What Would We Do Without Our Friends...

Today we were fortunate to have one of those unseasonably warm January days that seem to come along at just the right time. You know the time...when the weather has been cold, or snowy, or wet for at least six months--or maybe it just feels that way--and you wake up one day and realize that if you have to spend one.more.moment in this house with these children you might just lose the teeny tiny little pieces of your sanity that remain.

In fact, you are so sure that this is going to happen, that you wake up one day and say "Please God. Let me hold on just a little bit longer. These kids need me until at least age eighteen, most likely longer, so please don't let me lose my mind just yet. And, oh, by the way, a little sunshine would probably help".

And then...voila...He delivers. Sunshine and 50s in January.

Phew.

That was a close one.

(I realize that some of you live in warm places, where temps in the 50s in January is not that warm. And you should realize that I don't live in one of those places, so please don't burst my bubble. Trust me when I tell you, it was practically roasting here today).

Since we had a play date planned with my friend Lisa (mother of the Triple Threat, and blogger at Three Under Five and Still Alive) we decided to head to the park. We love the park. The girls can play together. The boys can run together. And occasionally, and briefly, the moms can actually take a swig from the wine bottle in the brown paper bag have a conversation.

Yes, of course I'm kidding about the brown paper bag.

Maybe.

Another great thing about the park is that, if you're a three or four year old boy and have to pee, you can grab your buddy, find the biggest mud puddle you can, and together, you can drop your trousers.

Splashing and peeing at the same time.

What could be more perfect?

As an added bonus, you'll probably get the park to yourself for a little while after this.

Lisa and I, of course, put on our best Mommy voices and told our respective children that they needed to pull their (soaking wet, mud covered) pants back up, and keep them on at all times while at the park. Then, because she's way more together than I am, Lisa changed her flasher's pants. I made my flasher stay in his (soaking wet, mud covered) pants. I figured it would teach him a lesson. I figured it would help him remember why we don't pull our pants down in the middle of the park and pee in mud puddles. It had almost nothing to do with the fact that I am a slacker and didn't have a change of clothes for him.

They kept their pants on after that. B even told me tonight that he was sorry for peeing in that puddle.

"That wasn't good, Mom".

Got that right, B.

"I shouldn't have peed in that puddle".

Nope, you sure shouldn't have.

"I shouldn't pull my pants down outside..."

Right!

"...without a tree in front of me".

Um. Yeah. We'll go with that.

But if you ever DO pee in a mud puddle again, I hope you have a friend with you.

It's much more fun that way.

At least, that's what I'm told.

Revelations...

I've had a few revelations lately, and I thought I'd share them with you.

The first is that I am married to a cave man. If you know Jimmy, you might take that any number of ways, but in this particular case, I am referring to his ability to make fire.

Or, FIRE.

It's his mission in life...to keep us warm. He works hard so we'll have a roof over our heads, and clothes to wear, and food to eat. And then, when it's winter, and he's done working for the day, he comes home and makes a fire in our wood stove.

A really big fire.

As in, from the doorway to the family room, it looks warm, and cozy, and inviting. But once you actually enter the room, you have a sudden urge to strip off all your clothing, and guzzle a gallon of water and/or vodka.

I know what you're thinking, and I might think it was some kind of a ploy, too. I mean, maybe he wants me to strip off my clothing and guzzle a gallon of vodka. But, well, it's not just me. It happens to almost everyone who enters that room, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't want most of those people to strip off their clothing.

I'm not sure exactly what this fire thing is about, but I've heard that other men have it, too. I'm guessing it has something to do with some primal male need to show off their fire building skills.
Maybe, in cave man times, the size of a man's fire was believed to directly correlate with the size of his....um, love for his family.

The good thing, however, is that when it is extremely cold outside, as it has been lately, his fire building skills come in quite handy, and that room actually is warm, and cozy, and inviting.

And everyone gets to keep their clothes on.

Well, except for our children, who are determined to spend most of their lives naked, regardless of the temperature outside. In fact, N, thoughtful girl that she is, is now warning her friends to expect naked boys at our house when they come over for play dates.

I suspect that the number of play date requests we get will be decreasing.

I have also recently realized how much I need coffee in my life, as demonstrated by a recent day when I decided that coffee could wait until I had everyone out of the house.

I made myself cream of wheat, and then added soy milk. Only this soy milk looked oddly clear, and smelled a little funny. In fact, it smelled oddly like...chicken broth.

Because it was.

I gave up on my cream of wheat, and walked N to the bus stop in front of our house. As I do every morning, I watched her get on the bus, and waved and blew her a kiss. And then I waved to a neighbor as he drove by.

Except that I think I may have mixed those two things up, and blew kisses at our neighbor.

The neighbors are much friendlier to me lately.

I also recently discovered that it is possible to fish Spiderman out of the toilet not once, not twice, but three times in one day.

The next time I find him in there, he better have a toilet brush in his hand.

Finally, I've come to the realization that my seven year old daughter is reading my blog.

Yeah. I know.

I mean, just because it's often about her doesn't mean it's really for her. And yet, since I am technologically inept, it was apparently quite easy for her to find--and read--my blog on the Kindle Fire we all share.

She's also, apparently, referring my blog to her friends.

Yeah. Probably not appropriate reading for other people's seven year olds either.

As a result, you may find that this isn't always available for viewing. It's either that, or start writing things that are more appropriate. And really, what would be the point of that?

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As always, thanks for reading!

Schedule This....

I recently came across a blog that asked moms who stayed at home what their daily routine was like.

Several moms responded, and some of them were apparently quite eager to share how they had their days organized. Each hour was accounted for by a specific task or activity relating to their home or children. Some moms even had their days organized into thirty minute increments, and most seemed pretty proud of their routine.

I had a routine once. It was when I had my first child. Even then, I didn't have time for everything, but at least I had a time of the day for everything. Laundry? After breakfast. Dishes? After laundry. Daily walk? After dishes.

I even had a specific day for cleaning, and a  specific day for grocery shopping. I'm not saying those things actually got done on those days. In fact, I'm not saying they always got done at all. But the point is, I had a day.

Then I had a second child. The daily schedule pretty much went out the window. I tried to hold onto the weekly one, though. If I could plan to make it to the grocery store on Thursdays, and at least partially clean most of the house on Fridays, nothing could get too out of control.

I think that lasted until B was three.

Months.

Then, two years later, I had my third child.

Good-bye any semblance of a schedule.

Hello complete and utter chaos.

I'm sure there are moms of three, four, and probably eight children who manage to stick to a schedule when it comes to things like cooking, and cleaning, and shopping.

I just don't happen to be one of them.

That's not to say, however, that I don't have any kind of a schedule. Some things, in fact, are quite regimented and predictable at our house.

For example, most days between eight twenty-five and eight forty-five, I repeatedly tell the small people in my house to find their shoes. And put them on. And get in the car. NOW. And then I can usually be heard asking why this has to be so.incredibly.difficult.every.single.day.

Predictable, no?

Then, almost every morning between nine and ten, I can be found scraping peanut butter off the floors, and the walls, and the bottom of my shoes, as I reheat my coffee for the third time while simultaneously telling my two year old to get his hands out of the jelly/butter/mayonnaise.

Between ten and twelve, we have language arts. This is what it's called when your four year old teaches your two year old creative language, like "Stupid Boob", "Stinky Butt", and "Poopy Head".

It really is an art.

Usually by around twelve thirty or one, we're all ready for them to have some quiet time in their room.  I do feed them lunch first. Assuming that I managed to salvage some of the peanut butter from the bottom of my shoe.

I'd like to tell you that the next couple hours are taken up by nap time, giving me a chance to get caught up on laundry and dishes. In fact, we do actually call this period "nap time", but that's probably somewhat misleading, since nap time implies that someone is actually napping.

Instead of emptying the clothes out of their dresser drawers, and seeing who can get a pair of pants to land on the ceiling fan first.

Or coloring their mini blinds crayola orange.

To match the walls they colored during yesterday's "nap time".

Or seeing who can shake the crib hard enough to make the screws fall out.

Eventually, all of this activity tires them out, and they do fall asleep.

Usually about twenty minutes before we have to leave to pick up N at school.

After we all get home again, I try to get us back on schedule. So at around four, as I start to attempt to make something for dinner that doesn't involve peanut butter, we play the counting game.

The counting game can be played several different ways, but it generally consists of me counting how many times someone screams that their brother or sister hit them, and then counting to three before sending someone to their room.

Then I count to ten, repeatedly, before I send myself to my room.

Later, after dinner, and baths, and bed time stories--all of which are very important to a child's daily routine--I sit down and plan the next day's schedule (after all, good planning is key to keeping on any kind of schedule):

8:00 AM Call Nanny Agency
9:00 AM Call Travel Agency
10:00 AM Book Hotel Room in Tropical Destination.

Preferably one that serves pina coladas instead of peanut butter.

And where the days aren't scheduled.

But We Could Have Been So Good Together...

Some things are just good together.

Peanut butter and jelly.

Wine and cheese.

Children and benedryl.

Other things, though, might seem to be good together, but come to find out, they just aren't. Some things, in fact, are quite disgusting together. And sometimes, a rushed mother of three trying to fix dinner before she runs out the door to work isn't really the best judge of what things might be good together, and what things are, in fact, horrendous.

But now I know: Just because the sweet potatoes and chicken were good together last night doesn't mean that they will be good together tonight...in a casserole.

OK, so maybe there were a couple other ingredients thrown in. And there may have been a blender involved. Because if sweet potatoes are good mashed, why wouldn't they be good pureed?

Yeah. This was not my finest culinary moment.

The thing is, I didn't know it wasn't my finest culinary moment, because in between checking homework, and breaking up fights, and checking the clock to see how many minutes I had before I had to find some grown up clothes to throw on so I could go talk to grown ups about their grown up problems, I was too busy being creative in the kitchen.

That was my first mistake.

I recently rediscovered my blender/dicing/chopping thingy, and I've been making great use of it all week. Smoothies. And soup. And...well, other kinds of smoothies. Come to think of it, maybe it's just a smoothie and soup maker. But for some reason, in my late afternoon/almost time for work haze, it seemed like the perfect way to whip last nights leftovers into something that didn't resemble last nights leftovers.

I'm pretty sure I was successful on that one.

I have to admit, I was pretty proud of myself. and my culinary creativity. I even made cornbread from scratch to go with it.

Good thing.

I turned off the oven as I headed out the door to work, and asked N to tell Jimmy that dinner was ready for them to eat.

I came home two and a half hours later. The boys were in bed. N was staring at me. Jimmy was looking at me like something bad had happened. Really bad. More precisely, like I had done it. I hadn't scratched the car lately. I was pretty sure all the bills were paid. Why was he looking at me like that?

"Go ahead. Have some dinner", he gestured to the kitchen. The casserole was on the stove, though it looked like someone had eaten. (There was also a lego in it, but that didn't really phase me). Then I saw the three bowls on the table. Full. I started to take a bite, but the smell overpowered me before I could.

Um, wow.

How could I make something so bad and not realize it?

I managed to take a bite anyway, just to show him that it wasn't as bad as it smelled.

It couldn't possibly be.

But no, I was wrong.

It was every bit as bad as it smelled. And then some.

Who knew that things that were so good together last night could be so bad together tonight?

Jimmy stared at me, obviously disgusted. His look said it all. He doesn't ask for much from me in the kitchen. Meat. Potatoes. He doesn't even ask for vegetables.

"What?" I asked him, "You've never failed at anything?"

He shook his head. "No. Not like that I haven't".

I couldn't really argue with him.

N tried to make me feel better. "It's OK, mom. O ate it. I think it's because he's not that far away from being a baby and, well, it was kind of like baby food".

Oh.

She tried again. "I didn't even mind the smell! I mean, I'm used to having two stinky brothers".

So sweet, this girl. She always knows how to cheer me up.

I dumped the whatever-the-hell-that-was into the trash, as N and I sat down to eat.

Because some things are always good together.

Like me and my girl.

And cereal and milk.

What Are You Afraid Of?

I have a child who's afraid I will die. He tells me this regularly, to the point that I sometimes want to ask him nicely to please not talk so much about mommy dying because, well, it's really not polite to constantly remind someone of their own mortality.

Especially if you believe it to be imminent.

But I don't tell him that. Instead, I tell him that I'm here, and I'm (hopefully) not going anywhere until I'm very old, and then I change the subject to trains, and railroad tracks, and Legos.

Specifically, that he needs to pick up the trains, railroad track, and Legos, before I trip over them and end up dead.

Oh, I'm kidding.

I have another child who's afraid of not making the gymnastics troupe at school. To the point that it's keeping her up at night. Because she can't do a back bend.

I wish I could teach her to do a back bend, but considering I could never even do a cartwheel, I don't think it's a good idea for me to attempt to be her teacher. Especially considering my other child's fears. So I tell her to keep practicing, and remind her that there's always next year, and that she doesn't have to be perfect at everything.

As I think of bribing the gymnastics coach.

Then there's the child who calmly informed me last night, in his sweet two year old voice, that he's afraid "of the stupid dark".

I don't know what to do with all of their fears, so I make promises that I know aren't mine to make, and tell them that it's OK not to succeed at something, and that if weren't for the stupid dark, we wouldn't be able to see the stars that reflect onto our ceiling.

Then I try not to let their fears keep me up at night.

I remind myself that B will will likely outgrow this phase, and that N will either succeed, or learn that it's OK not to, and that O will eventually stop saying the word stupid.

Maybe.

Someday, I hope they won't have these kinds of fears. But if they do, I will do my best to calm them.

I will tell them that moms and dads are always with you, no matter what. And that it's the dark skies that allow us to see the stars at night, and appreciate the sunrise in the morning, and dark clothing that allows us to appear thinner than we actually are.

And that those girls on the gymnastics troupe were bitchy anyway.

Then we'll turn on the flashlights, and hide under the covers, and make shadow puppets in the stupid dark.

But What Do We Tell The Children?

I think about this a lot. What to tell the children. What not to tell the children. Which questions I can answer honestly. Which ones I can't.

And which ones are likely to lead to embarrassing moments while in line at the grocery store.

I thought about this even more in the immediate aftermath of the recent tragedy in Connecticut. I tried to guard them from it. I kept the news off. The TV off. The radio off. The one time I thought it was safe to turn the radio on to listen to music, the DJ barged in before the song was even over, with specific details about the shootings.

N was in the car with me that time, but I hoped she didn't hear it, as our plan was to not say anything to her about it. She's seven. Seven. I just don't see why a seven year old needs to know that such horror exists in the world.

As it got closer to her going back to school, however, I thought of a boy in her class who frequently told her that the world was going to blow up just before Christmas. He's another seven year old. I'm not sure why he knows about things like that. Maybe another seven year old told him. Maybe he overheard it on the radio. Maybe he has older siblings. Maybe his parents don't think its a big deal for their seven year old to have knowledge of the alleged apocalypse.

Maybe I will even feel differently when it's my youngest child who is seven, and not my oldest.

In any case, I realized that it was possible that this boy would also have some information about what happened in Connecticut, and might feel it was appropriate to share. So, rather than have N hear scary things in the middle of the school day and spend the rest of her day freaked out, I told her an abbreviated, somewhat true version that didn't even touch on the actual horror that took place. It was enough, I hoped, to keep her from having a meltdown if she heard something about schools and guns and shootings, but not enough to give her nightmares. And then I told her that people might say other things about it, and some of what they said might not be true.

So yes, I lied. And then I implied that anyone who told her a different version was lying. I mentioned this, quite matter of factly, to a friend, and my friend told me that she hoped I didn't feel bad about lying, because after all, none of us know how to deal with situations like this, and we just do the best we can in the moment.

I appreciate her support. Truly, I do. But just to be clear: I don't feel bad for lying to my seven year old about something like this. Not one iota. I lie to my kids all the time. The ice cream store is closed. I didn't bring any money, so you can't get something from the gumball machine. God miraculously sends you babies when you get married. If you don't go to sleep right this moment, Santa Clause/The Tooth Fairy/The Easter Bunny is not coming tonight.

So, why would I feel bad about lying about something as horrific as this?

Apparently, though, a lot of parents believe that honestly has to be the best policy when it comes to what they tell their kids--even when it came to this. They felt that they had to tell their kids everything, because they didn't want them to hear it somewhere else. They felt that they were doing their children a disservice by not being completely truthful. They felt that, since their kids had watched the news coverage on TV with them, they had to tell them the truth.

Um, I guess turning off the TV wasn't an option?

One of the many mixed blessings of parenting is that we all get to decide for ourselves how to do it. And obviously, everyone has to make their decisions based on what's best for their particular child. I've heard a few parents, however, suggest that the only way for any (good) parent to handle this was to tell their children the truth. While it's certainly their right to handle it with their own children as they feel they need to, when I hear parents of seven, six, and even five year olds declaring across the board that "honesty is the best policy", and "silence sends the wrong message", and "dishonesty leads to mistrust"--even when it comes to circumstances so horrific that many adults can't even wrap their heads around them--I have to wonder where our common sense has gone.

These are our children. Our job is to protect them, not only from things that could physically harm them, but from things that could psychologically harm them. Sometimes protecting them means telling them scary things, like that not all strangers are good, and how to get out of the house in case of a fire, and that people can get really hurt if they don't wear their seatbelts. There's a benefit to that kind of knowledge. And as kids get older, there is likely a benefit to sharing knowledge of other things--even things as horrific as this.

But do I feel a need to be completely truthful about traumatic events with my seven year old? No. I don't.

My goal is to protect her. And keep her safe. And let her be a child for as long as I possibly can.

Sometimes that may mean that I lie.

I can live with that.