Tag Archives: Oliver

My Children Are Gross and Annoying

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You think I’m kidding?

I’m not.

You think I’m awful?

Okay – maybe I am. But I’m just stating facts. As adorable as they may be, my children have their flaws, and the toddler/preschool years have been a real treat.

Let’s start with “gross.”

Oliver picks his nose. And he eats it. I probably shouldn’t admit this because there is nothing funny about it. No justification through laughter and commiseration. It’s just gross and embarrassing and I LIVE for the day when I can tell him how he used to torture me with this revolting (and seemingly unbreakable) habit. Later in life, I will in turn, torture him with the knowledge that he was a nose picker (and eater) as a long past due punishment. Probably in front of his high school girlfriend.

Also, he’s obsessed with dirt.


Meaning that he can’t walk past a patch of dirt and NOT shuffle through it. He likes the big dust clouds that result since they are reminiscent of the steam clouds he sees in his bajillion Thomas the Tank Engine DVDs. He calls this “down tracks” (as in trains going down the tracks). I get it. I know what he’s going for. But to the rest of the world? It just looks like a giant four year old in a cloud of dust. We’ve started calling him Pig-Pen. Which sounds much cuter than it actually is.

But the real gross out factor of this love affair with dirt is that ANY form of dirt or dirt-like substance will do. Rolling around in sand at the beach? Acceptable. Shoving your hand into public ashtrays on the street? Disgusting. “Oliver! No dirt!” has become my signature bellow around the neighborhood.

Then there’s George.


And George? Pees. Everywhere. On the carpet, on the stairs, on the basement couch (by the way – you should TOTALLY come over to watch movies one night…sit down, make yourself comfortable…), on the bathroom floor IN FRONT OF the toilet… It’s like having a puppy. Except I can’t whack him on the nose with a newspaper when he does it.

There is no potty training-related excuse for this behavior because he LOVES going potty. Especially flushing. While Oliver gained 10 lbs eating mini marshmallows as he sat on the potty, George has needed no incentive beyond flushing. And he’ll keep going if I let him. We’ve had to enforce a strict one flush rule in our house for fear of George running up the water bill – or just breaking all of the toilets. Which is entirely possible since he will go from potty to potty if I don’t watch him. It’s a “round the world” of potties if you will. Maybe he’s marking his territory? That would explain all of the peeing on the floor…

While I wouldn’t say that Eleanor is gross, her delight in anything gas-related would put a twelve year old boy to shame. I’ve already written about this – but it doesn’t seem to be a phase that she’ll outgrow anytime soon. She also loves to simulate the noises, and has become quite good at it.

I’m trying to get her to replace her squeals of laughter with a simple “excuse me” when she does “furt” (her pronunciation), but she’s not picking it up. Here is a recent conversation we had:

Eleanor: Mommy! I FURTED!

Me: Well what do you say when you fart?

Eleanor: I say PPTHTTTT!

Me: Let me clarify that…What do you say AFTER you fart?

She only came up with “excuse me” when I gave her the answer.

Oh – and if you think it’s crass that I actually let her use the word “fart” instead of “toot” or “pass gas” or some other more ladylike variation…we’re so beyond that at this point…I don’t even try.

Eleanor is probably more annoying than she is gross though. So I’ll start with her on that topic.

Eleanor has to be the center of attention at all times. And she’s a quick study. So I have to think long and hard about what might constitute positive reinforcement.

She used to be such a tough little cookie and would barely pause to brush the bloody gravel off her knees after a fall while playing outside with her brothers. So OF COURSE I would fuss over her when she did cry. That always meant that she must be really hurt.

I’m not entirely sure when this changed, but at some point my little Camille figured out that a few tears would be her golden ticket to spotlight city. So now she’s always hurt.


I should really count the number of times that she says “I hurt my neck” on a given day. I’m not sure why that’s her injury of choice, but the fact that she usually points to her stomach or her elbow when she says it, doesn’t provide any clues. And she can squeeze out some real tears too. She’s got skillz, that one… But you know – it’s really annoying.

My mother recently noticed that every time she talks to Eleanor on the phone, she gets an update on all of her granddaughter’s boo boos.

Good god, but it’s like she’s an old woman! If you ask her how she’s doing, you’ll hear all about her ailments “well…I’m coming down with a head cold and my sciatica has been acting up…but I’m getting by…” Sheesh!

But her twin brother, George has an even more annoying method for getting attention: he screams.

And when I say, he screams, I don’t mean he cries or yells or even bellows. I mean, he makes noises that would rival the shrieks of any Von Helsing vampire bride. He can shatter glass with his screams.

As an “intense” child, George seems to find a multitude of triggers for his screams. It could be something as obvious as a sibling snatching a toy from him to more unusual transgressions, such as my insistence that he wear pants when out on the front lawn.

Either way – his screams are unsettling. And cause sharp pains in your ears. Hopefully, he’ll grow out of this. Or cultivate a successful future career as an opera singer.

And last but not least, there is Oliver. The dirt flinging is pretty annoying – but he’s got so much more to offer than just that!

I’d have to say that he is most annoying when he’s feeling particularly boisterous. Sensory issues play a huge role in his special needs and this boy really likes physical contact. He doesn’t just sit next to you…he sits on you. And if you think you’ll just teach him a lesson by sitting on top of him for a change, you should save yourself the effort. He’ll love it.

I can’t bend over to pick up toys without bracing myself for the inevitable impact of his assault. He’s not a violent child. He just feels the need to lunge at the people he loves.

I’ve decided that I’d make a fantastic line backer now (minor league of course since I’m only 5′ 6″ and not exactly beefy). I can shift my center of gravity on a dime. I now have a sixth sense for detecting a sneak attack, and I rarely lose my footing. I went to Fordham University, so my sparse knowledge of football history includes Vince Lombardi. And I think I’d make a very respectable eighth block of granite.

But for all of their annoying qualities, I’m sure the feeling is mutual. I can only imagine how sick they are of my constant nagging:

“Don’t touch that!“

“Get out of the street!“

“Come back here!“

“Don’t hit!“

“Don’t eat that!“

“Don’t throw dirt!“

“Not around the neck!“

I suspect that a lot of eye rolling goes on behind my back. “God – she’s so shrill.“

So we all have our quirks. But I’m not nearly as gross as they are. Unless of course you count the mass quantities of junk food I put away each day. Though I don’t consider that gross as much as just flat out survival.

The Island of Misfit Toys

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I’m over at DC Metro Moms today writing about something very close to my heart. Please read it even though it’s a bit long (of course it is – I wrote it!) and comment if you have your own story to share, a different perspective to present, or even if you only have time for a quick “so-and-so was here.”

The Island of Misfit Toys

Parenting is hard, and with school starting for Oliver this week, I’m in a very “we’re all in this together” frame of mind…

The Island of Misfit Toys

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(click image if you have never heard of the “the island of misfit toys”)

On Friday, I went to the open house for my son, Oliver’s preschool. He’ll be in the afternoon class with the older kids, but the morning class for the younger ones was there as well, making it twice as chaotic and confused.

Everyone had questions about bus schedules, school forms and cafeteria lunches. Everyone tried to keep one eye on their children while maintaining appropriate eye contact with the teachers providing answers. Everyone forgot half the questions they wanted to ask as well as each other’s names seconds after every awkward handshake.

And since I had to bring my two year old twins along for the ride, I was probably the worst of the overwhelmed, overstimulated bunch. But there was one conversation that didn’t end with the tug of a small hand or the sudden realization that a child was no longer visible.

I met one woman who tugged at my heart with her obvious loneliness and her own perceived invisibility. Her need for connection and understanding was palpable. And I recognized all of this in her pleasant smile and bright small talk because I have felt all of the same things myself.

I too have a special needs child.

All parents of children with special needs have felt alone and confused. And we all need to find others. People just like us, who know what it’s like to watch other children effortlessly join playground games and amaze grownups with their precocious conversation. We’ve all been on the other side of that social fence, blending in like chameleons. Hoping that no one notices our own child’s challenges and questions them. Or worse – makes uninformed excuses for them.

I listened to this woman’s story about how friends she’s had since childhood now avoid her. They have typical children and no tolerance for her son’s “bad” behavior. They either don’t want to put up with it, or possibly they just feel uncomfortable around her. But the outcome is the same. She is alone. She doesn’t fit in with them anymore.

I gave her my phone number and told her to call me any time. Maybe we could have a play date since her son and my twins are very close in age. My twins are what I’ve learned to call “typical,” but I have no fear of exposing them to a child who isn’t. They live with one already. And I know how much that little boy, like his mother will need friends who understand.

Oliver is four years old and has been in Fairfax County’s special preschool program since he was two. Looking back, I realize how incredibly lucky we were to find out about his delays so early on.

He was our first baby, so we had no means of comparison. Sure, we have plenty of friends with children the same age, but when they’re so little, those differences can easily be explained away. You can say that all babies develop at different rates (true) and that their very unique personalities would encourage different areas of strength (also true). But without that personal experience of watching another child grow and learn, you just don’t have that instinct that tells you “something isn’t right this time.”

Some mothers claim that even without older children, they just knew. But I looked at my big (and I mean HUGE), healthy 18 month old and thought he was fine. In fact, I thought he was better than just fine. I thought he was beautiful, wonderful…miraculous. And he was…he is. But he does have significant speech and social delays.

He did then too. But he was so young. And so much could be explained away. AND he had just become a big brother to newborn twins.

What child wouldn’t withdraw, act out and even regress a little? So what if he didn’t quite fit in with the others? His whole world had been turned upside down. Of course it affected him. It all seemed pretty normal to me. But months later I had to admit that he just wasn’t catching up. He wasn’t like my friends’ “normal” toddlers.

With some prompting from concerned relatives, we took him to a private child psychologist who established that he was in fact very delayed and would benefit from early intervention as soon as possible.

Then we got smart and started talking to people. We discovered that there were county funded programs for special needs children (although we weren’t actually using that term yet…not yet…) And we contacted Child Find.

We learned that we never needed to pay for that first round of testing since our tax dollars afforded us free services. But of course this is the lot of special needs parents – to continually learn what we didn’t have to do, what we should have done, what we could have given our child, but just didn’t know…

But we quickly learn to move on from that and not beat ourselves up. Or at least we try.

It’s hard to accept this inability to identify your child’s need. Your baby cries and you feed him, change him or hold him. He gets sick and you take him to the doctor. He grows and you buy him new clothes. Your job is to meet these needs. Any and all needs. It is your new reason for being. The most important job you’ll ever have.

And then, one day you find that you failed.

But these new needs allow no room for self flagellation. There is too much to learn and do. And to waste time on guilt seems pretty selfish.

So does the new source of anxiety for a special needs parent: the fact that you no longer fit in either.

Special needs don’t start and end with the child. They are part of the family as a whole. You become a group of misfits. A band of intrepid explorers, thrust into uncharted territory without a map or a compass. All families are different, as are the journeys they take together – so no one gets a guide. Survival hinges on everyone doing their part. Loyalty to the team is imperative. There are no solo missions.

Unfortunately, the leaders rarely volunteer for the post. It’s the lottery ticket that no one really wanted or expected. And not one of us could claim to be instantly skillful team captains. Basically – it all really sucks, and our initial reaction is to avoid ever leaving the ship.

Suddenly the voice mail from a friend wanting to set up a play date doesn’t make you smile and run to check your calendar. It makes you begin the endless cycle of “what if” worrying: “What if he doesn’t want to be there and cries? What if he plays rough and hurts the other child? What if he refuses to listen to me and I have to go through the motions of yet another ineffectual time out, just to look like I’m TRYING to be a good parent?” And the deepest, darkest of worries – the one we so rarely speak aloud: “What if he embarrasses me?”

It’s so tempting to go for the isolation option. To stick with your own kind.

But all of that changes when you meet other special needs families. It’s so comforting to be with the other misfits. They get it. They don’t look uncomfortable when your son is rolling around on the ground. Or kicking up dust clouds without any regard for the people next to him. Or pushing other children to get their attention. They don’t assume that his age or size would make him more mature. They don’t assume anything. They just smile and nod. There’s no need for words. They just know. We all know.

And that is what special preschool has become for me. A safe haven. An oasis in a desolate landscape. A private island where no one gets voted off. Acceptance is mandatory. In fact, it’s second nature.

The children get the special services they so desperately need, but they also become part of a community. They meet children with the same challenges, with worse delays, with higher functionality and with very limited scope for improvement. They are all misfits. All broken to one degree or another. But all deserving of love and appreciation.

They are safe on their island, and they are loved. Their needs are recognized and prioritized, and their triumphs – no matter how small – are celebrated.

The parents spend no more time in the special preschool classroom than do parents of children in private preschools. But our hearts are there every second of the day. And not just in the expected way that parents claim to leave a piece of themselves behind at drop off. For those of us with special needs kids, those classrooms aren’t just a place for learning – they are a place for hope.

And oh – but isn’t that the most beautiful, terrible, spirit lifting, soul crushing, incandescent word that a parent can say, feel, pray….”hope.”

Because that’s what it boils down to in the end. We sit on that island with our polka dots and square wheels and inability to fly and our…what exactly was wrong with that doll again? I never did understand that one… But we all sit there together. And we hope.

Together.

Which is the opposite of alone.

But it doesn’t end there. It can’t. Because hope isn’t enough. You can’t live on an island.

It’s nice to have a port in a storm, but we all live in the real world where (to really beat a metaphor to death) it isn’t always smooth sailing. People are unkind. They are busy and cranky, and they would rather gossip than research. The real world isn’t perfect and neither are the people in it.

Which brings up an interesting point: no one is perfect.

No child is perfect. No parent is perfect. No family is perfect.

We’re all flawed. We’ve all felt like outsiders at one time time or another. We’ve all felt lonely – even invisible. So in a way, we’re all misfits. Atypical.

And what defines typical anyway? I think it’s simply a majority rule. But a majority based on sweeping generalizations.

Which is fair. Because who has time for case by case living?

But I would ask one thing of the more typical misfits out there. Please try to make time for compassion.

Don’t assume that a child is “bad” based on their behavior. Don’t assume that their parents aren’t trying. Don’t assume anything.

You never know when you might be on that side of that fence. And when you are, you’ll appreciate a little empathy. Not sympathy – never sympathy – but an acknowledgement that things are usually more complicated than they appear. Something that everyone knows from personal experience.

Your polka dots may not match my square wheels. In fact, you probably look like that totally normal doll (I think she may have had a psychological problem?) But we’re all misfits in our own way. And you should make a little time to recognize this.

Because it takes one to know one.

I Never Thought I’d Wear Sunglasses (Alternately Titled: Shooting Practice Starts Tomorrow)

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A few weeks ago when we were in Rehoboth Beach, my mother in law and I packed up the kids to drive over to Bethany where one of my friends has a house. She and her sister were staying there with their five children, four of whom were boys.

Once we all found each other, we spent most of our time by the water. We stood sentry watching all of our boys hurl themselves into the surf. And we counted heads in the foam while trying to hold a conversation between exclamations of “don’t throw sand!” and “that’s too far, come back here!”

My boy was right in the middle of this. This sensory overload of wind and water and squishy, grainy sand between his toes. He was in his element – in the elements. He needs to feel things and he needs to immerse himself in the moment without inhibitions. And what better place than the beach?

He also loved being in the middle of all of those boys. They were his people. They understood the joy of throwing wet sand in the air just to feel it splatter all around them. They wanted nothing more than to live in that moment with the waves crashing around them, drowning out the sound of their screams of laughter. They were just like him.

In that moment.

But only in that moment.

They called to each other and knew when to push and when to pull. They knew when to stop and when to start again (obviously when mom was looking the other way). They understood the rules of the game. They both made and discussed the rules. In bits and pieces of course – but still, they communicated. Communication came easily to them.

Communication does not come easily to my boy. He doesn’t know when to stop. He doesn’t know when pushing isn’t welcome. He doesn’t know the rules. He doesn’t know how to join. He wants so much to join – to play. But he doesn’t know how. So he just watched.

And I watched him from behind my sunglasses, happy to see him having fun even if it seemed a little lonely. Happy that he couldn’t see the tears welling in my eyes. Happy that my friend couldn’t see the tears either and only heard me talking about doctors and school and how well he’s doing. Because that’s really all I want anyone to see.

When I was a teenager, all of my friends wore sunglasses. but I never did. I didn’t like them. They gave me “raccoon eyes” in the summer and felt out of place with my coats and hats in the winter. Not to mention the fact that they never did look good on me. Back then it was always about how I looked.

Now I’m the one doing the looking. I don’t care as much about how I look. Sunglasses will never compliment my face with its long, slightly crooked nose – but I need them to see my children through the glare. I need them to see the road when I’m driving on a sunny day. I need them to be responsible. So I wear them. And I’ve found that they are pretty useful. They allow me to be the observer and they can hide what I don’t want people to see.

I also wear my sunglasses at the neighborhood pool where I take my children most late afternoons. After the twins wake up from their nap, I load up all of our towels and waters and changes of clothes and snacks and push the double stroller uphill, calling for Oliver to wait for me at the corner. Which he always does – but I ask him to anyway, just in case.

When we arrive, we head straight for the baby pool. At two, the twins are still too little to stand in the shallow end of the big pool like their four year old brother. This suits me just fine since Oliver is still young enough to be satisfied with the baby pool and I can sit with a magazine while they play. Or at least I can for a few minutes at a time, since I frequently have to administer warnings and time outs for bad behavior.

One thing I like about this time of day is that the pool tends to be rather deserted. More accomplished mothers are thinking about cooking family dinners at 5 p.m. My children will only eat kid food and my husband and I don’t usually have formal meals together due to all of the corralling required before their late, but “works best for them” bedtime between 8:30 and 9:00 p.m. When no other families are at the pool, only our own rules apply.

If Oliver is splashing, I can ignore it. That is, as long as his siblings don’t mind. And they often join in. If Oliver is being too rough and pushing them as part of some inexplicable game of his, I can just watch and see how it goes. I don’t need to stand or look alert as a show for the other parents. I can see just fine from my shady seat. My sunglasses cut the glare. Everything is crystal clear and I know exactly when to step in and when to let them work it out.

But more often than not we arrive at the tail end of another family’s pool time. And I have to stand and administer twice as many time outs as I would if we were alone. I have to find ways to tell the other mothers that Oliver has a hard time knowing when to stop. In Oliver’s mind, if another child seems to like being splashed at from across the pool, why wouldn’t they like it at closer range? And at that point, why not cut out the middle man and just shove them back into the water? Sounds fun to him!

So I can spend an hour having the same one-sided conversation with him over and over. Telling him to stop. Asking him to be gentle. Pleading with him to listen.

He wants to comply. I know he does. He wants to please me and he wants to please these desired friends (he has the makings of “a pleaser” – something else that worries me – but that’s another concern for another day). He wants to get it right. He just doesn’t know how.

I always keep my sunglasses on when we’re at the pool.

The other day, a few kids a year or two older than Oliver were in the baby pool during adult swim (everyone seems to call it “break” now – is “adult swim” no longer PC or something?) Anyway – they were being rowdy and Oliver was thrilled. They were pulling out the hose that was supposed to be filling the pool with more water. They were spraying each other with it and splashing and eventually ran to get their water guns.

As they stood there spraying each other and yelling unintelligible things about Star Wars, a movie that I doubt any of them has actually seen, Oliver decided to join in.

It didn’t work. He didn’t know the rules.

He splashed around in the middle of them when no one was splashing. They asked him to stop, but he didn’t understand. If they were shooting water at each other, then why wouldn’t splashing be allowed? A younger sister in the group, exactly Oliver’s age, explained, “we’re playing Star Wars now – you can play Star Wars too, but you can’t play with us if you keep splashing.”

So of course I had to intervene.

At this point, I didn’t think I had ever said, heard and thought the word “splash” so many times within the space of five minutes. It had completely lost all meaning and was just a rude noise that made me feel decidedly uncomfortable. It was an expletive. A swear word. I wanted it to not exist anymore. I was done with it.

But Oliver wasn’t. He didn’t understand, and I had to pull him aside. No time out though. How could I when he had only the best of intentions? Instead I offered to drag him around the other side of the pool. Something he loves and I hate. He loves the feeling of the water rushing all around him from head to toe. I hate the feeling of hunching over to pull a 60 lb. four year old from one end of the baby pool to the other.

Meanwhile Star Wars continued, Oliver still didn’t understand what was wrong with “splashing” (excuse my French) and I hid behind my sunglasses.

And I made plans.

Apparently shooting water at each other is generally okay at the pool. Or if it isn’t, it’s not unusual for kids to not know when to stop. Quite simply – it’s not weird.

So while I pulled Oliver around the pool, I made plans to take the kids gun shopping the next day. We didn’t own any water guns, but we would soon own an arsenal.

Oliver could learn to shoot a water gun. And the next time there was a game of Star Wars at the pool, we’d be ready. You don’t need to have good communication skills to play shooting games.

I never thought I’d like sunglasses. And I never thought I’d encourage my children to play with toy guns. But I guess I never thought I’d be doing a lot of things.

I have a friend who also has a son with special needs. His are very different from Oliver’s but there are so many parallels to our lives… I love this girl. She speaks my language. The language of mother grief. Of future worry. She worries that her son will wear all black and write dark poetry about death and Japanese anime. I worry that Oliver will be Tommy Boy. We have to laugh. It’s necessary – and we both understand this.

It’s nice to be understood. And that’s probably what most breaks my heart about Oliver. No one really understands him. So I’ll give him a water gun if that helps. And I’ll laugh, and I’ll hope. And I’ll always wear my sunglasses. Just in case.

Polarn O. Pyret: A Giveaway and Some Boring Home Movies of My Kids

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This morning, I got a little slap on the hand from BlogHer for hosting a giveaway above a certain price point on a page displaying their ads (seems I’m not so good at reading the fine print on contracts). So I had to take a break from my blogging black out week to move that post HERE.

I’ll be taking entry comments both here and on the new post, so no need to comment a second time if you’ve already done so. Sorry for the confusion.

Okay – back to my vacation!

Last Sound Bytes of the Week

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Okay – I had a few more – one from each child. So I thought I’d do a final installment of Sound Bytes.

Starting with Oliver.

We have several kid DVDs that mention The Great Wall of China (Little Einsteins, National Geographic, etc.), and I guess he recently took notice of this landmark. Suddenly, he gets really excited whenever he sees it and yells, “Look Mommy – the BIG Wall of CHINAAH!” Now all three of my kids call it The “Big” Wall of China. This is a source of endless amusement for me.

Then George. (Or as he likes to say, “now George – now George!”)

On our daily walk to the pool, we pass a house that displays several garden gnomes in throughout the landscaping. The twins can’t get enough of them and point excitedly every time they come into view. It’s like they’re actual gnomes running around pushing wheelbarrows and mending bird wings. Anyway – it took about two weeks for George to be able to say “gnome.” He insisted on calling them “omens.” He could easily manage the phonetic pronunciation of “nome” – yet no matter how many times I (and Eleanor, my self appointed T.A.) would ask him to, “repeat after me – NOOOOME,” his response would always be, “OOOOOMEN.” (With a huge smile) Finally yesterday he said “NOMES!” and I though, “FINALLY!” Then Eleanor said “OMENS!” Sigh.

And last but not least (never least), Eleanor.

Yesterday, George took several crayons and drew all over one of the couches. Literally right behind my back. I heard a scribbling on fabric noise behind me (at this point of motherhood I know that sound well) and when I whipped around to find the source, there he was working three crayons at once at Looney Tunes speed. Within seconds he managed to cover the entire back of the couch. I was furious. We talk about “only drawing on paper” something like…oh, I don’t know…FIFTY times a day.

While he was in solitary upstairs , I used a magic eraser to eradicate the marks, and Eleanor kept me company with her running commentary on the entire debacle:

Eleanor: George drew on the furniture. He drew right there.

Me: Yes and we NEVER draw on the furniture.

Eleanor: No. George is in time out. Because he drew right there.

Me: That’s right. He’s in time out because we NEVER draw on the walls or on the furniture. ONLY on paper.

Eleanor: I only draw on paper. Or I get time OUT.

Me: Yes – because drawing on furniture is VERY naughty.

Eleanor: [in wide-eyed seriousness] And it’s VERY dangerous.

I laugh every time I think about this. I guess they do tend to get in trouble for doing things that are “dangerous.” But George’s couch graffiti doesn’t quite qualify. Well – at least one of them is listening to me…

Sound Byte: And of Course, Oliver…

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There is a reason why I didn’t have any sound bytes for Oliver this week. Speech isn’t his strong suit. He says and does plenty of hilarious things that make me laugh, but they’re not always the kind of stories that other people would understand. It’s all very, “you had to be there” – these anecdotes in the world of developmental delays…

But in just a few words of his off kilter conversational stylings – he can reduce me to a muddy puddle in the public showers of motherhood tears:

Oliver: Big hug Mommy!

Me: [gasping for air in his bone crushing embrace] I love your hugs honey. They’re the best ones.

Oliver: Best hugs, Mommy. Best friend hug.

Then time stopped and I didn’t know if I’d ever breathe again.

Through the series of fireworks exploding in my heart [LOVE! HOPE! FEAR! ANGER! GRATITUDE! aaaand….wait for it….wait for it….UNREASONABLE, UNMITIGATED FAITH THAT IT WILL ALL TURN OUT OKAY!], I wished with every fiber of my being that he’ll one day look at me and roll his eyes at the ridiculous notion that his mother would ever be his best friend.

If that makes any sense.

Parenting Skills at Their Best

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I try to limit the potty training references since I have some readers without kids – and one of the perks to not having children is NOT having to spend your day talking about poop. So I’ll warn you now that it IS going to come up in this one. And it’s not going to be pretty.

On Monday evening, I arrived home alone with the kids. Chris had to drive separately that day, and as usual, he had metro problems delaying him by at least an hour. Now, I am home with alone with the kids quite a bit since Chris has to travel for work. But I’ve been finding it increasingly more complicated since the twins ceased to be blobs (that’s right all you Angelina haters – babies do start out as BLOBS) and have joined their older brother in his daily mission to make me a lunatic.

Actually, it’s been a while since anyone would call George and Eleanor “blobs” – but in the recent past, they were far more sedentary. Approaching their second birthday, they are now a force to be reckoned with, and taking your eyes off of them for more than a minute can result in nothing short of global thermonuclear war. Or at least a toilet paper trail from the bathroom that circles the first floor ten times.

The first half hour was a whirlwind of the usual chaos – a blur of kids playing, crying and climbing on furniture while I tried to make dinner, get the daycare bag emptied and start lunches for the following day. It’s impossible for me to remember the exact sequence of events up until the first minor crisis – but that that pretty much sums it up.

Once everyone was busy eating dinner and watching (surprise, surprise) yet another Wiggles DVD, I ran downstairs to change a load of laundry. Suddenly, I could hear Oliver calling to me, “Mommy! Mommy!” But it didn’t sound like he was upset, so I yelled, “just a minute” a few times until I was done. When I came upstairs, I realized that he was calling me to let me know that he had to go potty. He is really only 75% potty trained and still needs help getting through the process. So all I could do was hustle him into the bathroom as quickly as possible and hope that he could at least “finish” on the potty.

Though I was fairly sure he was done, I settled him on the toilet anyway and then ran to answer the phone. It was Chris. He was calling to let me know that he was still stuck on the metro and would get back to me once he was in his car. At this point, my half naked son walked into the kitchen to announce that he wanted ice cream. I asked if he was finished on the potty and then realized that not only was he finished, but he had the subject matter smeared all over his rear end (must have happened when I was pulling down his pull up). I instructed him to “stay right there” (which he didn’t) while I ran for the wipes. Then the phone started ringing again. I ignored it.

While I was cleaning off my three year old, I heard little voices coming from the bathroom. Great! Now the twins were in there, and most likely throwing things into the toilet. After another directive for Oliver to “stay there” (which he didn’t) I ran to find the twins and was relieved to see that they were only trying to climb onto the sink and not anywhere near the toilet. “Okay – everybody out!”

Once I got Oliver clean and busy with an activity, I saw that it was time for the twins’ bath. They raced up the stairs yelling “water!” and happily scampered into the kids’ bathroom. While simultaneously running the water, getting the twins undressed and blocking them from the tub until they were in fact naked, I saw that I was going to have a big problem on my hands… George must have run into his bedroom at some point, and was now clutching his blankie.

George is obsessed with his blankie, and I spend quite a bit of time tricking him into letting go of it so I can throw it upstairs while he’s distracted. I thought I had accomplished this when we got home, but my efforts were foiled by his wily reconnaissance. Now “Linus” wanted to bring the blankie into the tub with him. He is a toddler, and neither willing nor able to listen to reason. And since his current vocabulary consists of “car, truck, train, bus, more and thank you,” there was no point in trying to engage him in discussion about it. I had to forcibly remove the blanket and put him into the water kicking and screaming.

Eleanor splashed happily while George wailed and tried to climb out. I just washed him off quickly and then set him free to reunite with the blankie. Knowing that he had left the bathroom and could, that very minute be peeing all over the second floor, I rushed through Eleanor’s scrubbing. George and his blankie returned within minutes and I was just in time to stop him from throwing the paperback that he was aiming at the water. This was the final signal for bath time to be over, and against Eleanor’s vehement protestations, I pulled the plug. Within seconds I had two naked toddlers in Oliver’s room (where we have all of the bedtime books). One was crying (Eleanor) and one was trying to sneak out the door (George). I closed the door, placed myself in front of it and started stuffing them into their pajamas.

At this point, Oliver decided to come see what all of the commotion was about and tried to open the door. After a few seconds, I realized that he couldn’t get in, and that’s when it hit me: the door was LOCKED. The previous owners installed the door knob to Oliver’s bedroom so that it locked from the outside. I gratefully took advantage of this when we moved Oliver to his toddler bed, and found it comforting to know that I could lock the door and not worry about him wandering the house while I slept. But it never occurred to me that I could get locked in with him on the OUTSIDE.

Never one to panic, I responded to Oliver’s increasing anxiety with comforting promises that I would “fix it” and a lot of the ever popular, “in just a minute.” All the while, I was running through possible action plans. Climbing out the window was not an option since it would be a three story drop, but I thought a neighbor might be outside. So I opened the window and started calling for help. No dice. Everyone was inside their air conditioned homes.

Meanwhile Eleanor, sensing the terror in Oliver’s cries to get in, started crying even louder – which in return increased Oliver’s anxiety. George was furious that I had closed the window (because, you know – that was so much fun), and started crying as well. Great – now I had thee screaming children.

I considered trying to break the door down, but after one half hearted attempt, accepted the fact that I was not the Incredible Hulk. Then I remembered that there were a few wire hangers in Oliver’s closet. DUH – all I had to do was to use the end of a wire to poke the little hole in the door knob and spring the lock. Chris showed me how to do this in our old apartment when I used to worry about Oliver accidentally locking himself in the bathroom.

Within a minute, I had a red-faced, hysterical Oliver in my lap and equally upset twins climbing all over us. Once I had everyone somewhat calmed down, Oliver started dragging us out of the evil room that had kept us away from him for the TEN MINUTES that this drama probably took to unfold. I knew that only one thing could snap everyone out of their hysteria. So I asked, “hey – who wants ice cream?” And then all was golden.

While the twins should have been settling down to sleep and Oliver should have been preparing for his own bath, we sat around the kids’ table exclaiming over the miracle that is ice cream while traumatic events quickly disappeared from our blessedly fickle short term memories.

Good times.

Originally posted on July 24, 2008. I kind of jumped the gun on this last week with that Short Rant to a Short Man falshback. For some reason I thought it was the last Friday of the month… Ah well – one less post to write this week. Visit Scary Mommy for links to more Flashback Friday Posts!

ScaryMommy

Unfreezing Through Stream of Consciousness

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Here is the problem with taking a writing hiatus: you have no idea how to pick up where you left off. After two weeks of writing nothing, I’m not sure where to start. So I think I’ll just do a stream of consciousness recap of whatever comes to mind. I may expand on some things later (and I take requests!), but here’s the overview.

I was so sad that I couldn’t be at BlogHer, but I checked Twitter periodically to see what my friends were up to and read the post mortems – all of which were strangely satisfying… Maybe I don’t have to go – I can just read about it and feel like I was there?

One of the session topics that I’ve seen mentioned involved “finding your tribe” and I’ve found myself thinking about who my tribe is. The people I read and who read me are kind of all across the board… I have connections to people who consider themselves to be writers and people who claim to be straight up mommy bloggers with no writing talent (although I sometimes beg to differ). I know artists and designers, as well as style bloggers. I follow DIY gurus and green thumb goddesses. And I’ve shed many a tear from both laughing and crying. I don’t know that I can pick out one solid group that defines me – which is what I’ve always thought a tribe does: defines you.

It all reminds me of high school. But apparently that was how a lot of people felt about BlogHer. I told Stiletto Mom in an e-mail that I imagine I would have done pretty well at BlogHer because I was very good at high school. Of course I didn’t know it at the time, and assumed I was kind of a dork. But looking back, I can see that I was far more focused on my individual friendships than any need to keep up with the popular crowd. I was generally happy to make the most of where I was with very few longing glances at groups across the room. So if it works out, I think I will head up to NYC in 2010. And there will be an open invitation to join me at my lunch table – wherever that happens to be.

While everyone was reliving the 11th grade at BlogHer, I was at Rehoboth Beach reliving my youth. I love that beach… The beach itself was hideously crowded since our house was right in the center of things. But as a city kid (now at heart of course, since I live in the sticks), I will take shops and restaurants over quiet beaches. We could drive to a quiet beach if that’s what we wanted. I want to be able to walk to the boardwalk to pick up my iced coffee.

I’ll do a beach post with pictures next week. My camera broke about three days into the week (or more accurately, George broke it when he smacked it out of my hand during an evening walk – like I’m his paparazzi or something). My mother in law has all of the pictures after that, so she’ll have to send them to me.

Speaking of George smacking things out of my hands – the twins have turned into monsters. Remember when I jokingly compared them to this?


Yeah – not laughing anymore. They are really cute…


…but throw water on them, or take a ball point pen away from them, or tell them “no” or something and this is what happens:


I moved them into Oliver’s room recently so they’re all on the same schedule now. I couldn’t do two bedtime routines anymore and this was the only way it was going to work for us. So far, I like our new set up. The routine involves a bit too much jumping around for my liking, but when it’s time for lights out, everyone goes to their respective beds. Oliver is very much the enforcer when it comes to our bed time script and prompts me in a stage whisper, “okay – now go wie [lie] down mommy…okay now kiss Eleanor…now George…” It’s a bit disconcerting though because his stage whisper sounds like a devil voice. Not so fond of this in the dark…thank god for Twilight Turtle.

They are pretty cute though when I go into their room in the morning. They’re usually all twined up in a pile like puppies. I’ll have to take a picture.

Aside: Chris is watching a show like Cops right now, and I have to wonder, do men EVER wear shirts on these shows? Either way, they certainly aren’t doing any ab work.

Speaking of abs – I’ve been attempting to do the 30 Day Shred. Except I was unable to walk on day two, let alone do jumping jacks, so it was more like the every other day Shred that first week. Then I was vacation for week three and preferred to keep my exercise recreational. So far, I’ve only shredded once in the few days that I’ve been back, but I think I’m ready to get back on track. I’m not going to put too much pressure on myself (a surefire way to make me hate it), so it will probably be more of an every once in a while Shred kind of thing.

I like doing this now that I’m a stay at home mom. Previously, I’d worry about getting my workout in and having enough time to get ready for work and get the kids ready for daycare by our 8 a.m. leave time. So this freedom to officially start our day (i.e. turn off the TV for AT LEAST 30 minutes) at 9 a.m. without worrying about a commute is quite refreshing.

Speaking of being a stay at home mom – I really need to change my profile. I’ll try to remember that when I finish this post…

And it’s going well, thanks for asking. Except for the being good at it part. That’s still a work in progress. Previously, most of my “go to” plans for days alone with children involved food and television. Apparently this is frowned upon by people who have a thing against childhood obesity. God they’re judgey.

So I decided to attempt a home school program for preschoolers that my husband found on this site. It’s really great. Unfortunately, my children are defective. They don’t think that fun things are…fun. For instance, week one is supposed to be devoted to activities involving cows. FUN right? Well they? Don’t agree.

Monday morning at 9 a.m. I announced that we would be playing games about cows. After receiving three blank stares, I thought I’d jump right into some gross motor activities. “Okay,” I continued as I dropped down on all fours, “let’s all pretend we’re cows! Look at me – MOOOOO. Can you be a cow too? MOOOOO.” Oliver crawled over to me and said “NEIGH! Oliver’s a horse!” Of course Eleanor wanted to be a horse too. And I’m not sure what George was doing…maybe emptying the toy box?

So I gave up on that idea and put everyone in the car to hit the library and search for books on cows. We’ve only attempted the library a couple of other times, and they haven’t quite grasped the concept of being quiet and not trashing the place. But with our new cow-related mission, I figured that we had some direction.

The first thing they did when we arrived was run through the aisles in a kind of zig zag formation all the way to the opposite end of the library. I ran behind whisper-yelling at them to STOP (a stage whisper very similar to Oliver’s devil voice, now that I think of it…), which of course they ignored until I caught up to them and said that we would have to leave if they didn’t stop running.

I won’t bore you with details about them dismantling three shelves while I doggedly tried to read to them, my complete inability to understand the Dewey Decimal system, or the fact that we had to leave once they started running again. But can tell you that we did not find, let alone read one book on cows.

So far the rest of the week has been more of the same – but I feel that we’re making some headway. I’m very close to identifying the exact pitch to use while yelling for them to understand that I’m serious. Now THAT is progress.

Best part of the day? Right after the twins’ nap, I take them to the pool and I recline on a chaise while they splash around in the baby pool. This seems to be the ONLY activity that doesn’t require my constant participation.

So expect to see me on Twitter between 4-6 p.m. Unless of course it’s raining. Then we’ll all be eating cookies in front of the TV. But really good educational TV – maybe about cows.

And the Mother of the Year Award Goes to…

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The woman who let her four year old son snarf up a tic tac, then gave him a bloody nose trying to get it out with saline, and now isn’t sure exactly where and in what condition the tic tac is. Hopefully, dissolving quickly.

Yes, that would be me. I’m currently making up for this alien abduction-like procedure by allowing him to eat two bowls of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Here’s to malleable short term memories and the magic of frozen milk and sugar.

First week as a stay at home mom – holla!

Thankfully it’s also the last day of my wine and dessert-free month. I’m off to the beach tomorrow and since my ass can’t get any smaller in 24 hours, I may just cheat and have a glass of red tonight.

Back to blogging hiatus now…