I Spent $100 So My Kid Would Believe in Santa Claus

This past week, I have spent an inordinate amount of time in lines, and have been pleasantly surprised by my fellow humans' chipper attitude this Christmas season.  People have looked at me and said, "Oh honey, you only have one thing.  You go before me!"  What trickery is this?  I thought.  No trickery!  People were just being merry and bright.

At one store, I went through the relatively short line to discover I had forgotten to purchase batteries.  So I bravely went back in, fetched the AAs, and got back into the same line.  As I was checking out, the cashier asked me,

"Would you like to donate to Foodlink today?"

"Oh, I was just in line.  Remember?  I already donated."

She stared at me blankly.

"So, no then?" she said.  I sighed.

"Yes.  Yes.  I'll donate."

This is why we're ridiculously over Christmas budget this year.  That, and the Hot Wheels Car Maker.

The Hot Wheels Car Maker is the bane of my existence.  It is a machine that allows a child to create his or her own hot wheels vehicles.  It looks like this:


The Hot Wheels Car Maker is exclusive to Toys R Us.  Which was just a low, low move on Hot Wheels' part.

Daniel's Christmas list went as follows:

1. Hot Wheels Car Maker
2. Nintendo DS
3. Legos
4. Hot Wheels Car Maker
5.  I really want a Hot Wheels Car Maker

He wrote to Santa about it and everything.  That was before he made this proclamation:

"I don't believe in Santa!"

"Why?" I asked.

"Because, all of the presents I asked Santa for said they came from you.  And also, Santa's wrapping paper is the same as YOUR wrapping paper."

This is because while I enjoy my children believing in the magic of St. Nick, I also want to take most of the credit for the gifts.  It's also because I'm lazy.

Then, Daniel announced that he DID believe, and that Santa would definitely bring him the Hot Wheels Car Maker.  Noah from his class told him so.

Unfortunately, I'd already made several trips to Toys R Us only to be laughed out of the store, because apparently, they ran out of the thing weeks ago.  Did you know there are actually cruel people in this world who go to stores, buy up hot Christmas items, and then sell them for a premium online?  Probably people like Noah from Daniel's classroom. I thought that kind of thing only happened on television shows.

The Hot Wheels Car Maker retails for 34.99 when purchased at Toys R. Us.

Yesterday, I paid 99.99 for it from a seller on Amazon.  When I told the husband, he had a minor stroke and contemplated selling my hair for money.  I said, not until you sell your fancy watch, buster.  And he said, I'm not the one who paid 99.99 for a toy that will probably break within the first twenty four hours.

So now I'm bald.

But the Car Maker is in transit right now.  Santa's reindeer will bring it on Christmas Eve.

And Daniel will believe one year more.

This Post Rambles or "This is Not a Good Columbus Day"

My piano tuner is about to arrive.  I wish he was one of those introverted, awkward piano tuners who have trouble making eye contact and prefer to get right down to business, banging out Ds incessantly only to finally move on to D#,  but no.  I have the most talkative piano tuner on the face of the planet.  He starts talking the moment he walks in the door and will continue gabbing, even as I grab a laundry basket and make my way up the stairs.  I try to hide out in my bedroom when he arrives. What should be an hour endeavor takes two hours if we chat.  Also, he seems to mistakenly believe I’m an expert on Liszt.  I wonder how I could have possibly given off the impression that I am an expert on anything.  Before his arrival, I not only have to look up facts on Liszt, but I have to brace myself for the inevitable “You need to put a humidifier next to your piano during these dry winter months or else ALL IS LOST” speech.  

Until he gets here, I am writing on the couch while watching the program Extreme RVs on the Travel Channel.  The RV guys are showcasing a 1.2 million dollar RV, which has a really attractive kitchen.  I expect, however, that it guzzles a lot of gas.  That, and I don’t know if I would like to be stuck with my kids in even the most luxurious RV on the market during long road trips.  They are getting to be a handful.  I have an incident that demonstrates what I’m dealing with on a daily basis:

Yesterday was Columbus Day.  (There were a lot of people who took to social media to display their discomfort with celebrating the life of a greedy genocidal megalomaniac.  I see their point.  On the other hand, I enjoy a national holiday.  So I’m torn about it.  I’m not going to say Happy Columbus Day, but I’m not going smack anyone across the face who says it to me, either.)

Yesterday was Columbus Day, and the kids were home from school, so I sent them outside to play, because you can do that, you know.  You can say, “It’s a beautiful day!  Go play outside!”  And then you can lock the doors so they can’t get back in.  Beware of children who insist they are thirsty and must come inside to get a drink.  This is a ruse.  First it’s a drink, then it’s “I drank my water too fast and I feel like I have to throw up,” and then it’s “I can only sit on the floor and play Forza 4 on the Xbox or else I’m gonna puke.”  I speak from experience.  The outside hose is just fine for thirsty elementary-school children. 

Yesterday, I heard howling in the front yard.  Ben burst through the front door (I must have forgotten to lock it) and said:

“Daniel is about to come in here and say that I choked him.  He’s lying!  I didn’t choke him!”  Because I am such an astute parent, I was immediately suspicious of this claim.  Daniel is just not shrewd enough to entrap his brother with a fabricated choking story.

Daniel stumbled into the house.

“Ben ch-choked me!” he blubbered. 

Ella followed him inside.

“I just want a drink,” she said.

“Did you choke Daniel?” I asked Ben.  Ben stared at his feet.

“I didn’t.  I just told you I didn’t.”

“Look at me in the eyes.”  He managed to glance in my general direction, and then stared somewhere just beyond my left ear. 

“I didn’t…” he whispered.

“Ben.  Did. You. Choke. Dan.”  His eyes filled with tears.

“Maybe a little bit.”

“Oh, well, if it was just a little.  Carry on, young soldiers!” I said.

I didn’t say that. I was perplexed, because this was my first “choking” incident.  There have been plenty of “I’m lying to my mom’s face because I think she’s stupid” moments, but no “choking” moments.  I thought back on my life, trying to recall a time I had choked a person just a little bit.  I couldn’t think of one.  Choking is really, really bad news.  I sent Ben to his room. 

“I knew if I told you the truth I'd get in trouble!” he yelled as he stomped up the stairs. "This is NOT A GOOD COLUMBUS DAY!"

“Mom, I’m going to play computer now, ‘kay?”  Ella gave me a sweet smile. 

“I’m not going outside EVER AGAIN.  And I’m not playing with Ben EVER AGAIN.  Can I have a drink?” said Daniel.

Sometimes it feels like all I do all day is get people drinks and extricate them from electronic devices.  

After a long time out and a long discussion about the dangers of choking other people, I sent Ben back outside.  Because you can do that on a sunny federal holiday when you’re not driving across the country in a luxury RV.  Outside is wonderful when your kids are being a handful.

The piano tuner is here.  He came to the door and immediately asked for a drink.  Then he said, “Look at those RVs!  Aren’t they something!” and sat on my couch.

He’s going to be here a while.

Leap Day

If you decide to have kids, there will come a day when one of them throws up all over you.

This is a fact.  I wish it wasn’t so.  You should know this before you have children so you can change your mind and get something a little less high maintenance.  Say, a newt.

And while you, stunned, step back and assess the damage done to your shirt, pants, and yes, even socks, the dog will attack you with a hungry look in her eyes, as if you were made of bacon and not soggy clothing covered with regurgitated oatmeal.  In that moment you will think to yourself, I do not understand dog culture.

Your child will cry, of course, the same way you can’t help but cry when you throw up, albeit in the toilet where you’re supposed to throw up, and you will feel compelled to comfort him, even though there is not once ounce of throw up on his clothing and his socks are not wet and he is going to have a lazy day of sitting in front of the television and cuddling with his stuffed doggie, who smells like cheese but who are you to judge.  The stuffed doggie will probably get thrown up on, even though you have given your child a bowl, your large silver mixing bowl you made chocolate chip cookies in last week and probably will again next week, too.

But you won’t think about that right now.

While your child lounges and demands gingerale, you, of course, will be doing laundry and complaining about your predicament to your husband, who got out of a meeting to answer your 911 phone call.

“You did this!” you will yell.  “I wanted a newt.”

And he will have the audacity to suggest this isn’t the way it went at all.

You will strip down to you underwear right there in the kitchen, then scoop up your child like a sack of potatoes and get him out of ground zero territory.  Unfortunately, you will turn to view your dog- who is a complete and total idiot, by the way- licking vomit from the kitchen floor with delight.  And in a moment of shame, you think you’ll let her finish, because then you will not have to scoop up barf with cheap paper towels.  You bought cheap paper towels because it seemed prudent at the time.

It does not seem prudent now.

Of course, you are not that person, so you drag your very disappointed dog and put her outside, where she runs in circles in the snow over and over and over again, happily, seemingly nourished.

After setting your child up with bowl, blanket, doggie, and television show, you will clean up ground zero, wash yourself off with wipies, and put on a bathrobe with the intention of taking the world’s fastest shower.  Of course the doorbell rings., and you can’t ignore it because your precocious daughter has opened the door despite multiple warnings about monsters occasionally ringing doorbells in order to feast on silly little girls stupid enough to answer.  Your daughter laughs at this story.  I’m serious!  You insist.  Silly mommy, she says. 

It’s a teenage girl.  She says, “I’m collecting money.  My youth group is going to fast for 48 hours to, you know, see what it’s like?  And we’re raising money.”  So you will fling a $10 bill her way and tell her she’s ridiculous- there are some people in the world who love to eat only to puke once the food reaches their gut, but fine.  Go be hungry for a while. 

You won’t really say that.  You will be pleasant and hospitable, in your husband’s Hugh Hefner bathrobe.

You will wonder why she’s not in school.

The shower won't happen because you are afraid the minute you turn the shower head on will be the moment your small child chokes on his own vomit, so you curl up on the sofa next to him, stroking his cheek until he falls into a blissful slumber.  And even though your daughter is no longer watching the television, you don’t turn it off.  You are quite certain that The Fresh Beat Band is as good as any pop group out there.  Better than Katy Perry, for sure.

Your will child begin to snore, loudly.  So loud, in fact, that he will wake himself up, start choking, eventually puking all over his doggie, who now smells less like cheese and more like vomit.

And you will remember that it’s Leap Day, which is really rather fantastic.  A year from now, you can look back and say to yourself, “this day never happened.  It never happened at all.”

My Husband Sexually Harassed Me Under the Mistletoe (& other Christmas stories)

I

It’s the Christmas season and you know me, holly in my heart (Cary Grant in An Affair to Remember)

The following are directed at me every year over the holiday season. I would like answer concerns and questions about being a girl named Holly born four days after Christmas so that I never, ever have to answer them again.

1. “You name is Holly? Wow. You must, like, really love Christmas.”

Oh, I do. I love Christmas, and so much more than people named, like, Beverly. How can you love Christmas when you’re named Beverly? Also, I love Christmas so much more than people NOT born in December. How can you love Christmas when you were born in July? Preposterous.

2. “You were born at Christmastime? Did you, like, get cheated out of gifts?”

Not when I was younger. My mother always made my birthday very special.

However, things are different now, and yeah, I totally get gypped come my birthday. It’s an awkward time of year to have a birthday. It’s not like you can compete with, well, you know. And the one time I crossed my arms and complained that I wasn’t getting enough attention, people thought I was being “selfish” and “sacreligious.” (Wasn’t Jesus actually born in June?) So I don’t complain anymore- I just weep silently in my bed. Birthdays are for kids, not adults, anyway. And I don’t need anything. I want a lot of stuff, but I don’t need anything. So, don’t worry about me and the presents I’ve been swindled out of. I’m okay.

II

My Husband Sexually Harassed Me Under the Mistletoe

Today, the Christmas season is a shell of its It’s a Wonderful Life former self. Mr. Potter, despite what you saw on film, has not been defeated. Nativity scenes are out: singing the tune of "The Carol of the Bells" to sell bargain-priced designer-labeled clothes is in. Christmas caroling in the mall is a potential fire hazard, but Black Friday shopping has become a tradition in many families. Mistletoe is being banned from office parties so that corporate executives can still have “Santa Shots” (this is an actual drink) and not get stuck under the mistletoe while inebriated. Darn that mistletoe, inviting sexual harassment charges with its lascivious plant motives.

I was never kissed under the mistletoe until after I was married. Not that I didn’t want to be. I mean, how romantic is that, getting caught under the mistletoe with the object of your affection? I may have lingered by a sprig on an occasion or two, just to see if I could gain the experience of being kissed under the mistletoe, but alas… no one ever noticed.

One year, John and I were at a party where mistletoe was prominently hung from a doorway. I stood boldly underneath and called my husband over. Utterly clueless, he wanted to know what I wanted. Why had he been dragged away from playing Call of Duty? (Which is a wonderful wartime game that’s a staple at any traditional Christmas gathering, along with eggnog and candy canes.)  Also, I think maybe he’d had a couple of Santa Shots.

I directed his attention to the mistletoe above us, and this is what happened: John sniggered, grabbed my butt, pulled me in close, and laid a noisy, lingering smooch on my mouth. He tasted like peppermint schnapps.

My husband sexually harassed me under the mistletoe.

And I loved it.

III

We Wish You a Merry Christmas

The twins have been happily practicing their preschool Christmas program songs. At home, they sing loudly and unabashedly, so I was surprised when their teacher informed me that during practice at school, Ella had repeatedly dissolved into tears, ran into her teacher’s arms, and had hid her head while shaking like a leaf. Ella, who is not a naturally quiet individual, has auditory sensory issues and is unnerved by resounding ambient sound. Being in large, cavernous places where echoes bounce and shrill voices carry brings my usually boisterous little girl to her knees. So on the day of her program, I made sure to get a spot right up close, so that if she began to withdraw, I could grab her and hold her.

Ella sashayed down the aisle in her Christmas gown, beaming at us, shaking her hand bells with enthusiasm. She came down first because she was the smallest and needed to be placed at the front of the group. Daniel stood a little ways behind her. The first song began, and Ella’s face went from joyful to terror-filled. She stared at me. I grinned at her. “Sing,” I mouthed.

The sanctuary was packed with moms and dads and grandparents and siblings, and the crowd absorbed the sound beautifully. No echo. No reverberating bells. Ella relaxed noticeably and stayed with her classmates. She didn’t open her mouth and sing during the first song, but she stayed there and stared, somewhat dazed, at the crowd.

By the last song, she was into it. The following is a video of her preschool class singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” Ella got a little carried away. She was the only child who twirled during the program. (Which was no big deal considering two songs before, she jumped up and down and then sat for half the song.) Note her unique dance movies during the “singing” verse. Please ignore the constant wiping of her nose with her hand.

Daniel was incredibly proud of his tie. When I showed it to him he gasped.

“It’s a real tie?”

"Yes! A real tie!”

"Just like daddy’s?”

“Daddy would never wear a black vest over a red shirt,” John said. “We are not gangsters.” Daniel was too busy taking his tie out of his vest and putting it back in to listen to his father's weirdness.

Today’s song for Monday: We Wish You a Merry Christmas:

A Tale of Thanksgiving Woe

It’s a very manic time of year. There’s a lot going on. There are Christmas concerts and projects and shopping and decorating and cookie baking and tortuous exercise because you are determined to lose that weight before New Year’s. So what if you procrastinated a bit. This is the perfect time of year to go on a diet.

We had a lovely Thanksgiving. I made rolls- from scratch- and they were delectable. I spent the day before Thanksgiving in the kitchen, in constant search of things I had purchased at the store and immediately misplaced.

“Where’s the cinnamon? Does anyone know where the cinnamon is?”

“Up your butt!” said my 4-year old, Daniel.

For the record, that’s not where I found it.

The best thing about Thanksgiving, of course, is reflecting on all of the things God has blessed me with. Four healthy, rambunctious children with their father’s primitive sense of humor, a husband who has a good job in this horrific market, a supportive extended family, wonderful friends, food in the cupboards, clean water, medical insurance, and warm cups of tea on dreary, grey days.

The second best thing is leftovers.

I like turkey sandwiches. Leftover turkey warmed up on regular sandwich bread with a bit of mustard and mayo. Simple, but I look forward to it. Yesterday, I fed the twins their lunches, sat with Ella through her speech therapy after which I proceeded to make my turkey sandwich. As I worked, squeals of delight came from the other room, happy sounds that always make me nervous. I peeked in to discover Ella attempting to straddle the dog like a horse. Kiah looked quite put out, so I extricated my petite Lone Ranger from atop of her furry Silver. Ella said, and I quote, “Awww, man!”

“You could hurt Kiah,” I said. Ella was dubious, but she promised not to ride on the dog, so I went back to my sandwich.

The sandwich was gone, having probably been consumed in two large gulps by the very beast I had just rescued. There was mustard on her whiskers.

There are no words to express my incredible grief, which turned swiftly into anger. I composed myself, gave Kiah the hairy eyeball, and called Ella in from the other room.

“Ella?” I asked, “Do you know what a jockey is?”

Look for us in the circus.

Danny's Doppelganger

Danny, Champion of the World looks like



Daniel Robert Jennings...

The Nighttime Visitor

Four children, and not one of them had ever crawled into bed with us in the middle of the night. Nor have they bounced on our bed on Christmas morning; they howl from their rooms, as if we’ve imprisoned them in there, “Waaaake uuuup!!! MOM! DAD!” Most consider us lucky, but I always felt like I was missing out on something. I like cuddling.

Two weeks ago, Daniel woke up in the middle of the night screaming. I walked in his room and he started blubbering about a weird noise, the rain, a bug, the rise of China and the threat of global warming. He was bereft. So I gathered him in my arms and brought him into our bed. He burrowed down into the covers and lay completely still, like a warm loaf of bread. He let out a tiny sigh, went to sleep, and stayed perfectly still until 7 in the morning.

It was glorious.

My other three children are cuddling failures. Caleb slept for the first four days of his life and then took up a hobby: screaming at the top of his lung until he turned purple for large portions of the day and night. He adamantly refused to go asleep on his own. He required to be moving in his swing at about 80 mph or bounced on my knees for a good half hour before he would drift off. Forget about trying to set him down. The moment he felt that easy drop toward his crib, he would wake up and passionately recite a speech by Benito Mussolini. My life had been taken over by a 10-pound fascist dictator with no teeth and a penchant for drooling.

For the first four months of his life, I ended up curled up on the couch with Caleb, where I lay perfectly still and came in and out of uneasy, murky sleep. Living a life in perpetual fear of waking your dictator child is not really a life at all; I had to break Caleb of his habit. Which was like trying to unseat Mussolini, minus the hanging bit.  Since then, Caleb has been a restless, twitchy sleeper who gets about seven hours of shut-eye a night and is not one for cuddling.

Ben’s a good sleeper- has been since day one. He’s squirmy, though. We shared a bed once, and I woke up in the middle of the night with his heel in my eye. I gently moved him back into position and woke up 20 minutes later with no covers and his other heel in my eye. I pity his future wife.

Ella is too social to cuddle. She wants to talk. And sing. And discuss plans for her birthday, which is seven months away. She wants to jump on the bed and tickle feet and recite a monologue by one Dora the Explorer. She wants to dabble in Spanish and make animal shadows on the wall. She wants to giggle, randomly, for no apparent reason. She wants to know where her twin is; she sleeps well next to him. She refuses to be still with the rest of us.

A few nights ago, Daniel came into our room and tapped me on the forehead until I woke up. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. He was upset about something. I grabbed him and he molded into the side of me and stayed there until the morning. He’s so squishy and soft.

Sadly, it hasn’t happened since, so I’ve been telling him some slight untruths. Like the following:

1. The book “There’s a Nightmare in My Closet” by Maurice Sendak is based on a true story.
2. So is “Where the Wild Things Are.”
3. Sharks swim in oceans, but occasionally make it to Lake Ontario. Occasionally.
4. The buzzing sound in his room is probably a nest of bees in between the rafters, but they won’t get in unless they find that tiny hole in the corner.
5. I don’t think his stuffed animals came alive at night and gave him that bruise on his leg, but I can’t be sure.
6. Sometimes mommy forgets to lock the front door, but bad guys only rob yellow houses. Our house is yellow? Well, I guess mommy should start locking the doors!
7. Sometimes dogs turn into werewolves in the middle of the night, but only dogs who live in yellow houses.
8. Come to think of it, yellow also attracts aliens. Maybe we should get new siding?
9. Did I ever tell you the story about when an alien stole me from my bed and took me to his planet and made me eat copious amounts of peas?
10. Yes, that’s why aliens are green. Because they eat a diet solely consisting of peas.

Any night now…

A Taste of Honey

I started spontaneous storytelling during Caleb’s baseball game two weeks ago.

It was cold. Ella was cranky. Ben wanted to go home. Caleb was hitting doubles and looking generally adorable on the field. I stuck the younger three in the car and turned on the latest craze in the Jennings’ minivan: the Beatles’ debut album Please Please Me.

It is Beatlemania all over again. My four-year old son can sing all the words to “I Saw Her Standing There.”

Everyone’s favorite song, however, is “A Taste of Honey.” Every time Paul belts out the title lyrics, they laugh hysterically. Personally, I don’t get the joke. Apparently I lack their refined sense of humor.

The baseball progressed slowly, and after the CD had looped through 1 ½ times, the car battery died. I guess I only turned the ignition half way. And lucky for me, John was out of town and my cell was… that’s not really important. Suffice to say, it was not on me.

It started to drizzle.

My plan was to look pathetic and ask the parents of Caleb’s teammates for help once the game was over. In the interim, I had to find a way to amuse my demanding children with the refined senses of humor since the fabulous four had left the vehicle.

So I told them a story, one I made up off the top of my head. And they sat there, quiet, for twenty minutes, and took in every word. And the coach of the team had jumper cables. On the way home, I sang “Do You Want to Know a Secret,” and they sang the background vocals, which consist of “oooh oooh oooh” and “ohhh ohhh ohhh.”

Overall, I deemed the evening successful.

Tonight, on the way home from my dad’s, Ben demanded another story. And let me tell you, it is hard to think up a plot on the spot like that. I took inspiration from their favorite song and told a story about a world without… honey.

The population of honey bees has disappeared. A fabulous foursome including Caleb, Ben, Dan, and Ella, live at the edge of a great forest, because every good children’s fairy-tale starts at the edge of a great forest. The gist of the story is as follows: Children find the world’s last remaining beehive, and it’s as big as a Buick. It’s the middle of July, but the children need protection from the bees in order to extract honey from the gigantic hive, so they sneak into their own house as their mother is doing something domestic and important.  The put on snow pants and winter jackets and buckets with holes for eyes over their head so that the bees won’t sting them. The children climb a great oak tree and successfully extract the honey without getting stung.

Little do they know that a lone bee follows them home, and when the children remove their winter gear and feel the cool breeze come in over the trees of the great forest, the angry bee stings Caleb on his hand. He is so startled that he spills some honey. The honey lands on his hand, and his wound is immediately healed. Not only is it the last honey on earth, but it’s magic honey.

The children rush into the house to tell their mother about the magic honey. Instead of being happy, she is angry they sneaked off to do something so dangerous. She tells them all to go to their rooms, but to leave the honey with her. While they are upstairs sulking, she makes herself a peanut butter and honey sandwich, and eats it alone.

I thought the ending was funny. Caleb didn’t like the ending.

“I don’t like how you got mad. It wasn’t fair. We brought you honey and you put us in time-out. Why did you do that? Did you even save honey for the rest of us?”

Daniel added an epilogue.

“I KILL all the bees.”

“But then you would never have honey again,” I said. “So I don’t think you should kill all of the bees. You wouldn’t want to run out of magic honey, right?”

"I kill them,” he whispered.

Ben fell asleep.

Ella broke out into song: “A TASTE OF HONEY! Doo doo doo doooo!!!”

Caleb sulked, Daniel schemed, Ben slept, Ella sang.

Mom fell asleep early. She had a lovely dream about 1960s Paul McCartney.

April is Wet and I Don't Like It

On Saturday, I was granted an entire day all to myself.  One whole day.  I slept in until an unseemly hour and then guess what I did? 

If you guessed that I scrubbed and cleaned the first floor of my house in my underwear while singing the part of Mimi from La Boheme as it blasted from my iPod, you are correct. 

Then, Kiah and I took a stroll.  (I put on clothes.)  It was a rather lovely day.  As I walked by, my neighbor asked if everything was okay, because she had heard shrieking noises coming from the house.  Apparently, she doesn't clean her house to Puccini. 

I uploaded some pictures from the month of April.  Blogger is uploading pictures sideways- Blogger and Canon are incompatible or something or other.  I could not fix it, so some of the pictures are presenting themselves in a jaunty fashion.

We spent Easter Sunday at the in-laws, where all of John's brothers were accounted for.  I also have pictures of Ella's first experience at a bowling alley, fun times and frosting at my mom's house, a pic of John growing older right before our very eyes, and sideways Ben being cute at the swimming pool. 

The first pic is of Kiah and her bff Edelweiss, who were digging in mud puddles on a particularly soggy day.  They got the hose. 

Kiah knows digging in mud puddles is strictly forbidden.  Oh she knows.

John is 34!

Ben is a fish.

Ella finds the fan at the bowling alley. 

Ella helps me bowl and no joke- we got a strike. 

My mom hid Easter eggs around the house for the kids.  They were each allowed ten.  If there weren't limitations on egg procurement, there would be unbalance and unrest.

My kiddoes.

There was also cookie decorating and eating of icing off straight out of the bowls.  Caleb told me to quit it- that it was gross. 

Celeste finds an egg in sideways land.

Celeste helps Ella- such a wonderful big cousin!

Uncle Richie visits sideways land to help Ella.

Ben!  My boy Ben!

All the cousins.  I wanted to put Michelle's belly in the picture, but she just laughed at me and then disappeared.  Which was irritating.

Caleb!  My boy Caleb!

Lisa! My girl Lisa!

Someone decided the world wasn't paying enough attention to him, so he donned a neon green shirt.
 

Trying to take a picture for my website.  (This did not make the cut.)  WHY didn't anyone tell I've grown chipmunk cheeks?  I really don't need this in my life right now.

Boy Stuff

We celebrated Thanksgiving at my in-laws' this year. We brought Kiah, who spent the majority of the day wrestling with my in-laws’ 10-month old puppy, Bonnie, who is at least 4 times Kiah’s size. John’s brother and wife brought their 2-year old Lhasa Apso, Luna, who was disgusted by the rumpus and spent her time engaging in what she obviously deemed more appropriate behavior: namely, snuggling with Ella.

Every year, my father-in-law the pastor has everyone around the table express what they were thankful to God for in the past year. Which always sends me into a panic. Although I have all year to think of something really meaningful to share, something original instead of the usual “my kids” or “my husband” or “the glorious roof over my head, when the time comes I can only conjure up common Thanksgiving clichés.

I like hearing what everyone else is thankful for, anyway. I wish they’d skip me and just let me listen. My father-in-law was last to go, which is good, because his stories never fail to make my eyes all watery. In the midst of his thankfulness, and right before I had a full-blown emotional breakdown, Daniel walked out of the bathroom with his pants around his ankles, strumming his pint sized tallywacker like a guitar. As he stood there grinning at everyone, Bonnie ran up behind him and started licking his butt.

Mayhem commenced, accompanied by some gasping, and someone quickly rectified the situation (pun totally intended) so we could go back to being thankful.

Occurrences like these no longer surprise me, though I pretend to be aghast. Sometimes I say things like, “He never normally does things like this!” But he does. Daily. And he knows how to pull his own pants up. He’s just lazy and likes me to do it for him.

Daniel is extremely fond of his penis. I’m kind of sorry he knows the word penis; it was less awkward when he called it his pee-pee. For instance, last week, he walked out of the bathroom, pants around his ankles, and declared, “I LOVE MY PENIS!”

“Well, I’m happy for you two,” I said. “Now pull up your pants.”

Yesterday, he came out of the bathroom completely naked from the waste down. He sat down and looked at me, intently.

“Someday,” he said, “my penis will be this big.” He held his arm out a good foot in front of his, um, pee-pee.

“Really?” I said.

“In a little while,” he responded.

Dream big, buddy.

Daniel doesn’t hold back. He is the most uninhibited human being I’ve ever met. He tells me in his garbled speech exactly what he’s thinking and feeling. And his moods run the gamut:

“Mom. I. Mad. AT YOU!”

“I looove you mom. And you really love me.”

Apparently, the school district thinks Daniel is 65% intelligible. In fact, the speech therapist, who is always pragmatic, was impressed by how clearly he said the word “penis.” (She happened to be there during the declaration of love. So horrifying.)

“Very nice word, Daniel!” And then they commenced in labeling other body parts- you know, the ones you can say without turning red like a turnip. Or maybe that’s just me. With three candid and carefree boys whose daily dinner banter generally involves fart jokes and speculations about what would happen if you were caught in a river of lava, I no longer blush or cringe as often as I used to.

Anyway, the good news is that Daniel is about to graduate from speech therapy! He is a great success! He is currently booking speaking engagements into 2011. He’s promised me he will keep his pants on during his lectures.

We are very proud.

The Repentant Yeller

It’s late in the afternoon and I am finally ready to complete a short, 400-word article due ASAP. It’s so hot and I am sweating; my shirt is sticking to my back, my hair to my neck. The air in the office is stagnant. Outside, the rumblings of thunder announce the cold front that is finally moving in. The telephone rings again and again. Ben keeps tattling on his brothers for inoffensive misdeeds. Ella is sleeping, but her brothers keep shrieking, yelling, running around as boys are prone to do. I keep running downstairs to hush them. They look at me with big, innocent eyes.

Ella wakes up. She is understandably irritable. She sits on my lap while I type, awkwardly, with one hand.

Little work is getting done.

Daniel starts dumping toys. From upstairs, I can hear the blocks tumble out of their bin. Then I hear him dragging something else around. He laughs as he dumps what I soon discover to be the bin of legos. I hear Ben squeal and start crying. He runs up the stairs, announcing that Daniel has maliciously hit him in the face with a lego. It could very well be the worst thing that has ever happened to him.

I finish my thought on the screen and run downstairs to assess the damage. Daniel has strewn his toys across the floor. He is casting them over his shoulder, paying no attention to where they land. As I approach him, I step on a lego. I am constantly stepping on legos. It hurts like a bitch.

I yell. I didn’t even know I was a yeller until I had kids. I yell because I am tired of spending too much of my own precious time cleaning up after Daniel. In a house of 6, one child makes 80% of the mess. Daniel, the human tornado, is the most unrepentant toy dumper I have ever met in my life.

I am tired and sweaty and I hate legos. Really, really hate legos. I point at the mess and demand that Daniel pick it all up right this instant. Daniel’s face crinkles and he shakes his head and then he runs up to his room, sobbing.

I let him go.

Furious, I’m tempted to scoop everything up, throw it in a garbage bag, and put it in the trash bin. I kneel on the floor and start sorting blocks and legos and puzzle pieces and mumble about kids in other parts of the world who have nothing. Caleb and Ben look at me, curiously. They know to keep their mouths shut.

I calm down and quietly ascend the stairs, unsure what I am going to do with Daniel. When I spot him, he is standing, his head against the wall, crying softly. He looks so small. Instinctively, I pick him up and he immediately crumples and cries into my hair. His chubby arms hang on to me tight. We go back downstairs and sit on the couch. He buries his face in my arm. Caleb and Ben wordlessly descend into the basement. I hear Ella upstairs, banging away at the keyboard, leaving gibberish beneath the sad start of my article.

Within one minute, the time it takes him to wreak havoc on the downstairs, Daniel has fallen asleep. He has a soft snore and his hand grips my shirt.

We sit there, still, for a half-an-hour, amidst the wreckage he has left behind, the quiet after the storm.

Summertime... and the living is easy (ish)

So I haven't seen a fireworks display in seven years, which is too bad, because I enjoy a good fireworks display.  My children have hyper-sensitive hearing.  They hide when the garbage truck comes around, so you can imagine that fireworks do not go over well.  This is strange to me, because on a daily basis they all make noise that puts a fireworks display to shame and are yet seemingly unbothered.  (It bothers me, however.  I'm just saying.)

Every year we go to our friends' house for the 4th.  They live across the street from the park where their small town sets off what I hear is a really terrific fireworks display. Each year we have dinner, hang out, wait until dusk, and inevitably leave right before the fireworks start because one of the children panics and goes into hysterics.  So, we drive home, which isn't so terrible because we catch glimpses of various displays as we travel through each little town down route 31.

Summer is going by too fast.  So far: countless baseball games, 2 bee stings, 1 near death by drowning in a kiddie pool, 1 month of extremely frizzy hair, 1 graduation, 1 very good end-of-year report card, approximately 100 mosquito bites, 4 stubbed toes,  20sh barbecues, 0 road trips.  We will rectify the 0 road trips this Friday. 

A review in pictures:

The Graduate

One word:  Plastics.

 After Caleb's piano recital.

He's my sweet baboo.

Ben opened his gifts shirtless this year.  Well why not.  He's five now.

  There is nothing Ella loves more in the world than her aunt Joyce.  Except perhaps decorating herself with markers.

That's the last time I show her any Batman films. 

Hop on Pop.

We went to a parade.  Ben was unhappy with the loud noises.  Which is also why I haven't seen any fireworks in five years.  That's my friend Kim.  She's a sport.

We ventured off to Browns Berry Patch :

Ben is more interested in guarding the berries than picking them.  His little friend Ryan is Ella's fiance.  Yes, really.  And I will fight anyone who gets in the way of my plan.

Note the "Silly Bandz."  I hate those things.

My sweet baboo.  Did I mention he made the Chili All Star baseball team?

Ella, who still occasionally eats her oatmeal with two fists, is surprisingly adept at raspberry picking.

Our now annual 4th of July family pic at the Casa de Fisk. 

(Thank you Katie for these pictures.  I'm having an extremely bad camera year.)

Tinkle tinkle little pee, in the potty you will be...

Today I took the twins to the library for the Potty Tales program, which is just what it sounds like. We learned to boogie to the potty dance, listened to stories about children who have conquered the potty mountain, and sang “Tinkle Tinkle” to the tune of “Twinkle Twinkle.”

On the ride home, I discussed the cultural implications of remaining in diapers past a certain age to Daniel and Ella.

“…so, if you want to someday get married and have children of your own, it is crucial you wear big boy or big girl underpants. Because I can almost guarantee your mate will. So then, Daniel, do you want to sing the potty dance song again?”

“Yes!!!!”

“Good! And when we get home, will you make pee-pee in the potty?”

“No!!!”

It’s a process, people.

As a born procrastinator, I admit I should have been more diligent in potty training them in the past few months. People in Africa carry their babies around naked, training them to poop and pee over a potty (or hole in the ground or whatever) on command. Two-months olds! Little itty people! When I read things like this, I feel like a complete and utter potty-training dud.

Last week, I told myself I would start seriously potty-training after the garage sale, although Ella and Daniel were adamantly against it. Potty-training that is.

I put Ella on the little potty and pulled down her pants.

“Ew,” she said, “stinky stinky butt.” She loves to say stinky butt. Anytime she smells something foul, she declares it a case of the “stinky butt.” Whenever I change Daniel’s diaper, she comes over to inspect whether or not Daniel has a “stinky butt.” If I happen to run about upstairs in my underwear, she points at me and yells, “stinky butt!” (Which I take offense to. For the record, my butt smells like roses.)

So Ella was on the potty. She immediately got up and ran off yelling, “Ew! Ew! Ew!”

Ben has been training Daniel in the art of pooping on the potty. In fact, the training sessions got a little weird, so I had to put a stop to them. Daniel won’t even sit on the potty and clings to his diapers like Charlton Heston clung to his guns. During the Potty Tales program, we all encouraged our kids to shout “No more diapers! No more diapers!” If it had been a union strike, Daniel would have totally crossed the picket line. He is that attached to his diapers.

“YES diapers,” he muttered. Ella, on the other hand, never gives up an opportunity to yell anything.

“No more DIAPERS!” she shouted with the crowd, and then did a little spin move and fell down. An agitator for sure.

Tomorrow, we’re going off diapers cold turkey. I expect there will be at least four to five accidents. But I’ll put them on the potty ever hour and see if anything happens. I’m betting Daniel actually goes first, because I expect he will be mortified when he has his first accident.

Oh, I don’t want to do this. I’m thinking of moving to Africa, where I can carry my babies around naked in a sling, and live a life of minimalism. I mean, I’m sure most African peoples can’t conceive of having so much crap that they could sell it at a garage sale. (My garage sale was rather poorly attended, by the way.) I would be the palest African in the history of Africans and would live in perpetual fear of the black mamba, but a simpler life appeals to me. Sometimes I think- I know- I make my life harder than it has to be. By accumulating worthless junk. By procrastinating. By picking fights with people on the internet. (That’s a bit off-topic, I realize, but it’s what I’ve been up to lately.)

I want simplicity. It’s something I’m really really going to work on- after I potty-train the twins, of course.

On Mothering

On Mother’s Day, which kicks off Mother’s week, of course, John gave me the gift all mothers want but feel guilty asking for: time away from their children. He allowed me to sleep way late. While I slumbered, he made the kids clean the entire house. When I finally meandered downstairs to eat breakfast, Ben set off to clean our bedroom. I went up to find my slippers neatly placed against the wall and my bra (which had been on the floor) draped over the ironing table. (“Because that’s where you keep that thing, right mom?”) That’s right, son.

I’m not going to lie to you. This has been difficult year of mothering. These people are not making it easy on me. They have issues. Like, serious issues. They’re not always normal and charming, like I am.

We’ll start with Caleb. This is a good kid. He rarely gets in trouble. However, on the few occasions when he does, I may feel compelled to raise my voice ever so slightly. When this happens, he immediately dissolves into tears and moans, “I’m afraid you don’t love me anymore!” Statements like these make it difficult to punish him. I mean, I could sit there and assure him of my love and then say, okay- go sit in timeout for telling Ben he smells like monkey poop, repeatedly, until Ben howled in protest, but somehow it never turns out that way. Instead it ends with me holding Caleb, telling him how much he means to me. I always seem to come out of it with a damp shirt, feeling rather taken.

Sometimes I think they’re training us instead of the other way around.

Benjamin and Daniel have responded really well to 1-2-3 Magic. This is a book that provides a very effective non-spanking disciplinary method for children ages 2-12. My middle boys are (there’s no other good word for it) naughty. Ben is dramatic. Daniel has anger issues. They have both thrown epic tantrums in their day. Now, all I have to say is “that’s 1” to get Ben to shut up and to make Daniel look afraid.

No, Ben and Daniel are trying me with their “hobbies.” Ben's hobby is... unusual. Daniel's is just frustrating.

Ben has taken up what he calls “arting.” Arting definition: To make art. His form of art? He draws superheroes on paper, colors them in, and cuts them out to play with. You may call them paper dolls; we call them paper action-figurines. We have at least 200 of them. Somewhere, a mother tree is weeping the loss of her child.

Lately, Ben has taken arting to a whole new level with his recent scotch tape discovery. Paper superheroes need capes and swords that can be attached and reattached, apparently. I bought him his very own roll and told him that’s all he would get for the whole month. (That was a week ago. It’s gone.)

There are paper scraps all over the house and pieces of tape stuck to my socks. And the paper guys? I caught one staring at me while I was going to the bathroom today. The whole thing’s gotten out of hand and Ben shows absolutely no signs of giving it up. On the bright side, he is the very best scissor-cutter in his preschool class. And his arting has certainly boosted his self-esteem. He recently told me, “Mom, I’m very, very good at art. I make art like a man.”

Daniel’s hobby, if you can call it that, is playing with all of his toys at once and then not picking them up. There are two types of behavioral training methods in 1-2-3 Magic. First, you learn how to get kids to stop their bad behavior. Then, you learn to train kids to start good behavior. An example of “good behavior” is cleaning up your messes. Daniel is good at stopping his bad behavior. When it comes to starting good behavior, however, he is a big fat failure.

He is stubborn. The other day, I stepped on an army guy. An army guy! I thought moms only stepped on army guys and then cursed about it in movies. It hurt like a you-know-what. I 'm fairly certain that I’m doomed to become a 35-year old hunchback thanks to the constant picking up of blocks and legos and rogue army men.

Ella. Ella. Ella. Light of my life, love of my heart- she sucketh the life frometh me. It's a known fact that when children can’t communicate verbally, they communicate in other ways. Like screaming as loud as a banshee. Ella’s very vocal indignations and frustrations come in three levels:

Level A: She says No! No! No... No! in a sing-song voice. And then she runs away. This occurs when I ask her to do something she doesn’t want to do or when I ask her something she doesn’t understand. It also occurs when I or one of her brothers asks her for something she has that doesn’t belong to her. (Ella steals stuff and then hoards it. This perturbs her brothers.)

Level B: She squawks like an angry chicken. One afternoon, she was running to the swingset when her much faster older brother whizzed passed her and beat her to her favorite swing. She ran right up to him and squawked so loudly that he got off the swing and warily backed away.

Level C: This is bad. I am now partially deaf in my left ear thanks to Level C. This is a full-fledged tantrum that is impossible to stop without either a) giving in to her demands or b) locking her in her room until she falls asleep. The neighbors know about Level C. The mailman knows about Level C. Congress has been alerted to Level C.

There are t-shirts for sale that say "I Survived Level C."

But of course it’s all worth it, in spite of all of these things. These days are going by so fast. Caleb can ride his bike, which means he’s just one step closer to pedaling away from me to spend time with friends. Soon, hanging out with me won’t be cool.

Yesterday, I taught Daniel to give me Eskimo kisses. (He calls them Elmo kisses.) Someday, I’ll brush my lips against his cheek for a quick kiss, and I’ll feel stubble. And my heart will break.

Little Ella. Last evening, when we drove home from Lockport, Ella woke up from sleeping and went into a full-fledged Level C tantrum. I couldn’t get her to stop for anything. When we got home, I stuck her in time-out. She persisted with her high-pitched screaming. After a few minutes, I retrieved her from the time-out chair, angry and exasperated, and stripped her down to change her and put her in her pajamas.

Her legs were covered in hives. (I can only attribute them to the strawberries she had a few hours earlier.) Though she had not been itching them, she became frantic when I put my hand over them. I think they were hurting her.

My sweet Ella. I can look past these times of wailing and gnashing of teeth. Not being able to communicate has got to be more frustrating for you than for me. To get through this, I remember that one day you might get married, and then your husband can deal with Level C.

Benjamin Bear, who has a wonderful way with words, told me he loved me very, very much the other day. “And my love keeps getting bigger and bigger!” he said.

Funny- mine does too.