Wardrobe Malfunctions

Today I took N and O to the book store so she could pick out something with her birthday money.
(B was kind enough to take his nap during this time, and Jimmy was kind enough to be home with him). I thought that, being that we were in a book store, N might choose a couple books. Instead, she picked out a "make your own crystal" set.

And an ant farm.

I briefly considered the dangers involved. The crystal set said right on the box "contains potentially dangerous chemicals", and the ant farm, presumably, meant there that would be ants living in our home. Happy Birthday, sweet daughter! Here are some dangerous chemicals and insects to make your birthday complete.

But, it was her birthday money, after all. So I ignored the voice that told me this was probably a really stupid idea, and told her she could get them. Even though I couldn't believe we were not only paying to have ants in our house, but that I also agreed to allow my seven-year-old to buy something with a  "potentially dangerous chemical" label.  I told myself that at least these were educational toys. The ant farm will be great if she decides to be an entomologist. Or an exterminator. And the make your own crystal set is made by the Smithsonian. How much more educational can you get?  I'm sure it also has some future real life value. I mean, if you can make your own crystals in a lab set, I'm sure it's only a matter of time before you can make your own crystal meth in a lab.

We get in line and I see that the magazines are at N's exact eye level. One advertises How You Can Make Yourself Sexier. Another says You Can Have Great Sex. I stand between N and the magazine racks and start rambling about ant farms and making your own crystal.

Please let it be our turn soon. Pretty please?

O decides to run away. I thought it would be a piece of cake to have just him with us and not B , so easy in fact that I decided I didn't need to bring the stroller. Just further proof that you are no smarter after your third child than you are with your first. I chase O, realizing as I do that I am leaving my seven-year-old to read about sex and being sexy. As I catch O, his shorts fall down around his ankles, and I suddenly remember that these shorts, which I grabbed out of a bin of B's old clothes, were always too big on B.

It's finally our turn. I pick up a very squirmy O so he won't perform another striptease for our fellow customers, and try to smile as I tell the cashier "No, thank you. We don't want to sign up for the frequent readers club today", while I am really thinking Does it look like I have time to sign up for anything other than a minimum three night stay in the nearest psych ward?

The cashier suddenly looks flustered, and I briefly wonder if I have actually spoken the words that are supposed to stay inside my head. But as I feel a sudden draft, I realize that he is probably flustered because O is now holding onto my shirt.

And pulling it down to somewhere in the general vicinity of my belly button.

I pretend I am not exposing myself to the cashier in the bookstore, as I move O, attempt to put my shirt back where it belongs, and non-chalantly tell N to get her money ready to pay.

As we pay, I start to suggest that they move their magazines up higher, but then I realize that an exhibitionist mother with an exhibitionist child is probably not the person to be commenting on how prominently they have displayed the word "sexy".

Instead, I smile, make sure we all have our clothes on, and leave, knowing that any residual embarrassment will be worth it.

After all, we're going to have real live ants and a crystal meth lab at our house.

What more could you ask for?

Party On...

I now have a seven-year-old.

She was going to get Mary Poppins tickets in place of a party. So we went to Mary Poppins with several friends and family members, had a great time, and then I decided that you should really have just a small ice cream and cake party with a few friends for your seventh birthday. I wasn't going to go all out. Just a slightly larger than usual play date at our house one day after school. So that's what I did. A few friends somehow turned into seven friends, plus a few younger siblings, because I figured if their other kids were included, the other moms would stay and would be here to help me drink clean up when it was all over.

The kids had a fairy hunt. They played fairy bingo. They ate pizza. And cake. And ice cream. They completely trashed my house  made themselves right at home, and seemed to have a really good time. And as I witnessed my daughter's joy, I was really glad that I had done the small ice cream and cake party. Even though it really wasn't that small. And even though it ended up being a little more involved than just cake and ice cream. And even though I hadn't really done the math as far as having seven seven-year-olds at my house.  Seven times seven, as you probably know, is forty-nine. And as it happens, seven seven-year-olds make about as much noise as forty-nine people.

Although I had no idea that seven screaming seven-year-olds could make that much noise, eventually, they do go home, and you relish the opportunity to finally collapse with a beer clean up, happy that your soon to be seven-year-old had such a great day.

That was yesterday. Today was N's actual birthday, so we planned ice cream and cake with us, Uncle Pete, and Aunt Caca. A few other friends ended up being free and coming by, which happily made our small party a little larger than planned. As Caca left, she told N there would be birthday cake tomorrow at her house. And, oh yeah, there is the family party for all three kids next month.

Though Jimmy was eager to make today's party a little larger than originally planned, he sometimes thinks that having all these parties is overkill. I mean, how many parties does one kids need? (I should mention that he hightailed it out of here as soon as he heard the first of the screaming seven-year-olds arrive for yesterday's party. I'm thinking he knew the seven times seven equals forty nine thing, and chose not to share that information with me. He always was better at math).  Uncle Pete jokingly (I think) said that he hoped N wouldn't be one of those girls who grows up thinking that her birthday should be a month long celebration. The truth is, I think it's too late.  It helps that B and Os' birthdays are within a month of hers, so it basically is a month long celebration around here. And it will probably continue to be that way for quite a while.

But probably not nearly as long as I think, which is why I plan on celebrating as long as they will let me.

At some point, they won't want a party, or won't want to be seen in public with us, or won't want their friends here since that will involve acknowledging that they have actual parents. They'll be too busy, or too old, or too cool.  And so, while I have the chance, I'm going to celebrate.

Am I spoiling them? Maybe just a little. Is it likely to keep them from developing into responsible, respectful people who understand that the world doesn't revolve around them? I doubt it. We don't buy them everything they want. We don't let them do whatever they want, and they're pretty clear on how they are expected to act (not saying they actually act that way).

If they think they're supposed to celebrate their birthdays for a month, so be it. In fact, I think we should all celebrate our birthdays for a month. What's not to celebrate about being born into this crazy, incredible, turbulent, extraordinary world?

I just hope they keep inviting me to the party.

Cause otherwise, I'm gonna crash it.





Copyright 2012 The NBO Chronicles. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction without permission.

Dear Snookie...

Dear Snookie

I recently heard that you're writing a book. I'm not sure what it's about, but I'm guessing its about..well, being Snookie. Cause really...what else could it be about? I'm assuming there will be a book tour involved. But wait..aren't you having a baby? How do you go on a book tour with a baby?
Oh, nevermind, I'm sure you'll work it out.

I just hope you don't leave the baby with that greasy looking guy with the muscles. You know the one I mean, right? I think I saw on a tabloid cover that you and he had...well, you know. Oh wait, maybe that was the other greasy looking guy with the muscles. Sorry, Snookie, I just cant keep them straight.

It would probably help if I actually watched your show. But I gotta tell you, I just can't do it. I tried.  Once. Maybe twice. And honestly, Snooks, it depressed me. It just wasn't entertaining, though it was educational, in a what-the-hell-has-our-country-come-to kind of way. Don't get me wrong. I think trash TV definitely has its place, and I have been known to lock myself in my basement to hang with the Real Housewives of New Jersey on occasion, but mainly because their kind of crazy makes me feel much much better about my own kind of crazy. Nothing about your kind of crazy made me feel better about my own kind of crazy. Your kind of crazy just made me want to take a shower.

So, as I was saying, I'm sure there's a book tour coming up, and if you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a huge favor.

Please stay far away from our town.

It's not you personally. It's just that my kids are getting older, and if they saw people lined up in front of the book store to see you, they would ask what your book is about. And I'm thinking that after I tell them it's about being Snookie, and they ask what a Snookie is, I wouldn't know what else to say. You see, I'm trying to teach them that books can help them learn all about the world, and that people buy books because they believe the author has something of value to say. If they saw, say, Maya Angelou signing books, I could tell them that she's an amazing author and poet who writes about all kinds of things, including equality, and history, and acceptance. If they saw you signing books, I'm just not sure what I could possibly tell them except...Oh, look...it's Snookie. Signing her book about...nookie.

I'm sure you can see why this just wouldn't work. As I said, it's not personal. I would tell those Kardashian sisters the same thing if they were writing a book. I mean, how do I explain to my children that those people are famous because they made sex tapes, have fake weddings, and have a mother who pimps them out to Playboy? OK, so I admit it. I actually watched their show a few times, just until I saw the part where their mom pimps them out to Playboy. Then I had to turn it off, because I needed to take a shower.

I'm sure you can see where I'm coming from. I mean, you're going to be a mom soon, too.

So from one mom to another, please, no book tour stops for us.

If you decide to come here anyway, please just let me know.

I'll be in the shower.

A Thankless Job?

I'm never quite sure how to take it when I hear people refer to motherhood as a thankless job.

I mean, "thankless" is a bad thing, right?

If I worked in an office all day, or in some other professional setting setting, and someone referred to my job as "thankless", I think I'd know how to take it. Clearly, they think my job is one that no one appreciates, or if they do, they're certainly not speaking up about it.

But do they also mean that someone should be thanking you, for doing your otherwise thankless job?

Do they mean, Good luck with that thankless job. Better you than me.

Or do they mean, Wow. Thank God someone does that job in spite of the fact that you don't get nearly the thanks you deserve for doing it.

Obviously, when it comes to taking care of my children, no one is going to thank me for doing that, with the possible and sporadic exception of my husband (before you bash him, as it happens, I'm not very good about thanking him regularly for doing his job either) and maybe, if I'm very lucky, eventually, my children.

Of course, if the person making the reference means that there's nothing for anyone to thank me for, well, sometimes I do see their point.

The day to day tangible results of my work are not always visible to the naked eye. I did four loads of laundry today, but two of them have yet to be folded. I started to put the other two away, but my children decided that those piles of nicely folded clothes would be better used as something soft to land on when they jumped off their beds. Then they thought it would be fun to see if they could throw them up to the ceiling fan and make them stay there. So much for putting laundry away. I tried to look at the bright side and thought that at least the ceiling fan blades might finally get dusted.

I started to vacuum, but discovered the vacuum wasn't working. I suspect it's clogged with dog hair, but as I started to check, I was distracted by the sound of breaking glass. I then spent the next half an hour removing shards of a broken piggy bank from a child's bedroom floor, by hand. I would have just vacuumed it, but well, you know...

I started to organize N's school papers. She goes to a "green school". I thought this meant they used minimal paper. I think it actually means they use as much paper as they want, and they just keep minimal paper in the school. The rest of it comes home to the parents, so that every few weeks, when our children aren't looking, we can toss some of it and try to decide what to do with the rest. I did this today, and had neat piles of "put away", "display", and "toss" on the kitchen counter. Until B hopped up there, and decided it all looked better on the floor. Then his brother came in and decided it looked better torn into pieces on the floor. It's nice when they can work together on projects like this.

 Oh yes, this is what they mean when they talk about motherhood being a thankless job.

If I worked in an office, it would be the equivalent of going through an extensive stack of paperwork, putting it all where it belongs, and turning around to see it strewn all over the floor, day after day, after day. I would be demanding a raise. Or unionizing. Or going on strike.

If anyone walked into my house on a day like today--which, to be honest, is most days--they would think I was on strike, and wonder what I did all day.

And I would tell them.

I made sure my children were fed, and clothed, and loved. I read to them, I talked to them, and I tried, but failed to hide my frustration when they dumped clean clothes all over the floor and jumped in them before throwing them around the room. I made sure they didn't cut their feet on broken glass, and when I was reaching under the bed to make sure I got it all, I found the cut-out of my daughter's hand that she made in pre-school when she was four. I hope I've cleaned under the bed since then, but I couldn't swear to it. I thought three years was way too long not to have cleaned under the bed, until I really looked at that hand, and realized, three years is nothing.

A few minutes later, I was cleaning up scraps of paper from all over the floor, and as I noticed that even the cobwebs in the corners were growing cobwebs, I  thought,

This is definitely what they mean when they talk about motherhood being a thankless job.

And then B came over and asked me if I'd gotten a hug yet today, and gave me one. A minute later, O followed suit. I was happy to see that at least O is imitating the positive behaviors, as well as the negative ones.

As I sat on the floor, amidst scraps of paper, and crumbs I hadn't yet cleaned up from lunch (or maybe they were still from breakfast), a few random socks, and more toy trains--and cobwebs--than I knew could exist in one house, B looked at me and said,

I was really lucky to get you, mommy.

Thankless job?

I don't think so.


But I still may unionize.

If The Shoe Fits...

I'm not sure when my life became all about shoes.

I wish I meant that in the way you might think I do, if you don't know me very well.
Leisurely Saturday afternoons spent shoe shopping.
My walk-in closet full of nothing but leather and suede, a pair to match every outfit.

Let's be clear. That's not at all how I mean it.

Even if I had time for shoe shopping, three pregnancies and the resulting three children have guaranteed that shoe shopping is no longer fun. "Finding a cool new pair of shoes" has turned into "Hopefully finding something that I can cram my feet into--something which will look decent with my work clothes, but will also transform into a running shoe, or at least something that can be kicked off quickly and easily so that I can chase--and catch--a soon to be two-year-old, on a moment's notice". Locating this hopefully attractive, yet multi-functional pair of shoes must also be accomplished in fifteen minutes or less--the amount of time I have before the two or three children who are in the store with me begin throwing shoes at each other, at my head, or at random shoppers.

No, my "all about shoes" life has little to do with shoe shopping.

It's more like this:

Where are your shoes? Where are my shoes? Why are there shoes everywhere? Shoes don't belong in the bathtub. Please get your shoes out of my bed. Please stop drinking water out of your shoes. Please stop pouring water into my shoes. The dog does not want to wear your shoes. Please get your father's shoes out of the toilet. The dog does not want to drink water out of your shoes. Please take those shoes off of your head. Please get Barbie's shoe out of your nose. Please don't throw your shoes at your brother. Or your sister. Or me. When will you learn to put your own shoes on? How did I leave the house--again--without putting my own shoes on?

I never knew so much of my time could be consumed by shoes.
Sometimes I think I might be consumed by shoes.

I try to remember that I'm sure it will seem like no time at all before I'm saying,
Wow, when did your feet get so big?
We need to get shoes to match your dress.
I remember when your feet were that small.
I hope you'll take off your shoes and stay awhile.

Just leave them anywhere.

Family Ties

NBO have a total of twenty-five first cousins. And several others who aren't technically first cousins but who are, to them, just cousins. I love that they think of all of their cousins this way, without needing to make a distinction about just how closely related they actually are. I love that the labels don't matter to them. I love that I don't have to try to explain the difference between a first cousin, and a second cousin, and a third cousin twice removed. Because I would fail miserably.

Most of their first cousins are much older. Many are in Ireland. A few they have never met. In the summer, they typically get to see some of their Irish cousins. They see their American cousins here and there throughout the year, and though they don't get to see any of their cousins as much as any of us would like, when they do, neither the age difference nor geographical distance gets in the way of them having a good time. NBO are incredibly lucky that way, because their cousins rock.

Recently, NBO got to spend time with some of their cousins who go to college a few hours away, where they post a lot of facebook pictures of themselves at parties with red solo cups study really hard. I don't want to name names, because I know they value their privacy--I mean, it's not like they WANTED to be in my blog or anything, so we'll just called them The Smithsburg Trio (or TST).

TST were house sitting recently for their second favorite aunt, Caca. They asked if they could come visit, and I said Hell Yes, Free Babysitters!!! please do, we would love to see you any time. I also said that I had to work for a couple hours that night, and Jimmy would personally perform an Irish jig for them if they happened to be here while I was at work. I didn't hear back, but I figured it was because they had found a party and were taking pictures of themselves with red solo cups decided to spend the day in prayer and meditation.

As I left for work, I informed Jimmy that TST might be by, but I wasn't sure. I thought that maybe the red solo cups prayer and mediation had won out, and I was totally OK with that. But as I approached our house after work, I saw that not only was TST's car in front of our house, but they had organized a soccer game in the front yard, complete with orange cones for goal posts. (I thought they had even brought the cones with them, but apparently we already had them. Who knew? I'm guessing Jimmy brought them home one night after a few too many red solo cups tall green bottles). And they even brought back-up-- a friend who I won't name since she also did NOT ask to be in the blog. B is now convinced she is his twenty-sixth cousin. Hey, what's one more?

I used to wish that NBO had more cousins closer in age, and while that would no doubt be nice in its own way, older cousins certainly have their perks, too. In fact, my own siblings and most of my own cousins are much, much older than I am, and they're pretty amazing, too.

TST are not the first cousins to come to our aid, and I pray-really, really hard-that they won't be the last. NBO's Irish cousins have come through for us more than once-on both sides of the pond. And I was never so happy to hear that one of my nieces hadn't yet landed a job, as when I desperately needed a babysitter. Many of their cousins have made a point to be here for birthday parties and Baptisms, even when I'm sure they had other offers that included red solo cups  more important things. TST are just the latest reminder that NBO have some amazing cousins. 

As I said, it's not like TST WANTED to make the blog, but they did happen to mention that if they DID want to make the blog, they had a sure fire way to do it.

They were going to kidnap our children.

They're right that this would have guaranteed that they made the blog. Which I would have written from the Bahamas, as I sipped on a colorful drink with an umbrella in it, knowing that my children were in the very capable hands of their older cousins.

Who would probably teach them to drink milk from red solo cups.

Of course, they didn't have to do anything that drastic to make the blog. They just had to be themselves.

Because, like all of NBO's cousins, they rock.

What's so Wrong With Losing Your Mind?

I would never suggest that there is one way to parent. Parenting is not one size fits all, families are not one size fits, and God knows children aren't one size fits all.

I would never suggest that everyone has to nurse their babies, or that everyone should co-sleep, or that no one should ever co-sleep, or that everyone should have at least three children, all spaced the often recommended three to four years apart.

Obviously, I failed to follow at least one of those myself.

There shouldn't be a debate about what kind of parenting is "right", because the kind that's right is the kind that's right for you, your family, and your child.

As long as you provide for your child. As long as you keep them safe. As long as you love them, and raise them to be kind, responsible, productive members of society. As long as their behavior --now or later--doesn't negatively impact others.

I would also never suggest that every mom (or dad) should stay home with their children--because obviously children deserve to be with one of their parents and not in daycare--anymore than I would suggest that everyone should put their children in daycare--because obviously they need social development and more stimulation than they could possibly get from being home with a parent all day.

And yet, on more than one occasion, when it's been mentioned that I stay home, I have been told by another mom, with a look of disdain on her face, how bored she would be if she stayed home. Or how she would have gone absolutely crazy if she was home with her kids all day. While these moms certainly have a right to their opinions, I tend to think that if I responded to the fact that she works outside the home with something like, oh, how guilty I would feel if I worked outside the home, it probably wouldn't be received so well.

As it happens, going absolutely crazy is an important part of my day. I manage to fit it in almost every day, because without that aspect, what kind of stay at home mom am I? Somewhere between doing the the dishes, doing the laundry, changing diapers, and scraping peaches off the floor for the the third time in an hour, I always manage to squeeze a little going absolutely crazy time in there. I mean, that's just a sign that I'm doing my job, isn't it?

Bored, however, is one thing I'm not. What could possibly be boring about repeatedly debating a three-year-old about the benefits of potty training versus staying in diapers until high school graduation? Or telling him and his brother for the fourth time in an hour to stop moving the furniture around in their bed room? (I think they're developing an early interest in Feng Shui). And to please, please, stop taking the crib apart? And what could be boring about getting a first grader ready for the bus while simultaneously changing a diaper, putting a three-year-old in time-out, trying to locate clean socks for my husband, and wiping yogurt off the dog? Not to mention, every day is full of new adventures. Just yesterday, after searching for a lollipop that fell out of O's mouth, and finally deciding it wasn't going to be found, I found it. Inside my shirt. Don't ask. I have no idea.

While I don't think it's my place to judge another mom's choice, I'm not really sure why a few moms have occasionally felt it was OK to tell me how bored and crazy they would be if they had my day job (and oh, I do have a part time evening job, too, but I'm pretty sure that didn't count for these moms. The point was, I had made the choice to be home with my kids all day long).

So, to those who feel OK in judging my choice, allow me to explain why I choose to stay home:

I stay home to change diapers, make breakfast, pack lunch, feed breakfast, give kisses, tell my children to say please and thank you, do dishes, wipe hands, wipe noses, wipe syrup off the walls,  scrub the floor, say a prayer, do the laundry, dress children, change more diapers, read them a book, make lunch, remind them to say please and thank you, do more dishes, thank God for nap times, spend more time than I thought humanly possible looking for shoes, and sweaters, and my what's left of my mind, get grumpy kids out the door in time to pick up their sister at school, tell them not to hit each other, tell them to be nice, go to dance, go to Girl Scouts, entertain two kids who would rather be anywhere but at dance and Girl Scouts, make dinner, pay bills, say a prayer as I pay the bills, play outside, remind them again to say please and thank you, remind them again not to hit their brother, help with homework, give baths, brush teeth, read a book, say a prayer, and thank God for bedtime.

 I also stay home to take them to the park, to play with friends, to say I love you, and to hear it back. To color. To read. To talk. About nothing, and about everything. To explain. To explain again. To explain again. And to make stuff up when I'm tired of explaining. To go to the grocery store. Again. And again. And again. To discipline. To hug. To kiss. To laugh. To cry. And yes, to pull my hair out. As it happens, that's an important part of my job, too.

I don't do any of this perfectly. Some days I don't even do it well.  But I do it. And yes, sometimes I do lose my mind.

I also stay home because by the time I got three kids out to the door every morning to two or three separate locations, got myself to work, worked all day, picked them up, and still had to do all of the above, I really would be on the verge of losing my mind, and for very little take home pay. When I say to working moms I don't know how you do it, I mean it. I really don't know how you do it. I am in awe of you. And I am the first to say I would not be very good at doing both.

Some say I "get" to stay home. Well, yeah, I guess that's one way to look at it, in the same way moms who work "get" to go to work each day. They both have advantages. Neither is perfect. They are both unbelievably hard at times.

My husband works incredibly hard, in part so that I "get" to stay home. And when he's not working outside the home, I often am, so that I "get" to stay home during the day.  I buy in bulk, on sale, because I "get" to stay home. I hold my breath as I pay our bills, because I "get" to stay home. We live in a house that many would say is too small for our family, because I "get" to stay home. We have furniture that's older than dirt--and looks every minute of it--because I "get" to stay home. My husband's truck is older than our furniture, because I "get" to stay home. We don't see friends and family who live far away nearly often enough, because I "get" to stay home. And, oh yeah, I often go absolutely crazy because I "get" to stay home.

You know what else? I thank God every day, because I get to stay home.

So yeah, I may go absolutely crazy some days. It comes with the territory. But I can promise you that I am never, ever bored.

Stay home? Work outside the home? It really doesn't matter. We all do what works for our own family. Right now, this is what works for mine.

But the next time someone tells me, with a less than kind expression on their face, how they would go absolutely crazy if they stayed home with their kids, I'm going to tell them this:

Yeah, sometimes I do go a little crazy. And my hope is, that when my kids are older, they will look back and say:

I remember my mom laughing with us, and playing with us, and reading to us, and telling us twenty seven times a day to say please and thank you. I remember getting sent to my room for not being nice to my brother, or for hitting my sister. I remember having picnics in the back yard, and looking for monkeys in the trees behind our house, and getting pushed on the swings for an hour at a time. Some days, I remember her letting us watch TV for a lot longer than usual, because it was the only way we would be quiet for a while. I remember her spending a lot of time in the kitchen, and some days, a lot of time locked in the bathroom. I remember going to the park, and going for bike rides, and when she was feeling adventurous, helping her bake.

I remember her being in the laundry room for an hour at a time, and yet our clothes still some how never got put away. But they were always usually clean. I remember her making us clean our rooms every day, before she'd completely give up for a while because she was sick of fighting with us about it. I remember her reading to us before nap time, and being there when we woke up. I remember her making us dinner, though it was usually chicken, which we ate in three different forms three nights in a row. I remember how funny my brother looked with mashed potatoes on his head, and how my mom and dad told us sternly not to throw food, before they laughed behind their napkins, when they thought that we weren't looking.

I'm quite sure my mom was never bored.

As for going absolutely crazy? Yeah, I do remember that. For some part of almost every day, in fact.

I'm pretty sure she'd say it was worth it.

Let's Give Credit Where Credit is Due

When I picked up my mail recently, I  saw that a major clothing retailer--one that may or may not rhyme with Hand's Mend- is now selling kids scratch-n-sniff t-shirts. They are offering shirts in a variety of colors with refreshing scents like lemonade, strawberry, and orange juice.

I'm all for expanding your product, but I have to say, I'm bothered by this for several reasons.

I'm pretty sure that B doesn't need another reason to scratch in public. Frankly, I spend a lot of time telling him not to scratch--himself or others--and this has the potential to completely confuse the issue. He also doesn't need a reason to start asking people if he can sniff them, or to tell them that he can smell them. And trust me when I tell you, O really doesn't need a new reason to start grabbing at people's, uh, t-shirts.

I suspect N would love one of these shirts. The thing she doesn't realize is, we started this trend long before the company that may or may not rhyme with Hand's Mend. I've been putting my kids in t-shirts that smell for years. Plus my selection is better. We have the same scents they do, but ours also include milk, chocolate, chocolate milk, ketchup, ice cream, pizza, yogurt, and beer (OK, so maybe that ones mine).

There's more, but only for the very adventurous.

Not only did we have the idea fist, but I think we just offer a better product. You don't get to just smell the ketchup on our shirts. You get to touch it. And if you think that hot fudge sundae aroma smells good, imagine being able to actually feel the stickiness. Yup, it's true. Ours come with authentic food items right on the t-shirt. And, our product isn't limited to shirts. We offer the same product line in shorts, jeans, skirts, and dresses.

For some reason, though, no one ever referred to our product as scratch-n-sniff.
Clearly this was just poor marketing on my part, and I'd like to correct that now.

Those smelly shirts you sometimes see my kids in? They're not dirty. They're scratch-n-sniff.

In fact, we make it even easier than that.

You don't even have to scratch.

NBO on Marriage

With all this marriage talk in the news lately, I thought I would share some of the view points from our house. Obviously, this is a very important issue, and I think it's only right that NBO get to weigh in.

N, for example, has informed me several times that she wants to marry O.
This came up again recently when O was being his adorable self and asking her for hugs.
"You're so cute, O. I want to marry you when I grow up."
I told her, not for the first time, that you can't marry your brother.

She is almost seven. She is a smart girl. But she thinks this is a really dumb rule.
Why can't you marry your incredibly cute brother who gives you hugs?
I explain this very thoroughly, in a way that I know she will understand.
Well, uh, because he's your brother. And, besides that, we just don't.
The end.

B frequently complains that he was not at our wedding. He sees this as a great injustice. He looks at our wedding picture longingly, and tells me, each time he does, that it's not fair that Daddy got to get married, and I got to get married, but he didn't get to get married, too.
I tell him he can get married when he's older. As long as he finds someone who loves his mommy as much as he does and will never try to convince him that the wife's family automatically takes precedence over the husband's when it comes to holidays, birthdays, and visits with grandchildren.

For some reason, that doesn't appease him. He wanted to get married with us. And specifically, he wants to marry me. He very explicitly told me this just the other day.
"When I grows up mommy, I'm gonna marry you".

I tell him that he can't marry his mommy, which to a three-year-old is the equivalent of telling him that the world is officially all out of candy. Forever.

"But why can't you marry your mudder?"
He informs me that it's just not fair.

Sorry, B. Such is life. You should probably get used to it, pal.

Since we're on the subject, I ask O who he wants to marry. He looks at me, appears to think about this, and says,  "Daddy".

Hmmm, pretty sure that one's not allowed either.

B has been thinking about all of this, and informs me that if he can't marry me, he's going to marry N.

N quickly nixes this.

"No! I can't marry you! You're my brother!"

She gives me a look that says, Phew...thank God for that rule.

Sorry, kids.

Whoever gave you the impression you could marry anyone you wanted obviously lied.

You can't marry your sister, your brother, your mother, or your father.

Aside from that, marry whoever you want, as long as they agree to my schedule for all future holidays, birthdays, and visits with grandchildren before you walk down the aisle.

And I want it in writing.

Judge Not?

I try not to judge other parents.

Really, I do.

Mainly because God knows there are moments they could judge me, so in my what-goes-around-comes-around way of thinking, I tend to think it's best not to judge.

I try to remember that I am only seeing only a moment of their lives and not the whole picture.
That I have no idea what their life is like, beyond this moment that I'm witnessing.
That I don't know what that mom may be struggling with, or how little sleep she got last night, or what challenges that child may be dealing with.

Because, basically that's how I hope others will treat me.

I also try not to judge because, in the absence of abuse or neglect, it's really none of my business how people choose to parent  their children.

This is truly how I feel.

It's also my long winded way of telling you that I'm about to judge other parents.

Yesterday, N and I went shopping.  By ourselves. I imagined an hour or so of mom and daughter time, where we could leisurely look through racks of clothes at Kohl's, without the boys to distract us. We did get to do some of that, but soon after arriving, we stumbled upon a family therapy session gone wrong in the women's clothes section.

They appeared to be a middle aged, apparently middle class, mom and dad, with their son. The son appeared to be an average twelve or thirteen-year-old, as he stood there, alternately looking at the ground and at his parents, as they talked to him about why he hadn't been in the part of the store they told him to be in.

Mom asked him why he hadn't been where they told him. The boy attempted to explain. Then dad told him he was lying, and that his problem was that he didn't listen.

OK. That may be considered a  perfectly reasonable response to your child not being where you told them to be, right?

What if the "talking to" grows to include lecturing, berating, and belittling, at an above average tone of voice, by both parents, in the middle of Kohl's, for fifteen minutes?

Because that's what happened.

And I don't even know what happened before we got there.

I know it lasted for fifteen minutes because, frankly, after they had been berating their son for more than five minutes and it was showing no sign of stopping, I decided I needed to look at every rack of clothes there in the ladies tops section.  At one point I even asked them politely if they could move so I could get to the rack of clothes they were belittling their son in front of.

I thought it might diffuse things a little.

I thought it might give their kid a break.

In fact, it just caused them to move, and then for the father to yell at the son, We are NOT done here. Look at me.

In spite of their less than ideal choice of location for their disastrous family therapy session, my guess is that these parents had actually spent lots of time in a therapist's office.

They used phrases like, What do we need to do to solve this problem? and Your explanation doesn't make sense. Do you think this could have happened another way than what you told us?

They even took turns using these types of phrases. One parent would stop, and the other would start. Repeatedly. Of course, any value that their psychobabble may have had was lost since their voices were loud, their body language over bearing, and they clearly had no interest in actually hearing answers from their son, though he stopped trying to provide any after the first few minutes.

What they appeared to be interested in was tag teaming their son, and they didn't seem to mind that it was all on public display.

This was not "pull your kid to a corner of the store and have a little talk". This was berate, belittle, and humiliate, publicly and loudly, in the middle of the ladies clothes section.

In fact, they almost seemed to enjoy that aspect of it.

They lectured him about his selective hearing.
They lectured him about not listening.
They loudly and repeatedly asked why he didn't have an answer for their questions.
They took turns lecturing him about looking them in the eyes when they were talking to him.
His father at one point grabbed the boy's face in his hand to make him look at him.

Wow, can't imagine why your son won't look at you. Could it be because you're publicly humiliating him in the middle of Kohl's?

And my next thought was, if this is what they do in public, what are like in the privacy of their own home?

I don't yet have a teenager, and I probably have no idea what I'm in for.
I'm sure they had some reason for doing it their way. At least I hope they did.
Maybe this child has severe behavioral problems and they've been told there is some benefit to public humiliation.
Maybe they really couldn't find him, and their reaction was based on fear of losing their child.
Maybe they're just incredibly frustrated from dealing with the same behaviors, over and over and over again.

Much of what they said would have been appropriate, in some circumstances.
In their own home.
In a therapist's office.
In a meeting with the school principal.

In a different tone of voice.

But in the middle of Kohl's?
For 15 minutes?
In a manner that guaranteed that this was a very public display?

I'm just not sure I see the value in that. For anyone.

I don't know what's going on in this family's life. But as a mom, a therapist, and a human being,  I know this:

Nothing they said couldn't have waited until they got home, or in the car.

Parents who seem to enjoy tag teaming their child with their parenting "skills", in public, worry me.

Nothing is served by publicly humiliating your child, who by the end of this, was sitting on the floor, arms hugging himself, under a rack of bathing suits.

Without a doubt, children can behave in a way that wreaks havoc on their families.

And so, unfortunately, can parents.

Happy Mother's Day

N missed the bus earlier this week. I'd like to tell you it's because our alarm didn't go off, or because the bus came early. In reality, it was because I had allowed her to stay up late the night before and because I, her uber organized mother, couldn't find socks for her that matched.

I figured I could stop at the grocery store after dropping her off at school, which meant fighting with B and O to get dressed before we could leave (if I wasn't stopping anywhere, I would just throw their pajama clad bodies in the car). Some days this is only a mildly difficult task. Some days it's a horrendously difficult task. Never is it an easy task. Of course, this day, when N had 15 minutes to get to school, they were making it as difficult as they could.

B asked why he had to put on underwear instead of a diaper. We have been through this before. I repeated my spiel about almost four-year-old boys using the potty and not diapers. He appeared to think about this and then said,

"Mom, I will use the potty. Just not on Wednesdays."

What do you know? It just happened to be Wednesday.

"OK, maybe tomorrow", I told him.

"And mom? I don't use the potty in April either."

Ha! Got ya there, son. It's May! I told him as much.

Like he cared.

Eventually, in spite of the thrashing and flailing, screaming and crying, I managed to get them dressed and we took N to school. She walked to the door, and then turned to wave to us as her brothers called "Bye N!", over and over again, with increasing volume, until I could see the expressions of relief on the teachers' faces as we drove away.

B was playing with a puzzle piece in the back of the car as we drive to the grocery store.

"Mom, I see the awful tower on here".

I had to ask for clarification on that one.

"You know it, mom. The big tower. I've seen it on TV. The Awful Tower. It's right on this puzzle piece."

"Do you mean the Eiffel Tower?" I asked

"Oh yeah, maybe that's it".

I looked at the puzzle piece, which made up part of a map of the United States.

B was holding Idaho.

So just in case it's ever a Jeopardy question, now you know:

The Awful Tower is in Idaho.

We were tricked into using the self check-out at the grocery store. I've now realized that they fill the air with memory zapping gas that makes you forget what happened the last time you used the self check out. It never goes well, and yet  I continue to find myself there.

Then again, the regular check outs don't go so well wither.


I have, of course, taken the cart with the broken seat belt, so O decides to climb out as I am trying to scan my items. B is leaning on the scale, causing everything to stop as the computerized voice repeatedly tell me there is an unaccounted for item on the scale. I briefly consider leaving everything there and trying again tomorrow.

A cashier comes over to help. B pushes the cart into her. Repeatedly. She has clearly dealt with children like him before. He thinks this is a game. Nice cashier lady tells me she will scan my items, if I want to grab O, who is about to tumble head first out of the cart.

B pushes the cart into her again. I make a mental note to locate some "obedient child" gas before our next shopping trip. The cashier tells me I have my hands full. Ya think?
I tell her at least one is at school.

She shakes her head and says, "You just didn't know when to stop, did you?"
I laugh, and say something about God tricking us by sending us the mellow obedient child first.
She points to B and says, "But you still had one after him".

I tell her he hadn't reached his full terrorist potential yet when we had O.

And then, because I am feeling slightly guilty for joining the cashier in disparaging my children, I add,

"But I wouldn't change a thing."

Oh sure, in reality,  there might be a few things I'd change. I'd like more money. Or a part time Nanny. I'd like for Jimmy not to have to work so hard. I'd like for my three-year-old to get the.hell.out.of.diapers.already.

I'd like the grocery store to have a Margarita machine right next to the fountain soda machine.

But as for having these three sometimes willful, often exhausting, always crazy kids to contend with?

No. I wouldn't change a thing.

And as I said those words, I realized they may be the truest words I have ever spoken.

Happy Mother's Day.

And if you make a difference in the life a child, Happy Mother's Day to you, too.

We couldn't do it without you.

Just Call Me Shady

It's official.

We're shady.

I tried to buy a gift card today at the grocery store Neiman Marcus. I had both boys with me, one of whom had removed his shoes--and socks--shortly after we entered the store. Then said boy, in a momentary fit of rage (those are my favorite kind) yanked on the canopy of the stroller, and caused it to fall halfway off, with the hardware sticking out at an angle that was guaranteed to maim anyone who came near us. It's just as well. We all tend to do much better if our fellow shoppers keep their distance.

All of this as I was looking for the gift card section,which I couldn't find since we decided to live it up and go to a grocery store Neiman Marcus we don't typically frequent. I asked an employee, who looked us over, pointed us in the right direction, and then proceeded to follow us from a distance. Clearly, in our current state, we appear to be less than model citizens.

We find the gift cards. We go to the register. The teenage cashier look us over and say, "I think you need to pay for this with cash"

I inform him that I don't have cash. The cashier looks nervous and asks someone to check. We wait. And wait. He is sweating. I think we are making him nervous. He says he has never gotten a straight answer on whether not you have to buy gift cards with cash. It just depends.

It just depends?
On what?

Finally, I say,

"Does it depend on whether or not we look shady"?

He laughs. And shrugs. And looks nervously toward the manager's booth.

"Do we look shady to you?" I ask him in my nicest Shady Mom voice.

"No!" He assures me, a little too quickly.

His phone rings and he answers it and quickly hangs up.

"I'm sorry. You have to pay with cash".

Yup, it's official.

We're shady.

B asks why we had to wait so long, as I maneuver the broken stroller with one shoeless child, and another desperately grabbing for candy, away from the register.

Great. Now they probably think I don't feed them either.

"Sorry, B". I tell him. "We're shady."

"No you're not mom!" he shakes his head and looks confused. "I don't think so."

Aww, what a sweet boy coming to his shady momma's defense. What better Mother's Day gift could I ask for?

"You're not, Mom," he is shaking his head adamantly, as I do the stroller pushing walk of shame out into the parking lot.

"Grady is my friend. He's just a boy. You're not Grady."

Huh.

Nope, I'm not Grady.

But you can still call me Shady.

Please Accept My...

OK, I'll admit it.

There are certain places I try to avoid going with all three kids.

And by "try to avoid", I mean that I would rather stay home and scrub the toilets with my toothbrush than take all three out somewhere.

(No, I wouldn't use my toothbrush after that. Just in case you were wondering).

Obviously, it's harder to get anything done with all three, but that's not the reason I avoid it.  I avoid is because three kids means it's three times more likely that I will be embarrassed, humiliated, or asked to leave wherever it is we are.

It's just not a chance I want to take.

Don't get me wrong. NBO do great at some places.
The bank, for example. The nice bank people give them lollipops there.
And we use the drive through.
And they're always great when I take them to....well....did I say the bank already?

Oh, there are a few other places where they follow the rules and don't get into trouble. They're great at the park. And two of them have been to Disney World, and to my knowledge, they didn't break a single rule there. They're also really well behaved at the zoo--you could say they fit right in.

I do try to avoid taking all three to the grocery store. And the post office. And Church. But of course, I have to go to the grocery store, and the post office. And if you've ever seen us the grocery store or the post office, you understand why we really, really have to go to Church.

I'm the first to admit that, during some of these trips, they may have been less than civilized.

So to the people who were in the post office the day that two of them screamed at a decibel previously unknown to humanity for the entire five minutes we were there, I apologize. And now you now know just how long five minutes really is.

And to the lady at the grocery store who gave me the look that clearly said "your children are going to end up in prison", I'd like to say, I'm sorry they disturbed you. But really, don't you think you should have moved when you saw that they were playing football with that pint of ice cream in the frozen food aisle? (And you have to admit, that was a great throw for a not quite two-year-old, don't you think?)

To the people who were around us in Church the day my three-year-old offered everyone beer, I'm really sorry  he offended you. And for those of you who weren't offended, I'm sorry we didn't really have beer. I know that must have been incredibly disappointing. Hey, at least they were serving wine!

And finally, to the man who had to watch me crawl to the top of the play area at the fast food place to retrieve my screaming two year, as my five-year-old and newborn waited below, I am truly sorry you had to witness that. It couldn't have been pretty. But don't think I didn't notice that you were videotaping the whole thing with your phone. I better never see that on YouTube.

So, to all of you that we've offended, irritated, annoyed, or inconvenienced, please accept my apology.

But I'd also like to say this:

You're welcome.

Do you have any idea what people pay to be entertained like that?

And you got it all for free.

Daddy Always Brings Home The Coolest Stuff...

When N was small, I felt like I spent a lot of time and energy focusing on how I could protect her from things. The unsafe things. The scary things. And, of course, the I'm-not-sure-how-to-explain-this-yet-so-we're-just-not-going-to-talk-about-it things.

No honey, that little squirrel is just sleeping. In the middle of the road. Oh, squirrels just flatten themselves out like that when they sleep.

What's a cemetery? Oh, that's where we go to leave flowers for people who have died.

You have to be in your car seat because I wouldn't want you to need a band aid if we were ever in an accident.

Then she got gold fish for Christmas one year, and after a few months, we found one floating on top of the water. I wondered how to prepare her, when she looked at it and said,

Aww, little Coral looks like an angel. Now we need to get that dead fish out of there, mom.

She's also been to several funerals in the past few years, though we usually leave her and her brothers in the reception area and tell them it's just a family reunion.

My point is, I think she's onto me.

I also think she can handle this whole death thing much better than I gave her credit for.

I'm not off the hook, however. After all, she does have younger brothers, who are only one and three. I try to remember that, even though N gets the death thing now, they're still at an age where they need to be protected.

I think Jimmy and I are on the same page about this. I mean, aside from the occasional colorful word they've learned from him, I think he works hard to protect them from the same types of things I do.

Yesterday, for example, he came home from work and told them he brought them something. He reached into his van and retrieved it, as he told the kids to come see.

They were excited to see that he had brought home a salamander!

A real live salamander!

Oh wait, no, that's not entirely accurate.

Actually, it was a real dead salamander.

He thought it would still be cool for them to see. And they seemed to agree.

So they looked at it, and asked the obvious question--like where its eyes were, and where he had gotten it. Jimmy explained that he didn't know where its eyes were, and that his friend had left in his van for him.

What a pal.

B seemed more fascinated than traumatized, and I started thinking maybe I didn't need to protect him so much from the death thing at this point, either.

Later, B started talking about the salamander again. He asked how it died. I told him I didn't know.
He asked when we would die. I told him I thought when we were all very old, and that we'd go to Heaven, which is a really nice place.

He looked at me and said,

Well, then I don't think I want to get old, mom.

Oh, no, we've traumatized him with a dead salamander after all.

And yes, I'm using the term we very, very loosely here.

But then B looked at N and O, raised his arms, and said,

We don't want to get old, right guys? Everybody! Come on!

Don't Get Old!
Don't Get Old!
Don't Get Old!
Don't Get Old!


OK, so I'll admit it. I had to join in.
I'm sure some of the neighbors driving by wanted to join in, too.
Who knows. Maybe B has stumbled upon the secret to eternal youth.

I'm just sorry it's too late for the salamander.

Fortunately, any dead salamander related trauma seems to have subsided.
This morning, N hugged Jimmy as he was leaving for work, and said,

What are you going to bring us today, Dad?

Maybe a dead frog?

Don't Push Me

We are in potty training hell. Or non potty training hell. Depends on how you look at it.

(Depends! Get it?! That was not intentional, but Depends may ultimately be necessary).

We attempted to potty train B several months ago. He had zero interest. Zero. As in, I know you told me that I could have candy, or a new Spiderman toy, or a new car, or even a pony, if you would please just pee on the potty. But I'm just going to stand here and pee on the floor. Every time. Thanks for the offers, though.

So we stopped trying. I decided I was not going to torture myself. Our pediatrician agreed. Everything I read agreed. He was three. He was likely perfectly capable of being free from diapers if he wanted to, but had obviously decided that he didn't want to. Three-year-olds are control freaks. And I'm on my second three-year-old now. There's a whole lot I don't know. But there is one thing I do know. In a battle of the wills with a three-year-old, I will lose.

So we let it go for a while. I got a refund for his preschool registration. Three-year-olds are supposed to go to pre-school. At least this was my thinking before I had my current three-year-old. As it happens, three-year-olds who wear diapers can't go to preschool. That was just fine with him. And really, it was fine with me, too. It was also fine with Jimmy, who was perfectly happy to hear that we wouldn't be writing another monthly check.

I realized that maybe B's lack of readiness to get out of diapers was a sign that he also just wasn't ready for preschool. And while part of me thought that my job as his mom might be to push him whether he was ready or not, to help him become ready, another part of me decided that this time, I probably needed to follow his lead.

So, I decided that, at three, he didn't need to be pushed into preschool. Or potty training.

Recently, though, it occurred to me that in two months, he will be four.  Four.  Four-year-olds, in the absence of specific developmental or physiological conditions, do not wear diapers. And, pre-school is coming fast. Like it or not, he will be going in the Fall. There is a part of me that thinks he still may not be ready, but the reality is that kindergarten is the following year. Having recently had a child in kindergarten, I can say that it's not what it used to be. Kindergarten is work. There is structure. It is also all day. As much as he may not be ready for preschool in the Fall, if he doesn't go to preschool, he is really not going to be ready for kindergarten.

So now I need to push him into preschool and potty training.

Unless I home school.  I would seriously consider doing so, if not for the fact that the two of us home together all day, every day, for several more years would result in one of us spending the majority of our days in our bedroom. (I would be OK with this, but I'm pretty sure it's not really considered "homeschooling" if the one allegedly doing the schooling locks herself in her room with a bottle of tequila).

But at least homeschooling would get me out of potty training, which is not going exceptionally well. In fact, it's going really crappy. But not in the way one would want it to. B now keeps his underwear dry. All morning. Like it's his job. In fact, we've told him that it is his job, but I'm thinking that may have been poor word choice on our part. Yesterday, he would not go outside. He would not get dressed. He would not play with his brother and I. He just sat on the couch, alternately crying and screaming, waiting for nap time, when he knew he would get a diaper. Which he immediately used.

Eventually, he did agree to have lunch. He wanted peanut butter and jelly. He ate very little of that and decided that he wanted cornbread. He took two bites of that, and decided that he wanted... pickles.

"Ten of them, mom".

I decided I was not fighting the lunch time battle along with the potty training battle. Maybe he needs me to push him toward potty training, but he probably doesn't need to be pushed toward balanced meals at the same time.

Besides, I don't have the energy for both.

You want pickles for lunch? Knock yourself out.

At least pickles are a vegetable. Aren't they?

Who am I kidding? At this point, I would have let him an ice cream sundae for lunch.

Sometimes you just have to pick your battles.

And not battle your pickles.

The Hot Mess Housekeeper...on Visitors

Dear Hot Mess Housekeeper,

My husband's aunt is coming to town for our daughter's graduation, and I am totally stressed out trying to clean the house to her standards. Any tips? Please help!

Signed,
Dusty

Dear Dusty,

We have all been there. But you really only need three things to get your house ready for company.

1) a closet

2) a vacuum

3) a large bottle of scotch.

Follow these instructions:

1) Open closet.

2) Throw whatever crap is laying around into it.

3) Vacuum areas that Auntie is likely to see.

4) When Auntie arrives, hand her a large glass of Scotch, smile, and tell her to stay the hell away from your closets. Repeat.

Of course, with housekeeping as with all things, it's important to be flexible, so if these instructions don't work for you, I do have an alternate suggestion:

1) Open Closet

2) Open Scotch

3) Do not come out of closet until bottle is empty.

Most importantly, enjoy your daughter's graduation.

I hope this serves as confirmation that that is truly what matters.