BOYS

Boys are a funny breed.

For instance, they answer

Why??

to every question asked.

But if YOU ask THEM

Why??

they will stare at you, blankly, with absolutely no reply.


Let us revisit some of my only son's best antics, shall we?

And then, let us pour Mama a margarita, shall we?

Yes. Yes, we shall.

escaping nekked through windows

what happens when get high centered

first stitches

first merlot

eating packing peanuts (well, he's allergic to real ones!)

getting himself a drink of water at the age of 1

"want some butter, mom?"

he always left binkies at the scene of the crime

fish murderer

Barbie murderer

he had Alpo breath for at least two years (I'm not talking about the dog)

For an entire yr, he wore backwards pjs because he wouldn't stop with the gratuitous nudity

His friend, Q, poses nicely while G makes a mad escape

making long distance phone calls

I blame his rudeness on his father

going through my wallet for loose change

nekked jam session

sugar high face

And the latest: DIY haircutting

Top Parenting Tips

Once upon a time, I started blogging on a different site. It was free for a limited time, I got a lot of spam comments, and then the whole site went up for sale. I don't think they exist anymore. Anyway, this was back before I could do wayyyyy technologically advanced things like copy and paste, so instead of transferring my old stuff over to blogger, I just deleted everything. Long story short, one of my most popular posts was something like this:


TOP TECHNIQUES TO PARENTING


1. "The Disappointed Look."  This is useful for when you need to pack your kid's bags and take them on a guilt trip. It only works for sensitive souls though. Actually, it doesn't really work at all, but we still use it frequently. You can partner it with a long, drawn out sigh. Maybe squeeze a few tears if you can, but don't try too hard. Kids can smell manipulation, just like they can smell fear. The only child of mine that The Disappointed Look works on, is Anna. Sometimes I shake my head sorrowfully to go along with it. She immediately starts yelling, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't really eat my green beans - look! I'm eating them now! I'm SORRY!"


2. "The Furry Hand of Discipline." This was is a misnomer. I think once Mike gently tried to explain to his little angels the term, the firm hand of discipline. It didn't go over well since they burst out laughing and shouted, "the furry hand! Not the furry hand! aaagh!"  To this day, we still call it the furry hand of discipline, and we picture it like Grover's blue hand coming out of the blue to strike fear and obedience into the hearts of little sinners everywhere.


Unless your kid has a fear of blue muppets though, this probably isn't the most effective threat. Which leads me to my next technique:


3. "The Idle Threat." This technique is as old as time. Eve probably used it on Cain and Abel, and look how - um, never mind. Bad example. But we can't seem to stop ourselves as parents with this one. We know we have to NOT let little Sue slide with whatever naughtiness she is currently involved in, but we really don't feel like full-on parenting at the moment. So we idly say something like, 


Stop these shenanigans immediately or I will cancel Christmas!


Sometimes it's not that scary or over the top. Sometimes it's something like,


Stop these shenanigans immediately or I will come in there, so help me, God!


Either way, we're lying and we're not canceling anything or getting off the couch.


4. "Talking Them Half to Death" or "Preaching." This is especially effective with teenagers. They will do anything, ANYTHING, to get you to stop preaching. Even delete bad songs off their Ipods. Even if Lil' Wayne is the only one who understands them.


I'll leave you with some great parenting quotes. If you know of any others, or have one yourself, leave em in the comments! (and admire my copying and pasting skillz, will ya?!)


A child is a curly dimpled lunatic. 
Ralph Waldo Emerson


No one ever died from sleeping in an unmade bed. I have known mothers who remake the bed after their children do it because there is wrinkle in the spread or the blanket is on crooked. This is sick.
Erma Bombeck


My second favorite household chore is ironing. My first one being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.
Erma again


Most children threaten at times to run away from home. This is the only thing that keeps some parents going.
Phyllis Diller


The most remarkable thing about my mother is that for thirty years she served the family nothing but leftovers. The original meal has never been found." 
 Calvin Trillin 


To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. 
Oscar Wilde


Even very young children need to be informed about dying. Explain the concept of death very carefully to your child. This will make threatening him with it much more effective. 
P. J. O'Rourke

You've Reached Gianni

I feel the need to apologize if you get a phone call from me.  To be more precise, from my son, (whomigavebirthtowithouttheuseofdrugscanigetanAmen?) who is completely obsessed with making phone calls. I've tried telling him he should attempt to leave the house more than once per week but he looks at me all funny, hikes up his pajama bottoms and last week's boxers, and dials yet another number.  His nearest and dearest have learned to not answer the calls.  Even Gramma, who CLAIMS she was painting ceilings.  All day.  And all day tomorrow.  Possibly into next week.  Of course, all he wants to talk about is video games, Milo's whereabouts, the odor of his own poo, his owies, movies, and Star Wars, so I do understand the phone screening.  I'd screen his calls too, but he doesn't need a phone to talk my ear off.  He just needs to follow me into the little mom's room where I'm peacefully lathering my hair in silence only to be brought down to earth by a small, nekked man doing #2 a mere 18 inches from my shower stall.

"Why can't you do that in the other bathroom?"  I demand, peeking out, shampoo blinding me for life (if the smell from last night's chili doesn't do me in first).

"Cuz I need to talk to you," he says, cheerily, elbows on his bare knees.  He has to strip down for #2.  Don't ask why.

"Talk to me about what?"

"Well, thanks for dinner tonight," he says.

"Umm.  You're welcome."

"Next time could you make something that tastes yummy?"

"OUT!"

"I'm not done yet.  So...do you wanna talk about Darth Maul or Darth Sidious first?"

After seventy-eleventh descriptions of clone troopers vs. storm troopers, he manages to waddle off (waddle because his legs will have fallen asleep, leaving behind a bright scarlet, toilet bowl shaped ring on his backside), leaving me in a green, vaporous mushroom cloud of death.  My hair immediately loses it's promised bounce and vitality as I struggle to regain consciousness.

So you understand why I'm trying to limit the guy's phone skills.  Anyhoo, he was unintentionally cracking me up today because he has heard this message far too many times now:

To leave a voice message, press 1 after the beep.


But he thinks it says,

To leave a boy's message, press 1 after the beep.


So, he grumpily presses 1 (because he's a boy) and promptly hangs up.

This makes me laugh.

He gets confused sometimes if he's leaving a message for a girl.  He doesn't know what number to press.  Is it 2?  Is it 9?  Is Gramma a girl?  So many unanswered questions!  Life is hard when you're four years old and no one will take your calls.  Should he always press 1 because he's always a boy, even if he's calling a girl?  The operator has not made this clear.  It's a conundrum and it furrows his little brow.

Why getting my four year old - going on twenty - dressed is the worst part of my day:

worse than exploding poop

worse than colic

worse than nothing to read.


Note:  I haven't had any exploding poopy diapers in a couple years and none of my kids had colic so my perception may be skewed.  




I love toddlers.  Love their squishy, cookie scented faces.  Love their Cheerio breath.  Love their dirty paws and tear stained, drippy eyeballs.  Love their attention spans of gnats and their tear-free shampoo locks of love.  And when they're little - leave em where you put em kinda little - they're dang fun to dress.  But once they develop motor skills and a sense of independence, my short career as Clinton Kelly in an apron comes to an abrupt halt.

You have two choices:

Let toddler dress himself.  This works only if you never plan on leaving your house and emerging anywhere in public.  "Public" tends to stare when someone comes at them with a Batman halloween mask, football pajama bottoms, rain boots, an inside out and backwards shirt, and a feminine scarf (which oddly enough, kinda does pull the whole emsemb together).  Add a winter hat in summer, or flip flops in winter and you have a small child's wardrobe.

So if you have to go into Public and if you're determined that the fruit of your looms look appropriate, here's what you do:

Pick out adorable outfit.  Try convincing kid to wear it.  Good luck.  The tags are scratchy.  The pants are the wrong color.  They're too long.  Too short.  There's no Elmo on the front.  The shoes aren't good.  The socks aren't soft.  Etc.

Wrestling a little child into clothing when all he wants to do is finish his half completed project of taking over the free world is a little like trying to put an octopus into fishnet tights.  The arms are akimbo, the legs are flailing, and your head will be smacked more times than you can count.  I tend to arrange my hair style according to what my four year old will be wearing that day.  If he has a button down shirt or the shoes that are hard to put on, I go with the messy bun look.  Because my head will be used at any given time as a hand rest, foot rest, arm rest, flotation device, landing pad, and a place to put his crackers.

Putting his Flintstone feet into proper shoes always poses a pickle as well.  Mostly because whether or not he needs to go potty he will be doing the Pee Pee Dance and it's really difficult to get square shaped feet into oblong shaped shoes.  My fingers will be smashed, my hair will be yanked out, my tongue will be bitten from holding back questionable exclamations, and I haven't even gotten to the tying part yet.  This is why I don't fight the flip flops in February thing.

Ironically, as I am writing this pointless post, my son is on the back deck in his pj bottoms, shoes on the wrong feet, his John Deere tractor apron backwards (so it's a cape), sliding in the snow.  Shirtless.  Shirtless is the new shirt.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

The Problem with Bathrooms These Daze

Once upon a time this blogger watched an episode of Oprah that mentioned that toilets spray their contents like in a six feet radius when you flush them.

I am not OCD about a ton of stuff, especially dirt/grime/bugs/snakes/germs type stuff.  I'm the mom who lets her babies eat all the dirt their little hearts desire, to the chagrin of their aunt.  Mud pies are good for the soul, I tells you!

But that sorta grossed me out.  The toilets, not the mud pies.

Unfortunately, I have a boy, a man child, a wee human who has been fascinated with the ol' loo since he could toddle on his chubby legs to it.  He used to flush all sorts of things down there.  Mostly deodorant caps...the occasional Superman action figure.  Lunch.  He doesn't do that anymore because he uses the toilet for what it's designed for, which you'd think would be great.

Except.

Except he has to hug the thing in order to flush it. We're talking straddle it, both arms akimbo, drawers down, face unbearably close to the very pot.  I can tell him till I'm blue in the face to pull up his big boy undies, stand aside, and then flush with one finger, but it ain't gonna happen.  He has to make out with the toilet.

And my toilet isn't gross.  I have myself plus my pre-teen army of two to clean it regularly.

But Walmart doesn't.  And 711 doesn't.  The park certainly doesn't.

And even when he's not in there with me (because he's standing under the hand blow dryer with a dreamy look on his face, letting his golden locks fly free) I still get grossed out because those stalls are built for fairy children and elves.  Seriously, I'm 5'3" and not hugely overweight and I have a heck of a time fitting in there.  Closing the door almost causes me to fall in the bowl.  Which would be grodie.

So you're supposed to flush with the lid down - according to the World According to Oprah - but they don't have lids!  So the next best alternative is to jump at least six feet away as you push down the flusher, right?  Well, no, you can't do that because the stupid toilets flush on their own now.  Who invented these things?  Cuz he obviously didn't watch Oprah.  There is no possible way to get out of the way when there is no lid to close and even if you could jump up fast enough and break through the door, you'd have your skivvies down to your ankles.  And no one wants to see that.  Also, you would trip on your purse that you had to set down on the four inches of floor space in the stall because the purse hook is busted.

In case you couldn't tell, my five minute run to Walmart was 40 minutes because Gianni had to do #2 twice.  And that is why I share my dissatisfaction with automatically flushing toilets and Oprah and her impossible to follow advice, with you.

You.
Are.
Welcome.

The end.

A week in the life of two two-year olds

Hey, Fat Luigi!





Hey, Skinny Vinny!







We're going...

....into the belly of the beast....

...there will be danger at every turn....

...I eat danger for breakfast...

Then ... are you hungry?

Starving...











I now have an inkling of what having two-year old twin boys would be like. (Any readers out there who actually have two-year old twin boys, please don't write and tell me I don't have a clue. I admit it daily). The Quinnster was pretty much an angel and his best friend, Moose, was well, he was himself and you only need to look at the fact that he is the only one with red-eye to know that he was basically leading Quinn into sin at every turn. He doesn't have much hair but he has just enough to nicely cover his horns. Quinn's mommy and daddy hoped as an experienced mother of three that I would manage to teach their little darling how to speak three languages, read Dostoievsky, be potty trained, increase his culinary palate, help little old ladies across the street, memorize scripture, tie his shoes, discover the cure for cancer, institute world peace, and make a mean risotto. They're lucky however if he hasn't learned to smoke, swear, imbibe, gamble, womanize, and drive. He now wears tight jeans, white Ts with rolled up sleeves to hide the cigarettes, and greases his hair. And goes by the name Butch. At least they didn't sneak out for tattoos and piercings while my back was turned, huh? And really, that's all I promised. That, and that he will return with a new passion for Bon Jovi, Sandra Boynton board books, naked vacuuming (ask Gianni 'bout that one), jumping off the couch, finagling in and outta the Pack n Play, carrying a stool around at all times because it comes in handy for numerous naughtiness, removing couch cushions for optimum jumping and bouncing contests, the joy of dog food snacking, and hiding things in the potty seat. Not necessarily in that order. Gianni calls him "Ken" (no, not Butch), and it would have been cute and amusing to hear G. yelling through the bedroom door, 'Mommy! Daddy! Ken's awake!' Cute and amusing had it not been 4 am. But we're very grateful for our time with the little booger, and hope he doesn't forget about his Auntie Lyssy and Uncie Mike and the strange little boy who kept slamming doors in his face and taking all the toys, when he moves off to Ireland to become a leprechaun.
We begin the packing process now. Wish us luck, say a prayer or a hail Mary or anything that might help. I hate moving. And I really hate the nightmare of driving across frozen solid Wyoming in December twice. When we go rolling off the interstate, into the path of penguins, polar bears, and prehistoric ice age creatures, and run into the same iceberg that annihilated the Titanic, I will put in a good word for you at the pearly gates. You may divide my worldly possessions amongst yourselves: children, dog, fish, Kitchen Aid mixer, Samsung washer and dryer, and my Nancy Drew collection. Oh, and Die Hard 1-4 complete with extra bonus material. And bills. Some lucky devil is going to get lots and lots of bills. Unless of course, all those things are smashed flat by the ice berg. In which case there will be nothing to fight over at the funeral - and for your information, I like daisies.

Revenge of the Mommies

I've been thinking. When my kids are grown and move out I'm going to visit them. A lot. Probably for 2-3 weeks at a time. You know, so they have time to miss me. Here are my plans for when I come a'callin':

1. I will demand a certain spread for dinner, practically faint from the hunger I feel when they take too long to prepare it, and then refuse to partake when it is on the table.

2. I will promise to be good when they need to run errands. But I will lie.

3. I will want to eat lots of bananas, but when my kids peel it wrong or it breaks in half, I will cry and flop onto the kitchen floor in despair. Same goes for tacos.

4. I will eat so much yogurt at their friend's house that they will rush out and buy a case of the same brand and flavor of yogurt for me at home. But I won't eat it.

5. I will never, never, ever flush the toilet.

6. I will use each and every public restroom in town, even if I went right before leaving the house. And when they wait outside the door, I will fling it open and shout victoriously, "I pooped!" to everyone within a square mile.

7. I will take all the pieces out of their board games and playing cards and spread them all over the house. Oh, they'll find them eventually and sort them out. But they will never find one piece from each game.

8. In my efforts to hang up my coat I will knock down every other one in the closet.

9. I will keep them up at night and then cheerfully enjoy my nap that afternoon while they wash my laundry.

10. I will eat a lot of graham crackers and then hug and kiss them. They'll be wearing a white cashmere sweater at the time.

11. I will use up every drop of their salon conditioner in one bath time.

12. I will crush up a bag of cheerios and distribute evenly in the couch cushions.

13. I will ride my bike in their house. Preferably right after they mop.

14. I will climb a tree and get stuck. I will wail and scream for help until they climb up and carry me down.

15. I will say embarrassing and questionable things when they invite the family minister over for tea.

16. I will forget everything they say so that they have to repeat it over and over again.

17. I will shout for them from across the house all day. Even if they're right beside me, I will go downstairs or upstairs purposefully so that I can shout something.

18. Every time they need to talk on the phone I will suddenly need something RIGHT NOW, even if I have completely ignored them prior to the phone call.

19. I will hide their jewelry and their car keys often.

20. I will dress myself in orange stripes and purple paisley and moon boots and I will cut my own bangs without a mirror right before we go for family pictures.

21. When they take me grocery shopping I will want to ride in the car shaped cart. But whenever they are in a tight squeeze in an aisle or trying to pay and can't get to the front of the car to get me out, I will suddenly sustain an earsplitting and horrible injury.

22. When they are loading up their groceries, I will always disappear around the wrong side of the car.

23. I will wake them up extra early on weekends.

24. I will be on my worst behavior on the Lord's Day so that they feel the need to curse all the way to church and then pretend to be super happy and holy when they get there.

25. I will eat their deodorant.

26. They will be so proud of my accomplishments for my age that they will want to show me off to their friends whose parents aren't as smart as me. But I will just pick my nose.

27. I will scribble in their books. Probably just the library books though.

28. When they try to take a picture of me I will screw up my face and stick out my tongue and put bunny ears on the person next to me. Every. Single. Time.

29. I will eat lots of pickles and ranch dressing and fish sticks and garlic sauce, and then want to cuddle.

30. It will be sweet.

Gianni Be Good

Around these here parts, Gianni is more of a verb. You know, like when the Dixie Chicks opened their big mouths and said stuff and then it backfired on them and became a term afterwards, like, "whoa, man, you don't want to get Dixie Chicked, dude." Well, you don't want to get Gianni-ed either.




Because bad stuff happens. A lot of it involves the dog. And his food.

































Sometimes it involves his water bowl. We are nothing if not flexible in our naughtiness.







































And when that gets dull, things like this happen.

Or this lovely number. My wedding ring and a binki are floating around in there as well but they aren't as visible as the upside down lighthouse figurine, sticking out the side (wouldn't fit no matter how hard he jammed it in there).

Ahhh, this is a particular favorite. He leaves his calling card, a bit like a serial killer leaving a red rose at the scene of the crime. He taunts the police, er, parents.

I'm not including photo evidence of this mornings adventure though. He managed to wrestle off the so-called (ha!) child proof cap to a brand spankin' new bottle of Nyquil. It was the cherry flavor. It looked like the scene of a particularly brutal massacre in my kitchen. Or childbirth. In any case, it wasn't suitable for the camera, and besides, I was trying to determine whether or not to call poison control. Add to that that I am OUT OF PAPER TOWELS. I don't know who's been wasting my precious paper babies with reckless abandon around here but it has got to stop. On the bright side though, the doped up little gremlin took the best nap EVER.

Gianni David is a sweet pea though. Really. He is. Deep, deep down inside. Sometimes I tackle him for a cuddle and once I crush him beneath me and grab both his dirty little paws so he can't pull my hair, it's a lovely cuddle. He's a busy little guy and it's a good thing he's so handsome - people will let him live longer. You can't stay mad at a 24 inch tall Brad Pitt, can you? I didn't think so. Here are some things about Gianni.

We call him Luigi sometimes. This is because his great grandmother thought we named him that. It was never on the table of options for his name, but that's ok. She wrote it in her birthday book right next to his birthday, so, she says, it must be true. We must have named him that and in a strange fit of amnesia, forgot what we named him and renamed him Gianni. Actually his name came about because 1. it's Italian. 2. Mike hated, loathed, despised, wanted to set fire to every other name of the male persuasion I came up with during pregnancy, and if he kept that up I was going to set fire to HIM. So when I suggested Gianni and he didn't make gagging noises, it stuck. 3. It's unusual, but not so unusual that people avoid us in life. 4. We found out later that Mike actually has an uncle Gianni. This is the story and I swear to heaven I am not making this up: uncle Gianni has never worked a day in his life and is very, very rich. We also have an uncle Vinny. Nope. Not kidding. So watch yourselves, people, we have ties. Ferghettaboutit!

He watches too much television. I blame... ok, I blame myself. But he's an early riser and that's about all we can do with him at 6 am: pop something in the vcr and slobber into our coffee for an hour or so. He loves Veggietales, The Jungle Book, Cars, Finding Nemo, and Ice Age. All of which I now despise because I know them backwards, forwards, front and back, inside out, and sideways. I tried throwing in some romantic comedies, but they were a no go. Typical man. And I take that back, that part about despising Veggietales. No one could despise Veggietales. Where else can you find The Boys in the Sink singing the Bellybutton Song? Or The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything? Or bible stories told like a western bible story with french peas? Or The Pizza Angel? Or The Lord of the Beans, starring Toto Baggypants and the evil Sporks (those unnatural hybrid creations between a spoon and a fork). Nowhere, I tell you.

He can climb to great heights. I don't mean that in a "oh my sweet baby can do anything he wants in life," no, I mean literally there is no high surface the monkey can't figure out a way onto. Yesterday he was microwaving all my pot holders on the Baked Potato setting. Not impressive unless you understand that it's an under the counter microwave and that he had to first get up on that counter, and then precariously cross the surface of the stove on his fat little piggies, and somehow manage to pull open the nuker's handle which by all the laws of gravity promise, should have flung him into space.

He talks, but not in your garden variety English. This is occasionally a problem because when he talks he expects you to repeat him. You know, so he knows you got it. No "hmmm, uh huh, interesting" or noncommittal sounds will do. You must repeat what he just told you, word for word. If he shouts, "ig oooooo uck!" you'd better quickly reply, "big blue truck!" There normally will be a big blue truck at this juncture, which certainly helps. If you can't however figure out what it is he's foaming at the mouth about, and there are no trucks about, big, blue or otherwise, then things get sticky. You'll probably have to distract him with a lollipop or a handful of Alpo.

He is so addicted to his binki that when he doesn't have it, he still goes to remove it before taking a sip of water. It's like a tic. I know, you think this is terrible, but I find it hilarious. So sue me, tics are funny.

One of his favorite things to do lately is to put on Sugarland's song "All I Wanna Do" and play his air guitar and sing. I tried to videotape it but he wouldn't cooperate. Also he was naked and maybe it was only his mother who would find that sight irresistibly delectable. I had to abandon the camcorder and tackle him.

He knows a lot of his colors!! I had to put that in for bragging rights, and also because it makes me feel like less of a failure as a homeschool mom. Ok, yeah, maybe we are STILL working on memorizing the times tables for like, the 3489365.847623 month in a row, but my not quite two year old can point out blue, green, red, orange, and purple. Or boo, 'een, wed, owag, and purple. Purple is easily pronounceable for a baby apparently.

There's probably more, but I'm suddenly very, very tired. I think I'll lick what's left of the Nyquil off the floor and go take a nap.

Even the cooks and janitors get a day off at school, right?

I get two days off, folks! That's right, the female offspring and the two that I actually claim to homeschool, are spending quality time with their dad on the road and won't be back until tomorrow. That gives me two days off! I'm just really excited. I don't have to explain the paradoxes of improper fractions or spell phalanges or anything that at all resembles education (not that we resemble it much anyway, even on a good day). I could so totally watch soap operas if I were so inclined (I'm not). I can clean the girl's room according to MY specifications (evil chortle). I could fold laundry while watching The View, like a good little stay-at-home mom (I'd rather slit my wrists with a plastic spoon). I could work on my parenthesis' addiction (but, why?)



I love homeschooling. I will say it again, thus convincing my inner voice who is being pesky and meddlesome again. I love homeschooling. But sometimes...just sometimes...I get a little envious of moms who get a seven hour break every day. I'm sure it's not as glorious as it sounds, but when you're trying to read aloud from Betsy-Tacy and renew it online and wash underpants and plan dinner and listen to some spelling and answer a text message and pull a toddler out of the toilet and and kiss a booboo and wipe up spills and empty the dishwasher and load the dishwasher and fret about bills, all at the same time, well, the grass looks awfully green and lush and inviting on that other side of the fence. Sometime the grass is full of happy singing meadow larks and has a picnic spread and waiting. With brie cheese.



So sometimes you have to take a break. And sometimes that break involves your children going on a trip without you. And sometimes that break includes Hagan Daaz 5 Brown Sugar ice cream. And it was good.



I would write more, but I have a lot of things to do today. Among them is a nap and a bath, although not necessarily in that order and not at the same time. Besides I have Anna's little tribute in my saved drafts somewhere, so I will post that as well. If it's too much reading, I don't blame you, you probably don't have the luxury of time today like I do. Maybe Mr Williams would take YOUR kids on a trip sometime; I highly recommend it.



P.S.



Yes, I do have a toddler around here somewhere, and I will take care not to completely neglect the little dear. But after he's done terrorizing the dog, throwing his lunch, pee-ing on the hearth, losing his binkies, running naked outside, helping himself to a bath, eating dirt/sand/craft projects, making long distance phone calls, triumphantly running pellmell across the house with a potty chair seat full of ... well, you know what, THEN he takes a nap. And after the nap and after he repeats the morning's performances, THEN he goes to bed at 7. So really, it's an easy day for me, and did I mention I'm just really excited about it?

Parenting by The Clash

Anna learned how to use the sewing machine yesterday, and made, all by her lonesome, two pillowcases and one skirt (modeled in the center picture). She struggles in her academics, especially with reading still, so we took a break and did a whole afternoon of Home Ec. just me and her. It was a nice bonding time with Roosky and she is still talking about it and dreaming of fashion design...

This post is going to be interactive, folks. I want opinions about a pressing matter. Here it is:

To leave the cart behind, or stick it out?

If you're parents you already know what I'm speaking of. When a toddler has a freak out in the middle of Walmart, what do you do? There are two schools of thought here. Leave or stay. Now most books/experts/mommies will tell you that you leave the cart right there and hightail it home pronto. This tells the child that his behavior is not acceptable and will not be tolerated, and it has the added perk of rescuing fellow shopper's ears from ringing and their mouths from saying under their breath, 'Why won't she just take that little spawn home?' Now this is a good method, tried and true, but it comes with problems of it's own, not the least among them the fact that your cart is filled with perishables that took you the better part of an hour to pick out lovingly and who wants to just destroy all that hard work and just leave it with the strawberry ice cream melting slowly all over the chicken breasts (the ones that are on sale and won't be when you return). Some underpaid bag boy is going to have to put all that stuff away, you know. And really, when are you going to find the time and energy to come back and shop anew, much less desire to show your face there again anyway? Here's my other issue with this method: that little angel didn't want to be there in the first place (it's hardly Lego StarWars Skittles Palace that you're shopping at) and if you leave aren't you in fact, giving in to what he/she wants? Yes, of course, when you go home you aren't going to cheerfully dole out a months supplies of Chips Ahoy and give them a pony ride and that could disappoint them a bit, but all in all, most of them are just going to be glad to be out of that god foresaken market and home, even if it does mean a severe tongue lashing from Mom. And now that you're home and little Jr. is all settled down for the nap that was overdue, you have no groceries, or possibly toilet paper, and no foreseeable future date to go get those again. Dinner consists of bean casserole surprise with a M&M reduction and a hamburger helper risotto, with a lovely souffle of canned peaches sliced 5 ways with a cheerio crunch topping. So, readers mine, do you stay or do you go (now...if you go there could be trouble...if you stay it could be double...sorry, couldn't resist and now you know what those lyrics mean).

Scenario number two: Staying to fight it out. This is not for the faint of heart. Although you may be tempted to swat a backside, this is not advisable for lots of reasons we won't go into, but mostly because I don't want to turn on the evening news and see you on it. And as much as I would like to become a foster parent, receiving your kids would be awkward and uncomfortable. So, you give the monster a firm talking to usually while gripping his shoulder in a vulcan hold, and threaten terrible things in a hiss that you will never follow through on. Also not the best, we all know you have to follow through. It's also not advisable to tease your children as my husband used to that he 'drop the hammer!' That's just asking for little Susie to shout at the top of her lungs in a public place, 'No, Daddy! Don't hit us with the hammer!' Also a great way to get yourself on the evening news. If the child has superhuman strength like the Williams' children, attempting to fold their little 30 pound bodies in half so as to place them in that dratted cart, is a little like nailing jello to the wall. Pointless, insane, and impossible. It's like trying to fold a two-by-four in half. You can reason with Susie. You can bribe Susie. But reasoning with a two year old is laughable, at least at this point, and bribing brings consequences all it's own (like being forced to buy your 16 old a car just because he didn't steal Gramma's silver that week). If you can finish your shopping in peace, kudos to you, oh parenting God or Goddess, because usually mine is finished by dangling a wriggling, snot faced, toddler under my armpit, while fishing out the debit card and shouting, 'No, it's ok, don't bag that one, just toss it the cart, and I am so sorry, and he's never really like this, and -'

Incidentally, the first time I knew I was really and truly a parent was not when they laid my little bundle of joy in my arms or the first diaper I changed or the first time they said, 'mama,' it was when I called Mike in tears and sobbed over the phone,

'You know THAT mom in Walmart? Today...I WAS THAT MOM.'

Seriously, everyone of you, this is for posterity so be honest. Do you stay or do you go? And if you have no offspring, would you rather see a mom leave or struggle through? Leave a comment, an email if you can't figure out the comment thing, a phone call, a carrier pigeon, etc. I really want to know.

A Day in the Life of

Ever want to play hide and seek with your children in the hopes that you may be able to hide so perfectly well that they may never find you? No? As wonderful as motherhood is (and it is) there are days when I'd like to call in sick, or at the very least, train a replacement in case I actually do go nuts like I threaten to, oh, maybe four times a day. I can't afford to pay her (the replacement/understudy/apprentice to my wonky life), but the list of duties would go something like this:



6 am : pretend to be sound asleep in the hopes that Mike will get up with the baby. If you lose the rock, paper, scissor game then pry eyelids open with toothpicks and give thanks to the coffee gods who invented coffee makers with programmable timers. Gulp accordingly.



6:15 : give Gianni his bowl of oatmeal and ask politely that he refrain from smearing too far up his nose.



6:30 : clean up oatmeal monster by whistling for Milo. What's grosser: oatmeal up nose or dog slobber? Scientists have proven that dog's mouths are cleaner than ours, so no worries.



7:00 : start a Bob video for one year old, who scientists have also proven should not be watching television. "Bob" in our house is code for VeggieTales. You know, Bob the Tomato and Larry the Cucumber? Don't make me quote movies here, people.



7:30, or maybe 9:00 : girls wake up and stumble upstairs, yawning and wishing they were approaching a table laden with waffles and other breakfast goodies. But, no, it's cereal or eggs, either of which they make themselves usually. That's why eight year olds are the coolest.



9:00 : debate taking a weed wacker to Cora's hair but settle for most of a bottle of detangler. Distract her from her oh-so sensitive head by chatting nonstop. Doesn't work. Cora hollers 'I'll do it myself!' grabs hair brush and makes a sprint for the stairs. Comes back up 3 minutes later with a slightly subdued birds nest atop her noggin. Repeat process from the beginning. Replacement must get good at this as she will be doing this part of her duties several times a day, only to shove a baseball cap over the offending follicles in surrender later. Kiss hubby goodbye. Wait, replacement may skip that duty.



9:30 : put toddler to bed. Don't misplace the binky. Tuck in. Smooch. Remove diaper wipes from his chubby little hands reach and put atop the changing table. Unless replacement really likes folding 700 million wet wipes back into an impossibly small container.



9:35 : reheat the coffee you left earlier this morning and just found in the bathroom which is odd because you are pretty sure you haven't had time to go yet today. Snack on something so you aren't climbing on a broom by lunch time and wondering why. Remember oh yeah, you homeschool, so better get educating. Where did those school age children run off to anyway?



9:45 : find the girls in a puddle outside collecting worms. Decide this is very science class like, why interrupt? Remind them not to bring the five dozens night crawlers into the house, puhleeze. Check emails. Unload dishwasher. Wipe down table which mysteriously emits crumbs nonstop throughout the day. There are enough crumbs on that table at any given time to start a bakery. Grumble a bit. Mood changes when you rinse out your Brawny paper towel and realize happily that you can reuse it later. Lovingly fold it and put it by the sink. Get dressed. Comb hair. Or borrow one of Cora's hats if you aren't up to the challenge. Or cut yourself some bangs in a wild spurt of impulsiveness and urge to look like Catherine Zeta Jones. Regret immediately.



10:30 : wonder, 'why does the doorbell only ring at the most inconvenient times?'



10:35 : wrangle the girls back indoors. Scoot them downstairs for some good old fashioned home learning! Get distracted by laundry.



11:00 : strange noises coming Gianni's room. After pondering a bit you peek through the slightly open door and watch him racing his sippy cup along the wall like it's a car. It's cute. Say awwwww. He's happy to see you and you race to pick him up. He has to go through his ritual of turning off the humidifier, putting his binky back to bed, and pointing at a photo of mommy and daddy's wedding. Then he waves his hand in front of his nose telling you he's stinky. Hope you remembered to put the wipes out of his reach.



11:30 : make lunch. Tell the girls, 'seriously! we are starting school and I mean now!' Go over some math review and sigh in relief when they remember everything they learned last week. Ask Cora to read aloud from her science book to Anna while you clean the kitchen. Again. Gianni is very helpful and unloads everything you load into dishwasher. You give him a hair brush to distract him and a scant ten seconds later you hear the toilet flush.



12:00 : tell Anna no, it was not her brush that her little brother tried to flush down the toilet, it was... it was just a kleenex. Why would you yell about him flushing a kleenex and why is my brush all wet? she persists. Sigh. With Nancy Drew as her mother it is no wonder that this child is a detective in training.



12:30 : make the mistake of walking into girl's room. Pigs would be uncomfortable with the idea of residing there. Count to ten. Not helping. Holler 'I thought I told you to clean this room yesterday!' Full war erupts as children argue about who has the most stuff on the floor and who it belongs to. Threaten with full scale bodily harm if THIS ROOM ISN'T SPOTLESS IN 20 MINUTES. Go into their bathroom. Another mistake. Don't you ever learn?



1:00 : hide with "guilty as sin" by Tami Hoag. Read the 500 page, "Night Sins" without knowing there was a sequel so now you are obliged to read the second. If there's a third, you are writing this woman and demanding closure immediately if not sooner.



1:30 : realize you haven't seen Gianni in a while. Oh, there he is, sitting on the table, eating crumbs. Nice.



2:00 : more laundry. Check emails and phone messages (you would have lost the phone several hours earlier but found it under the couch along with quite a few candy wrappers the girls went to more trouble hiding than it would have taken to just throw them away). Oh right, those 20 minutes were up a long time ago. Get up the courage and namaste-attitude to venture back to their room. Not exactly shocked to hear that 'it was clean, like, two minutes ago, mom! But then we started playing again and well, this pile is to land in when we jump off the top bunk! And this pile, well, I'm playing with it right now so I can't really put it away yet! And-' Close door.



2:30 : put sticky toddler back to bed. Plan dinner. Feed restless natives a snack. Remember you forgot to eat lunch. Write a silly blog for your loyal readers, all two of them.



4:00 : wake Gianni, remind Cora to grab her swimbag, tell Anna she can't go out of the house looking like that, find keys, remind Cora AGAIN to grab her swimbag, wish you would have remembered to charge your phone, hook your reusuable grocery bags over your shoulder along with diaper bag and toddler. Trip on dog on the way out the door. Buckle everyone in van. Back out driveway. Go back for the swimbag.



4:30 : drop Cora off at swim team practice. Love that eight year old. Run errands with Anna and G. in the mighty Wyoming wind. Anna is chatty without her sister to interrupt her, so conversation is constant, if a bit one-sided. Head to grocery store for a few things. Spend too many agonizing minutes over the whole free range vs. whole grain fed chicken eggs. Can't get the ones that are both, too expensive, have to make a choice. Decide for happier, free range-ier types this time.



5:45 : try to speed up Cora in the whole locker room/shower/get dressed dance. She is always the first to hit the showers, and yet, the last to be fully clothed and presentable. Do the whole hair episode all over again. Meanwhile, Gianni running pell-mell through a wet locker room, falling every five steps and making eyes at all the girls. On the way home the girls are fighting over, get this, a string. Yep, a string. A dirty piece of yellow curly ribbon that isn't even curly anymore. After asking nicely three times to knock it off, you finally hit the roof and shout, 'Shut up!' Spend the rest of the ride wallowing in Mommy Guilt.



6:00 : hope you had dinner planned down to the letter, because kids are hungry and underfoot. Do you really only have three? Cause it feels like seven, at least. Threaten with wooden spoon if anyone so much as looks like they might say something less than complimentary about what you are preparing. Kids set table. Anna wants candles. Gianni wants food now. Dog wants something tasty to drop so he's glued to your side. Mike wants kisses. No, wait, not from you he doesn't! Unless replacement looks like Jenna Elfman. Which I totally do if you close one eye and drink too much.



7:00 : clean kitchen, yet again. Get a chance to use that Brawny, yeah, baby. Bathe Moose. Wonder why you're wetter than he is. Wrestle him into Buzz Lightyear pajamas after lotion-ing him up which is about as difficult and time consuming as say, catching a greased pig, or figuring out the meaning to a Peter Gabriel song. Read his favorite books to him, which I may have forgotten to say earlier, you will read about three million times per day. Pass him around for kisses and hugs and put to bed.



7:30 : kick children off tv and order to get ready for bed. This requires telling them to brush their teeth, oh, about 64 times. Tuck them in. Read a chapter of 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.' Say goodnight. 'But we haven't brushed our teeth yet!' they cry in protest.



8:30 : retreat into television never-neverland with hubby. Curse the dvr who only records shows periodically and at it's peculiar discretion. Settle on Dancing with the Stars because it's good payback for football season.

10:30 : tumble into bed. Snore. Drool a little on pillow.

Repeat 7 days a week for 18 years.

Actually, it's not a bad position. The perks are good. I think I'll stick it out.

Childhood is spelled P-L-A-Y

So Gianni is at that age now where I start getting evil looks from other mommies in the park. Do you know what I mean? Or are you the one giving me the looks? Let me explain:

I am a very over protective mom, but like every parent, I have my pet peeves, soap boxes, personal creed, etc etc. For instance, I am very over protective about people watching my children. They could be crazed ax murderers, you just can't be too careful. I am very over protective about the things they learn and just who in the blazes they're learning it from. Thus the sheltering, er, I meant to say homeschooling. I am very over protective about what they put into their bodies and like the cruel mother I am I follow in my own cruel mother's footsteps and serve them homemade granola instead of Sugar Frosted Sprinkled Cocoa Puffed Candy Balls for breakfast (an important part of your nutritious breakfast... when served with eggs, oj, toast, and a side of vitamins). I am over protective about the little things like wearing seat belts and having a buddy to take to the restrooms and looking both ways twice before crossing the street. But here is what I am NOT over protective about:

Climbing. Climbing trees and play equipment is a child's job. You get strange looks if you leave this part of childhood for when you are fully grown. Trees are made for climbing, folks! And climbing high. Sure, they could fall out I suppose and then I suppose they would more than likely break a limb, but they could also find a way to fall off your couch while watching other children climb trees on tv, land on the coffee table, spill their snack which flings the fork into the air, only to be caught by their eyeball. Life has risks. Anyway, though, my kids are climbers and this somehow warrants every well meaning (translation, meddling) parent to approach me and kindly tattle on my own children because they not swinging properly on the swing at a perfect arc and in a five-point harness; they are three stories up in a tree, usually upside down. If I'm feeling a bit small from the rebuke I just got, I'll give a half hearted, 'Hey, girls, not too high, ok?' They've been climbing since they could walk and yes, something bad could happen. But it wouldn't be worse than having good old childhood fun taken away from them. Cora used to put boys twice her age to shame by the way she'd monkey up things, no fear, and they'd be staring at her trying to figure it out and just when they'd get up enough courage, their mommies would yell at them (their names are usually Percival or Egbert or Cyril or something equally manly) and they'd scuttle off with disappointment in their perfectly groomed faces. Now I know we need these boys to grow up to become poets and poodle hair dressers and fashion designers just as much as we need cowboys and truck drivers and alligator wrestlers because together they all make the world go 'round, but I just can't help being sorry for the boys and girls who are not allowed to play. Really play. With trees and mud and torn jeans and worms and swords and water guns and snakes and snails and puppy dog tails (preferably with the puppy dog still attached however, I do draw the line somewhere). If it's the end of a long summer day and my kids aren't grass stained and holey and smell like a gym sock and exhausted and hungry, then I have failed as a mom. Sometimes I think we as parents, need to have a good grounding ourselves, with a day of digging to China and building forts and having snow ball fights and just remembering what it felt like to play. Now, my kids are just as susceptible as anybody's at wanting to have someone else do the playing for them (i.e. video games and television and toys that tell you how you have to play them and there's only one right way). Those are the days I unplug everything that has a cord (exception: coffee maker), gently prod them out the back door and then cheerfully proceed to lock that same door until they get bored of knocking and hollering and yelling that they have to go to the bathroom and wander off in search of fun. Back in the olden days, by crikey, my friends and sis would take off first thing in the morning, pack a lunch, hop on the bikes or horses and be gone until dusk, when our bellies were growling for dinner and we could distantly hear Mom calling us home. And yes, it was uphill both ways and in the snow. Now that is a childhood. They only get one you know.