard. But trust me when I tell you that I will get over. And so will he.

Good-bye stuffed...giraffe? At least I think you were a giraffe. See, I'm sorry, but since I couldn't even tell what kind of animal you were, I couldn't justify keeping you around. I mean, if I ever get that toy organizing thing down, I wouldn't even know where to put you. I wish you well, and hope you find a good therapist to help with your Animal Identity Disorder.

Good-bye various made in China pieces of crap that have been cluttering up my home. I have tripped over you more times than I can count, and I thought we should part ways before someone really got hurt. Oh, and don't think I didn't notice that you multiplied when I put you into the toy box. Maybe you can find some way back to your homeland. Here, this boat can take you. It goes way too slow now anyway. Bye-Bye boat.

Good-bye coloring books that we have had since 2005. No one uses you anyway. I have some guilt that my children no longer have coloring books, but I have evidence that they prefer to color on the walls, the doors, and the dishwasher, so you really didn't do your job all that well anyway, did you?

Good-bye Elmos. Yes, that is plural. I promise this has nothing to do with the fact that I hate Elmo. It's just, well--how many of you do we really need? If we had a couple more kids, then maybe I could justify keeping a few more of you, but as it is, I just can't justify keeping all twelve of you. And really, I have to remind you that, over the years, I've done a lot for you. I've brought you in out of the rain. I've saved you from certain death because someone thought you needed a bath. I've repeatedly put your clothes back on, and I've turned you off when not in use to preserve the few brain cells that I have left  your batteries. I've even tickled you, Elmo. But I'm not really feeling that we've gotten much in return. I mean, hello Potty Training Elmo, did you happen to notice that no one has actually been potty trained in the year and a half you've lived with us?  Maybe it's time you considered changing your name to What Have I Done for You Lately Elmo. But, please, don't consider yourself fired. Consider yourself laid off. I'm sure Sesame Street has an Unemployment office. Here, hitch a ride on this bus. Bye-bye bus.

While saying good-bye to all of this, I also found something I thought I'd lost. In fact, I was almost certain that I'd lost it, though I'm not sure exactly when. And while the part of it that I found was small--almost insignificant, perhaps--still, it was there. And just finding it gave me hope. There, under the Elmos, next to the coloring books, and between the broken car and the way too slow boat, was a very small bit of my sanity.

Now that I have that little piece back, I'm trying to hold onto it with all my might. I really don't want to lose it again. So if I know you in real life, I hope you'll come visit soon. Just be forewarned that if you show up with anything that can be used as projectile, has more than two pieces, or makes noise, I may suggest that you take a way too slow boat to China, in search of the elusive half stuffed flying monkey.

What Did You Do Today?

I'm never sure how to answer this question. Most days, I've done so many things that I can't even remember them all, but I'm not sure any of them would be remotely interesting to the person asking the question. But I realized that there is one thing that I probably do more than anything else. So, the next time someone asks me what I did today, I'm just going to tell them:  Well, as usual, I did alot of different things, but mostly, you know, I just wiped.

I wiped the sleep out of my eyes.
I wiped a bum or two.
I wiped the counters.
I wiped a nose.
I wiped some tears.

I wiped crayon off the walls and day old mascara off of my eyes.
I wiped jelly off of the counters...and the floor...and the TV.
I wiped another bum, another nose, and a few more tears.
I wiped something off the refrigerator. Don't ask me what. I couldn't tell you.

I wiped lipstick off the bathroom sink..and the mirror...and the toilet.
I wiped yogurt off the windows...at least I think it was yogurt.
I wiped another bum, and oh yeah, I wiped my hands, after I washed them, of course.

And when I wasn't wiping, I was talking about wiping.

Wipe that grin off your face. And wipe the ketchup off, too.
Don't forget to wipe your mouth. And your hands.
Did you wipe out again?
Don't you dare wipe off my kisses.
Don't forget to wipe.

Some days, it seems, are all about wiping. Like when I go to the grocery store at closing time, to buy wipes. And I burst into inappropriate laughter as the manager throws a roll of paper towels to the cashier and says "Here--wipe your own." I feel a need to explain, so I say "He just told you to wipe your own!" and then I laugh some more. I am not laughing quite so hard when the cashier, now also laughing, yells to her co-worker across the store, "This lady just told me to wipe my @$$!". Well, not exactly. In truth, I am just giddy with excitement at the mere thought that someone, somewhere, can wipe their own...something. I can't wait to get home so I can try the manager's technique at home with my own kids.

I'd like to stay and ask you what you did today, but I'm just about wiped out--or will be, as soon as I wipe the one thing I didn't find time to wipe today.

Are you speaking my language?

I love the way N's face lights up when she learns something new--especially when it's something that her brothers can't quite understand yet. Tonight when I was tucking her in, the topic somehow turned to pig Latin. She didn't know what pig Latin was.  She was clearly excited that this was some new bit of knowledge that she and I would share. And yet, as I started to tell her what pig Latin was, there was a voice in my head saying , What are you doing? Why would you teach her pig Latin? Isn't it bad enough that you can't spell in front to her anymore? Pig Latin is all you have left! It's like your rump tay ard cay!

I knew the voice was right. We really don't have any way to communicate in front of N without her knowing what we're saying. She spells better than we can. I can't use the approximately ten words of Spanish I know, since N now knows them, plus ten more that I don't know. And it's not like Jimmy and I can use Irish to speak, since I never really know if those few words he's taught me really mean what he told me they mean. Even if I  had enough words to try to tell him "The kids are driving me crazy today", the words he taught me could very well mean, "I think you should go to the pub every night and stay as late as you want". So I knew that the voice had a point. And yet, when I saw the look of sweet excitement in N's eyes, as she anticipated this new tidbit of amazing mommy knowledge that I was about to share with her, I chose to ignore the voice. I'm sure at some point I will regret this, as past experience has taught me to never, ever ignore the voice.

I justified this decision with the fact that, though pig Latin should have been a great way for Jimmy and I to talk about the kids without them knowing what we were saying, we had, in fact, never actually used it. I don't know why this is. As I sat with N and translated words like ommy may and addy day and oop pay, I realized that I'm not even sure if Jimmy knows pig Latin. How do I not know this about my husband? As N practices a few words of her own, I make a mental note to ask Jimmy when he gets home if he knows pig Latin. Not that we can use it around the kids, of course, since I have now let N in on this little secret.  I comfort myself with the thought that at least B and O can't spell yet, and I'm pretty sure N won't teach them pig Latin anytime soon.

And, of course, N and I have this cool mommy-daughter thing that, for now, is just ours. I realize that we'll have to let Jimmy in on it soon, though. It wouldn't be right for N and I to speak in a language that he can't understand. That's always struck me as incredibly rude. It's like when the ladies in the nail salon talk about me in Vietnamese when I'm sitting right there. Please. As if I don't know that they're saying that it looks like I haven't had a manicure in ten years. That's because I haven't. I have three kids and a husband who can't even speak pig Latin. How am I supposed to get out to get my nails done? Not to mention, I'd have to change a diaper as soon as I got home, which means my newly manicured nails would get all irty day within an our hay.

 It occurs to me that maybe Jimmy and I should learn Vietnamese. At least then we can speak to each other without the kids knowing what we're saying. It could be our new secret language. And I bet we don't even know anyone else who speaks Vietnamese. Except for the ladies at the nail salon, and it would be nice to answer them in a common language when I know they're talking about me. But, you know, Vietnamese is probably a really hard language to learn. Maybe I can just teach Jimmy pig Latin and we can use to communicate without the kids knowing what we're saying. I mean, would they really be able to translate, "I think I've just ost lay whats left of my ind may?", or "I need a ig bay tiff say rink day?"

And maybe the ladies at the nail salon speak pig Latin, too--at least enough to understand when I ask for a nice shade of brown. To blend in with the oop pay.

What Kind of Mother are You, Anyway?

I recently read something designed to help moms determine what mom category they fell into. I don't recall the specifics, probably because I lost interest somewhere around line 2, but we've all heard enough about mom "types" to know what some of the categories are. Are you a crunchy mom, who enrolls your co-sleeping, still nursing, organically fed two-year-old in yoga? Or an over-achieving mom, who puts your two-month-old in music classes, hoping to stimulate their brain cells at this crucial point in their development, thus virtually guaranteeing a future admissions letter from Harvard? Or maybe you're a soccer mom, who puts your eighteen-month-old in a tiny tot soccer league in hopes that it will help them develop into superior athletes by age six.

Oh, none of those describe you? Perhaps you're a homeschooling religious mom, who plans on having as many children as God blesses you with, all of whom will wear hand made clothing and know how to make and/or kill dinner for your family of fifteen by the time they're seven. Or a free range mom, who figures if you give a kid ten or twenty acres to explore, they don't need much guidance from you at all.

If you asked me what category I fit into, I don't think I could tell you. In fact, since I'm not sure slacker mom is an actual category, I'm thinking there may not be a category for me at all. But if you ask me what kind of mom I am, I can tell you this:

I'm the kind of mom who prayed for my children long before I had them, but who prays for them now way more than I ever did then. I'm the kind who nursed them all for nine months to a year, because it was good for them, but also because it allowed me to sit on the couch for half an hour at a time, several times a day, and do nothing but stare at their sweet baby face. And maybe watch TV. I sometimes let them sleep with us, not because attachment parenting says I should, but because it's often the only way any of us are going to get any sleep. I'm also the kind of mom who gets really grumpy if I don't have enough sleep. Or coffee. Or wine.

 I'm the kind of mom who usually gives them organic milk, but not organic anything else. I give them organic milk because it's healthy, and because I've heard that non-organic milk can possibly lead to early puberty in girls. I am not taking any chances on this. I will gladly pay the price of organic milk now if it saves me a couple years of mood swings and pre-adolescent drama later. I'm also the kind of mom who sometimes lets them eat at McDonald's, and figures that frequently serving spinach and broccoli at dinner will cancel this out. I'm the kind of mom who makes them play outside, because it's good for them, and because sometimes they just need to be outside. While I am inside.

In spite of that, I'm the kind of mom who hopes I will never get tired of reading to my kids, or playing outside with them, or going for walks with them. But I'm also the kind who feels like my head will explode if they don't leave me alone while I'm trying to do the laundry or the dishes. I sometimes let them watch too much TV, so I can do the laundry or the dishes. Or drink a cup of coffee in peace.

I'm the kind who somehow never manages to get all the laundry put away, or all the socks matched, or all the toys stacked neatly in the playroom. Fortunately, I'm also the kind who often just does not care that all the laundry isn't put away, or that the socks aren't matched, or that the toys aren't neatly stacked. But I'm also the kind who, sometimes, is really bothered that I can't manage to do these things.

I'm the kind who often walks my daughter to the bus stop wearing sweats and with wet hair. I don't usually doesn't care that I have wet hair and am wearing sweats. But I do care if I forget my coffee. I'm the kind who makes my daughter do her homework, and if it's sloppy, I make her do it again, better. Because I know she can.

I'm the kind of mom who has put my three-year-old in time out 2,880 times, because it's important to have well behaved children--or at least try to--but also because sometimes I really just don't know what else to do. I'm also the kind of mom who occasionally yells at my kids. Sometimes I feel bad about this. Most of the time, I don't. I'm the kind of mom who sneaks into their rooms at night to watch them sleep, and I'm also the kind who locks myself in the bathroom at times for a moment or two of silence.

 I'm the kind of mom who takes a million pictures of all of my children, but especially my twenty-month-old, because he is changing so fast. I'm also the kind who won't get those pictures in albums until 2021. I'm the kind who believes that laughter is the best medicine. And if that doesn't work, try chocolate. Or, occasionally, tequila. Cause I'm that kind of mom, too.

I'm the kind who is usually pretty mild mannered, unless you hurt my kids. Then you will likely be amazed at the transformation that takes place before your very eyes, as I become the kind of mom you wish you'd never met.

I'm the kind of mom who still finds it incredibly difficult to get anywhere on time with three kids--or without three kids, for that matter. I'm the kind who alternates between thinking "I really need to work on this" and, "Screw it, the world will survive if we're 5 minutes late", because I've decided that my sanity, in those moments, is more important. I'm the kind who sometimes appears to have it somewhat together, and sometimes appears to have it all falling apart. Rarely am I the kind who appears to have it all together. Fortunately, I'm also the kind who won't fall to pieces if it does all fall apart. Cause I know I'm the kind who can put it back together. And so are you.

I'm the kind of mom who might do some things better than you can, but who knows that you can likely do more things better than I can. I'm working on not caring so much about which of us can do things better. I'm the kind who makes sure my kids' socks match when its gym day, and they may have to take off their shoes. But if it's not gym day, all bets are off. I'm the kind of mom who thinks that, in a world where so many mothers are just trying to feed, house, and care for their children, it probably doesn't matter all that much if my child's socks don't match.

I'm the  kind of mom who is not afraid to say that my children are being challenging, exhausting, exasperating, or difficult. I'm also the kind who tries not to brag too much about the fact that they are adorable, talented, brilliant, and amazing. I try not to do that, because I know its obnoxious. Unless you just happen to slip it into your blog.

Those categories of moms? I'm none of those. And yet, to some extent, I'm all of those. I'm the kind of mom who gets irritated that we feel a need to put moms into categories instead of just accepting each other as we are. The kind who thinks that if you teach your children to be loving, kind, and responsible, it probably doesn't matter all that much what other kind of mom you are.

I'm the kind of mom who wants to pull my hair out more often than I ever imagined possible, but who has realized that I usually don't have to, since given enough stress, it just falls out on its own. I'm the kind who doesn't love every moment of every day, but who finds moments of every day to love. I am the kind who loves my children more than life itself. I'm probably alot like you in that respect.

I'm the kind who, like most other mothers in the world, just does the best that I can. And although I sometimes wish that my best was better in some way, I'm the kind of mother who knows that, ultimately, my best is good enough.
And so is yours.

I Love it When...

Here are just a few of the moments I have loved recently.

I love it when N reminds me of the difference between how a child's mind works, and how an adult's mind works. Like when we eat breakfast, and play outside, and go to the store, and then come home and draw (in between putting groceries away and cleaning the kitchen), and then eat lunch, and play some more (in between doing loads of laundry, and cleaning the kitchen...again), and then run out to the store again for the things I forgot the first time, before finally declaring that it's quiet time...and she says,  "Mom, are we going to do anything today?"

Or like when she looks at a snowflake and says, "I saw it, mom! I saw it! They really are all different! Just like people."

Or when B says, "Mom, sometimes I like being big, and sometimes I don't".

I love it when N is such a helpful big sister, like when B denies that he made that mess, and she tells him, "Well, I didn't make the mess. And O didn't make the mess. And mom and dad didn't make the mess. Huh. We're all of out people. Hmm, who's left? I guess that would be YOU."

I love it when they share their interests with one another, like when N, after being told she was going to see Mary Poppins for her birthday, spent the next hour in the front yard, umbrella in hand, trying to "fly" off of our well cap. And when O also tried to fly, though he didn't quite get why he needed an umbrella. And when B ran by them with a look that said, "Who needs to fly?"

I love it when B shows me just how nice he can be to his brother. Like when he asks him sweetly if he can come into the pack-n-play with him, and if he can tickle him, and if he can share those trains with him. And then asks, in the same sweet voice, "O, can I smack you now?" No, I would not have loved this if he had actually smacked him.

I love it when one of them reminds me that I need to just stop worrying about things. Like when I was recently thinking that I don't expose my children to enough music, and B came down the stairs singing "Come on everybody help me raise this roof, raise this roof, raise this roof..." Um, I'm thinking you don't need much help with that one, B.

I love it when O reminds me how fun the often exhausting toddler stage can be, like when he sits in front of the fish tank making fish faces, or repeatedly says "I la lu" for I love you, or "Hi N!" when we pick N up from school, or "Daddy home!" every time we see a van like Jimmy's.

I love it when B reminds me how it's possible to be innocent and savvy at the same time, like when he says "Mom, I called the Easter Bunny and he's bringing treats", and when I remind him that he'll get treats from the Easter Bunny only if he's being good, he says, "I better call that Easter Bunny back and tell him I love him".

I love it when they remind me what's important, like when I ask N what the best part of her day was, and she says, "Coming home. Cause I wasn't with you all day".

I hope you've had some moments you loved lately, too!

Holy Hoarders!

I have come to the conclusion that I am raising the next generation of hoarders. This should not have surprised me, as I may have a minor tendency toward hanging onto things myself. However, I didn't think it would show itself in my children just yet. Maybe that's a sign that it's not really my fault. Maybe the fact that it's showing up so early in their young lives is a sign that hoarding is an innate trait--you either have it, or you don't. As it happens, my children--to one extent or another- have it.

Fortunately for N, she seems to have been mostly spared. Give her a couple books and a teddy bear, and she's a happy girl who doesn't need much other "stuff". She never really even had a lovey or a blanket as a baby, and even as an infant, the only thing she was perhaps excessively attached to was me--quite literally. Of course, there are the rocks she collected from the driveway when she was four, before we paved it, which she still has on a shelf in her room...along with the pine cones...and the sea shells...and the glass pebbles from a friend's fish tank. But I'm pretty sure those things are all considered collector's items, so she's not a hoarder. She's a collector.

O, on the other hand, is obviously an aspiring hoarder. For the past few months, he has been attached to blankets. This was incredibly cute when he walked around the house dragging one blanket behind him. But then he needed two. And eventually, three. At this point, he requires every child sized blanket in the house to be in his hands and/or in his crib, or he will repeatedly and with increasing intensity cry "Bankie!" until he gets them. He is the third child. Can you guess how many baby and child sized blankets we have in our house? I'll tell you how many. Too damn many. It would simplify my life greatly if I would get rid of some, but you will probably be shocked to learn that I am emotionally attached to most of them. Oh sure, I should get rid of some of them, but they were all either made by friends or family, bought off my baby registry, or stolen accidentally taken from the hospital after my children's births, when I was in a post c-section, drug induced haze. How can I part with those?

Besides, I see O's hoarding tendencies as a sign that B is sharing his brotherly knowledge with him, since B has been hoarding things since he was an infant. We could hear him crawling into the room before we could see him, because he always had an object in each hand--often a plastic cup, or a block, or a toy car. It's so exciting when your baby starts crawling. And excited we were "Aww, here comes B!" Clunk, clunk, drag, clunk...Then he started walking, and at a stage when most kids want a teddy bear to go to sleep with, he would have to have two plastic cups, three blocks, four cars, and at least one dinosaur, right next to him, all night long. If one fell out of his crib, he would wake up crying and knew exactly what was missing. Now, at three, he is well past the crawling stage, and mostly past the walking and running stage. In fact, most of the time he appears to half leap, half fly from one place to another. This is an amazing talent that three-year-old-boys have. And when he is leaping and/or flying, he almost always has something in his hands. Or several somethings. Today he appeared to be playing with a boot (cause you know, we don't have any real toys in our house.) Upon closer inspection, I discovered that this was not just any boot. This boot was home to an airplane, a tractor, a whistle, a whisk, two dinosaurs, one sock, and one Baby Jesus.

Yes, he plays with Baby Jesus. Jimmy and I have had discussions about whether or not this is appropriate. Jimmy's feeling is that it's JESUS, and Jesus should not be a toy. But this Jesus is, in fact, a toy. He came with a Nativity set made for kids. I did hope Jesus would be packed away with all the other Christmas stuff by now, but B grew attached to Baby Jesus and won't let me put him away. Don't worry--Mary and Joseph are still hanging around, too. In fact, I think the whole Nativity posse is still floating around our house. Today, several of them went in the car with us to get N at school, and when I parked and opened the door, Jesus fell out. So B did what he always does when he loses something. He screamed for it, "Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!"
"It's OK B! I have your TOY BABY JESUS right here", I told him as I gave Jesus back to him, and smiled at the other parents around us. At least it was at school and not Church, though now that I think about it--where are you more likely to get in trouble for yelling Jesus' name these days?

After we got home, Baby Jesus was missing, and we discovered that he had been accidentally left outside. Once he was brought in, B and O started to fight over Him, with O yelling  "Baby! Baby!" and B responding "My Jesus! He's mine!". I eventually took Baby Jesus away, and thought it might be a good opportunity to put him away until next Christmas, but I think Mary and Joseph are still in the car, and I didn't feel right about separating them. Plus, I think they're probably good to keep around. God knows this family needs all the help it can get from that family.

Maybe Jimmy does have a point, though. Baby Jesus shouldn't be getting thrown around the car, along with his Holy parents, the angel, the wise men, and the donkey. And he most certainly should not be getting dropped outside, or left outside, or be the center of a tug of war between brothers. I do have some guilt about all this. But then again, I'm Catholic. I have guilt about everything.

Isn't the important thing that our children want to hang out with Jesus? Especially because they are, after all, our children, and this is Jesus. I just wish they wouldn't fight over Him. I have thought of getting them each their own Jesus, but I think if you have two of the exact same Baby Jesus, people are allowed to call you a hoarder. Besides, I don't think that sends the right message. They need to learn that there's plenty of Jesus to go around.

So I think Jesus and his family are probably here to stay, at least until after next Christmas. If Jesus is ok with being carried around in a boot amidst dinosaurs, trains, and kitchen utensils, then who am I to try to put him away in a box?

Besides, God knows hoarders need love, too.

He loves me....He loves me not...

I'm not sure what I expected it would be like to have a six-year-old daughter. If I really think about it, I guess I anticipated lots of giggling, and silliness, and maybe some moodiness. I figured there would be lots of laughter, and some occasional tears. I figured she would love her teachers, and her friends, and still love, and actually like, her parents, too. I thought she'd probably still be into dolls--at least some of the time-and that she'd still love to ride her bike, and roller skate, and read.

For the most part, I'd have to say that having a six-year-old is pretty much what I expected. But once in a while, something happens that causes me to think, "Huh. I didn't really think we would be dealing with this...at least not yet". I felt that way when I found out that N had been the target of an aspiring bully on the bus last year, in kindergarten. I sometimes feel that way, to a much lesser degree, when she wants to watch TV shows that feature teenagers, instead of the cartoons that I plan on making her watch until she's seventeen. And I have felt that way the few times that she had attempted to roll her eyes at me. I say attempted because, at six, she doesn't really have the eye rolling thing down yet. I think maybe the muscles required for good eye rolling don't develop until puberty, so she has a few years yet before she reaches peak eye rolling age. I have discovered, however, that the attitude required for eye rolling develops at age six. Fortunately for all concerned, it does not show itself often.

Recently, I had another "I didn't think we'd be dealing with this just yet" moment. N likes to draw and color, and most days in her folder, she brings home approximately thirty-seven drawings that she has done that day at school. Sometimes she will also have drawings that her friends have made for her--usually pictures of fairies, and princesses, or of N and her friends pretending to be fairies at recess, complete with magic wands and wings. Recently, she's been bringing home pictures that a friend, T, has been drawing for her. T is a boy. T's pictures aren't of fairies, or princesses, or of all their friends playing together. T's pictures are of just he and N. And they don't have fairy wands. They have hearts. And they aren't flying, they are holding hands. I don't make a big deal out of these pictures, but after the sixth or seventh such picture arrived, I did start saving them. In case I need them as evidence when I get a restraining order.

As I was driving N home from school the other day, she was telling me what had happened that day, and she said "Oh, mom, guess what T said today? He said he is in love with me." As you might imagine, several thoughts ran through my head upon hearing this, some of which were along the lines of:
Aw, how cute.
Of course he's in love with you. How could he not be?
What a sweet, sensitive boy, not afraid to express his feelings.

Other thoughts were more along the lines of this:
Obviously T watches too much television.
What six year old says he's in love with someone?
Whatever happened to boys thinking that girls had cooties? I miss that.

And then, there were thoughts like these:
I am calling T's mother, and telling her to stop letting her son watch so much television.
I am calling T, and telling him he needs to stay away from my daughter.
I am calling the teacher/principal/superintendent. Obviously, they all need to know about this.
I am getting a retraining order.

Oh, stop judging me. I'm kidding about those last few. Mostly. Well, some of them, anyway. I wouldn't really get a restraining order. I'm pretty sure they won't issue one for a six-year-old. And if some of those other, possibly irrational thoughts did enter my head, of course I wouldn't act on them. Just yet.

I did manage not to say any of these things out loud. Nor did I launch into a lecture about how six-year-old boys should not be declaring that they are in love with six-year-old girls. Yes, I realize that would have been overkill, which is why I did not say it. I realize that six-year-olds can have crushes, and that this is really not a big deal. It's kind of cute, even. I think. See, that's the part I'm not really sure about. It is cute, because they are only six. The part of me that thinks it's cute wants to save the pictures, along with this story, and laugh about it with N when she's seventeen.

 There's another part of me, though, that doesn't want to make this seem too cute. It's the same part of me that cringes when an adult makes a "joke" to a six year old about their "boyfriend". It's the part of me that wonders, if we send the message that it's cute to have someone be in love with you at six, will that somehow lead to it being acceptable for someone to be in love with you at say, twelve? Or, further down the road, will it lead to the belief that it's necessary to have someone be in love with you at, say, sixteen, or eighteen? It's the same part of me that thinks that, when it comes to six-year-old, or nine-year-old, or twelve-year-old girls, we should probably just stick to talking about reading and writing, math and science, music and dancing, friendships and soccer--and just leave words like "boyfriend" and "in love with you" out of it completely. That's the part of me that wants a restraining order.

But, of course, if I make a big deal out of this, that's likely to be bad in its own way. So, with great restraint,  I calmly ask N what she said when T told her he was in love with her.

She shrugged and said "I don't remember." And then, after a minute, "Mom?"

I'm not sure it's accurate that she doesn't remember, and I wonder what she's going to ask me. Is this going to lead to a discussion about what it means to be in love? I'm really hoping not. Or what you can say if someone says something that makes you uncomfortable? Easy--tell them to stop, or you will get a restraining order. Maybe she's going to ask me if anyone told me that they were in love with me when I was in first grade. Uh, no. Girls still had cooties back then.Whatever it is, I will answer her honestly. I've think I've got this covered.

"I just laughed and walked away. What do we have for a snack?"

Huh. I think she's got this covered.

But Why?

Mommy, why are there clouds in the sky?
Why does milk come from a cow, and not grow on trees?
Why do apples grow on trees, and not come from a cow?
Why can't we have a pumpkin on our porch for Easter?

Why do I have to pee on the potty? Why can't I wear diapers when I'm big?
What would you do if I was invisible, mom, and only you could see me?
What would you do if I was just part of your imagination?
Mom, do you want me to teach you how to fly? I can, you know.

Why can't I fly for more than 5 seconds, no matter how hard I try?
Do you believe that I'm a real fairy, mom? Cause I am.
Why don't we have a girl baby and a boy baby? Why do we just have a boy baby?
Why doesn't Elmo come to my house to play?

Where does my friend Stink the stink bug sleep at night? He doesn't have a blanket.
How will Jiminy the Cricket get out of the toilet? He misses his daddy. He's looking for his mudder.
Why did God say we need rain today, and not snow? I really wanted snow.

Why don't I have a pink dress like N does? I want a pink dress, too.
Why doesn't O have a dress?
How come only N has dresses, and we don't?
Why doesn't N have a mickey?

Why wasn't I there when you and daddy got married? I wanted to get married, too.
Why did daddy give you a ring? I wanted to wear a ring, too.
When do I get a ring? I want a diamond ring. Now.

How did the clouds get in the sky? Did God put them there?
Why did God puts the clouds in the sky?
Where does God live? In the sky? Or in the clouds?
Do you think, if I try really hard, I could fly as high as the clouds?

What does God look like?
Can we see him right now?
Did you hear God say he loved me? Cause he did.

Sometimes I know the answers to these and other questions, and sometimes I don't.
So I do what all parents do when they don't know the answer to something.
I make it up as I go along.

I don't know what I would do if you were only part of my imagination. I'm very glad you are real.
Of course I believe that you're a fairy. Because you told me that you were.
Do you believe you can fly? Then of course you can.
Just don't try it from the roof.

I don't know what God looks like,
but I know that I sometimes see Him when I look at the clouds in the sky,
and always when I look into your eyes.

Sometimes, I have a few questions of my own.

Who wrote with crayon on the wall?
Why is there gum on your mattress?
What is that on the floor? I probably don't want to know.

Why is there a bag of popcorn in the bathroom sink?
Why aren't you asleep yet?
Did you have a good day at school?

Did you do your all homework already?
Wow--how did you get so smart?
How did you get so big, so soon?

Who wrote with a sharpie on the dishwasher? I guess it's there to stay.
How did this mud get all over the floor?
Did you have a good day today?

How did I get so lucky to have a daughter like you
who is real, and not imaginary
and who can really fly,
And a son, like you,
who's just trying to make the house look prettier with his artwork,
and whose best friend is a stink bug named Stink,
And another, like you, who will soon be asking
Mommy, why are there clouds in the sky?

I will answer you as best I can
And hope you can tell me a thing or two,
like how it was that I got so lucky
and why there is cheese in the bath tub.

Music to My Ears

We are in the car, heading to dance. We are late again, due to having to change two diapers and look for B's shoes as we should have been walking out the door. Of course, if it wasn't that, it would have been something else. I am in stress mode as we are driving, in the rain, to dance. The kids are yelling in the back seat, and I am, as usual, trying to tune them out and drive. I think that I shouldn't feel this stressed just going to dance class. I mean, it's dance class. Not even my dance class. But then the screaming in the back seat brings me back and I remember that it's not the actual dance class that's stressing me out, though it no doubt will once we get there and I try to entertain two hyper-active energetic boys as N is dancing. At this moment, though, it's the process of getting to dance class that's stressing me out. How do people do this with five and six kids? Maybe they don't have money for dance class when they have five or six kids, so they don't have to be stressed out driving them all there. But then, they would have to be home all the time with five or six kids...

I feel my eye start to twitch at the thought of being home all the time with five or six kids, and decide this line of thinking is not helping with my stressed out state. I decide to do something very brave and turn on the radio. This requires great strength on my part because I know that I have approximately 30 seconds--not even half a song-before someone realizes that the radio is on and asks me to change it to the Ballerina CD. The Ballerina song, which is the music from N's dance recital when she was four, used to make me cry every time I heard it. However, I have now listened to it 1,847 times. It doesn't make me cry anymore. Now it just makes my eye twitch.

I realize Billy Joel is singing. Billy Joel! My stress starts to dissipate at the sound of Billy Joel singing. I start to sing along. We are stopped at a light and I think the people next to us are probably thinking that I look like an idiot. I don't care. It's Billy Joel. I can't help myself.

You had to be a big shot didn't ya?
Had to open up your mouth..
You had to be a big shot didn't ya?
All your friends were so knocked out..
You had to have the last word last night..
Know whats everything's about..

I am vaguely aware of the kids making noise in the back seat, but up here, it's just me and Billy. For a brief moment, it is not 2012. I am not a stressed out mom driving my way-too-big mom mobile that holds the kids and all their crap necessary items. There are not three screaming kids behind me. It's 1989, and I'm driving a 1979 Datsun 210, and there are three--or six-- teenager girls in the car with me, singing along. We are so cool.

I picture the Datsun--my first car--and remember that it had rusting bumpers and a hole in the floorboard that allowed you to see the pavement when you shifted gears. Ok, so maybe I wouldn't want the car back. We turn a corner, getting closer to dance, and two sippy cups, a train, and a fire truck roll out from under the front seat. Hmm...rusting bumpers and a hole in the floorboards, or rotten milk and flying toys? It's a toss up.

"Mom?" B interrupts me and Billy from the back seat, "Can you turn on Ballerina?" Apparently my thirty seconds are up. "B," I say, "this is Billy Joel. He's better than Ballerina." "No, I want Ballerina". I continue to sing along, hoping I can buy myself some time. You had to be a big shot didn't ya? So much fun to be around... You had to have the front page bold type... You had to be a big shot last night... Oooo..Ooohhhh... Ooooo...Ohhhhh... B is practically begging now. Apparently my singing hasn't helped matters. "Mom! Please turn on Ballerina!" I try again. "B! This is Billy! He rocks!" N laughs, "Rocks!!! Get it?! He ROCKS!!" Clearly, This is the funniest thing she has ever heard. B asks again for Ballerina. I say "B, Billy Joel's name starts with B, just like yours starts with B!" N, because she is so smart and so incredibly helpful, says, "Uh, yeah, and just like Ballerina starts with B". Love this girl. The song is over, and while I really want to keep this station on to see if they will play more Billy Joel, or maybe Springsteen, or the Eagles, I relent and push the CD button. Ballerina plays, but I am thinking of uptown girls, and innocent men, and being born to run. I think of thunder roads, and hotels in California, and life in the fast lane. I think of long overdue phone calls to the girls who used to ride around in the Datsun. I know they won't mind the sippy cups rolling around on the floor. We are driving home from dance later, and the CD comes back on. Ballerina is over, for now, and You are My Sunshine comes on. B is singing his heart out. N is too, though she will deny it if I mention it. O doesn't know the words yet...or does he? From the back seat I hear the smallest voice say, "You aw ma sushine, ma ony sushine.." It's not quite Billy Joel, but it's still Rock n Roll to me.