The End of My Rope

The level of chaos in our house increases with every day that the boys grow closer to their teen years.  I thought that having boys meant a drastically lower level of hormones than would be found in a house full of estrogen, but I was wrong.  

I thought that Cameron would be sweet and human until he was about thirteen - I was wrong again.  He is as moody and mouthy as a teenage girl on her period.  I know because I was one.

Ethan is full of frustration for his younger brothers, which I understand having also been the second of four children.  He lacks patience and compassion half the time, but is sweet and thoughtful the other half.  I simply never know what to expect.

Drew picks up on all these traits and magnifies them with his mouth.  I know it's my fault, but if I hear that kid call someone an asshole one more time, I'm going to lose it.

Trent is feeling being the baby and simply cries all the time for what he wants.  Today after church he wanted a Sprite.  I tend to want the kids to plow through them quickly so they'll stop asking for them, so I told him yes.  He then cried because he wanted me to bring it to him while he reclined on the couch.

In all of this contention and discord, Andrew and I have each come up with a discipline plan that might make us, the parents, happy.

My idea is to make the kids sing.  When they fight, they must sing "Love At Home".  When they are mean or call names, they must sing "Kindness Begins With Me".  When they complain about their chores, the must sing "When We're Helping We're Happy".  They must face each other, or the person they offended or were unkind to, and SING, not say, the words to the songs.  If they refuse, they must stand in a corner facing the wall until they comply and complete their performance.  

I like this idea because they usually end up laughing, and if they don't, I certainly will.  It's a win-win.

Andrew's idea is to give each kid 20 one dollar bills at the beginning of each month and every time they talk back, fight, swear, throw a fit, complain about chores, etc., they must give us back $1.  Whatever money they have left at the end of the month they can keep.  I asked Andrew what happens when they run out of money before the end of the month.  He said that's when we get to beat them.

I can live with that.

Photo credit

Of Eight Year Olds And Phobias

There is nothing more confusing to me as a parent than an extremely outgoing child who will not step one foot outside his comfort zone.

Okay, that's not true.  Most of this parenting gig has me confused from sun-up until the wee hours of the morning when I'm trying to figure out why my three-year-old hasn't learned to sleep through the night.  But that's not the point of this story.

Tuesday is Cub Scout night in our house.  The boys each meet with their den, and Andrew is the leader of his own group of boys.  Most nights the boys are happy to go and have fun with their friends learning something new. 

Tonight was an enormous exception.  Ethan was meant to go caroling at a rest home with the other Wolves, and he was beyond horrified at the idea.  

Ethan is my social butterfly.  He never has trouble making friends, he doesn't shy away from conversations with adults, and from what I understand a harem of girls chases him on the playground at recess every day.  

But tonight we found out that if you ask Ethan to sing in front of an audience with a group of other kids, he transforms into Beast Boy.  

First he faked sick, then he barricaded himself in the bathroom for forty minutes; all in attempt to get out of this caroling excursion.  When it was time to get ready I knocked on the bathroom door and told Ethan that I needed to get something out of there, (that something being him, but I felt it was important in my plan not to be too specific).  He opened the door and I told him it was time to get ready for Scouts.  He bolted into Cameron's room and slammed the door.  

I opened the door to find him curled in a ball on the bed bawling.  Bawling isn't really the right word, actually.  Picture this:

An eight-year-old boy curled into a defensive ball on a bed with tears coming down his almost purple face.

Fists are curled into tight balls.

Eyes are a little bit wild, daring anyone to mess with him.

Breath coming in short, panicky gasps.

That was what I had to deal with.

I asked him what was the worst that could happen?  "I'll have to sing...in front of people," was his hysterical answer.  

"But that won't hurt you," I assured him.

He scream-cried a retort that it would actually cause him bodily harm.

I decided that I had to make him go, in spite of his obvious bitterness towards me for not sparing him the humiliation of public singing.  I didn't want him to think that it's okay to hide from things that make us uncomfortable or to live in fear of simple things like emotional vulnerability.  So I forced the poor child to go to scouts, with the reassurance that he didn't have to sing if he didn't want to, but he did have to smile.

Forcing him to go did, in fact, require force.  I had to drag him off the bed, dress him in his uniform myself, tug him down the stairs and threaten him into the car.  

He hyperventilated all the way to the den leader's house.  And when we parked, he pulled the hood up on his coat, got out of the car, (after I told him to), and walked inside without a word to me.

Two hours later he was home. 

Alive.

Unharmed.

And as far as I can tell, not emotionally scarred by my abusive parenting.  

I guess we won't know for sure that I did the right thing until he discusses this with his therapist in twenty years.  Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Afternoon Delight

I'm pretty sure that the Sunday Afternoon was invented for the sole purpose of afternoon delight.  It's like a little pep talk for the men before they start their long and boring work week, and one less thing for the women to do on Monday.  Mondays are busy, you know.

So yesterday afternoon Andrew and I vanished upstairs while the results of prior afternoon delights and evening delights and "there's nothing good on TV delights" played outside.

The minute that Andrew and I were stark naked and in a nearly-but-not-quite compromising position, we hear the hysterical sobs of a child coming in the house and up the stairs.

We both froze.

"Is that Trent?" Andrew asked.

"Ssshhhhh!" I replied, trying to assess the situation by the intensity of the cry.  "No, that's Ethan!"

I knew that if Ethan was sobbing in such a way, it was definitely blood or death.

And there we were.

Naked.

Thankfully the doors were locked, but as Andrew and I scrambled to make ourselves presentable to our 8 year old, we were forced into an inquisition through closed door.

It sounded like this:

ETHAN!  ARE YOU ALRIGHT?  

*sob* No!  A PIT BULL chased me... *sob*

(dang-it!  where's my shirt??)

ARE YOU HURT??

*sob* No, I, I, I, *sob* whawhawha...*sob* etc, etc...

HANG ON!  JUST A SEC!  andrew!  find my shirt!!

Moooooommmmmm!  *sob*

And so on and so forth.  Have you any idea how awful it is to find out that your child has been chased by a Pit Bull and is probably not hurt, but you can't be sure because there is so much shrieking and sobbing and no shirt in sight?  Lemme tell ya, it makes you feel like such a selfish schmuck.  There we were, getting busy, while our child faced death on his own.

Eventually we found all the appropriate clothing that allowed us to open the door and accept our hysterical child into our arms.  Our hysterical child who was thankfully unscathed on the outside, regardless of the terror he felt on the inside.  And think how much worse it could have been if, on top of the dog scare, we had forgotten to lock the bedroom door.

Anyhow, lesson learned.  If we ever indulge in afternoon delight again, all children will be required to remain indoors watching calm, G-rated movies.  Well, movie, I should say.  Or just the trailers.  Whatever.

Irreverent Prayers

Sometimes on nights when the kids have pummeled me with idiotic requests and sassy mouths and whining I lose it around bedtime.  So when it comes time to help the little kids with their prayers, I can't quite summon the decency for a sweet prayer and they come out something like this:

Me:  Dear Heavenly Father,

Wait for bothersome child to repeat.

Me:  Please help me stop being naughty.

Wait for shocked child to repeat.

Me:  And help me not make mom mad.

Wait for uncertain child to repeat.

Me:  And please help me to stay in my own bed all night and not come in Mommy's bed at all, ever, all night long.

Wait for giggling child to repeat.

Me:  And please help me stop being a whiny brat and please forgive Mommy for not brushing my teeth.

Wait, but child is giggling too hard at this point to repeat anything.

Then I end the prayer with a hallelujah-type AMEN! and call it a night.

I swear if one of those kids tries to sneak into my bed tonight I will roll them off and not feel bad when they hit the floor.

Naps Are Good

Today I made the mistake of trying to get by without a nap for Trent.  It wasn't a huge mistake - it fell in between cutting my own bangs about a year ago and telling my kid to go take a shower because he stinks, but then realizing it was me.  

Anyway, Trent usually takes a nap at about 1:00, and today we breezed right past it with no problems.  Until I called him to the dinner table and when he didn't come, (he sort of loves food), I went looking.  He was asleep on the couch.  At 5:30.

But I knew better than to wake him up, because my kids are beasts when they are awoken against their will.  Waking him up would have meant holding him and reassuring him that he was OK for at least an hour before he calmed down.  So I left him.

At 9:30 he woke up.  It sucked big time.  He was grumpy, (no dinner), and I was already tired...  So I fed him dinner, and then we watched two episodes of Gilmore Girls while we knocked out a bag of Twizzlers.  Then we played cars.  Then we changed into our jammies and watched one more Gilmore Girls.  Finally I talked him into going back to sleep.

Now I'm super exhausted and he's had a lot more sleep than usual, so he'll be up with that obnoxious woodpecker that has a thing for the tree outside my bedroom window.  (AKA 4:30 AM)  I'm going to be so beat tomorrow.

So why am I still up?  Too many Twizzlers, I think.

You Might Be A Crappy Parent - Sports Edition

I need to get something off my chest.  And I don't normally rant on my blog, but I figure I am allowed to do so every now and again.

I coach a second grade boys soccer team.  I volunteered to do this because no one else did.  The rules of this league state that players are to rotate positions and all players are to have equal playing time.  We are allowed seven players on the field during the game, and with a ten member team, this means that I sit three players out at a time throughout the four quarters.  We rotate.  We take turns warming the bench, playing forward, full back, and goalie.  

But we've all heard the saying, "There's one on every team."  One what?  One, big-headed, arrogant jerk of a kid who feels entitled to play his favorite position the entire game and never sit out because he thinks he is The Shit.  'Scuse my French.  I'm really heated over this.

I can't stand those kinds of kids, and even more, I can't stand the parents of those kids who raise them to believe that they are above their peers and that they don't have to respect the authority of their coaches.

Why does there have to be one on every team?  Why can't all parents raise their kids to be polite, unassuming, respectful, and kind?  

Well, to the parents of that one kid on my team, and to anyone else who thinks they might be guilty, I would like to direct the following:

If you only cheer for your own kid, you might be a crappy sports parent.

If you ignore the coach and spend the entire game shouting play-by-play instructions to your kid, you might be a crappy sports parent.

If you allow your child to throw a tantrum on the field whenever he is told to sit out, you might be a crappy sports parent.

If you tell your child that he doesn't have to go to practice because he's already better than everyone else on his team, you might be a crappy sports parent.

If you yell at other players on your kid's team for not letting your kid have the ball, you might be a crappy sports parent.

And finally, if you truly believe that all the other kids on the field are simply there to facilitate an hour long show-off exhibition for your own kid, you are definitely a crappy sports parent.  And if you're going to play it that way, you might at least want to make sure your kid scores a goal.

Just so you know.  Oh, and nobody likes you.

False Alarm

I send the kiddos off to school every morning with a kiss, an "I love you, have a great day", and a reminder to call me from their phone when they get to school. This morning, I got the anticipated call, but it was not quite the conversation that I was expecting.

About 10 minutes after sending the boys out the door, my phone rang, it was Cameron, and after I said hello, I could only hear some rustling and then Cameron grunt into the phone, "...attacking me!..."

I soiled myself and had a heart attack at the same time.

I could still hear the jostling and the grunts, but Cameron didn't make another sound other than his huffed breathing into the phone. I tried to stay calm as I said into my phone, "Being attacked by what? Are you ok? Where are you?"

More jostling, grunts, I can hear Ethan yelling...

Are they being mauled by dogs? Is someone trying to stuff them into a nondescript van with no windows? What is going on??

"Cameron!!"

And then it all became clear. Cameron told me that Ethan was hitting him and wouldn't stop, and Ethan was yelling so that he could be heard too, that Cameron ran ahead of him and didn't stay together.

They had made it to the school, but apparently Ethan was intent on punishing Cameron for breaking the cardinal rule of walking to school - stay together.

First, I felt relief that they were ok. Then I felt rage that they had scared me so badly. Next came embarrassment at the mental picture of my children chasing after each other through the neighborhood and  brawling in the school yard. And finally, I had a small sense of satisfaction that I had scared Ethan enough about the dangers of walking to school alone that he was terrified to be without his brother. 

Score one for me.

*Originally posted July 2009.

In The Parking Lot At Smith's

There are some days as a mother that taking the easy way out doesn't always mean it'll be carefree...

I had five kids in the car and needed to stop at the grocery store for hot dog buns. Needing only one thing, it felt insane to unload everybody, keep everyone together and calm in the store, get the buns and then have to re-load the car. 


Toddlers really are a huge chore. 


So on this occasion, I decided to send my older two kids into the store by themselves to retrieve the buns while I waited in the car with the little guys.

Cameron was horrified at the prospect of being sent in sans-adult, because buying hot dog buns without a grown-up held the potential for emotionally disfiguring embarrassment. (I'm sure he was picturing not being able to find the bread aisle or not having enough money at the check-out stand.  Or just someone looking at him.  Oh, the horror.)

Ethan was thrilled at the idea of being asked to complete an adult task, and immediately held his hand out for the money.

I only had five dollars cash in my wallet, so I explained to the boys that I needed two packages of buns, but that they could not cost more than two dollars each or there wouldn't be enough money to pay sales tax. I told them to bring me my change, and then told them how to get to the bread aisle and sent them on their mission.

We waited in the car for a few minutes. Drew climbed into the front seat to push all the buttons and flip all the switches he could find on the dash, check himself out in the mirrors, change the radio pre-sets... Bryan, (my nephew), and Trent jabbered and whined in their car seats.

And after a while, I saw my boys coming back towards the car with dejected faces and five dollars still clutched in small hands.

"What happened?", I asked.

"The hot dog buns cost TEN DOLLARS!", Cameron with complete disbelief in his voice.

We were at Smith's, not some organic, whole foods, green store where the prices are all jacked up, so I figured he must have read a sale tag wrong.

"Are you sure it didn't say 'ten for ten dollars'?"

Their faces lit up with understanding, and they ran back into the store while I shouted at them that in that case they should get three packages!!  (We like chili dogs.)

As I watched them scamper back towards the store, I heard a gagging noise and turned to find Drew with a disgusted look on his face, holding an old can of soda, Coke dripping out of his mouth.

I have this bad habit of leaving half-finished cans of soda in the car and then putting trash down the opening when they've gone flat and nasty. So Drew had just taken a big swig of garbage juice, and I'm not sure exactly what I had put in that can, but after boiling inside a container of carbonation and 100+ degree temperatures, whatever it was resembled a squid tentacle.

Being the good mom that I am, I laughed until I cried while Drew spluttered and whimpered and inspected his tongue in the visor mirror. I vowed to clean out the car when I got home.

No sooner had I calmed down from my hysteria, than I heard another, more ominous gagging sound from the backseat. I turned around and found Bryan with his entire foot in his mouth, gagging on his big toe as it tickled his uvula. That was not funny. 


Kid drinking garbage juice - kind of comical. Vomit all over the car - not amusing in the least.

"Bryan!", I yelled, "Get your foot out of your mouth right NOW!"

Bryan looked at me as though to say, "I don't know why you're freaking out; I do this all the time."

And then I was pretty sure I knew who had puked his breakfast up on my living room rug that morning.  Up til then, no one had fessed up.

I turned just then to see if Cameron and Ethan had finished their shopping yet, and sure enough, they came skipping through the parked cars, holding a sack full of buns. Ethan grinned at me and shouted, "Mom! We had enough money to buy candy bars!"

Those little turds spent my money!

"I told you to bring me my change!"

"We did!", Ethan retorted. "We saved you all the pennies and one nickel."

Great. Remind me to never send them with my debit card.

So, Friends, in the end, it would have been easier to just unload everyone, drag our butts through the store for our one item, and then load everyone back up.

Lesson learned.

Things That Scare Me

This morning...ok, it was afternoon, I was in the shower, and my Tiny Guy came in to use the toilet.  (Joys of having just one bathroom, people.)  I heard him flush, and a few seconds later I heard the door open and close.  I assumed he had gone out, so I proceeded to wash my face.  

As soon as my face was covered with soap I heard Tiny Guy say something.  He was still in the bathroom.  My heart jumped out of my chest, and being unable to open my eyes due to the lather of soap covering them, I shoved my head under the stream of water and furiously tried to wipe my eyes clean.  I may or may not have been having a minor heart attack.

I do not wash my face if there is another person in the bathroom.  I'm not exactly sure of what I'm afraid of.  Could be anything, really -- the person could pull back the curtain and poke you, or ...  I don't know.  It's a creepy feeling to know that someone could be looking at you while you're naked and vulnerable and can't see anything.

Also scary is when your kid comes into your bedroom in the middle of the night for a glass of water or to tell you that he had a bad dream, and he doesn't say anything - just stands there in the doorway like a character straight out of Children of the Corn, staring at you, seemingly fantasizing your bloody death.  You wake up with that feeling of being watched, roll over, and see an evil midget demon boring holes into the back of your head with their disturbed gaze.  I really hate that.  The kid should say something for crap's sake.

Credit

People following me down a hallway or up a flight of stairs also does me in.  I can't take it.  Especially the short ones.  Toddlers are the worst.  

A couple days ago, my brother introduced me to a new fear -- motorized wheelchairs in supermarkets.  He's got a bum knee that's acting up, so when he came to the store with me he opted for the power wheels instead of the cane, and he held my Tiny Guy on his lap.  I tried over and over to get behind him and his sinister chair, but he just kept looping around the aisles and coming up behind me again.  

It became infinitely worse when he whispered something into Tiny Guy's ear and then my sweet little boy cackled, "I'm gonna get you!".  I had to sprint to the check-out stand after that, heart missing beats all the way.  

So I guess what it comes down to is, I'm really terrified of small children.

Life With Boys

Being the only female in a house otherwise full of male family members, I have come to the realization that there are just certain things you get used to. For instance...

...always checking to make sure the toilet seat is dry before you sit.

...grocery shopping one day for an entire two weeks worth of food, and having bare cupboards the next.

...being teased relentlessly for failure to make acceptable sound effects during pretend wars.

...smelly socks littering the floors all through the house.

...at least one ghastly burp at every meal, followed by explosions of laughter.

...stepping, rather painfully, on army guys and Legos whilst tip-toeing through dark bedrooms to check on the kids before hitting the hay.

...always having to be the one to replace the toilet paper rolls. (Admittedly, I probably use more of it than anyone else, but I'm rarely the one to use the last of the roll.)

...constant haircuts.

...knowing the names and teams of several professional athletes.

...frantically fumbling with the remote to change the channel whenever a Victoria's Secret commercial comes on the TV.


Of course, there are a few nice things about being the only girl...

...knowing that someone's always got your back.

...never having to mow the lawn.

...the added pride that comes with being the one to successfully teach a proper batting stance.

...knowing that in about two years, everyone will be old enough to go on weekend camp-outs and fishing trips with Dad. I will be all alone for days at a time.

How do ya like dem apples?

Me And Poison Control - We're Tight

Tonight marked the fourth time in a little over a year that I have called poison control.

I'm not sure if I'm really paranoid or just a huge nit-wit. So I present it to you all - and you can decide.

The first time was when I called my mom at work and told her that I'd had a day from hell and by the way, guess what weird things my kid had eaten that day? A paintball and a shell casing from a .22 pistol. (Or something like that - I don't keep up on my gun lingo.) I thought she would laugh and tell me how crazy my life was, but she didn't. She got all freaky and started to wonder what kind of metal those casings are made of, and could it be lead?

And then I was sure that if I didn't do something my kid would die of lead poisoning.

In comes poison control.

And they told me that I had to take my kid to the emergency room to have an x-ray to be sure he had not swallowed it, or that if he had swallowed it, it had passed through his bowels.

Long story short, the x-ray was clear. And that trip to the ER will be paid off in approximately five more months. But you know what happens if you call poison control and they tell you to take your kid to the hospital and you don't do it? Neither do I. But I bet they sick the CPA on your ass and make sure all your neighbors know you are an unfit parent.

Episode number two happened a couple of months later when I had been babysitting my nephew full time for about a week. He got hold of the diaper rash cream and thought he'd see if it tasted better than that crap, Enfamil.

It was kinda humiliating to tell my sister that it only took me five days to almost kill her child.

My third call happened when my husband asked me to help him work on his 1963 Volkswagen Beetle. (Tip for the men-folk: Don't hook your gas line up to a compressed air tank and tell your wife to look into the gas tank and tell you if there are bubbles coming up in it.) So two eyes full of supreme unleaded gasoline later, plus a little in the mouth, we had call number three in the books.

Tonight I just laughed. Trent brought me a tube of rub-on insect repellent, which he had unscrewed the cap from and taken a bite out of. I honestly couldn't believe I was about to do this again.

After that third incident, my mother brought me a fridge magnet with Poison Control's number on it and a pamphlet that is meant for thirteen year old babysitters who are idiots and let their charges drink Windex and snack on Vicoden. Mom knew it would come in handy for me, too. And boy, did it! It was nice to not have to Google the hotline number. This way is much more efficient.

So I called and told the operator, (I always get a man), that I had a pretty thick file there somewhere with my information. He still asked for my name, the culprit's name, and our phone number. I gave him all the info he asked for and assured him that even though I was a repeat offender and a bad mother, I had not used a fake name.

Apparently, deet, the active ingredient in this particular type of insect repellent that Trent decided to sample, can cause seizures in small children, but given the amount that Trent ate, (and likely spat out), and his astronomical weight, he'll be fine.

But the nice man from poison control called back an hour later to check on Trent. And probably also to make sure I hadn't negligently damaged any of my other children.

If there is a black list at Poison Control - I'm sitting right at the top.

How Parenthood Can Be Detrimental To Your Sleep

Our family has been very busy making memories this summer, and today Cameron got to make some without us. He went to Boy Scout day camp. It was about 90 minutes away from our house, and he was to meet with the other scouts and leaders at our church at 6:00 this morning to carpool.

So guess what I did all night last night? I lay awake in my bed playing out horrific scenes of rollover car crashes with my 9 year old being smeared all over the highway. Honestly, it was four AM, and I was trying to force images of Cameron's funeral out of my head.

I really, really don't like to let other people drive my kids anywhere. Especially at six AM when the drivers might be tired and doze off while going 65 MPH down the freeway. Or what if the tires on someone's minivan are bald and there's a blow-out? All kinds of horrors passed through my mind.

Consequently, I was dead tired today. I dragged myself through my daily chores, and finally, at 4:30, my son came back in the front door, all in one piece.

Hallelujah! I am gonna sleep good tonight!

Being a parent is exhausting.

Or maybe it's just being crazy that makes it so rough.

Birth Control

Honestly, if this doesn't make you want to strap on a chastity belt, I don't know what will.

I Just Want To Go To Sleep And Wake Up When It's All Over

You know you're a mom when...

...it's 8:45 PM and you're clipping a two-year-old's fingernails to get all the poop out of them.

Seriously - potty training is hell. What exactly is the procedure for getting human feces out of a pair of Superman underwear? I could be doing it wrong.

And why do the underwear makers, whoever they are, insist on putting super hero faces right on the back of the underwear where the poop lands in the event of an accident? Because the characters on all of Drew's super hero underwear now have poo stained faces. Isn't it rather disrespectful to our much-loved vigilantes?

Today I decided that trying to salvage a pair of poo-poo undies by swishing it around in the toilet with my bare hands until the chunks come loose is just not worth it. So now I just throw them away.

If I have to buy more underwear before this is all over, so be it.

Feel free to head over to Arizona Mamma's blog to share your own story.

Poop, Pee and a Mild Anti-Depressant

Potty training is the worst job a mother has.

I suppose there could be more unpleasant tasks, but being in the midst of this one - I can't think of any.

Drew has just completed day two of potty training, and my washing machine and I are crying together and trying to tell ourselves that it will all be OK; we can do this.

Meanwhile, Drew is prancing around the house in fifteen different pairs of underwear a day with a great big grin on his face.

Tonight, he peed on Ethan's bed and thought it was pretty slick. Oddly, Ethan didn't seem to mind too much.

I don't have a lot of potty training experience, but really, who does? I've gotten two kids into kindergarten without diapers, so I know this is possible. Part of the problem though is that there are so many sworn-by methods out there, how is a mom supposed to know how to do this without causing psychological damage? Do we praise? Do we reward? Do we yell and scream and throw rolls of toilet paper? Every pediatrician, child psychologist, and parent has a different opinion on how this needs to be done. Well, I've got my ways, too.

Ethan was easy - he sat on the toilet, did his business, and two days later we were done and had only had two accidents, neither of which involved me donning rubber gloves and swishing Spiderman Underoos in the toilet until all the chunks were gone. Pee accidents are far easier to deal with than the poo kind.

Cameron was a different story. He was about a week shy of his third birthday and was really struggling with the concept of getting to the bathroom before anything felt squishy. I had cleaned up so much poop that I couldn't actually smell anything else anymore. So one day Andrew decided to lend a hand. Cameron pooped in his underwear, again, so Andrew carted him outside, set him down by the hose, and sprayed the poop out of his butt crack with a nice stream of ice cold water.

You might think that to be cruel and unusual punishment, but ask me how many more times he pooped his pants. Yeah. None. (Until he was eight.)

Well, it's still practically winter here, so I can't exactly haul Drew out into the yard and hose him down to remind him that we poo in the toilet, not our pants.

But the shower works really well. Too bad we're all out of warm water, huh?

Young Love Makes Me Sick

I understand that kids are into style and being cool at a much earlier age than they were when I was young, but I was floored at what happened with my almost nine year old yesterday.

Cameron walked in the front door after school and announced that he had invited two friends to his birthday party on Saturday and that they could both come.

I about shot through the roof, because this wasn't the first time that Cameron had invited kids to a party without me telling him that he could have a party. We only let our kids have parties every other birthday because they are just so stinking expensive, and honestly, it takes me two years to get over the trauma of a birthday party, so there you go.

I told Cam that he would have to call those two friends and tell them that he was not having a party. He was really good about it - didn't cry or scream or threaten to run away or even tell me that he hated me. He just picked up the phone and called Megan.

M-E-G-A-N. As in a girl.

And that wasn't a complete shocker, because he had two girls at his party last year when there were several kids in attendance. I was just surprised that he had invited only two people to his impromptu party and that a girl had made the cut.

So he told Megan that there was no party, they had the whole discussion about what to do with his present that she had already bought for him, (cringe), and then he said goodbye, waited a minute and began giggling like a maniac. The next words I heard from his mouth were, "No, you hang up first."

Oh, no he didn't!

And then the giggling again, followed by another, "No, you hang up first!"

He did.

Are we really going to do this already? You hang up, no you hang up? I have never even done that! (I don't think.) I couldn't decide if I was more amused or nauseous.

I am so glad that I didn't let him go ahead with this party thing because he had intended it to be an outing to a movie theater. I can't imagine what would have gone on in the dark. I bet he would've pulled the move where he'd yawn and end up with his arm around Megan.

This is all happening too fast.

Forget Ten, Count to A Thousand - That'll Do It.

Today was the kind of day where I had to keep reminding myself that eventually it would all be over. By lunch time I nearly had myself strapped in a straight jacket while I rocked back and forth in the corner and sucked my thumb.

I'm really trying to work on the length of my fuse. I feel like a lot of the time I am right on the edge and have no power to pull myself back. I like to blame my kids for this, but really, it's my issue that I need to learn to deal with. Deep breaths and all that meditation stuff maybe. Most of the little things that set me off are just that - little. But pile them all together into 24 hours, and I am done.

I need one of those Keep Calm and Carry On posters in every room of my house.

Clothes can be re-folded or just stuck in drawers all ski-wampus. It's not like anyone keeps their clothes neat in their drawers anyway.

Poop can be washed out of mouths and off of hands, and maybe the experience will teach someone not to do a two-handed reach around butt scratch while I'm changing him and then stick his fingers in his mouth.

It's probably normal to have to scrub your kitchen floor four times a week when you have a mob tracking in all kinds of mud and sticky goo, not to mention the burritos and rice that are always being flung off of high chairs.

Expensive baseball gloves which are lost can be replaced with less expensive gloves, and no one will die.

Dishes can sit in the sink for one more day. People can eat their cereal out of serving bowls in the morning and it will actually save time because they won't have to re-fill the little ones three times.

Blood washes. No harm done.

Spending thirteen dollars on birthday treats for one kid's class is really sucky, but at least it's only once a year.

When the car ALMOST doesn't start, it's important to remember the ALMOST, and also that triple A will come to the rescue, should I need them.

And most importantly - I can overcome this. I can be in control. I can decide what is worthy of a freak-out and what is not.

The lack of chocolate in this house is worthy of a freak out, I can tell you that.

How Has This Never Happened Before?

Head wounds bleed a lot.

My brother cracked his head wide open in our driveway when he was about three. My sister and I heard him screaming from the park behind our house and ran home to see what was going on. Bloody towels everywhere and hurried instructions from Mom to clean up the stain in the driveway as she and Dad chucked Joel into the van and rushed him to the hospital to get stapled back together.

So I had a few flashbacks when I heard that same kind of foreboding, maniacal scream from Cameron yesterday morning. He had just gone out to check the mail, and he was really excited because Netflix was supposed to have shipped Star Wars The Clone Wars right to our very own house and isn't the world a marvelous place? He slipped on a patch of ice and his feet went right out from under him and he landed head first on the concrete. And then all the blood. I was putting pressure on it and blood was streaming down my arm like something out of a horror film from the seventies. All good fun. I kept telling Cameron that he was going to be okay, everything would be fine, and all the while I am trying to figure out how to get him to the hospital for stitches. (Stupid Volkswagen!!)

Turns out that he didn't need stitches, but it's still fun to wrap your kid in gauze and pretend that your life is more exciting than it really is. And this way nobody wakes up with their pillow caked in ooze and gore.

As for the crossed eyes, we just figure they'll go back to normal the next time he takes a hit to the head.

Anyone else reminded of Albert Einstein's definition of insanity?

The other night, Ethan made me pinkie promise that there were no potatoes in the soup I had cooked for dinner. I pinkie promised, pointing out to him that he had offered me his thumb - I wouldn't want to look like I was cheating, now, would I? After we locked pinkies, he reminded me that you can't break a pinkie promise. Yes, I understand the sacred nature of a pinkie promise. I think he's been hanging with too many girls at school.

But the solemn ritual reminded me of the reason Andrew and I no longer force our kids to eat potatoes. Not even a taste. Not a bite.

When Cameron was four and Ethan two, we grew fatigued at trying to persuade them to eat their starchy vegetables. We demanded one bite of mashed potatoes, and the kids fought it for ages. There was screaming and wailing and a veritable flood of tears. Finally, as bedtime approached and threats of having mashed potatoes for breakfast were unleashed, Cameron took a bite of those cursed mashed potatoes and gagged as though it were pig droppings, then threw up all over the table. I considered making him eat the regurgitated potatoes, but was distracted by Ethan vomiting up his own bite. Two plates full of second-hand food. So not only had they not truly eaten their potatoes, but the rest of their dinners came up along with it, and the result was two boys with entirely empty bellies. We growled and sent them to bed.

About six months later, the memory of that night had faded enough that we went for it a second time. There were spuds on the menu again, though in some other form perhaps. Again, we forced one bite. "Just try it!", we pleaded.

We got the same result. Puked up potatoes everywhere.

We don't make them eat potatoes at all anymore. But we do inflict pain upon anyone who makes gagging noises or uses the words 'nasty', 'gross' or 'disgusting' in front of Drew, and so far, Drew likes potatoes.

Death By Mess

Exhibit A: Chewed bubblegum left on the edge of the bathroom sink. Inside of sink coated in dried toothpaste.



One day, I will die from the exhaustion of trying to keep up with the mess in this house. Everyone says that when kids get older, nothing gets easier because instead of dealing with dirty diapers, and "someone" spitting cereal into the baby's hair, and crayon all over the wall, you're dealing with lying, issues with the opposite sex and worrying when the little brats miss curfew. Well, I say bring it on, because the days of finding half-eaten corn dogs on the couch and gum on the bathroom sink have over-stayed their welcome.