Tag Archives: Oliver

Hubris Revisited

A week ago, I confessed to my overconfidence in taking care of my three small children for a week without any help. Well, as it turns out, I was right. It’s been easy. Hectic and loud – but more or less easy. Seriously – I deal with all of the same chaos when my husband isn’t out of town. So the only difference this week has been that I haven’t have to clean up after him too.

All in all, I’ve been so busy that the week has felt like a few days. I’m either at home dealing with babies or at work dealing with babies. Both scenarios allow for very little brooding time. So I’ve barely had the opportunity to miss Chris. And the fact that things have gone so well eliminates any murderous feelings that I may have to deal with upon his return. There will be no baleful looks or put upon sighs from me. His homecoming will be full of rainbows and unicorns.

With one exception.

I am still feeling good about the week and getting through it with such flying colors…but in the end I had to be punished for my hubris. Whether I confessed it or not – I still felt it. And I paid for it tonight. So my Friday confession is really just a reiteration of what I confessed last week. And the gods have in fact punished me for this fatal flaw. Tonight. In excrement.

Oliver has been sick for the past couple of days. Just a bad cold – but he hasn’t been himself. He’s not eating, he’s weepy over the smallest of things and it’s hard to wake him up in the morning (if he was a single woman I would think that someone just broke up with him). But in general, he’s still been a good boy and I’ve taken it in stride.

It has been a long time since I’ve had to worry about leaving Oliver in another room unsupervised. He doesn’t try to swallow small objects or stick fingers in electrical outlets anymore. He’s my “big boy.” He’s going to be four in a few months and has been potty trained since last summer. Worst case scenario – he may wet his pants if he can’t make it to the bathroom in time.

And that paragraph above is the second part of my damning hubris. I thought everything this week was “easy” AND I assumed that my potty trained child could be left alone for 20 minutes while I put the twins to bed.

After all of that build up, I’ll just cut to the chase: I heard Oliver calling for me and assumed that he needed a tissue – or at worst, had an accident. It was in fact, the worst case scenario – but far, far worse than pee pee pants…

I came downstairs to find my son standing there, holding his hands up in what appeared to be two catchers mitts. That’s right – his hands were completely covered in something brown. And I don’t think I need to elaborate on what that substance was.

[Insert hyperventilating mother here.]

I THINK that he pooped his pants (something that hasn’t happened since last summer) and then decided to “check it out.” Honestly – I have no idea why he did it… But he obviously knew that it was a bad move since he sounded the alarm.

I then had to carry all 50+ lbs of him up the stairs at arms length in order to get him to a sink where I could clean him off. THANK GOD he didn’t touch anything before I found him. As it was, I just barely avoided passing out from the stench.

Don’t get me wrong – I have two year old twins who are not potty trained, and I touch poop daily. But I don’t have to remove layers of it from their hands. And when a child is pushing four years old, that’s no longer baby poop. It’s man poop. Just imagine if you had to wash poop off of a man’s hands. It’s beyond gross.

After emptying the full bottle of liquid soap in my efforts to decontaminate my son’s hands, I then used up a bottle of Fabreez air freshener at the scene of the crime.

Oliver seemed to be aware of my displeasure, but I could have done with a little more remorse on his part. I mean really – he’s lucky I didn’t hose him off on the back deck, which is steps away from where I found him covered in poop.

There are so many wonderful things about being a mom… This is not one of them.

I can’t promise that I won’t tempt fate again by gloating over my minor parenting accomplishments. But I will never again say that my child is potty trained. Not out loud at least. And if I absolutely have to, I will make that horn gesture with my hands and spit a few times. Don’t think I’m kidding! Hades has nothing on my poop scented basement.

Home Alone: Day Four

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Day Four…and so far, no one has been voted off the island. Actually – the kids have been really good. I mean for them. So if you think that acting like something out of a Stephen King novel only 50% of the time is “really good,” then we are practically sharing a brain.

This morning George woke up at 4:30 with what I think was a nightmare, so I brought him to bed with me. It’s a guilty pleasure, having one of my tiny toddlers to cuddle in bed. Two of them is another story of course, but Eleanor didn’t follow him (for once). The big downside is that when the toddler in bed with you wakes up, there is no pretending that you can’t hear them. The direct eye contact makes that rather tricky to pull off. George opened his eyes at 6:45 and let me doze for about 15 more minutes though – so I can’t complain.

I just hope that he doesn’t start making this a habit. He is already driving me crazy with his insistence upon me holding him all the time. In fact, George’s attachment to me has now reached a level that begs the question, “is it normal for a two year old to sit on my lap while I go to the bathroom?” I would guess, “no.” But hey – it’s his future on the psychiatric couch, not mine.

Eleanor and Oliver woke up shortly after we did, and before I knew it two hours had transpired. How is it possible that time can pass so quickly when you are literally doing nothing? This was great since I had plans to bring them back to the At Play Cafe at 10 a.m. and hoped to make it back home in time to watch the 11:30 swearing in ceremony.

In the meantime, I could watch the events on the large flat screen TV while my kids played. In fact, I would have been happy enough to just stay there through the presidential address. But I had no illusions about everyone lasting that long. Eleanor was already acting like she needed a nap.

The kids found a soulmate in a two year old boy named Max who seems destined to break several spines on the football field. He was little – but he was unstoppable. While they wrestled with Max, I caught up with my neighborhood friend, Tricia (also known as Reston Mom). A good time was had by all.

Soon enough Eleanor made it clear that she was done with the At Play Cafe, and I realized that it was already 11:30! So typical that I would spend a great moment in history engrossed in c-section comparison stories… But when I looked at the TV, I saw that we still had some time. Five minutes, two tantrums, one coatless child and a rousing game of musical stroller seats later, we arrived at our car. I had Eleanor under one arm, screaming something about wanting to walk and George was busily trying to unbuckle his seat belt. Only Oliver was content to be still – and happily contributed his 55+ lbs to my one handed double stroller pushing. I’m SO ready to retake that grade school presidential physical fitness test…

The minute we arrived home, I threw something in front of them that resembled lunch and then flew down to the basement in time to see the swearing in. Seriously – it was timed perfectly. I even got to hear the very beginning of Obama’s speech without interruption. Unfortunately George and Eleanor came down to look for me and I spent the rest of the speech with my ear against the television as they fired unintelligible questions at me. I think I caught about 60% of the speech. I’ll have to read it online later tonight to fill in the gaps.

I gave up at that point and switched the channel back to Noggin. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to feeling a bit smug about seeing ANY of the inauguration. Sad really…

Like I said, Eleanor was really tired and went down for her nap without protest. George? Not so much. But at least he didn’t try to escape. Oliver and I took advantage of the quiet (aside from George’s blood curdling screams, that is) to watch Mary Poppins for the 50th time this week. I also thought this would be a great time to whip up some cupcakes.

I’ve probably mentioned before that I have very little interest in cooking. At some point I did, but since my free time has now decreased by about 99.9%, I’ve decided that I’d rather spend it outside of my hideous, tiny galley kitchen. Baking is another story though. I’m perfectly content with box cake mixes, and what’s a few minutes of mixing compared to the fun of eating two dozen cupcakes as a snack? Oliver concurred.

Now, I don’t generally keep much junk food in the house, and my kids don’t actually eat a lot of dessert beyond store bought cookies now and then. But I do tend to fall back on doling out the treats when left to my own devices. In fact, I have a long history of overfeeding small children when I’m at a loss for anything else to do. I tend to think, “hmm – what do I feel like doing right now?” The answer usually involves ice cream.

Once when I was in my early twenties, I took care of my five year old cousin, Emmett for a week while his parents were in Europe. Emmett was one of those kids who was a little on the chubby side. This all changed when he hit puberty and grew 24 inches. But when he was five, he was pretty stout. I’m sure that I got some directions about limiting his fat and caloric intake, but after a day or two of playing with action figures, I lost my mind. I won’t get into the particulars of our many visits to pizza and ice cream parlors – but it would be safe to say that by the time his parents returned, Emmett had gained 5 lbs.

I’m not sure if my kids will gain any weight this week. But I’m fairly certain I will.

Aside from eating too much, I’ve also seriously let myself go appearance-wise. Today is the first time since Chris left that I’ve even washed my hair. But it’s not as bad as it sounds. Since the winter air is so incredibly dry, one would never know that I should have been a complete grease ball by now.

While I’ve enjoyed a week of fabulous hair days, my poor daughter has not fared quite as well. I’ve written before about her fine blond hair and how it has taken two years to even look like she has actual hair on her head. And in spite of it being so obviously there now, static electricity has taken it’s toll on her wisps. Her hair is now perpetually plastered to the sides of her face. The look is similar to Taylor Momson’s awful new hairstyle (that would be Jenny from Gossip Girl’s Joan Jett ‘do).

The boys’ hair isn’t as affected by the dry weather – but they are both long overdue for a trim. Right now their hair is so long that with a little styling mousse they could give Uncle Jesse from Full House a run for his money. Now that I think of it…THAT could be a fun activity (for me). My children should thank their lucky stars that I go back to work tomorrow.

Oh – so many other things to report today… From a disastrous outing to pick up pizzas for dinner to the discovery that Oliver is running a raging fever (great timing since he’s having testing done tomorrow…) But I’m not writing a diary here – and honestly, the past three days of “chronicling” have worn me out. I’m not great with blow by blow accounts. I’m far too long winded for that.

So this will be the final installment “Home Alone.” Even though it’s looking likely that I WON’T be going to work tomorrow (since daycare has that ridiculous “no fevers” rule), I’m considering today the finale of my long weekend with the kids. Chris gets back Saturday night, and while I’ll be SO glad to see him, I’ve kind of enjoyed this trial by fire. I’ve actually learned some things about my parenting (and coping) skills: It’s always best to remain calm, a little patience goes a long way, and when in doubt, indulge in an early happy hour (either wine or cupcakes – pick your poison).

Home Alone: Day Three

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This morning, while unremarkable, seemed to fly by at record speed. My office was closed today with the understanding that everyone would work from home. So I planned to work on some projects while the children watched too much TV and pushed each other down the stairs. I’m kidding of course – at least about the stairs – but I really did need to stay plugged in and couldn’t take a full vacation day. I decided that if it looked like I wouldn’t get anything done, I’d just have to officially take the day off, but sneak in work when I could.

Miraculously – the children were happy to just play with each other, and spent a good hour “marching” around the first floor in a parade that seemed to have something to do with the Sister Suffragette song from Mary Poppins. And string. I’m still not sure what the string had to do with anything.

I had planned to take them out to lunch so they’d have at least one activity outside of the house. But it was snowing and I didn’t know what that would mean for the roads.

Nothing, apparently – but the upshot of all of this independent indoor playtime was that I didn’t get to tire them out as I had planned. And when nap time for the twins rolled around, they were none too thrilled.

I tried reading them books (our usual wind down activity), but no one wanted to sit still. So I gave up and just put them in their cribs with the expectation that they’d do some screaming before they actually fell asleep. This isn’t so unusual, but of course, they picked today to learn that they have the ability to escape.

George has known how to climb out of his crib for a while now. I discovered this one night when I rolled over in bed to find him standing there looking at me. But it didn’t happen again, and I hoped that he would be like Oliver and lose interest in the activity almost immediately (seriously, it was great – even though Oliver knew how to climb out, he NEVER did).

Today was the day though… And not only did George climb out of his bed, he showed Eleanor how to do it as well. Within a few minutes of settling down with Oliver, the Little Einsteins and my computer, the twins wandered into the room. As if it was all an unfortunate misunderstanding – one we would never speak of again.

Nice try! I tossed them right back in and said “too bad, so sad – go to sleep.” I didn’t actually say that, but my tone was very clear.

As soon as I arrived back downstairs, I heard the unmistakable sound of two little pairs of feet hitting the floor. I went upstairs, met them at their door as they were exiting, and calmly escorted them back to bed (which is code for threw their little asses back in the clinker).

I’ve been through this with Oliver on vacation before (he had no compunction with escaping from the pack n’ play) and knew that they would continue to defy me. So I decided that I would allow it as long as they played quietly in their room. I couldn’t make them sleep – but I could make them have quiet time.

After listening to the pitter patter of little feet for about 15 minutes, I decided my plan sucked and that I’d better go put them back into their cribs. They really do need naps and I didn’t want to face an evening alone with them if they were going to be sleep deprived monsters.

I arrived to find them happily pulling apart the blinds. Eleanor, whom we tend to think of as the brains in the operation could tell I was serious about what George obviously considered “all this nap malarkey,” and submitted willingly to the inevitable. George on the other hand was outraged that I would put him back into the cage that he had already rejected twice. He even threw a leg over the railing and screamed the equivalent of toddler obscenities at me. We then engaged in a silent face off – his rage vs. my parental authority – for a minute or two. This could have gone on indefinitely if I didn’t hear Oliver sound the alarm downstairs: “UH OH -PEE PEE!“

I should probably explain that even though Oliver is fast approaching age four, and has been potty trained since last summer, he still wants me to help him pull down his pants. For the most part, I attribute this to habit. But it should also be noted that he is not particularly slim through the hips and if hard pressed for time, may have trouble getting his pants down before it’s too late. And he does tend to put things off until the last minute, so it’s understood in my house that when Oliver yells “uh oh – pee pee!” that means “run, do not walk – this is not a drill – I repeat this is not a drill! “

I narrowed my eyes, repositioned George inside the crib railing and firmly admonished him to stay put. I flew down the stairs and arrived in the powder room to find that I was too late. Said pee pee was entirely outside of the toilet.

Oliver is generally very good about not having accidents, so we don’t give him a hard time about it. I responded to his defeated “uh oh – pee pee” with my usual pat on the head and promise that “we’ll fix it, it’s okay.“

Once Oliver and the powder room were put to rights, I took a quick peek up the stairs to make sure I didn’t see toddlers dismantling the linen closet. No sign of activity – but I did hear a fair bit of wailing. One voice only, and high pitched enough for me to easily identify as George. Thankfully, it was muffled, indicating a face firmly (and irately) pressed into the crib mattress. So he seemed to be resigned to his fate.

Ultimately, they did sleep. But George was up again in 45 minutes, crying for me. At least Eleanor had a normal nap. Regardless – everyone went to bed an hour early tonight. Since they have no concept of telling time yet, I can usually trick them into this on the days they stay at home.

A few random things about today:

George has been talking about skoppa ball for a while, and I just realized that he’s saying “basketball.”

Eleanor has decided that she’s from Minnesota and now says “oh ya!” whenever an affirmative is required.

Oliver only wore pants for a cumulative ten minutes today.

“Renesmee” is the most ridiculous name I’ve ever heard in my life (you have to be at least halfway through the fourth Twilight book to understand this).

I opened a wine bottle at 5:30 p.m.

Home Alone: Day Two

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Did I say that I had hubris? Strike that. I have mad parenting SKILLZ. Or at least I really lowered the bar regarding my expectations for this weekend. Of course, it’s only the second day… But I have to say – this really isn’t that bad. SO much easier than last year when Oliver was two and the twins were one.

Now they all play together and I can actually leave them unsupervised for short periods of time while I get things done around the house. Whether I should be leaving them unsupervised or not is a completely different story – but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. And this girl has to do some cleaning.

We started the day around 7:00 a.m. when Eleanor wouldn’t stop yelling “Mommy where are you?” for five minutes straight. When she takes a breather or two I choose to pretend I can’t hear her – but with that solid block I knew that she meant business. Please don’t think I’m a neglectful parent. I’m just encouraging her to problem solve and learn to get out of her crib without my help. It’s more of a teaching tool – this neglect. And a rather short sighted one since I don’t particularly want them to know how to escape their cages.

George doesn’t demand my attention the minute he wakes up, but he does require that I hold him in my arms at all times. You see, George and I are madly in love. We cannot be separated. Such a breach would only result in earth shattering screams that rupture all canine eardrums within a mile radius of our house. Of course that is a slight exaggeration (very slight) so I do have my hands-free moments throughout the day.

Sometimes I try to remember if Oliver was like this too. He is also quite pathological in his need for my attention. But I suspect that my enormous stomach (full of the twins) when he was a year old helped to reduce the amount time he spent attached to my body. Which is a good thing since he was twice as heavy as George when he was two (George just barely clears 25 lbs. – he’s such a pee wee!) Oliver didn’t require as much babying as George does, but he was prone to impromptu leaping into my arms from counter tops or the top of the staircase. Who am I kidding? He still does that. Those boys would hang on me all day if they didn’t take breaks to climb on furniture and torture their sister.

I don’t have a lot to report on our morning at home. Too much TV was watched (by them), too much diet coke was consumed (by me), too much rough housing around sharp corners took place (obviously them)… I was able to clean the kitchen and make some headway in the fourth Twilight book, so I felt it was a win-win.

We did not go to the At Play Cafe as I had planned since I saw that they open at noon on Sundays. We needed a morning outing, so I had to come up with another destination that offered shelter from the winter wind, a pleasant atmosphere, and bright shiny objects to keep us entertained. So off to Target we went!

One challenge I faced was how to transport them around the store. When Chris is with me, we put the twins in their stroller and Oliver sits in the shopping cart seat. But pushing both a double stroller and the cart would be impossible. And I couldn’t just forgo the cart and have Oliver walk with me. I would have no way of making him stay with me or walk in the direction I preferred (this whole “will of their own” thing leaves a lot to be desired). So here was my solution:

Luckily we didn’t have to buy anything in bulk. Just a few odds and ends – some staples like Little Einstein DVDs and some Play Doh. This ate up a good hour of time – which was my main concern. As the Einsteins like to say, “Mission completion!”

The only part of our outing that caused me a little bit of a headache was the drama of Eleanor trying to decide which car seat she would take. At one time, we had an assigned seating arrangement, but lately, Eleanor has decided that she wants options. Luckily – George could give a crap which seat is his, but I could do without the fun of getting her buckled into one only to find that she has buyer’s remorse and simply MUST move to the other one. Particularly when it’s freezing outside and we’re all anxious to get the car started so we can crank up the heat. Girls.

After some lunch and about 372 laps around the house, the twins were willing to take their nap and Oliver and I spent some quality time watching TV. Actually – I did a little reading. Damn those Twilight books and their inexplicable power to take precedence over more important activities like child rearing.

Oliver did get a little bored at one point and put on his coat, claiming that it was time to go out for pizza. Thankfully, I was able to distract him with another activity after explaining that we had just eaten lunch, that the twins were sleeping upstairs and that it was far too cold to go outside in nothing but Kung Fu Panda underwear and a coat.

The evening brought more of the same, and this little report is a bit longer than I had intended. So I’ll just leave you with a couple of pictures I took at bath time.

Be sure to check back tomorrow for further tedious details of our day!

Home Alone: Day One

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Chris is away until a week from Saturday night (a nine-day business trip to Las Vegas and a three-hour time difference). He has requested daily updates on The Big Piece of Cake. Probably because every conversation we have goes like this:

Kate: Hello?

Chris: Hi – how’s it going?

Kate: What?! I’m sorry – George is screaming.

Chris: I just wanted to say hi and check in.

Kate: Oh hi! Everything’s fine except for Oliver almost decapitating Eleanor with the cabinet door. But other than that, everything’s been great.

Chris: I miss you guys.

Kate: What?! I’m sorry – George is still screaming.

George: [screams like a baby girl]

Kate: Eleanor do you want to say hi to Daddy?

Eleanor: NO!

Kate: Say “no THANK YOU.”

Eleanor: [sullenly] No tank you.

Kate: Oliver, do you want to day hi to Daddy?

Oliver: HI DADDY!

Chris: Hi buddy! I miss you. What are you doing?

Kate: Yeah – it’s me again, he’s busy watching Blues Clues.

Chris: Okay – I just wanted to say hi and tell you I miss you.

Kate: George! Stop it! What? I’m sorry – George is still screaming because Eleanor took his Matchbox car.

Chris: I’ll let you go I just…

Kate: OLIVER! Get off the counter!

Chris: …wanted to check in.

Kate: Okaybye!

So. Here are some highlights for Chris:

I woke up at around 7 a.m. and heard the twins awake but talking to each other and playing. Then I was able to doze in bed for another 45 minutes (Dream. Come. True.) until I heard Eleanor calling, “Mommy! Where are you?” Oliver wandered in around 7:50 and I had to get up.

The rest of the day was a blur with the exception of the following:

We went to the At Play Cafe around the corner for the first time since it opened months ago.

Everyone loved it. And they played happily with only periodic visits to tell me that they bumped their head, wanted to say hi or just wondered where I was (our theme song is “Mommy! Where are you?”).

We will be there every day until they go back to daycare on Wednesday.

We came home for lunch and I made some “break and bake” Valentine cookies as a treat. Oliver still calls hearts “I wuv yous” (swoon).

George and Eleanor took crazy long (three hour) afternoon naps. Thank you At Play Cafe!

Oliver and I watched the Mary Poppins chimney sweeps scene twelve times.

Eleanor insists on dragging me to see everything she does, “C’mon Mommy – I show you!” And George clings to me like a baby koala bear, no matter what I’m doing (letting Eleanor “show me” things, washing dishes, going to the bathroom…)

All three kids played in the basement while I cleaned up the mess that grows weekly (as Chris continues to tell me that he’ll pick up while he’s watching TV…never happens).

Everyone refused to take a bath. I said, “fine.”

Everyone ate far too many snacks. I said, “fine.”

Everyone was content to play while I read Us Weekly. Unprecedented!

All in all – it was a long day, but a good day. That’s a red letter day when it comes to Hood family weekends.

Oh – and I watched I Am Legend after the kids went to bed, and it was kind of horrifying. I really hope that nothing like that actually happens. Because even if I was immune to the virus, I know nothing about artillery and have no idea how one goes about installing those iron shutters on windows. At the very least, I would hope that Chris wouldn’t be out of town when it happened. He has far better survival skills. And at the very least, he’d figure out how to shoot a deer for dinner before locking the zombies out for the night.

Is Nothing Sacred?

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In a word? No.

I have entered a phase of motherhood that can only be described as a complete breakdown in reason, order and sanity. I really do feel like I live with three asylum escapees sometimes. And I saw it coming the minute I found out that I was pregnant with twins. It was right about that time that my oldest son turned one. He became a toddler, and apparently a crazy person.

And that’s exactly what I said to Chris: “it’s like living with a crazy person.” The tantrums over nothing – the mood swings – the manic activity. It was exhausting. And then we found out I was pregnant again. And then we found out that I was having twins. And then I realized that within just a couple of years, there would be three crazy people in my house. Actually five since Chris and I would undoubtedly be insane by then.

But of course, like all mothers, I adapted fairly quickly and found much of this unhinged behavior adorable. I readily admit that I do tend to find bad behavior amusing, and I often have a hard time addressing it appropriately (i.e. not laughing and saying “do it again! do it again!”). This would explain a lot about my children.

I don’t want to give the impression that I have bad kids. Absolutely not. They are very sweet and considerate demon spawn. And not one of them has a mean bone in their little bodies. Their daycare provider is raising them right! Just kidding about that last part of course (sort of). But my point is that they are just being their ages (three and two). And that involves a level of chaos that not even a team of Navy SEALs could suppress. And this translates into losing time that was once spent on personal priorities like reading, exercising, showering, picking socks up off the floor…

If you have toddlers, I suspect that I am describing your current home life. If you had toddlers a long time ago, you are laughing at me and saying, “just wait until they are teenagers.” If you don’t have children, you are thinking that you may just want to get a dog instead. Either way, I’m too busy fishing poop out of the bathtub to be affected by your validation, condescension or horror.

The way I see it is like this. You have a baby. You bring that baby home. And after a few weeks or months of feeling like you have entered a never-ending twister in the tornado of new parent hell, you miraculously wake up in Munchkinland. You marvel at how the world suddenly became technicolor and can’t wait to see what lies ahead as you continue down this sparkling yellow brick road. Little did you know that it would be flying monkeys.

Once you get used to being a parent to a baby and really start to enjoy it, you see your baby like this:

Then your baby becomes a toddler – and they become this:

And I don’t mean that they become hideously ugly. Quite the opposite. They become even more mogwai-like in their cuteness. It’s just that they can’t help but wreak havoc in your life as a matter of course. It’s programmed into a toddler’s DNA to be a little gremlin in the house. And when you have multiple toddlers, you have multiple gremlins (thank god throwing them into a bathtub doesn’t create more).

How many times have I left a neat and orderly room for five minutes, only to return to what looks like a war zone? Um – pretty much every time I leave the room. Chris thinks we should just give up and never put things away. But guess what? I’ve tried that, and they manage to make an even bigger mess out of the original one. How does one manage to take a room that is completely ripped apart and make it worse? I have no answer for this, you’ll have to ask a toddler.

A perfect example of a simple daily activity that they manage to turn into a circus is going somewhere in the car. The car was once a zen-like refuge for me. I would quietly sip a coffee from Starbucks and listen to music or a recorded book. Traffic never bothered me because I could just tune it out and enjoy a little time to myself. No work e-mails to answer, no laundry to be done. Just a little peace and quiet. This no longer exists. Now I have an entourage.

Every weekday, I commute with my children. I drop them off at daycare on my way to work. Just getting them to ENTER the car is the first challenge. Inevitably, I find myself chasing them in circles. Then once I finally get them in the car, I have to drag them out of the driver’s seat, the “way back” (we have an SUV) and the space under the seats. I have to rip unidentifiable scraps of old food (at least I hope it’s food) out of their hands before they manage to reach their mouths. I have to force rigid abs of steel back into car seats so that I can buckle harnesses. I have to yell, cajole, tickle and spank them into submission (consistency is my middle name). Then I spend the majority of the drive time answering all 500 of my daughter’s questions, climbing into the back seat to re-buckle my oldest son’s seat belt at stoplights and moving the passenger seat forward so that my youngest son can’t kick the pause button on the DVD player. Once we arrive at our destination I have to replace socks and shoes that have been flung off and retrieve sippy cups from wherever they have been launched. I arrived at work completely exhausted.

Another previously sacred time was my daily shower. I am perpetually cold and like nothing better than to lose that chill in a nice hot shower. It doesn’t even have to be a long one – just five minutes of total warmth. But now the bathroom door is open, and two or three sets of eyes observe me rush through my morning ablutions. A ritual that now involves keeping one foot ready to nudge someone out if they decide to climb in with me (an activity often followed by the task of re-dressing them in dry clothing). The one positive thing about my shower experience is that it’s possibly the only time that I do something without at least one child attached to my body. It is no longer “daily.”

Evenings used to offer some nice, relaxing me-time. I’d have a little dinner, do some reading, maybe even watch some prime time television. Now I’m lucky if I can change out of my work clothes before it’s time to go to turn in for the night. If I do run upstairs to change, I have to answer to a chorus of “Mommy! Where are you?” or keep an eye on them as they open every drawer in the room while I’m pulling on my sweat pants. If they don’t follow me upstairs and I don’t hear any concern for my whereabouts, then I know I’m in trouble. I’ve already related the incident of the black and orange Halloween clings stuck to the playroom ceiling. But there are unlimited others that involve “working together” to create some kind of mess or mayhem. Recently I came downstairs to see my three year old son hand a full, OPEN gallon milk jug to my two year old daughter. Eleanor, who is lucky if she weighs 25 lbs soaking wet, immediately began to fall backward, and I only just made it there in time to grab her before she was taken down by the jug of milk.

So no – none of that is sacred anymore. Not my personal time. Not my personal possessions. Not my personal space. But in spite of all of that, I can’t really complain. I have something far more sacred now: their time – this time. Someday I will have time to read and go to the movies and have leisurely dinners out with Chris. Someday I will go on vacations and actually sleep on the plane. Someday I’ll be able to just get in the car and go without any concerns about forgotten lunch bags or lost blankies. Someday I’ll have alone time again.

But I’ll never again have two little bodies cuddled in my lap as I smell their freshly washed hair and read them Go Dogs Go. I’ll never again have a little boy say, “I wuv you mommy,” as I tuck him in at night. I’ll never again watch three little people dance with wild abandon around the house pretending to be the chimney sweeps in Mary Poppins. So if I have to put up with some mess and chaos and drastically lowered expectations for personal time and appearance? I’ll take it. Because this fleeting moment in my life as a mother is worth it. This time is more precious and sacred than any other I could imagine.

Can’t Catch Me…

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My son Oliver has recently become obsessed with The Gingerbread Man. He bursts into spontaneous quotes at random times and I’ve started to hear the “run, run as fast as you can – can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man” song in my sleep.

His preschool class had been reading and acting out the story in December and even had a little Gingerbread Man holiday party before Winter break. So at least I know the root of this new mania. And honestly – it’s pretty cute. His garbled version of “run, run as fast as you can” always makes me smile.

I only worry about what will happen when he returns to his class in January and they have moved onto a new book. I wonder if Oliver will try to stage a Gingerbread Man coup d’état. I wouldn’t be surprised given his aversion to change. Either way, I expect some indication of alarm (“What? No Gingerbread Man? What are you trying to do? Ruin my life?”)

In fact, I worry about all of my children and their reaction to the disappearance of holiday decorations, treats and DVDs. We have been rockin’ around the Christmas tree (literally) for about a month, and I don’t think they remember what life was like before. I thought that their obsession with Halloween pumpkins was bad – but that was nothing in comparison to LIGHTS! Every day after I pick them up at daycare, I have to take them on a tour of the neighborhood light displays. Their daycare provider lives in a predominantly pre-fab neighborhood where people think nothing of displaying 50 plastic lawn ornaments (none of which have anything to do with the holiday season), so you can only imagine what they can do with holiday lights and inflatable snowmen, santas and various cartoon characters in holiday garb. To be fair, the kids will sometimes yell for pumpkins – but that’s only because some of the houses still have a few plastic jack 0’lanterns on display.

Luckily for me, I can distract Oliver from this defection of holiday cheer with Gingerbread Man videos. Chris has started pulling up these clips on YouTube, so now the little weirdo demands to see them every time he catches sight of a laptop. Okay – so maybe “luckily for me” isn’t entirely accurate… But I try to drink from the “half full” cup of insanity that seems to come with unlimited refills.

We have found some really bizarre ones, which are surprisingly (or not so surprisingly) some of Oliver’s favorites. Here are a couple (if you are not familiar with the story, I suggest watching this old school version that Oliver also likes):

Lately, I’ve been feeling a little bit like the Gingerbread Man. Everyone is out to get me. Just kidding! (Sort of.) But I do feel like I have a frightening number of responsibilities chasing me toward inevitable doom. Or at the very least toward an even bigger holiday weight gain than I expected. Stress eating + holidays = “fat clothes” coming out of their closet hibernation.

I meant to take last week off from just writing, but all of the last minute work projects, holiday events, children home from daycare and the never ending disaster of my messy house have taken their toll. I haven’t read or commented on any of my favorite blogs. I haven’t responded to e-mails from friends. I haven’t caught up on any of my prime time television viewing… I’m a holiday slacker. But as I said before – the holidays are almost over. So no more running. I’ll just let it all catch up with me and hope that I don’t get eaten alive.

Don’t forget to enter the jewelry giveaway! Comments open until TOMORROW, Tuesday, December 30 at 9:00 p.m. EST.

Farewell to the Mullet

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Mullet: A mullet is a hairstyle that is short in the front, top, and sides, but long in the back. The hairstyle was popular from the early 1980s to the early 1990s. Mullets have been worn by males and females. The mullet is distinct from the rattail, which consists of a long, narrow “tail” of hair growing from the back of the head. Mullets also vary in length from side to side and do not necessarily share a single, consistent length.

As I have mentioned on many an occasion, my daughter, Eleanor is follicley challenged. It is only now, at age two, that she has FINALLY started to grow some hair already.

She’s always had very fine blond hair, and I’m sure that if she was my only child, I wouldn’t think anything of it. But she is a twin. And her brother George has had a full head of hair from birth.

Ah – all of that explaining to people that he is not her older brother…”no, she’s not younger – just bald.” Thank god those days are over. As are the days of men seeing me with the twins in the stroller and Oliver at my side, and saying, “three boys – nice work!” (Incidentally – Eleanor was usually wearing pink or leopard print – or something else that no self respecting one year old boy would be caught dead in – but whatever.)

Even as babies – George was able to wear a barrette. Eleanor? Not so much. That one above is literally attached to all three of her hairs. And why would we have a picture that involved George wearing a barrette? I have two words for you: mean grandma.

Unfortunately – this new growth pattern just wasn’t very attractive. Since she always had some hair on the back of her head (I know – cute right?), that pre-existing hair has continued to grow at the same rate as the new hair on top of her head. The result? A bizarre hairstyle alarmingly reminiscent of the mullet.

It’s a bit dark – but truly displays her mullet to best effect.

I’ve never had a mullet or anything resembling one. In general, I’ve had different variations of the same hair style since high school. Albeit, with a few blunders such as perms and fringe bangs thrown in for future blackmail pictures – but never a mullet. No one in my family or Chris’ family has ever had a mullet. And I’ll be damned if my own daughter will be known as the neighborhood toddler with a mullet.

So of course, that means that the day we have been waiting for – for so long (really, really long) – had finally come. Eleanor’s first haircut!

Here are some “before” pictures:

So serious.

I told you it was bizarre.

Then during:

No tears. Pretty impressive considering that her brothers always cry and flail.

The back is now the same length as the sides.

And a blow dry no less! The last time she was in a stylist’s chair with a hair drier over her, she was in my stomach and my water was breaking (ah – memories).

And when it was over:

She got to pick out a barrette. But it was too big for her skinny little hairs. Maybe next year.

A lollipop made up for the barrette disappointment. (For me, I mean. She could have cared less.)

Sorry I don’t have any good “after” shots of the back of her head. She wouldn’t let me take any. Scenes from my future as the mother of a teenage girl: “Mom – stop it! You’re so embarrassing.”

I’m so proud of my mullet-less little girl. She didn’t cry or flail and I didn’t leave covered in toddler hair and snot. Maybe I should bring the boys next time so they can watch her work. My little girl took it like a man (a man WITHOUT a mullet).

How Do WE Get Ready for Halloween?

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As a family primarily populated by small children, we’re really just beginning to create holiday traditions. For a long time, it felt like we were the house of babies, then toddlers. And now that everyone is between the ages of two and three, we can actually say “we have three kids.” They are finally all able to understand Halloween – or at least the various decorations and activities that go along with it.

Now we have three very enthusiastic little people in our house who just LOVE PUMPKINS! So number one on the list of what we do to prepare for Halloween? We talk about pumpkins incessantly. The word “pumpkin” must be included in every other sentence – at least. And if we are driving in the car, there must be constant speculation about where the pumpkins are, how many there are and which direction should be taken to find them. Oh – and if there aren’t any to be seen? Get ready for some screaming.

We also make it our first order of business to purchase a hideous plastic light up pumpkin:

My three year old, Oliver felt that this was a “must have” on one of our trips to Harris Teeter – LAST MONTH. At the time, I thought, “what the hell? If an ugly light up pumpkin decoration adds to their Halloween experience, why not?” Why not? Because it’s now the most important feature of the house and must be plugged in at all times. Plugging that stupid pumpkin in is my first priority when we get up and when we come home in the evening. I’m starting to worry about what will happen when Halloween is over and the pumpkin is put away (hidden). How will they function without their tacky idol to worship? Will I have to buy them a plastic light up turkey?

The next Hood Halloween tradition is to buy our costumes early. And demand to wear them ALL THE TIME:

Unfortunately – George tired of his Yoda ears a couple of weeks ago and decided to hijack his brother’s costume:

If I don’t hide the Superman top, George will demand to wear it everywhere: to daycare, to bed, to the mall, in the tub (seriously – we’ve had some BIG fights about that). I’ve written before about George’s tendency to get attached to things. And I think that he would shatter all of the glass in the house with his screams if I dared to take that Superman costume away from him and let Oliver wear it. Luckily Target had more. So we’ll have two Supermen this year. I don’t care – at least Eleanor is happy as a ballerina. And I suppose I should be pleased that George isn’t demanding her costume.

But I think our most festive new Halloween tradition is “decorating the ceiling.” What – you’ve never tried this? Well let me tell you how it’s done!

It all started with one of my great ideas for kid friendly activities. I have these all the time – but they never turn out quite the way I have in mind. This particular gem was inspired by stickers. My kids love to put stickers on paper, but do tend to get frustrated when they can’t peel the stickers off the paper to re-stick them. So what could be more fun than reusable stickers? The answer? Halloween window clings! Have you ever heard of these? They’re like little gel stickers that you can put in your windows. I thought this could keep them busy for a long time while I made dinner, got lunches ready for the next day, changed out of my work clothes… And that it did.

While I put away dishes and Chris was on the computer, Oliver had the genius idea to rip the orange and black gel shapes into tiny pieces. Because shredding things is fun! Then he decided that if the pieces would stick to the window, they would stick just as well to ceiling!

I told Chris that I was running upstairs to change and caught Oliver in the act. He was mid-fling and obviously thrilled with the results of his work. We don’t have particularly high ceilings, but I had to be at least initially impressed by his skill. He had only gotten a few good throws in at that point, so I told him he had to stop, took away the pieces in his hands and called to Chris to make sure that nothing else happened until I came back downstairs. Assuming that my husband was in charge downstairs, I wasn’t in a rush. But apparently I should have been since my directions were not followed.

I came downstairs to find this:

Here is a close-up:

Now, I don’t usually take pictures of my children using their powers for evil. But this was just too outrageous. I needed proof. So before starting in on the husband evisceration, I grabbed my camera. That small detail out of the way, the whoop ass can was opened.

Unfortunately, no one was overly concerned with my rage. Chris thought the whole thing was hilarious and even tossed a few scraps himself. Just another example of men taking inappropriate pleasure in their sons’ misbehavior. It’s all about example setting at our house.

Anyway – the fun ended when we had to pull the pieces down later that evening and realized that they had stained our ceiling. But orange and black is festive for Halloween…and it makes the ceiling look old…like in a haunted house… Oh who am I kidding – it looks like crap. And I’m fairly certain that it won’t be re-painted until next Halloween. Chris is a bit of a project procrastinator. I mean, it takes him a year to make a dentist appointment (sorry honey – but it’s true).

So here it is October 30th, and we’re all ready for the big night! When darkness falls and the festivities begin, we’ll have our plastic pumpkin blazing, our children dressed as Supermen and ballerinas (costume wearers to be determined), and our ceiling stamped with the signs of much mischief. If you think about it, with the exception of costumes, it doesn’t deviate much from everyday life a “the house of kids” – where every day is Trick or Treat.

Happy Halloween!

Cat Poo (The Beginning of The Big Piece of Cake: Part III)

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Tuesday was my 100th post. I’m celebrating by not actually writing anything new this week, and instead, re-publishing some posts that I wrote for a friend last Winter. This is the last of three.

My oldest son, Oliver, has been somewhat slow to get with the talking program. While his vocabulary increases steadily, it’s often hard to understand what he’s saying. For example, it took days to identify “ca-pour” as catapillar. Who knows how much of what he says is lost on us.

One word that features prominently in his daily chit chat is “careful.” (Gee, I wonder where that one came from…) Sometimes it’s directed at his siblings and sometimes it’s just a note to self as he tries something that he knows I would discourage. But it took us a while to understand that what he was saying was “careful.” It doesn’t sound like “careful.” It sounds like “cat poo.” Chris and I love this so much that we now say it all the time. As I’m climbing up a window sill to pull down a Christmas wreath: “CAT POO!” As Chris balances on a banister to retrieve a balloon from the ceiling over the stairs: “CAT POO!” We really need to stop, or Oliver is going to think that this is the true pronunciation (and the twins will show up at daycare telling each other to be cat poo).

Every day offers the challenge of deciphering words in the scramble of Oliver’s language. Another current highlight is “get out” (as in get him out of the booster seat, the shopping cart, the fort of pillows under which he is trapped…). This registers phonetically as “gay out.” We have had hours of fun with that one. But one that has really made us stop in our tracks, is the word “frog” (his current favorite animal). When Oliver yells “FROG,” it sounds a little more like “FOG,” which when pronounced with a particularly hard “G” is unnervingly similar to something else….