Put Me In The Zoo!

Worry, Thy Name is Woman

2012-01-31T08:27:00.000-08:00

My apologies to the Bard for a clumsy attempt at wit, but don't you feel like it's true? I know men worry, but it seems they do it on a more broad spectrum scale: job, money, who will win the Super Bowl this Sunday. But women - and it seems especially mommies - have the capacity to worry about everything.  In infinite detail. Given 10 seconds alone to think, the worry center of a woman's brain kicks into high gear.

Did I lay the baby on her back? Is it too cold in her room? I don't want her to get sick. Maybe I should lay a blanket over her. But what if she pulls the blanket over her face? What if it smothers her? Maybe I should skip the blanket. But she didn't cry when I laid her down. Maybe she's already sick. Maybe she was too weak to cry. She felt a tad warm earlier today.  Does she have a fever? What if it's the measles? I knew I should've vaccinated her on schedule!

Before you know it, mom's laying in the crib next to the baby and trying to test-breathe through a blanket while waiting for the doctor's answering service to return her panicked call.

Maybe that's why God rarely gives mothers 10 seconds alone to think. I know if I find the time I worry. In fact, I'm kind of worried that I worry more than normal people.

Yes, I see the irony.

I'll be fine for awhile; life is trucking along at it's usual breakneck pace, giving me plenty to blog about but not much time to write. And then I get side-swiped by a fear I didn't see coming and my anxiety skyrockets. I can't sleep. I can't focus.  My kids, my husband, and my responsibilities slip to the wayside. I forget to eat. Sometimes it lasts a few hours, sometimes a few days. But in the end, I'm always ashamed of the way I let that fear take control of me, especially when my worry was so often for naught.

The question that always comes back to me is, "Do I trust God?" And the answer is an emphatic YES. I don't have enough time or room here to detail God's faithfulness to me throughout my life, but after 30 years as his child, I know for certain that my God is a trustworthy God.

So why the fear? If I trust God, why do I allow my anxiety to control me when circumstances appear to be out of my control? (And why do I continue operating under the delusion that I have any control?)

Two things occurred to me recently:

1) God made me. He wired me to be exactly this way. I don't think He's looking at me in confusion wondering "That's odd. Why is she so worried?" He knows all about my morbid imagination, my capacity for assuming the worst, and He's not shocked by it. The truth is, I think if I stepped out of His way He'd be able to leverage my feelings for His glory - that He'd remove my worry and replace it with insight.

2) He loves me. And He has given me His Word to remind me of that love, but I have to be willing to read it. I confess that I read less when life is going well. But when I'm facing anxious times? Oh, the Scriptures I find!

Matthew 6:31-34
So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

Philippians 4:6-7
Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Isaiah 41:10
So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

Deuteronomy 31:8
The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.

So I'm not going to waste any more time wondering if I worry too much. I probably do, but worrying about that isn't adding any value to my life. Instead, I choose to accept my worry as a natural part of who I am.  And then I choose take it before the throne of the God who made me, and trust Him to take care of my every need.

Hair (Apparent)

2012-01-23T17:49:00.000-08:00

Kids are like apples. They don't fall far from the tree.

Unless the tree is planted at the top of a hill, in which case the apples will roll.

Unfortunately, my kids aren't rolling anywhere. I'm rooted in land as flat as Kansas, which explains why we're all able to provide such regular, blog-worthy material. I've actually been producing blog fodder for years. I just didn't bother to write about it until my children started emulating it. But truth be told, they come by their exploits honestly - and I have the collection of stories to prove it.

One of them came to mind last week when I saw my brunette neighbor gathering her mail. My brunette neighbor whom I've only ever known as a blond.

"It looks great!" I told her.

"Thanks. This is round three, though. I don't know what I was thinking."

I knew what she was thinking. She was thinking, I'm bored and broke, but this box of Clairol could be fun!

I totally get that. In fact, it was my college motto. My hair has hit just about every color in the rainbow, including an unfortunate run-in with orange. But my worst hair-dye-gone-wrong story isn't about my hair. It's about Callie's.

Callie was my beautiful, blue-eyed college roommate. And her crowning glory was her waist-length, virgin blond hair. Virgin, as in never dyed. And of course, as her hair-dying, maniac friend, I felt it my duty to add just a touch more blond what to what was already perfect hair.

I finally convinced her to let me work my magic over Spring Break of our senior year. We were staying at my parents' house, on our way to Florida for the week. After a quick Target run, I was all set to go: 2 bottles of blond for her and a bottle of chocolate brown for me.

Can you see where this is heading?

After applying one entire bottle of what I now realize was suspiciously dark-looking goo, I started in on the second bottle. Which looked a whole lot lighter than the first.

"Um... I think you need to get in the shower. NOW."

"Really? Already?" she asked. "I thought we were supposed to let it sit for 10 minutes."

"Uh, yeah. You know, just start washing. I have to make a phone call."

The phone call was to the Loreal customer service number listed on the back of the box. While Callie was busily shampooing, I hastily explained the situation to a guy named Ted: Chocolate brown dye applied to light blond hair.

"Well, s---," Ted replied.

"Really!?! That's the best you can give me!?!" I screeched.

"What's going on?" called Callie.

"Nothing! Just keep washing!!"

In my panic, I bolted down the hallway in search another box with another customer service number on the back. One that wouldn't pass me off to an uncooperative man named Ted. Unfortunately, I didn't notice the drop of chocolate brown hair dye on the bottom of my sock until I'd tracked brown spots up and down the hallway of my parents' newly carpeted house.

Callie came around the corner as I was stripping off my socks and trying not to throw up.

"This looks awfully dark. Is it supposed to lighten as it dries?"

It cost $180 to have Callie's hair dyed back to its original color. (Although Callie swore it looked a touch lighter, and "isn't that what we were going for?") Since then, I've left all of my hair-dying to the professionals. Sure my hair might have some purple highlights once in awhile, but I pay someone to do it on purpose these days.

But my boxed-dye days might not be completely behind me. Ella told me today that she'd like to try painting her hair.

"I think it could be fun, Mommy."

Poor little apple. That kid ain't rolling nowhere.

8 Things I Learned While Taking My Children to See "Annie"

2012-01-15T19:22:00.000-08:00

One of the things I most appreciate about my family are the gifts of experience that so many of them give my children at Christmas. For example, this past Christmas my parents bought tickets for the kids to go see "The Fresh Beat Band" live in concert this spring.

Not familiar with the Fresh Beat Band? Well, the FBB is to my sheltered six- and seven-year old girls what Justin Bieber is to... well, I suppose less-sheltered six- and seven-year old girls. In other words, they're a pretty big deal in my house.

Over the years, my husband has figured out how much I love these types of gifts, so he surprised the whole family this Christmas with tickets to see "Annie: The Musical."

"We're all going?" I asked.

"All six of us."

"Ty, too?"

"Sure! I think it'll be good for him to have a cultural experience."

"Did you just say the words 'cultural experience' without wincing?"

In all seriousness, though, I was super proud of my man. Having seen "Annie" at the historic Fox Theater himself as a child, he was really looking forward to today's matinee show. In the end, we had a fabulous day together. But I did learn several things while taking my children to see "Annie."

Eight things, in fact - mostly because my mind prefers even numbers. Just thought I'd share:

1.    Some children come with more than one volume, but not mine.

They could have two, but only if you count "asleep." I can't tell you how many times we reminded the children today to always, always whisper in the theater. Apparently, whispering means speaking at the same volume, but making your voice sound a little hoarse. As in: "MOMMY, I CAN'T SEE AROUND THAT MAN'S BIG HEAD. CAN YOU MAKE HIM MOVE?!"

2.    They should let you know that alcohol is available at these events as you're
      walking in the door.

We decided to nip the whole snack battle in the bud by letting the children pick out one - and ONLY one - treat at the beginning of the show.  Our motto is, "You eat what you get and you don't pitch a fit." I picked out a box a Rasinets, because I like to delude myself into thinking that something as healthy as a raisin surely cancels out the chocolate it's dipped in. I was just diving into my box of chocolat-y goodness when I saw a lady walk by with a glass of wine.  By golly, they should have posted a sign somewhere. I was stuck with my chosen treat, but it might have been a whole different show with a little "mommy juice" on hand.

3.    Sally Struthers' most recent weight loss attempts must be going as well as
       mine.

Okay, I'm dating myself here because I'm assuming that everyone knows who Sally Struthers is. She's probably known to the older generation as that cute blond with the baby-doll voice who starred in All in the Family. To my generation, she's that overweight blond with the raspy baby-doll voice who shows up on infomercials selling fad diets. And to the generation after me? Well, I'm not talking to you...

Anyway, Sally Struthers got top billing in today's show as Annie's arch-nemesis, the infamous Miss Hannigan. And from the looks of things, she's eaten a few too many boxes of Rasinets. I'm going back to Weight Watchers ~~first thing tomorrow~~ right after Valentine's Day.

4.    I sense a kindred spirit in that mean Miss Hannigan.

Even if Miss Hannigan hadn't been looking a tad pudgier today, I still would've viewed her in a different light. As the drunken head mistress of the miserable orphanage Annie hales from, Miss Hannigan is supposed to be the villan of the show. But as she staggered around the stage today singing "Little Girls," I found myself feeling sorry for a woman in charge of SO. MANY. GIRLS. I only have three and most days I feel like I'm "going to end up in the nut house with all the nuts."

"And the squirrels."

Maybe Miss Hannigan isn't a drunk. Maybe the woman is just plain tired.

5.    Children will never ask the questions you expect them to ask.

My kids ask questions.  All day. Every day. Seriously, they don't ever stop.

So yes - DUH - they were going to ask questions during the show. But I thought the questions might be about orphans. Or poverty. Or even the drunk (tired?) Miss Hannigan.

But, no. My kids wanted to know what was in all of those packages under Daddy Warbucks' Christmas tree. And who got to keep them after the show. And if they can be the kids in the show next time.

6.    No matter how hard you work, your children will never quite look as cute in
       public as you know they can.

Those pictures of my kids in the sidebar? That's as good as they get. And thanks to Andrea, I have some pretty spectacular photographs to document just how cute they can be.  Lucky for me, because her camera doesn't necessarily capture my reality. My girls started out the day in dresses, bows, tights, and patent-leather shoes.

By the time we sat down in the theater, all that was left were the dresses. The bows were in my purse, the tights were in my pocket, and the shoes were on the floor.

7.    If you're taking children to a musical production, buy the cheapest seats
       available and pray - don't pay - for an upgrade.

My husband loves to treat his family, but taking a family of six - four of whom may or may not pay attention to the show - gets expensive. So while our noses certainly weren't bleeding, let's just say we were well-placed to make a hasty exit for the bathroom / water fountain / snack bar. Which - if you have a lot of kids - makes great sense... unless you forgot the binoculars at home.

I don't know how it happened, but despite their stripped-down, rag-tag appearance, my children managed to pull off "cute." Five minutes into intermission, a woman walked up and handed me a stack of 2nd row tickets. Let me tell you - when you're sitting in the second row of a theater watching "Annie," Miss Hannigan's fanny is larger, Annie's hair is curlier, and Daddy Warbucks' head is shinier than you can possibly imagine. And you don't need the binoculars you forgot at home. The children who were falling apart towards the end of Act I were mesmerized in Act II. Thank You, God, for that!

8.    Just because the show is over doesn't mean the singing and dancing is done.

Apparently, "Annie" was a hit for the kids. Well, the girls, anyway. Ty was a little ticked that Sandy the dog only showed up twice during the whole performance. But Evie has a whole new repertoire of songs to sing in the car, Ella has a new movie addiction, and Emily's learning how to tap dance.

In high heels.

On my hardwood floors.

Oh, Annie. I just have a feeling that you're going to be the gift that keeps on giving.

Howdy!

2012-01-13T15:29:00.000-08:00

I'm not afraid to admit when I make a mistake. I mean, we all make mistakes.

Buying that super-sized box of Oreos at Costco last week? Mistake.

Weighing in at Weight Watchers three days later? Also a mistake.

Of course, some mistakes are bigger than others. Like adopting 2 adorable orange kittens. Or volunteering to organize the class Valentine's Day party. Or taking German in high school, instead of Spanish like everybody else.

That one really screwed me up, because after floundering through two miserable years in high school - and then cramming two semesters of college course work into three, "Ich still spreche kein Deutsch." I was a pretty big disappointment to the Frau Professor who finally passed me out of pity. Or sheer exhaustion.

Fortunately, my kids seem to have inherited their language proficiency from my husband's side of the family. Their Nana is fluent in French and - according to Ella (who is in the throes of her "Parisian phase") - is taking her eldest granddaughter to France when the girl turns ten. I really hope that's true, because I'm not above stowing myself away in Nana's suitcase.

Unfortunately for Nana, not all of my kids are interested in learning French. Evie, for example, seems to have developed a passion for Spanish. I suppose I could blame "Dora the Explorer" for Evie bursting into my room shouting "¡Buenos días, Mama!" every morning, but I prefer to think of her as a genius who understands America's bi-lingual future.

The only problem is, between my ineptitude in all things language related and Nana's bias towards all things French, Evie has few fellow Spanish-speakers to interact with. Several months ago, two women from a local maid service came over to help me get my house under control. Evie came bounding in the door from school and screeched to a halt when she heard the women conversing in what can only be described as her love language. She listened for a minute, then grinned and shouted "¡Hola! ¿Cómo estás?"

The ladies' eyes lit up and one bent down to rattle off a bunch of words I couldn't make out. Evie hesitated a moment, then replied, "Um... Muy bien? Um... Si?" The lady smiled and Evie continued, "Uno? Dos? Tres?" At that point, it became clear to even my uneducated mind that Evie wasn't so much conversing with the woman as she was pulling out every Spanish word she could remember. The woman patted her head and winked at me, and Evie walked away with an even greater passion for Spanish.

Of course, her twin sister is not to be outdone. A few weeks ago, Ella was going on and on about the Eiffel Tower and Evie was going on and on about... well, whatever Dora's in to these days. And Emily pipes in from the back seat, "I'm going to learn Texan!"

"Texan? I don't know if I've heard anyone speak Texan before."

"Yes, you have," she replied. "You know - Yee-haw! Howdy! Gittyup! Ride 'em, cowboy!"

Ah yes, Texan. The language of kings.

She's pretty serious about it, too. Today she climbed in the car and asked, "Is it okay if I move to Texas before you die? I was going to wait until after you were dead, but if I go when you're still alive then maybe you can come visit me. You can even ride in an airplane and hold my babies."

Awesome. She's already thinking of me as a grandmother. Or dead.

She paused a moment to think. "Are there pet stores in Texas? Because I want to get a puppy. And two kittens. Cowgirls can have kittens, right?"

Apparently I can't get away from kittens. Or discourage my daughters from pursuing the things they love.

Even if what they love takes them away from their mommy.

That would be a mistake.

Oh Sure, I Can Laugh NOW

2011-11-13T10:28:00.001-08:00

So I took a vote - very unofficial, and involving pretty much just my mom and two sisters - and we decided that the following post is one of our favorites. Mainly because enough time has passed that we can all laugh about it now.

At the time, not so much...

But I wrote it very early on in my blogging "career" (a term I use very, VERY loosely), and the girls and I thought that some of you newer readers might get a kick out of the story. And hey, if it makes you laugh, do me a favor and leave a comment letting me know!

Just Say No (7/15/08)

Sometimes I think I must look one of those characters on Bugs Bunny. I suppose I'm addressing a specific audience here, but if you're a Loony Tunes fan, you'll know what I'm talking about. I think salespeople look at me and see a giant "Sucker" where my head should be. That, or they see me hauling my four kids from one place to the next and think, "Here is a woman who needs my product! Look at that dull skin!" Or, "Look at her rough and uneven nails!" Or "She looks like a candidate for the latest in-home water filtration system!"

OK, maybe I'm not a sucker. I've only purchased one skin care system, three nail care sets (they were made out of products from the Dead Sea!), and - hooray for me - I do not currently own a $6,000 water filtration system (although now I drink my tap water with a certain level of informed concern). I do, however, possess what those in the home sales business call a "yes face." I can say this with confidence, since I have made two forays into the home sales business myself - once as a beauty consultant and once as a jeweler. (By the way, please call me if you are interested in purchasing a ten-year old make-up kit or $300 worth of discontinued jewelry.)

A "yes face" is that one person in the crowd who makes eye contact with, and smiles at a sales person - which is apparently something I do when I'm walking by the Dead Sea kiosk on my way to the Food Court. I also do this when I answer my front door, because I just can't say no to the earnest appeals of small children selling wrapping paper for choir, or high school kids selling magazines to pay for football camp. Or to the vacuum guy who is trying to win a week-long, all-expense paid trip for himself and one guest to New Orleans.

This latest seller showed up on my doorstep recently to offer a free carpet cleaning of any room in the house. It was 6:00 in the evening, Tyler had just walked in the door, the baby was still in his carseat, and the kids were starving. "Perfect," I said, as two of the girls wrestled over a toy behind me. "One of the twins took her diaper off during nap time and got poop on the floor. Won't you please come in?" Somehow he got a glimpse of my yes face, because he wasted no time lugging his enormous vacuum cleaner and a box of cleaning supplies into my living room.

As the girls battled over which episode of Clifford they wanted to watch, and Tyler tried to figure out how to boil a pot of water for spaghetti, Joe* set up his machine and jumped right into his spiel. Five minutes in, I could tell it was going to be a long spiel. This vacuum doesn't just suck dirt out of the carpet; it inflates pool floats, cleans lampshades, mattresses, and walls, shampoos carpet, and details your car. I asked Joe if it could fold laundry and babysit, but he was staring at Evie sitting on the chair behind me.

"Um, I think she just had an accident."

Sure enough, there was Evie, sitting in a puddle on my upholstered chair.

I tried to be nonchalant, but it took an effort to mask my horror. "Why don't we test out how good that machine really is, Joe?"

While he went to work on the puddle, I took Evie to the bathroom and changed her clothes. Being that we're in the midst of her potty training, I slipped her into a fresh set of panties and shorts and reminded her that "Pee-pee goes in the potty, not in your pants." Meanwhile, Joe had decided that his vacuum cleaner probably wasn't as effective as a good old-fashioned washing machine, so I came back, stripped the cover off the chair, and plopped Evie down. "Where were we?" I asked.

Just then, Emily strolled into the room sans panties and shorts. It seems that Evie had inspired a demonstration. But Emily, having properly completed her toilet duties, couldn't figure out how to put her pants back on. Not to be left out, Ella then pulled her pants off and ran into the bathroom.

"Um, I'll be right back," I said. "I think the girls need a little help getting their clothes back on."

While I was standing in the bathroom, trying my best to explain inappropriate nudity to my daughters, I heard Joe call from the living room. "Ma'am, I think she just had another accident!"

Sure enough, Evie - whose bladder can apparently more liquid than a small horse - had once again gone pee-pee on the chair. And on the ottoman. And on the hardwood floor. At this point, unable to hide my horror, I actually screamed. Not words - just one really loud, frustrated scream. Unfortunately, the noise woke up Ty, who had been dozing in the Pack 'n Play during the chaos of Joe's increasingly lengthy presentation. I sent Evie with Tyler to get cleaned up (again), and picked up Ty to comfort him. Of course, he was not to be outdone by his sisters, and immediately unloaded a better portion of his dinner bottle onto the rug.

"Do you think we can get that spot out, too?" I asked Joe, as two naked children streaked by.

"I can try," he replied.

While he went to work on the spots and Tyler and the kids ate dinner, I tried to push this now excruciatingly slow demonstration along. But Joe was not about to lose a sale. (And really, who could blame him at this point? He was still stuck with cleaning the girls' poop-stained floor.) He pulled out all the stops and did a side-by-side comparison of his vacuum to my newly-acquired (and very expensive) machine. Tyler just gave me "the look", and headed out for his tennis workout. Since we've been married for eight years, I recognized "the look" to mean: DO NOT SPEND ANY MONEY. I knew I was now set on a collision course with Joe's hard sell.

I have to give the man credit. He asked all the right questions, pushed all the right emotional buttons, and wheeled and dealed with his "non-negotiable" - but really negotiable - price. He kept reminding me of how much easier his machine would make my life. (Had he really been in my house for the last 2 hours???) I could hear my "no, thank you" getting fainter as he pushed harder. I knew that I was a desperate woman when I considered compromising my marriage, and handing him $1600 to leave. But once again, we were interrupted by my children.

The sound of breaking glass shattered any prospect Joe had of selling me a vacuum cleaner. As I shot up the stairs, I knew exactly what had happened - the heavy mirror over the girls' dresser had fallen off the wall and crashed to the floor. Even as I ran my sub-par vacuum cleaner over the mess of wood and glass, Joe packed up his box and headed for the door. (But not before he graciously helped me move the broken frame to the garage.) Call it gratitude, but I told him that my neighbor was in the market for a vacuum and sent him next door with renewed hope for a profitable night.

When Tyler came home from tennis, we had a brief chat about inviting sales people into our home. We've probably had this conversation before, but I'm pretty sure that this time it's going to stick. The next time someone shows up on my front porch with something to sell, my face is going to have "no" written all over it. Unless of course they have a machine that folds laundry and babysits.

Oh, the Pain

2011-11-10T13:31:00.001-08:00

A few weeks ago, I was at the doctor's office getting my blood drawn for some lab work. After draining two or three pints of my blood, the nurse slapped some tape over the wound.

Then she stabbed me in the arm.

"OW. That hurt! I mean, that really, REALLY hurt."

The nurse withdrew the ice pick she'd plunged into my arm. "Sorry."

I don't think she was all that sorry, but I didn't say anything. I'm not a sissy when it comes to needles. Anyone who knows me knows of my extensive history with the medical community. I walked back to the waiting room, contemplating my new found sympathy for our well-immunized children and trying not to swing my throbbing arm.

The shot was part of a test to examine my body's response to stress. Ironic, to say the least. But I had to wait 30 minutes for another blood draw, so I made myself comfortable and texted my husband something to the effect of "OMG - PAIN."

The next thing I remember is seeing shoes out of the corner of my eye as I lay face-down on the floor.

The shoes informed me that paramedics were on their way and not to move in case my neck was broken.

"Does your neck hurt?"

"No, but my face does. Can I roll over?"

They carefully rolled me on my back, and put my legs in the air. Ten minutes later, the paramedics still weren't there and my feet were numb from the lack of circulation.

"I can't feel my feet."

There was a flurry of activity as doctors and nurses rushed to carry out the CYA emergency plan. "DON'T MOVE. We're getting you a neck brace and the paramedics are bringing a board."

"Could we maybe just put my feet down?"

The paramedics finally arrived and taped my head down to a board, then heaved me on to a stretcher.

"Are you in any pain?"

"Just my face. Do I really need to go to the ER?"

Evidently, I shouldn't have questioned procedure. I also shouldn't have asked why they were loading me into an ambulance when the ER was directly across the parking lot. After a lengthy .3 mile drive (which included turning the ambulance around), I was wheeled into the ER. The paramedics signed me over to a nurse and left. As did the nurse, who left my head taped securely to the stretcher.

"Hello? Hello? Is anyone there? I think I need a bathroom."

Eventually, a doctor appeared. "Does your neck hurt?"

"No, just my face."

"Oh good. Your neck's not broken." He took off the tape and rolled me onto a bed.

"What about my face?"

I guess he didn't hear me, because after glancing at my chart, he informed me that I'd passed out due to my fear of needles.

"But I'm not afraid of needles."

"Well, it seems you are. Next time you get blood drawn, make sure you lay down."

He signed my discharge papers and headed off to impart more brilliant medical advice to the pregnant lady down the hall. Two hours later, I was released to go home. Tyler handed me my keys and some money for the parking garage.

"My face is killing me."

"Maybe you should take some Advil when you get home."

I was kind of bummed. You'd think with all of the hoopla, I'd get something more than discharge papers and an Advil. I thought I deserved something big after all the fuss.

So did the paramedics.

I got an ambulance bill for $772 today.

Ouch.

Stage Fright

2011-10-27T14:33:00.000-07:00

I have a terrible case of stage fright that may require therapy.

Serious. Therapy.

Not that I have a problem being in front of people. Put me on a stage? You'll need one of those Bugs Bunny hooks to drag me off. Hand me a microphone? You're going to need to put some serious Ultimate Fighter moves on me if you plan to shut me up. Clearly, I'm not afraid of actually being on a stage.

It's my son who has me breaking into a cold sweat and popping the Pepto pills.

Last year, all four kids were together at the same pre-school, getting ready to perform in the same adorable Christmas program. Granted, the Thanksgiving program they'd been in just a few weeks before wasn't a stellar success. My Indian Princess did great and the two little Pilgrims were sweet, but Ty the Turkey stood up on the stage and acted like... well, a turkey. But for some reason, I thought the Christmas program would be different. All four kids were going to be on the stage together: a perfect, once-in-a-lifetime, Christmas photo op.

Mom and I started planning weeks before the actual program, sewing these adorable green Christmas jumpers for the girls and Rudolf-themed overalls for Ty. I was convinced that a sanctuary full of parents would be watching my kids on the stage (in a sea of 400 ), commenting on the creative mother who helped coordinate such cuteness.

I was half right.

Ty spent the entire time lying on the bottom riser screaming "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" at the top of his lungs and kicking at any teacher who came near him.

I spent the entire performance slumped down in my pew, crying.

People probably thought I was upset about Ty's performance. But I was really crying because after the show, I had to take that screaming child home with me - for an entire Christmas break.

I thought Ty would do better in front of an audience this year. He's much more amenable to school now that he's three, and he loves singing in the car. And at the dinner table. And in the bathtub. So at Grandparent's Day last week, I assumed he'd be fine.

Granted, the morning didn't start off great. He wanted to wear his Superman costume to school and wouldn't hear of taking it off. I was in the middle of typing out a sign to pin to his cape - "I dressed myself this morning" - when he finally decided to change. Still, we were late to school. When I dropped him off in class, he clung to my leg and cried. It did not bode well.

Sitting in the sanctuary, I tried to think of all the worst case scenarios and their subsequent solutions. (Pretty much every solution consisted of me pointing my finger and asking, "Whose kid is that?") Meanwhile, the director was working the audience to find out which grandparent had traveled the farthest for Grandparent's Day. Michigan and Ohio were the clear winners.

As it turns out, I didn't need to worry about Ty's performance on the stage. The minute he saw me, he hurled himself into my lap and refused to budge. An audience full of grandparents enjoyed this:

Ty's grandmothers got this:

That's a fake smile, but at least I'm not crying. All I could think was, "I'm just relieved nobody had to fly in from Michigan to see this."

I also had some Pepto in my tummy.

Where Fish Go to Die

2011-10-25T14:42:00.000-07:00

Last December, a friend of mine bought the twins a fish for their birthday. The girls were totally stoked and named their new friend Sally.  My husband, on the other hand, was less enthused and couldn't believe that my friend would buy our kids a pet without asking us first.

"She asked me a few weeks ago. You know how much the girls love animals. I told her it was a fantastic idea."

I am an idiot.

Sally was in our home roughly 4 hours before Ty found - and dumped - a year's worth of fish food into Sally's tank. I'm not sure how much the little pink fish had eaten by the time I found her, but she wasn't really pink anymore and her stomach was completely distended. She was still trying to choke down - or spit out - one last pellet.

It was obvious from the way Sally kept floating to the surface that she was going to die. I scooped her into a plastic cup and cleaned her tank in preparation for the new fish I'd clearly be buying the next day. Then I told the girls to say goodbye to Sally.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! YOU CAN'T GET RID OF SALLY! SHE'S FIIIIIINNNNNE!!!!"

After this convincing argument from my 5-year olds, I decided to dispose of the body after the kids went to sleep. Of course, I forgot all about poor Sally once they were in bed and I was pouring my second glass of wine.

Lucky for Sally.

It turns out she survived the night's gluttonous orgy and managed to live for another 8 months before I found her once again floating at the top of her tank. This time, I think she starved to death.  I'm pretty sure the twins stopped feeding her regularly after Month 4.

Sally's funeral was held the morning I found her, just before I sent the kids off to school. The twins cried and said their goodbye's to Sally as I dropped her into the toilet. Then, holding hands, they reached over and flushed the handle together. Their teacher later showed me the journal pages they colored that morning: one showed a little pink fish floating at the top of her tank, while the other - also showing a pink fish - was scribbled over in black.

An art therapist I ain't, but my little girls were clearly grieving. So I did what any (idiot) mother would do and bought them two more goldfish.

Lilly made it three days and Sally Two survived for four. Emily shed a few tears over Lily, but Evie skipped Sally Two's funeral in favor of breakfast. That weekend, however, we were back at PetSmart. This time, the girls picked out a large, male beta. He seemed healthy enough to me, living in that little plastic container, so we took him home. Along the way, the girls argued over names. They ruled out Sally, on account of him being a boy, and asked me for ideas.  I suggested Max, Alfred, or Red.

"He's not really red, Mommy," Emily explained. "He's more reddish."

Reddish lasted about two weeks... I think. I couldn't say for sure, because I thought he was dead at one point, but then noticed his gills fluttering. The next day, he looked like he was trying to swim. The day after that, he was definitely dead, but I left him floating there for a few extra days just in case, and then flushed him while the girls were at school. It's been nearly a month, and they still haven't noticed he's gone.

Not that there won't be at least one more fish funeral in our future. Ella - not to be left out when we bought Reddish - talked me into a goldfish named Sarah. Sarah's hanging in there, but last night I noticed an inordinate amount of food floating in her tank.

"Ella, who fed Sarah so much food today?"

"Oh, I did, Mom. I went ahead and fed her extra so she'd have something to eat for breakfast."

Ella will not grieve quietly. I might need to plan something a bit more dramatic than the small, dignified funerals we've been having. Does anyone know where I can hire mourners for a fish burial?

Maybe I'll Google it just in case. Sarah's looking a little peaked today.

TMI: Now in Pink

2011-10-21T04:41:00.000-07:00

It used to be that October was about pumpkins, and leaves, and adorable costumed children out panhandling for candy.

Now it's about boobs.

Don't get me wrong. I am all in favor of raising breast cancer awareness. I'm alarmed by the number of women in my own personal life who have or are continuing to battle breast cancer. I'm just not in favor of all the pink. Pink ribbons and yogurt lids are one thing. But big, burly men chasing a pigskin down the field in pink shoes? I'm not sure sure it says, "Do your monthly self breast exam," so much as it says, "Tackle me, I'm wearing girl's shoes."

Personally - and this isWAY oversharing - those monthly exams don't take me very long. There's just not that much ground to cover.

I confess that I've tried to compensate for my lack of endowment once or twice in life. At first, I used those silicon inserts you can stuff in your bra. You know, the ones that look like chicken cutlets but are marketed as "Curves?" But then I started dating my future husband, and as things got serious, it felt like I was living a lie. I tried weaning myself off by wearing them every other date for awhile, and then just once or twice a month. Eventually, they disappeared. I never did ask the hubby what he thought of my incredible shrinking breasts, but I suspect he was a bit surprised. And possibly disappointed.

My Curves didn't come out of their box again until a few years into marriage. As the new JV cheer leading coach at my school, I was forced to attend the compulsory first-of-the-year pool party. The thought of all of those cute, teeny-bopper girls in their cute, teeny-bopper bikinis was too much for my pride, and - I confess - I decided to break out the silicon again.

Too bad my bathing suit didn't offer the support for a B-cup, because when the varsity coach's son took a tumble into the pool, I dove in after him. Twenty minutes later, I realized that my boobs had shifted south - to my hips.

That was the last anyone saw of my Curves.

Once I trashed the cutlets, I decided to find enhancement with a bit more self-support. Enter the water bra. Looks real. Feels real. Comes with straps.

I pretty much lived in my water bra until I wore it to the Bon Jovi concert a few years ago. Just before the show, my sister-in-law leaned over to ask if I was hot.

"No. Why?"

She pointed to the giant sweat patch under my arm. It turns out my bra had sprung a leak. I spent the rest of the night living on the prayer that I could hide my deflated left breast.

So these days, I stick to basic padded bras to give me the boost I need. Although, having experienced the pride and the subsequent fall of pursuing cleavage, I'd probably skip the padding at this point. Unfortunately, they don't make non-padded bras in my size.

Unless I'm willing to wear a training bra.

Which this month, are only available in pink.

Lunch Money

2011-10-19T14:42:00.000-07:00

One of the things I love most about my girls being in school all day is knowing that I am no longer responsible for what they eat at lunch.

I mean, I am, but I'm not. I pack three lunches every night and send the girls off to school every morning confident that I'm providing a healthy, balanced meal for my kids. But I don't have to watch them to see if they eat it. If they want to eat dessert first, they can. I don't care. If Evie wants to eat all of her lunch, and half of Emily's, she can. I'm okay if she's okay. If Ella wants to complain to her neighbor that she doesn't like yogurt, or chips, or bananas, she can. Because I'm not there to hear it.

But since the first day of school, the girls have been begging me to join them in the lunchroom. After all, other kids gets to see their moms at lunch - and sit up on stage at the parent tables - so why shouldn't they get to as well? (OK, I'm pretty sure they were more more excited about sitting on the stage than actually eating with me, but whatever...)

So one morning a few weeks ago, I finally broke down and announced to the girls that I'd be joining them. The only problem was, I didn't have any lunch fixings at home, or the margin in my day to hit the grocery store for food.

"Don't worry, girls. I'll bring you something special for lunch today. But it'll be a surprise!" To all of us.

Fifteen minutes before I was supposed to be at the school, I whipped through a Chick-fil-a drive-thru and picked up 3 packs of chicken, 3 cups of fruit, and 3 milks. Since the school offers ice cream at lunch, I figured I would top off the feast with an ice cream treat.

Mom of the Year. That's me.

When I arrived at the school, though, I realized that I had NO idea where to go or what to do. I asked the woman sitting at a desk near the front door if she knew the what the check-in procedures were.

"I need to scan your driver's license. Are you in our system yet?"

"Um, I'm not sure."

"Then you probably aren't, so I'll need to take a picture for your visitor badge."

"Oh, okay. Where's the cam..." Click. "Never mind."

"So here's your visitor badge. It has your picture on it, as well as a bar code for you to scan when you're ready to check out."

I was about to ask if the Secret Service had been by recently to review the school's security measures, but was interrupted when the woman pointed to my rather conspicuous Chick-fil-a bag.

"Are you not aware of our school's Wellness Policy? We don't allow parents to bring any fast food into the school lunch room. We're trying to promote a healthy environment for our kids. Plus, we don't want anyone getting jealous that your kids got something different to eat."

OK...

"Gosh, I had no idea. I'm, um, not sure what to do, though. Lunch is starting now and this is the only food I have for my kids. Could you tell me what's being served in the cafeteria today? Maybe I could just buy their lunch in there."

"We're offering a choice of corn dogs, nachos, or PB&J. We also have ice cream available for an additional fee."

I rarely speak my snarky thoughts aloud, but I literally had to bite my tongue on this one. It was pretty obvious to me that the "Wellness Policy" could just as easily been called the "Give Us Your Lunch Money Policy." Forget the bullies on the playground. Clearly, I was going to have to watch out for the lunch ladies.

"Um, you know what? Is is possible for me to sneak this in just one time? I've already spent money on all this food, and what with the economy being what it is..."

These days, it's never a bad idea to play the Economy Card. The ~~security guard~~ front-desk-lady actually let me in, with a reminder not to bring fast food bags again.

You know what? I won't.

Next time I'll transfer the nuggets and fruit into plain brown lunch sacks.

Does It Need To Be This Hard?

2011-10-07T19:38:00.000-07:00

I love those "demotivational" posters by Despair.com. It must be my snarky sense of humor, because they always make me laugh.

Especially this one.

(I expected times like this - but I never thought they'd be so bad, so long, and so frequent.)

Yeah, that pretty much sums up where I'm at these days. Sure, I knew there would be challenges in raising four children so close in age. But is it really supposed to be this hard?

1. Ty still isn't potty trained!

He manages to get his liquids in the right place at the right time... most of the time.

Except for yesterday, when he peed once at school.

And twice on my clean kitchen floor.

But the real challenge is getting him to make a sit-down deposit. Most days, he poops in his pants, takes off his pants, puts the offensive matter in the toilet, cleans himself up, and puts on a clean set of cloths... by himself. I keep trying to convince him to cut the middle man, but so far, he hasn't taken my advice.

Although today he did he poop in the yard, pull up his pants, and skip clean-up altogether.

I didn't realize what he'd done at first, but I also knew for absolute certain that we don't own a dog. Ty confessed while I was scooping up the fly-covered pile.

2. Since we're talking about potty troubles, I might as well tell you that Ella wets the bed pretty much every night.

Ty might be able to manage his liquids for the most part, but Ella can't. Or doesn't. I haven't really decided which it is, yet. All I know is that I've been washing sheets a minimum of four mornings a week for over three years now.

The problem is, Ella - like Ty - tries to clean up the mess on her own. She strips off her wet clothes and crawls into someone else's bed (sans proper undergarments) and falls back to sleep. Suffice it to say that no mattress has been left unscathed.

Including mine.

3. My children whine. A LOT.

I know, I know. All kids whine. But people who've spent extensive amounts of time with my children? Well, let's just say that they're all quite diligent when it comes to birth control. In fact, I'm thinking about renting the kids out to our local schools.

Talk about "scared straight."

Although I still can't figure out why they whine so much. It's not like I ever cave to their demands. I suppose that I do torture them rather frequently... by making them eat my homemade buttermilk pancakes...

... or telling them to wear socks...

Oh, the horror.

*********************

I could probably spend plenty of time listing out more of my pitiful complaints, but honestly, I'm tired. I need to get some sleep. I suspect I will face a lot more challenges tomorrow which will require my perseverance.

(The courage to ignore the obvious wisdom of turning back.)

Or not.

"Fun" Run

2011-09-29T12:51:00.000-07:00

Ella is my quirky kid.

Let me give you a moment to act surprised.

It's not that she's weird. Ella just has her little peculiarities, and she makes sure that everybody knows them.  She knows what she likes... and more importantly, she knows what she doesn't like.

She doesn't like ice cream because it's too cold. Same with popsicles. She won't drink juice, flavored milk, lemonade, soda, smoothies, slushies, or anything other than skim milk and water. Period. Lunchmeat is off-limits, as is spaghetti. Goldfish crackers are the devil. She won't eat potatoes beyond the "French fried" variety.  And if there is rice on her plate, she will cry.

Her quirks aren't just limited to food, though. Ella is an exceptional athlete and loves to play sports. Once upon a time she especially liked soccer, so I signed her up for a season. But Ella didn't play much, because at the beginning of the first game the team had to run through a pitifully skimpy wall of streamers.  And then people clapped.

Ella doesn't like it when people clap - and the streamers totally freaked her out. Her soccer career pretty much ended before the game began.

All this to say that, last week, when Ella came home all excited about her school's annual fundraiser, I was a bit surprised. The school's Boosterthon program is one of those lap-running deals. You know, where the parents pledge money to the school for making a pack of kids run around the field for an hour and you don't even get a roll of wrapping paper out it? But Ella was super-excited and ready to get started.

"All you have to do is get online and type in your pledges - and we get prizes! I want the scooter."

I looked through her Boosterthon information.  To get the scooter, Ella needed to get someone to pledge $50 per lap run.  According to the brochure, the average kid runs 25-35 laps.

I told Ella to ask Santa for a scooter and pledged to give her and each twin a flat donation of $5.00. (I also signed the grandparents up for $5.00 a piece, but they don't know that yet.)

Since today was the actual Boosterthon Fun Run, Ella and her sisters woke up extra early this morning to make sure they were dressed and ready for the day's events. After convincing Evie that jeans were not the best choice, fixing 3 heads of hair, eating breakfast, missing the school bus, and forgetting lunch bags, we were on our way to school.

"You're coming to the Fun Run, right Mommy? Parents are supposed to come."

Out of a sense of mommy-guilt and against what I now know was my better judgement, I promised the girls I'd be there. I even arrived early to make sure I didn't miss anything, and was sitting in the front row for the "opening ceremony."

Luckily, there were no streamers. There was, however, a full-sized tunnel.

As the kids ran through the inflatable tube, class by class, onto the field, I overheard the parent next to me comment, "What's going on in there?"

I moved in for a closer look at the crying child curled up in the fetal position.  Streams of kids were running past her out the other end of the tunnel.

"Oh gee, I don't know. Um, maybe I should go check."

The minute Ella saw me, she plastered her sobbing body to my legs and begged me to take her home. "PEOPLE ARE LOOKING AT ME!!!!!!!   I DON'T WANT PEOPLE LOOKING AT ME!!!!!!!!!!"

It took awhile to convince her that people would probably stop looking at her if she just quit screaming and joined the ginormous mass of children on the field. When she was finally calmed down, I decided it would be better to stand by the Kindergarten track and out of Ella's line of sight. I didn't want to risk upsetting her again.

Emily and Evie were delighted to see me and waved excitedly until a buzzer sounded the start of the race... at which point they were trampled by the mass of children behind them.

By Lap 3, they were sticky and sweaty and done with waving. They pushed their way through the sea of kids, like salmon swimming upstream, and flopped down next to me. Emily was whining, "I want to stay here with you, Mommy," while Evie gave voice - albeit screechier - to the question I was thinking: "Why are we doing this?!?"

One miserable hour later, I asked the twins' teacher to peel the girls off me, blew a surreptitious kiss in Ella's direction, and headed towards the car with a screaming 3-year old boy in my arms. He was upset because he didn't get to run through a tunnel.

The woman who'd been sitting near me earlier try to stop us and ask my name, but I pretended not to hear her. I didn't want her telling her friends about "that crazy mom with the out-of-control kids." Or at least, I didn't want her giving them my name. I value my anonymity, especially where my kids are involved.

I guess Ella's not the only one with quirks.

The Wheels on the Bus

2011-09-21T13:32:00.000-07:00

School is in session now and three of my four children are attending the local elementary school. Every day. For 8 hours a day.

Uh, yeah. Can I get a "Wa Hoo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"?

So you'd think with the sudden abundance of free time, I'd be blogging daily. After all, I have a 3-page list of stories to share with you 11 followers, and I hate the thought of my faithful few checking this site every day for something new, only to find the same, stale, August edition.

Unfortunately, despite the glorious freedom of the 5-day school week, it takes me about 7 of my 8 daily hours to recover from the trauma of the bus stop. I spend the final hour alternating between washing the breakfast dishes and curling up in the corner whispering, "They're coming... they're coming... they're coming..."

Maybe we didn't get the whole bus thing started off on the right foot. If you read this post, you know that my kids are notorious for making bad first impressions. The countywide "Bus Round-Up" - a practice ride for the kindergartners and their parents - was no exception. For starters, I made the mistake of giving the girls' driver, Ms. Janice, a jar of attempted homemade preserves.... and our names.

"Hi! This is Emily, this is Evie, and I'm their mom."

We were about half-way through the ride when Evie told me that her tummy hurt. I tried to ignore her greenish complexion and told her she'd feel better in a few minutes.

Which she did, right after she stepped off the bus and puked on the sidewalk.

"Oh, is Emily alright? Or is that Evie?" Ms. Janice asked.

I muttered a response, wiped down my child as best I could, and bee-lined for the door as Ms. Janice surveyed the mess we'd left behind. It must have triggered something in her mind, because she suddenly hollered, "Oh by the way, thanks for the jam!"

Lovely.

Not that I needed that delightful first impression to make my children memorable. During these first several weeks of school, Emily and Evie have alternated with what I've come to think of as "terror tantrums." There is no rhyme or reason to a terror tantrum. Maybe Emily accidentally packed her pink pony instead of her purple one. Maybe Evie ran out of time to finish her third round of breakfast . Whatever the cause, the result is always the same: me chasing a shrieking child down the street, dragging her back to the bus, and allowing Ms. Janice to peel her off of me while the flailing child cries hysterically, "I DON'T WANT TO RIDE ON THE BUS!!!"

At this point, I have to mention that we have several lovely Indian women in our neighborhood, and that while the other parents simply watch their child load and then walk away, these particular mothers wait until the bus actually pulls out to leave. Which means that they have witnessed every one of the terror tantrums - usually with their jaws hanging somewhere down around their knees.

I'm dying to know the parenting secrets of India...

Not that my children are the only ones giving the family a bad rap. I'm more than capable of accomplishing that on my own. Just yesterday, I was late getting to the bus stop and Ms. Janice was forced to relinquish care of my children to one of several kind neighbors. My neighbor was a little surprised, my children were more than traumatized, and I was totally embarrassed.

So today, when I nearly missed the bus again, I was forced to kick off my shoes and sprint down the street screaming, "I'm here! I'm here! Don't leave yet, I'm here!!!"

You know that song about the wheels on the bus going 'round and 'round? There should probably be a verse in there somewhere about the crazy lady chasing it down the street.

Nose Job

2011-08-02T16:18:00.000-07:00

"Mommy, you made me hurt my nose!"

This is what Ty yelled out as I was making a left-hand turn into traffic this afternoon.

"Was your finger in your nose?"

"Yes."

"Then hurting your nose is your fault, not mine."

I'm trying to get my children to accept a little more responsibility for their actions this summer. Namely, I'm tired of taking all of the blame for their boo-boos and blunders. From now on, unless I actually stick a finger up my child's nose, intentionally slam a door in one's face, or toss the banana peel on my kitchen floor that causes one to slip, I'm not taking the rap for any ouchies. Because if I've learned anything from motherhood, I can't "make" my children do anything.

But I have to ask, What is the deal with three-year olds and noses? Nostrils are to pre-schoolers what electric sockets are to toddlers: Hey, there's a hole here! I wonder what can I fill it with...

When Emily was three years old, she stuck a tea cup up her nose. Yup, a tea cup. My mom and I were sitting at the kitchen table when Emily's twin sister Evie walked jibber-jabbering up to us. It was tough to tell just what she was chattering on about. "Wait," Mom finally interrupted. "Did she just say something about a tea cup in Emily's nose?"

I thought her translation was rather unlikely until I saw Mom race for the basement door. "There are tea cups in the doll house downstairs!"

Sure enough, when we found her, Emily had a teeny, tiny yellow tea cup in her nose.

"How did it get up there, Emily?"

"I was hiding it from Evie," she replied, big crocodile tears rolling down her cheeks.

It was a good hiding spot. She was certainly successful in keeping the tea cup from Evie's grasping hands. Not to mention my grasping tweezers. I finally broke down and drove her to the nearest Urgent Care. The doctor who retrieved the tea cup asked if I would like it back. I told him no thanks.

Two short years later, Ty shoved a pink plastic bead up his nose.

On date night.

As we were walking out the door.

Fortunately, the wife of the couple we were double-dating with that night is a PA. She met us at her Urgent Care down the street and, bypassing the paper work, strapped my boy down and got that bead out in about 2.6 seconds. She's the mother of 3 young boys and there was no way she was missing date night. This time, though, I kept the bead. I'm hoping it will remind me to keep small items out of the reach of small children... with small noses.

I can't stop the fingers, though. These days, Ty keeps a finger parked in his nose every time he gets tired. Sometimes he falls asleep with it in there. See?

Of course, this means I'd better take my turns a little slower. I wouldn't want to "make" the kid hurt his nose. I can't really force him take responsibility for being a sleep-picker now, can I?

First Impressions

2011-07-29T11:30:00.000-07:00

Here in my Georgia county, school is starting in a mere 12 days, 17 hours, and 42 minutes - give or take a few on the minutes. I doubt anyone is shocked by my attention to detail. I suspect that 90% of the mommies out there are counting down the hours to that first, official day of school - and that the remaining 10% who say they aren't are lying.

But while I'm excited to be settled back down into the routine of a school year, I'm pretty nervous about the girls' first day in a new school. After all, our family isn't exactly known for making the best first impressions. Just a few short years ago, I was trying to get Emily and Evie enrolled in a local pre-school program. Ella was already a student there, and most of the teachers knew our situation - that I had a three-year old, 2 two-year olds, and a new baby. I was desperate to secure spots for two kids in a program notorious for its long waiting list.

As I stood in the school hallway pleading my case to the pre-school director, Ella dragged her baby brother up and down the carpeted hall in an attempt to keep the kid who couldn't crawl yet "out of trouble." Although she had the 5-month old by his feet, I was actually more distracted by Evie whining at me for a treat. As the director turned to bribe Evie with a handful of M&M's, I glanced over at Emily, who had a finger half way up her nose. Before I could react, she walked over to the director with an offering. "Here," she said, handing Ms. J the booger.

Honestly, I'm still shocked we ever got the twins into Ms. J's program, but one week before school started, I got the call that they were accepted. I didn't think the girls had made a particularly good first impression, but thought perhaps the director was used to such things. Or she felt sorry for me. Or she was so scarred by the experience that she had completely blocked Emily's little "gift" from her mind. Whatever her reason, I was delighted to send my three girls to school that first day.

The girls, however, were not so delighted. As I pulled up to the front of the carpool line to unload my kids, the twins started shrieking. I have no idea what set them off, but they were clearly not about to get out of the van. Quicker than I would've thought possible, they launched themselves over the back seat and into the trunk. Ella, who was already unloading from the car, waved over her shoulder and shouted a goodbye. The teachers assisting with carpool just stood there with their mouths hanging open while Emily and Evie clung to each other in the trunk of the car and screamed.

I stammered out something to the effect of, "Um, let me just pull up a little ways," drove my car forward, and put it in park. With the rest of the carpool parents looking on, I opened my trunk and pried two sobbing children out of the back while trying to calm them with things like, "You're going to have such a good time at school with your teacher Ms. N!" I doubt the other parents - whose kids were also enrolled with Ms. N - were feeling as confident after observing the two newest class additions.

Still, I worked very hard to overcome those rocky first impressions, and I feel like these last few years of pre-school could be termed a success for our family. Ty is even going to be in Ms. N's class this year - despite his reputation as the Terror of the Two-Year Olds. However, Ella and her sisters are moving on to public school to begin 1st Grade and Kindergarten, and I feel like I'm starting all over again - and sadly, I'm already behind the 8-Ball.

It turns out that there is a Kindergarten "Round-Up" the spring before the rising kindergartners actually start school. I did not know that - until the day before Round-Up. I was way behind on laundry and ended up dressing the twins in a couple of old t-shirts and some jean shorts. While I was fixing Emily's hair, Evie wandered into the bathroom with blue marker all over her mouth and shirt... PERMANENT blue marker. Already late, she had to go as is - marker and all.

While signing the girls in for their classroom tour, one of the teacher aides said, "Aw, you have twins! My goodness, how do you tell them apart?"

"Well, Evie has a little birthmark by her left eye."

"Which one is she?

"The blue one."

"Oh."

Awesome.

I'm not giving up hope, though, that we can make a decent first impression when the school year starts. For one thing, what are the chances that a teacher's aide will remember one blue-faced child amidst a sea of new kindergartners? Better yet, the girls will be riding the bus this year. The last time I checked, buses don't have trunks.

Can I Get on Some Sort of Payment Plan?

2011-07-19T16:29:00.000-07:00

2 adorable orange kittens delivered to the children on Christmas morning?

Priceless

7 months' supply of wet food, dry food, and kitty litter for the adorable orange kittens?

Replacing the kitchen faucet after a freak accident caused by one of the adorable orange kittens?

Emergency surgery after one of the adorable orange kittens ate a piece of string so long the surgeon had to follow it down the length of her digestive tract - tongue to bum?

$$$

Eating the words, "Honey I think we should get the kids these adorable orange kittens for Christmas. They won't cost us a thing!"?

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

Pretty sure I'll be paying for those the rest of my life!!!

More Trials, More Tribulations

2011-07-17T12:47:00.000-07:00

It's been thirty days since I wrote this post, documenting a complete inability to potty train my son. Thirty days of wet pants. Thirty days of extra laundry. Thirty days of abused rugs. Thirty days of tears - a few of his, but mostly mine.

But since misery loves company, I thought it was time to share... my misery.

Day 15

I quit potty training yesterday. Just gave FLAT. OUT. UP. Ty's back in diapers and hardly notices the difference, since his Pull-Up, like his big boy underwear, has Cars characters on it. That boy is just all about Cars.

The problem is, time is ticking away. Ty can't go to pre-school until he's potty trained. And Mommy really need him to go to pre-school.

Day 20

My mom thinks maybe I gave up too soon. She said this while watching my son change his own diaper. Maybe she's right. What if I was just one day away from diaper freedom and I threw in the towel? I'm going to do some more research. Maybe there's a radical new training method I missed.

Day 21

Research sucks.

Day 22

Mom thinks Ty needs some visual motivation for his efforts. I showed her my empty bag of M&M's, but she thinks the boy might need something BIGGER. Her friend's friend's daughter's kid was apparently difficult to potty train, but was eventually motivated by seeing a big, wrapped present dangling over the potty. I think the method is called "Present for Pee-Pee," or something like that. I'm willing to try anything at this point.

Day 23

Mom and I went shopping tonight to try and find the perfect Present for Pee-Pee. We figure that the key is, it needs to be BIG. We finally settled on a T-ball set and bought some Cars paper to wrap it in. If a big package wrapped in Cars paper doesn't work, nothing will.

As we were heading to the check-out line, we veered off to the book section to see if there was any additional potty research we'd missed. We found a children's book called The Potty Book for Boys. It comes with flushing toilet sound effects. Basically, if your child isn't afraid of the sound of a flushing potty before pushing that book button, he'll be totally freaked out after. That is one seriously scary flush. I think Ty has enough issues, so we just went with the T-ball set.

Day 24

Ella is so excited about Ty's present, she can't shut up about it. She and the twins are dying to find out what's inside. They keep dragging their brother to the bathroom every 3 minutes and making him stand in front of the potty with his Congressman out. They're all getting pretty frustrated with Ty's lack of progress. The last time they were in there, Ella said, "Come on Ty. This is your moment, boy. Make it count!"

Day 25

I think the Congressman has stage fright. The girls are no longer allowed in the bathroom with their little brother.

Day 31

"Present for Pee-Pee" has not been a stellar success. Every time Ty wets his pants, I ask him, "Don't you want to open your BIG present, Ty? You have to put your pee-pee in the potty if you want to open your BIG present!" He usually replies, "I'll open it tomorrow, Mommy."

Day 33

I threw away my bathroom rug today. Ty informed me that, "It's not tomorrow yet, Mom."

Day 35

At the beginning of this process, I was worried about getting Ty potty-trained in time for pre-school. Now I'm starting to worry that he might not make it in time for the 6th grade. I mean, middle-schoolers can be brutal!

Day 37

"Present for Pee-pee" is now plural. So far, Ty has been promised the following: the Cars-wrapped T-ball set, a shopping trip with Daddy, ice cream with Mommy, an overnight visit to Grandma's house, and a spend-the-day at Nana's house. If I didn't know better, I'd say this kid is negotiating for the deed to the house. It may come to that.

Day 38

I had a dream last night. Ty was 16 and asking to borrow the car. I told him, "Yes. So long as you make pee-pee in the potty first."

Day 39

It's tough love time. I've been way too accommodating to this kid, and now it's no longer Mr. Nice Mom. The gloves are off. From now on, he cleans up his own mess on the floor and gets hosed down in a cold shower every time I find him sitting in wet pants. Ty hates the shower.

I know this is going to work. In fact, I'm so confident this is going to work that I'm calling the carpet cleaners and making an appointment. Ty has tinkled on every floor of this house except the stairs and my germophobic brain is starting to shut down.

Day 40

Ty took six showers yesterday. This morning, he walked upstairs with his hands on his face and announced he'd had an accident. "It's okay, Mommy," he said, as he peeked out between his fingers. "I'll just cover my eyes while you hose me down!"

Oh, and he tinkled on the stairs.

Day 41

I sent the girls away for a weekend at Nana's. It's my last-ditch attempt at training Ty before throwing in the towel - or any more of my rugs - again. My husband and I decided that perhaps Ty is just too overwhelmed by the size of an adult potty. And our little potty isn't very (ahem) "boy-proof" so we drove to the store to pick out a new one.

They sell a Cars potty.

It has a stick shift and everything. Really. Ty can sit on his throne and push the stick forward (and his Congressman down). It makes a revving sound when he pushes it - the stick, not the Congressman - and I'm telling you that the kid is going to LOVE it!

Day 42

WE HAVE A DEPOSIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ty insisted on keeping his new potty in his room last night. At 6:30 this morning, I heard him yelling for me, "Mommy! I went pee-pee on the potty!" I have to admit that I did NOT go running into his room. I've heard that announcement before, only to have my hopes dashed and another rug ruined. But he did it - and he went sprinting nude down the hallway as soon as I opened his door yelling, "I'm going to open my present now!!!"

Needless to say, my husband was playing T-ball with the boy at 6:35 this morning. After 7:00, we started calling the grandparents. Nana said something to the effect of, "Wow - just think if you'd bought that Cars potty a few weeks ago!"

They didn't sell Cars potties a few weeks ago. It's brand new on the market.

I HAVE to believe that, anyway.

Day 43

Ty can only go potty if the toilet has a stick shift. I'm going to have to teach him to drive an automatic before pre-school starts.

Sigh.

Six weeks and counting...

Out of the Box

2011-07-10T12:01:00.000-07:00

I'm about to cop to a level of nerdiness I've tried not to reveal before. You see, when I was thirteen, I had a friend with the most beautiful doll and the most amazing collection of doll accessories I'd ever seen. She was a 1940's catalogue doll named Molly - from the American Girl collection - and even though I was well past the age of actually playing with dolls, I coveted the Molly doll. But it was my little sister Julie who got her for Christmas that year; my other younger sister got the Victorian-era Samantha doll. I can't remember what I got, but I'm sure it was something much more age-appropriate than a doll.

I'm dating myself here, but in my day there was only one other American Girl doll available for purchase - a pioneer girl named Kirsten. Not wanting the same doll as my sisters, I found myself obsessing over the rather pricey pioneer. Eventually - at now fourteen years old - I spent the bulk of my babysitting savings to buy my very own American Girl doll. The rationale? "My sisters will have these beautiful dolls to pass on to their daughters one day and my daughter will feel left out!"

Ugh. I am such a nerd.

And God has a sense of humor, as I became the owner of one American Girl doll... and the mother of three daughters.

I had no idea at fourteen how enormously popular American Girl dolls would become. The catalogue is now a store and restaurant, Samantha and Kirsten are officially "retired," and I've lost count of how many historical dolls and friends are currently on the market. Plus, there's an entire collection of "My" AG dolls that you can pick from to match your child's skin, hair, and eye color. You can even purchase doll-sized ice skates, glasses, and head gear. No joke.

I wasn't sure any of my girls would be excited about a 20-year old doll that isn't even sold in stores anymore, but when Ella started asking for her own American Girl doll this past Christmas, I saw an opportunity. Kirsten looked so much like Ella, with her wavy, dirty blond hair and blue eyes. And since Kirsten's previous owner was too -ahem - old to play with dolls when she bought her, Kirsten looked brand new. I asked my mom to dig the doll out of storage and wrap her up for Ella to open Christmas Eve.

I was so excited about this 20-year gift-in-the-making, I could hardly wait for Ella to open her present. But I also wanted her to know how special the doll was. Yes, Ella could change her into whatever kind of doll she wanted, and even give her a new name, but this was my Kirsten doll - the one I had purchased especially for my daughter long before she was ever born.

I may have over-anticipated the moment.

Ella opened the box, gasped at the beautiful doll inside, and then... put the lid back on the box.

"I love my American Girl doll, Mommy. Thank you!"

"You can take her out of the box if you'd like, Ella."

"No, that's okay."

Ella carried her box around the entire night, cradling it in her arms the way most little girls would cradle the doll inside. When asked what her favorite gift was, she hugged her box tight and said, "My American Girl doll."

"Her name is Kirsten, Ella. You can name her something else though, if you'd like."

But Ella stuck with "my American Girl doll," and while her sisters and brother played with their new gifts, Ella sat with the box in her lap and a big smile on her face. It was - in the words of my sister - one of the saddest things we'd ever seen. Ella had no idea what to do with the gift inside her box.

I think this is what we Christians do with Jesus. He's an amazing gift - one that God the Father prepared and specially wrapped just for us. If we enter into the relationship with Jesus that the Father intended for us, the results are love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control (Gal. 5:22). But more often than not, we accept the gift and keep the lid on the box. "I'm happy with my gift of eternal life, God, but I think I'll just keep the other stuff tucked in this box."

Ella is making progress, though. After a week or so in the box, Kirsten finally made an appearace. For the past several months, she's been parked on the bookshelf where Ella can see her. But lately I've noticed Kirsten participating in more of the girls' playtime. She's even had her shoes off once or twice.

This Thursday is Ella's 7th birthday, and her grandmothers and I are taking her to the American Girl store for shopping and lunch. I'm taking a big risk, but Kirsten is coming with us. I think Ella might be ready to change her doll's clothes.

Or at least take a peek at them in their box.

Happy 4th of July!

2011-07-01T10:46:00.000-07:00

Last year, our neighborhood organized its first - and what appears this year to be its last - 4th of July parade. The idea was to get the neighborhood kids together to decorate their bikes and "parade" up to the swim and tennis clubhouse for a pool party and cookout. Sounds like a fun, all-American time, right?

Of course, what seemed like a great idea at the time quickly turned into an all-American family disaster. For starters, my compulsive perfectionism kicked in and I decided that our family was going to have the best-looking bikes in the parade. Of course, it kicked in mere hours before the parade was supposed to start, and it didn't receive any kind of financial blessing from my wallet. I ended up driving myself and four small children to the local Party City, where I tormented us all by looking at - but not buying - any of the really cool patriotic stuff. No, in the end my wallet forced me to settle for some red, white, and blue crepe paper, a bag of balloons, a package of cardboard stars, and three paper tiaras. Meh. It also cost me a year's worth of sanity to successfully drag four children in and out of a store that stocks more candy than Willy Wonka's factory.

By the time we got home, I was fried, and the parade was less than an hour away. The kids wanted to help decorate their bikes, but lost interest when they realized there was no painting involved. While they headed into the air-conditioned house in search of snacks, my parents and I - armed with a roll of Scotch tape - attempted to decorate 3 bikes and a wagon in 95+ degree heat. Apparently, Scotch tape loses it's adhesive qualities upwards of 94 degrees, so we were pretty much hosed. Plus, Ty wandered into the garage at one point and completely freaked out at the idea of having balloons attached to his wagon. In the end, he agreed to 3 small cardboard stars dangling off the back of his ride - and nothing else.

Meanwhile, the parade participants were congregating at the base of our driveway. Wagons draped in patriotic bunting, motorized riding toys strung with red, white and blue lights, and bikes so patriotic you couldn't find the Made in China sticker on them lined the street. As my girls rode down to take their places in the pack, Ty ripped off one of his stars, the last of Ella's balloons popped, and Emily's crepe paper unwound from her handle bars. I think a little of my compulsive perfectionism just up and died right then.

But the piece de resistance was Evie, who was having a tough time even pedaling her bike. Sweat was pouring down her red, overheated face as she strained to get her bike up the hill.

"Why are we doing this?"

"It's supposed to be fun, Evie."

"But WHY ARE WE DOING THIS?!?"

I doubt Evie would've made it to the next mailbox, except that just then she spotted a neighbor tossing lolly pops into the crowd.

"Are they throwing candy???"

I have to say, I've never seen Evie ride a bike so fast in her life - she was off like a shot, with my mom and me jogging just to keep up with her. By the time the parade reached the pool, she and Emily had two suckers in their mouths and three in each hand. Ty, too, had quite a stockpile going in his pitifully unpatriotic wagon. Only Ella was unhappy. Apparently, she missed out on a cupcake somewhere along the parade route.

The adults all opted at this point to skip the pool party and cookout and head home to enjoy a just-family gathering at the house. The Lolly Pop Brigade was gone, so it took a whole lot longer to get the kids home from the pool than it took them to get there, but we eventually made it home, where we grilled some burgers and dogs, and then played one of the great, all-American outdoor games - Duck, Duck, Goose.

The kids have been asking me what we're doing for this year's 4th of July festivities. Evie is particularly interested in whether or not we'll be riding our bikes while "people throw candy at us." The answer is, "Uh, NO." I think I'll be content with a repeat of Part 2 of last year's celebration - a good, all-American cookout with family, and perhaps a game or two. Maybe we'll step it up a bit and try something a little more advanced - like Freeze Tag.

Best of all, there will be no decorations involved!

When She Grows Up

2011-06-24T17:35:00.000-07:00

If you ask Ella today what she wants to be when she grows up, she'll probably answer with Standard Little Girl Answer No. 1: a dancer. However, most adults can rarely make an occupational claim to their childhood fantasies. Were that the case for me, I'd be the "ballerina-pilot" I once aspired to in my elementary school days - taxiing down the runway in my tutu and celebrating safe landings with a swan-like bow. Of course, these days Delta would probably charge my passengers extra for the pirouettes and I'd eventually be out of a job.

Given that our early career plans are so often subject to change, I've been thinking about some alternate options for my almost seven-year old. One option I suppose could be "chef," since she's expressed interest in owning a restaurant someday. Of course, when I asked her what she wanted to serve, she replied, "Macaroni and cheese, pizza, and eggs." I admit that I haven't been able to serve much else to Miss Picky Palate, so I do have some - pardon the pun - reservations regarding this particular endeavor.

Another option could be meteorologist. Ella is fanatical about checking the weather on my phone every day. Which is a good thing, since I usually can't tell what the weather is going to be like until I stick my head outside. But Ella is quite confident in her meteorologic analysis. Once, while heading to a pool party in the middle of a monsoon, she announced to me that, "It won't be raining at the pool, Mommy. I checked the weather and it's going to be sunny and hot." The way I see it, Ella's just as good as our local weatherman, so I might just be able to get this kid a job without sending her to college!

Recently, I've also had to consider the possibility of opera singer - thanks to my dad, who showed Ella a YouTube video featuring Susan Boyle. The girl now sings in operatic style about everything: the color of her shoes, the state of her room, and the unfairness of life - specifically hers. It takes me to the days when, as a 6-month old baby, she had the power to shatter glass with her piercing screams. Back then, the pediatrician suggested I buy ear plugs. Guess who's getting the last laugh now, Doc. Someday, my little girl could be on stage reaching the octaves Mariah Carey only hits in her dreams!

My greatest fear, though, is that Ella will grow up to be a politician - because let me tell you, that little girl can LIE. Just tonight, I was questioning the kids about some stickers I found on the hallway banister. No big deal; I just wanted to remind everyone that we have stickers on nearly every surface in this house, and to please stop decorating my house with stickers. But it was quickly obvious to my husband and me that someone wasn't telling the truth. Fingers were pointing and eyes were welling up with tears, but we just weren't getting to the bottom of the situation - until I noticed Ella calmly eating her dinner and sipping on her water, looking as if she hadn't a care in the world. This is not standard issue behavior for my drama queen.

When asked "whodunit?" she calmly pointed a finger at Evie. When asked again, she pointed at Ty. After a few more minutes of prodding, she gave us the reliable Washington, "You know. I don't really remember if it was me or not," routine. Eventually, she was sent to her room and punished appropriately - not for the stickers, but for the lies.

Frankly, the whole evening weighs heavily on me. Ella is to me, by far, the most challenging of my children to parent, in part because she is the exact opposite of me. Not in the sin of lying (unfortunately, that is an area I CAN relate to) but in the way she carries her heart. I tend to be one who wallows in guilt and self-pity - the ugly stepsisters of a contrite spirit. But more often than not, Ella blames her bad choices on me, her sisters, or the imaginary "naughty bugs" in her room. Things are rarely, if ever, her fault.

Knowing this doesn't ever, for one fraction of a second, diminish the crazy, overwhelming love I have for my child. She is a treasure, and a gift from God - one that I wish came with an instruction manual I could study. But she didn't come with a manual. So the challenge for me, since Day 1 with this child, has been to study her. To explore her heart. To figure out her passions. To discover what speaks to her. Ultimately, my purpose as her mom is to show her the heart of God, and watch her revel in the crazy, overwhelming love of her Heavenly Dad.

Yes, my child lies. Yup, it's one of those Ten Commandments we're not supposed to break. Yes, I suppose if I'm being honest myself, it bothers me that the child I've worked so hard to "raise right" can be so flagrant in her sin. But motherhood isn't so much about me as it is the little girl I'm raising to adulthood. I don't know what she's going to be when she grows up, but if I study hard - if I get her heart - she'll have a growing relationship with the God Who loves her. And she won't be afraid to speak that truth to others.

Back to You, Al

2011-06-21T15:32:00.000-07:00

As a mom, I spend the majority of my days focused on the following tasks: 1) keeping the children alive; 2) putting away all of their ~~crap~~ stuff; and 3) answering their tireless litany of questions. Unfortunately, there was something leaking out of Ty's ear this morning when I got him up, so Task #1 became the primary focus of my day. It took a major effort to herd my children to the Urgent Care down the street, but by 10:30 we were all checked in and parked in front of their wall-mounted flat screen - which was tuned to The Weather Channel. Clearly, the Urgent Care isn't used to herds of small children. Therefore, enter the litany of questions...

Why are we here?

How long do we have to wait for the doctor?

Why do they have a TV?

What are they doing on the TV?

Is that the weather man?

What's his name?

Why is he talking about the weather?

Is that a tornado?

What's a tornado?

What's a twister?

Why is a twister the same as a tornado?

Can a tornado pick up a person?

Can it pick up a car?

Can it pick up a house?

Is that tornado going to come to our house?

Where will we go if a tornado comes to our house?

But what if it does?

But what if it does?

Are you going to go in the closet, too?

Can we sleep in the closet?

Where is that tornado?

What is 'Braska?

OK, where is 'Braska?

Why did Grandma and Grandpa live in 'Braska?

Did they live in Mexico, too?

What is that red thing over Mexico?

What is a hurricane?

Is it like a tornado?

When can we go to Mexico?

Will the hurricane get us if we go to Mexico?

Why do they have rain on that map of Georigia if it's not raining now?

What day is today?

What day is tomorrow?

When is tomorrow?

So will it rain tomorrow?

What are we going to do tomorrow?

But what if it rains?

Will the rain make a flood?

What is a flood?

Did the ark really have all of the animals in it?

What about the dinosaurs?

Did the dinosaurs get on the ark?

Why not?

Were dinosaurs disgusting?

Did they stomp people flat?

Is God going to send another flood?

But why did He pick a rainbow?

Can I see a rainbow today?

Hey, who's that lady talking on the TV now?

Why is that her name?

Did her daddy give her that name?

Why is there a fire on the TV?

Are those helicopters?

If a fire comes to our house, will we get to see a helicopter?

But what if a fire does come to our house?

But what if one does?

But what if one does?

Oh, Mommy! That lady just said Ty's name! Are you coming?

Mommy?

Mommy?!?

Honestly, I'm still pretty focused on Task #1 thanks to Ty's monstrous ear infection. I'm just going to be kicking my other major tasks to the curb for the day. Unless my husband is willing to pick up the ~~crap~~ stuff and Al Roker's ready to field some questions...

The Trials and Tribulations of Training Ty

2011-06-16T16:03:00.000-07:00

I hate potty training. I hate, hate, HATE potty training. Ella - no joke - took 18 MONTHS to potty train thanks to an early, miscalculated battle of the wills. Don't ask - I'm totally scarred by the whole experience and still not ready to talk about it. Thankfully, Emily and Evie made up for that debacle by knocking their training out in a DAY. In the process, they also taught Ella where Numbers 1 and 2 belong.
Now it's time to take on Ty. Technically this is my third round with him, but I understand boys to be different (yes, in addition to the obvious), so I'm letting him take his time getting used to the whole idea. However, the boy has been changing his own diapers for a few weeks now. Should I take that as a sign that the window of opportunity is finally wide open???

Day 1

TODAY IS THE DAY!!!

It's Round 3, so I've learned a few things. First of all, I'm going in armed with the following: a step stool on which he can stand (past experiences indicate a standing preference), Lysol wipes (because of the standing), a container of Cheerios (maybe I'll use fewer wipes if he has something to "aim" for?), and half a bag of M & M's to use as a reward for all successful, er, deposits.

I still haven't figured out how to refer to his boys parts, though. Peter? Snooper? Wiener? The anatomically correct term? Usually, I'm the kind of mom who goes for the latter. However, my children are famous for speaking inappropriately in the most public of places. Great for the blog and all, but I'm not really sure I want to arm him with that information just yet. Oh well, something to think about...

Day 2

I seem to have forgotten something in all of my preparations.

Big Boy Underwear.

The boy has it in his head that he can't go pee-pee on the potty if he's still sporting a diaper. I suppose that makes sense, so I dropped the girls off at VBS this morning and took Ty on a very special outing to his second-favorite store. ("Lobby Lobby" ranks number 1. I'm simultaneously delighted and horrified...) Wal-Mart seemed like my best bet for success, because Ty was very specific about asking for Cars 2 underwear. I wasn't sure anyone was making Cars 2 underwear, but silly me, the movie is being released in 18 days so of course the local Wal-Mart is stocking Cars 2 underwear. As well as original Cars underwear. And Thomas the Train underwear. It was an emotionally-charged 20-minute decision, but Ty finally went with his first choice. I have to applaud him, because usually your first instinct is right on, don't you think?

We went out to the van and cracked those bad boys open because 1) I might as well start now, right? and 2) Ty was going to scream for Cars 2 underwear all the way home if we didn't. Of course, we didn't go right home because I had to pick the girls up from VBS and - of course - they all wanted to play on the playground. I asked Ty if he needed to go potty. He responded with an emphatic "NO." Three minutes later, Ty was swinging in a swing when I noticed a trickle running down his leg and a rather large puddle beneath him.

If you frequent our pre-school playground, don't use the red swing until we've had a good rain.

If you don't live in Georgia, no worries.

Day 3

Nothing to report other than several more puddles and a handful of drowned Cheerios.

Day 4

See Day 3.
Day 5

See Day 3.

Day 6

See Day 3

Day 7

If drowning Cheerios was a crime, I'd get the chair. I'm pretty sure we've gone through half a box of our Honey Nut stash in the last week. Did you know that it takes approximately 1 hour for a Cheerio to completely disintegrate in toilet water? Of course, this isn't so much experiment as observation. But if the pre-school decides to do a science fair next year, I've got a fantastic idea.

Day 8

I will throw a ticker-tape parade for this kid if he puts one thing - ANY. THING. - in the potty. I will not, however, give him an M & M, as I have regretfully consumed ~~one or two bags~~several bags.

Also, on a completely different note, I will not be weighing in at Weight Watchers this week.

Day 9

Ty still hasn't made one single deposit in the potty... and it turns out that a 7-pack of Cars 2 underwear doesn't go as far as one might think. I've done 23 loads of laundry this week.

By the way, if you're over at my house anytime soon, stay away from the rug in the sun room. And the playroom. And the family room. Just a suggestion...

Day 10

This kid really has an affinity for rugs. I swear, it's like training a puppy. Would DeFACS frown on me for sticking Ty's face in the puddles and swatting his nose with a newspaper?

Ha ha, I'm just kidding! I haven't done that.

Yet...

Day 11

Inspiration struck me while watching the news today. Ty's still making Number 1 on the rug, but I think I finally have an appropriate name for his boy parts. In light of recent Washington events, what do you think of "The Congressman?" I think it makes a real statement myself.

Day 12

Ty and the Congressman finally managed to make pee-pee on the potty.

No, he really did go... ON the potty.

Sure enough, Ty finished his "stand here with the Congressman in hand and try" routine, pulled up his pants, then closed the potty lid, stood on top of the potty, and relieved his bursting bladder - wait for it - ON TOP OF THE CLOSED POTTY. Of course when I heard him yell, "I went pee-pee on the potty, Mommy!" I went sprinting to the bathroom with the ticker tape ready, only to find him standing on the lid and soaked down to his shoes. And the puddle beneath him? Just like a homing pigeon, it was headed straight for - you guessed it - the rug.

Day 13

Ty is on a mission to christen every rug in the county. I'd like to offer specific apologies to my mom, the girls at the gym, and my chiropractor. And also to my daughters, who were in the bathtub when their little brother bi-passed the Cheerios and aimed for them instead.

That was NOT the shower Mommy had intended for you, girls.

Day 14

Congressman Weiner resigned today. So did I.
the whole bag
a bag of M & M's

Exhibit A

2011-03-19T11:09:00.000-07:00

Can I make a confession? Sometimes I'm overconfident in my role as a communicator. Not so much in the role of daughter, wife, or mother - but as someone who likes words (and uses them a lot) I feel pretty good about my ability to communicate with people. Which is probably why I tend to OVER-communicate when it comes to my own children. I've just always wanted my kids to feel like they can ask me anything, and count on receiving honest and sincere answers.

If you've been a parent for more than 45 minutes, you know that this is a bad, BAD parenting technique.

Allow me to share with you a bit yesterday's conversation with Ella and Evie:

Where do babies come from?

(Oops! Don't hit the brakes...) Um, what did you ask, Ella?

Where. Do. Babies. Come. From?

Oh. Well, you know the answer to that, right? When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much, and God decides they are ready, He puts a baby in the mommy's tummy. (That's a good, honest answer that ought to make her happy.)

I know God puts it in your tummy, but HOW does He put it in your tummy?

Um... Uh... (Stall! STALL!!!! Maybe she'll forget what she asked.)

Mommy?

Mommy??

MOMMY?!

Yes, Ella?

HOW does God put a baby in your tummy?

Oh. Well... (OK, what was that one answer you heard someone suggest that one time? Just go with that. And make it snappy.)

Mommiesanddaddiesgiveeachotheraspecialhugandwhentheyhugitmakesababy.

What?

(Crud.) I said, 'Mommies and daddies give each other a special hug, and when they hug it makes a baby.'

Oh! Like Daddy hugs me?

(Oy.) Not exactly.

I hugged Luke one time. Do I have a baby in my tummy?

(Ack!) NO!

(Oh wait, stay calm. You're a cool, honest mom.) I mean, no - it's a very, very special hug and you only hug like that when you're a mommy and daddy and you're ready to have a baby.

Does the daddy pick the mommy up when he hugs her?

(I suppose laughing now would be inappropriate.) Uhhh... I guess he can.

I saw Daddy pick you up one time. He likes to wrestle with you, too.

Yeah... (I'm going to KILL him.)

I like hugs.

I know you do. I, uh, like hugs too. (Wrap this up.) But no special hugs until you're all grown up, okay girls?

(CHANGE THE SUBJECT!!!)

And hey - no growing up too fast! You kids are getting so big! I can't believe how tall you're all getting!!

Don't worry, Mommy. We won't grow up too fast, because we don't want you to get old. Because then you're going to die, right?

Right, Mommy?

(Dear Lord, this parachute is actually a knapsack.) Yes, Evie, I'm going to die.

But don't worry, Mommy! When you die, you're going to heaven, right?

Uh, right. Yes, someday Mommy will go to heaven. (I'm halfway to dying right now...)

Will you see Gigi in heaven?

Yep, Gigi will be there. (Stick to great-grandma. Please.)

Because everybody who dies goes to heaven, right Mommy?

(Ugh.) Well... everybody who knows Jesus will go to heaven. (Please, PLEASE stop there. I'm so not ready to explain the concepts of heaven and hell to a five-year old.)

Yeah, I know who Jesus is. We talk about Him at church all the time. He did all kinds of cool stuff.

(Deep breath. You don't want to miss this opportunity!) Well, yes He did, Ella. But it's not just about knowing Who He is. It's important to actually ask Jesus to come and live in your heart.

I did that, Mommy!!

Yep, you sure did, Evie. Do you remember when you prayed with Mommy and Daddy and asked Jesus into your heart? That was a very special day. (The BEST.)

I asked Jesus into my heart too, Mommy.

You did, Ella? When? (And how did I miss that?)

Just now. I said it really fast in my head so you couldn't hear me. I'm ready to go to heaven now!

(Ugh. Where is our exit?!?) Well Ella, we don't just ask Jesus to live in our hearts so we can go to heaven. We ask Him into our hearts so that He'll forgive us for our sins and help us to make wise choices.

Yeah, I pray for Jesus to help me obey.

That's great, Ella! (I just wish you wouldn't talk down your shirt when you're praying. This whole 'Jesus-lives-in-my-heart' thing is too hard to explain to a literal-minded 6 year old.)

It's doesn't work, though. Naughty Jesus!

(Okay, forget it. There's the exit anyway.) Hey, who wants to get a treat?!

O Holy Night

2010-12-24T01:06:00.000-08:00

O holy night, the stars are brightly shining. It is the night of our dear Savior's birth.

I love the artistic license we take in imagining Christ's birth - the sweet Christmas nativity displayed to us since childhood, complete with sleeping baby and lowing cattle. Most likely, it was a much dirtier and intense experience than our imagination cares to reflect on. Still, there is no doubt this was a truly holy night, marking the arrival of not just any child, but the only child ever sent as a suitable Savior to the world.

Was it a bright, starry night? We don't really know. It could have been cloudy and misting, for all the detail Luke's gospel gives us. But it certainly became a brightly shining night to a certain group of shepherds working the late shift in the hills of Bethlehem, when God's angels greeted them with news of the manger-dwelling Christ child. Within hours of His birth, those shepherds were proclaiming His arrival to the world... the first missionaries.

Long lay the world, in sin and error pining, til He appeared and the soul felt its worth.

Sin isn't new. It's not something we've managed to create or enforce through our current culture, despite what your political views might be. Satan has never needed to be creative. The sin we find ourselves languishing to today is the same sin introduced way back in the Garden of Eden - the belief that we somehow know better than God. Most sin stems from humanity wrestling for a place over divinity.

But then this child appears, miraculously born to a virgin teenaged girl and placed in a manger of all things, and suddenly humanity is invited in - not to share divinity with God, but sonship with the Heavenly Father. The "soul felt it's worth" because God isn't just about salvation. He is about relationship - and He desires, if you can believe it, a relationship with imperfect, languishing, prideful us. He chose to adopt us as His sons and daughters because in His eyes, we are worthy.

A thrill of hope. The weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

When we truly understand and embrace what God has done - when we truly accept the undeserved love and salvation He extends to us - can we be anything but thrilled? He is the hope that our weary souls long for, whether you're experiencing that hope for the first time, or you're being refreshed by it once again. We rejoice because it's Christmas morning, because our adopted Father invites us through His Son to cast the burdens we've been carrying - marriage, children, illness, disappointment, fear, and so much more - into His divine hands.

Fall on your knees! O hear the angel voices. O night divine. O night, when Christ was born.

Respond to His great love with worship, not because He demands it, and not because it's "part of the deal," but because your heart is overflowing with gratitude for what He's done. Fall on your knees or stand up and shout; sing a song of praise or whisper a prayer of thanksgiving. But whatever you do, join those Bethlehem angels in giving praise to a God who, on this most divine and most holy of nights, began the process for your salvation and mine by sending His Son to be that baby in the manger we celebrate this Christmas.

May you have a blessed and Merry Christmas,

She Just About Cracked This Nut

2010-12-20T19:50:00.001-08:00

In honor of my mom's birthday this weekend, my mom, my sisters, my three daughters and I went to see a local performance of The Nutcracker. I wasn't sure how the girls would do with such a long show, but they were all really excited about the performance. Evie was particularly thrilled. She just loves her ballet classes, and she couldn't wait to see all of the dancers perform.

Unfortunately, I didn't adequately prepare her in terms of ballet etiquette. Therefore, below is a synopsis of the running conversation we had DURING the Nutcracker performance. I just had to record it for posterity.

*************************************************************************************

She starts out on my lap, sitting up as tall as she can and trying not to miss a thing...

What are they doing?

Are they dancing?

Is there going to be any talking? Why is nobody talking?

Over time, she slumps down and starts sighing loudly...

This is kind of boring. Miss Ellen said there would be butterflies. I don't see any butterflies.

Is this the show with Clara? I saw her on the Wonderpets. Remember when the Wonderpets saved the Nutcracker?

Where's Clara?

Sitting up again...

Is she Clara?

What did that man just give to Clara?

Mommy, what's a nutcracker?

Who is that? Why did he break Clara's nutcracker?

He's a mean boy!

There's a lot of dancing, isn't there Mommy?

Half-lounging, with her leg draped over the next seat...

I want to see the mice.

Where are the mice?

Are the mice coming? They were on the Wonderpets.

And up...

Are those the mice?

Is that boy a ballerina?

That's so funny, Mommy. Boys can't be ballerinas!

What happened?

Did he die? Did that mouse die?

Is he going to heaven now?

Waving frantically through several performances in the Land of Sweets...

Mommy! Mommy! It's Miss Sarah! See her dancing?

Where did Miss Sarah go?

Oh, I see her!

Where did she go?

Oh, there she is!

Is that Miss Sarah?

Right there? Is that her?

There she is, Mommy!

She's now at full attention on my lap, and I can feel her flexing her fanny to the beat of the music. No joke. Left cheek. Right cheek. Left cheek. Right... Left... Right. Left. Right. Leftrightleftrightleftright...

Oh Mommy! It's the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy! I love the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy!

Is she the Sugar Plum Fairy?!? She's so pretty!

I want to be a ballerina when I grow up.

I know how to do a pirouette.

Tussling over the flower we had for Miss Sarah...

It's my turn to hold the flower, Ella!

I'm not putting it in your face, Mommy.

Can we give Miss Sarah the flower now?

What about now?

Now do we give her the flower?

I want to give her the flower.

Ooops! I dropped the flower, Mommy.

She decides to stand now, but she can't see the dancers. She sits in the seat next to me, and still can't see. Now she's off to sit with Mimi, who in exchange sends Emily down my way.

The twin thing is so weird. She's a flexer, too.

Yes, really.

Left. Right. Left. Right...

Whine, Whine...Wine

2010-11-27T16:11:00.001-08:00

Hmmmm. Seems some time has passed since my last post. If you're wondering why that is, it's because there's NOTHING FUNNY ABOUT MY LIFE. This is a critical problem. I like looking at the humorous side of raising four children - and living with five (ahem) - but there just hasn't been much to laugh about since August.

No tragedies, no traumas... just not funny.

Needless to say, I'm back in the dark place. Not that my whole life is dark. I'm back to teaching two days a week and I love being in the classroom. Something about it just feeds my soul. Grading papers? Dealing with slap-crazy, totally insane, where's-my-padded-room parents? Not so much. But I am totally and utterly passionate about what I get to do in that classroom.

My marriage? Pretty good, considering we're in the midst of football season. I haven't seen much of the hubby since my last post, but I haven't had to set myself on fire to get his attention yet either. Auburn is undefeated so I'd say we're doing pretty good and "War Eagle," thank you very much.

The house? I've got a ton of unfinished summer projects in the works, but it's still standing, it's relatively clean, and Christmas decor covers a multitude of sins. I can't complain.

Family? Friends? Well, there's never enough time in the day to be the daughter, sister, or friend I want to be, but I've got some pretty amazing people in my life who let me pick up in the relationship wherever we've left off - even if it's months between conversations.

Children?

Hmmm. The children.

The children. Sweet Lord, how do I even begin to address the children?

See? I got nothin'. This is where it's just DARK.

I am really struggling in the Mommy-role these days. I'm probably the only mom in the carpool line who cried when the teacher wished me a "Happy Thanksgiving Break!" And dear heavens, Christmas is right around the corner. No school for them. No school for me. I told my dad the other day that if I go missing over the holidays not to come looking for me. I don't want to be found.

The problem - and you've probably guessed it from the title of this post - is whining. My children are extraordinarily whiny. And there are four of them. I wake up most mornings to my nearly five-year old twins laying on the floor by my bed, rolling around, whining "Huuuuuuuuuuuungryyyyyyyyyyyyy. Huuuuuuuuuuuuuungryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy." Once breakfast is over, their mantra increases in volume until, by the end of the day it's "HUUUUUUUUUNGRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY! HUUUUUUUUUUUNGRYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"

And before you contact the Department of Child and Family Services, yes, I feed my children - multiple times a day.

Of course Ella, who is now six, is the master whiner. She's a bit more theatrical than her sisters, so her whining usually involves a series of acts.

"Can I have a snack, Mommy?"

"Not right now, Ella. We're about to eat dinner."

"Yes! I want a snack RIGHT NOW! (foot stomp) You NEVER let us eat! (more foot stomping) It's so NOT FAIR! (now she's throwing herself on the floor) I'M STARVING!!!! (she throws in an "arrghh" of frustration to punctuate her point)"

And then, unfortunately, there's the three-year old boy - who's going to whine simply by virtue of the fact that he's three. And he has mentors.

I've got to tell you that I really feel like I've tried everything to shut down the whining. First of all - and most importantly - I've never, ever given in to the demands of whining children. Which makes me wonder, "Why do they keep whining?!?!" They get time-outs, vinegar water, toys taken away, TV privileges revoked... and still they whine.

I'm in a really dark place. I'm one discouraged mommy. I knew that motherhood would be extremely difficult when I started - I wasn't delusional going in. But I have some really strong-willed children - you can ask any one of my friends, family-members, or babysitters. And I've lost my humor somewhere along the way, because I can't find pleasure in motherhood. It's work, and that work just gets more and more intense with every passing stage.

Can you give me some hope? Does someone out there in blogland have some sage or brilliant advice to offer me? Please - tell me how to stop the whining before I'm numbing myself with my own good wine!

The Great Debater

2010-08-04T14:10:00.000-07:00

As the summer wears on, with nary a first day of school in sight, I find myself engaged in more and more ridiculous battles with my eldest. Seriously, this girl will argue any point, any time, just for the sake of killing time. And without school to break up the days, there's a lot of time to kill. Of course, I have to admit that my Ella-apple didn't fall far from either parental tree, since both my husband and I not only engage Ella in debate, but we actually try to win.

In my defense, though, sometimes winning counts. Like when Ella walked into the house a few weeks ago carrying a dead bunny.

...I'm sorry. Let me pause for a moment while you re-read that sentence...

She walked into the house carrying a dead bunny.

OK, maybe you grew up on a farm and this seems like no big deal. Me? I don't do dead nature. EVER.

And since I don't do dead nature, I did what any good, non-farming, suburban mom would do: I ran away from her screaming, "GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT!!!"

And Ella, the Great Debater, stood there with her bunny corpse in hand arguing, "But Mom, it's fine! See? It's fine!"

I'm not sure if I won the argument, but I finally convinced her - from several rooms away - to put the bunny back where she found it. And I DEFINITELY won the hand-washing battle. I just wish they still made lye.

Especially since our visit to the pool last week when Ella announced, in a very loud voice, "I NEED TO GO POTTY RIGHT NOW, MOMMY." Since I don't do dead nature OR public pool restrooms, I sent her off to take care of business on her own. Moments later, I saw her strolling by in search of her water bottle.

"Ella, I thought you had to go potty."

"I already went."

"You did? That was fast."

Too fast. So I felt it necessary to ask a list of obvious questions.

"Did you go in the bathroom?"

"Yes."

"On the potty?"

"Yes."

"Did you take off your bathing suit?"

"No, I didn't need to."

The fellow parent standing within ear shot started choking on his hot dog.

"Ella, go get in the pool right now."

"I don't want to swim, Mommy."

"NOW, Ella."

"I want a snack."

"GO GET IN THE POOL RIGHT NOW, ELLA."

She finally got in the pool. It's gross, I know, but I'd like to believe that chlorine is like a modern-day lye.

But gross or not, sometimes I engage in battles that I don't need to win - I just really want to. Like today, when Ella told me to take a left instead of going straight.

"I know where I'm going, honey. I need to go straight."

"No, Mom! This way is a shortcut. You need to turn!"

"Nope, I need to go straight."

"Well, when I'm sixteen and I can drive and I have a car [a grand assumption on her part], I'm going to go that way."

Trying to diffuse the pointless argument, I responded, "Okay, Ella. That sounds good. And you know what honey? I think you are one super-awesome kid."

"I AM NOT AN AWESOME KID!"

"No, you are Ella. You're an awesome kid. I think you're amazing."

"I AM NOT, MOMMY! I'M NOT AWESOME AND I DON'T DO MAGIC!"

Huh? "You know Ella? You're right. You don't do magic."

I figure I've got to let the kid win once in awhile...

If Life Gives You Lemons, I'm Guessing She'll Charge You

2010-06-26T00:44:00.000-07:00

There are only two days a year when I demand complete organization from myself: the first day of school and the last day of spring cleaning. (New Year's Day was supposed to be a third, but I gave up the dream when I married my husband and discovered that his bowl games and my obsessive compulsive disorder don't mesh.) I try to give myself a bit of grace on the other 363 days of the year.

Since organizationally I totally missed the first day of school, I took this year's spring cleaning very seriously. VERY. SERIOUSLY. I printed out last year's two-page typed list of chores, updated it to three, and assigned everything to fit into a two-week cleaning schedule. The list is pretty important, because I really like being able to check off each chore accomplished:
Scrub and disinfect the trashcans (check - GROSS!!!)
Move the refrigerator and vacuum underneath (check - Add "call the chiropractor" to the list.)
Touch-up paint the downstairs (check - Keep the paint out. Ty just walked by with a Popsicle.)
Wash the windows and wipe down all the woodwork (check - I get one lousy check mark for two day's worth of work???)
You get the whole crazy, ugly picture...
My plan was to host a garage sale at the culmination of this cleaning rampage, because I was hoping to net enough money to buy a comfy reading chair.

The problem with cleaning a house that has four children in it, unfortunately, is that while I was waging war against a battalion of dust bunnies under the fridge, a nuclear bomb was going off in the family room. And while I washed one window, sticky hands were smudging up the other ten. I spent a lot of time re-cleaning the house and re-checking the list in my pursuit of one, perfectly organized, post-spring-cleaning day.

I also stretched my two-week schedule into three... which pushed the garage sale back to Memorial Day weekend... which is a really lousy time to host a garage sale.

Of course, I didn't realize my timing was bad going in. I was a woman on a mission to clean out and restore my house to its pre-child glory - and buy that coveted reading chair. So I dutifully posted an ad on Craigslist, made a collection of colorfully-ballooned and directionally-sound garage sale signs, and organized and tagged a yard-full of quality discard items. At the last minute, I picked up some Country Time Lemonade and a package of Styrofoam cups. My goal was to keep the kids away from my busy sale by distracting them with a lemonade stand.

Garage Sale Day dawned sunny and hot. Mom showed up early with bagels and shmear, which we ate quickly in preparation for the onslaught of early-morning customers. Since the sale started at 8:00, I wanted to be all set to go by 7:30. Ella, who it turns out was totally on board with the whole lemonade stand thing, was also ready by 7:30.

"Are people going to give us money for our lemonade?"

"Yes."

"How much money, Mommy?"

"Uh, how about a dime for each cup?"

"Nah. Let's do a quarter. We get to keep the money, right?"

"Sure, honey. Y'all can keep whatever money you make at your lemonade stand, and I'll keep the money I make at my garage sale. Sound good?"

"Yup!"

Ella made a sign for the stand while Emily and Evie took turns pouring lemonade into cups. And Ty tasted it for them. Several times. They were all pretty proud:

By 8:00, the kids had gone through about half their product and were starting to wonder if any customers actually planned to show up. Just then, Ella spotted our next-door neighbor taking a pajama-clad walk of shame to deliver her garbage down to the curb.

"Miss J! Miss J! Come buy our lemonade! Over here! Come buy some lemonade!!!"

The kids all took off in hot pursuit of the embarrassed Miss J, who managed to make it back into her house before they reached her with their lemonade-filled Styrofoam cups. Lucky for her, Ella spotted a car coming up the street before she could ring Miss J's doorbell.

"Hey, girls! It's customers! Customers! Hey! HEY!" She started chasing the car down the street. "Come buy our lemonade! And then go look at my mom's stuff!"

It turns out that no one in that particular car was interested in purchasing lemonade, or in looking at my stuff. However, Ella felt she was on to something and started shouting at every car that came down the street. Eventually, someone stopped and bought a cup - for $1.00. Then a couple more stopped. Miss J came back out - dressed now - with some money too. Even the garbage man hopped off his truck to buy a glass. Suddenly, the kids' lemonade stand was doing booming business. It didn't hurt that Nana, Papa, and Auntie M showed up about this time to enjoy a swig of Country Time.

Finally, FINALLY, one of the lemonade customers strolled up to peruse my garage sale goods. She picked up a chipped tea pot and handed me a dollar.

"There's a matching tea pot over here, if you'd like," I offered helpfully.

"I only have that dollar. I used my other change to get this lemonade."

"Oh."

"But I really like that second pot..."

"Oh, um, well here. I'll just give it to you, since that other one is chipped."

"Thanks!" She smiled and walked away just as I noticed the $20 bill hanging out of her pocket.

Awesome.

At least I had a second customer waiting in the wings. He'd already bi-passed the lemonade stand and moved on to inspect my junk. Evie, however, poured him a glass, chased him down, and handed him the drink anyway. Then she waited. Expectantly. Her four-year old stare (or was it the open hand) turned out to be more than he could handle, so he fished out a quarter, downed the lemonade, and headed back towards his car without making an offer on my kitchen table.

Double awesome.

By 10:00, my mom and I had dubbed our day "THE MOST DISMAL GARAGE SALE DAY IN ALL OF HISTORY." Meanwhile, the kids' stand was hailed by all (mainly Ella) to be a huge success. I decided to close up shop early and headed off to collect my signs. While I was gone, Mom reported, Ella kept chasing cars. Apparently, one of them laid a wheel trying to get away from the scary little girl and her lemonade.

Her hard-sale tactics worked, though. In the end, Ella and her team made $8.79 in lemonade sales. If you subtract what I spent on signage, my garage sale netted -$9.00.

"Wow, Mommy. We did a whole lot better than you did. We're really good at making money. A lot better than you. You didn't sell much at your garage sale. What can we buy with all our money? Can we buy noodles to swim with a the pool? That would be a fun way to spend our money, since it's ours and we get to keep it. You don't really have any money to keep, do you? 'Cause we made more money than you."

I'm thinking about setting her up with a stand at the front of our neighborhood and renegotiating our original deal. There may be more than one way to get my hands on a new reading chair. But stay away from our street if you're not interested in buying some lemonade. You're liable to get stuck with a drink you didn't want.

I Did and I Do

2010-06-16T16:00:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago I took this man...

... for better and for worse...

No, it's not all coming up roses in our house. Let's face it: Four kids can make for some pretty intense arguments, especially when we're both worn out from the effort of parenting. But we committed early in our marriage to put God first and our relationship second. Everything else - even our children - comes after those two things. It's a conscious, daily decision to place one another's needs above the more urgent demands of our family, and it's rarely easy. But having children seems to have opened up a line of communication in our relationship that wasn't there in the early years, perhaps because we are so much more conscious of the decision we've made to protect our marriage. These days, there's a lot more of the "better" and a lot less of the "worse".

... for richer and for poorer...

If four kids make for some pretty intense arguments, then watch out for the fireworks created by our "financial discussions". But there are two important notes I'd like to make about this section in our marriage vows. First of all, PRAISE GOD I married a fiscally responsible man. We would be living in my parent's basement or in a cardboard box if I controlled the family finances. My husband is a wonderful steward of our money, and I am so grateful for the opportunities we've had to live comfortably, travel extensively, and give generously. Which leads me to my second note: Even though we've (and by we, I mean my husband) worked hard to be responsible with our money, we've (and by we, I mean I) made plenty of mistakes. Yet by God's grace, we are kept secure.

... in sickness and in health.

This is a tough one. We've faced some pretty hard challenges in this part of the vow, namely in the area of pregnancy. I battled infertility and miscarried three times before Ella was born. My actual pregnancies were miserable and life-threatening. The twin pregnancy in particular was brutal, and we spent a lot of time in the hospital. Our marriage really took a hit around that five-year mark. But the celebration today is that we've learned something from those difficult times. No doubt there is a future in which we will face these trials again. Sickness is often a part of life. But I'm determined to celebrate fifty years with the man I love, so we're going to learn from past mistakes, lean on each other in the future, and take our vitamins!

T, I take you to be my husband all over again. For better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, I am committed to love and respect you as my husband. Now, ten years later, I know so much more about what those vows mean, and the difficult choices they require. But I choose you joyfully, gratefully, and lovingly. Thank you for being my husband, my friend, my lover, and the father of our children. I can't wait to spend the next forty years by your side, celebrating the sweet blessings our life together will bring.

Happy Anniversary, babe. I love you!

Drama

2010-06-09T19:34:00.001-07:00

My girls are high drama. Which is weird, because my husband and I are such calm, low-key people. I have no idea where they get it from.

Seriously. No idea.

Anyhow, now that summer's here, it seems that Emily and Evie have kicked the drama up a notch. Their early grasp of the English language has lapsed into whines, screams, and one-word demands, mostly for food. It seems I don't feed them enough, because one or the other is always "hungry, Mommy!!!". (At least until dinner time, when everyone is "too full" for chicken.)

Granted, I was totally over it the first day school was out. But I thought my ear drums were going to rupture this afternoon at 3:00 when the two of them were rolling on the floor squawking for ice cream. This is all I have to explain my temporary insanity: I talked them into some quiet time in their room by letting them color... with markers. Ten minutes later I was paying the price for happy ear drums, because I caught the two little girls who know way better coloring on their carpet and on each other.

Awesome.

Goodbye, happy ears.

I grounded them to their room - sans markers - until dinnertime, which led to the crying for Mommy, the begging for toys, and the "I have to go potty!" rotation. I'm used to it, so I can pretty much tune it all out. But when they started shrieking like their clothes were on fire, I went sprinting up the stairs.

Ella was in the hallway outside their door, set to explain. "There's a spider in their room, Mommy. I didn't want it to get out, so I locked the door."

"Okay. Uh, thanks Ella."

I unlocked the door and opened it to find Evie and Emily perched on top of their dresser, clinging to each other for dear life, and screaming at the top of their lungs about - yep - a spider. (I'm still curious as to why they chose the dresser and not the top bunk bed, but whatever.)

"Where's the spider, girls?"

"BY THE DOOR! BY THE DOOR! BY THE DOOR!"

"I don't see it."

"IT'S THERE, MOMMY! GET IT! GET IT!"

"I still can't find it."

Evie stopped screaming for a moment. "It's a little spider, Mommy. You have to look hard."

"GET IT! GET IT! GET IT!!!"

I eventually found and disposed of Earth's tiniest spider, but I the process I gave up on the grounding. A few minutes later, I walked into the playroom where Evie and Emily were at last playing quietly. Evie was standing at the play kitchen, donning her oven mitt.

"What are you doing, Evie?"

"I'm a Pirate Chef." She whipped a plastic pizza out of the toy oven and set it on the table in front of Emily. "Pizza!" she shouted. "ARRRRG!"

"Yum," said Emily.

"ARRRRG!" Evie replied.

There has got to be a way for me to cash in on all this drama. Surely there's an Arachnophobia 2 in the works? Top Chef seems pretty popular. And aren't pirate movies hot these days?

Hmmm...

Pardon me while I go Google the Olsen twins.

Ty's Journey

2010-05-23T17:32:00.000-07:00

If you're looking for funny, this post ain't it. Sorry. I'll get back to my ~~hilarious~~ ~~pretty funny~~ mildly entertaining posts once things have calmed down a bit around here. But I'm coming off a pretty intense weekend that began with Ty's "big" doctor's appointment, limped along in the reality of my insanely whiny children and my absent husband, and is ending with a filthy house and a critical lack of rest. To top it off, my husband's grandmother - an absolutely amazing woman who has been a profound spiritual influence in my life - is in her final days of hospice. I've done a lot of crying this weekend.

(I know. Not funny. But at least I gave you a fair warning.)

My focus at this particular moment, though, is my son. This post is mostly for friends who know about Ty's situation. Not many of you out there in blog land know what he's been dealing with, because I think I've only written one post about it. And that's mostly because his situation is what it is. He's not dealing with a terminal illness or anything as scary as that. He was just born with a birth defect that seemed to be, for a long time, one that we could deal with. Only lately, it's demanding more and more of our time and attention. You're welcome to read on, if you'd like. I'll describe the initial steps of Ty's journey pretty quickly:

When he was born, the nurse told me that it appeared Ty's left arm was badly bruised from the rather traumatic delivery. When I looked at his arm, it was bruise-colored from his shoulder to his middle finger joints. The "bruise" was still there two weeks later, and my pediatrician told me that it was probably a port wine stain. He sent me on to a pediatric dermatologist who waffled a bit on the diagnosis and sent me on to Dr. K (the doctor I referenced in my previous post and the man I hope to never, ever see again!). Dr. K didn't really care what it was called; he just wanted to get rid of the discoloration and went to town zapping it with a laser. After two sessions, I vowed to never go back.

At that point, Ty was almost four months old. His left arm was nearly twice the size of his right, was a dark purple / red, and was covered in numerous lesions. The next doctor we saw - a highly recommended pediatric plastic surgeon - called it a hemangioma, and said that the tumor was outgrowing its blood supply, hence the ulcerations. Ty underwent three laser surgeries with Dr. Joe. Although Ty didn't have to be awake this time around, Dr. Joe was much more aggressive, and each surgery left Ty's arm mottled with burn marks for weeks after the procedure. I finally told Dr. Joe that I needed a break.

Everything seemed fine for awhile after that. Ty's ulcerations healed and the discoloration of his arm was much less pronounced. I never noticed it unless someone out in public asked me what was wrong with my boy's arm. I'm not a fan of nosy people, but to keep things simple I said it was a birthmark.

After several months, we were back at the doctor for Ty's 2-year check. Dr. P, our pediatrician, paid special attention to Ty's arm. And during his exam, we both noticed a big problem at the same time: Ty's left arm was significantly longer than his right. Dr. P sent me back to Dr. Joe, who sent me on to Dr. Al, a hand and upper extremity surgeon. Dr. Al diagnosed Ty with an AVM, or Arterio-Venous Malformation, which is basically a tumor caused by an abnormal collection of blood vessels. His first goal was to determine if the tumor was "high-flow" or "low-flow." After a lengthy and sedated MRI, the radiologist told us that Ty's AVM is low-flow. Praise God. With a high-flow AVM, the result is more often than not amputation of the limb.

At this point, things suddenly felt much more serious. Obviously, Ty overcame a huge hurdle just in passing this "test": he won't lose his arm. But I'm beginning to realize that Ty's arm isn't just some birthmark or mild defect I can casually refer to as his "lucky fin" (the Finding Nemo reference I'd started using). We're facing some pretty serious stuff now.

If I haven't lost you yet, here's where things stand:

- Ty has a low-flow AVM. The tumor cannot be surgically removed because 1) there's a high risk of significant blood loss and 2) it's nearly impossible to remove the whole thing. Chances are that it will to grow back. All we can do is periodically "de-bulk" the tumor through surgery.

- Ty's humerous (upper arm bone) is growing rapidly due to the excess blood flow. It will continue to grow at an advanced rate, and there's nothing we can do. At some point, Dr. Al will make an educated guess as to whether or not the bone has reached it's adult size and will remove the growth plate. In the end, it's hoped for that Ty will have two, reasonably proportioned arms as an adult. But he will definitely go through an awkward period during his school years.

- We consulted with a geneticist on Friday, which was the "big" appointment I referenced earlier. There are three concerns we are facing now, as a result of this appointment. 1) We did a genetic screening to see if Ty has a predisposition for developing an excess of soft tissue. If the answer is yes, he will need to have routine ultrasounds to rule out any tumors growing in and around his abdominal organs. 2) Ty will be getting an echo cardiogram and a chest / abdominal CT to see if the AVM is in anyway connected to his heart. This is our big concern right now, since the AVM is on the left-hand side of his body. 3) Since Ty has passed out several times after hitting his head, it may be necessary to do an MRI of his brain as well, to make sure that the AVM is not in any way connected to the blood vessels in his brain. I'm not thinking about that right now. We'll cross that bridge if and when we come to it.

And that's where things stand. If you made it through all that medical jargon, I'm impressed. If nothing else, it helps me to process through where we've been and where we're going. I have plenty to say about where I'm at emotionally, but I think I'll wait to get into all that. I'll just ask that, if you feel so led, you would add us to your prayer list. I'm praying specifically that 1) there is no AVM presence around his heart and that 2) Ty won't have any more episodes of passing out. If we can avoid that circumstance, then we can skip the MRI of his brain and therefore all of that additional radiation. I have other prayers I'm praying, too, but I'll just start with those.

Thanks to all of you who pray for and ask about Ty regularly. He is such a sweet and happy kid, and a tremendous blessing to our family. As I've said so many times before, we just weren't complete until he came along!

Blessings,

Boy, Oh Boy

2010-04-28T06:05:00.000-07:00

As one of three sisters and a mother of three girls, I feel like I have a pretty good handle on what makes girls tick. And I'm pretty sure it's hormones. But two years ago we added a son to the mix, and I think I'm discovering what makes boys tick. And I'm pretty sure it's hormones. One hormone, really.

My mom - who actually has time to read books like Dobson's Bringing Up Boys - was recently describing to me the "testosterone bath" that my boy's brain is apparently swimming in. Supposedly all this testosterone causes my son to come up with spectacularly insane ideas, but blocks the concept of consequences. Hence, the problem I've encountered lately with "dangling."

The first time Ty dangled was shortly after his 2nd birthday. Ella came running inside from the backyard yelling, "Mommy! Hurry! Ty can't get down!" I dashed outside to find my son dangling from the monkey bars of our outdoor play set. They're roughly 7-feet off the ground and Ty was hanging on for dear life. As I ran up to catch him, he looked over at me and whimpered, "Stuck."

"Yep, you're stuck alright, kiddo. Let's not do that again."

" 'K, Mommy."

One week later I walked into the twins' room and saw this same child dangling from the top bunk of the bunk beds. His little legs were swinging around, his feet looking for purchase. He looked around as I gasped and said, "Mommy. Stuck."

Since then, I've found him dangling from several precarious spots - the bunk beds again, countless play sets, and in one heart-stopping instance, the top of the pantry shelves. Each time he sums up his experience: "Stuck." Unfortunately though, dangling is not the worst of my problems.

A few weeks ago I was upstairs folding laundry in my bathrobe. The kids were hanging out downstairs watching "Max and Ruby" and essentially enjoying a sick day when the doorbell rang. I don't usually answer the door in that particular state of undress, but curiosity got the better of me. I opened the door to a woman I'd never met before holding Ty in her arms.

"Um, is this your son?"

She gathered from my ghost-white face and my inability to speak that she had, indeed, found the boy's mother. As it turns out, Ella had been inspired a few minutes before to put some of her artwork in our mailbox. During her foray into the front yard, Ty slipped out the door and started up the street towards a friend's house. A woman happened to be driving by at the time, and correctly assumed that I was not wise to the child's absence. She watched him make his way past a few houses, and then intervened.

The next person to bring Ty home was the Orkin Man - who really is the hero those commercials make him out to be. This time, I have no idea how Ty got out. I'm just thankful that our exterminator recognized him.

After that escape - which siphoned about 10 years off my life expectancy - I made an emergency call to my dad, who came over the next day with every locking device under the sun. Now every cabinet, closet, and door is equipped with child-proof locks. This solution may be short-lived, however, since my two-year old boy appears to be the master of escape. I thought that reversing the lock on his door would keep him in his room at night, but using a stool and his trusty plastic screwdriver, he managed to pop the lock three nights in a row. After that, I added a slide lock up at the top. Ty discovered through trial and error that by kicking the door, he can eventually get the lock to slip. Then he pops the second lock with his screwdriver and is out the door.

I won't lie. I am terrified of what this boy will eventually be able to accomplish. How long will his brain will be sitting in that bath of testoterone? It almost makes me anxious for my girls' estrogen-soaked teen years.

Almost.

Because Self-Esteem is Overrated

2010-04-26T10:30:00.000-07:00

In an effort to help Ella make new friends, I recently arranged a play date for her and a little girl from school. Ella really seems to like her, but the jury is still out for me, thanks to the following conversation:

Ella's new "friend" asked me, "Did you know your ceiling has a big crack in it?"

"Um... yes."

"Why does it have a crack?"

"Well, as houses get older and settle they sometimes get cracks." Ever the consummate teacher, I continued, "You know how people get wrinkles when they get older? Houses are the same way." (In this case the consummate teacher needed to shut up. Don't worry. You'll see why.)

"I don't have wrinkles."

"That's because you're still young."

"But you have a LOT of wrinkles."

I didn't have the time, or the words, to reply before she went on.

"Ella, should we take our shoes off?"

"Only if we're careful not to step in the dirt."

"Ewwww! You have dirt in your house?!"

"Oh yes, lots of it. Just look at the floor!"

The jury may still be out as far as I'm concerned, but something tells me these two are going to be fast friends. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to make a quick call to my therapist. And Merry Maids.

Remembering a Little of Life BC (Before Children)

2010-01-22T10:56:00.000-08:00

I was a lot of things in my past life: daughter, wife, teacher, friend, seamstress, bookworm...

And then I had a baby.

And then another.

And another.

And yes, another.

Obviously I'm still a few of the things I once was, as my parents haven't disowned me (to my knowledge) and my husband hasn't left me (would I notice if he did?). But now that I've added "Mother" to the list, there's just not much time left in the day to teach, read, sew, or pursue friendships.

Until this week anyway, which reminded me a little of the woman I was BC (Before Children).

So first things first: I'm a teacher again!!!

Can I tell you what a shock it is to type those words? Just two weeks ago, my husband and I were praying about school for next year. We knew our budget wouldn't allow all four kids to attend private pre-school, but we really felt led to enroll them anyway. The day after I delivered their applications to the school, I got a call from a principal I used to work for who now runs a homeschool program. One of their teachers is having some health problems, and he was wondering if I would be willing to finish out the year for her. It's one day a week of teaching 7-8 grade English - an my salary is the exact cost of the kids' pre-school.

Isn't God good?

I've had the best time this week buying my school supplies and writing up lessons plans. It's refreshing to be doing something I love so passionately, without feeling like I'm neglecting the needs of my family. Of course, I'm totally terrified of not being able to balance everything, but that's another blog for another day.

Since I'm back in the classroom again, it only seemed appropriate to get a new "teacher bag". Convenient timing, since my dear friend Rachel and I had a sewing retreat planned for this past weekend. It was a wonderful three days of friendship-building, sewing, reading, and sleeping in. And I thought you all might like to see the results (because people in blogland seem to love posts like this). Anyway...

Ta-da! My new teacher bag:

Excuse the poor photo quality. I took some quickie shots just to give you an idea of what we did.

These are the 3 dresses I made for my three little girls:

This one is Evie's, with the green panel in the center:

This one is Ella's - I kept it solid pink all the way around, to make hers a little different from the twins':

This one is Emily's - it's the reverse of Evie's, so the skirt panels are swapped, and the bodice and strap fabric's are reversed:

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

OK, enough of that now.

They did turn out a little big, but they actually look really cute worn as smocks over shirts and jeans. That should get us through the cold weather, anyway. By summer, they should be just right as sundresses the girls can run around in at church.

It was so much fun to finally start - and finish - some sewing projects, and Rachel and I are hoping to do it again soon. My hubby is on his way to the Grand Canyon tomorrow for a week of mountain-man backpacking, soI figure he owes me big. Plus, he knows that it feeds my soul to re-connect with that BC woman every once in awhile.

It gives me the strength to spend a whole week, alone, with my four children.

Diary Excerpts: The Making of a Christmas Card

2010-01-05T00:00:00.000-08:00

November 26, 2009

Dear Diary,

Wow! Where did the month go? I can't believe it's Thanksgiving already, and I haven't started on our Christmas cards. I don't even have a family picture yet. I mean, I guess we could use that one of us at the beach, but none of the kids are looking at the camera and Ella's eyes are all puffy and red from crying and the hubby's smile looks a little forced and... Yeah. It was a bad hair day. Maybe I should give Andrea a call and see if she can shoot our family portrait this weekend. Speaking of which, I should give her another shameless plug on my blog - if I ever actually post again, that is. Man, the holidays are crazy...

November 29, 2009

Dear Diary,

Well, we had our family pictures taken today. Actually, in the interest of expediency, we had our family pictures taken, our 10-year anniversary pictures taken, Ty's 2-year old pictures taken, and the twins' 4-year old pictures taken. Too bad we ran out of time; I really want to get the Halloween pictures taken before the girls ruin their fairy costumes. Although judging by the condition those fairy wings, it's probably too late anyway. (Note to self: Figure out if that is dirt or mold...)

Anyway, the process didn't go as smoothly as one might imagine. For starters, I forgot to do the laundry last night, so the twins' sweaters were dirty. And Ella's sweater was too small. And Ty's outfit didn't match. And neither did mine. And we were totally running late. Which is the only reason we didn't stop at the store to buy new matching outfits for the six of us. Well that, and the fact that my husband was looking at me as if I'd gone certifiably insane. Frankly, I don't think it's insane to want everybody to match exactly, but whatever.

Even with a photographer and two assistants, the shoot was more torturous that an afternoon of waterboarding. Apparently, the phrase "Look at the camera and smile!" is understood in a child's brain as "Look anywhere but here, and tears would be great if you've got 'em". Seriously, someone should do a study...

Of course, it didn't help that there were like ten other families in the park getting their Christmas pictures done at the same time. I'd like to think that they're all just procrastinators like me. But since everybody matched, they'd probably just spent the last two weeks coordinating their outfits. Not looking so insane now, am I Diary?

December 9, 2009

Dear Diary,

Andrea got our family pictures edited and turned around in no time. She's a miracle worker. Apparently children can look away from the camera making odd faces, and a pro can still come up with pictures like these:

The "We've-Been-Married-Almost-10-Years-and-the-Kids-Haven't-Killed-Us-Yet" Shot

Emily and Evie's 4-Year Old Picture

(They turned 4 on December 6, 2009!)

Ty's 2-Year Old Picture

(He turned 2 on December 11, 2009!)

Ella's 5 1/2-Year Old Picture (She turned 5 on July 14, 2009, because once upon a time I actually PLANNED my pregnancies!)

I'm surprised I can say it after that hideous afternoon in the park, but I'm really happy with our family pictures. In fact, I've got one picked out for our Christmas card! I'm taking it in tomorrow to get it printed up.

December 10, 2009

Dear Diary,

In the letters of this texting generation: O... M... G... I'm never going back to that camera store again.

It started out fine. I found a parking spot right out front - though in the interest of keeping the sheriff's department happy, I had to drag everybody out of the car and into the store with me.

Which is when things started to fall apart...

I do not make quick decisions. I'm a perfectionist. You know that, Diary - I write about it all the time. It's just who I am. So chaining me to a computer with 3 of 4 my kids running around, and telling me to pick out my own picture and card design? Stress-FULL. First of all, there were 435 pictures on my disk. And I couldn't remember which one I'd picked. Of course within the first 2 minutes of my hunting and pecking, the kids had knocked over no less than 3 picture frames and a stool. In a panic (and with no sheriff's car in sight), I hauled everybody back out the van, gave them some books to look at, and locked them in. Luckily, my great parking spot kept them in my line of sight.

I ran back in, picked a random picture, and then started flipping through the designs. Would you believe I found a design that matched our brown, red, cream, and light blue attire? Yeah, neither would I - but I actually did! That was the only thing that went right, though, since as I was printing off my order I happened to look outside and notice Evie in the front seat of the car.

Naked.

I grabbed the receipt and ran out the car, where my naked child greeted me with a shriek of, "I HAVE TO GO POTTY!" Why this required her nudity, I have no idea. But her sister was not about to be left behind and started stripping down as well. As soon as everyone was re-clothed, I hauled them back into the camera shop and asked if we could use the bathroom.

It turns out that the bathroom is also their storage closet. Or vice versa. Either way, kill me now.

I HATE public restrooms.

As if all that wasn't enough, Emily needed help getting her seat belt fastened. Or she did until I climbed back there to help her - by then she'd already clipped it. Being the ballerina that I am, though, I tripped over my own feet and fell out of the car, landing on my sciatic nerve. No big deal, though. I just had to lay in a crumpled heap on the parking lot until the feeling came back to my right leg.

(Seriously, kill me now.)

December 11, 2009

Dear Diary,

I had to go back to pick up my pictures today. I hope nobody recognized me.

December 15, 2009

Dear Diary,

It's nearly midnight, but all of my Christmas cards are stuffed, addressed, and stamped. Well actually, I ran out of stamps half-way through, but I'll get around to picking up more. Whew. Feels good to have that done.

December 16, 2009

Dear Diary,

Emily un-stuffed all the envelopes.

December 17, 2009

Dear Diary,

I sent out the stamped half of my cards today. I wish I'd had time to write a letter this year, but the hubby put his foot down and actually said "no". He seems to think this project is is consuming me.

Whatever.

January 4, 2010

Dear Diary,

I found a stack of Christmas cards this morning when I was cleaning out the office. Did I forget to buy stamps?

January 5, 2010

Dear Diary,

I'm posting a blog today if it kills me. If people didn't get a Christmas card from me this year, the least I can do is post a picture.

On second thought, maybe I'll get around to it tomorrow.

Calling Poison Control: The Evolution of Motherhood

2009-11-23T14:57:00.000-08:00

Want to know where you are on the evolutionary chain of motherhood?* Read the following descriptions, and choose the one that best describes you as a mother. Then, leave a comment and let me know, "Which mom are you?"

Early Neanderthal Mom: (The evolutionary process has barely even begun.)

You're a first-time mom, and your brand-new bundle of joy knocks over an open container of baby powder. Powder goes flying towards your baby's open mouth and you go into full-on mom panic mode. You grab the baby, the powder, and the portable phone and run to the kitchen, where the Poison Control number is taped to your refrigerator. Hearing the hysteria in your first-time mother's voice, the Poison Control operator quickly assures you that the 1/8 tsp. of cornstarch-based powder that your baby just licked off her lips will not adversely affect her in any way.

Still Neanderthal Mom: (You haven't learned much, but there's hope for you yet.)

You're still a first-time mom, and your newly-mobile 7-month old discovers the kitty's cat food. She dumps it out, stirs it around, and then places the food piece by piece back into the bowl... until she gets hungry and decides to help herself to a snack. You pick up the little darling a few minutes later, smell the faint scent of tuna on her breath, and freak out. You run to the junk drawer and frantically dig out the list of emergency numbers. A Poison Control operator soon assures you that food considered safe for kitty consumption is likewise safe for small children (although it is not recommended by the FDA).

Cromagnon Mom: (A big evolutionary leap, but you've still got a ways to go.)

You're suddenly the overworked, under rested mother of four children 3 and under. The bigger house you were forced to upgrade into is mostly baby-proofed, but lately you're noticing a few places that you overlooked - like the kids' changing table. You walk into the bathroom after nursing Baby #4 and see your other three children brushing their teeth. This is not completely traumatic until you realize that they mistook the diaper rash cream for toothpaste. You race downstairs to find a phone, then dial 4-1-1 to get the Poison Control number. The Poison Control operator asks you a series of questions that make you feel increasingly like a bad mother, and then determines that while the zinc oxide might make them a bit nauseous, your children will be generally unharmed by their oral hygiene experiment.

Early Modern Mom: (You're almost there!)

Baby #4 is now walking, and loves to open all of the drawers in your bathroom. Although technically "baby-proofed," most of the cheap plastic child locks have broken off your cabinets and your adventurous baby is having a free-for-all. He locates a bottle of Dramamine in one of the drawers and quickly dispenses with the child-proof cap. You walk in just in time to find him on the floor surrounded by an empty bottle and seven pills. According to the label, the bottle holds eight. You can't remember if you took a pill on your last cruise or not. The boat was a little rocky, but you can't specifically recall any sea-sickness. You wait 15 minutes until the mother-guilt piles up, then walk downstairs and dig through the pantry for last year's phone book. You finally find the number for Poison Control, answer a series of questions that once again remind you what a lousy parent you are, and listen while the operator instructs you to watch for signs of sleepiness. You are just wrapping up the call when Baby #4 goes sprinting by in a monkey mask, with his three sisters in hot pursuit. You remember now that you probably were a tad sea sick during that last cruise, and decide to ignore the operator's advice about waking up Baby #4 every hour or so through the night.

Modern Mom: (Congratulations... I think.)

You have officially given up on the child-proof locks, and now keep cleaning chemicals like Febreeze out in the open and close on hand - because the smell of your kid's dirty diaper is far more deadly than a whiff of "Clean Scent." Unfortunately, Baby #4 is a climber and can usually get at whatever he wants. Plus, he loves to know how things work. You see it coming, but as fast as you sprint up those stairs, he still manages to shoot himself in the face with air freshener. At this point, you're pretty sure that Big Brother has you on a list somewhere, and that yet another call to Poison Control will result in a visit from DFACS. You read the warning labels on the back of the Febreeze canister, acknowledge that perhaps those warning labels really are there to serve an actual purpose, and dunk your kid in the bathtub to both "flush out the affected eye" and rinse the scent of air freshener from his hair. Then you put him to bed, confident that despite your lack of medical knowledge, his vision will not be affected by this little incident.

So tell me, "Which mom are you?"

*The evolutionary chain of motherhood is actually a hoax. In truth, mothers are created by God. And it is only by His grace that my children remained healthy through all five of the above scenarios...

The Headless Sprinting Chicken

2009-11-16T06:00:00.000-08:00

Anybody else out there reading Deadly Viper: Character Assassins byMike Foster and Jud Wilhite?

Anybody out there want to slap me right now for admitting I have time to read?

Well before you hurt me, I should let you know two things:

1. Deadly Viper: Character Assassins is essentially a "bathroom read." You can pick it up during your 30 seconds or so of time in the loo, and get a good couple of pages read. If you have earplugs, you might even get a full minute of privacy - so long as you can't hear the children knocking on the door asking, "Mo-ommy! What are you do-oing?!?" (Or am I just projecting my own experiences?)

2. I've only read two of the six chapters, and the ones I read were in the middle of the book. Yeah, that's just how I roll.

Anyway, one of the two brilliant chapters I had "time" to read a few weeks ago is called The Assassin of the Headless Sprinting Chicken. It's all about how the concept of "balance" is essentially bunk; that we will never be able to have a morning quiet time every morning, eat everything just right, exercise everyday, drink 64 oz. of water before bedtime, create perfectly happy and well-behaved children, and still slip into bed at night looking like a Victoria's Secret model.

OK I took a few liberties with my synopsis, but you get the point: Balance is bunk. Instead of being a healthy - albeit flawed - person who can roll with life's punches, I'm more like a headless sprinting chicken running around trying to achieve perfection through the illusion of a balanced life.

And yes - that about sums up my experiences of late. I have been absolutely CLOBBERED by the Assassin of the Headless Sprinting Chicken. In trying to be all things by doing all things for all of the people around me, I have failed myself miserably. I'm living off daily drive-thru Cokes and the occasional pack of chicken nuggets, but I can't tell you the last time I sat down to eat. I get out of breath cleaning my house, because it seems like every time I turn around all of the stuff that is supposed to be upstairs is downstairs, and all of the stuff that is supposed to be downstairs is upstairs. My 5-year old's pre-K homework has been late for two weeks in a row. (And come to think of it, so has she.) I can't remember the last time I prayed for myself, my husband, or my children. And to save my life, I can't seem to swallow the happy pill we all know I need.

The plane is going down, and every one's wearing an oxygen mask but me.

So what's the answer? According to the Deadly Viper authors, "LEAD YOURSELF. NO ONE ELSE WILL" (93).

Wilhite goes on to spell it out on p. 94: "I am responsible to lead myself, to ensure that I'm resting, learning, growing, and bringing my very best self to the job every day. I'm the only one who knows what my emotional, physical, and spiritual gauges are telling me and I've got to listen to them. I am responsible for my own self-care, growth, and development."

Ouch.

Basically, everybody else is wearing their oxygen mask because I've placed it on them. But the instruction we've heard the flight attendant give a thousand times before is to place the mask on ourselves first. I realized last week that I'm no good to my family right now, because I've been so busy caring for them that I've forgotten to give any thought to myself. All I'm really doing is running around like a chicken with its head cut off.

Of course, I'm writing all of this down "pre-solution." I really don't know what I'm going to do to start taking better care of myself. I know that writing is somehow therapeutic for me, so I suppose this post is a step in the right direction. I'm hoping that the bowl of cereal I'm going to go eat in a second isn't too bad either. Perhaps I'll even get out of the house for a bit on this beautiful day, and just take a few minutes to enjoy the time before it passes me by.

On that note, let me share one final bit of encouragement I heard last night. It's a daily devotional that was once kept in the wallet of a famous Alabama coach that my husband is NOT going to let me mention. So forget I said it, and just read the words:

This is the beginning of a new day.

God has given me this day to use as I will.

I can waste it or use it for good.

What I do today is very important because I am exchanging a day of my life for it.

When tomorrow comes, this day will be gone forever, leaving something in its place I have traded for it.

I want it to be a gain, not loss - good, not evil.

Success, not failure in order that I shall not forget the price I paid for it.

Blessings to all of you mommies out there today. Make it a good one!

Excuses, Excuses

2009-10-11T07:37:00.000-07:00

I know it's been awhile since I've posted anything new, but I have a few good excuses:

1) I'm in the middle of re-modeling the twins' room. Fresh paint, new furniture, etc. It's really coming together, and the girls are loving their new bunk beds. (Fodder for future blogs, I'm sure.) I'll post some before and after pictures soon - for those of you blog-stalkers who enjoy a good make-over!

2) My sister is getting married in less than 2 weeks!!!! Honestly, I think I'm as excited about her wedding as I was about mine. She's waited so long for this day, and we can't wait to share it with her and our soon-to-be new brother / uncle. Plus, my girls are going to be just about the darn cutest flower girls you've ever seen. (Please, God - no fodder there...)

3) Finally, don't hate me, but I just got back yesterday from a week at the beach. (Never mind, I even hate me.) It's a wonderful annual trip we take with my husband's family to Hilton Head every October, and it really is a treat. I am truly blessed that family time - grand kids included - is so important to my in-laws.

And since I'm always getting flack for too many words and not enough pictures, here are just a few snapshots from our time on the South Carolina coast:

Ty (a.k.a. Tommy Bahama) strolling up the beach house. He's a wanderer; he strolled all the way up to this point without ever once looking back. He finally turned around when I said, "Ty, do you want a cookie?" That's my boy.

Ella, we fear, is the whole package. Beautiful, smart, and athletic. That girl never sits down. Here she playing paddle ball on the beach with her daddy.

And here she is - the future cheerleader? - stunting with her Uncle Mac. I don't know whether to say "Bring it on, girl" or "Yikes"!

Emily and Evie really enjoyed the sand and the water. I can't really call them bathing beauties here, but at least they are having fun. They built a giant "drip" castle for Cinderella on our last day at the beach. Poor Cinderelly...

Ty wasn't quite as taken with the ocean as the girls were, so Papa dug a little baby pool for him in the sand, and the girls took turns hauling up water for him. His favorite thing to do was jump in bottom-first. I guess those swim diapers are more padded than I thought.

Evie - my little clown. I'm counting on Nana to have some better pictures of her an her sisters at the beach. I was too busy laughing.

You have NO IDEA what it took to get this photograph. I can't believe all 6 of us made it into one picture and every body's looking happily into the general vicinity of the camera. Whew!

Well, that's all I've got for now. There's a whole list of post ideas sitting on my desk right now, and one of these days I'll start writing. In the meantime, I just heard a crash upstairs. Hope those bunk beds are still intact...

But I'm Not On My Horse!

2009-09-20T10:50:00.000-07:00

There's a new Sarah Jessica Parker movie coming out. I don't know when exactly, and I can't look it up because I don't remember what it's called. I also can't recall the name of the lead actor to save my life. In truth, I'm just proud of myself for going to a movie last night, and for making it in time to even see the previews - though sadly not to enjoy the tub of popcorn or giant box of Goobers. But despite my mommy-induced short-term memory loss, I think I want to see this movie... if for nothing else than the scene I saw last night. It's one of those comic distance shots that shows a horse galloping across the screen. Seconds later the camera catches SJP running behind it screaming, "But I'm not on my horse!"

Oh Sarah Jessica, I feel your pain. I don't know why you aren't on your horse; I'll have to pay $10.00 sometime this fall? (winter?) to find out why. But pre-school started a couple of weeks ago in our house, and these days I feel like shouting to anyone who will listen - especially the teachers at carpool - "Just give me a minute! Please! I'm not on my horse!"

Specifically, I'm not on the Young 5's horse. See, Ella - being a July baby and therefore a "young 5" - had the option of going to Kindergarten this year. Which seemed like a bad idea at the time and seems like a worse one now. Thankfully, the church pre-school she's attends offers a special program for kids like her, who are of age but aren't quite ready for the realities of public Kindergarten. (i.e. - listening to and obeying the teacher all day) It's kind of like boot camp for these kids, who are about to enter 18 years of ~~military~~ academic service. At least, that's what I thought the program was all about.

Until Curriculum Night...

"OK parents, we're getting these kids ready for Kindergarten next year, so school begins promptly at 8:30 every morning. We'll be marking tardies, so make sure your little ones aren't late. Also, please don't let them bring their breakfast to class. If they're eating their breakfast, everybody will want a breakfast. And as far as homework is concerned, we will be sending home an assignment every night. It shouldn't take long to complete, but please make sure that your child is the one completing the work."

Oh sweet Lord. This isn't Young 5's Boot Camp. This is Mommy Boot Camp!!! I mean, we're never on time to school. That's why I count on late drop-off! And how else am I going to feed my child breakfast if she's not allowed to bring her baggie of Honey Nut Cheerios to class? And HOMEWORK? What does she mean 'homework'???

Needless to say, I saw my horse galloping off without me. And for two weeks I've been chasing it across the movie screen of my life screaming, "Wait! I'm not on my horse!"

Ella was late to her first 3 days of school.

She hasn't taken her breakfast to class, but I suspect she was hungry more than one morning.

As for homework? Well, all I can tell you is that being a former high school teacher doesn't help when your student is a HARD-HEADED FIVE YEAR OLD. I may need an extra happy pill just to carry me through handwriting practice.

But God bless her, it turns out my daughter loves school. Who knew, after last year's tumult? My little girl actually loves school.

Last weekend, Ella brought home a book report assignment. Her job was to listen to a book, choose her favorite part, and draw a picture of it in her journal. True to the nature of my life, I remembered her book report at 8:00 on Sunday night.

"Oh my goodness Ella, we have to do your book report!"

"No Mommy, I already did it."

"You did? Really? Um, how about you show me."

Ella returned a moment later with her journal, and I flipped it open to the first page. Sure enough, there was a picture there.

"Ella, what book did you do?"

"Cinderella. I read it all by myself and then I drew this picture. See? There's Cinderella and there's the Fairy Godmother."

It was a pretty remarkable resemblance for my artistically-challenged tomboy.

"But what's this red squiggly line around them?" I asked.

"Oh Mommy," Ella replied. "That's the magic."

Oh. The magic. I LOVE the magic. It makes me tear up just thinking about it.

Except that it's Sunday night again, and Ella has another book report due. I don't think the magic is going to help me this time. Page 2 of her journal is blank.

Heaven help me, I've got to catch that horse...

There Once Was a Girl

2009-09-16T03:00:00.000-07:00

There once was a girl who had a curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good, she was very, very good.

But when she was bad, she was horrid.

I don't know who wrote this four-line description of my eldest, but I certainly can't take credit for the author's brilliant insight. I suspect it's taken from a children's book though, since both my sister-in-law and my mother-in-law - who are teachers - quote it all the time. Usually while watching Ella doing something naughty.

Not that she's naughty all the time. She's not. Sometimes she's good; indeed "very, very good." And sometimes she just takes after her daddy, who's doesn't score real high on the compassion scale. No, compassion isn't really wired into Ella's personality.

I saw this particular side of her nature revealed last week when my parents came over to give me a hand in the yard. I don't usually mind yard work; it's the landscaping that gives me fits. Mom and Dad graciously offered several hours of manual labor and landscaping insight, and I was pleasantly surprised when they arrived and Darcy bounded out of the truck ahead of them.

Darcy is my sister's sweet-natured, fuzzy black mutt. Practically a daughter, granddaughter, niece, and cousin to our family. She also does phenomenal clean-up work in my car and on my kitchen floor - which were particularly gross that day - so I was very happy to see her.

Darcy was an angel all day long, despite spending much of her time "training" in the front yard. She was tested several times throughout the day by the various dogs who strolled by - and one particularly big dog who lives across the street. But she did great, and by the end of the day none of us were paying much attention to her as she laid resting in the grass.

Then a neighbor came over to say a quick hello, and when she left Darcy was gone. I mean gone. She was absolutely nowhere to be found. The yard work was suspended as three adults and four children embarked on a mission to find my sister's AWOL dog. Nearly an hour in, with Ella sitting in the front seat on her Mimi's lap, my daughter sighed sadly and said, "I sure hope we find Darcy soon."

"Oh honey," I replied, "we'll find her. She's going to be okay."

"That's good," said Ella. "Because I'm getting hungry!"

Oh. "Well, I know we'll find her soon."

But we didn't find her, and soon my mother was in tears. As I threw a quick batch of pancakes together - with Ella looking on - Mom cried on my shoulder: "I just love that dog so much! What if we don't find her? This is all my fault; I shouldn't have brought her over here."

"Mom, it's not your fault," I tried to comfort her. "I mean, really it's all our faults. We were all responsible for watching her."

"It's not my fault," Ella piped up. "I didn't bring her over here!"

Well, so much for comfort.

But as it turns out, we didn't need the comfort. While fixing "dinner," Mom and I started piecing a few clues together and realized that Darcy had probably followed my neighbor home and been accidentally shut into her garage. Sure enough, I went up to the garage door and put my ear near the crack at the bottom. The muffled bark I heard was perfect confirmation, since I know for certain my neighbor does not own a dog. An hour later - once my neighbor returned home - Darcy was safe and sound back at our house.

I don't think Ella noticed. She'd gotten tired of waiting and went to bed.

School Days???

2009-09-15T12:38:00.000-07:00

I've been counting down the days until the first day of school since the last day of school last year. No kidding. If you're friends with me on Facebook, you've seen my desperation-tinged status updates: "Only 136 days until the first day of pre-school. Yipee!"

So how, pray tell, did I manage to blow the first day of school?

Well, obviously it didn't sneak up on me. I mean, two weeks ago I was the totally sane and organized mother of three soon-to-be-pre-school students. For two nights in a row I showed up to attend Curriculum Night for all three girls. I met the teachers. I took copious notes. I signed up to help with the Christmas and Easter parties, and volunteered away my entire month of January to help out at the school. I labeled and filed the class lists so I would know just where to find little Susie's mother's phone number when my girls requested a playdate. I took the girls to meet their teachers two days later, and when I did, I arrived laden with every school supply on the list, plus a few extras "just in case."

So what happened? Where did that sane and organized mother go? Apparently, she was replaced by the crazy lady who - at 10 o'clock the night before school started - realized her twins were supposed to turn in their "All About Me" projects in just a few short hours.

What is the "All About Me" project, you ask? Well back when Ella was in this class, I wrongfully assumed that it was a piece of paper she could color, decorate, and paste pictures on to help tell the class all about herself. But it turns out that the "All About Me" project is actually a piece of brightly-colored cardstock that scrapbooking-crazed pre-school mothers use to show off their mad artistic skills, and photographs of their expensive family vacations to Disney World and Hawaii. Needless to say, my husband walked into the bedroom at 11 o'clock, looked at the pile of discarded family photos, gluesticks, markers, and stickers, and asked, "Um, should I sleep on the couch?"

Being the loving wife that I am, I of course responded, "I'M TRYING TO FINISH MY HOMEWORK! JEEZ, I'LL BE DONE IN A MINUTE!"

"Shouldn't the girls be doing their own homework?"

"You would think so, wouldn't you? But I'll let them put some stickers on in the morning."

I really planned to let them do so, but they kept sticking them on crooked. Plus, it turns out that in my rush to finish the "All About Me" projects, I failed to note the lack of clean clothing in our drawers. The first morning of school, I pulled off the girls' wet Pull-Ups, threw on some pants, and hoped the T-shirts they'd slept in didn't look too wrinkled. They didn't.

I'd show you proof, but I forgot to take the obligatory first day of school picture. Since I slept through my alarm clock that morning, I didn't have time to snap that enduring photo. I was too busy with four kids - getting their clothes on, their shoes on, their hair fixed, their teeth brushed, their tummies fed and their seat belts buckled. And yes, we were tardy.

Over a hundred days of counting down... and I still managed to be late.

Watch For Falling Inanimate Objects

2009-08-24T11:01:00.000-07:00

My kids love assigning human characteristics to all things inanimate. Ella started the trend a few years ago with a little game I like to think of as "What Lives Where." The rules are simple, really. Whatever Ella finds out of place in her room - stuffed animals, hair bows, carpet fuzz - she throws out in the hallway and shouts, "This does not live here, Mommy!" Likewise, library books "live" at the library, chicken nuggets "live" at McDonald's, and Miss Kathy "lives" at the pool. Granted, Miss Kathy is a swimming teacher, not an inanimate object, but you get the picture.

Of course, we're way beyond "What Lives Where" now. These days my kids think of inanimate objects as a cross between the Brave Little Toaster and the Velveteen Rabbit: everything in our house has feelings and perhaps, with enough love, the potential to be real. Emily is particularly obsessed with her cat and her dog - a pair of stuffed animals who are rather opinionated creatures. I find myself walking on eggshells around my first twin, who is liable to scream out of the seeming blue: "My cat says you have to be quiet, Mommy!" or "You're making my dog mad!" or "My cat and my dog say we have to have ice cream RIGHT NOW!" Frankly, I'd like to see her cat and dog take a hike - especially now that Emily has seen Cinderella. Anyone who asks what her cat's name is gives me a dirty look when she replies "Lucifer."

Trying to play into my kids' imaginations has backfired on me, too, though. Emily's not particularly impressed when I tell her that her cat and her dog want her to eat all her broccoli or clean her room. "NO THEY DON'T, MOMMY! MY CAT AND MY DOG DON'T LIKE BROCCOLI!" Evie's not particularly impressed by my little game either. At the doctor's office, I told her to leave her very special - and somewhat emotional - "Blankie" in the car.

"I don't want Blankie to get sick, honey," I said, thinking of all the germs we were about to encounter.

"Mommy," Evie replied. "My Blankie don't have a mouth. It can't get sick."

There's only one thing stronger than a three-year old's passion for inanimate objects: the promise of treats.

"Evie, if you leave Blankie in the car and you behave at the doctor's office, then I will get you a treat when we're done."

"OK, Mommy. Can Blankie have one, too?"

I guess Blankie doesn't require a mouth for treats. Or maybe Evie imagines Blankie grows a mouth - a la Brave Little Toaster - when we all leave the room. Or perhaps my kids are just smarter than I realize ... and I'm jumping through a whole lot of imaginary hoops.

Not Me! Monday... er, Tuesday

2009-07-21T13:23:00.000-07:00

Hey, I'm not late posting my "Not Me! Monday" post. Nope, not me. I'm never late.

That certainly wasn't me at the grocery store last week, buying fresh donuts at the bakery counter. I'm watching my weight, so I don't need to buy donuts. I prefer carob-chip cookies and sugar free ice cream. So obviously, that wasn't me you saw in the produce section reach into the donut bag and wipe out two chocolate-frosted delights. First of all, that would be a disgusting lack of self-control. And secondly, it would be embarrassing for me to have to pay the lady at the checkout counter for an empty bakery bag. She'd probably give me an odd look and shake her head. So I'm glad I didn't do anything like that.

For sure, I would never take my children to a free summer kids show like "Bee Movie" and cry at the end when, you know, Barry the Bee unites the bees of Manhattan to re-pollinate all the flowers in the city. It would be ridiculous to need a Kleenex for something as cheesy and predictable as that. Of course, it would also be ridiculous for me to spoil the end of the show for everybody who hasn't seen "Bee Movie" yet.

So glad I didn't do that.

You know that wasn't me at the park on Saturday with my four kids, either. I don't lie around on a picnic blanket and block out my kids' screaming by staring blankly up at the clouds. I certainly didn't tell Emily to drop trow and go pee-pee behind a tree because I didn't want to have to pack up and go find a bathroom. That would irresponsible and unsanitary.

And thank heavens I would never, ever rip my shirt off and run around topless in my backyard. What an embarrassing situation that could be for my father-in-law if he was, say, working in the side yard and saw me. After all, I've seen "Bee Movie." I know that when a bee flies down my shirt, it doesn't mean any harm. Stinging a person - even when angry - shows the rest of the bee world an embarrassing lack of self-control. So it's a good thing that bee didn't sting me and I didn't have to streak my neighbors.

It's nice to know that bees and I have that it common: a sense of decency and self-control. It's not helpful for writing humorous blog posts, but it sure makes me feel good. I think I'll go reward myself with a nice big glass of rice milk...

The Perfect Parent

2009-07-11T05:00:00.000-07:00

Ty knocked himself out last week.

Knocked. Himself. OUT.

And shaved a good two years off my life.

Of course I was only standing about 10 feet away when he did it, which proves that the concept of "keeping an eye on the kids" is totally overrated. Ty was pushing a truck on the hardwood floor with his foot when the truck rolled forward and he flipped back. And knocked himself out.

I have to give myself credit for not freaking out. He came around after only ~~an eternity~~ a few seconds and started crying, which I took as a good sign. 9-1-1 was already punched in, but I hung up and speed-dialed the Children's Hospital nurse hot line instead. I don't know why, but I like that they know me by name over there. Anyway, Nurse Janet sent me packing to the nearest emergency room, which received us in record time. One lengthy exam, one CT scan, and three packages of graham crackers later, Ty was discharged home under a clean bill of health. Praise God.

It seems His angels are putting in some overtime around our house these days. I have to tell you that the week before Ty's frightening fall, we had an even more terrifying incident occur. Before I share though, you have to know that I NEVER move a car without all of my children accounted for - either in the house or buckled into their seats. It's a good rule anyway, but the accident that killed Steven Curtis Chapman's daughter last year in her own driveway has given me a healthy sense of paranoia. So I NEVER move a car when my children are outside. And isn't that the way all accident stories begin?

A few weeks ago, it was pretty clear that something was going on with the transmission in the minivan. I was not in a good mood, since we don't exactly have the money to fix a car that should run just fine. Instead of pulling the van all the way into the garage like I usually do, I pulled in only part way so I could check the transmission fluid. By the time that job was done, our neighbors, their son, my husband, and our four kids were all out in the driveway talking and playing. Around here, three adults to five kids is a pretty good ratio. So I counted all the kids, made sure every child was accounted for, and walked back into the garage to pull the van forward the last three feet. And then muttered a few inappropriate words under my breath when I couldn't find the keys.

That figures. Nothing's ever just easy. Can't even pull my car in the garage without it being a production...

I got out of the car, slammed the door, and stormed towards the kitchen to find my keys.

Just as Ty toddled around the front bumper of my car.

I am not exaggerating this at all. If my keys had been in the ignition where I was sure I'd left them, I would have pulled that car forward three feet and crushed my son. Our garage is a very tight space, and the car would have either rolled over him or pinned him to the wall.

I snatched Ty up and about hugged the breath out of him, while getting on my knees and thanking God that He is a better parent to my children than I am. Not just in terms of their safety - because clearly I can't keep them safe even when I am watching them - but in terms of their complete and total well-being.

I regularly beat myself up for all the ways I've failed as a parent. And I am terrified that my kids are going to grow up, move out, and never speak to me again, because I consistently fail to meet all of their needs.

When did I start thinking I was God?

I can't meet all of my children's needs. I will never be able to meet all of my children's needs. I succeed in keeping them from physical harm well enough, but not perfectly - as the bumps and bruises on their elbows and knees will attest. I try to keep them happy, but not all that effectively - which is clear to the public at large every time I take them grocery shopping. I hug them and kiss them and love on them every day - but I still manage to yell at them several times a day, too. I am so not a perfect parent.

But thank God He is.

He loves my own children even more than I do. Infinitely more so, because He was willing to sacrifice His own Son for a relationship with them. He is capable of giving my children more joy in their lives than I can because of the relationship they can have with Him. And He is even more capable than me at keeping them from physical harm; clearly so, because Ty is safe and healthy and with us today.

And I am so grateful for that.

Dear Doctor

2009-07-09T06:53:00.000-07:00

Thank you for sending home an informational pamphlet in preparation for Ella's tonsillectomy. It's always helpful to have a sheet of bright orange paper to reference when one's child undergoes surgery. Unfortunately, I find that it isn't as thorough as some parents might prefer. I'm writing to suggest some changes you may wish to make on future pamphlets.

First of all, I'd like to recommend you add a paragraph to your pamphlet that informs parents how their child is to dress the morning of surgery. In our case, I suggested that Ella wear her pajamas in order to feel comfortable during her post-op stay. She disagreed - as I'm sure you noticed, since she accessorized her jammies with a tiara, tutu, and ballet slippers. Did this distract you at all during surgery? If not I'm glad, since dancing down the hospital corridors provided such a nice diversion for our daughter prior to her procedure. If it was a problem however, I would encourage you to be more specific about hospital dress code in the future.

As far as post-operative concerns, I find your pamphlet only moderately informative. For example, the section labeled "Diet" suggests that tonsillectomy patients should drink 4oz. of liquid every hour and includes a handy little sticker chart to help motivate the patient to drink. Are you aware, sir, that some children do not like sticker charts? That some children will, in fact, refuse to do anything asked of them, regardless of bribery and rewards? To make matters worse, you advise patients to stay away from milk the first few days after surgery. How exactly are parents like us supposed to get our child to drink anything? Ella doesn't drink anything but white milk, even when she's healthy! It's not like we can take her to Sonic, which boasts hundreds of drink combinations, and expect her to find one single drink she might enjoy. She won't. Granted, you allow Popsicles to count towards liquid intake. Unfortunately, Ella does not particularly care for Popsicles, as she considers them "too cold." Frankly, we could have used a little more direction from you in this area.

In fact, the entire "Diet" section should be re-written, as what you suggest conflicts entirely with what my daughter requests. You seem to think that jello, pudding, and ice cream are well-tolerated and even enjoyed by 5-year tonsillectomy patients. I am sorry to inform you that this is indeed NOT the case. My child would prefer to eat M&M's and pretzels - foods you specifically deny her, according to your pamphlet. Perhaps you would like to come over and prepare Ella's meals and snacks for the next two weeks?

Which, incidentally, is the amount of time your pamphlet directs us to moderate Ella's play. NO "vigorous activity?" NO running or biking? NO SWIMMING? My daughter came home from the hospital and immediately requested we walk the 1/2 mile to our neighborhood playground. As I write, she's pumping herself on the swing so high she can "touch the sky." Yet your pamphlet offers no alternative suggestions for activities. Nor does it indicate if I can tie her to a chair or bed without being questioned by the Department of Child and Family Services. Again, this would be helpful information to have.

Finally, your pamphlet references a post-operative condition known as hypernasality. According to the information provided, "it is normal for your child to have a higher voice...immediately after surgery." What it does not tell me it this: Are my ears supposed to be bleeding? It seems possible - indeed, probable - that my daughter's voice has ruptured my ear drums. Therefore, I suggest that if you decide to respond in some way to this letter that you do NOT pick up the phone to call me. A letter of apology will be sufficient.

I hope that you are not offended by the tone of my letter. I simply want to help you do a better job in the future of preparing parents. Hopefully you will find my suggestions useful.

Sincerely,

Stages

2009-06-24T05:28:00.000-07:00

It's been one of those weeks this week.

OK, it's one of those weeks every week.

But this week seems particularly insane, despite the regular help I'm getting from Miss Amanda, my summer sitter. (Although around here she's "Miss A-Panda." Cute, right?) We love our Miss A-Panda. Well, except for when we're hitting her. Or locking her in a room, as the case may be.

Wait, though. Don't call the cops on me yet. These abuses are all courtesy of my almost 5-year old, Ella. For reasons I still haven't figured out, she decided to beat up on sweet Miss A-Panda - and lock her in a room - while I was out running errands with my mom the other day. Miss A-Panda, being the smart girl that she is, quickly popped the lock and picked up the phone to call ~~the woman with the naughty stick~~ Ella's mom.

Fortunately, I was almost home. Fortunately, too, I had a few minutes to vent to my mom about Ella's bad attitude, because she was able to calm me down and gently remind me that I've been through A LOT of stages with these kiddos. This is just one more stage, she told me. And she's right. Although the Hitting and Being a General Pill Stage? I'm over it. I can't wait for it to go the way of these other annoying stages that, praise God, eventually passed:

1. Worst Morning Sickness EVER Stage

I know, I know. You probably think that you had the worst morning sickness ever, and you're probably right - because morning sickness is THE MOST MISERABLE FEELING IN THE WORLD, regardless of your personal sickness level. But even my OB agrees that my level was off the charts: like a 19 out of a possible 10. During the course of my three (successful) pregnancies, I was hospitalized 14 times for excessive vomiting. During the twins' pregnancy, which very nearly killed me, I lost weight faster than my babies could gain; I looked like an orange stuck on toothpicks. Those times when I was temporarily discharged from the hospital, I had a home nurse monitoring me, a Zofran pump pumping anti-nausea medicine into my leg, and a PICC line in my arm delivering fluids and TPN. It was not my favorite stage ever.

I have plenty of gross / disgusting / kinda funny stories about my 25+ months' experience with hyperemesis (i.e. morning sickness on crack), which I'll probably write about at some point; but my point in writing about it now is simply to say: I didn't die. I thought at times I was going to, but I didn't. I survived, it's over, and I have four healthy and surprising chubby children to show for it. We made it.

2. Now My Baby Is Throwing Up Stage

The irony is that the next stage still had everything to do with digestive functions... just not my own. The Now My Baby Is Throwing Up Stage (better known within the medical community as acid reflux) was a different experience with each child. Emily and Evie had it, but I didn't really notice because I was too busy feeding, burping, bathing, changing, swaddling, and rocking them to really care about the spit-up all over my clothes. Ty had it as well, but he was what the pediatrician called a "happy spitter." In other words, I was covered in baby goo but Ty never fussed. Go figure.

Then there was Ella.

Ella was NOT a happy spitter. She was not a happy baby. In fact, members of my family can testify that Ella didn't stop crying for three months after we brought her home. My hubby's grandmother called it colic. I called it pure agony.

Even once the crying ~~stopped~~ diminished, the projectile vomiting continued for another three months. Plenty of people, who got used to seeing me regularly in semi-soggy clothes, asked why I didn't just use a burp cloth. At which point I'd pull three or more mushy, sodden burp clothes out of my diaper bag and ask, "Why?" It eventually got to the point where my sister could find me in a store simply by following the trail of baby vomit. How's that for birth control?

3. Make The Screaming Stop Stage

Ella made such a quick transition from spitting to screaming that I never really had a chance to celebrate the end of the Now My Baby Is Throwing Up Stage. We jumped right in, feet first, to the Make The Screaming Stop Stage.

Now again, I'm sure you think that your kid gets pretty loud. And he or she probably does pull off a good scream now and again. But Ella could shatter glass with her scream. No kidding, we could've taken out the whole crystal section at Macy's with one blood-curdling yell. It got to the point where I couldn't leave the house because she screamed ALL THE TIME.

Eventually, I got so desperate that I called a world-renowned counseling center, held the phone up to Ella, and after a few screams begged the man on the other end to tell me what I could do to make her stop. He told me to buy ear plugs and wait for the stage to pass. Easy for him to say, but in reality I had no choice... so that's what I did. And praise God, it finally passed - just about the time we found out I was pregnant with twins.

4. Diaper Removal Stage

The twins, of course, brought with them their own unique stages. What I had learned from parenting Ella was inadequate when I tackled their new, double-your-trouble phases. Like the Diaper Removal Stage.

This stage started shortly before Ty was born, and continued for a good six months. At first I wasn't too concerned, since the girls were still in their cribs and the damage was contained. I just put onesies on over their diapers and assumed that the problem was solved. And it was until they moved into their big girl beds - at which point they teamed up to unsnap one another's onesies, rip off their diapers and leave poopy-butt imprints on every piece of furniture, bedding, and window pane in the room.

It wasn't a pretty stage. I would've been well-served to strip the carpet and bedding from their rooms, paint the walls chocolate brown, and call it a day. But I persisted in fighting the battle, even wrapping their diapers in strapping tape before bedtime. Did you know that a child's tummy shrinks during the night, and that come day the taped-up diapers can just slide right off? If you do, you're smarter than I was because strapping tape did not exactly solve our problem. Nothing did. Eventually, I think the girls just got tired of painting the windows and walls with their poo and moved on to another stage, because it too has passed.

For now, anyway - since Ty is starting to get more curious about the mechanical workings of his disposable diaper. I'll have to cross my fingers and buy some onesies. But even if he does hit the Diaper Removal Stage, I know that it too will pass. As will - God willing - the Picky Eater Stage, the Arguing With Every Word That Comes From Mommy's Mouth Stage, and the Still Going Pee-pee In My Night-time Diaper Stage. And of course the Hitting and General Pill Stage. Surely it too will pass. Right?

Lord, I hope so.

Five Minutes on 285

2009-06-14T13:21:00.000-07:00

There are two things you need to know as you read the following conversation:

1) 285 is a twelve-lane interstate of terror that goes around the city of Atlanta. I HATE driving on this road even at the calmest of times.

2) Even though I have four children in my mini-van at any given time, Ella is the dominant voice I hear - because the twins are usually playing quietly in the back and because Ty is - well, Ty.

*************************************

"OK, guys. We have a long drive home, and it's rush hour traffic. I need everybody to be sweet and quiet so Mommy can concentrate. OK, Ella?"

"OK Mommy, we will... Mommy what is traffic?"

"Um, traffic just means that there are lots of cars all going the same way, really slow."

"Oh."

"Mommy you're driving too fast."

"No, I'm not. It's fine"

"Holy cow, Mommy! Watch out for that car!"

"Honey, it's fine. This is just traffic."

"What's traffic, Mommy?"

"I told you: Lots of cars, going really slow."

"Oh. Mommy, how did Nana give me this puzzle?"

"Huh? Oh, I don't know how. Didn't she just hand it to you?"

"Oh. Yeah. But WHY did she give me this puzzle?"

"I guess she thought you'd like it."

"Oh. I do like this puz... AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

"What's wrong?!?"

"I...dropped...my...PUZZLE PIECE!!!!!!!!! Stop the car, Mommy!!! STOP!!!!!!"

"I can't, Ella. I'm driving!"

"I... WANT... MY... PUZZLE... PIECE...! MY... PUZZLE... PI... oh, I found it, Mommy! It was under my leg. Hee, hee. Isn't that silly, Mommy?"

"Hilarious, Ella. Now just work on your puzzle. I'm trying to drive, and there's a lot of traffic."

"OK, Mommy. What's traffic?"

"Lots of cars. Driving slow."

"Are you going slow?"

"Yes."

"You're not going too fast?"

"No."

"Is the policeman going to get you?"

"No."

"Because you're not driving too fast?"

"Correct."

"Why is your car beep-beeping?"

"Because that car almost hit us."

"Is that car going too fast?"

"No."

"Is the policeman going to take him away? Mom? Mommy? MOMMY!?!"

"What?!"

"Can I listen to my CD?"

"You can listen to Bob and Larry's Backyard Party, since it's already in the CD player."

"NOOOOOOOOO!!! I don't like that CD!!! I want a different CD, Mommy!!!"

"I can't reach another CD, Ella. I'm driving."

"But... I... want... my... blue... Veggie... Tales... C... D............."

"Wahhhhhh!!!"

"Emily, what's wrong?! Ella, stop crying so I can hear Emily!"

"I the baby, Mommy. I pretend the baby."

"Oh, are you and Evie playing Mommy - Baby?"

"Yes. But I want you to be the Mommy and I'll get in your tummy again and then I'll come out."

"Oh honey, I can't play Mommy - Baby right now. Besides, I don't think I can get you back in my tummy, Emily."

"But I was in your tummy first, Mommy. Wasn't I in your tummy first?"

"Yes, Ella. You were in my tummy first."

"How did I get in your tummy, Mommy?"

"Um, God put you there."

"HOW did God put me in your tummy?"

"Hey Ella, do you want to listen to your blue Veggie Tales CD?"

"No, I want to sing."

"Oh, OK. That sounds like a great idea."

"Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree. How lovely have you been..."

"Ella, do you want to sing a different song?"

"No. OH CHRISTMAS TREE, OH CHRISTMAS TREE. HOW LOVELY HAVE YOU BEEN..."

"Ella, maybe you could sing a little quieter. Mommy's trying to concentrate."

"Because there's traffic?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Mommy, what's traffic?"

"Just keep singing, Ella."

"OK, Mommy."

It' Party Time!

2009-06-07T08:46:00.000-07:00

Three days and counting before the official first birthday!

Were you around for that first tentative blog post? Probably not. I was so afraid of "putting myself out there" that I didn't even tell my husband what I was doing until I'd written several posts. Even then, it was my sister-in-law who kicked my blogging butt out of the closet when she outed me to the world on her blog. If it wasn't for her, I'd probably still be blogging in secret.

Wow. Aren't you lucky?

Of course, the birthday isn't until June 10. Yes, I rolled out my birthday gift / blog makeover a little early. And then I left town. And left you with nothing to read.

Oooops.

I suppose I should feel bad, but I don't. I'm back now. And before I get into my little party contest, I have to tell you that the kids and I had a great week at the beach - as evidenced by the amazing pictures Andrea shot (with comments by me):

Here's a shot all three girls on the beach, about 1.2 seconds before that wave out there washed up to their knees. No, we didn't take the "during" shot - we were all too busy running. Then we were drying eyes. And Emily's panties...

Here's Ella. She's beautiful, isn't she? My hubby can't even look at this picture. Of course, what he doesn't know is that Andrea shot 45 pictures prior to this. My big girl CANNOT hold still to save her life. She yells "cheese" as she's running away, "cheese" as she's squinting into the sun, and "cheese" as she's bending over to pick sand out of her toes. The only reason we managed to get this shot is because I was standing behind the camera saying, "DON'T smile, Ella. Whatever you do, DON'T look at me and smile." Funny how my oldest child can't help but disobey...

Then there's Emily. Thinking I'd learned my lesson with Ella, I told her the same thing: "DON'T smile, whatever you do." You know what she did? She obeyed! We have a whole selection of pictures of her staring blankly at the camera. It turns out it works better for Miss Emily if I just say, "OK, look at the camera and smile pretty!" And then just walk away.

Here's Evie. My happy girl always smiles, but for some reason this is my favorite shot of her. It's a more classic "Emily look" (and if the pictures weren't labeled, I'd probably get them mixed up), but here Evie is looking at her reflection in the lens. Precious...

And then there's "Ty-Ty, Sugar Pie," as big sister Ella calls him. No, Andrea didn't have any difficulty getting this shot. Nope. No story here. Just my sweet, happy boy.

*******************************

Well enough about our trip to the beach, which - did I mention? - was glorious. I've got a party to prepare. And you've got some work to do.

Hopefully you noticed that the name of my blog is no longer "Surviving 4." Put Me in the Zoo, by Robert Lopshire, is one of my kids' favorite books. When I was trying to come up with a new blog name, it was the first idea I came up with. Because, well, I live with five monkeys. (C'mon - of course I'm going to count my husband!) Plus, it was a lot easier to come up with a blog design in a zoo theme.

In honor of the birthday and the name change, I'm giving away a copy of Lopshire's Put Me in the Zoo.

And in case you already have the book, you don't have kids, or you're still waiting for grand kids, I'm also throwing in a $10 gift certificate to Ella's favorite store.

Target!!!
(Actually no. Her favorite store is the Home Depot. So it's really her second-favorite store.)

All you have to do is leave a comment at the end of this blog, telling me the name of your favorite children's book. That's it! On Wednesday, I'll pick a name (randomly, I promise) from the list and announce the winner on my blog. (Note: If you leave an anonymous comment, make sure you write your name in the actual comment somewhere, so I know who you are!)

Have fun and good luck!

Surprise!

2009-05-28T22:44:00.000-07:00

Welcome to my new blog! It got finished earlier than I was expecting, so I'm a little late on the official kick-off and a little early for June 10th's birthday party. But welcome anyway! I hope you love the new look and the updated pictures as much as I do.

Things are still a bit under construction, but I wanted you to notice a couple of things: 1) I'll be advertising for Andrea Ward Studios on this blog, so all of the sidebar pictures are courtesy of Andrea! There will be a button up soon that you can click on. It will take you directly to her site, where you can view some great samples of her photography, as well as her brilliant fine art. She is worth every penny in either medium, so I hope you'll stop by to check out her work.

2) I added a section in the sidebar that takes you to some of my favorite posts from the last year. If you haven't been following me for long, I hope you'll go back and check these out. They might be good for a laugh or two. (And be sure to check out my most recent post - yesterday was a doozie of a day.)

Don't forget to check back in for details on my upcoming birthday party. I'll be conducting my first giveaway, and you might win the birthday present.

Can't wait to hear what you all think about the new look!

So You've Had a Bad Day...

2009-05-28T22:23:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had one of those days?

You know what I’m talking about. If you’re anything like me, it’s starts with a scenario similar to this:

You’re totally late…

The kids are being less-than-cooperative...

And your cell phone is nowhere to be found.

You waste precious minutes frantically searching, and then give up, dial your own cell number, and follow the ring.

Is that my butt ringing?

Yup. There’s your cell phone… in your pocket.

I had one of those days yesterday. It wasn’t necessarily a bad day. It was just an exercise in frustration that left me wondering if everyone (myself included) is completely incompetent.

Now granted, I kind of set myself up from the get-go by planning a full morning of errands with four small kids. And since the first stop was Goodwill, and I had a rather sizable donation of stuff-the-needy-will-no-doubt-appreciate, it took me awhile to pack the kids into my crammed van. Eventually, I took out a seat, lined the three girls along the back, and put Ty behind me. The problem was, I soon realized, that I also needed to make room for the two tires I was supposed to have a mechanic install on my car (Stop #2). I wrestled the tires out to the driveway, then went to work shoving stuff around to make room for the tires.

Which were, in the meantime, rolling down the street.

Guess I should have paid more attention to that slight slope we live on. But after chasing my two tires to the end of the road – and finally catching them – I loaded them into the van and headed off to run my errands, a bit sweaty but no worse for wear.

Goodwill was a quick stop. (And I’m confident that my stuff was greatly appreciated.) The mechanic wasn’t too bad either. My kids got a kick out of watching the van get new “shoes,” and I finally had a few free minutes to feed Ty his breakfast. Poor kid. He was very grateful for the attention. But then things got a little hairy when I heard my cell phone beeping out its last gasps for breath.

Oooops. Forgot to charge the phone. That’s okay, I’ll stop by the pharmacy for my prescription, swing by home to pick up the charger, and give it some juice during my doctor’s appointment. Oh, and I need to dig my debit card out of the laundry so I can buy the kids some lunch. And I’ll put the other seat back in, in case we need to pick up Ella’s friend after the doctor.

Unfazed, I packed the kids back up into our newly-shod van and headed for the pharmacy. Where I was informed I no longer have a prescription. Indeed, I transferred it to Target last month, when I found a coupon for a $10 gift card – with prescription transfer. Totally out of my way, mind you, but who passes up ten bucks at Target?

Hmmm. I think I have an old script written out at home. I’ll just pick that up while I’m at home and then swing back over here before my appointment.

I ran home, grabbed my phone charger, flipped through my medical file for the old prescription, dug my debit card out of the laundry hamper, wrestled the extra seat into my car, and headed back to the pharmacy where a very nice technician - who sadly knows me by name - filled the prescription while I waited.

Good. I think I can still make my appointment on time. You know, all things considered, this day is going pretty smooth.

Of course, I didn’t count on my chiropractor running 55 minutes behind. I should have, but I didn’t...

The first twenty minutes weren’t too bad, but then the potty breaks started. Emily kicked it off – because if there is a potty within a half mile of her tush, she’s got to go! And thanks to the power of suggestion, Ella and Evie were soon in need of a break as well. Then it was Emily’s turn again. (I’m telling you, she just really loves potty time.) She didn’t produce anything, but Ty did – as evidenced by the whiff of him I got as he toddled by.

Oh no. Please don’t tell me I left the diaper bag at home.

I did.

I ran out to the car and frantically searched every seat pocket, nook, and cranny for a spare diaper, but no luck. After a few more minutes, the smell was so strong that I had to whisk him off to the bathroom (with Evie in tow for a second round) and clean him up as best I could. At first my plan was to let him go commando and risk an accident. But even I’m not that inconsiderate. Instead I checked the wait time (one more ahead of me) and tossed the kids back in the car. I figured I had 10 minutes to locate a diaper for Commando Boy, and pick up some lunch for my now cranky, hungry girls.

My first stop was another drug store. I confess, there was no way I was going to unload my kids just for a quickie diaper purchase. On the flip side, I once got in trouble with the county sheriff for leaving my children in an unattended car for 2 minutes. (A story for another time.) I was stuck with option 3: the drive thru.

“Hi. I’m sorry, but is there ANY way I could just get a package of Huggies Size 4?”

She looks confused.

"I know this isn't standard operating procedure, but I really need a diaper and I promise you don't want my children in your store right now."

“Um, do you want regular or supreme?”

“Hmmmm. You know? I honestly don’t care.”

God bless that sweet girl in the pharmacy department for picking out the smallest, cheapest package she could find. I paid for my purchase, pulled into a parking space, and diapered a suspiciously damp bottom.

Nothing like closing the barn door after the horse gets out.

My next stop was Burger King. It took some creative maneuvering through the lunch traffic, but I eventually got my sack of chicken nuggets and French fries. Except that somebody forgot stick the fries in the bag.

(I admit at this point that I yelled something to the effect of "ARE YOU EVEN KIDDING ME?!?!)

Too bad I was already back in traffic. More creative maneuvering ensued and I was eventually back in the drive thru line. I had to cut in front of a lady who was having difficulty locating exact change, but at least I got my fries.

A few minutes later, I was back at the doctor’s office with four kids, a sack of fast food, a stroller, bottled water, and a picnic blanket. (Because at this point, I figured we'd just make ourselves at home.) As I finished getting lunch laid out, the doctor called my name.

Evie jumped up and yelled, "I have to go potty!"

"NO, you don't. Now sit down and eat!"

“You know,” the doctor said, as we walked into her office, and she closed the door behind her. “I wouldn’t be you for all the money in the world.”

Really? Because it's only noon...

Changes in the Air...

2009-05-27T13:49:00.001-07:00

"Wait. Am I on the right page? When did we go back to plain white Minima? And isn't the name different? When did the name change? I SO need to check this blog more often..."

Yup, you're just in time. There are big changes brewing here at Put Me in the Zoo (formerly Surviving 4). For one thing, there's a birthday coming up. On June 10, this blog will celebrate it's first - but hopefully not it's last - birthday! In honor of a milestone I thought I'd never reach, I'm giving my blog a full makeover, complete with name change and face lift. By the first week of June, you should be able to see new pictures of all four monkeys, courtesy of Andrea Ward Studios, as well as a brand-new blog template from Danielle, The Design Girl.

Of course no party is complete without presents, so be sure to check back in time to participate in my first blog giveaway. I'll do my best to make it a good one.

In the meantime, I'm going to finish my INSANE Spring Cleaning project, which is officially entering it's third week. Heaven help me. What was I thinking? Hopefully just a few more days...

******************

TDT #2 (The Darndest Things: funny comments my kids make that can't be turned into an actual post)

Evie crawled into bed with me a few mornings ago, looking for a snuggle. What she got was a nose-full of morning breath when I rolled over and said, "Good morning, Sweetie."

She slapped her hands over her nose and mouth and said something I couldn't make out.

"What did you say, Evie?"

She pulled her hands back and shouted, "Mommy, you are stinky in my nose!" Then she rolled off the bed and ran away.

Think I'll be adding Listerine to my grocery list this week...

Feeding the Hungry

2009-05-05T20:00:00.000-07:00

It's four o'clock in the afternoon and heaven help me, it's the witching hour.

If you are the mother of any child under the age of 5, you know exactly what I mean.

If your children are in school full time - elementary school, college, whatever - you used to know what I mean, but you've probably suppressed the memory of late afternoons spent in the company of pre-schoolers. I think doctors refer to it as post-traumatic stress syndrome. Regardless, get ready for some regressive therapy because I'm about to dig up your buried past:

Four o'clock is the witching hour because the pre-schoolers are up too early from the naps they took too late, they are bored with every activity that occupied them throughout the morning, and they are hungry, even though it's way too soon for dinner. Unfortunately, you - the mom who needs a nap more than anybody in the house and who can't come up with a single "fun" activity to do - has to figure out what to feed the little vultures.

I don't know how four o'clock always manages to sneak up on me. I mean, it comes around at the exact same time everyday. But for some reason, I'm always caught off guard when my kids come marching downstairs to demand food and I realize that I have no idea what to feed them. Obviously I know I'm supposed to give them something healthy, like rice cakes smeared with peanut butter and sprinkled with twigs and berries. But I don't really have it in me to listen to their whining for the next hour, when a big bowl of ice cream makes them so blissfully quiet.

However, I stumbled onto an idea recently that actually seems to be working for my kids. I can't claim credit for this brilliant plan, since my mom says she's the one who told me about it - and it turns out that a lot of parenting magazines also suggest this approach. But in case you're living under a rock like me, I'm going to tell you about our Snack Tray Technique. ("Technique" is probably overstating a simple plan, but whatever...) The idea is to give kids an option about what and how much they eat by offering them not one, but several snacks.

It's really not as overwhelming as it sounds. I found these great plastic, divided trays at the grocery store for a little over a dollar apiece. Of course, if you have loads of money, you can also purchase the same thing at Pottery Barn for 20 times that amount. If you're feeling thrifty, a muffin tin works from your cabinet works just as well. The point is to have something divided that can be filled with an assortment of snacks, like this:

The picture doesn't show it very well, but this snack tray has 3 slices of cheese, a handful of sunflower seeds, a few chocolate chips, 3 crackers, and some grapes. I usually try to have enough of a selection so the kids have the option of protein, dairy, carbs, fruit, etc. And sugar. I don't know if it's scientific, but as a kid I was never allowed to eat chocolate on a regular basis; now, as adult, I will eat it by the pound. So my thinking is that maybe if the kids can enjoy it in moderation, they won't crave it so much.

The other nice thing about the tray is that the kids can eat as little or as much as they want. If the kids aren't that hungry, there are only a few things they will eat purely for the taste - and the portions are small. If they're starving, they can eat everything on the tray, but I can be confident that they satisfied their hunger with nutrition as well as treats. Of course, I don't do any refills on the tray. Our rule around here is, "You eat what you get and you don't pitch a fit."

Of course, our little snack tray system isn't foolproof. For one thing, my kids like to eat different things, so as soon as those trays hit the table, the bartering begins. Emily usually gives all her fruit to Evie and her sunflower seeds to Ella. Evie gives her crackers to Emily and collects all the cheese. Nobody gives up the chocolate.

Speaking of chocolate, I've had to learn to be careful about where I stash my chocolate chips. A few days into our snack tray program, I was on the phone with mom2drew, raving about my snack tray success. After I hung up the phone, I walked into the family room and saw three chocolate-smeared, near-comatose faces gazing blankly at the television. I knew there was no way that 10 chocolate chips could have created that mess. Then I noticed the completely empty, 12-oz. bag lying on the floor. The same bag I'd just opened - brand new - 30 minutes ago.

I guess my kids can eat it by the pound, too.

I've also had to be on the ball about preparing snack trays. One afternoon I was upstairs with Ty, and didn't get down quick enough to put the trays together. I came into the kitchen to find Ella and her sisters on the floor fixing up their own snack trays. It wasn't too bad, actually. Ella picked some pretty good snacks out of the pantry, and I couldn't fault in her portion control. But yes, those are scissors on the floor next to her.

New rule: Only Mommy makes snack trays.

Which means that I'd better get going in the kitchen. It's 4:15 in the afternoon and heaven help me, I'm late with the snacks. Maybe the witching hour will pass quickly today.

Or not...

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Author's Note: You asked for it! More of my unsolicited advice, that is. If you're looking for some, and you missed my posting earlier in the year, click here.

Little Miss Quite Contrary, How Does Your Garden Grow?

2009-05-03T23:00:00.000-07:00

Ella has been dying to plant a garden for months now. I have no idea where she came up with the idea, but every day this past winter she carried her little green garden shovel out back to dig in the dirt patch next to our patio. So far she's planted everything from loose pocket change to a handful of dry-roasted sunflower seeds she found in my pantry. She is NOT pleased with the results. But rather than explain to her that money doesn't actually grow in gardens (or on trees, for that matter), I decided that maybe it's time to try vegetables.

Now, don't worry - I know you're thinking that I don't have the time to keep up with a garden, and I totally agree. I'm not at all optimistic about this endeavor. Generally speaking, my house is where plants go to die, as many a green-thumbed family member can attest. I've killed virtually every un-killable plant out there without so much as lifting a finger. Or a watering can, as the case may be. (Although I won't take responsibility for the pansies - the bunnies got those.) But a garden seems so important to my sweet girl. Plus, it occurs to me that she might actually eat a vegetable or two if it comes from her own backyard.

Or not.

Regardless, after much deliberation and many, many, many hours spent in the Home Depot Landscaping department, Ella and I finally planted a real garden. As expected, my little girl got pretty into it. She took one look at my gardening hat and gloves, and raced off to find her own set of accessories:

(Something got lost in translation... Yes, that is a winter hat and gloves. And yes, it was HOT.)

But somehow - after several hours of burying an assortment of teeny, tiny little seeds that I may very well never see again - we got our vegetable garden planted. And watered. Ella was so excited. In fact, she couldn't wait to get home from school the next day.

"Mommy, Mommy, I want to go see my garden! Can I? Can I?!?"

We walked to the backyard to gaze out over the little plot of land which, to my untrained eye, looked fine. Ella disagreed. She put a hand on her hip, shook her little head, and sighed.

"It doesn't look good, Mom."

"Oh Sweetie! Sure it does! It's going to take some time, you know, but pretty soon we're going to have lots of yummy tomatoes and zucchini and green beans to eat." We just have to remember to water them...

Ella sighed again and replied, in her most earnest tone, "I sure wish we could plant cookies instead."

That girl is a kid after my own heart. I bet you don't even have to water a cookie garden. Just a little milk now and then, and you've got yourself a bountiful harvest.

But no, we had to plant vegetables. And darned if I don't have to go water them. AGAIN.

April Showers

2009-04-28T18:26:00.000-07:00

I started locking my bathroom door this week in what turned out to be a failed attempt at modesty. True, I'm accustomed to the applause of my children ("Good job, Mommy. You washed your hair!"). But the girls are getting older now, and after four years of showering with an audience, I thought it was time to shut the theater doors. Ella, ever her independant and opinionated self, disagreed. When the phone rang that first private morning, she picked the lock on the bathroom door, and marched in, telephone in hand.

"Mommy, are you washing your hair?"

"Ella, how did you get in here?!?!"

"Daddy's on the phone. Are you washing your hair?"

"YES! Now give Mommy the phone and go back outside!"

"Why?"

"Because I'm trying to be modest."

"Why?"

"Because showers are supposed to be private."

"Why?"

"JUST GIVE ME THE PHONE AND GO BACK OUTSIDE!"

She passed me the phone, and strolled slowly out the door just as Ty toddled in. Great. I gave the hubby a quick, "I'm-in-the-shower-I'll-call-you-back!" and tossed the phone on the floor. Meanwhile, Ty entertained himself with his second-favorite bathroom game: turning the bathtub knobs. He loves to turn them back and forth because he gets a kick out of learning how things work - and I get a kick out of surviving the intermittent flow of scalding hot and freezing cold water. He quit after a couple of minutes (but left the hot water running full blast, ensuring a VERY cold shower) and crawled over to play his first-favorite bathroom game: open the box and chew on a tampon.

Yep. You read that right. My kid is going to be in therapy for years. And not because he once chewed on a tampon like it was a cigar, but because I LET him chew on it... every morning.

Luckily, Evie walked in just as I was finishing up and took the offending feminine product away from my baby boy. Emily, right behind her, handed me a towel as I stepped out of the shower.

"You all done in the shower, Mommy? You all clean? Good job, Mommy!"

Well, I always did enjoy an audience.

My Very First Not-Me! Monday

2009-04-20T18:57:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. I am SO behind the times. I mean, everybody in blog land knows about Not Me! Monday, and yet here I am posting only my first Not-Me! Monday confession. I'd like to say that it's because I've had nothing to confess prior to today, but let's face it - I don't want to be struck down by lightening. So instead I'll just say "better late than never," and "here goes." (And by the way, in case you've been living under a blog rock and you have no clue what I'm talking about, just read on. You'll get the gist!)

Here it is - my very first Not-Me! Monday confession:

I did not scratch my eyeball at the doctor's office today while playing Peek-a-Boo with my 16 month old son. I am thirty-three years old, for crying out loud! No thirty-three year old woman is so athletically challenged as to poke her own eye while shouting "peek-a-boo" in the middle of a crowded waiting room. No, that definitely wasn't me sitting in a chair with tears streaming down my face while my son turned away in embarrassment.

I did not collect all of the DVD's in my children's movie collection, and throw them into a big, plastic garbage bag while the kids looked on in horror. I would never threaten to throw away their beloved videos, even if they were throwing the fit of the century over which Baby Einstein video to watch this afternoon. That would just be traumatic... and result in years of expensive therapy.

I did not allow my children to put on their galoshes and go splash in the back-yard puddles after a rainstorm because they were driving me slap crazy. And I did not laugh when Evie did a "Slip 'n Slide" move down a particularly slippery patch of lawn. And I would certainly never run and get my camera in order to snap off a picture of my daughter, who was clearly devastated by her fall. That would just be mean.

I did not give my son a handful of Teddy Grahams that I found on the floor of my car today. Who knows how old those things are? That would be so disgusting. Good thing I just let him cry it out.

I do not have FOUR unfinished blog posts sitting in my in-box, just waiting to be completed. I do not have writer's block, despite the daily inspiration I get from my children. I am choosing, instead, to use my valuable time for other things - like mopping my kitchen floor. And that being said, I did not drop an entire tray of food all over that clean kitchen floor mere hours after scrubbing it. That would just be maddening. It might even take a person to the brink of insanity. Good thing that didn't happen to me!

******************

All kidding aside, though, I wanted to post this blog as a tribute to MckMamma and Stellan, the original Not Me! Monday blogger and her sweet baby boy whose picture you'll find on the right side of my blog. Little Stellan will be having heart surgery at a Boston hospital tomorrow (Tuesday)at 8:30 in the morning. Please join me in praying for this child, his parents, and his extended family, as well as for the doctors who will be working on little Stellan's heart.

"Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."

Housekeeping

2009-04-01T13:06:00.000-07:00

I HATE housekeeping. Even as I'm writing the words, I feel compelled to confess that it is 4:00 in the afternoon, my hubby will be home soon, two of the four children are screaming in the play room, and our breakfast dishes are still on the table. That being said, this is a "housekeeping blog": I'm cleaning up the mess I've made, and I'm adding a few new elements!

First of all, for those you keeping track I did not make my goal of posting blogs twice a week until my birthday. I'm afraid that day has come and gone, and I've only managed the occasional weekly posting. Oh well, what can I say? I can't even get the breakfast dishes off my table, so I probably shouldn't have set my expectations so high. (More about that later...) But my plain white "Minima" template was depressing, so as a compromise I downloaded a free Cutest Blog on the Block background. Hope you like it! The jury is still out for me, but I figure it's a start in the right direction.

Second, you probably noticed the Praying for Stellan button I added on the right side of this page. I'm sure that most of you are already familiar with this sweet child's story, but for those of you who aren't, I want you take a moment to meet 5 month old Stellan. I have been reading his mother's blog for months at mycharmingkids.net (which you'll notice I just added to my reading list on the right). She is also a mother of four young children, so I feel a special bond with this mom, whose youngest child Stellan was recently hospitalized for a very serious heart condition. If you feel so led, please check out her site and say a prayer for this little guy. I know his mom would appreciate it.

Third, in answer to the high demand following my last post, here are a couple of before and after pics from last weekend's hair massacre:

This is a picture of Emily just prior to her professional cut. You can't really tell how bad it is from the picture, but essentially the whole left, front side of her hair is gone. Miss Kim couldn't do much with that side. Even with her new haircut, it will take a few months for both sides to be even. But hey, the asymmetrical thing is back, right?

And here's a picture of the twins at today's pre-school Easter party. Short hair wasn't a part of my summer plans, but I think it turned out really cute! (See what I mean about Emily's hair being shorter on the left, though?) A friend advised me to stick a big bow on each of their heads and go for it - and I think I will!

Finally, I have to tell you that I've spent the last month gathering PLENTY of blog material. (Translation: Wow, my kids have been bad lately.) I'm dying to get it all down in writing: 1) because I really need the practice, and 2) because I want to have something to show for all those bad days! However, I'm doing calligraphy on 140 wedding invitations, and I owe a friend the four drapery panels I've been promising her for months. I hoping to be around, but if I'm not, I just wanted you all to know that I still love writing and will continue to plug along as time (hahahahahahahahaha) permits.

In the meantime, if you need a good laugh, this is how Emily looked when we went shopping for shoes yesterday:

Thanks for reading!!!

You'd Think I'd Know These Things By Now...

2009-03-28T23:05:00.000-07:00

I've got four children under the age of five. You'd think I'd of learned a lot of things about pre-school kids by now. You'd think that I'd be one of those moms who is well-qualified to give advice to other young mothers knee-deep in the trenches of child rearing. Unfortunately, you'd be wrong. Apparently, I was not aware of the following:

1. Hard to believe it, but young children and scissors don't mix.

Ella is a smart, athletic little girl. She's just not very good at cutting with scissors. I learned this last year when she came home from pre-school with her first report card. Next to "Cuts with scissors" was a big, red "NI" and a note scrawled out by her teacher: "Please be sure to work on this skill with Ella at home."

Of course, I was mortified. I'd just assumed that my talented little three-year old would come home with a report card full of "S's". I dashed to the store that afternoon, and purchased a pair of red-handled, blunt-tipped scissors for my little dunce to practice with. And I was relieved when, days later, she'd covered the play room floor with confetti. Eventually, she even learned how to cut along a straight, jagged line. Since then, cutting up paper has remained a part of her daily routine; it never occurred to me to keep those dull little scissors anyplace other than her room.

Until this morning.

When Ella's imagination blossomed.

And she imagined herself as a stylist in her own hair salon.

You know where this is going...

I could have dealt with the two scalped Barbie dolls lying face-down on the floor. I probably could have even dealt with the bangs Ella cut for herself. But the giant chunks of hair sliced from Evie's scalp was more than I could bear. And the pony tail severed from Emily's finally-full head of hair? Well, that just sent me right over the edge. Especially since my mom and I just taught ourselves how to make hair-bows, and have invested a hefty bit of capital into clips, wire, ribbons, and glue.

What am I going to do with 200 yards of pink grosgrain ribbon?

2. Toddlers can access child-proofed cabinets. But their job is so much easier when mom forgets to attach those annoying little plastic latches.

Latching my cabinets has been on my list of things to do since...well, since before Ty was born. But a few weeks ago, he took advantage of my negligence when he found the only two cabinets in my kitchen that aren't currently "baby-proofed". (Which, by the way, is a misnomer if ever there was one!) The first place he discovered was my Pyrex cabinet. He managed to break 3 of my 4 blue glass mixing bowls. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but he didn't break all three on the same day. Shame on me, I suppose, for thinking a 14-month old can learn from his mistakes. And praise God for saving my baby's precious little mouth, from which I pried one very large piece of broken Pyrex.

For some reason it didn't occur to me that I'd left a second cabinet unprotected, but Ty discovered the kitchen garbage can only a few days later. Luckily, it wasn't glass I had to pry from his mouth this time. It was a stale, week-old brownie. Gag.

This, by the way, from a child who won't eat table food. Go figure.

3. Home decor stores are not conducive to groups of young children.

Last month the winter blahs kicked in, and I took it out on the house. I tried to change things around myself, but I eventually gave up and dragged my talented neighbor/decorator over for a "designer remix" session. She had some awesome ideas, but as we rearranged my stuff, it soon became clear than I needed more... well, stuff. I was really in the groove and didn't want to stop short on my little home makeover, so I suggested we toss my four kids and her one baby into the mini-van for my bi-weekly Hobby Lobby pilgrimage.

I can't even claim that it seemed like a good idea at the time. It didn't. I was just really determined.

Actually, things weren't too bad at first. We walked into the store with two fully-loaded carts, and handed each kid a butterfly wand from a handy display to look at - which they enjoyed until Ella figured out it could be used as a weapon. The butterflies were quietly confiscated, and things improved for a few minutes... until I pulled an urn down from a high shelf and flipped it over to check the price. The top of the urn went flying and shattered on the tile floor right next to the check-out line.

Who puts a price tag on the bottom of a two-piece ceramic urn?

The sound of breaking pottery rang out like the shot of a starting pistol. Within moments, it was pure chaos. The twins started bickering over a box of colored tape measures, while Ella took off with her little basket to collect items from the candy shelf. While we were breaking up the fight and chasing Ella, one of the babies dumped his container of Veggie Puffs on the floor. We put the twins to work picking up the puffy snack just as Ella ripped open a bag of M&M's. The candy went flying. Emily and Evie abandoned their clean-up duty and started wrestling each other for the chocolate treats, while Ella cried and shouted, "Those are miiiiiiiinnne!" Jackie and I looked at the shards of broken pottery, the strewn Veggie Puffs, the colored candy, and the crying kids, and decided it was time to abort. I quickly paid for the few items I'd gathered, including an urn, and ran to the car. I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure I heard a few people say, "Thank God!" as we headed out.

Sigh.

Why can't people be more patient with me? It's not like I know better. I'm too busy making hairbows.

Torture

2009-02-19T19:17:00.000-08:00

I'm not really into politics. I should be, because I care deeply about my community and nation. But the way I see it, my husband is politically active enough for both of us. Considering how wound up [i.e. - LOUD] he gets after watching the first five minutes of The O'Reilly Factor each night, I just don't think our house can handle another vocal activist.

I'm not completely out of the loop, though. We obviously have Internet access, so I get a good 30-45 seconds a day to skim the Yahoo! headlines while waiting for my e-mail account to pop up. This seems to be all the time I need, because I know enough to give you the name of our new president, and tell you that yes, we are still involved in a war on terror. I also picked up something the other day about shutting down Gitmo, but I didn't catch all the details. Ann Taylor Loft was having a sale.

I wish I had read up on the story, though, because it occurred to me later that I might actually have a solution to that whole Guantanamo Bay situation: draft the mothers of small children. Only we mothers of small children know how to torture people without leaving a mark. We do it every time we take our small children out in public. The military could refer to us as MSC's and let us wear uniforms of... oh, I don't know... Army-issued camo sweat pants and baggy, over sized t-shirts. The MSC's could handle torturing - er, soliciting information from - suspected terrorists. I'm betting that with our interrogation tactics, the war would be over in no time.

Personally, I'm surprised that I haven't been called into duty yet. After all, I not only take my children out in public regularly, but I'm apparently quite effective at torturing my own four pre-schoolers. My children are constantly shrieking about the various methods I use. After observing their reactions during the past few days, I've actually come up with a list of five particularly effective techniques that I'm thinking the military may want to consider implementing:

1. Turn the water on

No, I'm not talking about water boarding. I'm talking about running water somewhere in the vicinity of hydro-phobic children. This makes the greatest impression on my youngest daughter Evie, who is terrified of running water. Not standing water, mind you. Bath tubs, swimming pools, muddy puddles, and murky ponds are all great fun. But put her in the bathroom while actually filling the tub? Better have your ear plugs ready. These days, in the interest of her security and my ear drums, I pre-fill the bathtub while she is tucked safely away in her bedroom.

2. Use "germy juice"

I didn't realize before last week that the use antibacterial gel (otherwise known as "germy juice") could produce such a catastrophic response in small children. It can. And it did. I won't be able to show my face at the park again for a long, long time.

3. Play the wrong CD

Nothing freaks my kids out more than when they ask me to play a CD, and I inadvertently play the wrong one. Granted, their requests are specific: "Play the blue one." "Play Emily's CD." "Put the Veggie Tales music on." I suppose I should be able to get it right, but it's confusing for a distracted MSC like me, considering we now own 6 Veggie Tales CD's. But trust me - unless you're trying to get the kids' attention, listen carefully and get it right the first time.

4. Let them ride on the carousel and then say "no" to ice cream

OK, this probably seems pretty specific. I'm not really sure how it would translate for a group of suspected terrorists, but I can assure you that it works on my kids. Yesterday, I took all four to the mall in cruel attempt to have fun. After devouring a lunch of all french fries and no chicken or fruit, the girls took turns alternately begging to ride on the merry-go-round and stop by the cookie stand. It seemed like a good idea at the time: I asked them to choose one or the other. The carousel won out. Six dollars and 25 dizzying turns later, we stumbled our way out of the Food Court only to pass a cleverly located ice cream stand. My girls are smart. They had agreed to surrender their cookies in exchange for a ride. But I never said they couldn't have ice cream. It took 20 minutes and two adults to drag four screaming children out to the car. Yes, it was torture. I'm just not sure who suffered more...

5. Leave the room

It's the classic method that all MSC's learn early in training: Walk out of the room - whether for 5 seconds or 5 hours - and your child will scream loud and long. Pure torture for them and for any unfortunate soul stuck in the room with your screaming kid. But not for you, because you're not in the room. I like this method best.

In fact, it occurs to me that #5 is the only technique in which the MSC actually comes out of the interrogation unscathed. I should remember this in the event I ever get called into service by my country: Bring the kids. Leave the room. The Army will get its information in no time.

Highlights From a Preschool Valentine Party

2009-02-13T12:04:00.000-08:00

"Just a reminder that our preschool party is coming up on Friday, February 13th! Emily and Evie's mom is our coordinator for this event, and will be contacting you shortly."

I am? I will?

Wait, that's next week. Yikes.

"Hi, everybody. This is Emily and Evie's mom. Thanks for signing up to help with this week's party. Sorry it took me so long to contact you. Here's what I'm thinking we'll do: 1) serve a healthy snack of fruit, cheese, and crackers; 2) let the kids decorate a Valentine cookie during craft time; 3) set up a Valentine beanbag toss for game time."

Wouldn't it be fun to make a beanbag toss? Dad could build it, I could paint it, and then I could make Valentine beanbags for the kids to play with and then take home!

Ty, I know this is the sixth store I've dragged you into on this bitterly cold day, but Mommy needs you to hang in there, buddy. We still have to buy plates, cups, a tablecloth, Valentine fabric, and sprinkles. And I want to make sure that everything coordinates with my candy heart - inspired theme.

Thanks for building that beanbag toss, Dad. It looks awesome. Don't worry about painting it, though. I can totally take care of that.

I'VE GOT TO PAINT THAT THING BY TOMORROW!

The red paint I used on the kitchen isn't quite the shade of red I had in mind for the beanbag toss, but can I justify buying a new can of paint?

Never mind, I don't have time anyway.

Hey Nana, thanks for coming over today. Um, I know you need to leave in a few minutes, but before you go, can you help me whip up some bean bags for tomorrow's party?

Did I need to buy 20 lbs. of rice to fill 12 beanbags?

These beanbags don't look the way I thought they would. Maybe I should redo them. What do you think, Nana? Nana??? Nana, are you okay? You look a little pale. Hey by the way, I don't think I like the beanbag toss being just plain red. Don't you think it needs some embellishment?

Okay, bye Nana!

No girls, you may NOT use Mommy's paint right now. Go outside and play. Mommy is painting embellishments on this beanbag toss. I'm doing this for your party, you know.

No, I don't have time to push you on the swings! Leave me alone!!!

Ella, I thought you were going to help me make a gift for your teacher tomorrow. Why aren't you unwrapping those Hershey kisses faster?

Yes, Ella, you may eat the pieces of chocolate that fall off.

Ella, stop breaking chocolate off every piece of candy. Do you think other sweatshop kids get to eat chocolate?

Never mind.

These teacher gifts don't look right. Something funny happened with the chocolate. Maybe I should try making another batch.

It's okay to give the teacher ugly and somewhat suspicious-looking chocolate treats for Valentine's Day, right? I mean, they teach preschoolers. They probably expect ugly and somewhat suspicious gifts. Besides, I've got to get to bed.

Did I forget to set the alarm???

We're late we're late we're late we're late we're late...

You know, after I drop the girls off, I should run by the grocery store for some balloons. I'll have enough time to get there and then back to set up for the party.

Ty, stop pulling on the balloons. Mommy only bought twelve balloons for twelve kids. We don't want one to...

BAM!

Crap.

I'm late I'm late I'm late I'm late...

Hi ladies, sorry I'm late! I guess we'll have to set up the party with the kids in the room, since recess is already over.

OK kids, let's eat our healthy, yummy snack before we decorate the cookies!

Never mind kids, you don't have to eat your snack first. Let's just go ahead and decorate the cookies.

Oh wow! Look at that beautiful cookie you decorated. I had no idea you could fit a whole jar of red sprinkles on top of one cookie, but I guess you can.

I should have bought more sprinkles.

Look at me, Evie. I want to get a cute picture of you at your Valentine's party!

Forget it.

Oh, is it time for the game already? OK kids, are you ready to play a game? Everybody get a beanbag and make a line.

Let's get in a line.

Can we get in a line?

Well, that's a good idea. We can just all throw our beanbags at the same time.

This is chaos.

Is that Ty crying? Oh, I didn't realize he was standing up in that chair. Did he hit his head? No, that bruise was already there from when he fell down the stairs yesterday.

The party's over? I guess I need to run down and pick Ella up from class.

Your class had a chocolate fondue!?!

Yes, I see the chocolate all over the front of your new outfit.

Where are my keys?

Where are my KEYS???

Are you girls going to cry the whole way home from school?

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA...

Sigh.

Happy Valentine's Day!

The Darndest Things

2009-02-10T17:08:00.000-08:00

In a tribute to my husband's television idol, Bill Cosby, I think I'm going to start periodically posting my funny conversations with the kids ... because they truly do say some of the darndest things. Unfortunately, I can't usually turn one cute comment into an entire blog-worthy article. I can, however, pass along the laughs. Hope you enjoy!

TDT #1:

Ella loves to play with the letters on our refrigerator, and regularly asks me to help her spell out simple words. Yesterday, she was particularly ambitious. After spelling out "box," "kite," and "gift," she turned to me and asked, "Mommy, how do you spell "Main Street?"

Main Street??? We live in Georgia, so if she'd asked me how to spell "Peachtree" it might have made sense. We have 24 roads by that name in Atlanta alone. But Main Street? Looks like I'm going to have to go buy some extra vowels for the fridge!

Left Behind

2009-02-02T17:48:00.000-08:00

Do you remember life before technology? Or at least, life before TiVO, Facebook, i-pods, and the Blackberry? I just have to ask, because I'm pretty sure I was in the midst of my childbearing years when those things became popular. That's the only explanation I have for why I'm such a technological idiot. Clearly, my brain cells were too busy being decimated by pregnancy hormones and motherhood to comprehend the complexities of "lol," "playlists," and "pieces of flair."

I wouldn't worry about it so much (since I've managed to survive thirty-some odd years without the technological marvels of "texting") if I weren't so aware of its possible impact on my children. The way I see it, one of two things is going to happen: 1) my children are going to be technological morons like me; or 2) they're going to be smarter than me. To be honest, I'm not sure which scenario frightens me more. Do I want my children to be unemployed and living in my basement until I die? Or do I want them to think their mother is stupid? Tough call.

Which, incidentally, my children have mastered. Calling, that is. Specifically, calling people with my cell phone. Because if you're a mother, and you have a cell phone, you know that it is physically impossible to keep that phone out of a curious child's hands. I've personally lost two cell phones since becoming a mom. Ella destroyed the first one when she was six months old. Apparently, she slobbered on it so much that her drool corroded the battery and fried the SIM card. About a year later, one of the twins lobbed my replacement phone over the second floor banister of our home; technically the phone still worked, but the display unit was shattered. I called a lot of wrong numbers until my husband finally replaced that phone with my current cell: an enormous, military grade phone that can be dropped from 3 stories and immersed in several inches of water. Since the kids have challenged both of these claims and the phone still works, I highly recommend you MOPs out there visit the local Verizon store and buy one for yourself.

But destruction-prevention isn't my only child/cell phone problem. Nope. I also have to worry about Ty - my 1 year old baby - calling China. Or at least calling my dad, which Ty did this past Sunday morning. My phone rang at about 8:00, and when I picked it up, my dad said, "Did you need something?"

"Nice greeting. And, no. Did you think I sent some telepathic message indicating that I did need something?"

"No, you called me."

"I did?"

"That's what my phone says."

"And you trust your phone over your own daughter? Ohhhhh, wait. Yeah, hold on. I'm pretty sure Ty just called you. There's baby slobber on the earpiece." Thank you, Verizon.

Of course toy manufacturers are very savvy when it comes to the whole child/cell phone craze, which is why there are dozens of toy cell phones flooding the market daily. In fact, the twins each got their very own "princess" phones for their birthday this year, and have yet to put them down. One or the other is forever strolling around the house with a phone to her ear saying, "Uh huh. Yeah. Okay. See you then. Bye bye!" If I ask who they're talking to, they place a hand over the mouthpiece and whisper "I'm talking to Aunt Mindy," and then return to their conversation.

Evie is the worst. I had to confiscate her phone a few weeks ago during our family game time, because she kept excusing herself to make a phone call. It wouldn't have been quite so bad if I hadn't walked with her into the mall that morning and seen her stop, whip out her phone, and then continue on as pictured here:

Yep, that's my youngest daughter with her baby, stroller, diaper bag, sunglasses, and cell phone. The technologically savvy girl who's probably going to use my cell phone plan to "lol" with her "bff" behind my back someday. I guess it's time for me to buckle down and start figuring out all of this new technology. Maybe I'll even try texting someone tonight. But first, Ella's going to show be how to put on a video... er, DVD.

Rude Awakenings

2009-01-23T06:06:00.000-08:00

I blame it on the NyQuil.

If I hadn't choked down that sleep-inducing, cherry-flavored sludge last night, I never would have overslept this morning. I certainly can't blame it on the fact that I forgot to set my alarm clock, or that I rolled over and ignored three pairs of slippered feet storming up and down my hall for nearly an hour. No, it was definitely the NyQuil that made us late for school today. And as any good, over-sleeping mom knows: when you're running late for school, everything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

By the time I finally managed to pry my eyes open and acknowledge the time, it was 7:56. We leave for pre-school at 8:15; and preferably my kids are dressed and fed when we walk out the door. I pulled on a sweatshirt and a pair of socks, and dashed to the playroom with a pile of clothes.

"Girls, come on! We're late! We're late! We're late!" I shouted.

"We want to watch a show!" Ella shouted back, just as Emily and Evie started whining in unison, "We want cereal!"

The battle to dress three non compliant children began. I grabbed the closest kid and stripped off her jammies, then turned to fish a clean pair of panties out of my pile. I turned back around just in time to see her bare bottom prancing off to the bathroom as she sang, "I have to go potty!" Since there was no use in chasing her, I grabbed the next closest kid and stripped her down. But as soon as she was absent the diaper, she too dashed off for a potty break. I just sighed, and tackled number three as she ran by me with a basket full of crayons. By the time I got her dressed - and the crayons picked back up - the other two were done with their business and busy flooding the bathroom sink.

"What are you doing, girls? We're late!"

"We want to give our duckies a bath!"

"Your duckies can have a bath later. We have to get dressed!"

I wrestled them into matching outfits, all the while wondering if I would be judged for leaving their hair a tangled mess. In the end I opted to fix it, and lost another five minutes chasing each girl around with a hairbrush and spray bottle. One squirt of water landed perilously close to Emily's face; she fell to the ground screaming, "My eye! My eye!" I didn't waste time with concern, however, since this is the child who stubs her toe and screams, "My eye! My eye!" She's very protective of her eyes.

Once Emily recovered from her trauma, and I had everybody dressed, shoed and styled, Emily began a new mantra in the whining voice she has truly perfected. (Think Jim Carey in Dumb and Dumber when he introduced "the most annoying sound in the world.") "IwantcerealIwantcerealIwantcerealIwantcerealIwantcerealIwantcereal..." Seriously, it is SO much worse than fingernails on a chalkboard, but you can imagine her noise in the background as I continued my morning:

"IwantcerealIwantcerealIwantcerealIwantcerealIwantcerealIwantcereal..."

"Hold on Emily. Mommy needs to get Ty up and change his diaper."

"Hold on Emily. Mommy needs to get the school bags together."

"Hold on Emily. Mommy's getting the cereal down now."

"Hold on Emily. Mommy's pouring the cereal into baggies so you can eat it in the car."

"Hold on Emily. Mommy needs to buckle everybody in their seats first."

"Hold on Emily. Mommy is physically holding the cereal in her hand and will give it to you as soon as she gets Ty buckled... Wait a minute. Where is Ty? Ty? TY? Have you girls seen Ty?!?"

I tossed the bags of cereal to the girls, and dashed back into the house in search of my baby - who is surprisingly easy to lose. I eventually found him trapped behind the one door I couldn't open. Apparently he'd crawled into the bathroom, closed the door, and then opened the drawer directly adjacent to said door. The sounds I heard coming from the other side indicated he was having a grand time emptying the drawer, and the cabinets, of all their contents.

Why didn't I baby proof those??? I thought, as I slid down against the door for a good cry. But before I could really get going, Ty got bored and closed the drawer. I wiped my eyes, flung the door open, and knocked him over. "We're late!" I shouted, as I scooped up the crying child and headed for the car.

We were on our way to pre-school when I finally had the nerve to check the clock. Oh, we're going to be REALLY late, I thought. It's already 8:35. I'm going to have to walk the girls to class. I glanced down to see if what I was wearing was presentable and groaned. I was still dressed in my pajamas, a sweatshirt, and socks. Perfect.

By the grace of God, there was a teacher running late drop-off when I got to the school. It was the first thing that went right all morning. She walked the kids to class, and I avoided the walk of shame - this time, anyway. But the rest of my day is going to be a busy one. I have to pour a bottle of NyQuil down the drain, buy a second alarm clock, baby proof the bathroom... and find some cuter sleepwear.

Unsolicited Advice

2009-01-21T09:45:00.000-08:00

In case you haven't noticed, I've been very hesitant to use this blog as an advice column. Using it to offer observations about my kids? Absolutely. Observations about other people's kids? Not a problem... so long as I don't name names. But trying to tell other people what to do when I myself have absolutely NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING? Feels misleading.

Truth be told, I have no insight to offer anyone on how to be a better wife, mother, daughter, or follower of Christ, despite the fact these are my current roles in life. I am, however, an obsessively organized person, and it occurs to me that some of you might be interested in an organizational tip or two. Besides, the kids haven't done anything particularly funny in the last 48 hours and I need to earn my gold star. So here goes...

Three of My Most Useful - Albeit Bootlegged - Organizational Tools

1. I HATE having papers scattered all over my house. Drives me slap crazy. The problem is, I have a husband, four kids, and a postal service agent (yes, mailman) who all bring papers into my house faster than I can file, shred, hang, or toss them. After nine years of pulling my hair out, I've finally come up with some solutions that work for me.

The first solution I stole from a friend of a friend when the girls started pre-school. Three days a week I was inundated with stacks of the cutest little art projects you ever did see. But I have low tolerance for clutter, not to mention a tiny fridge that can't possibly display our vast collection of art. The answer was to find unused wall space - our garage - and create an art gallery.

I strung three rows of clothesline along our garage wall, and used clothespins to hang up the girls' art work. It's pretty cool, because each girl has her own row, and can see the work she's been doing at school each time we pull in the garage. When the row gets filled up, I choose two or three of my favorites to keep in the girls' memory boxes, and then (gasp) toss the rest. It's been a fun use of an otherwise boring space, and hopefully it's special to the girls.

Of course, there are plenty of other papers to contend with in addition to schoolwork: mail, fliers, coupons, shopping lists, appointment reminders, pictures, and the wadded up receipts my husband discards daily on my clean and tidy counter top. (Slap crazy, people. Slap crazy.) The only solution I've been able to come up with in that case is a small file station located in husband's dumping ground, otherwise known as my kitchen counter. I have files for everything in that station - from medical receipts and coupons to "papers I don't know what to do with." Every time I find a stack of papers sitting on the counter, I sort through and do one of three things: 1) trash it; 2) file it; or 3) dump it on a tray hidden in my husband's office that I've designated as the new dumping ground. Now he can deal with it at his leisure, and I don't have to look at it.

2. The second organizational tool that has made the clutter in my life bearable once again is something I call my "Laundry Basket System." Again, I totally stole this idea from someone else, because I'm not really one for original thoughts. This little tip was actually passed on to me by the nurse who cared for my twins when they were first born. I was lamenting to her the fact that my house looks like a 24-hour day care center, and her solution was this: Keep a stack of laundry baskets handy!

I keep one at the top of the stairs and one at the bottom of the stairs throughout the day. When I'm cleaning up the toys upstairs, I toss everything that needs to get hauled back downstairs into a basket. I then do the same when I'm cleaning up the downstairs. The benefits are twofold: 1) I don't have to run up and down the stairs 1800 times a day and 2) if company or my husband show up unexpectedly, I can shove my baskets into the laundry room and have the house looking deceptively tidy. If I'm not worried about hiding a mess from someone, then twice a day, I haul the baskets to their respective levels and put everything away. I know it doesn't seem that revolutionary, but it has seriously made clean-up time a whole lot easier for me.

Ironically, the laundry basket system has spilled over into my errands as well. I usually lug Tyler's shirts to the cleaners in a basket and then reload it with my groceries when I finish shopping. Carrying one heavy basket into the house is a lot easier than making 6 trips out the car. Plus, my groceries aren't scattered all over the back of my trunk when I get home.

3. If you're not an organized person, and you could care less about being organized because there is, after all, a life beyond clutter obsession, you're probably going to slap me for this last piece of advice. In fact, don't even read it. I don't want to irritate you. But for those of us who do find it unbearable to live in chaos, you probably already know my motto: "A place for everything and everything in it's place."

I've spent countless hours of my life coming up with a place for everything. A memory box for each child. A storage container for out-grown clothes. A playroom organized into creative stations. Before you call my therapist and ask her to up my meds, you need to understand this: my husband and I can pick up our house in 15 minutes or less, no matter how big the mess. And that is a big deal to us, because it's only once the kids are in bed and the house is picked up that we actually get to do whatever we want to do! You'd better believe we work fast.

Of course, the side benefit to having a spot for everything is that our kids know where it all goes as well. They are slowly but surely (emphasis on slowly) learning how to put things back where they belong. In fact Ella - who, I admit, is a girl after my own heart - is obsessed with keeping her room clean. Of course, so long as her room is clean, she could care less about the rest of the house. During her daily quiet time, she routinely opens her door, throws something out into the hall, and screams, "THAT DOES NOT LIVE IN MY ROOM!" There's usually quite a pile stacked up by the end of her quiet time (a misnomer if ever there was one); I dump it in my laundry basket and haul it downstairs to figure out where it does "live".

And so there you have it - my first and probably only advice column ever. Take it or leave it; makes no difference to me. Just please don't come over to my house for the next few hours. It's a mess. And if you do happen to show up, DON'T OPEN THE LAUNDRY ROOM DOOR.

My Poor, Neglected Number 4

2009-01-15T17:17:00.000-08:00

We took my baby boy in to get his first haircut today. It seemed like a pretty good idea, since most of the comments I've received of late have been something to the effect of "Awwww... You have four of the prettiest little girls!" But it was still heartbreaking to watch the barber shore off his sweet baby curls. Even more heartbreaking was when my husband whipped out his camera to capture the moment and announced, "Oooops. The battery's dead."

That figures. I have no before and after pictures of Ty's first haircut to place in his less-than-complete baby book. Ella's first haircut, on the other hand, is documented by 15 minutes of video and some 20+ pictures. Her baby book is splitting at the seams with keepsake paraphernalia from all of her "firsts." But as most parents - and frankly any last-born child - out there can attest, it's all downhill after the first kid.

It's true. I was the best mom ever when Ella was born. Or at least, I was the most super organized mom ever. I had not one, but three completely stocked diaper bags accessible to me at all times. And when I say stocked, I mean the we're-packing-for-this-trip-to-the-mall-like-we're-traveling-to-South-America-because-you-just-never-know-what-might-happen-along-the-way kind of stocked. I had one bag that I used during the week, one bag stashed in my trunk for emergencies, and one bag for church...because if she spit up on her adorable pink church dress, I was darn sure going to have another adorable pink church dress there for back-up.

Ty, on the other hand, doesn't even have a diaper bag. Oh, he started out with a bag. It was one of those black vinyl things from Similac that the OB-GYN nurse hands you at your 28-week visit. But other than a too-small diaper and some melted crayons, there was never anything useful in it, so I finally gave up the pretense of carrying around. Now I just put a diaper in my purse with Ty's name written on it in magic marker. When we drop him off at church and the nursery volunteer asks for his bag, I whip it out and hand it off with a smile: "Here you go!"

Sadly, though, Ty's neglect occasionally goes beyond the lack of pictures and well-stocked bag. A few weeks ago, as my husband and I were making the pilgrimage to Brownsbridge, I turned to him and asked, "You fed the baby, right?" To which he turned to me and replied, "No, I thought you did." Great.

I wasn't sure what to do. After all, there were four kids dressed for church and strapped into the back of our minivan. We were almost there anyway, and with my husband there is no going back, no matter what the circumstances. But there was also no emergency diaper bag in the trunk, and a quick survey of the back seat revealed only a small handful of discarded Cheerios. Why did I have to vacuum the car this week? I thought.

We walked into church, and handed Ty and his diaper off to the nursery worker. Not wanting to reveal too much, I said as nonchalantly as possible, "Ummm, he seems a little hungrier than usual today. Do you happen to have any snacks on hand?" The worker assured me she'd find something if he got a little fussy. Which apparently she did. Because apparently he did.

"Boy, you were right!" she told me when I picked him up. "He really is hungry today. I think he ate half a box of Cheerios!"

Poor kid. I try to make up for it. I'll remember on occasion to pull out the camera, and snap 50 pictures or so - all of him in the same outfit, mind you. I also do make a point to feed him - most days anyway. Knowing that he's a boy who's going to be a man someday, I doubt he's even going to care if he has a baby book. I just hope he's able to look back and know - without a hint of doubt - how much his mother loves him. Because I really do.

Earning Gold Stars

2009-01-12T12:33:00.001-08:00

Okay, time to 'fess up. I am officially intimidated by blog world. I don't know what I was thinking when I signed on for this task, but clearly I didn't do my homework.

See, I love to journal. Before I had kids, I filled pages and pages of pretty blank books with random thoughts and prayers and story ideas. After Ella was born, though, I lost my energy for writing. Then the twins came, and I lost my time for it, too. By the time Ty was born, there wasn't a reason for me to even buy a journal. I was never going to fill it; it was just going to sit on my nightstand and remind me of a time when I had... well, energy and time.

Last spring, however, I was sitting in church and ignoring for what seemed like the hundredth time an overwhelming desire write. I was ignoring it, because there didn't seem to be much point in my desire. I was a mom with four kids under four - still with no energy, and no time, and now, no journal. But as I wrestled with my frustration, inspiration struck. I know what I need, I thought. Accountability! Of course I'm not motivated to write, because I have nobody keeping me accountable to the task. After all, why would I write, when I can sleep?

I brainstormed awhile more, and decided that the best approach to creating accountability would be a weekly e-mail to family and friends. Just a little blurb about my days at home with the kids; something to help me hone my skills through consistent practice. Up until that point, I'd never even heard of blogging - except in the form of professional journalists writing on important topics such as last week's American Idol performances. But when I got home from church, there was an e-mail waiting for me in my inbox from the dear friend you all know as Mom2Drew; she was "outting" herself to family and friends as a blogger.

Blogging? I didn't even know that could be used as a verb! But Mom2Drew seemed to offer a solution to my problem of accountability. If she can put herself out there like this, then so can I, right? Over the next two weeks, I wrote a few practice blogs, worked up some confidence, and e-mailed my friend for her blessing - which she gave, since clearly I was clueless as to just how many people are out there doing this blogging thing!

And now here I am, completely intimidated by the world I've been writing in for the last eight months, because I had no idea until recently how big blog world really is. And how pretty every body's blog backgrounds are. And how many pictures can be posted on a blog. And how creative everybody is, reminding me that I don't really have anything new to offer to a world that obviously has is all.

Wow.

Isn't that just like the enemy? I mean, God didn't speak from a burning bush and tell me to write. But He did give me a passion and a desire to write. Yet for years I've avoided doing the very thing I love because I didn't feel I had the time or because, more recently, the confidence. The enemy gave me plenty of excuses, and I've been using them all.

The truth is, I really don't have anything new to offer blog world. Even Solomon, arguably the wisest man to ever live, said, "What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun." (Ecc. 1:9). Obviously, I'm not the first mom to have four children in four years. For crying out loud, TLC has an entire program dedicated to a mom who had eight children in four years! So my thoughts and advice aren't going to be original. But I'm going to put them out there anyway. I just need the right motivation: accountability.

When I was a kid, I loved gold stars. It didn't matter that all I got was a gold star; I worked hard for that sticker. But occasionally, I got to cash in my gold stars for a bigger prize. So I'm thinking, why not make myself a gold star chart? I have ten weeks until my 33rd birthday. I'm going to commit to blogging something twice a week for the next ten weeks. Every blog = 1 gold star. And when I get twenty gold stars, I'm going to cash them in for.................. drum roll please................ a blog makeover! (Because how cool is Mom2Drew's new blog? You've got to check it out.)

Unfortunately, I don't know how to make a cyber- gold star chart, so you're going to have to trust me on this - or start counting my bogs. (Because you don't have a life, right?) Unfortunately, you're also going to have to read my blogs on this depressingly bland page, because I'm going to use it to motivate me. However, I will, as per my mother's request, try to start adding more pictures. Because my kids - however insane they make me - are pretty darn cute. I'll even include one now:

See? Adorable.

OK, so wish me luck, and keep checking back. Hopefully the kids will give me some material to work with - and leave a portion of my mind intact - so that I can write some moderately entertaining blogs for all of you out there in blog world.

Ooops, gotta run. American Idol just started.

The Stockings Were Hung...

2009-01-03T10:28:00.000-08:00

It's hard to believe it, but Christmas is over. Again. And although I dread this process every year, I know it's time. Time to pack up the ornaments, the tree, the dishes, and all the other vestiges of our wonderful family Christmas in preparation for a new year. But as I was taking down our family Christmas stockings - hung by the chimney only a few short weeks ago - I couldn't help but be reminded of a conversation from three Christmases past.

It was the first Christmas in our new home, and the first time I'd hung those family stockings. The kids' grandmothers and I had worked hard to get them beaded and sequined and stitched in time for the holidays. I was excited about showing them off, and my dear friend Cristie had stopped by to admire them. She was sweet enough to "oooo and ahhh" over them for a few minutes before we sat down on the couch for a chat. But as we made ourselves comfortable, she glanced over towards the mantel and said, "It must be so neat to look up there and see that row of stockings. I don't know how many stockings we'll eventually have, but just think - that's your whole family up there. It's complete!"

She was right, of course. My family was complete. After all, Cristie knew the hell of my last pregnancy, and she knew that the doctors and my family were firm in telling me, "No more babies!" She also knew that I'd finally decided to go through with a tubal ligation to ensure that there were, indeed, no more babies. So her comment should have encouraged me with the lighthearted spirit in which it was given: Your family is complete. No more pregnancy complications, no more hospitals, no more home medical equipment. You can move forward in your identity as the mother of three daughters.

But for some reason, I felt my spirit sink at her words. But she's right, I told myself. Our family is complete. I know it's complete. It has to be complete...

Why doesn't it feel complete?

I was totally aggravated with myself for allowing the thought to even enter my mind, much less to fixate on it. But for the next three months, as I waited for my scheduled surgery date, I wrestled with feeling that something was missing in our home. Maybe we just need to get a dog, I thought, as I squelched my longing for just one more baby.

Then, a few short days before the surgery, my friend Rachel asked me how I was feeling about getting my tubes tied. We were with the kids at the zoo, so I figured she was looking for the short answer. I gave her my patented, "Great! It'll be so nice when I don't have to worry about getting pregnant again. I mean, I just don't think I'd survive another 9 months. Besides, I think it's so neat that God has blessed me with three children, since you know I lost three before I had Ella..." I trailed off. Everything I'd just said was true, but it wasn't the whole truth. And suddenly, I just wanted to tell someone the whole truth.

Standing next to the kangaroo habitat, I shared it all: how I felt about being "sterilized" after suffering infertility; how I felt about potentially closing the door on God's blessings; how I sensed that my family just wasn't finished. I ended by telling her, "I know this is for the best. I've prayed about it. I've sought wise counsel, and I know my husband wants me to do this. So I'm trying to be at peace. Besides, I certainly have enough faith to know that if God wants to expand our family, He will. Who knows? Maybe we are meant to adopt."

Two days later, I was staring down at the bright blue plus sign on my ClearBlue Easy.

It's funny how God stretches our faith. Sure, I believed that He could expand our family. I even had a list of appropriate means by which He could accomplish the task. But another pregnancy was not on the list. I was scared to death when I saw that positive test. I just kept thinking, Four children. Four children in four years. How are we going to do this???

Were my faith bigger, I would have trusted that God had everything in hand. That He was blessing us with a sweet-natured, happy son who delights us everyday. That He was arranging not only help for me, but a great new friendship in the form of my next-door neighbor, Jackie. That He was ready to give me the grace I'd need for each new day as the mother of four precious children. And that He wanted me to look up at my mantel this Christmas and see a row of not five stockings, but six: my complete family.

Find That Smell

2008-11-12T10:55:00.001-08:00

There's a little game we like to play in our family called "Find That Smell." Maybe you've played it before. If you haven't, the rules are pretty straightforward: When something stinks, start sniffing. Whoever discovers The Source of the smell first is declared the Winner and gets to dispose of The Source. It's not really a game you want to win.

In our house, the game can start at anytime. Often it begins when my husband comes home from work and asks, "What stinks?" I consider this a head-start for him, since clearly he can smell something that my nose is already accustomed to. That's good, I suppose, since I want him to win. But still, the game is on and we head off to sniff the most obvious sources: the kitchen garbage, the upstairs diaper genie, and our children. Personally, I like to save the children for last, since they are the most frequent Sources.

The thing about Find That Smell is that it's a versatile game that can be played at home, at school, and even in the car. However, it may take weeks to find the source of that particular smell, since "car stink" tends to be very gradual. Several weeks ago, I got in my car and took a good whiff. Ugh! What is that smell? Since I was running late and needed to drop the girls off at pre-school, I only had time for a preliminary search. I found a few suspects -two sippy cups of solidified milk and three dirty socks - and removed them from the car. However, rather than dissipate, the smell only intensified as the day went on. That evening, I rolled the windows down to let the car air out, and did a second check. No luck.

The smell was even worse the next day. Tyler got in the car and groaned. "Ugh! What is that smell?!?"

"I don't know," I replied. "I checked the car twice yesterday and didn't find anything... Wanna play now?"

We got out of our seats for a round of Find That Smell. Still nothing, though I suspect neither of us looked that hard. Fortunately, it was a short drive and a nice day, so we just drove to the store with all our windows down.

By evening, the smell was so bad that I considered calling in a Haz-Mat team. But I decided to do one final check of my own before calling in the authorities. The smell had to be coming from somewhere, and I actually found myself determined to find The Source. I checked the grill of my car, under the hood, in the trunk, and under the seats. And then I found IT. Where is Tyler??? I thought, gagging. I ran into the house for a trash bag and rubber gloves, and then came back to remove a Tupperware full of moldy mac and cheese. When did we have mac and cheese in the car? I wondered. Tyler and the kids are claiming innocence; I confess I still have no idea.

Believe it or not, however, the absolute worst game of Find That Smell I've ever played was not the moldy mac and cheese round. Although it was a car stink that, surprising, we could not link to our children. A few years ago I came in the house and announced, "Something has died in my car! It smells horrible!!!" I was trying to be dramatic, but after a few days of suffering through a stench that permeated not only the car and garage, but the entire house, Tyler discovered The Source: something had indeed died in my car. A dead bird was wedged in the grill of the mini-van; at least, we assume it was a dead bird, since all we could see were a bunch of feathers and a beak. Since Tyler was the Winner, he went out with a garbage bag and shovel to remove the remains, while I hid in the house and retched.

I feel bad that he got stuck with such an awful job, since I was probably the one who hit the bird in the first place. But those are the rules of the game. Whoever finds The Source of the smell has to dispose of it. I don't always love that rule, but I'm getting older and I think my sense of smell is starting to go. Maybe it will be completely gone by tonight. There's a two-week old jack 'o lantern rotting on my front porch that I'm hoping not to find.

Naughty Sticks

2008-11-07T18:28:00.000-08:00

With three little girls experiencing the "terrible twos" roughly all at the same time, my husband and I have experimented with a lot of different forms of discipline. We've tried room time. We've tried the time out chair. We've tried the nose in the corner. We've tried the ticket system, going to bed without dinner, and the wooden spoon. All of these strategies work to varying degrees, but we've yet to find one technique that just really succeeds. So today, we tested another one. It's called the "naughty stick."

The naughty stick isn't actually a new idea, although I suspect the politically correct will find it horrifying. (My general experience is that the "politically correct" aren't usually parents yet.) Nonetheless, the naughty stick was recommended by a friend who tried it out after a counselor recommended it to her. The basic concept is this: Put a paint stir stick in every room of the house. When the child disobeys, give him or her a swat on the bottom with the naughty stick. In other words, give that disobedient kid a spanking!

Of course as I was picking up a load of stir sticks at the hardware store this morning, it occurred to me that the sticks by themselves didn't look particularly threatening. I thought they needed some motivational "embellishments," so I ran next door to the craft store and picked up some additional supplies, including black paint and stickers. By the time I went to pick up the girls from pre-school, there was a black stir stick hanging on the doorknob of every room in the house. Each one was decorated with the scariest stickers I could find, which weren't all that scary since all I could find was a collection of smiling bugs, spiders, and bees. But white letters spelled out the ominous words NAUGHTY STICK, and looked very threatening to me.

When we got home from school, I introduced my kids to the naughty stick: "Girls, this is a naughty stick. There's one in each of your rooms. If you disobey mommy or daddy, or if you yell "NO", you will get a spanking with the naughty stick." Ella was thrilled.

"Mommy, will you use the naughty stick on Emily if she says 'no'? And on Evie if she says 'no'? Can I put a naughty stick in their room? Don't worry, Mommy. I'll put mine in their room too!"

The twins, however, were not so enamoured with - or threatened by, it seems - the naughty stick. Within minutes of nap time starting, they were out of their beds and battling over a Barbie doll. I walked in and picked up the naughty stick. "Do I need to use this girls?" They both screamed "No!" and ran for their beds - one with the Barbie and one with her leg. I confiscated the maimed doll, tucked them in bed, and walked out into the hall. Ella was peeking out her door.

"Did you use the naughty stick on Emily and Evie?"

"No, Ella. Close your door and get in bed, or I'll use it on you, though."

"Okay, Mommy." SLAM.

Moments later, I heard a second crash. Emily and Evie were out of bed again. I sighed; it was time to make good on my threat. They each got a firm swat on their diapered bottoms. "Go to sleep!" I said in my sternest Mommy voice.

But it wasn't to be. I walked in and spanked them three more times before they finally got wise to me. Oh no, they didn't go to sleep. They hid the naughty stick. I eventually found it this evening when I was digging through a drawer for clean jammies. Sure enough, there was my naughty stick, crammed in the back of their underwear drawer.

My kids aren't dumb. They may grow up to be sleep-deprived hellions, but they aren't dumb. I guess I'm going to have to find a higher place to hang my naughty sticks. But I'm determined. I am going to make this work!

There Once Was a Woman Who Lived in a Shoe...

2008-11-07T13:31:00.000-08:00

I was three months old when my grandmother passed away, so I've always regretted not getting to know her. Like me, she was the mother of two singletons and a set of twins - the same ironic combination of four children in three years. I've always craved her company and a good long chat, but probably now more than ever. If God ever allows us an afternoon together, we'll find a quiet corner and sip on some tea, and she'll answer the burning question, "How did you do it???"

I mean, I never aspired to be like Grandma. Even as a child I recognized the huge responsibility she bore as the mother of four young kids. It was actually kind of a joke the day my husband and I announced we were pregnant for a second time (just 9 months after Ella's birth); Dad laughed and said, "You know, my mother had four kids in three years."

"Yes, well your mom was a saint as far as I'm concerned. I'm NOT trying to fill her shoes!"

The next day, I called my dad. "Uh, Dad. You know how Tyler's always wanted two kids and I've always wanted three? Well, I win."

There was a moment of silence and then, "What? Noooo... You're carrying two?"

The ultrasound that morning had confirmed it; I was pregnant with twins. I suddenly envisioned my feet getting a little bigger than planned. But I still wasn't about to fill Grandma's shoes. After all, four kids in three years is just crazy! So a year after the birth of our twin girls, I asked the doctor about tubal ligation. He sent me to his surgery scheduler, who in turn informed me that I would have to wait at least three months before she could fit me in. No worries, I thought. There's no WAY I'm getting pregnant again.

Of course, two days before the scheduled procedure I was staring down at a giant plus sign on my ClearBlue Easy. In shock, I wasted no time spreading the news. My mom nearly drove off the road when I called, crying hysterically and screaming, "I'm...PREGNANT!" Tyler didn't handle the news much better; he wasn't driving and I don't think he actually cried, but there was definitely a manly whimper or two. Finally, though, I accepted the truth: I was stepping into my grandmother's enormous shoes. They have to be big, I thought at one point, because isn't that how the nursery rhyme goes? "There once was a lady who lived in a shoe. She had so many children, she didn't know what to do." Well, I sure don't know what to do!

People who heard about my situation didn't really seem to know what I should do either, because almost overnight I became "The Story". You know - the story that everyone tells their friends in order to make them feel better: "Oh, you're having triplets? Well, don't feel bad, because I have a friend who knows this girl who heard about this mom who was having her tubes tied when found out she was pregnant with her fourth kid in three years!"

Of course, nothing is worse than when someone tries to tell you "the story" and it turns out to be YOUR story. This actually happened to me shortly before Ty's birth. I was shopping - alone, amazingly - in a local boutique and the shop owner asked me about my pregnancy.

"Is this your first?"

I sighed. "No, this is number four."

"Wow! Well, don't feel bad. I heard about this girl who was going to get her tubes tied and found out she was pregnant with her fourth kid. She's going to have four kids under the age of four!"

"Yeah, uh, that was me. You probably don't recognize me with make-up, but I was in here a few weeks ago..."

Of course, once people find out that you're "the story", the inevitable question gets asked. And it's the same question I want so badly to ask Grandma: "How do you do it?" More and more often though, my answer is, "By the grace of God."

Don't misread this. If you've ever truly experienced the grace of God, you know that there is nothing pat or cliche about God's grace. And if you have ever truly experienced His grace in your life, you also know this: God doesn't give it ahead of time. If I'd known from the start what motherhood was going to be for me, I'm not sure I would have started the journey. Instead, God revealed His plan just a little at a time. Three miscarriages. Severe hyperemesis. Multiple hospital stays. Drugs, tubes, and machines. Surgery. And four of the most precious and amazing gifts I've ever received: my children. God extended His grace to me in each of those circumstances, day by day, sometimes even moment by moment. He didn't pour it out ahead of time; I wouldn't have needed it or appreciated it anyway. But step-by-step He gave me - and continues to give me - what I need for each part of this journey as a mother of four.

So I'm trusting Him to provide. Even if what I need is a giant shoe...

Warning: DON'T Expect When You're Expecting

2008-10-03T11:29:00.000-07:00

OK, time to come clean: I am one of those hypocritical mothers who buys junk food and hides it from her husband and kids, only to pull it out when every body's out of the house or down for the night. That being said, the girls are at school and I'm heating up my Pillsbury Toaster Apple Strudel - after reading the directions on the back. Yes, another confession: I read the directions before toasting my preservative-packed, overly-processed strudel. I'd hate to make a mistake. Fortunately, I've used a toaster a time or two. But for those who haven't, the Pillsbury Doughboy offers some helpful tips:

"CAUTION: Pastry will be hot. BE SAFE - Never use a toaster without supervision and never walk away when something is heating. Toast at medium setting until hot and golden brown. Do not use a metal utensil to remove the pastry. CAUTION: Pastry will be hot."

Those Pillsbury employees sure are concerned about the welfare of my family and my strudel. They should write a parenting manual. I bet they'd be a lot more thorough than the books I've found on the market - even the iconic What to Expect When You're Expecting. I read it cover to cover, and it did nothing to prepare me for bringing home my first - or even my fourth - baby. Because anyone who's had a baby knows this fundamental truth: You can't expect anything!

Of course, as a first-time mom, I was not aware of this truth. From the day I discovered I was pregnant with Ella, I started fervently reading What to Expect and setting my expectations. I also read books about childbirth, baby schedules, and parenting; I took the hospital tour, the 12-week marathon birthing class, and the Infant CPR class; I braced myself for the sleepless nights, the dirty diapers, the teething and the drool; and I stripped my house of everything breakable, and therefore appealing to small, sticky children. In addition to my enthusiastic preparations, I felt fairly confident that my own upbringing and education would fill in whatever gaps were left. After all, I grew up in a stable and loving home, with two great parents. In college, I majored in education, and then went on to teach high school for five years. Of course, I wasn't foolish enough to believe that all my parenting prep would make motherhood easy. But I did think I was ready to make practical, common-sense decisions about raising kids. Funny how none of the books I read, the classes I took, or practices I experienced prepared me for making practical, common-sense decisions about raising my kids. By the time I completed my first three years as a mom, I'd sold all my books and graduated to professional help.

One therapist I tried suggested I try using a very strict form of "time out" in order to get my discipline-challenged three-year old to obey. The method sounded great, and even came with a handy flow chart to post on my fridge, which is perfect for someone like me who wants to follow directions. All I had to do was give my daughter a five-word command and then follow the chart as she responded. I drove home eager to practice this revolutionary technique, and I didn't have to wait long to begin. Ella was snatching a toy away from her sister as I walked in the door.

"Ella, take your hands off your sister and give her back her toy!" I paused and counted up the words in my head.

Fourteen words. Shoot. Try again.

"Ella, don't take toys away from your sister."

Seven words. Drat. Overshot again. Um, let me think about this. 'Ella, give Emily back her toy.' One, two, three, four, five, six words. Does Ella's name count as a word? I can't remember. Wait, where is Ella? "Ella? Ella???"

Ella, having successfully commandeered her sister's toy, was heading for the playroom. After practicing five-word directives in my head for a few minutes, I stuffed the flow chart in my pocket and went off in search of her. Sure enough, the old toy wasn't good enough, and she was embroiled in a new battle. "Ella, give Emily the toy." Yes!

Naturally, Ella's three-year old response was, "NO!" I pulled out the chart to see what I was to do next. It instructed me to say, "Go to the corner." I did this, and naturally Ella's three-year old response was "NO!" I checked the chart again. At this point, it instructed me to take Ella's hand and escort her to the corner. Naturally, Ella's three-year old response was to go limp. I checked the chart once more, confident I would find my solution; but nothing was mentioned about what to do with 30 lbs. of screaming dead weight. I improvised and dragged her to a corner. Then I checked my chart. At this point, it said, I was to have Ella put her nose in the corner so that her "forehead, shoulders, and toes were all in contact with the wall." I looked at the heap of child next to my feet, pulled out my cell phone, and left a message for the therapist to call me back and "BE MORE SPECIFIC!"

No, I did not expect to have difficulty disciplining my children. That really was a shock to the teacher in me, who was certain the answers could be found in a book. I also didn't expect my house to be so messy, my children to be so loud, or having fun to sometimes be so hard. I expected motherhood to be a bit more idyllic - like the picture on the front of What to Expect, which shows a glowing expectant mother sitting peacefully in her rocking chair, her hand on her belly.

But I also didn't expect to LOVE my kids the way I do. Nothing in that book, or any other, prepared my for the intense passion I have for these precious children. They might make me cry every day, but they make me laugh every day, too. There are no words to describe the emotions I feel when they fall into my arms, giggling, or wrap themselves around me for a hug. I didn't expect Ella to be so smart, Emily to be so snugly, Evie to be so funny, or Ty to be so sweet. I am grateful to God for every moment I have with my children, and in my moments of frightfully unprepared desperation, I know I can turn to Him for help and strength.

Maybe that's why nothing we read can truly prepare us for parenting. God created us to have a relationship with Him, but it's hard to spend time with Him when we're so busy satisfying our expectations. Nothing brings us to our knees faster than those children He created and entrusted to us, though. And if God sent us our children wrapped in strudel packaging, I suspect He would include the following directions:

CAUTION: Children are unique. BE LOVING - Keep yourself under God's supervision, and allow your child to be unique. Love, care, and pray for your child every day, as you build him into a strong, responsible adult. Don't place impossible expectations on your child. CAUTION: Children are unique.

Cheese - and Praise Songs - for Jesus

2008-09-13T16:33:00.000-07:00

My sister-in-law called me from the mall yesterday in the midst of a full-blown panic attack. She practically shouted at me over the phone: "Our daughters can never, ever grow up!" I was in the middle of fixing dinner, but having made a few recent trips to the mall myself, I stopped what I was doing long enough to ask her, "Was it the kids or the clothes?"

"Both!" she replied.

I feel her pain. As a Christian mother, I am loathe to raise 3 daughters and a son in the image-conscious, consumer-driven, sex-saturated culture that surrounds us. In a few short years, these sweet and innocent children I tuck into bed each night will be facing every temptation I've ever encountered, plus dozens more I don't yet know exist. Nothing drives me to my knees faster than the responsibility of raising godly children in a godless culture.

The good news is my kids are still a few years away from having to face that culture on their own. For now, Tyler and I are their primary teachers about what is right and wrong, Who God is, and why He loves them. And their secondary teachers are people that we've hand-selected to be a part of their lives: family members, teachers, and friends who share our heart for the things of God.

But for some reason, I worry that I'm failing my children when it comes to teaching them about God. Perhaps its because I have an unrealistic image of how I'm going to instruct these kids. I'll confess that when Ella was still a baby, I used to dream about that precious moment when my daughter - clean and damp from her evening bath, and snuggled up next to me in her bed - would look up and ask, "Mommy, tell me about Jesus?" I suppose in anticipation of this imagined conversation, I've spent the last three years preparing myself for that special moment.

Of course, my first discussion with Ella about Jesus wasn't quite the special moment I thought it would be. It happened early last December, just before Christmas. To borrow from the King James' Version of things, I was "great with child," and trying to waddle my way out of the shower when Ella strolled in to the bathroom and popped the question: "Mommy, where does Jesus live?" She took me off-guard, especially since my clothes were in the next room; but I was determined to take advantage of the opportunity. I wrapped myself in a towel as best I could - given my considerable size - and replied, "Well, Jesus lives in my heart."

Ella eye-balled me for a minute, and then asked the obvious follow-up question: "With Baby Ty?"

"Ummmmm.... Well, no. Jesus lives in my heart. Baby Ty is in my tummy."

"Does Baby Ty get to play with Jesus?"

It turns out Ella's interest in Jesus - and the fact that it coincided with my pregnancy - made for some pretty interesting theological questions. A few days after our initial conversation, I was eating a piece of cheese to stave off a round of pregnancy-induced nausea. Ella was watching me from the backseat of the car. "Can I have a piece of cheese, Mommy?"

"Oh no, honey. This is all the cheese I've got, and I need it for Baby Ty."

Ella was quiet for a minute, and then patted her heart and replied, "But I need some cheese for Jesus!"

I wish I'd had some great response ready to correct Ella's obvious confusion. But as most moms know, it can be hard to argue with the logic of a three-year old. I broke off a piece of cheese and handed it back to her, wondering how I was going to correct Ella's misconceptions about Christ dwelling in her.

But before I could come up with a solution, Ty's birth created a new complication that I suppose I should have anticipated. Shortly after bringing Ty home from the hospital, Ella announced that she needed to go to the doctor. I was taking Ty to the doctor's office anyway, and decided to let Ella tag along. When the doctor walked in, Ella plopped herself down in my lap.

"Jesus lives in my heart," she told the doctor, patting her chest.

My pediatrician, who I'm sure is used to kids' strange comments, just smiled and said, "Well isn't that nice."

"I need you to get Him out..."

Ty is 9 months old now and Ella seems to have lost interest in Jesus' living arrangements; to be honest, I'm relieved. It's given me the opportunity to begin again - starting with daily Bible stories, Scripture memory, and prayer. I'm not sure how much she understands yet, but I woke up this morning to the one of the sweetest sounds I've ever heard. My little girl was sitting in her room, singing:

This is the day (This is the day)
The Lord has made (The Lord has made)!
I will rejoice (I will rejoice)
And be glad in it (And be glad in it)!
This is the day that the Lord has made!
I will rejoice and be glad in it!
This is the day (This is the day)
The Lord has made.

Ella loves singing praise songs to Jesus. She loves saying grace at the dinner table and bedtime prayers each night. She knows the answer to questions like, "Who made the sun?" (God made the sun!) And she gives me hope that God can use an awkward, inexperienced mother like me to raise a new generation of believers who will minister to a world in need - or a least offer hope to some of those kids at the mall.

Pooped

2008-09-02T21:34:00.000-07:00

I just added two-dozen articles of clothing to my mounting pile of weekly laundry. And I couldn't be happier, because it's finally official: my twins are wearing big girl panties! I realize that if you haven't suffered through potty-training recently, you probably don't understand why I'm celebrating this addition to my wash pile. But I know you'll appreciate my enthusiasm when you understand the journey to this point.

Since Ella was born in 2004, I have changed approximately 17,865 diapers. No joke. I just did the math. Twice. Which means that in the last four years, I've stuffed around $7,800 into my diaper genie.

With all this money going (figuratively) down the toilet, it's been my mission to get the girls out of Pampers and into panties as quickly as possible. Which is why my mission failed from the very beginning, since my kids - particularly Ella - aren't quick about anything. Thus, what began 2 1/2 years ago with Ella, a cup of water, and a child-sized potty seat has ended in thousands of wasted diapers, a library filled with quasi-repulsive books like Everyone Poops and Once Upon a Potty, several pounds of M&M rewards, a state-of-the-art carpet cleaning system, and countless hours of my life I can never get back.

One of the reasons potty-training was so complicated is that I forgot a cardinal rule of parenting: The three things that no one can force a child to do is eat, sleep, or poop. I made the mistake one day of pumping Ella full of water, parking her training potty in front of the TV, and making her sit on it until she "went". In my defense, we'd been potty-training for nearly nine months and I was desperate for Ella to contribute even a drop in the bucket! But I didn't realize my approach inadvertently violated the rules of parent-toddler engagement, and that I was locked in a battle of the wills. Ella claimed victory when I surrendered after three hours and ran upstairs to grab a diaper; in my absence she hopped off the potty, piddled all over the new hardwood floors, and ran to perch herself back on her throne.

The other reason potty-training was so complicated is that while I was obsessing over Ella's unaccommodating bladder, the twins were developing some pretty nasty habits of their own - the worst of which was taking off their diapers during nap time. I tried everything I could think of to keep their pants on. The most obvious solution was duct tape, which works sometimes. However, I learned that there are three important factors to consider when duct taping a child into a diaper: 1) If there are 2 children in the room, they will work in tandem to remove the offending tape. Given enough time, they will succeed. 2) Tummies are rounder after a meal, and contract over time. Eventually, the diaper can slide right off. 3) You look like a redneck.

Probably the most distressing aspect of the girls' unwillingness to use the bathroom appropriately was the destruction of their rooms - particularly Emily and Evie's room. The usual progression of events began when the girls broke free of their duct tape and took off their diapers. The stinky contents were then discarded on the floor, and my bare-bottomed twins ran freely around the room, sitting on their pillows, quilts, and dresser. Sometimes I found fanny imprints on the windows, where they leaned to rest during this naked free for all. I never knew what I was going to find when I walked in their room. Frankly, I should have ripped up the carpet, thrown two mattresses on the floor, and painted the entire room chocolate brown. Perhaps they would have been less interested in using their poop as an artistic medium. Of course, if I'd actually done this, you'd probably catch me crying on the evening news as my diaperless children are escorted away to foster care.

Needless to say, this whole experience has left me - if you'll pardon the terrible pun - completely pooped. In fact, I called my husband a few weeks ago in hysterical tears: "I'm exhausted! I just can't, can't, can't scrub the carpet, strip these beds, or wash these quilts ONE MORE TIME!!!" Thankfully, I think Somebody else must have heard my cry. I know it might sound like a lot to some, but honestly, I think I can handle adding a couple dozen panties to my laundry pile.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

2008-08-25T14:28:00.000-07:00

Now, I know what you're thinking: Are you seriously going to get this song stuck in my head in the middle of August? I know you've got kids, lady, but take a look at your calendar once in awhile. It's hot, it's humid, and I've got at least another month before the holiday trees and menorahs go up in the mall. But I promise I'm not nuts. Even though I've been humming that tune for a week, it's not Christmas I've got on my mind. It's that other most wonderful time of the year: the First Day of School.

Come to think of it though, Hallmark and Russell Stover are missing out on a major First Day of School market. I mean, it's not an official holiday, but as a mom with three kids starting pre-school next week, I think it should be. What better way to celebrate the kids' return to the classroom than with a card and a box of candy? And if you're one of those mothers who gets weepy watching her babies walk into the schoolyard for the first time, wouldn't you feel better with some chocolate and a note from the kids?

I feel guilty admitting it, but I don't fall into that latter category of weepy moms. I'm pretty sure that while all the other mommies are sobbing into their Kleenex wads next Wednesday, I'll be shouting "Praise Jesus!" as I lay a wheel speeding out of the parking lot. Don't get me wrong. I love my girls and I love spending time with them. But I also love grocery shopping alone.

Of course, the privilege of strolling through Kroger with my solitary grocery cart and a cup of tea in hand doesn't come cheap. I think we're going to need to take out a second mortgage on the house just to cover tuition. And don't forget the hidden costs those sneaky pre-school teachers slip in when they send home innocuous-sounding lists like "School Supplies" and "Mrs. Martin's Classroom Wish List." I spent $140 at Target today on a list that included a disposable camera, brown pillowcases, copy paper, a box of tall kitchen trash bags, paper towels, and vegetable oil. I don't know if I just supplied the kids' classrooms or did Mrs. Martin's grocery shopping.

Of course, the cherry atop the school preparation parfait was getting my hands on the girls' immunization records. Ella was due for her 4-year check yesterday and, in anticipation of a taxing appointment, I left the twins with Nana and took Ella in for her annual check-up and vaccines. Despite planning ahead, we arrived in the parking lot 10 minutes past our appointment time. This was due in large part to the unbelievable tantrum Ella pitched from the time I pulled out of Nana's driveway until the time we arrived 45 minutes later at the pediatrician's office.

We made it, though, and somehow dodged a reprimand from the front-office nurse who checked us in. Maybe she remembered me from our last visit. That time I had all four kids with me, and I was really late. I think I also said something to the effect of, "These kids had better be sick. Otherwise, there is no excuse for their behavior and I'm giving them away!"

We were quickly escorted back to the exam room, where the nurse asked me the basic check-up questions and then asked if I needed any forms.

"Yes, I do. I actually need to get immunization forms for all three girls."

"Well, I'm sorry, but since the twins aren't here, there's going to be a $20 fee for their forms."

Of course there is...

Despite paying out yet more money towards school, the appointment continued to go relatively smoothly. The pediatrician came in and completed his exam, asked me 21 questions about my daughter's development, and then said, "I don't know how you do it, Mom."

"It's a challenge," I replied, "Especially with Ella leading the band."

He smiled, as if remembering something, and said, "Yeah, if you were giving your kids away today, I'd take that one," pointing to Baby Ty playing quietly in his stroller. He pointed to Ella then, who was making faces at herself in the mirror. "Not so much that one."

He wished me luck and left to hunt down a nurse to administer Ella's shots. Ella typically doesn't do well with surprises, which is a trait she inherited from her dad. But Ella is also terrified of needles - also a trait she inherited from dad - and so as we sat in the exam room, I debated between telling her about the vaccine and just letting it be an unpleasant surprise. At the last minute, I decided to give her a heads-up:

"Ella, come here sweetie. I want you to look at me for a minute. Not the mirror. Look at me. You've been a brave girl today. I know it's not fun coming to the doctor's office, but when we're done, I'll take you downstairs to pick out a treat."

Gasp. "A TREAT, Mommy? I LOVE treats!"

"I know, Ella. But honey, first there's going to be a boo-boo."

Gasp. "NO MOMMY! NO BOO-BOOS! NOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOO!"

There were a lot of limbs flailing around as Ella threw herself to the floor screaming. Just then, the nurse walked in. She watched the frenzy of arms and legs for a moment. "Um, why don't I have you hold her on your lap."

"WHAT?"

"I said, 'WHY DON'T YOU HOLD HER ON YOUR LAP?'."

"OH. OKAY, HOLD ON A MINUTE."

I pulled Ella up on my lap and wrapped my arms around her to contain hers.

"You can hold that arm, ma'am. I've got this one."

"WHAT?"

"I said, "YOU CAN HOLD...OW!"

"Ella! Don't hit the nurse! Tell her you're sorry!"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The nurse was holding her nose. "Okay," she said, "Let's just get this done." I held Ella's arms down and the nurse did a quick prick in Ella's arm. In less than 3 seconds, it was over.

"OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! IT HUUUUUURTS!"

The nurse left (probably to have a doctor examine her nose) as Ella continued screaming. In fact, she continued her mantra of "Owwww! It hurts!" as I got her dressed, packed up our things, and headed out to collect our $20 school forms. It didn't take long for us to draw some attention. Within moments, children in the adjoining waiting area were staring at us bewildered as Ella wailed. Two of them were standing close enough for Ella to twist her arm around and show them her Band-Aid. "OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!" she cried. "IT HUUUUUURTS!" Their mother shot me an irritated look and dragged the paralyzed kids towards the back of the waiting room.

"Sorry," I muttered.

We headed out of the office and down the elevator as promised for a visit to the candy aisle of the first-floor pharmacy. Ella was still proclaiming her ill-treatment as we walked in the door.

"OWWWWWWWW! IT HUUUUUUURTS!"

"Ella, do you want to pick out a treat? Ella? ELLA!?!"

"OWWWWWWWW! IT... Oh. Oh! Mommy, they have M&M's. I want M&M's, Mommy. I love treats!"

Mommy bought herself a treat, too. Well, maybe two treats, in honor of the upcoming holiday. After all, I earned them. Yesterday's trauma is over, and as of today, I have all the school supplies on the list laid out on my kitchen table, the coveted immunization forms tucked away safely in my teacher folder, and the girls' school clothes picked out. I am officially ready for pre-school to start. I might even buy myself a card and some more candy to celebrate. Too bad the most wonderful time of the year doesn't start for another 8 days.

Pitching my Tent

2008-08-18T18:25:00.000-07:00

It's been a really bad week. It began with a nasty stomach bug, and at some point descended into a dark mental place that's hard for me for write about, let alone share. But part of my reason for blogging - aside from the regular writing practice I get - is to encourage other mothers of young children by being honest about the experiences I have with my own kids. I can usually laugh about our daily escapades; but more often than I like to admit, I also find myself in "the depths of despair."

I've battled this despair for years. The causes have varied from bout to bout: chronic illness; hyperemic or unexpected pregnancies; three miscarriages and three post-partum recoveries... I didn't make it past Psych 101, but I'll go out on a limb and call it situational depression. Exercise, counseling, medication, and rest all help to a certain extent, but those things are next to impossible to do when I'm trying to take care of four children. Sometimes I just go THERE.

If I'm really being honest, I've been THERE for quite a few months this time, although I didn't recognize my surroundings immediately. It took a women's conference in Atlanta last month to open my eyes. A young mom and teacher - Priscilla Shrier - was sharing a story that is familiar to those of us who grew up in Sunday School. It's an Old Testament account of the 40 years that God's children, the nation of Israel, spent wandering in the desert (Exodus 19). It wasn't much of a stretch for Priscilla to liken that story to our present-day struggles. Most women find themselves "wandering in the wilderness" at least once in their lives. I've done a few stints myself, as I mentioned, and as I listened to this speaker's message, I just knew I couldn't go back. In fact, I was physically ill at the thought of ever being in that place again. I cannot do this, Lord. Please don't make me go back THERE. I don't have the strength...

Girl, open your eyes and look around. You've been THERE. Pitch your tent already!

I don't know if motherhood is making me lose my mind, but there it is: I heard the voice of God, and apparently He speaks to me like one of my girlfriends. Yes, it was really more of an impression I felt from His Holy Spirit, but it was real. And accurate. I recognized right away that I'd been hanging out in the desert - but that I'd been too busy sticking my head in the sand to pitch my tent. At that moment, I finally surrendered and made myself at home in that dry, familiar place.

The Israelites waited in the wilderness for 40 years; I'm hoping I don't have to live there quite so long. But God is gracious, because if you know the story, you'll remember two things: 1) God had His people in the desert so He could personally teach them about Himself; and 2) God sent manna from heaven every morning to feed the Israelites in the desert. (They just had to get out of their tents and gather what He daily provided.)

Unfortunately, I wasted days' worth of time crying in my tent last week - which made me a miserable wife and mom. I didn't take one bite of His provision; I just sat around thinking, "I don't want to be where I am right now. I don't like who I am when I'm living in this place!" But I want to learn what it is God teaching me about Himself, and I usually process those lessons through writing. So tonight, I'm going to ask God what He wants me to write about - right after get out of my tent and grab something to eat! Hopefully, I'll have something to say again soon.

(PS - Someone sent me a YouTube link that speaks a bit to the theme of this entry. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=06dtbV6YAdw )

My Day Off

2008-08-09T17:23:00.000-07:00

It's tough to remember my life before children, but if I think hard enough, I can recall a few details from the past. For example, I have a lot of job experience outside of homemaking. I actually started out at a Chick-fil-a, which is ironic, since my kids exist to "Eat Mor Chikin." But I've done plenty of things since then, too. In addition to working the drive-thru, I've been a waitress, a sales-clerk, a receptionist, a jeweler, a switch-board operator, and a teacher. I hated most of those jobs and loved at least one, but the best part of each was, without a doubt, The Day Off. Whether it was a sick day, or too many people on the floor, or inclement weather, I always loved getting that little unanticipated gift of time.

Unfortunately, there's pretty much only one way for mothers of small children to get a day off from work: communicable disease. And let's be honest, it's not really a day off. It's not like the kids are suddenly rendered mute on account of Mommy's throbbing head. If anything, they get louder in order to make sure they're heard over the retching.

I got an unexpected Day Off this past week when I came down with suspicious, flu-like symptoms: fever, aches, chills, and all the gastroenterological indicators for Montezuma's Revenge - in the midst of a 90 degree summer day. Unfortunately, no one received the memo for "Mommy's Sick Day," and life continued in its normal, chaotic fashion: Ella woke up at the crack of dawn, donned her princess costume, and started giving orders; Emily and Evie pulled their diapers off and then redistributed every item of clothing they own from their drawers to the floor; and Ty was... Well, Ty was just as easy as ever, until he came down with similar symptoms that required multiple diaper changes an hour. Unfortunately, since three hyperemic pregnancies have made me permanently nauseous, I didn't recognize my symptoms for what they were until after I hauled all four kids out for a morning of indoor playground fun at Monkey Joes.

After two hours of watching the girls run, bounce, and slide down the assortment of brightly-colored inflatables (which did nothing for my symptoms), I fed them a quick lunch and hustled them out to the car. We barely made it home, and once I had finished wrestling them down for a nap, I gave up and did what any woman in my position would do. I called my mom.

She's a saint, so she showed up just as the girls were getting out of their beds and I was crawling into mine. She did her best to keep them happy and occupied, but nonetheless I had several visitors to my bedside. The first was Ella, who grabbed the thermometer I'd just used, stuck it under her armpit, and asked, "Mommy, do you need a fever?"

I was suddenly worried that perhaps I'd just used the wrong instrument and stuck the kids' thermometer under my tongue. "Um, no thanks, sweetie. I already have one. Can you put that back now?"

"No, Mommy, I want to have a fever, too."

Oh Lord, please no...

Ella left to go talk Mimi into watching Snow White with her and I settled back into my bed. But Evie strolled in a few minutes later, just as I was drifting off to sleep. "MOMMY? MOMMY? YOU SLEEP? MOMMY, YOU SLEEP?"

I kept quiet at first, hoping that she would interpret my silence as an answer. But then she touched her nose to mine. "MOMMY?!?!?"

"Yeah, baby, Mommy's asleep..."

"OH." The bedroom door slammed behind her as she left to report my status to her grandma: "MIMI! MIMI! MOMMY'S SLEEP! OKAAAAY?"

A few more minutes passed and I slipped gratefully into an aspirin-induced coma just as Emily tip-toed in, blankie and paci in tow, to climb into bed with me. I was so tired that I probably wouldn't have noticed her presence except that her foot slipped and she landed butt-first on my face. "I sorry, Mommy! I sleep with you, okay? Okay, Mommy?"

My muffled grunt must have sounded like a "yes," because she lay down next to me and pulled the covers up to her chin. "Night night, Mommy."

I eventually got some rest without any kids in the room, and by the next morning, I thought I was feeling better. But my viral bout ended up lasting three long days, during which time my mom and my husband handled housekeeping, meals, and childcare. I'm not sure who's happier about my recovery - me or them. But one thing I know: unless there are spa treatments involved, I don't want another Day Off!

Just When I Thought I Had it All Together...

2008-08-03T17:40:00.000-07:00

Friends call and ask me all the time how I can manage four young kids and still keep the house picked up and the refrigerator stocked. I used to just smile and reply, "Oh, it's really not as bad as it sounds. Things have to get done, so I just make it work!" What they didn't see was me down on my hands and knees mopping up the jug of orange juice Emily just dumped on the floor and hissing at my children (with my hand over the mouthpiece, of course), "Be QUIET. Mommy is on the PHONE right now. And no, Evie, you MAY NOT have the scissors!"

The truth is, I've always overestimated what I am capable of accomplishing with four kids. Just a few weeks ago I took the whole clan with me to a doctor's appointment. I didn't think it would too bad since it was just a quick meeting with my psychiatrist. The doctor evaluated me (or was it my children?) for about 10 minutes, and then recommended additional medication. I don't know why. I thought the fact that only 2 of the kids cried and I didn't was pretty impressive. As a reward for their good behavior, I offered to take all four of them to the mall playground for lunch.

Despite the voice in my head telling me I was nuts (maybe that explains the new meds), I didn't really think I was overestimating my maternal capacity. I popped Ty into his stroller and latched the girls into three harnesses discreetly disguised as monkeys. (The "tail" of each animal is actually a leash, but don't tell my kids - they still think it's cool to carry monkeys on their backs.) I was feeling pretty proud of myself as we strolled into the mall. And I could tell that people were impressed by my resourcefulness, although I did overhear one guy comment to his friend, "Did that woman have all her kids on a leash?". Clearly he has never had to steer four children through the cosmetics department at Macy's during free gift week at Clinique.

We eventually made our way to the playground, where I was planning to feed a hungry Ty his bottle. Just as we arrived, however, Ella announced that she needed to go potty. Not wanting to be left out, Emily and Evie quickly climbed aboard the bathroom bandwagon, and within minutes I was on my way to the family restrooms (which are conveniently located up one level and on the other side of the mall) with one hungry baby and three little girls in tow.

Since Evie is still in the midst of potty training, I let Ella and Emily lead by example and complete their business first. Emily made the mistake of flushing, however. Evie is terrified of loud noises combined with swirling water; she shrieked and sprinted to the other side of the bathroom. While I was calming her down and trying to convince her that "potties are fun," Emily got bored and plopped down on her bare bottom to peer at the drain in the floor. "Ohmygoshthatissodisgustinggetupnow!!!" didn't really motivate her to move, but it made Ty cry. I abandoned Evie and hauled Emily over to the sink. Meanwhile, Ella started rubbing her face against the tile walls of the stall. After yelling at her twice to stop, I gave up my hand washing efforts, whipped out the antibacterial gel, and smeared it over all three kids. "That's it. I don't care if you're done or not. Everybody out of the bathroom NOW!"

When I walked out into the Food Court with one hungry baby and three little girls still in tow, I knew it was time for an executive decision:

"Okay girls, let's eat!"

The lines weren't too bad and the girls were excited about eating at the mall. By the time we sat down with our chicken nuggets and french fries, I was feeling like I had things back under control. The girls were sitting in their chairs, eating ketchup-laden fries and chattering to each other over juice boxes, and Ty was sucking contentedly on his bottle. I could see people walking by our table and smiling at the kids, and I overheard a few moms comment on my bravery. "Wow, this is really going well. And we sure are popular today," I thought, as yet another cluster of people smiled and pointed towards our table.

Just then, Emily's chatter pierced my thoughts. "Wait a minute. What is she saying? Something about pee-pee? That can't be right. She already went potty." That's when I heard it: "Evie go pee-pee. Evie, you go pee-pee? Evie go pee-pee on floor." A wave of panic rolled over me as I slowly bent over to look under the table. Sure enough, there it was: a tell-tale yellow puddle under Evie's chair. No wonder people are pointing and laughing. With no graceful way out, I mopped up the mess with a pile of napkins, stripped Evie out of her soggy shorts and stuck her in a diaper, then waved to on-lookers as we took the walk of shame back to our car.

I'd like to say that I learned my lesson, but I didn't, because I took all four kids back to the psychiatrist's office today. Not that I had a choice. There wasn't a babysitter available, and as my shrink so compassionately reminds me: "You chose to have four kids, so you're just going to have to figure out how to deal with it!". Ouch. I'm doubting she aced Empathy 101.

She's right, though. I just need to deal with it. If there's one thing I've learned as a mother, it's that I have NO control over my children. I can teach them, steer them, pray for and encourage them; but I can't actually make them do anything, so I shouldn't worry about what other people think. Sure, I might be embarrassed when Emily hands Ella's pre-school director something she dug out of her nose, but all I can do is apologize and explain to my daughter once again that "boogers aren't for sharing."

I'm getting better, I think. I don't worry as much about other people's perception of me as I used to. I'm better about being honest when my friends call, so plenty of people know that I don't have it all together. My laundry room is overflowing with clothes, the breakfast dishes are still sitting on the kitchen table at lunchtime, and there is more than one science experiment growing in my fridge. But I'm dealing with it. And someday, when the kids are teenagers, I just know I'll have it all together.