Find That Smell

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

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...

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

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

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

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...

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.