Keeping Them Safe...

O has been running into the street lately. I thought he was past that, but it seems that every time we are outside and I turn my back, he heads for the street.

And every time he does, I grab him by the hand and march him inside.

Every.single.time.

Even if that means five times in one hour. Which it often does.

B doesn't always look both ways before he crosses the street, and when he doesn't, I make him go back and start over.

Even in parking lots.

Even though he's holding my hand.

Because as their mom, I will do whatever I can to keep them safe.

Because above all else, that's my job.

Because that's what we're supposed to do.

Because, if we can't do that, then it doesn't matter how much we read to them, or talk in a nice mommy voice to them, or teach them to play well with others, or serve them organic milk and broccoli with free range chicken for dinner.

If we can't keep them safe, the rest of it doesn't matter much at all.

And yet, sometimes, I'm reminded of how much of this is out of our control.

When I watch the news, I'm reminded of that.

When I read the newspaper, I'm reminded of that.

And sometimes, just going through my day, I'm reminded of that.

N and I went to the grocery store the other day. We came out, she got in the car, and I loaded the groceries in the back. I debated pushing the shopping cart into the mulch in front of our parking space as I often do when the kids are with me, but felt somewhat guilty since the cart house was only four or five parking spaces away, so I decided to return it.

As I walked away from my car with the cart, I yelled to N "Be right back!", and as I did I saw a middle aged, gray haired man walking toward the store from the far end of the parking lot. It occurred to me that, by yelling to N, I had just advertised that I had left someone in the car, but since I was only walking a few parking spaces, I wasn't too worried about it.

Until I turned around to walk back to my car, and realized that the man wasn't anywhere to be seen.

That is, until he came around from the passenger side of my car and started walking toward the store again.

Which led to my first thought, which was

What the hell was he doing around the side of my car? Where my daughter is sitting inside?

And then my second thought, which was

Why is he staring at the ground, refusing to look up and make eye contact with me?

This may or may not sound like a big deal to you. But let me tell you, while I was having these thoughts, something else was happening.

My radar was going off. Big time.

I didn't know what was going on, but I knew that something was wrong with this picture.

He still wouldn't look at me, and continued walking toward the store as he stared at the ground, and it became increasingly clear to me that something was up.

So since he wouldn't look at me, I looked at him. As I moved over so that he was walking directly toward me. And I kept looking at him, as he continued to stare at the ground, and I became even more convinced that something weird was going on.

Eventually, when I had been staring at him, willing him to look at me, and walking directly into his path for ten seconds or so, he looked up.

I'm not sure what he thought of the look I was giving him, but from the rather flustered look on his face, I think he may have interpreted it to mean something along the lines of,

If you even think about hurting my child, I will kill you with my bare hands, right in this very parking lot.

His face turned red. He stammered and said something I couldn't understand, and looked nervously at the ground.

"What did you say?" I asked him.

He repeated himself, asking me for two dollars for bus money since he "blew up his car".

I stared at him some more, this time with a look that I think he may have interpreted to mean something like,

 And then I will run you over. Repeatedly.

His face seemed to get redder, as I stared at him a few seconds longer, before I finally said "No, I don't have any money".

I'm not sure, but I think he may have interpreted something in my tone of voice to mean,

I don't care if you're bigger than me and a man and I never even learned how to make a proper fist. I will hurt you. Seriously. You should probably go back to wherever you came from. Now.

And interestingly, instead of continuing on in the direction he had been walking, he turned around and walked away.

He didn't continue walking toward the store.

He didn't ask any of the several other shoppers around if they had bus money.

He just left.

In other words, he came from the opposite end of the parking lot, approached a car that he either believed to be empty or believed to have a child in it, was clearly surprised to see me, looked very nervous, asked me for two dollars, and then turned around and went back to where he came from without speaking to anyone else.

And no, in case you think I'm having delusions of grandeur, I don't really think I could have hurt him. But I do know that that wouldn't have stopped me from trying. And I know, it's a terrible thing to say that I would run someone over in a parking lot. But just so we're on the same page about that, I'm pretty sure that knowing that it's a terrible thing wouldn't stop me from doing that, either.

If I thought he was going to hurt my child.

A friend on facebook mentioned wanting a gun when she read this story, and I told her that I had that same thought. Except I don't think I would ever carry a gun, because I was so bat shit crazy at the mere thought that this guy might have had ill intentions toward my child, that I'm fairly certain that if I'd had a gun that day, I would have, at a minimum, waved it in his face.

And now I'd be in jail. And that would suck. So, no gun for me.

At least, I don't think so.

But maybe if I switched to decaf, I could get a gun.

Anyway, when I got in the car, N asked me what that guy was doing, and when I asked her what she saw, she said he was standing on the passenger side of our car, staring into it.

I don't know what he was doing. I don't know if his car really did break down. I don't know if he was just confused, or embarrassed, or not well in some way. I don't know if he really just needed bus fare. I don't know if he was looking for spare change, or a purse, or someone's child.

And, in all honesty, once I was in my car and we were driving away, I started wondering if I had misjudged the situation in some way. I even looked to see if I had two dollars in my purse. Because if he really did need two dollars for bus fare, I would want to give it to him.

But then my radar started talking to me.

It said Hello, dumb ass. I already told you something was not right about this. You know this situation just FELT wrong. And, oh by the way, he was STARING INTO YOUR CAR WHERE YOUR SEVEN YEAR OLD DAUGHTER WAS SITTING.

Duh.

So then I called the police, and told them about the weird guy in the parking lot, who may or may not have really been looking for bus fare, but who was acting not quite right.

And I was reminded once again that safety isn't just about seat belts, and looking both ways, and not running into the road.

Of course, I will continue to make them buckle up, and look both ways, and not run into the road.

But I will also remember to listen to my radar.

And I will remember this experience in a year, or two, or three, when N begs me to let her wait in the car while I run into the store.

I will remember to once again tell my daughter--and eventually, my sons--that not everyone is nice, or kind, or has her best interest at heart.

To tell her that it's OK not to be nice. That it's OK to walk away, or to ignore someone when they're talking to you, or to turn around and scream at them in your craziest crazy lady voice that they better Get the hell away from you right f'in now.

If the situation seems to warrant it, of course.

I will remember to tell her that it's OK to refuse to hug the overly familiar neighbor, or family friend, or even uncle, if it makes her uncomfortable.

I wish, of course, that I didn't have to tell them any of these things. 

But sometimes, unfortunately, the best chance we have of keeping them safe in this world is to make sure they know just how unsafe it can be.

Tonight we are getting ready for Hurricane Sandy. She's expected to arrive tomorrow, and hang around for a day or two, bringing high winds and heavy rain, and high tides. Jimmy got the generator ready, and gassed up our cars, and put the lawn furniture away. I made sure we had lanterns, and flashlights, and batteries.

And other important storm related items, like Little Debbie oatmeal pies, and Doritos, and beer.

And the five of us (OK, six, counting Bella), will likely hunker down in our basement for a day or two, with some lights from a generator, and some new coloring books, and some pork rinds  apples. And though I will hide it from the kids, I will be a little nervous about high winds, and big trees, and flooding.

And I will pray a lot.

But in spite of that, I will also be grateful for the fact that all of us will be here, together, in one room.

Driving each other crazy.

While all of that stays out there.

Where it belongs.

Day of....Rest?

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed yesterday morning. It may have had something to do with the fact that the bed I woke up in wasn't mine. In fact, it took me a minute to realize whose bed it was.

(And let me tell you, that hasn't happened to me in a very long time).

Oh, I'm kidding. That hasn't ever happened to me.

But anyway, as I woke up and looked around, and realized that I was surrounded by toys, and books, and clothes, I thought that, well, that it looked just like it does when I'm in my own bed. Except that I was lower to the ground.

I looked over and saw feet sticking out of the covers next to me. Boy feet. But small. Relatively speaking. And then I remembered that I was in B's bed with O, and that, once again, I had sent B to my bed when O woke up in the middle of the night.

And then I thought how this whole middle of the night bed swapping thing was getting very, very old.

I started thinking about how much it would cost to build an addition so that everyone can have their own room. I started thinking about moving to a bigger house. Or a smaller house.

By myself.

But then I wouldn't get to wake up with cute boy feet sticking in my face, so I quickly put that thought out of my head.

I realized that it was Sunday, and that Jimmy had already left to go crabbing to work, and that N had CCD, and that I had to bring everyone to Church with us, which tended to never go so well.

So then I rolled over and went back to sleep.

And when I woke up, unfortunately all of that was still true. Except now I only had twenty minutes to get us all there.

I improvised. N went to CCD, and the rest of us said a prayer in the parking lot and went to the grocery store.

I'm sorry, God, but I have to think you understand. The play room wasn't open, and chasing two crazy boys who are terrorizing our fellow parishioners just so I can say I went to Mass just didn't seem like the best idea this morning. Please, forgive me.

OK, fine. It also just so happened that one of those boys had somehow left the house without his shoes, and I really didn't want to hear them announce that the second collection was for the lady with the poorly behaved barefoot children, so that she can buy them shoes and/or a muzzle.

Once I picked up N and finally had my first cup of coffee, things started looking up. Until we got home, and the fighting began. I attempted to clean a little. They fought. I attempted to do dishes. They fought. I attempted to do laundry. They fought.

I thought about how I had the only children who fought this much, who screamed this much, and who throw things at one another's heads.

I attempted to lock them all in their rooms and add Kahlua to my coffee, but realized that then I wouldn't be able to drive anywhere, and we would all be stuck at home. Together. For the whole day.

So I let them out.

And then, even though I thought it had to be nap time by now, we went to the pumpkin patch.

Because, when all else fails, just go somewhere.

We went on a hayride. We took pictures. And looked at the animals. And picked out a pumpkin.

And no one was fighting. In fact, they were laughing, and smiling, and, well...pleasant.

I thought how lucky I was to have such pleasant children who never fight, or scream, or throw things at one another's heads.

And who were all wearing their shoes.

On the way home, B sounded very serious as he said "Mom, I'm sorry that O is so difficult some times".

N said "Oh yeah, O is really difficult, B".

At this point, O realized that his name was being used in vain. "I'm difficult, Mom?"

No, sweet boy, you aren't difficult. Not at all.

But sometimes life is difficult. Just a little.

Fortunately, we have church parking lots to pray in, and Starbucks, and pumpkin patches, and husbands who bring us home steamed crabs after they were crabbing working all day.

Fortunately, we also have nap time.

Sometimes, for everyone.

Why I Hate Election Years

Let me start by saying, I love election years. I love that we have election years. I love that I live in a country where I can vote, and you can vote, and in the end, we have more or less selected the people who will, at the most, lead the country the way we want them to, and at the least, well... lead the country.

Hopefully.

Now that I've said that, let me say this:

I hate election years.

 It all just gets so....icky.

Pre-election year, I had friends. In most cases, I didn't know if they were Democrats, Republicans, Independents, Green Party, or something else. And if I did know, it wasn't something we talked about much. It wasn't something that divided us, or separated us, or caused us to think horrible thoughts about one another. It didn't matter. They were my friends first, and everything else second.

But now, thanks to Facebook, and Twitter, and email, I'm pretty clear where many of them stand politically, which is fine. But I'm also pretty clear on what a lot of them think about people like me. And I'm clear on what some of them think about people like you.

Because, somehow, that's what it's come down to. If you vote this way, you're one of those. And if you vote that way, well, you're one of those.

Did you know that someone shot at an Obama campaign office?

Did you know that there are now death threats all over twitter against Romney?

Really?

OK, fine, so those are extreme examples. But attacks are taking place every day. Most of them just don't happen to involve actual guns or death threats.

Most just involve incredible amounts of name calling, and head shaking, and finger pointing.

Somehow, electing our country's next President has come down not to what great things I think my guy can do for this country, but how horrible your guy is. It's not about the strengths of my candidate. It's about the weaknesses of yours. It's not about the hope I feel when I think of what good thing can happen if mine is in charge, it's the depression I feel when I think of yours.

Not to say that there isn't some validity in that line of thinking, of course. We're all entitled to our opinions, and I for one am grateful to live in a place where we can share them freely.

But it's no longer just about the candidates. It's also about the voters.

As this election draws near, it's not about what you or I want for this country. It's about how what I want is better than what you want. Because I'm one of them and you...well, you're one of those. More than once, I have seen posts or emails by otherwise compassionate, intelligent people calling anyone who would vote for the other guy names like "stupid", "naive", "clueless", "hateful", and "crazy".

Senders of emails I've received have clearly assumed, for whatever reason, that I am "one of them", as if it never occurred to them that, with all that we have in common, I could lean in a slightly different direction than they do politically.

I realize there's a lot at stake here. I realize that people love this country and want what they believe to be best for it, and have a hard time imagining what will happen if their guy doesn't win.

But I just have to say: Please, get a grip.

Call me naive, but I thought we all wanted the same things.

I thought we all wanted to live in a peaceful world, with healthy kids, where there's help for people who need a hand up, but also jobs, and social security, and laws that protect us, while still allowing us the freedom to make the decisions that we decide are best for us and our families.

I mean...is there anyone who doesn't want those things?

We just have different ideas of how to get them. My way may not be your way. Your way may not be my way. But neither of us is stupid, naive, clueless, hateful, or crazy just because we don't vote the same way

For other reasons, maybe. But not for the way we vote .

If your guy gets elected, I will drink several beers and rant to my husband, who will roll his eyes at me and ask why there's no football on TV, and then I will get over it, grateful that I live in a country where we had--and have-- a say.

I will also know that life goes on, and that if things don't go well, there's always next time.

What I won't do is call people stupid, naive, clueless, hateful, or crazy because of the way they voted. I'll assume that the vast majority of them voted thoughtfully and with their conscious, with what they believed to be our country's best interest at heart.

Then I'll pray that God changes their minds by the time the next election comes around.

But I'll never tell them that.

 I'll also hope for the best, and live my life the best way I know how, and remember that regardless of who's in office, we're all supposed to be on the same team.

And the irony is, if my guy wins, well, I'm pretty sure I'll do the same things.

Thank You, Turtle Man

As I was driving B to pre-school this morning, I was trying to ignore the fact that we were late, and instead focus on how well he was doing in school.

We were late because, for the third night in a row, both boys woke up in the middle of the night. This time, B had a nightmare that the fish in his fake aquarium "got really, really big and turned into sharks". As I was sitting on the side of his bed at 3 AM, listening to tales of giant imaginary fake aquarium fish, O woke up and said "Mom, I had a nightmare, too. B was driving a car".

Well, yeah, that is a pretty scary thought.

 I finally got back to sleep at five thirty this morning, and slept right through the alarm an hour and a half later, so I opted to drive N to school rather than rush to make the bus (and miss it anyway). As we all finally piled in the car, I noticed my tire pressure sensor flashing "EXTREMELY LOW TIRE PRESSURE", so after driving N to school on a mostly flat tire, I stopped to get air in it before taking B to school.

So there I was, thinking that at least he wasn't fighting me about going to school, and that at least he loved it, and wasn't having any trouble, and seemed to be following all of the rules--well, except for that one about needing to stop running before he reaches the gym wall--or, more precisely, before his head reaches the gym wall--but he's working on that one.

And, at that moment, as I was thinking about how well he was doing at his preschool, which just happens to be run by a Baptist Church, he said,

"Mom? What's an evil bastard?"

I forced myself to put on my stepford wife mommy voice and said " What did you say, B?"

Because surely, I heard him wrong.

" I said an evil bastard, mom! What's an evil bastard?"

Huh. No, I'm pretty sure I heard him right.

Now, I could point out that I worked last night, and I could also point out that if I was the type to document the times and dates of when these types of words come out of my sweet boy's mouth, they would almost always come out of his mouth after I have been working.

When he was home with his father.

But I won't point any of that out.

"MOM! Please tell me! WHAT is an evil bastard?"

I rack my brain trying to think of where he could have heard this. It had to be on TV--I'm pretty sure we don't know anyone who uses words like "evil" and "bastard" together in the same phrase.

Admittedly, I have gotten lax about letting the boys watch N's TV shows with her. I would prefer that they all watch Sesame Street until they're twelve, but I'm reluctantly accepting that N is past that point, and sometimes she wins the TV coin toss. But has it gotten that bad? Is Evil Bastard now an acceptable term on the Disney Channel?

I never really liked that Phineas and Ferb. I don't like their language. And more than once, I've had to say that just because Phineas and Ferb say something doesn't mean that we say it.

But evil bastard?

B is drawling a blank when I ever so sweetly ask where he thinks he may have heard those words, which by the way, aren't very nice, and we probably shouldn't be saying them.

Especially not in preschool, which we are arriving at as we speak.

I am still trying to figure out where he heard it. Though I haven't watched much of them, I heard that the presidential debates were getting pretty intense. Maybe B saw some of it with Jimmy last night. Are they now calling each other evil bastards?

I dropped B off in his classroom, with a hug and a kiss, and a whispered reminder not to say those words we just talked about in the car, and as O and I drove away, it dawned on me.

Turtle Man.

Of course.

Since the Discovery Channel is one of the few allegedly "safe" channels we watch with the kids, Jimmy had let B watch a few minutes of Turtle Man's show with him before bed last night. Turtle Man is a little rough around the edges, but his antics are generally limited to diving into murky green swamps and coming up with a snapping turtle that has been tormenting some poor rural family, so we figured it was probably OK.

Except that Turtle Man has some colorful language sometimes.

And sometimes, apparently those turtles can be evil bastards.

Thanks, Turtle Man. One more thing that the kids can't watch.

I am happy, at least, that our presidential candidates aren't calling each other names like this.

Yet.

As it Turns out...Pre-School is Cool

So when B makes up his mind about something, there's usually no point in trying to change it.

From the time we first started discussing potty training, he was determined that he wasn't going to pee on the potty, and he didn't.

Not until he was four, and I locked the two of us in the bathroom and told him we weren't leaving until he used that toilet.

Before that, he was adamant that he wasn't getting his hair cut, and he didn't. Not when I took him to the nice ladies at the kids hair salon. Not when I took him with me to the Hair Cuttery. Not when Jimmy tried cutting his hair in our kitchen.

Eventually, Jimmy took him to the barber shop with him, and B decided that that was an acceptable time and place to get his hair cut.

So when B declared that he wasn't going to preschool, I was little nervous. Of course, I knew otherwise. I knew that he was going to go to preschool. I just didn't know what was going to happen when he got there.

Would he kick?

Scream?

Throw things?

What actually happened was this: We went one morning together, and he started to cry as I went across the hall, and he was off by himself, hiding, when I came back to pick him up an hour later. We went back again a few days alter, and as I dropped him off, he gave me a look that said "I know I'm staying, but if you stand in that door way one more minute I'm gonna cry". So I left.

And I cried.

And then he came home, and he told me that he liked his teacher's pretty red dress, and he hoped she would wear it again soon. And he started asking when he could go back to school. He started counting the days. He talked about his friends. And his teachers. And he smiled.

Now, when we pull into the pre-school driveway, he claps.

Claps.

And cheers.

And I wonder what I was so worried about.

B recently asked me about college. The part about possibly moving out of our home didn't go over so well. He informed me that he wasn't going to college. He wasn't moving out. He wants to stay here with me.

After all, I make him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and read him stories, and lay down with him at night before bed.

Besides, we have a cool play room. Who would want to give up all of that?

I thought of telling him that he doesn't have to move out, and that I'll make him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches until he's fifty, but I realized that probably wasn't the right answer.

Instead, I told him that he might change his mind when he's older, and that if he has a wife someday, she probably won't want to live here and have me lay down with him at night before bed.

"No wife!" he yelled.

Phew.

I made him put it in writing.

Of course, I don't really want him to live here forever. I hope he can at least make his own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches by the time he's thirty. And if he ends up with some bitchy wife who won't let me lay down with him at night and read him bedtime stories, I can probably deal with that.

I just want him to WANT to live here when he's thirty.

I want him to be happy playing with the miniature cars in the playroom, instead of wanting to drive a real one. I want him to be in my kitchen drinking milk instead of out in a bar doing shots of Jagermeister.

I want to be able to sneak into his room at night to watch him while he's sleeping, instead of having him sneak out of his room when he thinks I'm sleeping.

But if past experience is any indication,  the things he tells me he never wants to do are the exact things that he will someday love.

"No haircut! No potty! No preschool!" was his mantra for a while.

And now he's quite enamored with all three.

I guess that means that someday, our playroom won't be cool anymore.

In spite of his declarations to the contrary, I suspect that he'll someday move out, and go to college, and maybe even find a wife.

And that, of course, is how it should be.

But me?

I'm still making him peanut butter and jelly until he's fifty.

Just try to stop me.

Dear China...

First off, China, I have to say thank you.

Thank you for Chinese food. Egg rolls really are the best thing ever invented. Granted, I'm not always sure what's in them, and I know what people say about the mystery meat, but really, it's OK with me.

Just as long as it remains a mystery.

Thanks, too, China, for your beautiful children. I mean, it would be good if you would value the female ones a whole lot more, but hopefully you're working on that. I know people probably think I'm a stalker, but when I see a beautiful Chinese baby, I can't help myself. I want to ask if I can hold her. I want to ask how to pronounce her name in Chinese. I want to offer to baby sit. Yes, I realize that actually doing anything of those things would be, well, extremely weird, which is why I don't actually do them.

There are a couple other things I need to mention to you though. One, the made in China pieces of crap have got to end. I mean, enough already. Some people have wall to wall carpeting. We have wall to wall made in China pieces of crap. Please, just stop. And if you have to make stuff, at least make stuff that lasts, or that won't be recalled in three weeks due to lead paint, small parts, choking hazards, or potential exposure to typhoid. (Maybe if you had a few million more women in your country, they could help you figure out how to make stuff that actually lasts, and people would stop referring to it as made in China pieces of crap.They would refer to them as Authentic Handmade Crafts from China instead).

Lastly, stink bugs. Please. I don't know why you ever decided to send them here. Maybe they snuck in with a shipment of made in China pieces of crap, but really, enough already. Those things are everywhere, and they have got to go. I have a four year old who wants to keep every one he sees as a pet, and a two year old who wakes up screaming at night if he so much as thinks there's one in the house. How do you think that's working for us?

Yeah, not so well.

I realized the role you play in our lives last night, China, at about 2 AM, as I got up to assure a certain two year old that there weren't any stink bugs in our house. On my way to his room, I tripped over several made in China pieces of crap, and then when I actually found a stink bug on his wall, I was thinking that one of those made in China pieces of crap would have made a really good stink bug smoosher.

Except that I heard that you shouldn't smoosh stink bugs because well, they stink.

Go figure.

So instead, at 2 AM, I was gently picking up a stink bug with a tissue, and attempting to walk him to the bathroom, when I tripped over more made in China pieces of crap.

Then I flushed his ass down the toilet.

I think we need to work out a deal. For every one thousand pieces of made in China pieces of crap you send here, we'll send you five thousand stink bugs. I think it's only fair. Alternately, maybe they can be incorporated into the mystery meat in some of those restaurants.

Please, just keep them out of the egg rolls.

The Family Bed...

So I'm not really a crunchy mom. I think attachment parenting-with its focus on co-sleeping, baby wearing, and nursing on demand for as long as a child wants -- is a good thing for those who choose to go that route. But I also think that when you spend the vast majority of your days and/or nights with your kids, you tend to attach pretty well. Regardless of where said baby is sleeping, where their nutrition comes from, and whether or not they are physically tethered to one of their parents.

The important thing is that they are sleeping somewhere, eating something, and tethered to something.

Oh wait, scratch the tethered part. I think that's frowned upon in uptight mommy circles.

In spite of my feelings on this, it did happen that I was quite literally attached to each of my kids for a good nine months since I nursed them until around the time they started getting teeth. Sorry, but that was the end for me. You got teeth? Good. Here. Have a steak. (Oh, don't give me that look. I pureed it first).

I tried to be a baby wearing mom so that I could have my hands free, but I could never figure out how to get those slings, or wraps, or carriers on and off by myself, let alone actually get a baby to stay in them, so for the most part I carried the babies around. Besides, even when I was successful in getting them into those things, they never looked all that comfortable, and I always felt like I was well, wearing a baby.

It didn't really work for us.

I wasn't real big on co-sleeping, but I did frequently have a baby in our bed when they were nursing.

It wasn't about bonding. It was about sleep. Namely, mine.

Having said all of that, I recently realized that, even though the kids are now two, four, and seven, we still have the family bed thing going on. Or, more precisely, family beds.

Last night, for example, N climbed into our bed with me because it was raining, and it's been scientifically proven that rain sounds quieter when you're in bed with your mom. Rather than move her when he came upstairs, Jimmy fell asleep in her bed for a while. Eventually, they switched, and he came back into our bed, while she went into her bed. Around that time, O woke up and I brought him into our bed so that he wouldn't wake up B. Of course, B woke up a short time later and was upset to be all by himself, so I put a now sleeping O back in his own bed, and laid down next to B until he fell back asleep. When I got up to see what time it was, N woke up and saw me, and since it was almost time for her to get up anyway, I climbed in bed next to her. B joined us a few minutes later. When Bella and our visiting dog Arthur decided to join us, I thought it was probably time for me to get up.

I was making our bed this morning--the one I barely slept in--and found two Thomas the trains, a teddy bear, a toothbrush, a stuffed Elmo, and a Children's Prayer book.

What did I expect? It's the family bed, after all.

Well, you know, one of them.

If only I could find the one that I actually get to sleep in.

Butt Heads

This morning, Jimmy asked me to go pick up a part for his fork lift. Or maybe it was for his saw. Or his big fancy drill. Or, well, some other mechanical thing that needed a part. Before I left, I heard him call the place and ask them to have the whatchamacallet for the doohickey ready. So I put O in the car, picked up B from preschool, and drove 20 miles into a neighborhood I would not typically frequent so that I could pick up the thingamajig.

I knew where I was going because the kids and I went there once before to pick up a thingamabob. That time, even though Jimmy had called ahead, we waited twenty minutes for someone to figure out what we needed, another ten for them to get it, and another fifteen for them to process the payment. I was hoping this time would be a  little faster.

I knew that Jimmy had talked to Frank, so we walked in and I asked for him. The man working sent us upstairs and told me to ask for Bob. Then I heard him call Bob and say "You'll need to help this lady coming upstairs". And yet, for some reason, when we got upstairs, Bob looked surprised to see me, and had no idea why I was there. Frank was nowhere to be seen.

Two other people were at their desks and just stared at us. Bob said he'd need to look in a book to figure  out which dohickeymajobber we needed. Then he spent five minutes trying to figure out which book it was. As B and O stared out the window, I heard Frank's name a few times, in a tone that clearly said "Where the hell is that bastard Frank?". Eventually, someone said Frank was at lunch.

I think Frank was actually out to lunch.

After a few more minutes, Bob found the book. B and O were getting restless and trying to wander around the room. Then they got tired of being quiet. Bob was still looking in the book. Then he put the book down and started looking at something on his computer. B and O were getting louder. I really wanted to tell Bob that our time here was running out. I think that I need to start wearing a t-shirt that says "Fast Service Means Less Time for My Kids to Trash Your Office", but instead I focus on telling B and O that people are working and they need to be quiet.

They ignore me.

An older guy walks in and puts a box on Bob's desk. I recognize him from last time. It's Frank. I'd know him anywhere. Bob tells him who I am. I want to ask him if he had a nice lunch, but as he walks past me without saying a word and goes to look in some other book, I realize he's still out to lunch.

I don't know what these people are doing. I think the box may be mine, but no one is saying anything. They are still looking in books. Or on the computer. B and O are trying to run around the room, and starting to scream. I tell them to be quiet. I threaten that I won't bring them next time (yeah, right..as if  there will be a next time). They're tired. It's past nap time. They're cooped up in this office that we have now been waiting in for close to twenty minutes, for some thingamabob that was called ahead for.

B and O ignore me.

Eventually, Bob asks how I'm paying for it.

Can't he see how I'm paying for it? I mean, obviously, whatever I did, I am clearly paying for it right now at this very moment.

Instead, I hand him the credit card. For some reason, it takes a full five minutes to run it. B and O are still screaming. In unison. And then laughing at how funny they are. Yeah. Hilarious. A guy sitting at his desk in the corner, who until now has not not looked up, spoken to, or acknowledged us in any way, says "Uh, excuse me, but Frank's on the phone over there".

Really? I want to tell him that Frank obviously doesn't remember any of his phone conversations anyway, since he is clearly out to lunch. But instead, I grab my credit card, grab my thingamajig, grab my children, and drag us all back to the car.

As we get in, B says loud enough for anyone passing to hear "Butt heads".

Butt heads?

Where did my four year old hear this word?

I wonder if he learned it from the other kids at preschool. I wonder if he taught it to the other kids at preschool.

I wonder if he's said it to his teachers. Yet.

I wonder why he couldn't have said it when we were still inside.

The Tooth Fairy Rules

When N lost her first tooth yesterday, I realized that I'm really not up on all this Tooth Fairy stuff.

 After all, until yesterday, I was a Tooth Fairy virgin.

As I was tucking N in last night, she told me that the Tooth Fairy gave a friend at school new clip on earrings.  Then she looked at me pointedly and said, "I hope the Tooth Fairy brings me clip on earrings, MOMMY".

I suspect this is not so much an I KNOW you're the Tooth Fairy as much as an I suspect you are the Tooth Fairy but I'm not completely sure and besides, I'm not really sure I want to believe it just yet, so I looked at her quizzically and said "I don't know why you'd tell me. It's up to the Tooth Fairy what you get".

I didn't tell her that I was pretty sure that our Tooth Fairy didn't do earrings.

Then I kissed her good night and went downstairs to start the nightly routine of dishes, and cleaning, and email, and blogging, and back pack checking, and lunch making, and well...you get the picture.

Several times I thought of getting Tooth Fairy money out of my purse.

And then I almost went to bed without doing it.

When I did remember and attempted to put it under her pillow, my usually heavy sleeper woke up every time I walked into her room. I managed to put a few bucks under her pillow as I kissed her good night for the third time.

But I didn't manage to get the tooth. And though I'm kind of out of touch with the Tooth Fairy details, I'm fairly certain that the idea is that the Tooth Fairy takes the tooth.

Right?

The fourth time I tried to go into N's room, she woke up and stared at me, and asked me what I was doing.

I told her I thought I heard the dog whining to get out of her room.

She looked at the dog, who was sound asleep on the floor, shrugged, and rolled back over.

I still didn't get the tooth.

So I gave up, and the Tooth Fairy wrote a note instead. A poem about how the Tooth Fairy would let her keep this one tooth, since it was the first one to fall out.

Just this once.

It was signed TF.

I slipped it under her door and she found it this morning. She was happy to have the money and the tooth, but didn't seem all that surprised to get  a note from the Tooth Fairy.

When she came home from school, and I mentioned how cool it was that the Tooth Fairy let her keep her tooth, she looked at me, clearly confused, and said "Well I left her a note asking to keep it".

Oh. You did?

And then she showed me the note she'd left on her desk before bed last night, asking the Tooth Fairy to please let her keep this tooth.

Just this once.

Phew.

Score one for the TF.

But I WAITED for you

N lost her first tooth today.

We knew this day was coming, obviously. In fact, at her dental check up two years ago,  her dentist said it was loose.

I'm thinking he was jumping the gun just a little.

So we've been waiting...waiting for it to get looser, waiting for it to look looser, waiting for it to get as loose as it was yesterday, since it really seemed to have tightened up since then, didn't it, mom?

Waiting to be the last kid in the whole second grade to lose a tooth.

I haven't verified the accuracy of that statement, but as in most things, it's really all in the perception, anyway.

And it was definitely N's perception that she was the only child of approximately 125 second graders who had not lost a tooth.

Eventually, it was clear that the tooth really was loose. Then looser. And then looser still.

And today, when it was bleeding, there were tears, and anxiety, because well, we didn't know there would be actual blood.

That tooth was obviously hanging on by a thread. And after several trips to the bathroom to see if it was bleeding even more, N was barely hanging on by a thread.

So, of course, I was, too.

I told her she could pull it out, or brush her teeth, and it would probably come out on its own. I offered to pull it out myself, and she told me, pretty clearly, absolutely not.

Thank you God, for that one.

Eventually, as N wiggled her tooth for the forty-seventh time in five minutes, it came out.

All by itself.

Well, you know, more or less.

Her tears turned to laughter, as she ran around the house yelling, "I lost a tooth! I finally lost a tooth!"

Ever the supportive brother, B ran out into the driveway to announce to anyone who cared--and anyone who didn't--that N had lost a tooth.

O also joined in the celebration by dancing around the house.  Sweet boy.

We're pretty sure he had absolutely no idea what all the celebrating was about.

N handed the tooth over to me, and as I looked at that little white nugget, I thought I was going to cry.

And then I got mad instead.

THIS is the thanks I get?

I waited for you for nine long months.

Who knew it took as long for a baby to grow a tooth as it did to grow a baby?

From the first sign of excessive drool when N was barely three months, we anxiously waited for the first sign of you. We thought you'd never get here.

In the first of many parenting "what ifs", we wondered if maybe our cute toothless, bald baby was just going to remain toothless.

We realized it might be an impediment to future relationships, but we were OK with it. We thought she was adorable without teeth.

And, then, eventually, after looking in her mouth several times a day for months, hoping to spot something pearly white, one day we actually did.

There was actually a tooth in that mouth.

I wrote it down in the baby book.

I took pictures.

I called friends and family.

We had an actual tooth.

It was just a small one.

But still, it was there.

If my sons ever ask, I will assure them that I did the same for them. After all, just because they are the second and third children doesn't mean their teeth were any less spectacular. All first teeth should be celebrated. And celebrate we did.

I will tell my sons this. And I will be lying.

Through my teeth.

Anyway, I made sure I took care of you, Tooth--and those that followed, too.

I brushed you.

I worried that you were coming in crooked.

I kept lollipops and candy away from you.

OK, so that's not true.

But I tried.

I made sure you got fluoride, but not too much.

And I made sure you didn't get certain antibiotics.

I just wanted you to stay healthy, and pretty, and strong.

Yes, I did all that.

And for what?

So you could just one day fall out?

I know...you're just a tooth. And, yes, of course, I knew this day would come. And OK, fine, baby teeth are supposed to fall out.

Whatever.

I joined in today's celebration, of course. What an exciting day this is, when you lose your first tooth.

Especially when you were the last kid in the second grade to lose one.

But don't think this is easy for me, Tooth--this whole falling out thing.

Just because I'm smiling, and laughing, and asking N to repeatedly say words like "lettuce", doesn't mean that, inside, I'm not still a little sad.

There's this cute little hole in N's mouth now, where you used to be.

And I think I have one in my heart to match it.

It's just a small one.

But still, it's there.

The Numbers Game...

N is in second grade now. I loved second grade. I loved learning all the things you learn in second grade, and I love seeing what she is learning in second grade.

Except in math.

Whatever they are now teaching in second grade math is not at all what they were teaching when I was in second grade. Nor are they teaching anything math related the way that they taught math related things when I was in school.

It doesn't help that I am math dumb.

Really, I am.

In high school, I took Geometry-for-kids-who-wont-graduate-without-this-last-math-credit-so-lets just-stick-em-in-a-room-and-have-them-count-beads-in-the-shape-of-triangles-and-call-it-a-day.

OK so I might be exaggerating just a teeny bit.

But not much.

Really.

I know that my dad also said when I was in school that they weren't teaching math the way they taught math when he was in school. It seems that he was just taught "math" while we were taught "new math."

I have yet to hear my daughter's math called anything other than "math", though clearly it can't be just "math" if that's what my father was taught seventy five years ago. Nor is it "new math" if that's what I was taught thirty fifteen years ago.

But I think I've figured out the appropriate term for the math my daughter is learning.

Clearly, she is learning "WTF Math".

I'm sure of it.

Because as I attempt to help her with her homework, I don't think "Oh this is math". Nor do I think "Oh this must be that damn new math" as my father surely did.

No, what I think is...."This is math? WTF?"

Yes, she is only in second grade. And granted, I did just say that I am math dumb.

But still, I'm telling you that they are now teaching WTF math.

I don't know if I'll be able to help her much with her math homework. But I think it's important that I continue to try. So I try to do math problems in my head throughout the day in hopes that it will help. I figure if WTF math doesn't work out for her, she can always learn Mommy Math.

For example: 3 = The number of children I have in my home.

24= The number of hours in a day.

Therefore 3x 24= 72

72= The Number of Times throughout the day that I think I may lose my mind.

See? That wasn't so bad, now was it?

Or, just in case you need another example:

12= the number of CDs my sweet boys had managed to put between the sliding glass doors leading out to our playroom.

45= the number of minutes it took me to remove 11 of these CDs from between our sliding glass doors.

15= The number of times my sweet boys pinched my fingers between the sliding glass doors as they were "helping" me.

1= the number of CDs that is not coming out of that damn door no matter what I do.

Therefore 12x45+15x1= 555

555= The number of years it will be before I ever bring another CD into this house.

See? Old math. New math. It really doesn't matter how you do it.

Either way, the answer's the same:

WTF.