LOST A SOCK

Because there's not a page in his baby book for the milestone where he pronounces his parents old for the first time

So the five of us are sitting around the dinner table together, and I mention to Kevin our next door neighbor boy, who had by then been setting off bottle rockets and other small explosives for a solid six hours. 

"I think he's a little young to be lighting fireworks with no supervision, don't you?"  I ask my husband.

"Heck yeah I do," he says, "I didn't get to blow off fireworks by myself until I started high school."  (Because this is how we lay out future rules for our own children, you know.)

And then our oldest child, all of six, chimes in, "Well that was the old days, dad.  These are the new times."

And I realized that for the very first time my child has dated us, and possibly expressed his belief that our rules are mildly archaic.  Something tells me it is only the beginning.

Happy Independance Day (from one patriotic little monkey who will always think her mother is cool, yes?)

(Or not.)

Don't judge me today

As I write this post late on a summer afternoon, I sit in as much darkness as can be offered to me.  It has been an incredibly noisy day, and now as I shamelessly utilize my Forty-Two Inch Flatscreen Nanny for the boys while my baby daughter naps, I find myself pulling the blinds in the window nearby, and turning off the desk lamp.  Even the light was too loud at this point in the day.

So let's talk about child noise for a moment, okay?  Because I need to know... 

Are your kids loud?

I mean, some days, are they really, really crazy freaking loud?  And in this loudness they seem to jump at you, and wave their hands at you for attention, and need more drinks, have more stories, demand more butt wipes, create bigger messes than ever before and generally bounce off the damn walls?

I have two boys, ages six-and-a-half and three-and-a-half.  My six year old, who I previously believed to be the more mild of the two boys, has recently taken to climbing.  Climbing the furniture, climbing the non-child intended parts of the swing set, climbing trees, scaling the counter at Dairy Queen, happily climbing his sister's baby gates just because he can, as well as other various safety gates, bars and contraptions along our nearby lake, to name a few.  All the world has become his gymnasium and he has Deep-Seated Robot Instincts that drive him to conquer all that is large or horrendously dangerous.  (Case and point?  This is the kid who just now exclaimed, "Mom, look at this!" while balancing the baby's upside down Leap Frog table on one hand high above his head.  If it's not worth climbing, find another mildly dangerous use for it.  Quick!)  His smaller brother, while not the avid climber just yet, has reverted back to those all-too-familiar temper tantrums that we dealt with at age one, and thus has found his own plan of attack for Taking Down The Parental Unit.  Add to this the noise levels of previous mention, plus one recently crawling and standing toddler and surely you want to comfort me in your arms while stroking my hair and buying me nice coffee, yes?

Will you please listen?  What were my directions?  Focus. Don't karate chop your brother.  Don't kick your brother.  Stop picking up your sister.  Your sister is not a toy.  Marin what are you eating now?  Who brought legos to the baby?  Don't sit upside down on the couch.  Get your hands out of your pants!

Is this familiar to anyone? 

The ten year old next door has been lighting off bottle rockets and fire crackers all afternoon and today instead of passing judgement I shall simply deduce that he, too, was driving his mother absolutely crazy, and sending him outside with a flame and explosives was her last option.  He is no longer mesmerized by the new Star Wars cartoons on tv, God help me her.

I have learned, by now, that childhood runs through one phase after the next.  Someone tell me that my children will discover a deep love for quiet, and rest, next, right?

Wherein Jillian Michaels drives me to try crazy things

Hi friends.

I know my blogging has been spotty lately, and don't you worry, I surely have hang-ups about it.  But I think we all need to walk away from the finger pointing for now, and hop back to it.  It is time to discuss evil.  Or, the Diet Coke of evil.  (Just one calorie.)

(Doctor Evil, Austin Powers, yes?)

(No-no Mini Me, we don't gnaw on our kitty.)

Onward.

So! I am still shredding.  

Level Two, Day Thirteen.

Okay, if you do the math that's like six days missing in there or something from my very first shred.  One time I was passed out on the couch when Kevin finally made it home from work to join me, therefore being forced to decide between Evil Sergeant Ponytail Kicking My Ass, or Sleeeeep.  (Duh.)  Several days later I pulled a muscle in my lower leg and gave it time to heal, on Saturday I walked a 5K and I took a pass on double duty exercise, and tonight I write. 

Wait, did I say a 5K?

These are the things that yuppie hippie somebody-or-others do with their Saturday mornings, and Kevin once, three years ago, but not me.  (Ok and Breain.)

Not me, that is, until we signed up for the race the walk to raise money for Make A Wish Foundation, which happened to wind through our favorite zoo in the world. 

Apparently even my lacksidasical commitment to the Shred is beginning to pay off, with a dive down into a lesser size of khaki shorts (thankyouverymuch) and the return for my willingness to try new things once again.  Apparantly I need nine full months to gestate and nine full months to embrace recovery from all the gestating.  Who knew?

 

So we woke our kids at six a.m. on Saturday morning and whisked them off to the zoo.  We figured KJ would never make the entire race walk without whining, crying, dragging, falling, hating and certain death, especially on an eighty-eight degree day, so he happily took the stroller option when we offered.  (No shame, that boy.)

We missed the official start by a few seconds as we spent too much time pilfering free peanut bars from the radio station table, and that sort of set the standard for our personal time.

Following the path of orange cones, we passed a volunteer every now and again who would cheer for us and holler something about a great job stopping to visit with the animals every twelve feet.  I never got over feeling goofy about that, all of the forced cheering while we hauled our offspring around the course, daring them to eat the peanut bars and just chill for a while.

We knew to stay to the left so that the real runners (who actually jog with their jogging strollers and not just occupy too-large boys) could pass as needed, and after a while of our brisk walking, then stopping, and more walking, we began to wonder how it was that all of these sweaty runners and their jogging strollers were coming from behind us.  Because, people, for sure we cleared off the peanut bar table so what could be left to delay their start times? 

Oh right, the panting fools were the supahstahs on their second lap. 

(Yeah, well wait until you're finished.  And starving.  Because my kids have eaten all the protein so now look where your sweat and speed has gotten you.  Hungry, that's where.)

Finally we made it around the first time, and then we started in for part two just as our boys were sooooo hottttttt and our baby was ready for a nap and a bottle.  Jackson made sure twelve times that we would be stopping at the playground this time around, and KJ vehemently hated the sun, the heat, the bumps, the path that failed miserably at passing through the reptile house and the entire idea of lap two. 

We, too, had worked up quite a sweat pushing strollers, though enjoying our morning exercise for a great cause. 

More thirsty now, smelly and definitely hot, I sort of lost my parental shit reached a breaking point a little ways into the final lap.  We were off to the side of the road again, mixing up a bottle for our fussy, overtired baby and trying to convince Jack that he needed not visit every bathroom that day, when KJ began objecting to seeing The Same Animals Againnnnnnnnnnnn, as if this were the new worst thing in the world just next to whole wheat bread and crust, when one's blackened hearted parents drag children from their early morning slumbers to have fun! exercise! charitable family time! glean vitamin D from the sunshine! 

Awful indeed, and all at once I became every mother that ever lived because I was TURNING THESE DAMN STROLLERS AROUND, totally finished with the grumbling, complaining and child misery.  Not until, however, I snapped at my husband right in front of three zoo staffers whizzing by in a golf cart, because couldn't he at least offer to help?!  Help me shake up this bottle that I've done ten thousand times?!  Couldn't he hold my hand or offer some sort of support or something?  Are you the one causing this boy to complain?  Your offspring?  Surely you have fault here, man! 

How pretty of me. 

Kevin convinced our crew to calm down and carry forward until we finally reached the playground, where we would then dump our children from their respective chariots to just run it off already as we cooled down.  Then we called it a day on the 5K 4K and quietly wished for the deodarant left back at the car.  We made peace with each other, and visited the reptile house. 

As we headed towards the gate my eye caught a family of five, just like ours, with two boys the ages of our boys, and a baby girl.  I smiled immediately because I so love seeing families like mine, and I always wonder what their daily lives are like and how they handle the highs and the lows.  And just as I turned to alert Kevin to our selves in another life, I clearly overheard the father say to his oldest son, "You know, why don't you think of something FUN about this day instead of constantly complaining?!"  

And in that moment I wanted to run up and shake that man's hand.  Or kiss him, even, if not for being so smelly and tired and married and whatnot.  (Oh how misery does love company.)

Our next walk, which surely we will attempt again, shall involve a babysitter.  And a crisp fall afternoon.  And ear buds.

***

Miracle of miracles, I caught up on uploading recent pictures today.  They live here.

We chat. They jump.

My two smallest children have a new shared love.

Jumping on my bed.

So now let's pretend that this is precisely the reason why I have made my bed so infrequently all these years, m'kay? 

It's because of the kids.  They just jump on it and mess it all up, those little rascals, they.

 

Now you just let them jump there, and I'll finally check in as if I remember from time to time that I have a blog. 

Now that the weather is perfect in every way, we have spent our days walking to the park, the library, the lake, the other park and the other park, every single afternoon without fail.  My upper arms are finally seeing the return of a little muscle action from pushing our double stroller all over town, and I'm sure my backside would see a difference, too, if I weren't offsetting all of the exercise by inhaling the cupcakes I baked for myself for the kids.  I mentioned here a couple weeks ago that I'd finally lost thirty of my fifty pregnancy pounds and just like that I fell off the wagon.  Interesting, yes?  I am determined to continue getting back on the doggone wagon, though, no matter how many times I fall off, because my eight month old baby girl is going to have a birthday at the end of this summer and then I can no longer say I am overweight because I *just* *had* *a* *baby*.  Something about using that excuse one year later bleeds I consumed six funfetti frosted cupcakes last weekend.

Keep jumping kiddies.  Blur blur blur.

I also went through my tumor check this week, which I have been doing every three months since last September.  And each time this rolls around I tell myself I shouldn't worry unless I know I need to, blah blah blah.  And every time I finish having those strong positive thoughts I begin worrying immediately about the ovary checking process (unpleasant) and the tumor marker blood draw (frightening) and then I spend all of the in-between days hoping this isn't the time I have cancer, three small children, blah blah blah.  Results next week, repeat in three months.  I informed my doctor, this week, that if another tumor is spotted I would most definitely benefit from a complete hysterectomy rather than just another take a chunk of this, portion of that again.  This worrisome process every few months is for the birds.  (Is it awful to admit that in the days before and after the tests until results come in I always sing in my brain We're Going on a Tumor Hunt, slightly adapted from a happy children's song?  THIS is precisely the reason I tried to convince the damn doctor to take all the guts on the operating table last year.)  (Also, yes, I know that is a very strange thing to sing.  Somebody mail me some coping skills.  I'll give you my address.) 

 

Yikes!  Bounce, fall, jump.  Giggle giggle giggle.

Little league is also still all kinds of fun, even when my son Mexican Hat Dances on second base.  I'll guess that becomes less cute when these kids play at twelve and thirteen, yes?  I've been trying to wrap my head around what sport and for whom might be next, now that we have reached That Age (oh how fast, babies, toddalahs, baseball players.  What next?  Driving?)  We did decide to sign Jack up for a two-mornings-per-week preschool in the fall for purposes of fun and socialization, and thus he becomes our double duty kid, homeschooling and preschooling both.  Nothing like conducting this parenting thing by the seats of our proverbial pants, eh?  My hope is that it will be a fantastic opportunity for him to make friends outside the shadow of his big brother, and pick up a whole new sort of structure along the way. 

The laughing and the blurring- it never gets old.

Aaaaand we're off- to the eye doctor this time.  Today is the day I finally stop applying super glue to KJ's glasses every few hours.  Fingers crossed he picks something good.

How's your intro to summer been?

Your Mom

It's Mother's Day, and I bet you'll be glad to know with my recent propensity for blogging only once or twice weekly?  That as long as you return to this website each day until I write a new post, it is still Mother's Day for all you moms. 

Monday?  Why, I have nothing to blog about.  And Mother's Day it is.

Tuesday?  Okay I do have something to say but the baby's diaper is leaking, my six year old has a little league game in an hour and the twelve baskets of laundry lining my bedroom floor won't be putting themselves away.

Wednesday?  Continue celebrating.  You're a real mother, I tell you.

And you get the idea.  Thank me later.

While switching loads of laundry this morning I thought about all of the Mother's Days we celebrated when I was growing up and I wondered if this Mother's Day thing, and motherhood in general, is what I thought it would be 100 years ago before I had kids.  I don't remember whether my mom washed my clothes on Mother's Day, and I don't know what she quietly thought about, or if she was happy with the way things were going on that particular day or in general for our family. 

My kids won't remember today either.  They made me presents and a card and told me that they loved me, and as a kid I thought that to be the most important part- to give mom something good.  But now I know as a mom, that the best part of all on this day and every day, as insanely cliche as it sounds, is just to have these kids.  They don't need to do anything or say anything or make anything.  Just being who they are without giving it so much as a thought, and being mine, is indescribably Good, even when it isn't.  Turns out the day isn't about celebrating my role in this family at all, but simply celebrating this family. 

Later this afternoon in five minutes we will have both sides of our families over for a feast, and to give them the gifts that we've been working on this week.

Last Sunday afternoon the five of us took a long walk together and played at the park.

The Sunday afternoon before that Kevin and I had front row tickets to this crazy wild rock show (where the drummer wasn't even wearing pants!)

Though the xylophone player kept making her way too far into the middle of the action for the drummer's liking.

The Sunday afternoon before, I don't know, but I really think most of them have been Mother's Days, and that's what I hope my kids remember.  And for when they someday read this, today I think we're doing okay, and even better than okay, and I love whatever it is we do when we're all together.  I didn't mind washing your clothes on Mother's Day (though we'll talk differently when you're 17, 14 and 12) and I quietly thought, this morning as I picked up the family room, about how and when we can finally add a giant table to that room and let the homeschooling begin.  I loved your pot holder and your picture frame this morning, but most of all I love you.

(Also, Marin, way to go on conquering the word Mama this week.  I may be second to Baba, but I get it.  Ha!)

Boys

As I worked my way through the April pictures on my hard drive yesterday, I noticed that I have quite a few this-n-thats of KJ and Jack from recent.  (Which shouldn't be so odd, unless you consider that over the previous six months they've barely salted and peppered the Marin collection I have going.)  (But she's a baayyyyyybeeee.)

There are lots and lots of these, as oh yes, we have delved into the Wonderful World of Little League. 

I will admit to having many an unkind thought about Little League throughout all of March and April as I sat in the middle of a wide open, disgustingly squishy mud field through terribly cold, damp windy evenings, in a sinking lawn chair with chattering teeth, numb extremities.  I twisted schedules as far as I could to save Marin from sure misery, setting her up with my sister and her girlfriend as often as humanly possible.  Jack, on the other hand, happily attended each practice because apparently he does not mind hypothermic shock or being caked in mud from ass to toes...as long as there are other younger brothers to run around with.  And mud to play in.  I mentioned the mud, yes?  He also doesn't have to clean shoes and wash muddy laundry.  Heh.  Mud.

Thankfully there is a light at the end of the tunnel in the case of all these practices, and it comes when you get to see your cute little kid in a cute little baseball uniform. 

And all at once the weather grows slightly warmer, thank God, so that I can actually feel my fingers while scraping muddy gym shoes, pants, jackets, sockstoysstrollerwheels. 

Now?  Pretty fun, that Little League.

I think next year we shall skip practice season altogether and get right to the concession stand popcorn games. 

Also on my hard drive, children building tents everywhere, which is one of their afternoon favorites.

Playing in their two-man late-night band,

and game playing.

I love Jack's crazy expressions.

Also, this.

Am thinking it will be a while before he smiles for the camera again.  Male child, age three is in full swing now, folks.

...Giving way to this Loch Ness something or other. 

At least I have something to save for a high school girlfriend or two, right?

Not that the other one is without his own April '09 collection of crazies.

He does know how to work the camera, eh? 

That's mah boy.

This one's cucu bird picture collection will begin soon enough, I guarantee.  Those I can save for her teenage love affairs with the Jonas Brothers or Children of the Backstreet Boys or whoever is popular then.

She's been practicing. 

And most thankfully her practices take place on an indoor carpeted surface, sans cold, sans mud, muck, yuck- though sadly they do not involve paper bag popcorn, double butter little salt.  Trade offs, I tell you.

Goodbye, April!

Am trying

All three of my children simultaneously leapt from their beds at 6am on the head today, for absolutely no reason at all.  It was the, I dunno, seventy bazillionth consecutive day or something.  And I am anything that is not a morning person.  I left the baby to gab in her crib (okay, so there was less leaping from that one) as long as it was just gabbing, and mumbled something to the boys about breakfast in a bit as I stumbled past them in the hall.  I plopped down at the computer to see if you all in blogland could wake me up in some happy way.  And as I sat there completely dazed, child number one joined me, no doubt working the Where is our fooooood angle.  I rubbed my face sleepily and told him, "Mommy's tired today, bud."

To which he responded in his best Penguins of Madagascar voice, "Look alive, Mom.  Look. Alive."

I am so going to apply that to his little butt when he's a teenager, for sure. 

(Is is strange that my mothering mode is beginning to search for down-the-line retaliation, or is this the natural progression of things?)

Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn (that you went to bed tonight smelling like pee).

There's always tomorrow for baths, and then more pee opportunities anyway, right?

I have these blog entries swirling in my head, covering the ins and outs of our homeschool decision and action plan, as well as something or other about grocery bills and finances and the market, oh my.  But alas, my three chidren woke at 5:46am today and wouldn't you know it's Turn Off The TV week for KJ's school, making for a loooong day.  (Seriously, the kid gets a Dairy Queen Blizzard if he clocks no minutes of television in the next five days.  Dare I offer to buy him two blizzards if I can just get one hour of quiet?)

Also something terrible happened to our baby swing early last week, which translates to It No Longer Goes, and therefore my daughter has decided that her only happiness shall henceforth be my arms, swinging her like a worn out mama ape all the livelong day.  And night.

 

We finally made it into nice weather last week, which brought opportunities for a couple outdoor playdates as well as a trip to (say it with me) the zoooo.  Those be my children, absolutely mortified of the roaring Brontosaurus in the background there, as if I don't have to remind them to stop talking about Bionicles and Transformers blasting each others' heads off every five minutes at home.  Needless to say we steered clear of the life sized T-Rex exhibit.

We do well with downed trees, though.

Quick! (Before they dump her!) Baby's first slide!

I keep wondering, with each fun Spring day we conquer, if I will continue to be this tired at the end of each outing.  Running around with three young children is much like the longest roller coaster ride of your life.  Thrilling! Exciting! Totally fun! Sometimes makes you vomit! Aaaaaaand okay that's enough let's take a break from this ride, no?  Everybody wants to go upside down again?  Really?  Eh.

I honestly wouldn't have it any other way, in that being out, happy and free is our way, for sure, but most days the work that goes into occupying, teaching, feeding, bathing and constantly corralling three children continues to slay me.  I have learned to let go of luxuries such as commenting on blogs, leaving the house in spit-up-free clothing and keeping up with housework on floors that are not the main level...for now.  So they'll have the same sets of sheets on their beds until they are twelve, nine and six.  At least they're matchy, no? 

Also, I am learning to let them move at their individual paces during the day, which is how this happens...

The boy woke up twenty minutes into dinner, peed head to toe (and managed to pee on two! stairs,) went straight into pajamas, no bath, but happily ate a pound of broccoli.  Lose, win, yes?  His sister also pooped something fierce moments after the soaking scene, hearing that I didn't really care to eat anyway.  Ask me why I haven't dieted in a month, and why peanut butter slathered kaiser rolls are my late-night companion. 

Rounding out the week, Kevin took KJ and Jack to the annual Notre Dame Blue and Gold Game on Saturday (as well as for a drive into Michigan and then an impromptu trip to the beach, where Jack announced that the best part of the whole day was The Pop! that he drank back at the stadium.) 

This?  Gave Marin and I the day to slip away, ourselves -- for baby day with our Indianapolis pals.

Kara and Marin, sixteen and seven months respectively, are a laugh a minute together.  They squealed at each other, happily rolled around on the floor all afternoon and showed sure signs for being future BFF's. 

I also got in good quality snuggle time with my sweet little godson Nathan, who was both confused and nervous about all of the high-pitched squealing, giggling and baby tackling.  Where were the Bionicle Brothers, he wondered.  (Drinking pop, that's where.)

Spit-up covered roller coaster ride indeed.  But crazy fun, no?

Oh I could write a sonnet about your Easter bonnet...

(It may not be published until mid-next month, but hey, I do what I can.) 

One of my favorite Easter things to do with the kids is the egg dye.  KJ was barely a year old when I plopped him in his high chair and taught him to mix colors, and we've been having a great time with it every year since.  The most fun so far, I must say, is taking on this task with toddlers because, well, they're a freaking blast when it comes to semi-permanant dye and mess making. 

This year was good, with the green hands and the multitude of Optimus Prime-inspired eggs, but nothing ridiculously entertaining with ages six and three.  (This is why I keep having babies.  Next year?  Mwahahaha!  Another toddalah!)

 

Which, I fear the toddalah thing is going to happen sooner than I can wrap my brain around, because look at this one just sitting there with her basket and her brothers like she wasn't just fresh out of the womb yesssssssterday.  (She was, I swear.) 

Also, she is fully prepared to eat the damn Gerber cookie, wrapper and all, if I can't put down the camera and remove the cellophane already.

 

Eastaaaaaah.  (Two outta three non-goofballs aint bad, no?)

 

Strawberry Shortcake and baby sandals, oh my!

 

And she was as excited as I was about them!  Squee!

Then it was off to visit family far and wide, where we infected my sister Sant and her girlfriend Leslie with the stomach flu, and also my brother Jake, and then my mom, and then my dad (you know, as a thank you gift for spending the entire day before Easter helping Kevin construct our new swing set), and last but certainly not least we gave the stomach bug to my mother-in-law who is hospitalized with it as we speak. 

I bet they all can't wait to have us over again next year.

Seriously...

 

Aww, baby sink bath at gramma's house.

 

And all ready for Easter.

(Now, did you catch that?)

Those are two different babies, about the same age.  The first is KJ, the second is Marin.

We've been watching home movies over the last several days and every time I really get into one of KJ's baby videos I forget which baby I'm watching because they look so much alike, and even have so many of the same mannerisms. 

I know these pictures aren't identical, but there was no such thing as a digital camera for me during KJ's babyhood and thus the reason there are so few pictures of him available.  Thankfully what the boy lacks in still photography he makes up for in hours upon hours of video documenting his every little baby move, milestone and little baby farts.

I can't help but wonder, over and over again, what I did with all of my TIME back then.  (Recorded videos, is what.)