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.

Forcing Christmas Cheer on your Children: A Holiday Tradition

Those days before Christmas felt like an eternity when I was a kid.  But I didn't mind.  One of the best parts about the Christmas holiday was that cozy feeling I got sitting on the couch, by the tree, reading stories and poems from old Christmas treasuries.



This is a Christmas treasury with bunnies.  The Christmas treasuries we had did not have bunnies on the cover.  

In December, my mom brought out these oversized hardcover books which contained stories like, "A Gift for the Magi,"  poems from John Donne, and classic Christmas carols like "Silent Night."  ("I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas" was not in any of the Christmas treasuries I beheld, which would have been a great disappointment to my daughter, Ella, who thinks this is the greatest song ever written in the history of the world.) They included some Dickens, the Christmas story from the book of Luke, and maybe a recipe or two of some kind of complicated Christmas cookie that looks pretty but probably tastes gross.  The treasuries generally hearkened back to Victorian Christmases, when people actually put lit candles in their Christmas trees.  On a related note, there were a lot of house fires in the 1800s during the holiday season.

Naturally, I didn't feel like my children's Christmases would be quite right without Christmas treasuries to leaf through during December. Christmas treasuries, I believe, should be an integral part of the season.

I began browsing local used book stores for Christmas collections.  I started at the bookstore in my own town of Spencerport, which is a magical place that kind of looks like an episode from Hoarders. Organization at the aptly named Book Centre is secondary to massive book accumulation, so one has to commit a certain amount of time for searching through and restacking piles of books that will inevitably tumble.  It's a whole long process.

I did not find a Victorian Christmas Treasury, but I did find a fascinating little book entitled "The Curious World of Christmas."  Did you know that both the debonair Humphrey Bogart and the delightful Annie Lennox were born on Christmas?  Or that February 2 officially marks the end of Christmas according to the Christian Calendar? (The period between Christmas and February 2 is known as "Candlemas" and it commemorates the ritual purification of Mary, evolved from an ancient Jewish belief that women were unclean after the birth of a child.  They were unclean for 40 days after giving birth to a boy, and for 60 days after giving birth to a girl.  I don't know what happened to women who gave birth to boy/girl twins.)

The book also included a recipe for "Stir-Fried Spicy Red Cabbage with Apples" which I will not be making, and "Drunk Christmas Cake" which I might.  The recipe is as follows, and it really bears reading out loud:

Ingredients:
1 pint water
1 cup sugar
4 large eggs
2 cups dried fruit
1 tsp salt
1 cup demerara sugar
3 cups nuts
2 tbsp lemon juice
1 orange rind
1 very large bottle of whiskey

Directions:

Try the whiskey to check for good quality.  Find a large bowl.  Check the whisky again to make sure it hasn't gone bad in the meantime.  Just to be extra sure, pour a proper glass and drink.  Repeat until absolutely certain.  Turn on the food processor, and beat up the butter in the large bowl.  Add sugar and beat the buffer again.  Check the whisky is still room temperature.  Turn up the volume of the processor.  Lob the five beggs into the board and chuck in the fup of cried druit.  Mix on the whizzy turner thing.  If the fired druit gets stuck in the professor's blades, lisdodge the gunk.  Sample the whiskey to check no one has sneaked in and diluted it.  Next, the salt,.  Or whatever.  Make sure whisky is still smooth to the tongue.  Now shit the lemon juice and strain your nuts.  Add one table of lemon.  Do the sugar or something.  Whatever's to hand.  Wash down the oven.  Turn the cake tin to 450 degrees.  Burn off the food professor.  Drop the bowl on the floor, go to bed taking care to bring whisky bottle with you in case it falls into wrong hands.  Lie down and enjoy a warm glow of satisfaction at a job well done.

I purchased the book specifically for that recipe.

I soon took my search for a more traditional, child-appropriate Christmas anthology to the internet, and ended up purchasing an treasury that was not oversized but had the requisite stories, poems, carols, and recipes included within.  I put the book in a prominent location and waited for the my kids to casually pick it up and become absorbed in its magical renderings of Christmases past.

This didn't happen.

I suggested to Caleb one evening that he look through the book.

"Maybe later," he said, disinterestedly.

And then I learned that forcing your children to sit down on the couch and read from Christmas anthologies does not evoke in them the same warm and cozy feeling I had as a child.  It actually evokes resentment. And sighing and eye rolling and maybe even the words, "this is stupid."

Subsequently, I threw a tantrum and said something along the lines of "FINE!  I will sit here and drink cocoa and read from this book ALL BY MYSELF!" and "Trollope had good things to say about Christmas!" and "I AM NOT BEING MEAN!" And that's how it came to pass that one cold and dreary evening, I sat on the couch, miserable, reading the classic "The Bird's Christmas Carol," which is not a good story to read when one is miserable.  Because it's about a dying child at Christmas.

There is a lesson to be learned here!  You can't force holiday cheer.  It has to come in unexpected moments, like when you find that your daughter has drawn a beautiful Christmas tree with your lipstick on your bathroom door.  Or when, at your kids' Christmas piano recital, you realize that your son has no intention of ever finishing a spirited rendition of "Must Be Santa," and that after the third time through, you must start clapping or else everyone is going to be there all night.  Or when you take your boys to see "A Christmas Carol," and your eight-year old turns to you, confused and slightly devastated to see a future where Tiny Tim has died.

Fortunately for my kids, I hate "life lessons," and tonight they will be listening to a lively performance of Robert Louis Stevenson's "Christmas at Sea" given by yours truly.

It's in the Christmas treasury.

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.

Violence in the Work Place

My children cannot play together without one causing another injury during the course of, say, an hour.  They’ll be sitting there, playing Legos, when one will inexplicably hurl a Lego at the other’s face.  The injured party becomes shocked, betrayed, and out for revenge.  Understandably.  I’m fortunate to have really good friends who don’t accidentally push me down the stairs round in their hurry to get by me.  My kids are not so lucky.  Thankfully, children do will grow out of this compulsive behavior. Otherwise, workplace scenarios like this would be commonplace: 

A corner office.  Mr. Kemp, the boss, is doing something busy and important when his employee, Kurt, bursts through his door.  Highly agitated, Kurt is clutching his right eye and breathing heavily.

Kemp:  Kurt!  What happened?

Kurt:  Brad just punched me!  Hard!  In the face!

Kemp:  Oh no.  Please, sit down!  Sit down.  Let’s have a look.

Kurt:  I don’t want to sit down!  I am very, very upset!

Kemp:  Naturally, naturally.  What happened?

Kurt:  We were just talking about the game last night.  He was getting all excited and he started swinging his arms around and then he punched me in the face!

Kemp:  Yes, but did he do it on purpose?

Kurt:  Does it matter?  He may have broken my nose.  I think I’m bleeding.  Am I bleeding?  I need a bandaid!

Kemp walks to the door and peers out.

Kemp: Brad!  Brad!  I see you, Brad.  Stop hiding behind your cubicle and get over here right now.

Brad walks into the office, his head hanging.

Kemp:  Brad.  Did you punch Kurt in the face?

Brad:  I didn’t mean to.  It was an accident.

Kemp: You know you have to be more careful when you’re talking to people.  Use your words, not your body.

Brad:  Yes sir.  It won’t happen again.  I’m so, so sorry Kurt.

Kemp:  Well, Kurt, it sounds like it was an accident. 

Kurt:  Just like it was an accident when he karate-chopped Katie last week?

Kemp:  As I recall, Katie said some not very nice things to Brad.

Brad:  She called me a poopy head.

Kurt:  But you can’t just go around kicking people!  Mr. Kemp, you need to DO something!

Kemp:  And what would you have me do?

Kurt:  FIRE HIM!

Kemp:  That seems a little drastic, Kurt. I think you should calm down.  Have a seat.  Let’s get some ice for your eye. 

Brad:  I’m really, really sorry Kurt.

Kemp:  Thanks, Brad.  That was a good job telling Kurt you’re sorry.  It takes courage to do that.  You can go back to your desk now.

Kurt:  What?  That’s it? 

Kemp:  Kurt, I’m a little disappointed in you.  Brad feels very badly about the way he acted.  You should have forgiven him.

Kurt:  I can hardly open my eye!  I should not have to tolerate this kind of violence in the workplace!

Kemp:  Hey.  I know what would make you feel better.  (Kemp walks over to a jar on his desk.)  Here.  Have some Skittles.

Kurt:  Skittles?  Really?

Kemp:  Yeah, buddy!  Just for you!  And I’ll tell you what.  You can have Skittles after lunch, too.

Kurt:  I like Skittles.

Kemp:  I know you do.  Feeling better?

Kurt:  Yeah, I guess so.

Kemp:  Think you can go back to work?

Kurt:  Yeah. Yeah I think I can.

Kemp:  Good.  Good.  Let’s give Brad some space today, okay?

Kurt:  Oh, we’re going play squash after work. 

Kemp:  Okay.  Just be careful.

Kurt:  I will, boss.  I will.

I am sure Ben and Caleb, especially Ben, will behave better than this when they are adults.  And if not, may they have a boss who is understanding, and who stocks up on Skittles.  

Sore Loser

Married, over 13 years, and I’d never played Monopoly with my husband.  Now that we’ve spent an evening doing just that, I can tell you this:

My husband is a total a-hole when it comes to Monopoly.

Caleb received the game for his birthday, which was on Sunday.  Caleb was the car, John was the battleship and I, of course, was the top hat.  Because I look good in hats.

John greedily took Park Place and Boardwalk, was spiteful when I got a hold of Marvin Gardens, and had a look of utter glee in his eyes when I landed on his two-housed Indiana Avenue.  Also, he tried to trade Caleb one utility card for Connecticut Avenue, which would have given him a monopoly.

I quickly put a stop to that. 

The protective instinct is strong in mothers, even during games of Monopoly.  What I don’t understand is why Caleb, despite my allowing him to pay half in rent when he landed on Pennsylvania Avenue, still hooted when his father tried to financially bankrupt me.  After I stopped yet another shady deal between John and Caleb, I looked Caleb squarely in the eye:

“Say you don’t appreciate that, Caleb.”

“I don’t appreciate that, Caleb!” was his response.  He and John howled together.  I felt dumb.

It should come as no surprise to you that I lost. In the end, I had a house on Baltic and two “get out of jail free” cards.  We didn’t exactly finish the game as the board was destroyed by an encroaching Australian Shepherd.  As far as we can tell, Caleb, thanks to landing on the Free Parking spot several times, came in at a close second, and John, thanks to his shrewd business sense and lack of pity, won.

Toward the end, I considered Monopoly divorce just to get half of John's Monopoly cash and real estate.  Unfortunately, there are no “Monopoly divorce” guidelines.  They should probably add that in the next edition.  I bet fewer boards would be thrown across living rooms.

(I get a little emotional during board games, which is why we don’t play Scrabble any more.)

Here is a fuzzy picture of fuzzy Kiah before she went all Napoleon Bonaparte on our board game:   

Iniquities

I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before, but I think that school busses are dens of iniquity. There’s one driver and one hundred and ninety two kids. It’s not really a workable ratio.

 The other day, I had the misfortune of pulling out behind a middle school bus. Three boys looked at me and started making goofy gestures. I grinned at them. Then they started making obscene gestures. It got awkward. I didn’t know where to look. Straight ahead, with a disapproving look on my face? Turned away, as if I were disinterested? Or should I pretend to be frantically searching for something on the floor? I went with the third scenario. There’s a fun-sized 3 Musketeers lolling about there somewhere. These days, all that remains of the kids’ Halloween candy are flavored tootsie rolls and Necco wafers. A rogue fun-sized 3 Musketeers bar is a hot commodity, and I’m determined to find it before Ben- who is also aware it’s down there somewhere- does.

I fretted about putting Ella on the bus. I contemplated driving the kids to school and back each day. But with gas prices the way they are and the whole “it gets really freaking cold here in Ra-cha-cha” thing, on the first day of school I put my babies onto the giant yellow tube and went back to eating my cheerios.

The bus is where Caleb learned the f-word. It’s where Ben got punched by an extremely moody eight-year old. It’s where Daniel fought off a fellow kindergartner who bragged of depantsing “everybody in the world.” (Because that’s how kindergartners talk, in gross exaggerations.)

I worried about what Ella, who is a parrot, would bring home from the bus.

I never would have guessed show tunes.

Last week, she came home singing “You’re Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile” from Annie. Complete with motions. “Who caaares what their wearing from Main Street to Saville Row…” “Ella! Where did you learn that?” I asked. Not that I wasn’t thrilled. Annie was my favorite record when I was her age. When “Tomorrow” came on? My sister and I totally lost our crap. We ran around the kitchen table singing at the top of our lungs. It’s only a DAAAAY! AAAAAWAAAAY!”

I knew Ella hadn’t learned the “Hey hobo man, hey Dapper Dan” lyrics from her prim and proper teacher; therefore, I deduced she was being taught by someone on the bus. Ben confirmed my suspicion. “It’s this third grader who hates me and Caleb and all boys, really. But she looooves Ella.”

Today, Ella came home singing, “You’re the One That I Want” from Grease. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am by this development.  She really nails the whoo whoo whoo part.

In other news, I have a single Twinkie in my pantry that I was hoping would make me rich. That’s right. I put Twinkies in my kids’ lunch boxes. Not all the time, but every once in a while, because I love when they get off the den of iniquities, run into my arms, and say, “Will you put a Twinkie in my lunch box tomorrow, too?” And I say, “No. That was special for today.” And they say, “Why do you hate us?” And I say, “I don’t hate you. I love you.” And they say, “Then, can we have Twinkies for snack right now?” And I say, “No, my loves. I ate them all.”

And I don’t even like Twinkies. I don’t know if my taste buds completely changed or if I’ve evolved beyond processed sponge cake with chemical filling. It’s possible I’ve evolved. I mean, I like foie gras- heck, I know how to SPELL foie gras- so it’s beyond me why I eat Twinkies. Because I like to irritate my children, I suppose.

Hostess chocolate cupcakes are a completely different story. 

Anyway- there is one Twinkie left in the box. My plan was to sell the sucker on eBay and buy myself a pretty frock to wear this holiday season. Now it looks like the unions and the powers that be are going to negotiate a deal that will save Hostess, 18,000 jobs, and the Twinkie.

Now I don’t know what to do with my Twinkie.

It will probably sit in my pantry for the next 20 years. I’ll feed it to my granddaughter and my daughter-in-law will get pissed because doesn’t EVER feed her kids processed sponge cake with chemical filling. That’s the kind of daughter-in-law I’m going to get; I just know it. Nevertheless, I’ll send future granddaughter home with a belly full of sugar and a repertoire of show tunes. Hopefully she’ll run around the kitchen table a hundred times singing “Tomorrow” at the top of her lungs, driving her mother absolutely crazy.

One can hope.

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.”

"The Talk"



“How do babies get into their mother’s tummy?”

“Ask your father.”

This exact conversation has been going on since Caleb was 5. And I still refuse to have “the talk” with him.

I know. I’m a terrible, horrible parent. And it’s not that I’m a prude, but… Fine. I’m a complete and total prude. Not too much of a prude, obviously (4 kids in 4 years and all that),but let’s just say I don’t feel comfortable hearing about the ins and outs of your sex life and I’d rather keep the ins and outs of mine to myself, thank you very much. No pun intended.

Last week, we introduced Caleb to a guy in his mid-thirties who has a newborn baby at home. His first child.

“See Caleb,” we said, “we had you when we were really young. Some people our age are just starting to have babies!”

"Wait,” said Caleb. “You get to choose when you have a baby? What do you do, just say, I’m ready to have a baby and one just starts growing in your stomach?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s exactly how it happens,” I said.

I realize how wrong I am to do this. Yet I can’t seem to help myself. Case in point: I’ve never told Ella the proper name for her girl parts, so she refers to that area as her penis. Can you imagine how awkward it is for me in the little girls room with a four-year old who’s asking me to help wipe her penis?

Some parents choose to give their kids private parts silly names, like “pee-pee” or “pooter” or “woo-woo.” Others insist on using proper scientific nomenclature. I could never decide, so I opted out of calling Ella’s anything. And now I’m paying for it in a big way.

John’s no better. I told him it was time to have “the talk” with Caleb.

“No,” he said. Just no. End of discussion.

He is a horrible, terrible parent.

We have to have the talk soon, however, because any day now he could hear all sorts of weird, misinformation on the big yellow school bus, or, as I call it, the den of iniquities. 

"Mom.  I heard that boys need to stick their penises in a girl's belly button and a tiny baby shoots out and gets planted in her stomach.  Is that true?"

(I may or may not have heard that in the den of iniquities when I was in elementary school.)

I imagine that having “the talk” is like jumping into a chilly swimming pool. It’s so hard to make that initial jump, but after you do it, you’re fine with swimming around for a bit. In other words, relaying the nuts and bolts of sex (no pun intended) seems terrifying. But after I take that jump, I can see myself having healthy, normal conversations about sex and relationships and all that stuff with Caleb. I just don’t want to take that initial jump. I really don’t. Especially when I read things like this was so-called professionals:

Dr. Berman says making them feel good about themselves is key. "Feeling good about their bodies. Feeling good about their genitals. Feeling good about their sexual function. Feeling empowered about who they are as people and as sexual beings. And then that makes the path so much easier when they're in their teen years."

Feeling good about their genitals? I’m suspicious of her whole thesis, here. I get where she’s coming from, but dear God. As if relaying the ins and outs (no pun intended) wasn’t hard enough, you want me to help my kids feel good about their genitals? I can’t even say genitals. I can type it, but just barely.

And if, in this poorly conceived analogy, my standing at the edge of a diving board for a good 20 minutes is akin to finding the nerve to explain the birds and the bees, when the day comes I’m going to stand looking dumbly at Caleb for a good twenty minutes before I sputter something like, “When two people have sex, here’s what happens (insert what happens here.  No pun intended.) Having a baby is a decision not to be taken lightly you need to know that there are ramifications to actions and that you should never have sex until you’re at least 30 and you should be married and you might have something called wet dreams and that’s okay and talk to your father about the rest. Glad we had this talk.” And then I’ll catch my breath and resume treading water. Because raising kids is exactly that: treading water for the rest of your life, hoping you don’t get too tired.

I really don't want to do this!  (The sex talk part, not the raising kids part.  Also, I lied.  All puns were intended.)

Breakfast for Dinner

I had to pick the husband up from work, which led to a spontaneous decision to have dinner “out,” which happens every so often, though usually on a full moon. We cruised around downtown as we called various places, inquiring as to whether they had room in their fine establishments for two adults and four kids. We checked Jines, the Highland Diner, and Sully’s. As we pulled into the parking lot in front of Sully’s it dawned on us, finally, that we were not, in fact, hip city-dwellers, but rather parents in a partially rusted mini-van.

We went to Perkins.

I was in a mild state of agitation thanks to Caleb, who had peppered me with questions on the ride out. Caleb is a morbid child, and I say that with as much affection as I can muster. He’s a close relative of that kid from “What About Bob”- the one who kept repeating “I’m going to die. You’re going to die. We’re all going to die.” I’m not sure if it’s normal for a child to focus so much on dying- not the afterlife, but the physical act of dying- but John assures me that he was just like that when he was a kid. Which doesn’t really alleviate my concerns.

In the car, I tried to pragmatically and calmly answer questions about choking to death, falling off a building, and becoming (here’s a likely scenario for ya) stuck in the stratosphere.

“Mom. What’s the difference between the atmosphere and the stratosphere?” If Caleb isn’t asking about death, he’s asking some scientific question I should know the answer to, but don’t.

“Um, I’m not sure.” (Caleb sighs.) “I’m pretty sure the stratosphere is above the atmosphere.” (It’s not. The stratosphere is within the atmosphere.)

“I’ll just ask dad,” he said.

Well, phooey, I thought. Caleb is convinced John is a million times smarter than I am thanks to my proclivity for saying “I don’t know. Ask your father.”

I told this to John, who insisted he wasn’t smarter, just different. He was more like Caleb, who has a scientific mind, while I was more like Ben, who is “artsy” and “sensitive.”

In fact, I do find Ben’s questions easier to answer than Caleb’s. Today, Ben wanted to know the following:

“Mom, do they make red pants?”

“Yes, ‘they’ make red pants.”

“I’m not talking about red shorts mom. I’m talking about red pants.”

“I gotcha, and yes, there is such a thing as red pants.” Ben considers this.

“No. I don’t think they do make red pants.”

So, I can’t win. Even when I’m right, I’m wrong.

Daniel and Ella, however, still believe that I know everything. Right?

“Look mom. The snow!”

“Yes, more snow. It’s yucky, isn’t it?”

Daniel gasps.

“The snow is beautiful!”

And Ella? As I was about to order her a grilled cheese, she said, “No. Pancakes.” Even though we had just discussed her desire for grilled cheese. She looked at me like I was stupid. I swear she was about to roll her eyes and say, “Duh mom. Why would I want grilled cheese? This is Perkins, mom. No one goes to Perkins for grilled cheese. I have to text my friend now and tell her how stupid you are.” (This is what I think teenage girls are like. And I am so afraid.)

I’m actually not bothered. They are growing up and realizing that I am not the beginning and the end of the universe. And that’s normal. It’s fascinating to spend time with them and learn what goes on in those little heads.

We were loud in Perkins. Super loud. Thankfully, it was dead in there, not an annoyed young hip city-dweller in sight- just a jolly, accommodating waitress with crayons and chocolate milk and an appreciated sense of humor. We ate pancakes for dinner.

Having kids is like having breakfast for dinner. I’ll have dinner for dinner someday, but right now, I’m loving the breakfast.

Child Watch

So I’m fairly certain my three-year old daughter is on cocaine. I realize this is a shocking revelation- please feel free to take a moment to process. Where would she even get this highly illegal and addictive drug? you might ask. There’s a shady kid at the YMCA’s Child Watch that I’m keeping my eye on.  He has this Thomas the Tank Engine fleece- and he always keeps the hood up.  Always.

I have no other explanation for Ella’s insistence on using her bed as a trampoline during naptime or for her incessant babbling from 8 until 11:30 at night. Plus, she has a perpetually runny nose.

Even worse? I think she’s given some to the dog.

I’m extremely sleep deprived. My imagination has gone rather bent. Three of my kids have horrific colds and the fourth shouts in his sleep. In the wee hours of the morning, these words came suddenly from the mouth of Caleb:

“We are not going to eat THAT steak. Get the green puffles. And shoelaces. Cuidado!”

???

Last night, Ella coughed every hour, which was followed by her crying in her sleep. I think crying in one’s sleep is a sign of cocaine use. She settled only after I stroked her hair for a couple of minutes.

Daniel and Ben were able to sleep through their loud, hacking coughs. I was not so fortunate. At least John wasn’t here. John, a hypochondriac who projects his fears onto everyone else who has the most minor of sicknesses, listens to the children’s coughing with absolute dread.

“Are you going to check on him?” he’ll ask after each cough. At 3am, when you are snug under your cozy comforter, desperate for sleep, you might actually say something like this to your hypochondriac husband:

“Well, if he’s dead, he’s dead, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Let’s at least get some sleep and we’ll deal with it in the morning.” Which, by the way, is the wrong thing to say. He will probably get up in a huff to hover over the child who has the common cold, listening to each breath until he has convinced himself that imminent death is not on the horizon.

They look terrible, the kids. Red noses and chapped upper lips, shiny and slick with snot and the Vaseline I have slathered on for protection. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror this morning. I am pale, I mean paler than usual, with stringy hair and dead eyes. I wear baggy sweatpants and stained sweatshirts. I walk in a fog of sleeplessness, relying on caffeine for a temporary kick. I’ve been out twice in the past week; the world outside my house is slowly becoming a place of myth- I’m not sure it exists anymore. And yes, I’ll admit it. I contemplate the horrible, the unspeakable, the thing a mom should never ever contemplate.

I’m seriously considering approaching that kid in the Child Watch to ask for some cocaine. It seems to really help Ella get through the day.

At the Mall


I coerced the husband into meeting us at the mall last evening so that the children could sit upon Santa’s knee and ask him for all their greedy little hearts desire. This may have been a mistake. I did not expect a long, long line, filled with other parents who had procrastinated the Santa visit like me. We watched as proud new moms placed their newborn babies into Santa’s arms, as toddlers screamed the instant they approached the big guy, as fathers held up the line because their video cameras weren’t working properly.

Each of my kids had been waiting for this moment all year. Caleb prepped me while we waited in line.

“Make sure you tell him how well I take care of Kiah. And tell him how good I do in school. He’ll believe it if YOU say it.”

Ben had cut out visual representations of the things he wanted from the Toys R Us catalog. He clutched a picture of the Star Wars Lego Hoth Wampa Cave in his hands. He had refused gloves because he didn’t want to put the picture in his coat pocket, where it might get lost. Unlike Caleb, Ben was unconcerned about whether or not he’d been a good boy. Because last year, he said, he knew he hadn’t been that good, and Santa had still brought him a ton of loot.

Daniel was taking a comprehensive approach to the whole thing; he had decided to tell Santa he wanted “lots of fun toys for boys” this Christmas. That way, Santa was sure not to leave even one totally sweet and awesome fun toy for a little boy out.

Ella has not made any requests for gifts. She was, however, extremely excited about visiting Santa.

“What are you going to tell Santa Claus?” I asked her.

“Hi!” she responded.

Near the entrance of the mall, a homeless man with a long, tangled, silver beard sat on a bench alongside a large bag of bottles and cans. Through the doors, I could hear the jingle of bells from the Salvation Army volunteers. Ella marched up to the man and said,

“Santa?”

He grinned, a wide, toothless grin.

The “real” Santa was sweet to my kids. He listened intently and took a long look at Ben’s picture. For the briefest of moments, I believed he really was making a mental note for Christmas Eve. Ella ran up to him and said, “Hi! Hi Santa!” Daniel climbed shyly onto his lap and, in a last minute change of play, requested lego guys. Caleb stood on the periphery, wringing his hands and anxiously awaiting his turn to prove his worthiness.

I love observing the vast differences in their personalities.

Yeah, the greed bothers me. And yes, I’ve said things like, “There are starving children in Africa!” Or, “There are starving children in Asia!” They don’t get it. They’ve never seen it, never experienced poverty or coldness. For God’s sake, Ella thought the homeless man was Santa.

At times, their generosity and caring eclipses the greed. Like when Ben spent an hour designing an elaborate Christmas crown for Daniel. Or when Daniel and Ella proudly bestowed the gift of a candle upon their Sunday School teachers. And when I ask them what Christmas is REALLY about, and they look at me like I have two heads.

“It’s Jesus’s birthday, silly,” said Ben.

Duh.

Four days until Christmas. Four days to clean the house, get caught up on the laundry, wrap the gifts, make Christmas cookies, buy a ham, and remember that behind the temporary greedy exteriors of my gift-wanting kids are four little souls with incredible gift-giving potential.

Mele Kalikimaka

Yesterday. Ella woke up, found a permanent marker (gotta put a tighter lid on my collection of scrapbooking supplies) and drew all over her face and hands. What a debacle this girl is.

I was not in the best of moods. There is still a mouse (mice?) dwelling within these walls, and they are of supreme intelligence. They evade the many mousetraps I have set out. I have spent several late evenings running around the house like a wack-a-doo with a bowl, trying to capture mice (or one mouse- it’s hard to say) I spy scurrying along the sides of the walls. It always ends with the mouse escaping and me making plans to move right away.

On a related note, I did catch Daniel one day. In a mouse trap, not under a bowl. He’s fine, though I suppose we’re lucky his finger is not broken. Please don’t call child services; I’m a capable parent 85% of the time, which I think is a reasonable percentage.

Thursday night, John was off to NY and I was all alone, contending with my unwanted guests. I slept with the covers over my head and got up several times in the night to run around with my bowl. I got four hours of restless sleep. I have this nightmare where a mouse tries to climb into my brain through my ear.

We went grocery shopping after my Friday morning Mothers-in-Touch meeting, where Ella tried to ride my friend’s dog like a horse. The dog was really quite lovely about it.

Then we went to Target. Got Ella new boots- pink suede ones she picked out. Daniel picked out Spiderman sneakers and I bought Caleb new shoes AND boots. I feel a little bad about sending him out in the snow and slush in sneakers that had holes in the toes.

“My teacher said I couldn’t go outside wearing these shoes. She wouldn’t feel right about it, she said.”

So that’s embarrassing.

After I spent a copious amount of money on footwear, we went to Wegmans, where a man in a large landscaping truck screeched through the parking lot, parked across from us, slammed his door, and proceeded to scream a collection of eclectic curse words at his skinny and meek looking female companion. He hit the top of his truck, he was so mad about “how stupid she was.”

Because I am fearless, I said, “Hey! Do you mind? My kids can hear you!”

He responded, “Mind your own *expletive* business!” Then he started walking toward me. He looked angry and I felt threatened. So I stuck my hand in my purse and said,

“You come any closer and you’re going to be very sorry.” He did come closer, so I pepper-sprayed him in the eyeballs.

This is all true, up to the part where I said “Hey! Do you mind?” What I actually did was put the twins into the van very quickly. Then, I unloaded my cereal and bananas with intense focus, making certain not to look in the angry man’s direction while taking care not to smush my bread. I always smush my bread.

I am not fearless. Plus, did you know it can actually be worse for the victim of physical and verbal abuse if you intervene? The abuser will take out their embarrassment and anger on the victim later.

But oh man, sometimes I do fantasize about using my pepper spray. Be forewarned.

Later at home, while sweeping the kitchen floor, I found a long lock of golden Ella hair. This was alarming. I scooped her up and examined her head. Indeed, I found a spot where the golden lock should have remained.

“Ella! Did you cut your hair?” I asked.

“Ella cut my hair, too!” Daniel interjected.

“What? Where?” He pointed to a sparse looking spot on the top of his head. “Why did you let her do that?”

“I need haircut.” This is true. He does need a haircut.

“Well, sweetie- Ella might not be the most qualified person to perform this task. Please don’t let her do that again.”

“Kay.” He shrugged and we all went about our day. No use crying over spilt hair.

John returned home before dinner and I waited expectantly for my gift, because John ALWAYS brings me a gift when he goes to NY without me. It’s Christmas time, so naturally I expected to receive snow globe of the NYC skyline from Saks.

But, no gift. No snow globe. The romance is fizzling.

“Viggo Mortensen would’ve brought me a snow globe,” I thought.

I had waited until John got home to clean up a mess the mice had made. I wanted him to see the extent of the horribleness of living with rodents.

“Look at this? What do you think these are?” I pointed to a mess in the corner of the counter behind the toaster.

“Little dead bugs?” he guessed.

“No. That is mouse EXCREMENT!!! I’ve got no snow globe and I’m living with mice! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT I AM THIS CLOSE TO HAVING A VERY UNIQUE KIND OF NERVOUS BREAKDOWN?”

So, we now have a fancier mousetrap, and if the mice are not dead, yes dead, by the end of this weekend, the professionals may be called.

Last night, Kiah peed on the rug. Caleb wet the bed. At 5:30 am, Ben puked all over his covers and the rug.

I have gone through two 22 fluid ounces of Resolve Carpet Cleaner for pets (which happily also removes puke smells) since September.

Right now, I’m supposed to be decorating for Christmas. I hauled up the bins, started decorating, and abandoned the project because I felt overwhelmed. Downstairs, it looks very much like Christmas exploded all over my kitchen. This also might be because I stupidly left Ella alone for like ten seconds with a vile of silver glitter.

On Christmas Eve, I’m totally hitchhiking a ride on Santa’s sled- a Hawaiian Christmas sounds lovely.

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.

I've got one hand in my pocket and the other one is teaching my children to speak directly

I’m trying to teach Caleb and Ben to be less passive-aggressive. Passive-aggressiveness is like a limp handshake; both make me squirm. (Daniel and Ella do not have this problem. They are bold about their requests. Probably a bit too bold, actually.)

Today, I took the kids to the Walmart to get Benjamin a bicycle. Tomorrow is his preschool’s annual bike rodeo, and I didn’t want him to be the only kid riding around a Big Wheel. Nothing like waiting ‘til the very last minute; the kid can’t even ride it that well and would probably have more fun in the Big Wheel, but darn it, I don’t want him to be, God forbid, DIFFERENT.

I realize I have issues.

I promised everybody I’d get a special treat for the ride home. Have you noticed how ridiculously inexpensive Oatmeal Cream Pies are? 1.42 at the Walmart. For a whole box.

Yum.

I put the kids in the car and shoved Oatmeal Cream Pies in their mouths so I could listen to Alanis Morrisette in peace. (On a side note, Ella loves Alanis. She likes to sing “Everything’s gonna be fine fine fine!” I don’t play her that other song. You know what song I’m talking about. It’s the song I sing to John when I’m feeling bitter but empowered. Actually, Alanis may be the perfect example of a woman who does NOT suffer from passive-aggressive behavior.)

The kids consumed their pies before the song was over. Caleb piped up from the far-reaches of the mini-van, “I really wish I had another Oatmeal Cream Pie.”

I did not answer. After all, it was not a question. It was an irritating passive-aggressive prompt. It was like nails on a chalkboard.

He said it again.

I ignored him again.

Finally, he asked, “May I have another, please?” My method is obviously working and I am obviously brilliant.

I grinned at him in the rearview mirror. His eyes lit up and he leaned forward with eager anticipation.

“Nope! One’s enough,” I said.

The problem with training kids not to be passive-aggressive is this: when they are finally direct about their desires, the answer is almost always no.

Here are some common statements I’d like the boys to modify:

A rainy day is a good day to Play Xbox… (Accompanied by plaintive look.)
Modification: May I please play Xbox?
Answer: No.

I guess I’ll never ever go to Disneyworld. (Big sigh.)
Modification: Can we go to Disneyworld for vacation this year?
Answer: If you can pay for it, sport.

It would be nice to have candy for snack today. (Hopeful glance.)
Modification: May we have candy for snack?
Answer: Sorry, buddy. Mommy ate all the candy about an hour ago.

And all of the Oatmeal Cream Pies, for that matter.

(I guess I’ll never ever be skinny now. Accompanied by plaintive stare.)

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.

The Law of Twins

I have decided that this is the year I stop using the television as a babysitter.

It just made it so much easier to get stuff done. I could clean the upstairs bathrooms without Ella trying to “help” i.e. “throw stuff in the toilet.” I could pay bills online without Ella attempting to slide head-first down the laundry chute. (There have been very few instances in life that have incited panic the way that witnessing Ella’s tiny butt and dangling legs slowly disappear into the entrance of the laundry chute did.) I could talk on the phone without worrying that Daniel would pull a chair across the kitchen and get into my stash of m&ms and eat them and then smear his chocolate-covered paws all over the sofa.

The greatest calamities, however, happen when they work together. I’ll address this in a moment.

I have profound guilt about using the television as a babysitter. I don’t know how much television other parents allow their children to watch, because it is a “taboo” subject, like confessing your actual weight and telling what you really think of Oprah.

The television fails as a babysitter on many levels. I have just read an article entitled “What to Consider When Looking for a Great Babysitter.” First, they ask you to consider the babysitter’s age. My television is but a year old. No sane person would leave their children in the care of a one-year old.

My television cannot drive, cannot dial 911, just sits like a lump when the kids are sleeping, shows pictures of snacks but doesn’t actually provide them for the children, shows pictures of clean dishes but won’t clean the ones in my sink, occasionally talks about inappropriate subject matters, and refuses to divulge its gender.

On the other hand, it is funny, it says nice things, and it can be educational. If you consider Dora the Explorer educational.

Yesterday, I dropped Ben off at school and came home. I left the television off all morning. At one point, I went upstairs to check my e-mail. In my absence, the twins took a box of raisins off of the counter, threw them all over the carpeted dining room, and then stomped on them with relish. They did this quietly with exceptional speed and great purpose. This is the law of twins: all twins convene in the womb and strategize complex plans of destruction they will later refer to in order to wreak havoc in their new habitat. They probably do this out of revenge: they are royally pissed they had to share a uterus for such a long period of time. Daniel has already said,

“It’s SO UNFAIR!!!! Caleb and Ben never had to share a uterus!”

It was in the womb that Daniel and Ella became an excellent team, like Bonnie and Clyde, Frank and Jesse James, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, or Bush and Cheney.

This morning, Ella threw up lots and lots of raisins that appear, in their regurgitated state, more like small purple grapes.

This is what I get for being well-intentioned. It appears that even an extremely poor babysitter is better than none at all.

Since Ella is feeling under-the-weather, she watched television most of this morning. So, tomorrow, it’s back to square one. The boob tube will go off and I will keep a closer eye on them. Maybe I’ll add a little “structure” to our morning. Maybe some finger painting or book reading or pranking daddy’s cell phone. That’s always a good time.

Summer cannot come fast enough.