Oh Happy Day

Benny is out of town on a business trip. I am taking a sickening pleasure in the fact that his overnight away coincides with Zero Nutrition Thursday!! I have huge plans to eat nothing good, and, in preparation, I baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies yesterday. I feared you might deduct any of my pre-earned points because they were homemade cookies, but Ruthie really wanted the snowman ones that you don't even have to slice before you bake. You open the package, move the cookie dough and bake. We made that kind recently, which we don't ever do, and when I told her we were making the homemade kind, she cried. I'm sorry honey, but Mommy needed something to do to avoid cleaning.
It's starting...the bad language that occasionally slips from my mouth when I'm not looking, is being repeated on a more regular basis by my child. But I must say she's chosen the less offensive ones to repeat. Ones I can easily blame on someone else, or someone else's kid, for that matter. She has recently been caught, and on more than one occasion, telling her little sister to shut up. I have to remind her that shut up isn't a nice word and that Mommy shouldn't say it either. (I'm waiting for her to tell me not to say it the next time I do, but it's usually only used when she is in the middle of screaming fit and she can't be bothered correcting me.) This weekend she shocked my friends. We were having a little playdate at our house, two friends and their little boys, both preschoolers as well. We were sitting a the kitchen table snacking on mini-donuts, mini-muffins, bagels (not mini), when Ruthie lets loose with "Don't piss me off." I heard it loud and clear but hoped the others did not. My one friend says "She couldn't have said what I think she said, could she?" I nodded, "Yeah, she could." I never did bother to find out who was pissing her off.

I Didn't Even Hear You Go Upstairs

The time I usually spend reading to the boys before bed was spent watching them brush their teeth, since they couldn't be bothered to do it without me staring at them even though Chris and I must have reminded them five times each tonight. I'm annoyed while tucking them in - do they realize they're going to be too grownup to want me to read to them before bed soon? As I turn out the light, Ross pipes up, "Mama, you said you would read more of the hockey book."

"And you said you'd brushed your teeth," I replied. "It feels pretty bad when your expectations aren't met, doesn't it?" Silence from the beds - neither one of them can think of a good rebuttal. "Maybe tomorrow you guys will actually brush your teeth and I'll have time to read instead of using the time to watch you brush them?" I finish tucking in and go downstairs.

A minute or so later, I hear movement upstairs. Chris doesn't hear anything but I go into the back hall to investigate anyhow and hear laughter upstairs. Ross is telling an action story to Lars, who keeps saying gleefully, "You didn't hit my stitches! Still didn't hit them! That was my eyebrow! You're not hitting my stitches! Not then either! ...."

I get to their room and snap on the light, "Maybe you need some light for better aim?"

Both boys startle! Lars leaps up and begins climbing down to his own bunk. Ross cries, "Lars came up here and I didn't want him and he wouldn't get..."

"No, Ross, Lars came up there on your invitation and you were having a great time telling him a story and you should stop speaking now, because you have NO idea how long I've been standing here." Silence ensues. "Now, we'll try this once more. If I come up again, there will be spankings. I love you...go to sleep!"

Downstairs again, I flop into a chair next to Chris and recap my recent adventure. He looks at me with a tiny bit of awe and says, "I didn't even hear you go upstairs!"

Sandcastles anyone?

I wasn't even going to post today. I am feeling grumpy and not particularly like writing witty anecdotes. Epiphany swooped in last night, or this morning - or whatever you call 2:40AM - and let me off the hook, and I was going to use the free pass.

But then I saw that Paige, who last I heard hasn't even birthed a child yet, is beating us all at worst mothering gig. And since I am definitely in a "I'm the worst mama, damn it" kind of mood, I changed my mind.

Kidding. Sort of kidding.

It's been a yucky kind of week. I know it's only Wednesday, but the week so far has been like 3 freakin Mondays in a row. The kids have been terrors and I seem to be completely overwhelmed with actually completing tasks that everyone else seems to manage without difficulty. Like keeping the home from looking like an episode of Clean Sweep, or grocery shopping, or feeding my children. And I know that this is only going to get worse with the quickly approaching major Holiday-which-will-not-be-named-because-even-hearing-the-word-stresses-me-out.

So yesterday morning I sent the weekids outside to play in the sandbox while I attempted to scrub my kitchen, knowing full well that I was buying kitchen cleaning time with time cleaning sand out of crevices later that day. The back wall of our home is almost all windows that look out on the deck where we keep the sandbox. I could see the children easily from the kitchen.

So after a bit of scrubbing I walked over to the windows to admire the view of my two youngest offspring playing so happily together. It's really a rare thing in this house for anyone to be playing happily with anyone else. Sad but true. And just more proof of my WME status. As I am standing there starting to get a warm fuzzy, I notice that Ben keeps bending over and putting his face near the sand and bobbing back up again. He then digs in the sand for a minute, and repeats the process.

I look closer and realize He. Is. Spitting! Spitting in the sand and then making tiny spit-sand patties.

Oh...Groooss.

I ran to the back door to tell him to cease immediately, but stopped with my hand on the knob. If I walk out on the deck Clara will see me. If Clara sees me she will immediately start crying and trailing behind me tugging at my pants leg. (She's been doing this for days now.) My kid free cleaning time will officially be over.

So I head back to the kitchen and finish my chore, making a point to keep my glances in the direction of the deck brief and unfocused.

And made a mental note to quit putting my feet in the sand when I go outside to read.

From the mouths of toddlers

I've loaded the girls into the car to head to main street to refill a prescription with papers in hand, drop off dry cleaning, make an ATM deposit, purchase stamps, and put a bag of used clothes into the donation bins. A friend of mine called as I finished buckling in Lindsay. Since I had just handed her several crackers, I figured I had a few minutes to chat as she ate them and Lauren played with her Leapster (yes, video games aren't great developmentally particularly for a kid who already watches too much television, but it is a Car Only Toy and it has the miraculous effect of producing silence in my car). I miscalculated the conversation length, and when I got into the car, Lindsay was fussing. As I pulled the car out of the driveway, she formed a single word letting me know her agita.

"Drinky."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Linds. I'll give you your drink after we park, honey."

She wailed loudly. You are not understanding me, woman. "Drinky, Mama."

"Ok, sweetie. Lauren, is Lindsay's drink in the back seat?"

"Nope."

"Darn, it must be in the trunk in her diaper bag," I replied, saying a silent prayer that I'd left it in there earlier when we went to the gym.

Lindsay put her hands up to her face, sobbing.

"I'll get it for you as soon as we stop."

Lindsay cried loudly. In the middle of a great sob, she shouted, "I want my drinky, Mama!"

I bit my lip to hold back a chuckle. I'd made her so angry, she uttered her first sentence. "In a moment, Lindsay. Mama's driving."

Naked boys and wet washclothes

This morning at 4:45, I was awoken by a loud shouting coming from my three-year old. With the maternal instinct muscle that has gotten sooo much exercise over the past six years, I turned into an Olympic athlete, pole-vaulter and sprinter all in one, as I leapt out of bed and was at my son's side in a split-second.

Holding him close to comfort him, I discovered the hard way that he had an accident and his pajamas were soaked almost to his armpits. I stripped him down, leaving him naked while I went to get a wet wash cloth to clean him up. That wouldn't get me any WME points if the motivation was pure; however, my motivation was entirely selfish. I'd just barely gotten the eczema on his backside cleared up and I didn't want to go through another couple of weeks of applying hydrocortisone and Eucerin daily.

He followed me into the bathroom. Still naked. Then he said he wanted to get cleaned in his bedroom. So back we went, Will shivering all the way. I cleaned him up and got new pajamas for him. A few minutes rocking him,and I think I'm home-free. I get back to bed and then realize that I had been holding him close BEFORE I discovered he had an accident. Sigh.

Just a note: I didn't have the opportunity to do the WME trick of throwing down the towel, because my husband changed the sheets while I was wandering around with a naked boy and a wet washcloth.

WME Theme Song

"Mom's Overature" by Anita Renfroe should totally be our theme song.

Mondays are terrible

I've always disliked them. I'd thought after I stopped working that that would change since Monday is a school day and school means I get more done, but alas. No.

On top of it, we had Thursday and Friday off due to a teachers' conference, so going back after a 4-day weekend and having an 8:30 AM executive committee meeting (I'm an officer in Lauren's school PTO) was especially tough. Lindsay was unamused at 10 AM when I dragged her out of the meeting and brought her to the Y. But she played happily for an hour and a half, and then let me drag her to the grocery store.

At the moment, it is just after 1 PM and we've just finished lunch. She's thrown every one of the linen napkins on the floor. She's tired and impatient. The house is a wreck because it always is after a weekend, and worse after a long one. Dishes piled up in the sink. Laundry piled up in baskets. Groceries now on the kitchen floor.

Ok, time put that kid to nap already and try to get some work done around the house.

I hate Mondays.