It's time for the new...

I know I haven't been a very good blogger lately. Between work, three kids, and morning sickness, it's impossible to find the time to use the bathroom in peace, let alone sit down to write.

And I was bored with "Momma Musings..." It wasn't as challenging as it used to be; there was no joy. Added to that, once you are your third child and cooking the fourth, I think you are "musing" less and "b&#$%ing" more.

So I decided to give myself a little break. But it was always on the back of my mind... I should write. I miss writing. I want to write. But I never forced myself to find the time.

Then my husband made dinner last Friday night.

He made his specialty -- spaghetti and meat sauce. The kids helped (or hindered) as they love to do. And we encourage that, since that means they eat dinner -- one less battle to fight.

We sit down to our "noodles and sauce." We say Grace (my husband and I are actually praying for the strength to get through the meal). I feed the baby her truly disgusting, mashed up chicken. My husband pours juice. And then we hear:

"Look at me, Mommy!"

I glance in my daughter's direction. She has pulled A noodle from her mound of spaghetti and is spinning in her fingers, watching is fly in a circle in front of her face. Spaghetti sauce is flying -- my yellow walls, the pantry, the white kitchen cabinets.

And then her brother gives a crack of laughter and shouts "I do it too!" Only he is less coordinated than she is. One noodle is three. And now there is spaghetti sauce on my ceiling fan. And on his naked chest. Because he doesn't wear clothes in the house. Ever. "Knock that off right now!" my husband orders, but doesn't make a move to take their spaghetti away. I turn back to the baby, wondering if I can pretend that only she and I are in the kitchen.

The older two are in fits of giggles, twirling, spraying, and - yes, eating - while my husband tells them to stop repeatedly. Finally I turn around "STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!" I order.


Girlie and Boyo momentarily pause. Is Mommy serious? They seem to be thinking. Are we about to get in trouble?

"We DO NOT play with our food! I am not raising savages!" I continue in my stern, it-is-6pm-and-I-have-been-doing-this-all-day-do-not-test-me-voice.

"Yes, you are," my husband interjects.

I stare at him in disbelief while the children watch us, waiting to see how much trouble they are going to get in. And I can't help it. I start to laugh.

"I thought I was raising children, not savages," I told my husband.

"That should be your new blog title," he told me, finishing his salad.

And thus, while my daughter begins to slurp up her pasta like in Lady in the Tramp and my son uses noodles to give himself hair (and a mustache and beard), a new blog idea was born.

Chaos, your synonym is children

Allow me to introduce you to the chaos that is my house...

My husband and I normally start to lose our minds at dinner time. Sometimes earlier. Sometimes later. But dinner time is typical.

It starts when Boyo refuses to eat. So I bribe him with dessert. Just three bites...

Girlie then chimes in with, "Well, I'm going to have four."

That's great.

The kids finish, I'm speed eating to be ready to jump up and fend off disaster, and my husband, who after 4 years of having kids still hasn't learned how to eat fast, is taking his time. The kids ask to be excused. I say yes.

They begin to run around in circles - through the kitchen, down the hall, through each of their rooms, and through the living room. This lasts for about five peaceful laps.

Then I hear the dreaded, "Lets race!"

As I'm shouting, "No racing!" I hear the crash. And Boyo (for some reason, it's always him) say, "Uh-oh, I broke it Mommy, I broke it, whoopsie."

Girlie starts yelling at him, "I told you not to run! I told you not to race. You crashed into the lamp/table/pantry/wall/picture/couch/me! You are in the penalty box!" Way to throw him under the bus, honey. I'm sure you had nothing to do with it.

I stay quiet, hoping they will either a) figure it out on their own or b) call for their daddy.

Tonight, they figured it out on their own.

Next, my son runs into the kitchen. Only this time, he's naked. I don't know why he's naked, and it's easier if I don't ask. He drapes a dish towel around his shoulders and declares, "I hewo Mommy," before running into the bathroom.

Girlie chases him, screaming, "That's my shawl!"

I know I should speak up but again, it's easier to stay quiet. Keep in mind that during this, my husband is trying to have an adult conversation with me. Good luck with that, honey. We'll catch up in about 10 years.

My son runs by again, dish towel still around his shoulders. Girlie's wailing in the background. I take the time to shove two bites of food in my son's mouth as he goes by.

Boyo runs over to the dog dish and proceeds to dump the dog's food from the dish into the water bowl.

"Stop it," I order him. "Stop it right now! Stop it, Boyo! I mean it, you had better, stop it!" I know I should get up and remove him from disaster, but I figure if I keep saying stop it, he will listen to me in about 7 years.

Eventually my husband gets the hint, gets up and puts the kids in the playroom, locking the gate behind him.

Boyo begins to vigorously shake the gate, screaming, "Open de gate Mommy! Open de gate!" at the top of his lungs. Girlie chimes in, screaming, "Don't yell at Mommy! She's taking a break!"

My right eye starts to twitch.

The kids eventually settle themselves down and begin barking and howling at each other in the other room. I'm beginning to wonder if they have been replaced by a wolf pack -- which I'm willing to bet would be easier to handle -- when I hear my daughter say, "Brother, lets not be monsters anymore."

If only.

Peace reigns for a minute and 46 seconds (I'm timing it), before Girlie yells, "Brother has my scissors."

I get up, remove the scissors, pretend I don't see how they have pulled all of the cushions off of my couch, and lock them back into the playroom.

Five seconds later, I hear Girlie let out an ear splitting scream. I run into the living room to find Boyo in the penalty box (where he has put himself) and Girlie sobbing "Brother bit me!"

I soothe, my husband scolds, and we decide it's time for bath.

Thus, the bathtime battle begins...

First, they fight over whether or not they need to have bubbles. The both agree yes, but the fight is over whether or not they will have Princess bubbles or Toy Story bubbles. I decree there will be no bubbles.

Girlie goes and brushes her teeth, goes potty, and strips before climbing into the tub.

Boyo runs and hides in his room. He picks a pretty good hiding spot this time - behind the box of diapers that he is twice the size of. My husband carries him kicking and screaming back to the bathroom, where he holds Boyo and I pry his mouth open to brush his teeth. Then we dump him in the bath, where he screams, "No, no, no, I no want to!" for the three minutes it takes us to scrub him down. Girlie is, of course, helping by screaming, "You have to have a bath! You are dirty!"

My right eye is now twitching to the beat of the throbbing of my head.

After bath, I chase Boyo down to fight him into his pjs.

Girlie demands her yellow nightgown. Not her pink one. Or her white one. The yellow one. That is in the wash. An epic temper tantrum results. She demands I leave her room and slams the door behind me. My husband opens the door and scolds her for slamming the door and being rude to me. Tears abruptly end when he threatens no dessert.

We tell them they can watch one TV show before bed. Boyo wants Spiderman. Girlie wants Batman. Before another argument can start, my husband decrees that they are watching Star Wars.

I leave the three of them, snuggled on the couch watching The Clone Wars, to blog about it.

I wish I could have a glass of wine.