Tag Archives: Little Ones

One Small Step for Man, One Giant Leap for a Family Pathologically Unable to Take a Decent Group Picture

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Last year, I featured some pictures from a failed holiday card photo shoot. It was attempted right before we left for holiday cocktails at our neighbors’ house.

This year on New Year’s Eve, history repeated itself.

I looked at my children all dressed up (forget about dressed up – they were all DRESSED!) and thought, “okay – it’s go time.“

I herded everyone over to the Christmas tree, frantically kicking shoes, toys and unidentified objects out of the shot, and then proceeded to ask, cajole, bribe and threaten them to “stand still and look at me!“

It was a complete disaster as usual…











…but I was able to get ONE semi-decent picture of them:


Sadly, I had to make them sit – so the backdrop is the not-so-prime real estate at the bottom of the Christmas tree. Very few ornaments are featured there, and they’re all ones that I don’t mind losing to a stray karate kick or airborne toy.

And to add insult to injury, Eleanor looks like she has a Celtic cross growing out of her head (ornament courtesy of a wedding we attended in 2001 – continued best wishes to you, Cathleen and Sean!) Her princess crown from Target helps, but I may have to attempt some Photoshop editing.

All in all, I’m thrilled and expect to see even more improvement over the 2010 holidays. Who knows – maybe we’ll actually send out a holiday card. A girl can dream…

Who Do I Want to Be in 2010?

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I’ve never been one to make New Year’s resolutions. The ones I would make, I do make every day. “I’ll start the diet tomorrow…I really have to stop yelling so much around the kids…I need to turn off the computer and spend more time building block towers…“

And none of them are easy.

But the eve of the new year always makes me a little introspective, as any ending-beginning does. So I find myself thinking about the kind of life I want to have and the kind of person I want to be.

When my daughter was born, it was the end of only worrying about little boys and their wants and needs. And it was the beginning of my tenure as a role model for what a woman should be.

In fact, the day we found out that one of our twins would be a girl, I told my husband, “well, you’ll never hear me complaining about being fat anymore.” When he asked what that had to do with anything, I explained that I intended for my daughter to grow up in a house where women spent more time developing healthy eating and exercise habits than bemoaning the unfortunate body type that a cruel fate had given them. While I couldn’t shield my daughter from the inevitable insecurities and poor body image issues so integral to the experience of a teenage girl, I could at the very least do away with that attitude at home.

I said that I wanted her to be too busy being and doing and achieving things to worry about the circumference of her 15 year old thighs.

Then a light of recognition flared in my husbands now glassy eyed expression and he said, “oh yeah – I totally agree. We’ll get her involved in sports as early as possible.“

Now that Eleanor is three, we can start thinking about what sports she might enjoy, but I’d like to think that my endeavors to refrain from the fat talk have contributed to the groundwork for her positive future self image.

And really, as they’ve gotten older, I’ve made many changes in my own life in an effort to be exemplify the qualities that I’d like my children to have.

A pretty major one has been my concerted effort to stop taking myself too seriously. It’s a trait that runs deep in my family, this tendency to grow a stick up our posterior every time we are the butt (pun totally intended) of a joke or are made to feel ridiculous in any way. In general, I have a very good sense of humor and can even laugh about embarrassments from the past. But in the heat of the cheek flaming moment, I do tend to bristle. I don’t like to feel silly.

This is a struggle. But when I see my very intense three year old son rigid with fury, I double my efforts. I want my kids to be more light-hearted than I was. Where I’m just learning to get over myself already, I want them to do that as a matter of course.

And like all parents, we make the daily attempt to not use bad language, to show good manners and to be kind to others.

We do pretty well with the swear words, though we’re far from perfect. Last week when I started to explain who “the baby Jesus” was, my four year old proudly exclaimed, “Jesus Christ!” Like, “oh yeah. I know that guy…you always talk about him when you’re pissed off at us…” Awesome.

It was surprisingly easy to institute please and thank you, but manners and consideration will always be difficult concepts for little guys. With three kids who have only just barely shed their toddler status, our house is a place where “excuse me” means “get out of my way” and “share” means “gimmie that!“

So I think I’m in a constant state of resolving to be better. And I don’t think I need a new calendar year as motivation.

But.

I do look back in the process of looking forward, and I do think about what I’d like to change. While we make choices every day, it’s nice to have a benchmark – an official day to take stock.

When I think about who I want to be in 2010, I think about some of the choices I’ve made. The ones think I’ve made well and the ones I’d like to rethink. And of course, the new ones that come with age and experience.

Now that I’m a mother, so many of my choices are influenced by my children. I want to be a better person for them. I want to be comfortable and confident in my own skin. I want to have a good sense of humor – even when it is at my own expense. And I want to put kindness and manners before principles and justice. I think that all of this will benefit them as they watch me navigate a life that will be their future.

And deciding who it is that I want to be comes down to these choices.

So when my children pull all of the sheets out of the linen closet making a huge mess for me to clean up, I’ll choose to let the anger go let them play “ghosts.” When I feel bad about the way I look, I’ll choose to get over it and take everyone to the park. And when I feel like tossing a defiant three year old into their room for the rest of the century, I’ll choose to admire their forays into learning to make their own choices.

I’ll always choose to appreciate each day I spend with them.

These are my choices to make. And I will choose well.

I choose happiness. I choose joy and laughter. I choose forgiveness and gratitude. I choose kindness and understanding. I choose love.

And I choose myself.

I will prioritize my life and how I live it. Because by choosing to be a better me, I’m choosing them – my children. And doing my best for them is the most important choice I’ll ever have to make.

Yes Sir, That’s My Baby…

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I’m so in love with my tree this year… And if you think that that sounds ridiculous, then you never read this.

Anyway – my photography skills are mediocre at best but I did try. Seriously, I think I took more pictures than a new mother does the day she brings her baby home from the hospital.

Since my actual children refuse to be still (let alone wear clothes) for a nice holiday photo, I might have to consider using one of the images above for our holiday card. I’m just kidding of course – like I ever get around to sending out cards…

I had some even better shots, but those damn human children keep leaning into the branches, knocking bows askew and breaking ornaments.

Let go of the apple and back away from the tree. Slowly!

Don’t give me that look. And for god’s sake do something about your hair!

But I must say – if Oliver was my only child, this would definitely be our (theoretical) holiday card:


Okay – so maybe the tree isn’t really my favorite baby… MAYBE!

Monday Muse: Something Musical Even!

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It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these… So I thought I’d actually go with Robin’s original inspiration and cover something involving music.

I’m currently caught between two muses: really awful kids’ TV music and the grownup CDs I’ve been listening to.

So first the embarrassing one. This would be The Fresh Beat Band. I have only caught one or two of the shows on Nick Jr. (it must be on when we’re not watching – which would be sometime between 8 p.m. and 7 a.m.) but their music videos play after almost every other show that airs. It’s bad, bad, kiddie crack. And I’ve taken one too many hits…

Should I be worried that I’m only half faking it when I dance with my children to this?

Yeah – that’s what I thought. So I’m going to wash my ears out with the antithesis of happy, snappy kid music.

I’m going with Pink. And she will have to be my savior since the disco and cheesy 90’s dance music that’s been making all too frequent appearances in our CD player when I’m left to my own devices will only get me half way there.

So Pink it is. I think I’ll start with this (said in my best “help me Obi One Kenobi – you’re my only hope” voice):

Sorry it’s not much of a visual – but I can’t embed the actual video. If you need something a bit flashier, go HERE. Either way, that oughta do it….

Don’t forget to grab a button and add your Monday’s Muse link over at Cinnamon & Honey every Monday!

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It’s Just Like "Mr. Mom" Except I’m a Girl…

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When I became a stay at home mom several months ago, I expected that it would be a hard transition. I mean, I already knew my children. And they have never been an easy bunch.

Now you may be thinking that all kids are challenging and that it’s hard for all moms, and I would say that you are 100% right. But right now, I could kind of care less about any of that. I’m far too busy jumping through my own fire hoops and running my own pee pee scented gauntlet.

My twins just turned three, and I think that’s explanation enough for their contribution the daily chaos. And my oldest isn’t just a developmentally delayed four year old – he’s a HUGE developmentally delayed four year old with sensory issues typically attributed to a toddler. So I spend most of my days chasing a naked three year old with a pair of underwear under one of my arms and another naked three year old under the other, while screaming at a toddler in a six year old’s body to “GET OFF the table, and for god’s sake what happened to your clothes?“

The question that dominates my every second when those monsters are awake: “Why is everyone always naked?“

I do put clothes on them every morning…

Anyway – you would think that after a few months, I would have created some kind of order and structure in our house. I mean, wasn’t that the point of me staying home? To eradicate the misunderstanding that home is a vacation from school and daycare?

But I haven’t.

You often hear the term “insane asylum” thrown around regarding homes with small children. And while it is hyperbole used for effect, I do think it’s kind of accurate.

When my oldest son Oliver became a toddler (a “normal” toddler who had not yet manifested any noticeable delays), I would say that it felt like we were living with a crazy person. He would fly into a rage over the smallest of things. He could go from angelic to demonic at the drop of a hat. And he was a complete egomaniac.

He was a toddler: a crazy person in a tiny cherub’s body.

So none of this anarchy is unexpected. When you give birth to three babies in 18 months, you have to know that you will have three times the amount of id dictating your home life. Your own fertility has committed you to extended stay over the cuckoo’s nest.

And of course I wouldn’t change a thing. I count my blessings every second of the day. But at the end of the day, I do realize that I’m the grownup here and I’m kind of failing.

I’m that mom you see in Target who crammed all three of her children into a shopping cart and is using the under carriage (is that what it’s called?) for the purchases. I’m that mom who regularly hands her kids “forbidden” treats as a means of keeping them quiet, and not as a last resort. I’m that mom who takes one potty user in training upstairs to the bathroom only to find upon her return that an entire room has been dismantled.

I have so little control over my children…it’s almost like I’m a dad sometimes.

And I’m not talking about primary care giver dads. I’m talking about the ones who come home late in the evening after work and really only spend two full days with their kids during the week. The ones who spend most of their daily life on the outside with (for all intents and purposes) sane working professionals who are able to manage every biological function without the help of others. The ones who become completely overwhelmed by the Lilliputian hoard raiding the house and can only hope that the person who “usually handles this,” will arrive in time to help.

But I’m the person who usually handles things. Which is a scary thought indeed.

Just the other day, I left – you guessed it – Target with a cart full of children and no purchases. I made it all the way out to the car before I realized that I had left all of my bags sitting next to the register. So after five minutes of putting shoes back on feet and trying to unwedge my younger son from under the driver’s seat, I finally re-loaded the cart with kids and returned to retrieve my abandoned bags. The cashier laughed as I blindly grabbed for them, apologizing for being so scatterbrained.

She didn’t know the half of it. When we arrived home, I discovered an additional bag that did not belong to me. It was full of cosmetics, and I immediately pictured a woman frantically rifling through her bags in a desperate search for her new false eyelashes. And I couldn’t even rush back to return the bag since Oliver’s school bus was scheduled to arrive in 30 minutes.

I’m a bit of a disaster.

I am also incredibly patient and kind, and I keep emotion out of any punishment that is required. If I yell it is just to be heard over the clamor or to project a very clear impression that I am, in fact pissed. I will always give a hug to a child in distress, even if I really want to stuff them into a suitcase and check them in for the next flight to Peru. I care more about their feelings than I care about my own.

I have no desire to escape. I just want things to be better. I want me to be better.

And I don’t think there is any chance of that happening anytime soon.

Put me in my husband’s body, and I’m Mr. Mom. And I don’t see a Rocky soundtrack montage of me getting my act together anywhere on the horizon.

Maybe I’ll improve over time. Or maybe they will. Unfortunately, there is no crash course in full time parenting.

Every day offers a new lesson. The most recent one being that the next time I use Vaseline on dry skin, I will remember to immediately put it back up on a shelf. Because trying to get Vaseline out of a child’s hair is about as enjoyable as rebuilding a product display at Target while the Dream Team who knocked it over watches from their seats in the shopping cart, eating cookies and guffawing over how that silly woman ever thought she stood a chance…

Studies Show that Excessive Viewing of My Little Pony Videos Can Cause Brain Bleeds in Overindulgent Parents

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Remember when people used to joke about getting stoned and watching the Teletubbies? Well, I’ve never actually seen the Teletubbies since they were a bit before my time – but I think that people who are drunk should check out some My Little Pony episodes.


Because anyone who attempts this while sober may lose their mind and require immediate hospitalization. And heavy doses of anti-hallucinogenic drugs.

My Little Pony screenings should really be included in accepted U.S. torture techniques. I would take five days of sensory deprivation over five hours of the ponies. (Okay – so that’s not really true, but you get my point.)

You may not be familiar with My Little Pony due to a lack of daughters or the great fortune of giving birth to them prior to this particularly odious phenomenon. If that is the case, I would ask you to imagine everything that has ever been annoying about girls. Then add a purple and pink color scheme, cloying lesson-based story arcs, squealing, giggling, slumber parties, dance contests, fashion shows, make overs and a dash of glitter. All with tinkling chimes for every scene change. Oh yeah – and ponies.

I was first introduced to My Little Pony movies when my daughter, Eleanor received one of the ponies for Christmas last year (not from me) and it came with a little “Meet the Ponies” DVD. It’s been almost a year, and we only JUST started watching this thing.

You see, unfortunately for Eleanor, our house is outfitted for boys. She’s simply outnumbered – Thomas Trains and Matchbox Cars prevail.

Sure we have plenty of the gender neutral Disney and Nick Jr. DVDs – but if we ever err on the side of “boy” or “girl” toys, Barbie eats G.I. Joe’s dust.

Until the ponies… Eleanore LOVES those damn ponies.

The first time she watched a My Little Pony episode, it was late at night and she was up with some kind of ailment (I think it was the night she burned one of her hands). In attempt to distract her from her discomfort, Chris looked for something girly for her to watch – something that she typically misses out on in this house of boys.

So he turned on My Little Pony. And she didn’t blink for the entire 45 minutes. She was rapt. It was like the mother ship was calling her home.

And now we live in fear of those dreaded words: “I want ponies.” Because she’s brainwashed her twin brother into thinking that he likes it too. George asks for ponies almost as much as Eleanor does. As you can imagine this thrills Chris to no end.

But back to getting drunk and watching My Little Pony… I have to admit – it is kind of hilarious.

The very first one I ever saw had me in total hysterics (and I wasn’t even drunk). That particular episode opened with a pony rock concert. Complete with screaming groupies and a hunky front man. It was quite possibly the most bizarre thing I’ve ever encountered. I couldn’t stop laughing. Eleanor was very serious about her pony enjoyment and gave me sidelong looks of disdain.

Lucky you! I found the clip:

Really my biggest question here is “who set up the mics?” The absence of opposable thumbs presents far too much suspension of disbelief for my liking…

Then the other day, we caught this little gem. A pony love story with bad advice from both the girl ponies and the boy ponies (very Summer Lovin’ in spirit):

But if you can’t stomach the undiluted syrupy sweetness, here is a version that anyone can enjoy:

Hey – even Pink likes ponies…

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!

EPILOGUE: It is now a year after I originally wrote that. And yes – the ceiling has of yet to be repainted. It’s like I don’t even see this stuff anymore…

*ANOTHER re post – but I do kind of love this one since it really gets to the heart of what it’s like to live in my house… And I’ve updated the pictures since back then I didn’t realize that you could select larger images OR add more than five per post (my ingenue period). Happy Halloween week!

When being a mother means choosing between a pee-soaked shirt or a possible call from child protective services.

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Scary Mommy has thrown down the gauntlet and asked for other scary mommy stories. As in “mirror mirror on the wall, who is the scariest mommy of them all?”

Okay – so I don’t think she’s an evil queen or anything (or is she…), but she claims to be the kind of mom who is “scary.” This refers to “the anti-perfect mommy. The mommy who despite adoring her children to death, will admit to wanting to wring their little necks. The mommy who forgets to shower until bedtime. The mommy who drives through Chic-Fil-A to get fruit for lunch rather than deal with schlepping the kids to the grocery store.”

My first thought is, “you can get them to eat fruit? I’m intimidated.“

It would be hard to come up with a comprehensive list of what makes me scary. You can just click on any one of several labels on my sidebar (Oliver, George, Eleanor, Little Ones, World’s Best Mom…) I’ve covered everything from refusing to buy my kids toys that would drive me crazy (for their own good), to bribing them with candy (for my own good), to refusing to let them help decorate the Christmas tree (because a perfect tree makes Christmas even more special for children), to comparing my daughter to Mr. T (because I can), to letting them run around town looking like the cast of Oliver (they’re own fault for outgrowing perfectly good clothes)… I even wrote a list of reasons why I’m a scary mommy (although I called myself “that mom”). Twice. So as far as scary mommy status goes, I think I’ve really covered my bases here at The Big Piece of Cake.

But Scary Mommy isn’t asking for links. She’s asking for something new. And I do happen to have a rather cringe-worthy story that hasn’t been told as of yet…

A year ago, we visited my Aunt and Uncle in New Jersey. They live on a block of lovely little houses that happens to be positioned behind a large public high school. And directly across the street from their front door is a driveway that leads to all of the playing fields and tennis courts. A perfect venue for entertaining your three year old while your two year old twins take an afternoon nap.

So on that Indian Summer Saturday afternoon I walked hand in hand with Oliver down the driveway and into a wonderland of bleachers and dusty pitcher’s mounds. While it was already quite a distance for Oliver’s little legs, he heard the siren call of tennis balls hitting clay. So we went even further into the school grounds to watch the tennis lessons and recreational matches going on.

At this point, any games that may have taken place had ended so aside from the tennis courts, the fields were fairly deserted. We (he) could run up and down pathways between the chain link and exclaim over the very exciting ball smacking going on everywhere we looked.

After an hour of tennis, we took an abandoned ball over to the bleachers and played a complicated game of catch that involved jumping down, climbing up and throwing the ball far out of the catcher’s range just to watch them (me) run.

Needless to say, after an hour and change, we were exhausted. It was time to go.

About halfway across the playing fields, Oliver’s stubby little legs gave out and I was given the option of sitting down on the ground with him or picking him up and carrying him. Since I was used to hauling that big boy around on a regular basis (mainly to make him submit to my will – but same-same), I scooped him up with ease and made my way back down the driveway that led to my Aunt and Uncle’s house.

What I didn’t expect was to find an almost 6′ tall chain link fence blocking our path. Apparently, the gate is locked for the day once school activities conclude, and that time must have passed while we were climbing bleachers. I was feeling rather nonplussed since I didn’t even realize that there was a gate. But there it was…

And there we were… Tired, hungry and wet. Although Oliver had been potty trained for a while, I realized that I must not have taken him to the bathroom before leaving the house (a rookie mistake that I still make on a regular basis). So of course, he had an accident. Which was at that moment soaking through my shirt.

The only other way to exit the school grounds was on the other side of the tennis courts. Which would require about a mile walk around the huge block back to our destination. Holding an exhausted 50 lb. three year old. With pee pee soaking through my shirt…

I looked at Oliver. Then I looked at the chain link. Then I looked behind us at the tennis courts. Then I looked again at the chain link. Then I finally looked at Oliver, let out a long resigned breath and said, “yeah – we’re going to have to go over.“

And how does one go about hoisting a small child over a chain link fence? In my case, not very well…

First I explained the process to him, “okay Oliver – here’s how it’s going to go down. I’ll hold you up as high as I can over my head, and then you are going to throw your legs over the top of the fence. Then I’m going to dangle you over the other side, and count to three. When I get to three, I’ll let go, and you will jump to the ground. Sound good?“

After receiving a blank stare for confirmation, the plan was set. It was go time.

As it turns out, lifting 50 lbs of dead weight over your head is not as easy as it sounds. And Oliver was no help at all. Seriously, no initiative whatsoever – you’d think he was a child or something… But somehow, I managed it. And in less than a minute with only minimal scratches from the jagged fence top, he was dangling just a few feet over freedom.

I’ll admit that he didn’t quite stay on his feet when I dropped him, but he scrambled back up quickly enough (mommy’s little trooper) and received me with open arms – the better to climb me with – as soon as I joined him on the other side.

The rest of our walk home involved a very short trek through some underbrush due to ANOTHER chain link fence. Honestly – what are they keeping in that high school? The Hope Diamond? But this one seemed to just block cars from the driveway and much to our relief, we could make our way around it.

As soon as we arrived back, we changed into clean clothes and told our story to a spellbound crowd of admirers (or to a few horror struck relatives…potato-potahto…) But alls well that ends well, I say.

I did consider fudging the truth, but we scary mommies wear our poor parenting moments like badges of honor. Even if they just serve as a reminder of where improvement can be made, “right – never doing that again.”

And no – I have never lost my mind and tried to toss a child over a chain link fence since. But not to worry – I fall short daily, serving peanut butter sandwiches for dinner because that’s all they’ll eat…pretending that I’m not aware of them disobeying orders in the other room since it’s just easier that way…letting them skip teeth brushing because it will just provide another 15 minutes of evasion opportunity to an already late bedtime… A scary mommy’s work is never done. And I never leave my post.

Motherhood opened today, a movie about a mom/writer/blogger. Also, the director is a woman and a mom, too. We should really try to support this movie and show the studio heads that there is money to be had by making movies for US. I’m going to make an effort to get out there and see it – which is pretty huge considering that I have seen the inside of a movie theater about three times in the past four years.

And yes – I do owe you an update on the conference call with Uma Thurman…but I’ll try to do that next week (as usually, I’ve stayed a bit long at the party and this post is a beast). But here’s a spoiler: I could barely hear her, she got cut off several times, and I spent most of it running away from my whining children (thank god for the mute button). So yeah – it will be REALLY exciting.

My Children and Gross and Annoying – The Final Chapter

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I felt I needed to do one more of these since Part II focused almost entirely on “gross.” And my children are far too annoying not to give them equal time in that arena.

So let’s just jump right in shall we?

Oliver? Shreds paper. I mean, like all the time. And not only is this strange, but it’s also messy. As if my house isn’t a disaster as it is…

It all started with him realizing that he could use tissue paper to make snow for one of his little Thomas Train scenes. Then he found he could also use it to simulate soap suds for “the wash down.” And THEN he cut out the middle man altogether and started shredding it just for the sake of creating little piles.

The saving grace is that he only does this with tissue-like paper. Paper towels are about as thick as he’s willing to go. So at least 50% of the paper we own is safe from his machinations.

Now, I know that this is all tied in with his sensory issues and it’s somehow soothing for him, but having to keep anything tissue-related out of reach is ANNOYING. Seriously – it’s like living with a gerbil.

Also? He will trail me around the house asking me for the same thing over-and-over-and-over-and-over… Like:

Oliver: Mommy – I want some milk please.

Me: Okay – just a minute honey.

Oliver: Mommy – I want some milk.

Me: Okay – just a minute.

Oliver: I want some milk.

Me: Just a minute.

Oliver: I want some milk.

Oliver: I want some milk.

Oliver: I want some milk. I want some milk. I want somemilk. I wantsomemilk. Iwantsomemilk. IwantsomemilkIwantsomemilkIwantsomemilkIwantsomemilk.

Oh my god (insert Chandler Bing’s signature tone here) someone make it stop.

This one probably doesn’t have anything to do with his Spectrum issues. Instead, I think it’s a direct result of my inability to maintain focus for more than 30 seconds. You see, it’s a very common occurrence for one of my children to ask me for something, and then for me to say “you bet!” and walk purposefully out of the room…only to get sidetracked by something else and never be heard from again. So this is probably his way of making sure I follow through. Proving that I have only myself to blame.

Still very annoying though.

Then there are the twins.

For a long time I found it seizure inducing when they would scream the same thing in stereo. But now I get the pleasure of listening to them argue. And make simultaneous yet opposing demands.

If one of them wants the lights on, the other wants them off. If one of them wants butter on their rice, the other wants it plain (and god help the woman who doesn’t make it crystal clear that their servings were prepared separately as ordered). If one of them wants to watch The Wonder Pets on TV, the other one wants to watch Diego.

Don’t get me wrong, they play wonderfully together and they are the best of friends. But they’re learning how to assert themselves just like any other three year olds. So it’s inevitable that they’d seek out opportunities to clash.

The best is when they do this in the car. Because you know, I can’t escape. It usually has to do with keeping the windows up or down. And compromising with one up/one down doesn’t work since from what I understand, wind can reach you from either side.

So I hear “I want-a window DOWN!” and I put the windows down. Then I hear “NO! I want-a window UP!” and I put them back up. Then “NO! Down!” – and they go down. Then “[howl] NOOOOO! UP!” – and they go up. And this continues until I decide that it’s kind of funny to mess with them and start rolling the windows up and down as fast as I can.

This would be when they join forces and either hate me or think I’m the funniest mom ever. On a good day it’s the latter.

Another precious little habit of theirs is to turn a short bedtime story into an hour-long activity by demanding to take turns reciting their version of the text on EVERY PAGE. And if I try to turn the page without each of them having their full moment in the spotlight, they make “the noise.”

I put “the noise” in quotes, because that’s what I’ve starting to call it, saying “don’t you MAKE that noise or I will put this book away.” A tactic that is only partly effective since they generally switch to writhing around on the floor howling “NO!” in an attempt to squeeze my brain until it literally explodes.

It’s very hard to capture “the noise” in writing, but I guess you could call it whining. Phonetically, it would be something like “Eh! Eh! Eh!” Which doesn’t sound that bad as I reread it…but believe me after five storybook pages of that, you will start scanning the room for sharp objects to drive into your eardrums.

And if they’re really on their game, they will battle each other for the last word. Each making “the noise” after the other takes their turn – making it impossible for me to turn the page until I finally lose it and say “that’s it! Lights out!” That’s usually when they drop to the ground and pull out another signature move that I like to call “sizzling bacon.” That one looks a lot like demonic possession (I mean – from what I’ve seen on TV), but the exorcism is far more simple. It just requires assurances that we WILL in fact continue the story if they just stopstopstopfortheloveofgodpleasestop.

So yeah – that’s kind of annoying.

This has gotten rather long, and any other parents reading this know that I could go on forever. So I’ll end with a new favorite.

Eleanor has decided that she is only a part time three year old. The rest of the time, she is thirteen. This manifests in her angsty practice of being frequently wounded by something innocuous that we do or say. She will immediately leave the room and then settle in a spot nearby where we are sure to hear her whimpering tears.

At first I thought this was hilarious. It brought back so many memories of sitting alone in my self inflicted misery, just waiting for someone to happen upon me and realize how wronged I have been by such a cruel world…

But then I remember that she’s only three, and isn’t slated to become an angsty teenager for another 10 years. So does that mean that we will get more of the same until 2019 when she officially takes office as the resident teenage girl? Or is she just starting to hone her skills ensuring her black belt in emotional blackmail by age nine?

I’m afraid to speculate. Hopefully, I’ll be too busy cleaning up shredded tissue paper to notice.

A Few Updates and a Major World Event*

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We’re leaving early tomorrow morning for a wedding in Cleveland, so I’m going to be offline until next week. In the meantime, I thought I’d sneak in a quick update.

First – I’ll definitely try to do a short fiction piece for tomorrow (for all three of you who are enjoying them). It’s been fun, so I don’t want to drop that.

Second – I DID actually write something of substance for this week – so if you have time, you can find that HERE (and leave me a comment so I know you came by).

Third – I owe you one more My Children are Gross and Annoying post. I haven’t forgotten. That should be up next week.

Fourth (maybe I should have used bullets…) – I had the opportunity to participate in a conference call with Uma Thurman yesterday. She talked about her new movie Motherhood that’s coming out next week. I was also privy to a little online marketing controversy, so I have some thoughts on that as well. More on this next week.

Finally – don’t forget to visit Vodka Mom HERE to learn about an amazing program as well as your opportunity to win some great prizes.

Now – with “housekeeping” notes out of the way, I do have one major update.

We finally got Eleanor off the junk.

We were going to wait until after our trip since there is nothing worse than being trapped in a car for six hours with a toddler jonesing for her pacifier. But as it turned out, the last two that we had went missing on the same day last weekend. We really did look for them too (believe me – we looked). But they never did turn up.

Bedtime was rough. There was a lot of screaming which made bedtime stories a bit challenging. Have you ever tried to read a Thomas the Tank Engine storybook while a 30 lb. banshee shrieks in your ear? As if the tedious story line and creepy humanoid faces on the trains weren’t bad enough…

Then when I turned off the light, she pulled out her best Linda Blair and shook the room with seizure-like thrashing and mattress kicking. Before she started foaming at the mouth though, she had one of those crying-related coughing fits that of course ended with me cleaning vomit off of her in the bathroom.

Fortunately – this all seemed to exhaust her (and I suspect it kind of grossed her out as well) so she went back to bed quietly with a refreshing sippy cup of water.

Three days later, we’re letting out a collective sigh of relief. Next up – potty training!

See you next week.

R.I.P. Paci. Gone but not forgotten….(she does still ask for it now and again)

*Okay – not exactly a “world event” but it was fairly earth shattering for us.