Daddy's Home!

OK, I have to tell you right away I got the idea from Cam's blogspot, dinnerwithdad.com. But it brought out too many memories to resist.

I can remember way back when I was a little girl and my mama called out, "Papa ist zu Hause!" (Daddy's home). Eric and I dropped what we were doing and rushed to the door. Papa, after a hard day at work, still had energy to give us rides on his big black shoes and pick us up for a swing around the kitchen.

The story at my house is a little different. First of all, the kids can hear the garage door going up when my husband comes home, so they are poised and laying in wait to ambush him before he even gets out of the car. As he approaches the door, Matthew, who is 6, leaps from the steps and greets his daddy with an exuberant tackle. As he's getting off the floor from this greeting, our middle son, Andrew, takes this opportunity to clamber onto Daddy's back. With 30 pounds on his back cutting off air to his lungs, and 55 pounds wrapped around his chest, he stumbles gamely on toward the door, only to be greeted at the top of the steps by Luke, our 16 month old.

As Luke frequently requests his dinner a little earlier than the rest of the family, he is usually covered in crumbs or somewhat sticky from his recent meal. Daddy's pant leg usually gets smeared with anything ranging from spaghetti to applesauce. I am waiting for my kiss, and then begins the delightful trip to the bathroom to get hands washed for dinner. Josh disappears into our bedroom to soak his trousers.

Josh tells me our dry cleaner stopped shaking his head in bewilderment at him after one afternoon when I picked up our clothes with all three kids with me.

A New Game: Finding the Clicker

For those of you not in the know, the remote control for the tv set in our house is referred to as the “clicker”. Some evenings, with the last brain cells remaining functioning in my head after a day of tending to needs of my children, (ages 6, 3, and 14 months) I actually desire to see a program on the dusty screen of our television.

This is a lot more complicated than it sounds. You see, before we had children, the clicker went in the drawer of the side table drawer in our living room. Maybe we’d forget to put it in the drawer, but then it was usually sitting on the side table, or maybe, on a bad day, on a chair. This object took approximately 10 seconds to locate, then we settled down with our popcorn, pressed a few buttons, and presto, the desired program came on the screen.

Now that we have children, things are a somewhat different.

I check in all the regular places. It’s not in the drawer, it’s not on the side table, it’s not on the tv, it’s not behind the tv, it’s not wedged between the couch cushions, it’s not under the couch, and the program stars in 2 minutes. Where could it be?

I start checking all the irregular places: the bathroom, the kitchen sink, the windowsill, the plants, the toybox, the bookshelf, the Tupperware cabinet, and the drawer with the kitchen knives.

Finally, I sneak into the kids’ room and check the drawer in the changing table (holding my breath the whole time), under their beds, and in the drawers of their nightstands. No clicker. Now I’m oxygen deprived and it’s 3 minutes past the program’s start time, but I’m still holding out hope of being able to understand the entire premise of the show. Only at 7 minutes into a program is all hope lost.

My husband joins me in the search (it’s something he wants to watch, too.) Where? Where? Where is the freaking clicker?

He, being somewhat more in touch with the concealing habits of the male of the species, finds it. He holds it aloft triumphantly, containing his glee to a muffled whisper, “I found it!” We race to the tv, 4 minutes into the program. At the first commercial break, I turn to him and ask, “so, where was it, anyway?”

It was in the hallway, tucked securely into one of his gym shoes. I got up and got the Lysol.

What did you do all day?

I remember once, I think I was twenty, asking my mother, when she was at home with my brother and I when we were little, "what did you do all day?".

One afternoon, it being somewhat hot, I decided to pump up the pool for my oldest, Matthew, who was 5, and my middle child, Andrew, who was 2, to play in. They were thrilled, and happily got their suits on. After pumping the pool up, I went back inside to get my youngest, 4 months.

In the 27 seconds it took me to collect my youngest son, the water in the pool had mysteriously turned a murky, muddy color. When questioned as to how this happened, both my older sons were at a loss for an explanation. My middle son, enlightened me when he demonstrated his newly acquired skill for excavation with his red plastic shovel.

OK, they're boys, right? What's a little mud, anyway? Don't be so uptight, Mama. So, I didn't even comment when the paint came out and the pool was artistically redecorated. I didn't even get angry when my oldest smeared my middle child with red paint (this occurred during the 24 seconds it took me to lay my baby down after he fell asleep on my lap). After my heartbeat returned to normal (the kid looked like he was bleeding all over his body) I could even appreciate the artistic streaks and daubs on his little body. At any rate, he didn't seem to mind in the least, and smeared the paint to cover himself entirely, seeing as his brother had missed a few spots.

Got my middle child headed towards the tub with a minimum of mess tracked through the house. My oldest "helped" me empty the pool and clean up the toys. I told my five year old to take off his suit and get in the tub, with the warning, "please don't touch ANYTHING" on the way to the tub. In the 2 seconds it took me to unhook the screen door, he had taken off his wet, muddy, paint-smeared suit and was swinging it around the room. There are spatters of multicolored mud all over my laundry room.

I yelled, STOP! and he did. Then, he said, "Mama, I have mud in my mouth. I have to spit it out". He missed the sink by a few inches.

This kid will be lucky to make it through puberty alive.

A train in my bathtub

So, we bought this amazing, beautiful house with 3 bathrooms. The idea was that our boys would have one, guests would have one, and my husband and I would have one all to ourselves. That way, we figured, we could be messy and no one would know. Everyone would dutifully use the bathroom assigned for their use, and the endless irritations of our past life (the one where at times as many as 4 adults and 3 children shared 1 bathroom) were at an end. As my mother would put it, we should be grateful to have a bathroom at all, you spoiled kids, but that is neither here nor there.

It was not to be. Shortly after moving in and receiving truly astounding numbers of boxes with our possessions packed therein, my parents came to visit. They came at this hectic time for a legitimate reason: to return our middle child, who had been spending the past 2 weeks with them while we negotiated the move. Considering that said child is three years old, it was a lovely thing for them to do. I don't want anyone to think I'm ungrateful. Besides which, he had a great time and got to have two doting grandparents all to himself.

But, we didn't have the guest room set up yet. I've discovered over the years that even the lowest maintenance and undemanding guests do have some small expectation of minor amenities, such as beds. So, naturally my husband and I insisted they take our bedroom (with accompanying glamour bath) while they were with us. Needless to say, the toothbrushes got mixed up and we were constantly in and out of our/their bathroom during their stay. I contented myself with the thought that I'd have my bathroom back in a couple of days.

Our oldest, however, had decided that the whirlpool bath was the coolest thing in the world and delighted in creating bubble sculptures that reached the ceiling. I was forever finding the remnants of soap scum in the tub that took hours to clean up. And there never seemed to be any of my shampoo in easy reaching distance. I was getting pretty tired of smelling like pink bubblegum when my husband hit upon the brilliant idea that since Mommy and Daddy's bathroom was so special, Matthew was going to be allowed to take his bath in there on Saturday nights. But otherwise, the little guy had to use the duck bathroom (so named for its decorating motif) with this brothers for his hygiene requirements.

But that still left the other two. Our youngest, who is 16 months old, finds the tub handles irrisistible, since they are at precisely the height of his little fingers. Since said fingers are often sticky with the remnants of playdough, jelly, drool, and other compounds with adhesive qualities, our fixtures resembled Crime Scene Investigation, after they've dusted for prints.

And forget about our water bill. One night I walked in to find the tub perilously close to overfilling with warm, steamy water. In response to my investigative efforts, our oldest solemnly swore he had nothing to do with it, my husband shook his head, and since I knew it wasn't me, I turned my questioning gaze to my younger progeny. My questions were answered when our youngest laughed, ran to the bathroom and demonstrated his dexterity in turning the fixtures on. There was nothing to do but let them take a bath in our tub, even if it wasn't Saturday night. I mean, we couldn't let the hot water go to waste.

Our middle son has mixed feelings about mommy and daddy's big tub. He likes to go in when his older brother is present to fight off the invisible dragons lurking down the drain, but otherwise stays pretty clear. Except for one memorable evening when I dragged myself off the couch with visions of a nice warm bubble bath before bed. While I thought he'd been napping, Andrew had apparently decided to build himself an entire train depot in the tub, complete with soap platforms, conditioner swamps, shampoo tracks and face mask mountains.

I didn't get my bath, and it took longer than usual to clean the tub that night.

Watching Television

First of all, let me state first off that watching television with children is impossible. Unless, of course, it happens to be something they want to watch. In which case, they'll be sitting still and you will suddenly have consecutive minutes to get to one of the 43 things on your to do list. But then you'll be in the middle of one of those things and the show will end. The only thing to do in order to cross off what you started on your to do list is to put on another show they want to watch. But that will get you into a vicious cycle of never ending Barney videos and getting things off your to do list, and besides, it's not good for your kids to watch too much tv, anyway.

So... I decided to actually watch television while the children were awake. First, I turned on the TV Guide Channel to see if there was anything remotely interesting and non brain rotting to watch. I had to immediately change the channel as the commercial running on the upper half of the screen was not something children should see until they're say, 21. Even then I'd question it, based on the grounds of good taste. Joan is so catty.

Channel surfing proved equally elusive, since I had to surf past the kids channels. Each time I surfed past another cereal commercial my eardrums were blasted with, "no, Mommy! I want to see that!". Finally I settled on the discovery channel, with an interesting program featuring space. My middle child put his hands over his eyes during the take off scene, and my oldest kept up a running commentary punctuated with occasional questions like, "how many stars are there?" and "where do the stars go during the day?". My youngest was behind me, pulling on my hair.

I detangled my youngest's fingers, told my oldest, "nobody knows", and got up to reassure my middle child that he didn't have to be scared, it was just a tv show. My youngest vigorously protested the loss of weaving materials, my oldest asked, "how come?" and my middle refused to be reassured. I changed the channel.

My next choice proved equally inappropriate. While Emeril got out his signature frying pan and started sizzling something I can only dream of producing on a day when there are no children in my kitchen, my oldest decided to take a spin around the living room, my middle son covered his eyes when he heard, "BAM!", and my youngest got into my hair again.

I gave up and turned on Barney.

Setting the Table

Back when it was just my husband and I, setting the table was a quick, easy task accomplished while cooking dinner, perhaps in between stirring the pasta and uncorking the wine. Now that we have three children, it’s a somewhat different scenario.

First of all, wine is a luxury only afforded on evenings where there are no children present. These occasions are few and far between. Pasta, instead of being tossed with a sauce delicately seasoned with asparagus and mushrooms, consists of two choices: spaghetti, or mac and cheese. But I digress.

So, at about 1 hour before dinner, I start assembling ingredients on the counter. In the process of taking the ingredients out of the refrigerator, I am interrupted a few times by my 13 month old, who has displayed a distressing fascination with the condiments in the refrigerator door. You haven’t lived until you turn from the stove to witness your baby holding a bottle of hot sauce, with the contents dripping down the front of his shirt. (At first glance, it looked like blood. My blood pressure spiked so fast I’m surprised I didn’t have blood come gushing out of my temples.)

In the course of chopping and assembling food (ok, I admit it, I watch the food network channel) I stopped numerous times to move the sharp implements out of the reach of small fingers. My oldest is doing his homework (did I mention he’s in Kindergarten?!) at the kitchen table while my middle child colors beside him. I move a few crayons out of the way to make room for the plates, cutlery, etc.

MOMMY! “I was using that!” OK, sorry, sorry. I move the crayons back. I notice the table needs to be wiped off again, owing to an afternoon snack involving honey. I take the plates I’ve managed to place on the table off again. I wipe the table, careful to avoid the emerging masterpieces.

MOMMY! What? What? What? The baby is reaching toward the stove. I drop the plates and lunge to rescue our infant. Hot, hot, I tell him. He looks at me, grins, and toddles off. I stir the pasta, stir the spaghetti sauce, and make my way back to the table. I’m waylaid by my middle son, who wants a horsey ride on my back. With the 30 pounds of extra weight strangling the air out of my throat, I step around my youngest child to admire my oldest’s homework efforts.

MOMMY! What? What? The baby is reaching for the oldest’s homework. “Get him off! He’s not allowed to help with my homework!” I put the baby in his highchair with a few cheerios, hoping he’ll stay amused until I can get dinner on the table. I go back to the stove and stir the pasta and the sauce again. I gather up the dishes and make my way back to the table. My middle child is hopping up and down, doing the dance any self respecting in-the-middle-of-toilet-training-my-child mother has come to recognize. I drop the plates and take him to the bathroom, hoping this will be the moment when he (finally) gets it.

We get back from the bathroom, and I let my youngest out of his high chair, as he is restless and dinner hasn’t even begun yet. I wrestle all three children into the bathroom to wash their hands before dinner. The timer for the pasta goes off, so I run back into the kitchen to drain the pasta. While I’m doing that, my youngest toddles in, splashed from head to foot with water from the sink. I pick him up and take him to get on some dry clothes.

MOOOOMMMMMY! What? What? My oldest son is finished washing his hands, but my middle son has his feet in the sink, and is performing some arcane hygiene ritual which requires water all over the floor. I dry the baby off, dry my middle child off, then go dry off the bathroom floor. The timer goes off for the sauce.

I get everybody back to the table, turn off the sauce, and throw some dishes and cutlery somewhere in the vicinity of everyone’s place at the table. The door opens, signaling my relief is on its way.

By the time my husband sits down, the pasta is stone cold, the sauce singed, parmesan cheese is mingling with the cheerios on the floor, and the baby is definitely restless in his highchair. By now, I need a glass of wine.

But hey – I set the table.