It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

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

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

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...

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.

Waiting on the World to Change

Ella celebrated her fourth birthday this month. She's been talking about "The Big 4" since January, so despite my disdain for large children's parties (because I host one every day), I sent out a few invitations and planned a little gathering of family and friends. Of course, as is the nature of motherhood, things did not go according to plan. In the end, the entire family and a bucket-load of friends commemorated my daughter's birth during a two-day extravaganza that included a princess-themed birthday party, lunch at Chick-fil-a, a trip to Monkey Joes, a pink pinata, a gigantic pile of presents, and approximately 58 cupcakes.

The magnitude of the celebration, however, didn't diminish the significance of the event: Ella is four years old. My mother reminds me all the time that "the days are long, but the years are short;" but somehow I find myself shocked to realize that my baby girl is four! How did I move so quickly from two pink lines on a home pregnancy test to the pile of pink clothes now heaped on my laundry room floor?

The irony, of course, is that my mother is right, and that the days really are long. It's hard for me to take pleasure the swiftly-passing years when I drag myself through each day, up to my eyeballs in dirty diapers, dishes, clothes, and kids. But those early days, when I was newly pregnant and dog-sick, passed just as slowly. And suddenly, here I am on the other side of 27 months of pregnancy, a mother four times over, wishing for one of those quieter moments when all I was doing was waiting.

Of course, it's human nature to be consumed with anticipation. My little sister is in the final throes of planning her August 1 wedding. My sister-in-law is likewise consumed with the August 1 birth of her second child. (Are there two bigger events in the life of a family? A few, perhaps, but I would argue that a wedding and a birth are definitely in the Top 5; and Tyler and I get to experience both in one day!) I'm not the bride or the new mom, but even I'm sleepless with anticipation.

But seeing Ella turn four last week, and realizing how right my mom really is, I also find myself savoring these last few days. One sister will never be single again and one sister will never be pregnant again - and even though it's time for them to move on to the next stage, I want them to enjoy the last few days leading up! Marriage and motherhood are wonderful. But so are those moments in the days before, when you're sitting on the sofa, dreaming of the future with your husband-to-be, or when you're curled up in bed and feeling your baby kick and squirm. Those are the "waiting moments." They don't last long, because all of a sudden, the waiting ends and the world changes: two become one, a new life is born, and the waiting moments are memories swept up by the years.

I suppose I'm in one of those moments now, and that I'll eventually miss the chorus of little voices arguing over princess dresses and baseball bats. The days feel so long, but I know that the waiting will end, the world will change, and my babies will no longer be babies. They will be children, and pre-teens, and teens, and then grads. And I'm bracing myself, because I have a feeling that cupcakes and pinatas just don't cut it at graduation parties.

Are You Smarter Than a 4-Year Old?

First-born children are bossy, controlling, picky and perfectionistic. Also, they are never wrong. I can actually say this with a degree of certainty, because I am the oldest of three children, and I am bossy, controlling, picky and perfectionistic. (You can ask my husband. I'm pretty sure he'll back me up.) The problem with being a first-born mother with these qualities, however, is that I often butt heads with my own first-born, Ella - who is all of those things I just listed. And like any number of eldest children, she is also never wrong.

The secret to never being wrong, by the way, is recognizing that it's more important to use the right tactic than to actually be right. For many first-borns, this means confronting disagreeable truths with a loud voice. Ella is VERY LOUD.

Ella actually "found her voice" (which is her Nana's generous term) when she was only four months old. I have the first scream on video tape, because she introduced it at her baby dedication in front of 40 guests. Don't blow me off, by the way, because I am well aware that most babies scream. But this scream was so ear-piercingly high-pitched that it could shatter glass. And she would do it over and over and over and over again, for hours on end. Most of the time she did it to show displeasure, but sometimes she did it when she was happy. And sometimes she did it just because she could. As a result, I couldn't take my otherwise portable baby anywhere. I certainly didn't risk walking through the china department at Macy's. (Think of the carnage!) Of course, I was also afraid that I was going to lose my mind. I asked everybody I could find for a solution: my mother, other mothers, grandmothers, neighbors, nurses, pediatricians, pastors, and even a family therapist.

Despite the blank stares I got from most of these child-rearing professionals, Ella did eventually outgrow The Scream. What she didn't outgrow was her need to be heard. I remember a day just this last fall, when Ella was being exceptionally loud and domineering. My mother was in the car with me, and we were on our way home from picking Ella up at pre-school. It turns out that listening and sharing can be pretty exhausting for a child who is used to being in control, so the drive home from pre-school is always packed with drama. Whether it's screaming for her Veggie Tales CD, snatching books away from her sisters, or kicking her chair, it's always a grueling ride. On this particular day, my mom was trying to distract Ella with all the points of interest we were passing, but my daughter would have none of it:

“Look, Ella! There’s a horse!”

“NO, MIMI!" Ella shouted back. THAT'S A COW! I WANT MY CD!”

“Oh." Then pointing to a fire truck, Mimi called out, "Ella, here comes a fire truck!”

“NO, MIMI! THAT'S A SCHOOL BUS! I WANT MY CD!

We actually did pass a school bus a few minutes later, and, trying to be amenable, Mimi called out, "Look Ella! That must be a fire truck!"

"NO, MIMI! THAT'S A SCHOOL BUS! I WANT MY CD!"

Realizing at this point that she'd lost the distraction game, Mom sighed and flipped on the CD we can both sing in our sleep. The rest of the drive home was silent, save the harmonious vocal blending of a cucumber and a tomato singing "If You're Happy and You Know It."

Ella turned four last week, and nearly a year has passed since that memorable ride home. Ella is still loud, and strongly opinionated, but I've noticed that the passage of time is making her smarter. Last fall, she knew how to get a point across, but she wasn't always right. (The subtle distinctions between cows and horses, fire trucks and school buses escaped her.) This year, however, she is loud and accurate.

I came to this realization at the pool a few nights ago when I overheard Ella telling her sisters to "SWIM LIKE BIRDIES! COM'ON GIRLS, LET'S SWIM IN THE WATER LIKE BIRDIES."

"Ella," I said, "I think you mean fish. 'Let's swim in the water like fish.' Birds don't really swim."

"PENGUINS DO!"

Hmmmm. The kid's right. Time to back off on the Baby Einstein DVD's.

A similar situation occurred recently in the parking lot of a medical center, where I was yelling at Ella. "Let's hurry up, girl! We're in the middle of the street. Ella. Ella! There's a car coming! Get moving!"

"NO! WE ARE NOT! WE ARE NOT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET!"

I was totally exasperated. "Yes, Ella, we are in the middle of the street. I think I know what a street is. Now move!!!"

"NO, MOMMY! WE ARE NOT IN A STREET! WE ARE IN A PARKING LOT!"

Huh. Right again.

Now I'm starting to wonder if our intellect peaks at four and then begins the slow descent into stupidity. I remember a time back when, like Ella, I knew it all. But it seems the older I get, the less I know. I should be smart enough not to engage my child in these ridiculous exchanges, but I just can't help it. I'm a first-born. I am never wrong.

Just Say No

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.