Let's Play A Game

We are re-doing our yard - exchanging dirt for patio pavers. In order to do this, we have to move a TON of dirt. So yesterday morning, my husband told our kids that we were going to play a game.

"What game?" Girlie asked.

"It's called, Let's Move Dirt," my husband said.

While I smothered my laughter, Boyo piped up with, "How we play, Daddy?"

"Well, there is basically one BIG rule," my husband said, "You have to wear shoes. Other than that, you guys can make up a rule each."

Girlie decided her rule was that she got to use her pink trowel.

Boyo decided his rule was that he didn't have to wear pants.

Wordless Wednesday

I found Girlie picking up her baby sister the other day. I am not sure who was more terrified -- me, Girlie, or Baby Girlie.

This one has my sister written ALL over it....

Because I'm an idiot, I decided to take my kids to the mall yesterday.

The day after Christmas.

Did I mention that I am idiot?

My kids were dolls.

The salesclerks were nice enough.

But it was crowded. And people just STOPPED for no reason.

Right in front of me.

And then they would stand there and not move.

While I had two kids in a double stroller.

So I used it as a battering ram. (And I'm not ashamed of it either.)

Finally, we left. And I was tired. I was tired of pushing a stoller. I was tired of the crowds. I was just tired.

And as we were pulling out of the parking lot, someone cut me off.

I so desperately wanted to scream and curse, kick and punch. But my kids were in the car. And they have picked up enough of my more colorful language to have my friends commenting on it.

So I gritted my teeth, laid on the horn, and shouted, "You IDIOT!"

Girlie piped up from the back seat - "Was that a man or a woman?"

"That," I fumed, "was an idiot."

Girlie sighed and said, "So it was a man."

Twas the Night After Christmas

'Twas the night after Christmas
(Christmas morning that is),
and the children were finally sleeping,
new toys clutched tight in a fist.

Daddy was playing
with his new electronic
while Mommy surveyed the mess;
it made her quite sick.

Buzz Lightyear lay on his side, all but forgotten,
along with the My Little Ponies heaped on the ground.
Ripped wrapping paper littered one room to the next
And ribbons and bows and boxes lay strewn around.

Christmas had come and gone rather fast --
Weeks of shopping and planning forgotten so quickly
And nothing was left to remind Mommy and Daddy
except for the mess and the credit card fee.

When in the kitchen,
there arose such a clatter,
Mommy rushed into the kitchen
to see what was the matter.

When what to her wondering eyes should appear
but an unopened bottle of wine and a new case of beer.
Left there by that wonderful man, so lively and quick,
Mommy knew in a moment it must be St. Nick!

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
soon gave her to know she had nothing to dread.
"Drink this, you'll need it," he told her
pouring her a nice glass of red.

"For the next week will bring the noise
of new toys and the tantrums they bring,
but also the joy of watching your children
have fun with their new things.

And do not worry at all,"
he said with a wink.
"The year will fly by,
and Christmastime will be back in a blink.
With new demands for toys,
and new finance charges to be had.
So drink this right now,
and it won't seem so bad!"

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Merry Christmas from Our House to Yours!

A Letter to My Son on His 17th Birthday

My Darling Boy,

First of all, I hope you know: I am so proud to be your mom. I am certain that I am just as proud to the be the mother of 17 year old Boyo as I am of 3 year old Boyo.

My three year old son is my guy - my sweet, funny, smart, I'm-gonna-make-you-want-to-slam-your-head-into-the-wall-at-least-once-a-day-guy. I hope my 17 year old son is the same way.

Right now, you are frustrating and fun. Every day brings at least one temper tantrum. And one "I no want you!" And one fight with your sister. But every day also brings at least one sweet hug, where you run up to me, give me a hug, smile up at me with your angel smile, and then run away. The entire process takes two seconds. But my heart melts into Momma goo every time. And every day brings at least one "I lob you." And at least one kiss on my hand. And at least one "Come snuggle wid me, Mom." And every day brings a lot of giggles.

You marvel me. I want you to know that - you are a marvel. Watching you learn about the world, watching your sense of wonder - you are so inspiring and amazing. You can't sit still for a five minute story, but you will lie on the ground to watch a trail of ants for an hour if I let you. You answer every question with "I don know!" followed by the incessent: "Why?"

I marvel at your curiousity, at your imagination, at your sense of wonder. You make me do things I forgot I knew how to do. You make me see. You make me see the butterflies dancing in the air, the lizard in the bush, and the white clouds overhead. You make me stop rushing through life and enjoy it. You make me wonder and question and love more deeply than I ever thought possible. Thank you for that.

You are 17 now - life is coming at you hard. So be kind to your sisters. They will be with you a lot longer than I will. Protect them. Your father and I are going to make damn sure all of you can take care of yourselves, but there is something to be said for having a sibling who will fight your battles for you when you are tired. Fight their battles on occassion, and they will return the favor. Let them.

What else can I tell 17 year old you? Go out with your friends. Be stupid. Be 17. And know when to walk away. If you are drinking, call me. Don't drive; I'll come get you. And I'll try not to judge (i.e., yell) until you're sober. If you get arrested, call your father.

Work hard in everything you do. Question. Learn. Get involved in something. If you play sports, play hard. And know that it's okay if you are not the best. And if you are the best, don't be an ass to those who aren't. Help them be better - it will make you better. And, this is important, if you don't play sports, know that you are not less of a man for it. Pay attention to what is going on around you. The world is bigger than you.

Who you are now is not who you were when you were three and it is not who you are going to be in another 14 years. Believe in yourself - remember that you are the driving force behind the person you will become. The choices you make with your life matter - now is the time to start thinking about what is important to you. I'm not saying you have to figure out your life at 17 (please God, no) but you should start thinking about what you want out of life. And know that if you don't like who you are becoming, you can change your direction. Change is inevitable. Be brave enough to change.

Life is scary, and at times it is alternately going to make you gloriously happy, furiously angry, and depressingly sad. And that is okay. It's okay to be happy. It's okay to be mad. It's okay to be sad. And it's okay to be scared. Just don't let being scared, or mad, or sad stop you from being happy.

Happy Birthday, my son. I hope you know you can talk to me about anything.

I love you,

Mom

Are You Santa?

I can't take credit for this -- I found it on my friend's FB wall, and it moved me. I need to remember this for when I get the same question in a few short years.

"A 3rd grader left her mother a note that said:“Are you Santa? Tell me the truth.”

This was her mother’s reply....

Dear Lucy,

Thank you for your letter. You asked a very good question: “Are you Santa?” I know you’ve wanted the answer to this question for a long time, and I’ve had to give it careful thought to know just what to say.

The answer is no. I am not Santa. There is no one Santa.

I am the person who fills your stockings with presents, though. I also choose and wrap the presents under the tree, the same way my mom did for me, and the same way her mom did for her. (And yes, Daddy helps, too.)

I imagine you will someday do this for your children, and I know you will love seeing them run down the stairs on Christmas morning. You will love seeing them sit under the tree, their small faces lit with Christmas lights.

This won’t make you Santa, though. Santa is bigger than any person, and his work has gone on longer than any of us have lived. What he does is simple, but it is powerful. He teaches children how to have belief in something they can’t see or touch. It’s a big job, and it’s an important one.

Throughout your life, you will need this capacity to believe: in yourself, in your friends, in your talents and in your family. You’ll also need to believe in things you can’t measure or even hold in your hand.

Here, I am talking about love, that great power that will light your life from the inside out, even during its darkest, coldest moments. Santa is a teacher, and I have been his student, and now you know the secret of how he gets down all those chimneys on Christmas Eve: he has help from all the people whose hearts he’s filled with joy.

With full hearts, people like Daddy and me take our turns helping Santa do a job that would otherwise be impossible. So, no. I am not Santa. Santa is love and magic and hope and happiness. I’m on his team, and now you are, too.

I love you and I always will. Mama

--Martha Brockenbrough"

Happy Birthday Boyo!!

Happy Birthday to my sweet and snuggly,

funny and frustrating,

active and awesome,

too-smart-for-your-own-good,

only-happy-when-you-are-messy little man!

I love you, Bug!

Overheard At My House

~
Girlie: Wailing from the living room "Brother drank my juice!"

Boyo: "Sister's not sharing!"

~

Girlie: "You aren't being silly. You are just joking."

~

Boyo: At the top of his lungs: "BE QUIET. WE AWE IN CHUWCH!"

~

Girlie: "The baby is talking to me!"

Me: "Awwwwww, that's so sweet. What is she saying?"

Girlie: "That you should buy me a new Belle doll."

~

Boyo (peering into the fireplace): "Santa going to get diwty. We need to open da gate."

~

Me: "What do you guys want to do today?"
Girlie: "Lots of stuff."
Me: "Like what?"
Girlie: "You know... paint our nails... play hide and seek... eat lunch... watch a show... Girl stuff."
Me: "If we do Girl stuff, what is your brother going to do?"
Girlie: "We'll put him outside."

~
Boyo: (glaring at me after being put in penalty box for being mean to his sister): "Santa no bwing you pwesents! You BERY NAUGHTY!"

Not Again

It's no secret that my son has had a difficult medical history for his three young years. I've mentioned it here.

But he's been off of his medication for 18 months.

Last year, we made it through cold and flu season with only a runny nose and a fever.

So I didn't think much of it when he developed a cough last week.

When his older sister developed a cough I figured that they might be sharing a cold.

But when the baby developed a cough, I rushed all three kids to the doctor.

Why? Why rush three kids to the doctor when I knew they had colds and I knew that the doctor was going to send us home with a "wait-it-out-call-us-if-it-gets-worse" advice?

Mostly because I remember what happened to Boyo and I did not want to take any chances that the baby would get RSV, pneumonia, and be in the hospital.

Although there was a small part of me that hoped that the doctor would take sympathy on me and the fact that I had three sick kids and would prescribe me a nanny. Or tell my husband he had to stay home from work and help. No such luck.

I'm so thankful we went to the doctor though, because I was wrong.

Baby Girlie will be fine, as long as I keep breast feeding her.

Girlie was getting better.

Boyo?

RSV, bronchitis, and possible pneumonia. The doctor couldn't make up her mind. A chest xray would have given us a better idea, but I wasn't putting Boyo through that, not when the treatment for one was antibiotics and the treatment for the other was breathing treatments. I convinced the doctor to write a prescription for both. (Convincing the insurance company, however, took some doing...)

So for the past week, I've been home with two and a half sick kids.

I never realized how small my house was until I couldn't take the kids to the park or school.

Smart and Strong and Power

I've mentioned before - a few times - how I want to raise Girlie to be stong and independent and to think of herself as more than a pretty face or a princess.

And I believe I've mentioned that I am struggling with how to do so.

So I was quite pleased when Girlie told me the other day that she is "smart and strong."

"That's right!" I told her, mentally patting myself on my back.

"And I have power and I have to use it to fight the bad guys. And mean dogs," she continued.

"You are absolutely correct," I told her. "You are smart. And you are strong. And you do have power. But I don't want you to fight bad guys or mean dogs. I want you to tell Mommy or Daddy or the police."

"Okay," she told me with a scary gleam in her eye. "I will use my power to fight the bad guys. And then I'll kill them! And then I'll tell Daddy and the police."

Scrambling, since I was unaware that "kill them" was in her vocabulary, I debated telling her that if she killed anyone, I didn't want to know. However, I decided to be a responsible parent instead, and I inquired as to what "kill them," means.

"It means to hurt them so they can't hurt you. And you have to use your power and your smarts and your strengths."

"Right," I said slowly. "But how do you hurt them?"

"You fight them with a light saber."

No more Star Wars.

Art Classes

I had recently signed Girlie up for art classes.

She was very excited, since she loves to draw and color. And she was very proud of her new art kit.

She practically bounced into her first class. And she was thrilled when she found out that they would be drawing a horse, since her new invisible friend is Fluttershy, a My Little Pony.

"Oh, no," the instructor told her, when she realized what Girlie was doing. "We aren't doing this freehand. We are going to copy this horse, which was painted by an artist named Degas."

Girlie looked at her paper and then looked at the photo she was supposed to copy. And the she looked her art teacher right in the eye and said, "I don't want to."

The art teacher blinked and then looked at me. I shrugged. I was not the go to person at this point.

"Why not?" The art teacher asked.

"Because that horsie doesn't have wings or pink hair," Girlie explained in a tone that clearly conveyed she thought the art teacher was an idiot.

"But... but... that's the picture we are copying," the art teacher said, at a loss.

"Well, that's dumb," Girlie said.

At that point, I stepped in. Even though I agreed with her - that is dumb. If she wants to draw a horse her way, why not let her? I want her to learn techniques in a creative environment, not in a factory setting. But I can't have my daughter telling a teacher that the activity is dumb - it's rude and, as a teacher, I can't let her think that is appropriate.

"Girlie, that's rude," I said firmly. Girlie meekly apologized. "Sometimes we have to do things we don't want to do," I continued. "This is the activity the teacher planned, and this is what you are going to do."

"Can I draw Fluttershy when I get home?" Girlie asked me.

"Of course," I said. "You just have to draw the horse the teacher picked out for class today."

So Girlie dutifully copied the horse Degas drew. And then we went home and she drew Fluttershy. Personally, I like Fluttershy better.

A Time to Give Thanks

My dad's philosophy towards Thanksgiving is that everyone comes home.

He doesn't care too much if he sees us at Christmas and he doesn't really give a damn about Easter dinner.

Thanksgiving is THE holiday. You. Do. Not. Miss. It.

It doesn't matter that one of my sisters lives in Florida. It doesn't matter that I - and two of my other sisters - live in Southern CA.

And it certainly doesn't matter that I have three kids under the age of five -- one of whom is an infant and needs to nurse every two hours.

I had to load them up, along with my husband, four bags, a container of food, 20 DVDs, a portable potty, coats, two bags of toys, and a diaper bag, to make the 6 hour trip to San Francisco.

Except that it wasn't six hours. It was ten.

And the last two hours, BabyGirlie decided we needed to hear her dulcet tones -- at the top of her lungs.

And Girlie decided that the trip would go much faster if she whined: "I wanna go ho-ome" for three hours.

And Boyo decided that clicking his tongue was an excellent way to pass four hours of the trip.

And I got a crink in my neck as we were loading the car and I couldn't drive. At all.

Yup, my husband and I bitched and moaned the entire way up the 5: This is a nightmare. My father is unreasonable. This is insane. What the hell were we thinking? Why didn't we put our foot down?

We finally rolled into town. And once they realized we were close, my kids were vibrating with excitement. We are going to see Gam-Gam and Poppa! they kept shouting.

Once my husband could stop driving, he could relax and enjoy himself.

And once we unloaded and I got my hands on a heating pad and a glass of champagne, and I could relax and enjoy myself.

And as I wandered around my parents' house and talked to family members that I hadn't seen a year or more, I realized that the drive from hell was worth it because time with family is fleeting. And when I am gone, I want my kids to have good memories.

My husband and I make the drive so that my kids can have this:

Top Five Rules At My House

~
After reading this post, I couldn't stop laughing.

And, of course, I had to see what my daughter thinks is the number 1 rule at our house.

So, according to Girlie:

"Rule #1: Brother cannot hit me.

Rule #2: Brother cannot punch me.

Rule #3: Brother cannot push me.

Rule #4: Brother has to go to the penalty box all the time.

Rule #5: I can kick Brother."

Soccer Girlie, Take II

Well, soccer season is over.

Officially, that is.

Girlie stopped playing in games six weeks ago - that was when she told me she didn't want to play anymore.

I told her it was nonnegtiable - we don't quit. And that if she didn't want to play, she could sit on the sidelines and cheer for her team.

I thought my threat would encourage her to play. It didn't. For the last six games, she has sat on the sidelines, cheering, eating her snacks, but refusing to play.

The last game was Saturday; the End of the Year Team Dinner last week. I knew there were going to be trophies; what I didn't know was that the coach was going to say something about each kid's excellent playing ability.

I was a little queasy as he got closer to calling Girlie's name. After all, what on earth could he say? But if he didn't say anything, I knew she would be hurt and wouldn't understand.

"Our next player showed up every week," he began with a huge grin, "And told me all about princesses and fairies and her friend, My Little Pony. She always smiled and cheered for her teammates and gave everyone high fives. She really knows what true team spirit is; she was an important part of our team - the team cheerleader!"

I let out a sigh as Girlie bounced up to get her trophy and her candy. She was so proud of herself and delighted to have a trophy! [She also showed her coach her stuffed kitty cat, Buttercup, that she had insisted on bringing.]

His speech made me realize that I was so busy griping about the fact that she wouldn't play that I missed what she was doing - she was taking participating, just in her own way.

And hey, maybe in the future, soccer teams will have cheerleaders.

Way to go, Girlie. Way to go.

Wordless Wednesday

Remember when I mentioned wanting to wait until Thanksgiving was over to celebrate Christmas?

Well....

~~~

I'm mildly ashamed of myself.

Only 40 more days until Christmas...

I saw this on FB and it made me laugh.

I've always been adamant about NOT celebrating Christmas until after Thanksgiving. Don't get me wrong, the Friday after Thanksgiving (after I hit the Black Friday sales), the tree goes up.

Besides, there is so much going on between now and Christmas... my birthday, Thanksgiving, Boyo's birthday, finals... thinking about getting ready to celebrate Christmas stresses me out.

Added to that, I haven't started my Christmas shopping yet. Normally I'm done by August (yes, I'm one of those), but this year there wasn't room in the budget to start shopping until the payday after Thanksgiving.

But then, as I was walking around the neighborhood with my kids the other night, I noticed that two houses were all ready decorated for Christmas.

My first thought was that the president of my HOA is going to be pissed.

My second thought was Come ON! It's much too early for this.

And then I saw my kids' faces.

They literally looked like Christmas had come early (since it had). Their angel faces were alight with joy and wonder and excitement.

"Look at that," Girlie whispered. "Do you see the magic lights, Brother?"

"Uh-HUH!" Boyo said, shaking his head vigorously. "It's CHISSMAS!"

Hell.

I guess I'm going to start celebrating early this year. And if you had seen the look on my kids' faces, you would too.

But I refuse to decorate until after Thanksgiving.

Embrace the Chaos

~

A friend asked me what it was like to go from two kids to three.

This is my new mantra:

EMBRACE THE CHAOS

Life with three kids is exhausting.

And exhilirating.

And hilarious.

And frustrating.

And I wouldn't change it for the world.

So, I have learned to EMBRACE THE CHAOS

I let the little things go.

I make the big things a BIG deal.

Every day, though, I just want to accomplish one thing.

The dishes, the laundry, the dusting... just one.

But.

Every day, I remind myself they won't be this little forever.

And I don't want to be mad at myself for not snuggling with them on the couch when they wanted me to.

For not playing Barbies and cars, tea parties and light sabers.

For not reading Thomas and the Jet Engine and Ladybug Girl 20 thousand times. In a row.

For not teaching them how to kick a soccer ball and climb the monkey bars.

For not taking them for a walk and teaching them how to respect nature.

For not baking cookies and painting masterpieces with them.

Because in ten years, they won't want to hang out with me.

So as I look around my shoebox of a house, my eyes take in the dusty table tops, the cluttered floors, the dishes in the sink, the laundry piled in the hampers...

...And then I see three kids grinning up at me with angel smiles...

...And I hear the baby's giggles and Boyo and Girlie's delighted laughter...

And then I hear the wonderful demand:

"Come play with us Momma!"

So I play. And I ignore the mess.

I Just Don't Get It

~
I've mentioned in the past how life has changed with three kids.

Lately, it's the little things I have to shrug off.

Toothpaste I just bought on BabyGirlie's play center? Okay.

Boyo blinging out BabyGirlie during her nap? She didn't cry, so I don't care.

Girlie rearranging the art on her bedroom wall during quiet time? Whatever.

A Thomas train in my refridgerator? Sure.

A Hot Wheel in Boyo's shoes? Why not?

Barbie shoes lined in my closet by my shoes? Hey, not quite what I meant when I told Girlie to put the doll clothes away, but I'll roll with it.

A sock filled with crayons in the laundry?

I just don't get it.

What don't I get? It's not that Girlie is keeping her crayons in her socks, it's that she then put the sock in her hamper.

At least I found them before I put the sock in the dryer.

Fairies Taste Good

~

I've mentioned how Girlie has an invisible fairy friend.

What I haven't mentioned is that Boyo's ability for imaginative play is growing by leaps and bounds.

Last week, while Girlie and Pinna where having a very serious talk (as she put it), Boyo ran over, grabbed the air in front of Girlie and pretended to gobble it down.

"I eat da faiwie!" he shouted, grinning ear to ear. He looked like the cat who ate the fairy - er, canary.

Girlie burst into tears. She was inconsolable.

It took all of my will power not to laugh.

Wordless Wednesday

The fact that I was laughing at her probably didn't help.

Happy Halloween!!

Nightmare (the Mom definition)

Nightmare (noun):

Taking a 4 year old, a 2 year old, and a 3 month old for vaccinations at the same time (by yourself), while the four year old tells everyone she sees how brave she is (whether they want to hear it or not), the three year old starts screaming the minute he sees the doctor's office that "I no want to be bwave!" (and continues screaming it until you leave), and the 3 month old is screaming her head off because she is hungry (but you are holding off to nurse until after she gets her shots). Oh, and you are getting a flu shot too.

Wordless Wednesday

New Rules at Our House

1. You don't get to play light sabers if your opponent doesn't have a light saber too.

2. Just because you can turn on the TV doesn't mean you should.

3. Throwing pumpkins is not allowed.

4. The dog is not for riding.

5. Counters are not for climbing.

6. Baths are required after making a mud puddle.

7. You are not to use your water glass to make a mud puddle.

8. You cannot cut your own hair.

9. No one is allowed to use scissors, ever again.

10. Throwing your brother's toy over the safety gate so he cannot play with it because you want it results in being placed in the penalty box. No warnings will be given.

Just Like Momma

~
I despise veggies.

And I know I made my parents' lives hell when I was growing up with them trying to get me to eat them.

I would hide peas under my plate and when my mom would clear the table, peas would roll every which way (in my defense, I was three).

I would chew them up and spit them in my water glass, hoping that my parents wouldn't notice. (I was four, okay?!)

I would stuff veggies in my mouth and then ask to go to the bathroom so that I could spit them into the trash can.

When I saw my mom adding pureed veggies to spaghetti sauce when I was six I refused to eat spaghetti sauce for the next five years.

But now I have kids.

So I have to eat my veggies. Drinking V8 just doesn't cut it anymore.

And my daughter is just. like. me.

The other night at dinner, her father and I were begging her to eat her veggies: "Look, honey, they are sooooo good!"

She wasn't buying it.

We threatened her: "You won't get to have dessert."

She decided she could live without jello.

We tried reasoning with her: "If you don't eat them, the dog is going to get them and Katdog is so fat all ready. How would you feel if she ate your food?"

Girlie decided that would make her happy.

Finally I had enough. "You are going to eat one bite of peas, and that is final," I declared.

Girlie glared at me, bit off an 1/8 of a pea, sucked on it, and then spit it into her water glass.

And from 400 miles away, I could hear my mother laughing.

Wordless Wednesday: First Day of Preschool

When Did I Become A Grown Up?

~
I love my kids. I think that is pretty obvious.

Still, though, there has always been a thought in the back of my mind -- I had better do this right or the grown ups are going to come and take them.

I know that they are mine and that I am their Momma. I'm not stupid.

I just also still feel like a teenager most days. A mature teenager, sure. Like a 19 year old. But still a teenager. But I rarely feel like a grown up.

I have had plenty of "mom moments" - you know, those moments where is is blindingly clear - Oh, sh#$, I'm a MOM.

I finally had my Oh, sh@#, I'm a grown up! moment.

It wasn't when I was paying my astronomically high mortgage on my shoebox of a house.

It wasn't when I was balancing the check book and trying to get blood out of a turnip.

It wasn't when I was sneaking veggies into my daughter's dinner.

It wasn't when I made appointments to get my kids vaccinated.

It was yesterday, when I got out of the shower. I was wrapped in a Spiderman towel with a princess towel in my hair, since my towels were in the wash (See what I mean? Wouldn't a grown up have clean, adult towels?).

My older two burst into the bathroom, demanding that I referee the fight they were currently having. I think it was over what park they wanted to go to.

I told them, "Hey, guys, come on, Mommy doesn't want to deal with this right now."

And my four year old daughter glared at me and said, "You have too, Mommy, you are the grown up!!"

When did that happen?!?!?

I Know I Need A Nap

~
I was only the phone with my sister the other day when my son began smacking the dog with a stick.

"Boyo, put that stick down! We do not hit the dog!" I ordered him. Boyo ran off to put the stick down (I thought) and I continued my conversation with my sister.

Five minutes later, Girlie came up to me sobbing.

"Boyo hit me with a stick!" she wailed.

"The same stick I just told him to put down?" I asked.

"Yes," she sobbed.

"Did you hit him back?" I asked.

"No," she cried.

"You should go do that," I told her. Not my finest moment, I know. Plus, my four year old doesn't get sarcasm.

"I don't want to," she cried.

"What do you want me to do?" I teased her. "Do you want me to go hit him back for you?"

"Yes!" Girlie wailed.

Calm down. I didn't. I didn't even consider it.

And then Boyo piped up with: "It assident Momma!"

My sister about peed her pants listening to this on the phone.

Wordless Wednesday

I think Girlie is picking up on the fact that I'm a little stressed. She told me that I needed to go to the beach with her, so we can have ice cream cones and see the star fish. And then she drew it out for me. One question - where are our arms?

Three Kids

Since I had the baby, I've gotten all sorts of looks from people. Looks that say, "Please don't let her get in line behind me," to "Well, that is a walking ad for birth control." Looks that are disgruntled, looks that are sympathetic, and looks that are comedic.


And, invariably, I get the question: "How do you do it?"


Just to be a smart ass, I always reply with a smile, "Do what?"


"Have three kids!"


The way people ask makes it sound like I'm an endangered species. Or an alien. Or an endangered alien species.


Here's the thing - and it's not a secret, so feel free to share.


I just do.


Every day, I just do. I get up before they do. I shower, check my work emails, get breakfast ready, and get them up. I get them to school if it's a school day or a fun activity if it's not. I get them home and settled with a movie for quiet time. I get them back out to play in the afternoon. I cook dinner, do the dishes, work, and sometimes clean my house.


I dress them, feed them, love them, cuddle them, and yes, sometimes I yell at them. I kiss "blood owies," referee fights, read stories, and spin around the living room with them. I tickle and tease, brush Barbie's hair, fight light saber battles, and clap Baby Girl's hands.


I do let some things go - some things that I know moms with one or two kids wouldn't. Things that I can't always do since I divide my time among three. And it's taken me a while, but I'm working on being okay with that. Am I tired? Of course. But I'm no more tired with three than I was with one or two.


However, I'm also more careful with my three than I was when I had just Girlie or just Girlie and Boyo. Each child gets me and Daddy all to themselves at least twice a month - date nights with each child go on the calendar and are written in stone - they can't be broken. They get naptime snuggles with Mom, and bedtime snuggles with Daddy. They get siblings to play with during the day. Taking turns has been drilled into their head - so has the idea that Mommy and Daddy will make things as fair as possible.


I don't know how it all works out - it just does. I don't think about how because I don't have time.

Invisible Friends

~

My daughter has a fairy.

Girlie told me so. When I asked what her fairy looked like, she drew me this picture:

According to Girlie, her fairy's name is Pinna, and you spell that Alcshpr.


Girlie demonstrated how big her fairy is by holding her fingers about half an inch a part. "It is a large fairy, like me Momma," she told me. "She has kinda blonde hair and she flew to me last night when I was a little baby and drove her fairy car. Brother's fairy has blonde hair. Brother and Baby's sister's fairies are this big [holding her finger and thumb together], but mine is big like me.


"Pinna is going to bring me a Tinkerbell bike to my Strawberry birthday in June," Girlie continued, quite pleased with herself as I swallowed my laughter.


"That's so awesome," I told Girlie. "But where are her wings?"


"Oh," Girlie said, thinking for a minute. "She took them off and is pretending to be a mermaid. See that? Those are seashells to hide her boobs."

I love her more every day - she's hilarious.

Wordless Wednesday: All I wanted was one stupid picture....

Raising a boy takes some getting used to... Part III (Sigh)

I know that I have blogged about my son's desire to climb on everything. I suppose that it's a miracle we haven't had to make an ER trip before last Thursday.

Boyo was determined to get in the bath by himself, which means he went running into the bathroom, slipped, and cracked his head on the side of the tub.

My husband, who was on bath duty, immediately began to swear, followed by a "He's BLEEDING!"

I took one look, threw a towel around him, and we headed to the ER.

We waited for 1 hour before they would see him. I guess a toddler dripping blood and screaming didn't phase them the way it freaked me out.

The nurse took one look at it and went, "Yup, we're going to have to stitch that up. Does he wear bandaids?"

I couldn't answer because I was too busy laughing at the thought of my son wearing a bandaid. Yeah, right.

So they put the numbing stuff on him, wrapped his head in gauze, and then sent us back out to the waiting room to wait for another hour.

At this point, Boyo was feeling better. He likes having Momma and Daddy to himself, after all. How does he show us that he's happy? He begins shrieking with laughter and racing around the ER waiting room. Oh, Lord. The people who were really suffering were glaring at me. I don't know what they expected me to do.

Finally, finally, finally, they take us back to stitch him up. The doc decides that since it's a straight cut, and he's an active little boy, that they would be better gluing it shut.

And thus the true nightmare began.

First they put my son's arms in a pillowcase. Then they wrapped a sheet around him from neck to knees. The poor kid looked like a mummy. Then my husband had to lie on top of him and two (yes, two) nurses had to hold his head still while I stood over him, stroked his cheek, whispered nonsense, and tried not to cry.

Boyo, during all of this, fought with the strength of an entire football team, screaming and sobbing, "I no want to!" at the top of his lungs.

The entire process took about ten thousand hours (or 10 minutes, but really, who is counting?), before they let my son up. He glared at us, shouted, "Leab me ALONE!" and fell asleep in his Daddy's arms.



He was still crying in his sleep three hours later.

And what did my son learn from this? Not a damn thing.

The next morning, he tried to use the step stool as a jungle gym. And that afternoon, I caught him trying to climb up the kitchen counters.



So I guess I should be lucky that we were able to go 2 years and 9 months before we had to make our first blood related ER trip with him.

We Still Have Some Work To Do

~
I've been trying to teach Boyo and Girlie to work out their differences without involving me. Why?

I'm busy with the baby and work. And I'm tired. And, most importantly, if I have to referee one more whiny, "S/He hi-iiit me!" I'm going to lose my ever-lovin' mind.

If you aren't bleeding, and there is not a body part I have to tape back on, I don't want to hear about it.

So I have convinced myself that this doesn't make me a sh#$%y mother; rather, I am teaching my children conflict resolution skills.

And yesterday, I was sitting outside in the rocker feeding the baby while the older two painted. Boyo, of course, smacked Girlie because he could.

"Hey," Girlie snapped. "Don't hit me. You have to apology!" And no, that is not a typo. She said apology. Not apologize. Apology. Instead of laughing, though, I was patting myself on the back for giving them the verbal cues to use.

Boyo, however, was having none of that. After all, his big sister is smaller than he is. Why should he listen to her? Besides, the ants crawling up the side of the picnic table were much more interesting. "What them doing Mom-mee?" he asked me.

Wisely, I chose to stay out of it.

"Brother," Girlie all but growled. "You. Hit. Me. That's not nice! Now say your apology."

Boyo looked at Girlie and then looked at me. I hid my self satisfied smile and tried to look stern.

"Sorry," he sang out to his sister.

"Wow, guys, that's really goo--" I began to praise before Girlie interrupted me.

"Now say it like you mean it," she yelled at her brother.

"No!" he yelled back.

"Fine!" Girlie yelled.

And smacked him in the arm.

Sigh..........

Wordless Wednesday: Soccer Time!

Hit Play.

~
I'm tempted to record myself yelling "Boyo, NO!" That way, instead of having to say it a million times a day, I could just hit play.

When my son takes the scooter up the jungle gym to ride it down the slide? Hit play.

When he decides his baby sister's swing isn't going fast enough and he needs to rock it? Hit play.

When he crawls up on the windowsill and shouts "Watch me jump Momma!"? Hit play.

When he strips himself naked and runs out the front door? Hit play.

When he tries to put his sister's toothbrush in the toilet? Hit play.

When he fills a bucket full of water, places it on the picnic table, and tries to climb in it? Hit play.

When he wants to ride his bike in the house? Hit play.

When he wants to ride the dog? Hit play.

As it is, I have lost my voice.

Wordless Wednesday: BABIES!

My Little Mommy - or my Bossy Little Girl.

I took the kids to a bounce house last week, as it was hot as the blazes and I was not sitting at a park.

There was another little boy there -- too old not to be in school, so I don't know what he was doing at a bounce house on a school day.

And this little boy was being a snot to my son.

I watched and waited. I wanted to see how Boyo would handle it. I was prepared to intervene if Boyo started to hit or bite, but I know I can't fight all of Boyo's battles for him. A controlled environment seemed like a good place to let him learn how to deal with difficulty.

I watched as this little boy bossed my son around, took his toys, and ordered Boyo not to play with the air hockey table. I was getting more and more irritated but I managed to keep my mouth shut, although I was glaring daggers at the mom who wasn't doing anything.

Boyo wasn't doing anything when the other kid was being a brat; he would just shrug and move on. The other boy would follow him and continue to boss him around or take his toys. Finally, I had enough; I had to say something.

"HEY!" I snapped at the kid. "There is no reason to be rude. He's not bothering you."

At this point the mom looked up. "Oh, is my son being difficult?" She asked innocently. "I'm sure your boy did nothing wrong; it was probably mine. He's a rude little boy."

I was stunned. I'm not one to judge another mother, but I couldn't help to judge this one. I truly didn't know how to respond.

Luckily, Girlie did. "If he's being rude, you should tell him not to be," she instructed the other mom.

The mom blinked at my daughter and looked at me for what I can only assume was guidance.

I shrugged and replied: "She's right."

Don't. Touch. My. Baby.

~
Not that it's a great loss, but I think I've been banned from Walmart.

Why?

I may have lost my temper at a sales clerk who tried to stick a binky in my 8 week old's mouth.

See, I was chasing Boyo away from the twirling bags of death that Walmart uses to bag your purchases. And when I turn back around the sales clerk is leaning over the shopping cart, with her hand over my daughter's mouth.

"Oh," I said startled. "Please don't touch her; I can take care of it."

"Well, you had your hands full," she said.

Look, lady, I don't give a damn if my boy is swinging from the ceiling fan. If I don't know you, my hands are not "full enough" for you to put your hands (which handle money, bags, cleaning products, merchandise and God knows what else) near my daughter's mouth. Or on her binky. That she sucks on.

EWWWWWWWWWW!

"It's fine," I said with a tight smile. "I don't like strangers touching her."

"I was just trying to help," she said defensively.

Seriously? She needed to apologize and move on. What was she waiting for - a thank you? It wasn't happening.

"I understand," I told her. "But I don't like strangers touching my daughter's face or hands."

I don't know why I was explaining myself. I really don't. I should have grabbed my kids, left what I wanted to purchase, and gone to Target.

"There's no reason to get upset," the clerk informed me, her hands on her hips. I'm not making that up. She put her hands on her hips.

"Actually, there's every reason for me to be upset," I snapped.

The manager, who was ringing me up, was looking back and forth at us like she was watching a tennis game. And while I wasn't yelling, I had my full on, don't-f@#%-with-me-or you-will-rue-the-day-(that's-right,-I-said-RUE-THE-DAY!)-teacher voice going on. Even Boyo was behaving himself. He knows what that voice means.

The clerk, however, was dumber than a two year old because she kept pressing the issue.

"Well, you don't need to yell at me," she sniffed.

"I'm not yelling," I said tightly. "But I am about to."

At that point, the manager finally decided to step in. And she sided with the clerk. After she handed me back my credit card, she told me, "Perhaps you should go home until you calm down."

Don't worry, Lady. I don't plan on calming down enough to set foot in your store again.

Wordless Wednesday: My Sweet Nephew

Loving Your Babies

A few of my friends are pregnant. And The Inevitable Question has come up: "Do you want a girl or boy?" Some of my friends are adamant about one or the other. Others don't care. But The Inevitable Question has raised some interesting conversations - among them, how can you love your children the same?

You can't.

I love all three of my children equally, but I do not love them the same.

I can't.

They are different people and have different needs, different personalities, different mannerisms.

I love Baby Girl with the wonder of newness - since she is only 7 weeks old, everything about her is wonderful and new, everything is to be marveled at.

I love Boyo with a fierce intensity - the same intensity that he greets his life every day. He is constantly going, running, talking, thinking, loving. He sets a fast pace every day, and my love for him races to keep up.

But Girlie... I love her with a zealous passion that I think you can only feel for your first born.

Not that I love her more than her brother and sister, but there is a deeper bond that I don't have with my other two. Why?

She was my first.

She was the first child I carried under my heart and in my arms. She carved out the groove in my arms that the other two nestled in. She was the first baby to rest her head against my heart, in the exact same spot that her brother and sister would later easily find.

She was the first one to keep my up all night, the first one to smile at me with a look of total adoration, the first one that I worried for, the first one that I paced over, the first one that I bathed and fed, the first one that I dressed and snuggled. (It's not all hearts and flowers, though. She was also the first one to make me want to slam my head into a wall or scream at the top of my lungs.)

Girlie completed a part of me that I didn't know was empty - she made me a better person, a better woman.

My daughter made me a mom.

Moms Need To Stand Together

~
I was feeding Baby Girl at the park this weekend when a little boy (about 5, I would guess) walked by with his mom.

"What's she doing under that blanket, Mom?" he asked.

"She's feeding her baby. Let's give her privacy, okay?"

"Why is she feeding her baby like that?"

"Because she's a good mommy," the mom replied. I smiled at her, grateful that she wasn't going to give me crap for breastfeeding in public.

"Did you feed me like that?" the little boy asked.

"No, honey, I gave you a bottle," the mom said. There was a little bit of sadness as she said it, and she looked away, as if she was afraid I would judge her.

"Why didn't you feed me like that?" the little boy asked, pointing to me. (God, kids are tenacious, aren't they?)

"Well," the mom began, but she was clearly at a loss for what to say. After all, she had just said that I was a good mommy for breastfeeding. The implication, that was not lost on her son, was that she was not.

"Hey, Buddy," I called over to the boy. I didn't care that they would know I was eavesdropping. "Your mommy feed you with a bottle because she is a good mommy too."

"Okay," the boy said and his mom and I shared a smile, both relieved to have our "good mommy-hoods" reaffirmed.

I was just glad I could return the favor to her.

Raising A Boy Takes Some Getting Used To... Part II

~

I never would have guessed that I would have to utter the phrase:

"We do NOT stab your sister! Put the knife down!"

It was a toddler butter knife, but still... It was principle of the thing.

Sometimes I feel like a hostage negotiator.

Wordless Wednesday

Soccer Girlie

Four year old soccer is the funniest thing I've ever seen. I don't think I've laughed this hard since the last time I was at a comedy club.

From my daughter's awesome pink shin guards and pink heart soccer cleats...




... to refusing to be a Cheetah like the rest of her team (she's a "cheetah butterfly") ...



... to worrying about her hair as she is scoring goals...

... to arguing with her coach about whether or not she can use her hands (she can throw it further than she can kick it, she says, because her hands are stronger than her feet)


... to scoring a goal and declaring herself done (and then sitting on the ball so no one else can play)...


to refusing to shoot a goal when she had an open shot and the coach was yelling, "Shoot! Shoot! It's your ball!" because: "That's not my ball! My ball has my name on it!"



... I just can't get enough!