5:22pm

Ross is setting the table, under duress - it's his brother's chore. Lars is writing lines like a madman or, at least, when he he can. He has so far been daunted by a broken pencil, a lost eraser, a banged knee and - Chris' favorite - itchy eyes. He's up to 62 "I must not carve on furniture" lines out of a prescribed 100, which was negotiated down to 90 while we were cuddling on the gurney when his stitches were put in. Do I lose a point for writing off 10% of a punishment to a kid who's given himself investigatory surgery with an iron radiator?

To leash or not to leash

I started writing a very long comment responding to Grandmoo about leashes, so I figured I should just post.

I've seen the kid leash a couple of times, but not in the Northeast. The trend here is to keep the kid in the stroller until he's 6. I personally think you're not doing your kid much of a service not teaching him to keep his hands off of stuff, and the irony that we're an obese nation when we don't have our little ones walking around the mall with us doesn't elude me.

Alec insisted on ditching the stroller when Lauren was 2 1/2. I fought him because I thought a half mile between the train station and daycare was too far - and it was at first. But it made our trips to and from much easier because it meant we could take stairs and ride escalators rather than having to find an elevator in a New York City subway station.

The result was a few months later, she wasn't phased by having to walk distances, and yes, we had to be on top of her not to pick things up. Our codeword for this behavior was "fragile". She knew that meant not to touch anything. I was constantly chastised for this, "She can't possibly know what that means!" by passersby, and to my glee she would say, "That means it breaks easily."

An outing to the mall

I am cross posting an excerpt from my personal blog today.

After a romp at the playplace, we headed to the foodcourt for lunch. It was this point that things started to deteriorate.

The line was long and I stood there for quite a while trying to pacify a Clara who saw other people were eating while she was not. She sat crying in her stroller while frantically making the sign for "more food, more food" to everyone around her. That girl is passionate about eating. Can't imagine where she gets that from. By the time I finally ordered our food, I was frazzled and irritated. I stepped aside to wait and turned around to ask Ben to hold his milk.

Ben?

I didn't see him. The panic wasn't immediate. I glanced around expecting to see him standing just out of view behind another stroller. But after a moment of searching my stomach turned upside down. He was nowhere to be found near the McDonalds or any of the attached restaurants. I realized I couldn't remember exactly when the last time I had noticed him standing beside me in line. I had been preoccupied with his sister. I grabbed Clara's stroller, with her still whimpering, and started combing the area while calling his name. A minute ticked by, and then two, and suddenly I was in a full out frenzy. It was the first time in my life as a parent that I actually feared someone might have taken one of my children.

And then I spotted him...sitting contentedly on one of those mechanical cars that you feed coins into. The whole episode couldn't have lasted more than 3 or 4 minutes. But still my relief was consuming. I can't imagine what it must feel like to have your child missing for an hour, or a lifetime. Tears stung my eyes while I ran and scooped him up hugging and scolding him in intervals, while he squirmed in confusion at my manic behavior.

I headed back to McDonalds while pushing Clara in the stroller with one hand while keeping a pincer grip on Ben with the other. We picked up our food and I was forced to let go of Ben to carry it. Giving Ben a stern command to hold on to the stroller we started shuffling, mom balancing bags, cups and stroller and attached boy, towards the mob of people and tables at the center of the foodcourt. At this point, Clara managed to finally wiggle her way free of her stroller and slide halfway out onto the floor. I, of course didn't notice this until I started running over her. I thought about it for just a second and transferred our food and drinks into the stroller, picked up a writhing, wailing baby and continued the awkward migration towards the relative sanctuary of food and seats.

Once we were seated the children settled happily in to a greasy munch-fest . They had failed to substitute apples for fries in Ben's Happy Meal as I had requested, but I certainly wasn't going to attempt the trek back to rectify the situation so fries it was. The weekids at least, were thrilled with their fried windfall.

Just like summer re-runs

So, I tell ya, for the second time I went out without diapers in the diaper bag, and Lindsay peed on someone else kitchen floor, except that unlike the situation at Karen's house of being just the three of us, it was in a room full of people and I was pretending she was wearing a diaper under her well-soaked navy yoga pants. Oh, and my friend wasn't in on the pee joke. Happy birthday! Oh, don't tell me they don't pee in your kitchen to wish you a good year where you're from...

I told my story about the neighbor who asks me every day where Lindsay is when I show up at the bus stop unattended to dismayed stares from friends and neighbors. "You know that's illegal, right?" "It's a pretty stupid law." "It's still illegal."

Yes. I am breaking the law.

My child has now urinated on two friends kitchen floors.

You're really gearing up to invite me over to your next dinner party, aren't you?

Or better yet, dinner party Chez Stoll, leave those diapers behind!

Admin note

Okay, so I declared Joy the September point winner as she was in the lead as of my last Admin note.

October's contest will close Wednesday. So far, Karen is in the lead as I've kept her points from her controversial post I Need a Note, since they were awarded based on her enjoyment of drawing out the anticipation of the punishment, and just how delicious is it that she's making him write lines?! Oh, and I haven't awarded myself points, so you might want to check out my two posts. Though, I imagine putting my 17-month old on the potty, and not washing yogurt out of her hair before a playdate aren't going to get me in the league of Karen and Ging this month...

On a side note, I labeled everyone's posts now, so you can select your name under labels to tag posts, or not and I'll catch up again at some point...

Just a Squirrel Trying to Get a Nut

Apparently my son Kyle has decided that 1) I do not feed him enough food or 2) he is turning into a squirrel. For the last few weeks after doing my kids laundry I have been finding tons (I mean literally tons) of freakin acrons in my washing machine. After the clothes have been cleaned and I am getting ready to put them in the dryer. At first I could not figure this out. Where in the world were all the acrons coming from? Finally I realized Kyle was literally squirreling them away in his pockets and I had no clue until they were washed. Ugh!

AND. As I am typing the email my son Todd is screaming from his bedroom (MOMMMIIIEEEE) and beating on his door because we have locked him in his room.

This is a LONG...LONG...LONG story. Started when Kyle was younger and would not stay in his bed at night. So, we turned his lock around and locked his door. He FREAKED...started banging and screaming...finally, just as Kevin and I were about to give in, Kyle got on the floor to yell through the crack (because he is louder that way)...."I stuck....help...I stuck." Of course we both came undone at that point....so now fast forward....Todd has been getting out of his bed (since we changed his crib to a toddler bed a few weeks ago) and going into Kyle's room and getting into bed with him. This turns 8pm bedtime into 9 or 9:30pm bedtime once we finally get the kids to sleep. SOOOO, here we are again...locking the kids in their rooms.

Total child abuse I am sure....but we must give the kids something to talk about in future therapy sessions. At least we will all know why they are afraid of the dark... and locked doors.

Self-cleaning

My baby, Helen, hates to have her diaper changed. I know this is not uncommon. My older daughter, Ruthie, did as well, but Ruthie is a different child than Helen. Ruthie would protest and occasionally have to be held own. She'd whine. She'd scream. We'd get it done. Helen, on the other hand, turned it into a sporting event. Helen is incredibly strong for her size. ( I mentioned in my intro post that she was born ten weeks early. She came home from the hospital 6 weeks before her due date, weighing a little over 4 1/2 lbs. At that time, if you held her in a standing position on your lap, she would bear weight on her legs. The is is when she was negative 6 weeks old. I mean it, she's strong.) Anyway, it takes some force to hold Helen down when her diaper needs changing. She twists herself into all kinds of positions, slips from adult's grip and runs away, half naked and screaming. Adult chases her down, pins he own again, and hopes to get diaper on before Helen escapes again. I don't need to tell you that I change her diaper as infrequently as allowed by the Office of Children and Family Services. And I'm generally pretty wiped out when it's over. So much so that I often forget to throw the diaper away and it lays on the living room floor awhile (we gave up on the changing table long, long ago). So today, late afternoon, we had a diaper changing event/match. After a brief struggle, Mommy won. Once the new diaper was on, I quickly returned to the kitchen to finish defrosting dinner. Hubby came home, children were happy, playing laughing, blah, blah, blah. During a break in the defrosting process, I returned to the living room ,where Helen was still clad in only her diaper. She had what appeared to be a tissue in her hand, and she was vigorously wiping her bare belly (she loves to clean surfaces, including herself.) She then proceeded to thoroughly wash her face, and then her hair, and hubby and I chuckled over how she was smearing snot into her otherwise clean hair. Ha, ha, ha. I glanced over to the other side of the room, and realized the diaper from an hour or so ago was still sitting there. Unfolded. (I always wrap them up, even if I don't throw them away.) I pick up the diaper, glance inside, and relaize, as I gag, that Helen's tissue was indeed the wipe from her wet diaper change. Fantastic. No, I did not rush her to the tub. I chased her down with a brand new clean wipe and cleaned her that way. Cuz, you know, dinner was almost ready.

Introduction

Hi. I'm Marianne (emmay). I am a mom to two daughters, aged 3 1/2 and 2o months. Both were born prematurely (28 weeks and 30 weeks gestation respectively...surely my inability to gestate my children completely should earn me some points right off the bat). I do not work outside the home for pay, but I do volunteer weekly at the NICU where my children "lived" after they were born. I have been blogging since early 2007. My first blog, Safety Week, is about day to day stuff. My second blog, Pondering, is written as a memoir of sorts about my journey to motherhood, my girls' experiences in the NICU, etc. It's moving kinda slow...I haven't even had the older one yet. I also contribute to two other shared blogs about motherhood. I am a terrible typist, so my posts are nearly always generously peppered with typos. I also refer to my children by their middle names in blogger world. Ruthie is the older one, Helen the baby.
My recent affinity for blogging seems to be havinga positive impact on my children. As I was completing my registration for this blog, my older daughter cried to me "She's out!" I tore myself away from the keyobaord to find my baby heading down the porch steps, wearing nothing but a diaper and pair of socks. It's 46 degrees here.

Aversion Therapy

Saturday night, I cleaned the kids' room. Cleared out outgrown clothes, forced all toys back down to playroom, weeded & organized books, vacuumed. Once done, I got the kids to take a good look around and carefully reminded them that anything found out of place is subject to the trash can, at my whim.

At the close of Tuesday, their room was still clean! I decided to push the envelope. "Lars, will you please help me put this laundry away? Start with the pajamas - please put them in the PJ drawer." He grouched a tiny bit but got right up to help. He went to the dresser and opened the drawer, then came over to get a short stack of pajamas, then tripped on the soft bin we keep stuffies in and slammed his head into the iron baseboard radiator.

Point per stitch, anyone? I sort of wish he'd tripped BEFORE he started helping with the laundry...then I could've employed the 'ol, "If you'd been doing as you were asked, this never would have happened!" As it was, he was doing exactly what he was asked to do. Something tells me this does not bode well for future help with putting away laundry.

Admin post

Blog authors:

Take a look at our introduction in the side bar and let me know if you'd like to add or remove anything...

I've done a terrible job of point keeping. Please help! I'm thinking that Joy is probably September's winner, and I'd go back to my last admin post and start counting October.

Does anyone have a preference of day to post for NaPoBloMo? If not, I propose:

Ashley posts Sundays
Epiphany posts Mondays
Ginger posts Tuesdays
Joy posts Wednesdays
Karen posts Thursdays
Lisa posts Fridays
Paige posts Saturdays

Let me know your thoughts, ladies...

How to respond to your 17-month-old when she demands pee-pee potty

It seemed to be what she was after. She just sat there for about 10 minutes wanting to put pieces of toilet paper into the pot.

We're not supposed to discourage potty behavior, right? I have no idea. Talking to my 17-month-old is a little like trying to reason with a drunk.

Lightbulb

"Mama, I can't find my string with the cork on it."

"The one you left on the floor? I threw it out."

"Mama! That was mine!"

"It was on the floor, where it didn't belong. I threw it out."

==============

"Mama, have you seen my Haunter Pokémon card?"

"There was a Haunter card on the floor in the hall this morning. I threw it out."

"Mama! It wasn't trash!"

"It was on the floor and I watched you walk over it at least twice with no more regard for it than if it was trash. I threw it out."
===============

"MAMA! What are you DOING?"

"I'm about to pick up these toys off the floor."

"NO! I'll do it! Right now! Not you!"
===============

Join me in a two-finger victory dance, anyone?

More torture...

It's Saturday and I'm reminded of a certain torture I inflict upon my children. Whenever we're in the car on Saturday mornings, I make them listen to Polka Party on the university's radio station. Hee hee.

Lunch

At one of our beginning-of-the-school-year meetings with Samuel's special ed team, we asked how Samuel was doing at lunch because 1. he takes hours to eat supper and he only gets 15 minutes to eat lunch at school and 2. there's the whole social aspect that we worry about (which is a major aspect of Aspergers and Autism Spectrum). At this meeting, SPED teacher agreed to observe him during lunch.

Yesterday, Samuel came home with the report from the special ed teacher, who is his case manager.

The two days she observed him:
1. The only time I have ever put candy in his lunch. I thought to myself when I was packing his lunch, "Oh, what the heck. Nice treat for the kid." I put in a small (Halloween candy-sized) box of Nerds, which he ended up spending the entire lunch time taking out of the box, counting, lining up, playing with, then putting back in the box. He brought them home and said they were gross. The only other thing he ate was a few tortilla chips ("What the heck are these parents feeding this poor boy?").

2. The menu for the second day was when I was out of his special rice bread, out of tofutti cheese and crackers, and all I had left was leftover plain rice macaroni. (Now, there's a way to win friends and influence people: cold, plain, leftover macaroni noodles.) He spent the whole lunch time making circles out of two macaroni noodles, then eating them. At least it was more than tortilla chips and Nerds.

And BTW, neither day was Zero-Nutrition Thursday.

I'm telling you, October is mine.

Nurses who contribute to the problem....

Yesterday was Kyle's 4 year appointment with the doctor. Thank goodness we are now down to one visit a year. Of course if I had been reading all the parenting books like I am suppossed to I would have known prior to this appointment that Kyle would be receiving an entire military regiment of shots (aka the "boosters"). Good lord...how many diseases must they vaccinate against at once. So, we are in the doctors office and my very bright 4 year old asks me if he is getting a shot. I look at him quite surprised as one, well it did not even cross my mind that he might and two, it actually did cross his mind. I pull the nurse aside and quietly ask if Kyle will be getting shots today. She being ever so helpful tells my that, yes he will be getting 4 shots. Not just 1, but 4! Fantastic...no time to prepare for this one. So, I do the next best thing... bribery. I calmy try to explain to my child that he will be getting 4 shots, after already having to pee in a cup (totally foreign to him....and of course my 2 year must have one as well cause he is thirsty!) and getting his finger pricked but to no avail. Hence, bribery. Kyle at this point is caught between total terror and cool fasination as only boys can do. Time for shots come and the nurse explains that Kyle will need to lay down so she can put the shots in his legs. All this of course will require my assistance and I am being asked to hold his upper torso so he will not wiggle off the table. Again...fantastic! I get to not only help inflicate pain on my child but be a part of the holding down process while he is crying cause the shots hurt....bad. Serioulsy, I did not go to medical or nursing school...I pay them a lot of money to give shots to my children...there should not need to be assistance from me. The upswing....the bribery worked (of course) and he wanted a candy bar (of course) and he picked a Twix which has two bars (of course) and he got to eat one before dinner (of course). This on top of the cookie from the bakery, then the chocolate milkshake milk with dinner and the other half of the Twix after dinner, Kyle did not go to sleep until 10:30 last night. Even better... I got to leave for most of the evening for a meeting and my husband got to deal with Kyle. Figure it is a fair trade for having to be a part of infliciting inhumane torture on my 4 year old.

The lack of Shoes

"Go get your shoes, Will."

"Will, go get your shoes. We need to pick up Samuel."

"This is the third time I'm asking you. Get your shoes. Now."

No shoes.

We go to pick up Samuel from the afterschool library program. Will walks through the garage in socks, out of the car in socks, across the parking lot in socks, through the library in socks.

He wasn't happy. I only wished it had rained today.

Worst Mamas out there--October's got my name written all over it.

Warning: Worst Mothering Ahead

Someone has carved his brother's name into my new dining room table. When someone realized that his handiwork could not be erased, he was responsible enough to show me the damage himself, so you need not make plans to attend his funeral just yet but I'm thinking someone will not be going trick-or-treating this year.

A proud domestic moment.

Brandon and Allison walk into the kitchen where I am with the little ones.

"Look Brandon, I made your favorite cookies!" I announce.

He walks over to the oven. "Oh. Baller! (translation: Cool) Can I have one?"

Allie walks up behind him and looks at the cookie sheet. "Yay Mom! I love it when you bake."

Their favorite cookies:

And this is why, sadly, my children will never be referred to as Epicurean.

Who's the Mother here?

Yesterday, the Gingerbread Man had an evening meeting with People Who Make Pots of Money and Are Donating It For a Chaired Professorship at the University. So I had to take Samuel to cub scouts with Will in tow. We took an evening jaunt in the rain, collecting tree-related items (leaves, pinecones, etc.) for a naturalist to identify and discuss. During the discussion period, Will started wiggling in my lap. Off. On. Wiggle. Off again. I told him to settle down and he bit my hand! Not hard, but there was spit there. A story crossed my mind where one of my mother's friends used to pinch her children during church services to monitor their behavior when their father was on the stand. So I pinched Will. Not hard, but enough to send a message for him to settle down. He settled down nicely.

Dinner!

I'm finishing up making dinner. Chris has just returned from getting the boys and, as they come in the house, I say cheerfully, "Perfect timing - dinner's ready to go! Lars, please set the table. Ross, wash up."

Instantly, they spring into action. Lars grabs a handful of silverware and Ross heads for the bathroom. As Lars gets the plates on the table, I hear a flush and then some water running in the sink; a clean-handed boy smelling vaguely of soap emerges a moment later, asking if he can help with anything and monkeys come flying out of my butt. Either that or I wake up from my daydream - your choice...

What really happens is Lars instantly develops a tragic limp, so debilitating all he can do is lurch drunkenly toward the bathroom where he will invariably miss, might or might not flush, and will completely forget to wash his hands. If he's on his game, he'll pump a little soap into his hands and wipe them on his pants for that clean smell.

Ross begins going on about something or other that his brother did - something so offensive that it requires shouting, punctuated with injured whines and pointing. When he escalates it to head-splitting complaints about how the chair he wants to use and the glass he prefers tonight are not matched up, I ban him from uttering another word and send him to time out.

I point Lars, limp and all, at the plates. He picks up a fork or two and staggers toward the table and I think there's a chance he might just get the utensils onto the table but, alas, Chris comes in at that minute and the forks are forgotten. Ooooh! Shiny!

"Dinner is ready," I declare loudly and with much less cheer than my prior announcement. I begin to serve out from the stove, handing Lars (who is forgetting to limp) the plates to put on the table. I dismiss Ross from time-out and he actually does go to the bathroom. I know, because he hollers about how his brother left the place. I tell him people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

As I pour milk into glasses, I decide the children will not be talking at all during our meal and announce as much. We do this sometimes, either for sanity or because we are in a rush and need people to eat quickly or because Chris and I feel like having a conversation that is not peppered with miscellaneous detours about Pokémon. As usual, the no children talking thing is not absolute but we maintain relative quiet by liberal application of Stern Parental Looks. Nobody has to be reminded of his manners but I'm still hacked off from the previous whinefest. When Lars wants to be excused, I tell him he must finish his dinner. Same for Ross. They each have about eight bites left. The ensuing cacophony about how they are FULL and how they DON'T LIKE couscous (which they eat all the time) twists my last nerve. I move a chair with a satisfying, attention getting bang. I say the boys may eat or not at their whim, but they are going to sit in their chairs silently until their dinners are gone. If that means they must wait for the ants to come and carry the grains of couscous off one-by-one, so be it. I say if I hear any speaking, spankings will follow - one per word. Ross puts his arms akimbo and utters a distinct HMPH. "Stand," I say. He glares at me but stands and I swat him on the rear, saying HMPH. "Sit," I say, "silently."

Silence follows and dinners are eaten, places cleared. I send them up for pajamas and they actually go. Teeth are brushed. They're watching a movie now. I want to join them but I also want popcorn and don't think I should have to share - the boys are FULL, after all.

Hairstyles of the young and neglected

Michael and Lindsay "sharing"

"Did you get Lindsay's hair cut?"

"Um...no."

"It looks cute today."

"Thanks..."

"Did you put product into it or something?"

"Uh, no. She had yogurt earlier though."

"Huh. That really seems to work for her..."

Just a Reminder

It's Zero-Nutrition Thursday!!! In honor of the day, I downed three pieces of a milk chocolate Symphony bar with toffee and almonds. Actually, I finished it. Now I've got leftover apple-cranberry pie. And, oh darn! I can't share with the children because they're allergic to the ingredients!

I Need A Note

The house is filled with the usual last-minute pounding of feet. Upstairs to brush teeth; downstairs for shoes and jacket and backpack. Bang! One kid out the door. I pause, but there's no second bang. Then, a man's voice, "What?" He sounds strangled. The heavy footsteps of someone who knows he's in trouble enter the hall and a small body thwumps down on the stairs, our time-out spot. This can't be good.

I thump down the stairs faster than I have in weeks. Ross is sitting on the step, with the very still posture of a boy who knows he is in way over his head and looks as if he's about to puke. My stomach drops. "Why aren't you going for the bus," I ask.

He winces slightly as he catches his breath. "You need to write a note to the Principal," he says softly.

I almost puke. "I WHAT?"

"I need you to write a note saying what we'll do for my punishment, for taking clay from the Art Room," he says to clarify. I feel my brain trying to process this information. 7:52am is not my finest hour.

7:52am! The time makes it through my pre-coffee fog. I grab his shoulder and propel him toward the door with an adrenaline urgency. "Run! You're going to miss the bus!"

"But I need the note," he wails. I note that he's now sounding strangled and it occurs to me that his not having the note will be a great start to the punishment.

"We don't have time for that now! When the Principal asks you for the note, you'll have to tell her why you don't have it today," I say and whoosh him out the door.

I glance at the clock: 7:53am. Too soon for wine, even in Paris. I decide to call the Main Office and let them know about the late news delivery, so it won't be a surprise when Ross turns up empty-handed. After, I send up a quick prayer for patience, strength, $225,000, and get on with my day.

After school, we entertain the usual dance of homework, reading, and hockey bags. Ross is atypically attentive to his work and doesn't say much of anything until dinner. After he's mostly through with his meal, he braces himself and says, "Mama, we need to do my note. I have to have it for tomorrow." He pauses, takes another bite. Almost with spirit, he adds, "And you can't make my punishment be that I have to stay inside for recess this week, because I already have to do that." Ross takes another bite and Chris struggles not to choke.

We manage to swing into a casual discussion of what he'd done. It seems that Ross took the bit of clay to work in his classroom, while he was thinking. His eyes popped open when I pointed out that stealing something small is still stealing - clearly he hadn't thought of it that way. He also hadn't thought about what would happen to the Art Room clay supply if every child in the school took just a small piece for himself. We talk about these and I watched Ross realize why the teachers are so upset; why his little bit of clay is such a big deal. He is well aware that stealing is wrong - he just hadn't thought to hang the term "stealing" on his own action. As the label falls into place in his head, he takes a deep breath. "So, what should we do for my punishment," he asks, head hanging.

"We'll talk about it when you get back from hockey," I say. He looks grim as I thrust him out the door again. The anticipation of his punishment has got to be giving him an ulcer by now. While he's gone, I start to compose the letter. When he gets home, he hangs his hockey gear and gets ready for bed. We read the letter to his Principal together and I make sure that Ross understands what I've written and what it means. The punishment Chris and I agree on is writing lines, which Ross can do during his inside recess periods. Ross HATES writing lines. He takes several stabs at getting out of it but looks blank when I ask what he thinks would be a suitable alternate; he can't come up with a single thing to suggest. Finally, we print the letter over his protests and both of us sign it. I clip the letter to a blank writing book for his lines, stick both into his knapsack, and send him up to bed.

As Ross rounds the corner at the top of the stairs, Chris offers me a high-five. "You're awful," he exclaims, quietly. "Good job!"

Some admin notes

I realized over the weekend that I hadn't awarded September's winner. I'm a little swamped this week, but if you collectively help me with the tally, we'll start October's contest.

Are you ladies interested in participating in National Blog Posting Month in November? It's a fun contest that requires you post every day. Yeah, that can be tough, but since there are 7 contributors, it would mean we'd all take responsibility for one day a week. Otherwise, you can post as many times a day you want. If we participate, do you think we need to add an explanation to this blog? Particularly that this is a humor blog (although I think that's a big du-uh) but also that only blog authors can accumulate and distribute points, although commenters are welcome to make recommendations.

Blog authors, let me know your thoughts...

Wait just a cotton-picking minute here

That's MY toddler giving herself a beer bath in a puddle of cat water in Karen's kitchen. And it was because I'd not checked that my diaper bag actually contained diapers and not just a dozen Little People and their animals, a can of sunscreen in a plastic zip bag, and a plastic box of TV-themed Band-Aids.

Also, Karen's husband wouldn't have survived to break their nutcracker were it not for me putting on my best "Karen voice" and shouting from their front porch, "Christopher, get out of the street!"

Are you a WME point candidate if:

...a baby who doesn't belong to you decides to use your cat dishes as a snack-bar-cum-splash-pool and you let her?

...a baby who doesn't belong to you poops on your kitchen floor, seizes the moment to make off with an open can of beer while you and her mother are distracted wiping up the floor and then, when you notice the baby has captured the beer, you laugh while her mother gets out the camera? (Note: the baby was, at the time, dumping the beer out into the tide pool previously created from the cat's water dish)

...you(r husband) buy(s) silence with cookies, even when none of the children in attendance really ate a good dinner?

...you use a third-party child to send threatening messages (along the lines of "ask again and you're all going to bed") to your own kin?

...you cook up a plot to feed your collective children little but cabbage and apple cider for a day and a half before sending them all to an overnight in the home of an evil in-law?

Is 10:45 AM too early for wine?

Clara's in her crib screaming. It's not naptime, but I have had enough of her. She's in one of those "I must be held and walked around or I am going to crawl around behind you clinging to your pants and whining" moods. And it's Friday and it's been a long week and I have had enough.

Ben and I were working on his cutting skills, per instructions from the school, but I have had enough of "I can't DOOO it" too and have walked away and left him to his own devices with fiskars, gluesticks and a whole box of markers (haven't I learned my lessons on this before?)

I was lying on the sofa with a pillow over my head to try to drown out Ben's whining of "Mommy HELP me" and Clara's screaming but I got up to send my frustrations into the blogosphere.

It's possible they get the whining thing from me. Where the heck is everyone? I am in need of some humorous parenting screw-ups to make me laugh and feel better about myself.

For Paige

Just so you know, Mommy-to-be, with regards to mothers-in-law (or in my case, step-mother-in-law), it doesn't get better after you have kids.

Message left after canceling twice on watching our kids this weekend and we enlisted the help of her sister- and brother-in-law so that we could have a romantic getaway last weekend:

Hi (long pause as though she's waiting for me to pick up even though it's voicemail, not an answering machine). I just wanted to let you know we had such a good time with the girls this weekend and we really bonded (audible inhalation) with Lindsay (exaggerated, another audible inhalation) this weekend...and we really would like to have both girls for an overnight soon.

Sure. How about when aitch E double hockey sticks freezes over?