Second...

N starts second grade tomorrow. When I was looking over her school supply list, I kept getting all mixed up. Then I realized it was because I was alternately looking at the kindergarten list and the first grade list. It took a lot of effort to actually get  my eyes to focus on the second grade list, because I still don't know how it is that she's going into second grade.

When I was in second grade, I had Sister Mary Laura. Everyone should get to have a teacher like Sister Mary Laura at least once. She was kind, and patient, and smiled a lot. When it was time to sit Indian style on the floor (yes, this was before political correctness. We could say things like "Indian style"), she would tell us that it was also okay not to sit Indian style, if our legs were too long. I'm not sure who would actually have legs that long in second grade, but it was my first lesson in how much people--and children in particular-- appreciate being given some illusion of control over their environment. She also recycled her paper lunch bags long before it was the trendy thing to do.

N won't have Sister Mary Laura. She will have Mrs. G. I have no idea if Mrs G recycles her paper lunch bags--my guess is that she probably has a re-usable lunch bag like everyone else. But I've heard she's kind and patient, and at least going by previous yearbook pictures, she seems to smile a lot.

I just hope N has good things to say about her thirty years from now.

Something changed for me after second grade. I don't know exactly what it was. Most likely it was a combination of factors. The difference being an eight year old and being a seven a year old.  The beginning of girl drama in its earliest forms. A teacher change in the middle of the year. My dad's retirement from the fire department. Maybe it was all of those things. Or maybe it was none of those things. But, somehow, third grade was decidedly different from second. While second grade--and first, before that--meant fun, and security, and comfort, third grade for me meant upheaval and uncertainty.

I couldn't tell you the name of either teacher we had that year, but I can tell you the one we had the next year, in fourth grade. But I won't. Because Sister Mary Laura also taught me that if I didn't have anything nice to say, I shouldn't say anything at all.

In any case, as wonderful as second grade was for me, it was also the end of...something. Oh, school was good again eventually, but in a very different way than it was in Sister Mary Laura's second grade class. So, of course, I'm wondering if N's experience will be anything like mine. And I'm hoping that somehow, her sense that school is a fun, secure, and comfortable place will continue long past second grade.

So far, I've been able to help make sure that school is a positive experience for her. I communicate with her teachers (no, I'm not that mom. I don't think), I help with her homework, and make her a healthy lunch, and buy her cute clothes. Call me shallow if you want. I wore a gray plaid uniform for six years, and then switched to a school where no one wore uniforms and I had no idea what to wear. Trust me, clothes matter. I also have ulterior motives. I figure that while people are looking at her cute clothes, no one will notice that  I've been rotating the same four t-shirts and two pairs of jeans for the past year and a half.

I talk to her about being nice to others and about sticking with the kids who are nice to her.  So far, I've been able to steer her toward the kids who I know are being raised to be kind, and compassionate, and hard working. I e-mail their moms. And call them. And occasionally, make them drink bloody marys with me. In fact, drinking bloody marys with the moms of your child's friends is a crucial aspect in ensuring their future social and academic success.

All too soon, of course, N will be making friends with kids whose moms I don't know. At least not well enough to drink bloody marys with. Within a year or so, I won't be able to help as much with her homework--at least not her math homework, which will be beyond my comprehension once she gets through long division. Her future teachers likely won't be  so welcoming when I send them the third e-mail in a week. They won't be as quick to change her seat because someone is talking too much next to her, and they won't be as eager to step in when someone is being mean.

They also won't be drawing smiley faces in her agenda book every day. That one makes me particularly sad.

So I tell myself that at least I am giving her the tools she needs to handle whatever comes her way.

A note in her lunch bag. A hug before she gets on the bus. Another when she gets home. Sharpened pencils to help her do her best, erasers for when she needs to start over, and a new binder to keep it all together until she gets home, at which point she can spill it all out on the kitchen counter.

Because that's what home is for. A place where you can let it all spill out.

And that, perhaps, is the greatest tool we can give her.

The Most Important Words...

We teach our children a lot of words.

Some of those words, like Please, and Thank You, and You're the best mom in the world, seem to take a lot of teaching.

While the words we hope they didn't hear are, of course, the ones they learn right away.

And the ones they repeat.

Often.

In Church.

Most of us probably agree which words are the most important.

Like I love you, and I'm sorry, and I'm here for you.

I've been thinking about those kinds of words a lot this week. Trying to find the right ones.

Knowing none of them is adequate, but trying anyway.

Knowing that sometimes, there just are no words.

In the midst of trying to find the right words, I am often interrupted by someone who's dealing with their own struggle to find the right words.

A two-year-old running through the house with a diaper in his hand. A two-year-old, in fact, who is naked. And crying. Holding a diaper that has, in fact, been used. A two-year-old who is yelling, through his tears, "My mickey! My mickey! My mickey fell off!"

This briefly causes me to think that the most important word we teach our children may actually be "diaper". It was the diaper, after all, that fell off. Not the mickey.

And if you don't know what a mickey is, I'm not telling you.

But they don't usually fall off.

And if they did, well, let's just say there would be a lot of anxious men running around.

And maybe a few women, too.

It's not just me and the two-year-old who are trying to find the right words. There's a four-year-old, too, who sometimes has trouble in this area.

(For the record, the seven-year-old does not have a problem finding the right words. She knows just when to say I love you in a way that is guaranteed to brighten my day and/or get Jimmy to give her exactly what she wants. She also knows just the right words to say to her brothers, like when I recently overheard her telling B, "I'm trying to give you a compliment! I'm trying to be nice. But you probably don't even know what a compliment is anyway, do you?" Aside from that, she has no trouble finding the right words because, well, she's smarter than the rest of us. Jimmy doesn't usually have trouble finding the right words either. This is mainly because he doesn't try to find them. He just grunts a lot).

Anyway, tonight I told the four-year-old who sometimes has trouble finding the right words that we needed to go the cable company soon to get a new cable box...again...because someone knocked our current box off the table and broke it...again.

He nodded as if he was remembering something and said, "The people at the cable company get high, mom".

Um, what?

"They get high. They take those things, and they get high. Sometimes they get really high".

Things? What things? Pills? Joints? Does he mean take those things, or smoke those things? No, this is my four-year-old. I am quite sure he doesn't know about pills or joints.

How, then, does he know that the people at the cable company get high?

"You know the things, mom. The...what are they called? The elebator..no, the elevator, " he laughs as he finally finds the word he was looking for.

Oh yeah, the elevator. Of course he was talking about the elevator.

What else would he be talking about?

Sometimes, instead of finding the words you were desperately searching for, you just find tears.

Other times, when you least expect it, you find laughter.

And sometimes, you find them both at the same time.

So....

The past few days haven't been particularly fun in NBO land. Without going into details that aren't ours to share, suffice it to say that there is currently a lot of sadness within our extended family. Jimmy and I are going through the daily motions of working, and raising our children, and doing everything we are supposed to do. Barely under the surface, however, we are constantly thinking about the people we wish we could be with right now, and wishing we could do something for them.

Of course, the only thing you can really do for anyone is be there. And, since we can't physically do that, we are being there in our heads. And our hearts. And with every ounce of our being.

And the other thing I can do, perhaps, is bring a brief, small smile to someone's face. Because, well, you have to do something. Even if that something isn't much of anything. And because, even in the face of despair, and devastation, and incredible sadness, sometimes you still need to hear yourself laugh.

And that is the spirit in which I am writing this.


Today I took NBO shopping for shoes. Shoes are the bane of my existence. In our house, someone is always looking for shoes, or throwing shoes, or drinking from shoes. I blame this on Jimmy. We have a picture from our wedding in which he is drinking champagne out of my shoe. Don't tell me he's not romantic. I'd been wearing those things for twelve hours, in ninety degree heat.

Romantic as he may be, I think he has passed this shoe, uh, interest, onto our children. If you're looking for shoes in our house, check near the water dispenser. Or the dog's bowl. More recently, we've found shoes in the toilet, though you're just as likely to find them in the sink. Occasionally we find them under the bed, or under the couch, or hidden in Jimmy's underwear drawer. But that cute bench near the front door that's the perfect spot for everyone to leave their shoes? You'll never find them there.

 I hesitate to bring more shoes into our house, because I know that's just another pair that someone may try to flush down the toilet, or throw at their brother, or drink milk out of (we don't let them drink champagne from them. Yet). However, B will be starting pre-school soon, and the one pair of shoes he currently owns is not going to cut it. I refuse to spend three mornings a week searching under beds, and in the toilet, and under the book case for shoes. Clearly, he needs a back up pair. This way, I'll only spend one and half mornings a week searching for shoes. And, with summer coming to an end, I figured it made sense to get new shoes for all three. 

B was easy. Spiderman sneakers here we come. O was easy once we figured out that we needed to buy his shoes from the "Toddlers with Feet the Size of Linebackers" section.  I thought N would be fairly easy, except that she needed more than one pair. And I knew that I only had a limited amount of time to find them before B and O tore the store apart. As it happened, they were sitting quietly in the stroller just a few feet away as N and I looked at shoes. They were so quiet, in fact, that you'd hardly know they were there.

That should have been my first clue.

After N and I had decided on one pair for her and were in the process of trying on a second, I noticed that people seemed to be, well, weaving, as they passed by in front of B and O. The first time, I thought the woman was just uncoordinated. The second time, I thought maybe there was something on the floor that caused the girl to walk like that. The third time, I was pretty sure I saw something fly through the air as a guy walking by appeared to duck.

As it turns out, I had inadvertently parked the stroller--with B and O in it--next to a display of women's underwear.

As I was helping N try on shoes, B and O were doing a great job of quietly entertaining themselves.

By throwing nearly every pair of underwear from that display onto the floor in front of them, regardless of whether or not someone happened to be walking by at the time. No wonder people were weaving and ducking as they walked by. They were dodging flying underwear.

I have to hand it to B and O, though. They're quite a team. When I finally realized what was happening, I noticed that B was talking quietly to O the whole time. "O, give me some pink ones...now some red ones...". O would hand him a pair, and B would toss them onto the floor in front of him, making his own little rainbow of skivvies across the department store floor.


I have to say, that O is a smart boy. He not only knows all of his colors, but I'm pretty sure he now knows the difference between a bikini and a thong.

N grabbed her new pairs of shoes as I picked up twenty pairs of ladies underwear from the floor. We stood in line not once, but twice, since B's Spiderman shoes were accidentally rung up twice. I figure the cashier thought that, with the noise level that was now coming from the stroller, there must be a fourth child in there who was getting new shoes, too.

As we waited in line, B and O growled at the people behind us. Continually. And Loudly. One woman glared at them. They glared back. Another woman told them they didn't scare her. I told her she's pretty brave, because they scare me, and I gave birth to them. One cashier just stared at us, obviously wondering why I was wasting money on shoes instead of straight jackets or a behavior modification program. Our cashier smiled a lot but didn't actually say anything. I think we made her nervous. As we waited in line the second time, to get the extra pair of shoes taken off our bill, another woman came up next to me and said, "I think we got here at the same time. Can I go first?"

Sure. Of course. Why wouldn't you--who is here by yourself - go first? I mean, that makes so much more sense than for me--who is going through this line for the second time, with a pack of growling, thong throwing wild animals-- to go first.

No, of course I didn't say that out loud. Instead, I gave her my biggest smile, and said "Yes, please go first.  All the other parents will probably enjoy having us here a little longer. It makes them feel better about their own kids behavior problems."

OK, fine, so then I growled at her.

It's not like I threw a thong at her.

Those Other Parents...They Do it All Wrong

Recently our local paper ran a story on a toddler who swallowed several small magnets, and whose mom fortunately realized it and took him to the emergency room. Several comments from readers followed the article. Some were supportive. Some mentioned how glad they were that the child was OK. And some--several, in fact--blamed the mom for having the magnets in the house in the first place, or for leaving her child alone long enough for him to swallow them, or for her "bad parenting".  People seemed eager, in fact, to place blame. And while a few mentioned how these magnets shouldn't even be allowed to be sold, several others felt a need to point out that the magnets weren't the issue. Clearly, it was the mother's fault for having a potentially dangerous toy in her home, and for not having her eyes on her child every single moment of the day.


Wow.


When N had her year old check up, the pediatrician gave his standard talk about how quick kids can be, and how they don't have common sense yet, and how easily they can do something like fall off a bed and hit their heads. I listened, I nodded, I agreed. And, inside, I was thinking, "Of course I'm careful. I'm with her all the time. I've got this".

The next morning, I called the pediatrician.

Because N fell off the bed and hit her head.

I was right there. We had come home from vacation a few days earlier. We were tired. And jet lagged. And though I had been keeping an eye on her as she crawled around our bed, I was not keeping an eye on her at the moment when she crawled right off the bed. As it happens, at that moment, I was, in fact, asleep.

She was fine, and it was at our next appointment with the pediatrician that he told me how I needed to be careful with things laying around, since she was a toddler now, and they could get into anything. Again, I listened, I nodded, I agreed, and I thought "I've got this. She's my only child. I would certainly see her if she was about to put something in her mouth".

The next day, I found a penny in her diaper.

Which she had apparently swallowed a day or two earlier.

Since then, I've had B and O, and they have both fallen off the bed. For all I know, they've both swallowed pennies, though I've never seen the evidence. When B was not quite two, he ran into the corner of a cabinet, and bled profusely from his mouth until Jimmy called Aunt Lion, also known as Dr. Lion, who instructed him to feed B some ice cream. It stopped the bleeding.

Damn cabinets. Obviously we need to get rid of them.

B once had a string from his sandal wrapped tightly around his toe, and I wondered what would have happened if we hadn't noticed it in time. O had the same thing happen with a blanket.

Fortunately, they both still have ten toes.


But we've decided not to buy them shoes anymore.

Or blankets.

When N was three, she almost ran into a busy four lane highway as I was pushing the shopping cart--loaded with groceries and a sleeping B--through the grocery store parking lot. Fortunately, she stopped a few feet short of the road, to the relief of me and several shoppers who had stopped to watch but who were also unsure of what they could actually do (other than loudly and repeatedly scream STOP), since chasing her into the road didn't seem to be the best option.

When B was two, he ran right out in front of a car before his cousin Brian grabbed him.

O hasn't come quite as close to a car, but at this point, we've decided it's best to keep him on a leash until he's four.

He makes up for it by doing things like drinking dish washing liquid, which, according to the nice people at Poison Control, really isn't that big of a deal.

Besides, the other kids kind of liked having their own personal bubble blower.


Stuff happens.

Kids are quick.

None of us are perfect.

Are there bad parents out there? Absolutely.

Unfortunately, I've been in the position to meet a few.

Bad parents neglect or abuse their kids. They abuse their spouses, or alcohol, or drugs. Bad parents prevent their kids from feeling loved, or safe, or supported.

Fortunately, most of us don't fall into that category. Most of us, in fact, are good parents.

Who occasionally have less than stellar parenting moments.

Most of us have days when it seems pretty easy, followed by days that remind us just how hard this parenting thing can be.

Days when the only thing that gets us through--besides maybe xanax--is knowing that others are dealing with the same things we are. The same joys, the same frustrations, and the same utter, mind numbing exhaustion.


Which is why it's so sad that so many of us feel a need to knock each other down when, instead, we could be lifting each other up.


Or at least keeping each other company down there.

Family Vacation....

Growing up as the youngest of seven, I often thought that I missed out on a lot. Though our parents had six kids in nine years, there was another nine years before I came along. At times, some people feel a need to point out that my mother's pregnancy with me was obviously unplanned.

I prefer to think that it was a pregnancy worth waiting for.

Anyway, I often heard stories about family vacations that I was never really a part of. Hiding a child under a blanket in the back seat so they didn't have to pay for an extra person at the camp ground. Fighting to get the seat behind the drivers seat, because our dad's hand couldn't reach back there to hit you while he was driving. Almost losing someone out of the back of the station wagon when the boat she was sitting in almost slid out onto the road.


No, I don't think that last one was a particularly good idea either. But, well, you know...hindsight and all that.

Everyone also does their own impression of our dad saying "If I have to pull this car over, there's going to be (four? five? six?) sorry little bastards in the back seat".

(I'd like to point out that this was many years ago, when threatening your children with physical harm and/or referring to them as little bastards were viewed as completely acceptable, and at times necessary, parenting tools).

By the time I came along, my siblings were old enough that there weren't any vacations with all of us. I never fought for the seat behind my dad, because there usually wasn't anyone for me to fight with. Of course, that also meant that he had no need to try to reach me while he was driving. I guess I should see this as a good thing.

But mostly, I couldn't help but feel that I missed out on something.

Last week, Jimmy and I took the kids on a short vacation. Several hours away. In our car. We drove home today. Several hours. In our car.

I'd just like to say: I no longer feel like I missed out on anything.

Our plan was to visit my cousin Rara in New Jersey (actually Rara is her real name. Well, kind of). Rara is more like my third sister than my cousin, which means that she feels almost as much of an obligation to put up with all of us as Caca and Aunt Lion do. She feeds us, and plays tour guide, and lets us swim in her pool. And then at night, she makes us drink with her. This part is obviously a hardship for Jimmy and I, but we figure it's the least we can do since she's so nice to us.

Since I had also told B that we could go see Elmo once B started using the potty, I figured we could do that on the way to Rara's.

Yeah. So, lesson #1: Nothing is really on the way to anything else. You may think it's on the way. But trust me, it is not on the way. Not really.

The night before we left, I packed our car full of an absolutely ridiculous amount of crap, and in the morning, we only left an hour later than we had planned. This is a record for us. Really.

I drove, though fortunately I had a lot of help. In fact, I had so much help, I don't know how I would have managed by myself. I mean, really, it's a miracle that I drive without help all week, and actually get to our destination and back again all by myself. Without help. You hopefully probably don't even know how unbelievably helpful it is to have someone tell you when you're going too fast and when you're going too slow. Or, when to pass a car, and when to stay right where you are. It's really quite amazing.

OK, fine, so it was a little helpful when Jimmy realized we were in Wilmington.

When I would have sworn we were in Philly.

But you know, Delaware and Pennsylvania are really much closer to each other than I realized.

Lesson #2: Don't tell anyone where you think you are until you see a welcome sign.

The important thing is, we made it to Sesame Place.

On what I'm quite sure was the hottest day of the year.

Or maybe the hottest day on earth.

Ever.

It didn't matter though, because we were going to see Elmo. What's a little heat? So what if there are lines? With so many fun things to do, we won't even notice the heat.


Lesson #3: If your four-year-old tells you that he wants to see Elmo, don't assume that means that he gives two craps about rides, games, parades, or shows. Assume that he wants to see Elmo.

And that is all.

And don't assume that you won't care that it's the hottest day on earth. Ever.

You will care.

N, on the other hand, really didn't care. She went on the swings. She went on the big slides. She got her picture taken with Abby. She and I went on the roller coaster, which was bigger and faster than I realized, but did not make me throw up.

But it came damn close.

We all went on the tea cups. (Yes, all of us. Jimmy will deny that he was on the tea cups, but trooper that he is, he was there. And here it is. Documented for future generation to see. I think I even saw him smile. Once). O wasn't sure what to make of being forcefully spun around in circles, but when we asked him if he was having fun, he smiled and said "yeah", and then he went back to making a face that was somewhere between terror and nausea. In fact, Jimmy had the same face. It must be hereditary. B didn't make that face. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself, though it may have been because when you're moving at that speed, it feels like it's only ninety-seven degrees instead of one hundred and twelve). This was going to be our last ride, then we were going to see a show (in the air conditioning) and get on the road to Rara's. But then, as the ride was ending, B caught site of the picture studio nearby, and I knew we weren't quite done yet.

Because there, in the picture studio.....was Elmo.

So we waited in line some more, and as I stood there for what seemed like an hour, looking at Elmo as he greeted kid after kid after kid, and hugged them, and shook their hands, and got his picture taken with them, I realized something:

Elmo is freakin hot.

I mean, he had to have been roasting in that fury red suit.

B and O didn't care how hot he was. They just cared that he was Elmo. Finally, they were excited about something. B called out to him repeatedly while we waited in line, much to the annoyance of the people around us. O joined in, too. He no longer looked nauseous or filled with terror. This was Elmo. I think even N was a little excited, though she tried not to show it much. Finally, it was our turn. They were with Elmo. They shook his hand, and gave him five, and had their picture taken. And actually smiled.

All was right in their world.

Lesson #4: You just never know who you will be grateful to have in your life. This particular day, a hot guy in a fury red suit just happened to be my ticket out of hell.

We had a great few days with Rara. Caca and Uncle Edie were taking care of Bella for us, so we knew she was in good hands. We climbed a lighthouse, and swam in the pool, and visited with cousins. We also locked our keys in the car and spent an hour and a half trying to get the door open. And trying to remember the code to the key pad. Both of which eventually happened. In fact, at the exact moment that Jimmy managed to open the door with a coat hanger, I suddenly yelled out the code, which I have not actually used in five years. I thought this timing was quite amazing. Funny, even. I mean, what are the chances that, after Jimmy had spent an hour and a half trying to open the door,  I would remember the code that I haven't used in five years at the exact moment that he got it open?

Lesson #5: Don't assume that your husband will find things as funny as you do. He won't.

Today, we headed home.

This time, though, the trip wasn't broken up by a stop at an amusement park.

This time, we had no leverage. No one could be bribed into behaving.

This time, we somehow got lost even though we have made this trip fifteen times, and it added on an extra hour.

This time, I walked in my father's shoes.

Or maybe I should say I drove in his seat.

Except that I didn't actually drive. Cause we figured I would need too much help.

So I looked out the window. And listened to that obnoxious woman's voice on the GPS. And wondered where the hell we were. And contemplated throwing that GPS woman out the window. And told the kids to be quiet. And to stop fighting. And to please not scream. And to keep their hands to themselves. And their feet, too. And to please stop picking their noses. And not to touch their siblings. Especially after picking their noses. But, no, that doesn't mean you can hit them if you haven't been picking your nose.

And Jimmy drove.  I think I may have seen him trying to reach behind him a couple times. But, of course, everyone knows not to sit in that seat anyway. And I think I heard him say, just under his breath, "If I have to turn this car around...."

But he didn't turn the car around, of course. Because that would have taken even longer.

So we came home. And Bella was excited to see us. So, incredibly excited, in fact, that she greeted us in an exceptional way.

By pooping all over the kitchen floor.

So I cleaned up dog poop. And mopped the floor. And realized it was already bed time.

Even though the sun hadn't set yet.

And as I sat down, exhausted, in an eventually silent house, I realized that I didn't miss out after all.

Some people may say that this kind of vacation is obviously not planned.

I prefer to think that it was a vacation worth waiting for.

Potty Talk

If you are grossed out by the words "poop" and/or "potty", you should probably stop reading now.



So B is finally, thankfully potty trained.

Mostly.

It just took me locking the two of us in the bathroom together and informing him that he wasn't leaving until he peed.

Yeah, I know someone is looking up the number for child protective services right now because this is nothing like what all the books say.

I also know that he has been peeing on the potty ever since.

Well, when he's not peeing on the grass. Or in the driveway. Or on the tire of Jimmy's truck.

Yup, he's pretty into the whole peeing thing now.

In fact, he is so sure of his peeing abilities, he's trying to potty train O.

Yesterday, I walked past the bathroom, and heard him saying "Go ahead, O. Just pee. It's no big deal".

No big deal? Oh sure, now it's no big deal. But if you recall, sweet child who took over a year to even try to pee on the potty, it was quite a big deal. For quite a long time.

But hey, if he wants to potty train his brother, who am I to stop him?

The thing is, B still won't poop anywhere except in a pull-up. He recently held it for two days rather than go in the potty. I even bought him a special Elmo potty. It makes flushing sounds and everything. He loves to flush it. O loves to flush it. OK, fine, even I love to flush it.

Unfortunately, there is never anything in it flush

I hid all the pull-ups, thinking that if he didn't have one, he would have to go on the potty. He searched every closet in the house until he found those things. Then he hid them in his room so I wouldn't be able to find them.

I expected that my kids would someday hide things from me. For some reason, I didn't think it would be pull-ups at age four.

Needless to say, I think it's past time that he pooped on the potty. He's four. He'll be in pre-school soon. All the other kids will be pooping on the potty. And frankly, I am tired of changing a four-year-old's pull ups.

So tonight, when he asked me for a pull-up so he could poop, I couldn't take it anymore.

And I heard words that I just never thought would come out of my mouth.

"Just poop on Elmo, B."

"No! I'm NOT pooping on Elmo!"

"Please. Please? Just poop on Elmo!"

"No pooping on Elmo!"

B is getting irritated. O is looking at the TV, clearly confused, wondering why it's showing girls in bikinis playing beach volleyball instead of Elmo. N, who has actually been silent for thirty seconds--which might just be a world record--says, "I'd like to poop on Elmo...the real Elmo".

O is now confused "Poop on real Elmo?"

B is not having this at all.

"No! No pooping on Elmo! Not the potty, and not the real one! No! Pooping! On! Elmo!"

O decides he is in full agreement. This whole pooping on Elmo thing is stressing him out. He shakes his head and says "No pooping Elmo!"

I realize I should probably let this go. Clearly, Elmo is not getting pooped on anytime soon in our house.

Unless the real one shows up.

Then all bets are off.

I ain't missing you...all that much

I once wrote that there's not much I miss about my life before kids. Jimmy read that line, and couldn't seem to get past it. He stared at me, waiting for me to explain this obviously ridiculous statement that I made.

"There's not much you miss about your life before kids?" he asked incredulously.

He really didn't get it, because while he loves our children every bit as much as I do, there's actually a lot that he misses about his life before kids.

Me? No, there's really not that much.

Just a few things, really.

Mostly, I  miss my sanity. But I've decided that's like losing a loved one. It's hard at first, but over time, you realize they're just not coming back, and you have to learn to live without them.

I miss my favorite coffee mug that someone dropped on the floor sometime in 2009. It was hand crafted and big--the kind of mug you could wrap both hands around as you sat on the couch and watched the Today show and sipped your wonderfully hot coffee.

But since I no longer get to sit on the couch, or watch the Today show, or drink coffee that's even a little bit hot, I guess it doesn't matter all that much.

OK, so I miss those things, too.

Just a little.

I miss my favorite reading lamp that someone smashed to pieces sometime in 2010. I had no idea that a lamp could break into that many pieces. Then again, what was I thinking, trying to have a lamp with three kids in the house?

Now we just use flashlights.

Besides, reading lamps are for people who get to actually sit next to one and read, and these days, most of my reading is done in bed.

With a flashlight.

I miss being able to sit on my bed on Sunday nights and fold clothes, and then actually put them away. I know that's a weird thing to miss, and while I was doing it, I had no idea I would someday miss it. But there was a certain solitude and order to it all, and well, I miss those things, too.

There were a few times since I had kids when I still tried to do this, and within five minutes, there were three kids on my bed, throwing socks everywhere, trying on my skirts, and using my neatly folded clothes as parachutes as they jumped off the bed.

I gave up after that.

I miss being able to go to dinner or away for the weekend on a whim. Of course, we still do those things. But going out to dinner just isn't the same when you have to pause between each bite to tell someone to stop throwing dinner rolls, or stop licking the butter, or get the fork out of their brothers ear. Going away for the weekend still happens occasionally, though three kids also means planning three months ahead, packing for three days, and a three vehicle caravan just to carry all our crap  necessary luggage.

Taking three xanax helps, too.

OK, fine, so there are a few things that I miss.

But here's the thing:

I'll take my broken coffee mug, and my cold coffee. My shattered lamp and wrinkled clothes. My rushed dinners and chaotic weekends away.

Because as much as I may miss some of those moments from my old life, I wouldn't want to miss a single moment of this one.

Who did it?

So I don't really have three kids.

I have four.

No, I'm not talking about Jimmy--that would make five.

The first three are pretty good. In fact, they don't do much wrong at all.

The fourth though, is quite a trouble maker.

If I ever actually lay eyes on him, he's going to get a piece of my mind.


Even though I've never seen him, I'm quite familiar with his name.

His name is Notme.

This morning, he pulled a roll of toilet paper all over the house. 

I know it was him because, when asked who did it, all three kids looked at me wide eyed, and said "Notme!" They were obviously telling the truth. They would never, ever lie about something like that.

Unfortunately for Notme, his siblings don't hesitate to rat him out.

After the toilet paper incident, he spilled milk all over the floor and didn't tell me.

Then he left toys all over the living room floor.

After lunch, he left B's shoes in the middle of the kitchen floor. Then I heard him playing when it was supposed to be nap time. I asked who was making noise, and B told me very distinctly, "It was Notme!"

Later, I found out that someone had moved O's crib halfway across the room. I usually blame B and O for this. It turns out, all this time it's been Notme.

I kind of feel like I owe the other kids an apology.

Who didn't flush the toilet? It's Notme, of course.

Who threw cereal all over the kitchen? Why, that would be Notme.

That Notme is going to be in big trouble if I ever find him.

The thing is, I'm so onto him, I know what he's going to do before he does it.

Tonight, I'm quite sure someone will be finishing that bottle of tequila that's been sitting around for a while.

And I'm sure it's Notme.

Just a phase...

It's all just a phase. It will pass.

At least that's what I tell myself.

Each phase really does pass. Eventually.

Unfortunately, it's soon replaced by a new phase, which is often worse than the last phase.

Right now, N is in the "I know more than you do" phase. She's only seven. She doesn't really know more than we do. About most things. But she thinks she does. I know that this, too, will come to end. Sometime before she's thirty.

Maybe.

O is in the "I'm going to repeat everything you say" phase. Sometimes this is incredibly cute. And sometimes, it's incredibly, unbelievably annoying. But it's a phase. It will pass.

B is currently in the "I love your breasts phase". Sorry. I know it's tmi. But it's true. He will not leave them alone. I'm hoping that this, too, shall pass. Very, very soon.

"Can I lay on them, mom?"

"Can I touch them, mom?"

"Can I paint them, mom?"

Just in case you're wondering, the answer to all of the above is a resounding NO.

He doesn't reserve his love for breasts for the privacy of our home. He enjoys attempting to grab them in public, too. Fortunately, I never bought into that whole "teach your kids the proper words" thing, so we call them boop boops. Oh sure, people can figure it out, but at least it sounds a little better when, for example, he says in the grocery store line "Mom, can I put this candy bar in with your boop boops?"

So I was a little surprised when, during our walk today, he turned around from his seat in the stroller and said "Mom, daddy likes boobies, too".

Boobies?

Even if I was going to teach him the proper slang--if there's any such thing--I would have taught him boobs, not boobies.

Who in the world taught my four-year-old to say boobies?

B is staring at me, likely wondering why I haven't responded to his revelation. Well, at least he thinks it's a revelation. For me, it's not so much of a revelation.

"He loves boobies. He has some on his boat", he informs me.

Thinking I must have missed something, I say "He has what on his boat?"

"Boobies", B informs me.

I'm confused, and B sees it.

"You know the ones, mom. Just like the big red ones we saw at that lady's house."

My confusion is turning to alarm, and I ask him "What lady's house?"

He turns around and points across the street.

"That lady's house. The house with the boobies".

Oh, that lady's house.

The house with the buoy out front.

The big, red, nautical buoy.

As a yard ornament.

Just like the smaller versions that Jimmy has on his boat.

That he apparently really loves.