A Questionable Persuasion

As the mother of three sons, I've resigned myself to the fact that boys are louder, rougher, dirtier, and stinkier than girls. I quit looking enviously at the parents of girls in the pew in front of us at church some time ago. (All three of their girls sit quietly and color!!!!!) There are trains, cars and a heck of a lot of blue at our house. My boys regularly get notes sent home from the teacher for unruly behavior at school. (What school authorities call unacceptable behavior is, in my opinion, a normal level of activity at home.) I've never had to guess at our boys predilictions. Dolls and pink, ick. They currently avoid girls (except for me) whenever possible.

Not so for my friend Angie. We often commiserate (she has two sons) on the rollercoaster train wreck our lives have become as the parents of sons. One of her boys, while reassuringly wild and crazy (he fits right in at our house), occasionally gives her cause to wonder what his future preferences might be.

On the one hand, this kid displays reassuringly Y chromosome behavior. He kissed all the girls on the first day of Kindergarten, can't sit still, and is on his way to a black belt in karate. He also, at the age of 9, has a girlfriend. They enjoy chatting and swimming together, sitting together at lunch, and occasional walks home from school. But a recent trip to a sporting goods store gave Angie a moment's pause.

Let me explain. In the South, a large sporting goods store usually includes everything from rifles to ice skates. Upon viewing the gun case, her son clapped his hand together with glee and exclaimed, "Mommy, look! Guns!" and then, "a pink one! Oh, Mommy, look!" The clerk behind the counter gave her a LOOK. Since she didn't feel like explaining that her child was excited for her (he thought a pink gun would be perfect for Mommy) she quickly steered him away from the weapons section of the store.

While checking the fit of her younger son's football gear, he got bored and wandered off. Angie found him in the swim section, feeling up a plastic mannequin. As she herded them out of the store, she asked her son just what, exactly, he'd been doing to the mannequin. He answered that he'd been "feeling the dolls boobies", then giggled and said, "I liked it". Angie almost fainted. (Where the hell is my husband when I really need him!?!?!?)

When she told me the story later, she admitted that the boys made out pretty well that day. After the sporting goods store, they went to Target. They walked out with a cart full of G.I.Joe, Nerf guns, and even some warlike games for their Wii.

But she stayed away from the Barbie aisle. She thought it best to keep her son away from any possible temptation.

Twas the Night Before Christmas

To give you an idea how hectic it's been around here lately, I'm finally posting something from Christmas. Happy New Year!




Twas the night before Christmas,
and all through our dwelling,
A little boy had to be scraped off the ceiling.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care
With warnings to the boys that they’d better not dare

Get out of bed for a glass of water
Or otherwise disturb their beloved mother
She was wrapping presents, and couldn’t recall,
Where she’d hid all the toys; not another trip to the mall!

Then came Dad to the rescue, to inject common sense,
Into the cloud of wrapping paper, which was really quite dense.
He carefully approached Mommy, where she sat,
Desperately trying to wrap a pogo stick for Matt.

Darling, she begged, won’t you make yourself handy?
And wrap this car for dear little Andy?
The grandparents looked on our preparations with glee,
Said they, I’m glad it’s them and not me!

Dad spoke not a word, wrapping like a mad hatter,
But still managed to hear a distinctive pitter patter.
Could it be? Was it Santa? Was it a fluke?
But no, of course not; go to bed, little Luke!

Dad sprang into action, things moved along rather quickly,
And Mommy became notably less prickly.
We whispered to our children, as we turned out the light,
Merry Christmas to all, please sleep tonight!

Happy Mother's Day

I was recently asked to address a group of women at their monthly meeting. Apparently I'd made some sort of positive impression on the coordinator. I can't imagine why, as I am still running around like a chicken with its head cut off after my three boys, ages 9, 6, and 4.

Two other ladies spoke before me. One was a practicing psychologist and another an ethsitician. When the mistress of ceremonies introduced them, she included their impressive qualifications, which included advanced degrees and their own business. Since I was a last minute addition (the original speaker wasn't able to make it) she hadn't had time to find out anything impressive about me. When she introduced me, "and our last speaker is Kirsten Kennedy...a ..." she hastily mentioned my past accomplishments, which I must admit, sounded impressive. The last one was finished over 10 years ago, and I've sacrificed myself on the altar of motherhood ever since then.

When I was preparing my speech the night before, I was filled with panic. What on earth could I say to a group of women of differing ages, education, and income that would be entertaining, inoffensive, and interesting? I was staring at the blank screen on my computer when the answer came in the form of my 4 year old son covered in sand, coming into the house to request my assistance with the finer points of castle construction.

Of course. Kids. Most of us had them. And those who didn't had probably seen some at some point or another. They definitely had heard them. My speech went like this:

Hi. I'm so glad to see so many of you were able to make it this morning. I was asked to address you and offer some practical advice of some sort. About what, I'm still not sure. I'm sorry I was running late today, but our boys had karate and gymnastics, and our dryer isn't working, so I had some trouble finding clean clothes this morning. I have three boys. The first two are separated by three years, and the middle and youngest are 21 months apart. Let me make it easy for those of you without any functioning brain cells after your sleepless night: at one point in my life I had a five year old, a two year old,
and a newborn.

We were living in a two bedroom house without a dishwasher. Less said on the size of my house, the better. Sort of like the size of my hips. When my youngest was 4 months old, at some point in the midst of the chaos which now passed for my day, I realized that something was wrong with me. I was fat, exhausted, and overwhelmed. In step with my generation, I ran out and got a book to help me with my problem. That didn't work, so I joined a mom's group. That only made it worse. I'd never seen so many thin, pretty, put together women with perfectly behaved children in my life. I quickly decided I needed to find out what they had, and get it, quick.

I got a "to do" list longer than my nursing tops. Depending on the source, the advice I received only made me more tired. I needed to work out every day. I needed to keep the house nice and the children clean. I needed to cook nutritious meals. I needed to get together with some other moms. I needed to develop a hobby. I needed to put on makeup every day. I needed to dress nicely. I needed to go out on dates with my husband. I needed to discipline myself to do a Bible study every day. The books and women all promised me, do this one thing (whatever their particular "thing" was), and you will feel better.

I have only one thing to say. Baloney. What I needed was a full body post partum epidural. When was I supposed to put on makeup, when there were some days I didn't even make it into the shower? Work out? I got a workout every day pushing the double stoller up a 60 degree hill. Keep the house nice, puhleese. By the time I got the dishes done from breakfast it was time to make lunch. Fold the laundry - why? Do you have any idea how much a new baby spits up?

What I needed as angel. And that's what I got. She knew, you see, what I was going through. Without my even asking, she flew across the country to my rescue. For one glorious week, I slept, took a shower unaccompanied, went for walks with my baby, and ate nutritious meals. Mama cooked, cleaned, did the laundry, and somehow kept the boys entertained during it all. She even stayed up all night once so that I could get a full night's sleep.

I closed off my speech with an exhortation to the assembled women to ask for help if they needed it. Even if they were a graduate of West Point and had an MBA in Finance. I was beseiged with women sharing their stories with me after the luncheon.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama. I love you.

The Temper Tantrum

C'mon, admit it. Before you reproduced and became responsible for the behavior of another human being for 24 hours, 7 days a week for 18 years or more, you would look at screaming children in public and think, "when I have kids . . ." It's o.k., you can come clean. We've all done it. My personal favorite is, "if that was my kid, I'd . . . "


Then you became a parent. I have three children. In the 9 years that I've been a parent, I have witnessed tantrums caused by everything from a sleepy, cranky kid to a request to get into the car. I've discovered something about tantrums these past years. There are categories of temper tantrums, you see. It's kind of like hurricane classifications, with a surprising number of similarities. Hurricanes are classified into five categories, based on their wind speeds and potential to cause damage. Tantrums can also be similarly classified, based on volume, duration and potential to cause damage.

Category 1: Whimpering

Child starts to cry, saddened at your inability to purchase say, some cereal, in the grocery aisle. Volume of whimper is confined to the immediate area around your grocery cart, eliciting sympathetic looks from surrounding shoppers. Thanks to the 3 second attention span and the lollipop in your purse, by the time you turn the corner to the next aisle, child is consoled. Embarassment level is minimal. Parental response is frequently distraction.

Category 2: No!
The day comes when your child does not want to do something. I know, it sounds impossible, but your darling little child does not want to please their beloved mommy. You want them to sit down and be quiet, and they want to stand up and shout. Church is a great time for this to occur. Restaurants and movie theaters are also famous for these battles of will. Child is told to sit down and listen. Kid decides this is the time they have to go potty, wash hands, read a story, etc. When informed that this is not the time to do those things, the kid errupts into a miniature volcano, getting up, walking around, and asking you all those questions you wish they'd ask later . . . like in 10 years after you've had a chance to look up the answer. Volume level is loud enough to be heard by those in a 10 foot radius. You're embarassed and frantically try to hush the kid, who responds with a loud "no!" and dashes off. You catch the offender and leave the area, possibly to return when the kid has had a chance to calm down. Parental response might include a swat on the butt and/or time out.

My oldest son was terrified of the church nursery until he was 3. As a consequence, the only way we could attend was armed with a bag full of coloring books, toys, and other items of interest to hold his attention. These things lasted 10 minutes before the little explorer just had to start moving around. I've collected him from the center aisle, the pew in front of us, the pew in back of us, and the altar (he didn't want to leave without blowing out the candles.) One of my most vivid memories is when he called out "all done" at the end of a service. Our pastor was highly amused, and responded with "depart in peace".

Category 3: The full blown temper tantrum

You tell your child in a firm, reasonable tone that no matter how much they whine, you are NOT buying them the toy. Child falls to the ground, kicking and screaming, informing all the world what a bad mommy you are. (This never happens to my husband, incidentally.) The volume of your child's screaming can be heard at the opposite end of the store (big box, not boutique) and the looks coming your way by your fellow shoppers are filled with venom.

You realize that you don't need milk that badly, and decide to leave the store. The kid instantly becomes a dead weight, actually pulling away from you in an attempt to make his feelings known. In your journey to the car, you are kicked in the shins, knock over a display, and have sustained permanent injury to your eardrums. You could appreciate the kid's fabulous uppercut, but wish he'd restrict it to the boxing ring. Maybe karate lessons weren't such a good idea. You march through the parking lot, attempting to fish your keys out without losing your grip on the kid. (Personally I always threw them over my shoulder in order to leave one arm free. The kid, not the keys.) Upon reaching the car, you toss the child in (none too gently) and attempt to buckle the buckling, kicking, squirming mass of humanity into the car seat and get the heck out of there.

The screaming (now in an enclosed space) continues up until the kid falls asleep or you reach home, at which point you are the one screaming. You will never return to the store unless it's without the kid and you are wearing a wig and sunglasses. Parental response to this type of tantrum frequently includes a wooden spoon.


Important terms to know:
Tantrum Watch: Like hurricane watch, you are alert to the possiblity of a tantrum coming to your area within the next 36 minutes. You tune your mommy antenna to track where and when it will reach you.
Tantrum Warning: A tantrum is imminent. Leave the area immediately. I don't care if you have a cart full of groceries, leave.

The official hurricane season is from June 1 to November 30, but hurricanes can happen any time of the year. According to most child rearing experts, it's perfectly normal for toddlers to throw tantrums. Preschoolers are less likely to throw tantrums, but by the time they reach school age, children theoretically have better coping mechanisms. Well, that's all fine and dandy, but just how was I supposed to know that a request to follow me in Wal Mart would make my 6 year old fall to the ground, kicking and screaming? I mean, how was I supposed to know that he wasn't done looking at the lobsters yet?

Love my Valentine

I hate Valentine's Day. Now, I know, as a woman, I'm supposed to be thrilled with Valentine's day... the flowers, cards, chocolate, etc. I don't have any trouble with the day in principle, you understand. It's the parties. This year I have three boys in two different schools. And each child desperately wants mommy at his class party. My presence is requested at three different events tomorrow, beginning at 9 a.m., 10:30 a.m. and 11 a.m. At a glance this doesn't look too bad, except that the 10:30 one is at a different school, 20 minutes away.

Do you have any idea of the amount of cookies, cupcakes, and chocolate that I am responsible for? I made the fatal error early in the school year of presenting one of my children's teachers with some chocolate chip cookies for her birthday. The mistake was in letting the school know that I can apparently bake good food.

Cupcakes to preschool, three dozen heart shaped sugar cookies to 3d grade, and an enormous bag of chocolate to Kindergarten. Now, before anyone tells me to just go out and buy the stuff, there is a reason for making it all from scratch. The third grade class has a child with an allergy to nuts, and the boys in preschool refuse to eat any cupcakes with pink or any girlie colored frosting. Fortunately, I lucked out in Kindergarten - everybody loves chocolate.

And the Valentines cards. Not only do the kids get completely overloaded with sugar at Halloween and Easter, but Valentine's Day as well. Candy makers have come up with the brilliant, but sadistic, idea of combining cards with candy. The candy comes prepacked with a spot to write the names of the various people involved. Don't get those, you might think. But then you have to deal with your kid having the only mom in class who concerns herself with nutrition. It's worse than being the dentist's kid on Halloween. Social downfall is practically guaranteed.

So, tomorrow, when you are happily imagining what your significant other has cooked up for you, think of me, dashing from party to party, cupcake trays in hand.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my children gave to me…

· Twelve cookie cleanups

· Eleven trips to toystore

· Ten tangled tree lights

· Nine bathroom visits

· Eight loads of laundry

· Seven bedtime excuses

· Six snowflake sculptures

· Five Hours of Sleep!

· Four painted pictures

· Three boys bouncing

· Two pooped parents

· And a knocked over Christmas tree.

Musical Beds

As is often the case when one has small children, expressions take on an entirely new meaning from your previous child free state. Musical beds is one of them. My husband and I apply this title when our three children, ages 8, 5, and 3 decide to freak us out and switch beds on us. That is to say, the bed they were tucked into is not the bed they sneak into while their completely exhausted parents collapse on the couch and attempt to catch up on say, adult conversation.

In my house, this happens fairly often. It all began with our middle child, who wanted to sleep in his big brother's room on the air mattress. All was well for a time, because big brother didn't mind. Peace reigned in our house at bedtime. Well. One evening big brother wanted some privacy, so our middle child decided mommy and daddy's bed was a great place to drift off into dreamland in. We simply picked him up when he was dead asleep and placed him back in his bed. The kid woke up in his own bed none the wiser. Peace reigned at bedtime.

Then, one day, big brother decided he wanted to sleep in his little brother's bedroom on the air mattress. Quiet reigned, and all was well.

Then the baby brother decided it wasn't fair that big brother and biggest brother were having all the fun, so he snuck into whichever room the two of them decided to camp out in. Now, you're asking yourself how two adults could possibly not notice a 3 year old creeping down the hallway in the evening. Ninjas have nothing on this kid. All I can say in our defense is that a) we're on the way to sleep ourselves, b) our senses have been dulled by the arrival and subsequent raising of 3 boys, and c) we just might have recalled the activity that led to 3 boys sleeping down the hall.

So the oldest complains that the baby is bothering them and all is not well at bedtime. Pandemonium reigns as we get everybody sorted out and into the bed that they've been assigned when we moved into the house. Eventually, quiet settled on our house and I stopped folding laundry and made my way to my bed to get some sleep.

When I went in to our middle son's bedroom, I noticed the covers were in more disarray than usual. Andrew was asleep in his bed, but he had company. Luke, the youngest, had apparently snuck in and occupied the foot of his brother's bed. I gathered him up to take him back to his bed and somehow managed to open the door to his room while simultaneously carrying a 40 lb. limp noodle and not waking him up. (highly underrated skill, I'm thinking of updating my resume) As I leaned over to lay him down, I realized that Matthew, the oldest, had snuck into his baby brother's bed and was sound asleep.

Not being talented enough to juggle a 40 lb. 3 year old and a 71 lb 8 year old at the same time, I laid the little one down at the foot of his bed, picked up Matthew, and staggered into his room and deposited him none too gently into his rightful sleeping place. Then, I went back to Luke's room, arranged him on his pillow, and performed a record breaking standing long jump out of the room when the little guy opened one eye and almost woke up.

By the time I made it out into the hallway, I had forgotten what I was doing there in the first place. The music had stopped playing and I was the only one not in bed.

Barbershop Mayhem

I took my children to get haircuts today. In my defense, it's summer, and they needed it. Well, that is to say, two got a haircut, and the third was highly encouraged to watch before I gave up. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

My father recently admonished me to make sure Matthew didn't need a haircut when he goes to see them in Florida in a few weeks. Now, I love my papa a lot, but his idea of a little boy's haircut and mine differ somewhat. The last time my son came back from visiting his grandparents, he had a crewcut that took forever to grow out. I like the crewcut look (hey, I used to be in the army) but it has to be at least a little bit longer on top. Matthew looked like a miniature Mr. Hedbavny, my old elementary school principal. Freaked me out for awhile.


Anyway, on Day 8 of sumer vacation (67 more to go) I got my three little monsters into the car and off to the barbershop. I still don't know what I was thinking. Then again, I obviously wasn't, because any mother with at least one functioning brain cell would know better than to take all three of my boys to get a haircut at the same time.


The bad news was, we had to wait. The really bad news was that we had to wait a really long time. Since I'd passed the point of no return (the boys were looking shaggy), I was determined to get them a haircut, even if it killed me. It almost did.


Luke, who is four, started getting restless first. I mean, magazines featuring heads of different styles of hair can only hold his attention so long. He, quite naturally, egged his bigger brother (Andrew is six) on and pretty soon I began to have serious concern for the safety of the bottles of shampoo on display. (Why do these places have rows upon rows of bottles on display at kid level? Why?)



I took them outside to run laps on the sidewalk in front of the shop. This method of exhausting my children into submission has worked wonders in the past. I kept one eye on them, and another through the shop windows. I herded the boys back in when I saw that our turn was coming up next.



The stylist finished her customer, turned, looked right at me, and suddenly decided it was her break time. Now, not to toot my own horn, but I am a great tipper. I know that it isn't easy to cut a squirmy kid's hair (particularly Andrew's). I weathered the insult and calmly informed Matthew (o.k. my voice wasn't strictly as quiet as it could have been) that it apparently wasn't our turn yet and that he would get to go next. Andrew decided he'd had enough of paging through hairstyle books and started decorating the windows with his fingerprints. And Luke? He made a beeline for the lollipops. What kind of idiot leaves a cup full of lollipops within reach of the average 3 foot child?

I decided they didn't need haircuts that badly and gathered my brood and headed back home. My husband came home in time to see that our kitchen had been temporarily converted into a barbershop. He walked in to a mess unbeknownst to modern sanitary conditions. Our youngest decided it would be fun to play with the clumps of hair, and had proceeded to sprinkle them artistically throughout the house.

We went out to eat that evening. And I found hair for weeks afterward.

What did you do all day

In case anyone is wondering, I spent the day flying kites and cleaning.

Laundry ... the pile that never ends

I just finished 6 loads of laundry.

There are 19 semi neatly piled stacks of clean clothes on my bed. A neighbor recently commented to me, "I bet you do laundry every day". Well. . . yeah! I mean, when you spend the afternoon throwing rocks into a pond with three boys, what do you think?

It wasn't that bad at first. All three boys obeyed my instructions to: a) not get too close to the muddy banks, b) stay out of the culvert, and c) avoid the fire ant piles at all costs.

Well. That didn't last very long. According to my 8 year old, he was desperately trying to follow rule c) which necessitated breaking rule a), which in turn led to a slip and a splash into the water. Then, since "I'm already dirty" led to the breaking of rule b). I turned around for literally 30 seconds, and I couldn't see him. He entered the culvert (which is like a really big pipe) and apparently didn't hear my frantic calling of his name. When he emerged, even more filthy than before, he was truly bewildered at my purple face and angry countenance.

Since one little monkey just has to follow the other, I was soon chasing my five year old out, who explained that he "wanted to check on the alligator" and threatening my three year old with cessation of all desserts for the next week if he followed his brothers' example.

I herded them home, leaving a trail of wet, muddy footprints for my neighbors to follow and not-so-privately comment about my parenting techniques. In an instant, my laundry pile acquired three shirts, three pants, 9 socks, and four pairs of shoes (my shoes were muddied during the rescue mission).

Later in the evening, I was enjoying a few quiet moments folding the laundry while the kids were engrossed in a Scooby Doo DVD. I was filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment when viewing all 19 piles of clean, folded laundry. (hey, I'm a stay at home mom. I'll take whatever I can get.) Bored, or apparently worrying if Mommy was lonely, my three year old wandered in. Close on his heels was my five year old, worried he might be missing something. I warned them both to stay off my bed, and went to answer the phone, which started ringing.

I returned from my 20 second trip to the next room to answer the phone and discovered both boys apparently hadn't heard my warning about staying off the bed. My formerly clean, folded and sorted laundry was all in a pile on the floor. On the bed was my five year old, poised to take a swan dive into the pile. I heard a muffled murmur from inside the pile, and discovered my three year old swimming in my clean underwear.

Mama said there'd be days like this, but I don't think she reckoned with my three.

Bathtime Etiquette

Now that my boys are growing older (and somewhat less accident prone), bathtime is not quite the tub circus that it used to be. My oldest, who is seven, has declared that he requires privacy while bathing and does not wish any assistance in his daily ablutions. (Except if the soap gets in his eyes, at which time anyone with a dry washcloth is welcome in the bathroom.) Otherwise, keep out.

My two youngest boys, however, are still in the delightful phase of childhood which welcomes company in the tub. Seeing as they are in the tub quite often (see previous blog entries), even a brother is welcome to share the suds.

But...a few rules have to be in place to ensure a peaceful bath.


Bathtime Etiquette

1. No more than two children ages 4 and under can be bathed in a standard sized tub at the same time. Three or more are only for the tub in in mommy and daddy's bathroom.
2. When permitted the privilege of using mommy's bathtub, you will not press the button that makes bubbles until the water level covers the jets. Bubble bath will only be used in extremely limited quantities.
3. Use of the commode is compulsory prior to entering the tub, even if you don't think you have to go.
4. There will be no splashing of child seated on the commode by the child already in tub.
5. There will be no peeing in the tub.
6. If the above for some reason, should occur, the offended party WILL NOT screech loud enough to break glass, leap out of the tub, or slug the offending party.

The Halloween Hop

No, this isn't "Hop" as in a dance talked about by your parents when referring to days gone by. It's the night before Halloween, when you realize you are never going to find your kid's costume in his size. He's begged and pleaded for a pumpkin costume and you come to the awesome realization that you're going to have to make it. Start hopping.

For those of you who sew your own clothes, this obviously doesn't present much of a problem. If you have a sewing machine and can use it for more than sewing on patches, this probably wouldn't put a hitch in your stride. For the tailoring impaired, your Halloween Hop might resemble what happened to me.

My son, last year, for his Kindergarten costume, begged and pleaded to be a pumpkin. Not the " 'lil pumpkin pie" costume that you see in the stores, but a pumpkin. In the weeks before Halloween I combed our local stores, searching for a pumpkin costume in his size. To no avail. I searched the Internet, and decided that paying $69.99 for a costume the kid would only wear for one day of his life was just slightly ridiculous. (Man, am I glad we have boys. Think wedding dresses for 3.)

Finally, I gave up searching for a ready made costume and found myself aimlessly wandering the aisles of our local craft shop, praying for inspiration. I had two grumpy children with me, both of whom amused themselves by grabbing various small items off the shelves. A lovely grandmotherly type noticed my obvious distress and asked if she could assist me in any way.

"Pumpkin" was all I could manage to blurt out, completely overwhelmed by the aisles upon aisles of beads, paints, foam, plastic flowers and other items "crafty" people have the ability to assemble into attractive decorations. In one aisle there was a complete selection of small, unpainted wooden figures. What do people do with all that stuff?

My gracious saleslady led me to a corner of the store where fabric was on display. There were other people waiting to ask her something, but I grabbed her hand and begged, "please, don't leave me" in a pitiful voice. The other customers circled around, eager for blood, with absolutely no pity on my obvious vulnerability. In craft stores, I've discovered, it's best to put on a strong front and at least appear to know what you're doing. The weak are culled out of the store in a hurry by the higher order elements.

She led me to a row of fabric bolts with the instructions, "just pick which orange you like honey. I'll be back in just a little bit." She vanished into the crowd of circling women, snapping out directions in a crisp, sure voice. Scent? Aisle 3. Mosaic stones? Aisle 6, in the back. Plaster of paris, please look behind the scrapbooking section.

I turned to choose the fabric which I presumed would be the basis of my son's costume. The bolts got fuzzy and I had to sit down a minute to regain my balance. Do you have any idea how many shades of orange there are? Not only that, but some fabrics had patterns running through. Then there's the type of fabric. It ran the gamut from cotton to felt to rayon. My head started swimming again, but then my craft angel appeared from behind a display of buttons.

What pattern are you working with, dear? She asked in a patient sort of voice. I handed her a sheet of paper I had printed off the Internet that had "simple" instructions on how to create a pumpkin costume. She tsked, then asked, "what are your son's measurements?" I answered with my hands, about so tall and so wide. A size 6 in jeans I said, thinking this would help. She bit her lip, trying not to laugh.

We made the determination that I'd need approximately 5 yards of orange fabric and some black and green for the eyes, mouth, and stem. Unfortunately, the store was out of orange felt by then (it was the day before Halloween) and besides, the costume wouldn't "fall" properly with such a stiff fabric. My options were limited, with rayon or polyester still left.

I got home with a bag of rayon (think $) and various spools of thread. Then I really started hopping. That evening I sat crosslegged on the floor with yards of flowing orange material and hopped between the ironing board, the fabric spread out on the floor, and the sewing machine. My fingers were bleeding with needle pricks , but I didn't give up until the damn costume was finished. I couldn't get up when I finally was done, much to my husband's amusement. The pumpkin costume, I must admit, was a masterpiece of creativity with just the right splash of desperation to keep it interesting. I even crafted a small hat to resemble the stem, with green squiqqly felt strips dangling along the sides. A small square of orange fabric made a terrific patch for a hole in a pair of jeans. We're talking a completely coordinated outfit here.

The next morning, my ecstatic son donned his costume and headed off to school. I didn't even mind when he came home with the prize for the "funniest costume".

But this year, I bought him a Batman costume 6 weeks before Halloween. It even has a plastic mask.

Tour de Bedtime

Most parents of small children love bedtime. Admit it. As much as you love, adore, and cherish your children, you love it when they are asleep. Their sweet little faces relaxed and innocent, the sound of their gentle breathing, and most of all, the prospect of a few minutes of peace and quiet where you can return to your preparent state and not worry about anyone but yourself and maybe your spouse. Heck, you might even actually remember what activity it is the two of you engaged in that made you parents in the first place.

I love bedtime. I long for bedtime. There have been days where I've gotten out of bed in the morning and the thought of bedtime is what got me through my day. It's wonderful - you can watch a television show that doesn't feature any characters hopping around singing the praises of brushing your teeth, going potty, or the letter of the day. (I refuse to watch American Idol for this very reason.) You can read a book without anyone crawling all over you or having to fend off a request for yet another horsey ride. You can finish your sentences, talk on the phone, make an unaccompanied trip to the bathroom, or even just listen to music and take a hot bubble bath. You can even go to sleep, if you like. No doubt about it, bedtime is one of my favorite parts of the day.

But my friend Tracey (who can potty train in her sleep) hates bedtime. Absolutely dreads it, fears it, and would do almost anything to avoid it. She admitted this to me recently. I was stunned, shocked, appalled. How on earth, I thought, could you hate bedtime?

Then I remembered. She and her husband are operating on a different plane of reality than the rest of us. They just had their third boy. And if this little guy is anything like his dad, he's probably already contemplating how he's going to parachute out of his crib to get in on the action on the ground. Considering that their other two boys are ages 6 and 4, they cannot be held responsible for their temporary insanity.

I remember when our first baby was just one year old, and I asked my friends about just how the heck I was supposed to get the darling little monster to sleep. I got tons of advice about a nice warm bath, story time, and laying the kid down "while they are drowsy". Above all, the parenting books caution, stick to the ROUTINE, and in a few weeks, the kid will fall in line. Like potty training, this was a bunch of hogwash and certainly didn't work for my kids.

As I got to think of it, it isn't actually bedtime that I'm so enthralled with. What really works for me is when bedtime is actually over and done with; check marks the block, so to speak. The ramp up for the actual "bedtime" is something only experienced parents can truly appreciate for the volume of activity it generates. The actual activities preceding bedtime are worthy of a workout akin to Lance Armstrong training for the Tour de France in terms of blood, sweat, and tears before you slip on the yellow jersey and head for the finish line (your own bed). We won't discuss the possibility of chemical stimulants.

First Leg: And They're Off: Announcement that it's bedtime

Upon announcement that it is, indeed bedtime, your children suddenly remember that there is a school project that is due the following day which requires a trip to the store to purchase $37 worth of supplies to create something ominous called a "diorama" or the equally sinister "plaster of paris" statue which will be worth 80% of your child's grade for the year. If your children are not of school age, this announcement will generate a burst of energy in your child which you only see in the most experienced sprinters during the Olympic games. A debate as to whether or not it's bedtime ensues. Your ability to read a clock is insulted, as well as your judgement as to how much sleep a human being actually requires before falling over in their tracks is also usually part of the reparte.

Second Leg: Transportation Station: Getting them into the bathroom

You debate with yourself whether the little angels are really all that dirty, and if the teacher will notice the sand under your child's fingernails the next morning. Remembering that it's probably easier to clean their feet than clean and change all the bed linen, you weigh in on taking a bath. Ignoring the dishes from dinner, the toys that still need to be picked up from the afternoon's reenactment of "Toy Story", you manage to extricate at least two of your children from their hiding spaces beneath their beds or in the closet and herd them into the bathroom. If you get really lucky, the third cooperates by being lured in to the vicinity by the sound of running water.

Third Leg: Wash Station: Actually accomplishing the purpose that you're in there for.

I've learned not to expect too much actual washing to go on at bathtime. It's easier for all concerned if you fill the tub with soapy water and hope some gets splashed in the appropriate nooks and crannies. Washing the hair is only conducted when it really, really needs it or that day's activities included sand or mud. Between the dodging, shrieking, and wiping water out of the eyes, I've discovered an expedient means of rinsing them off: the shower. This apparatus also serves as the means of getting the kids out of the tub. What really drives me crazy is after all the fuss of actually getting into the tub, you have to use a spatula to scrape them out of it. The water could be a mere memory, it's freezing cold, but they beg for the chance to splash in just one more puddle.

Fourth Leg: The Sprint: Drying them off

Forget those adorable pictures you see in magazines of children laughing delightedly with a hooded towel draped just so over their heads. Processing the clean children from point A (the tub) to point B (into their pajamas) is accomplished by tossing the towels in their general direction as they sprint out of the bathroom. Air drying is soooo underrated.

Fifth Leg: Pit Stop: Pajamas and Stories

Depending on the ages of your children, this can be accomplished with a minimum of fuss or the ability to do 6 things at once. Even if I lay out the pajamas on his bed, my oldest will inevitably get distracted by a book, a toy, a loose crayon. While wrestling my youngest child into his pajamas, I call out various cutoff times along the way, "if you don't have your left sock on by the time I count to 5" or, "if those pajamas are not on after 7:45 p.m., we're talking about missing a story". My middle son, as of late, delights in demonstrating his creativity by putting his pajama bottom on his head, and putting his feet through the arm holes. While I'm impressed with his thinking outside of the box, it does tend to derail my ultimate goal: bedtime.

Sixth and Final Stretch: The tuck in

By now, if you aren't completely exhausted, you can sense the end is near. If you get really, really lucky, they actually stay in their beds after they are inserted into them. In really, really unlucky cases, you're talking about two siblings sharing a room and a bunkbed, which can get challenging. I remember going to check on my two oldest boys' progress in the sleep department and being greeted by two completely wide awake children busily tying the sheets together to form a bungee cord.

We had to put up a baby gate in my middle child's doorway once he figured out how to open the door himself. We have caught him sneaking into his big brother's room (way past both their bedtimes) in order to conduct experiments in gravity. Needless to say, we were not amused. But I have to admit that the deer-in-the headlight expression on his little face when we caught him was priceless.

We've also had the priceless experience of both our older children sleeping in our room when we finally had to allow our youngest the educational experience of "crying it out". Since the baby's room is right next to the two older boys room, his shrieks of indignation were keeping them up. It was right about 3 in the morning when I gave up trying to share a king sized bed with a fully grown man and two smaller versions of the same and headed for the sofa. I had to, as I was nursing two broken ribs and a black eye from the thrashing of two small children who both insisted on snuggling up to Mama.

But, finally, when it's all done, there are three beautiful angels to look in on before collapsing into my own bed. And I remind myself of the famous philosopher who said, "this too, shall pass". I just wouldn't mind if I could get one night to pass with everyone in their own bed.

Potty Training

I hate potty training. I mean, I know nobody actually likes it, but I really, REALLY hate it. No watering it down with words such as, "dislike" or "distasteful". Remedial Potty Training, make way for me.

And those of you smug parents out there who give me a superior look and inform me precisely how easy it was to potty train your children, go away. This article is not for you. And if one more person starts a sentence with, "what YOU need to DO is....." I will not be held responsible for my actions.

I saw a book titled "How to Potty Train Your Child in A Single Day". It caught my eye because I was out buying yet another set of 2T-3T underwear with an obnoxiously cheerful train printed on the rear. I'll leave it up to your imagination as to the fate of the last pair I bought.

Leafing through the book, I got the gist of the author's method. You buy a doll that can tinkle, then give it plenty to drink. Placing the doll on the potty, you demonstrate the basics of the procedure you'd like your child to emulate. When the doll is finished, you throw the doll a party. Works like a charm, the authors state confidently.

Well. Another mother strolled by with her kid in the shopping cart, saw what I was reading, and started gushing. She was so enthusiastic, I began to suspect she had financial ties to the publishing house. She went on and on about how easy this method was, and how fast her daughter caught on, and how nice it was to finally be done with diapers. I stood there, with a carefully neutral expression on my face, torn between manners and desire to start jumping up and down doing the "pee pee dance", just to see how she'd react.

I tossed the book back on the shelf and headed towards the diaper aisle. Are you kidding? Everybody knows that all you need is a huge bag of m&m's and not go anywhere for awhile....say a few weeks. Then again, in my case, make that a few months.

Other People's Kids

At some point, you are actually going to venture outside of your house with your children to visit someone else with children approximately your kids' ages. Yes, I know you think that this will never happen. But believe it or not there will come a time when you are actually able to get each child (and yourself) fed, cleaned up, and dressed and out of the house in a reasonably organized manner. If you're really good, you might actually remember to take the address and directions of the person you are visiting. Or, you might be lucky enough to have someone in your neighborhood so that you don't have to remember their address. All you have to do then is remember approximately where their house is located, and the tricycles, swingset, and minivan in the driveway will shine out like a homing beacon for a carrier pigeon.

I recently went on such a visit with my three children, having been invited over to "see her new kitchen". So, off we went with two on bikes, one in the stroller, and me in my walking shoes. Upon arrival, my children immediately set to with our host's toys. And man, were they something. The latest Thomas the Tank Engine stuff, the best Legos, and a really cool collection of Play Dough. The visit would have been a lot of fun, had the resident toddler not taken such an active dislike of my 1 1/2 year old.

This vicious little guy attacked my kid at every turn. I had to admire the little gangster. He was smart enough to not try anything with my 6 year old, whom we've taught that you don't start a fight but you sure as heck can finish one. And he apparently didn't like the odds of tangling with my 3 year old, who despite his small stature has the heart of a lion. Andrew is also a master of ninja stealth attacks, which I learned when a 35 lb. bundle suddenly hurtled out of the closet and landed on my back while innocently cooking dinner. No, the little future Scarface-in-training figured he could take on someone half his size, correctly assuming his superior firepower would carry the tide of battle.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Mama Bear's rounding her cubs up because somebody dared to look at her little darling sideways. But seriously, this little punk was way out of line. In the space of a 20 minute visit my baby was kicked, punched, grabbbed, pinched twice, and pushed down the steps. And honestly, Luke wasn't even messing with his stuff. I mean, I could understand if he objected to sharing his toys, but he followed my toddler from room to room, just to torment him. I finally despaired of parental intervention and hoisted Luke onto my shoulders, where he spent the remainder of the visit tearing my hair out of its moorings.

The little demon's mother, between pointing out various details of her new kitchen occasionally noticed her offspring's transgressions. Her response was to ask him in a soft, honey sweet voice to, "please don't do that baby" or "that's not very nice".

As a former Army officer and current mother of 3 males, I was tempted to mention the complete ineffectiveness of her wishy-washy requests for acceptable behavior. The suggestions running around through the back of my mind involved some rope and a cage, so I bit my tongue and decided to treat the visit as an educational experience instead.

After the pushing down the steps incident, I gathered up my troops and went home, not caring what my hostess thought. My shoulders were beginning to go numb from the weight of my little guy, and my scalp was burning, but there was no way I was going to leave him in the stroller while rounding up the other two.

Oh, and by the way, the kitchen was gorgeous (I think).

The Sounds of Mother's Day

My Mother's Day began with a whimper and ended with a bang.

The whimper was from my husband, as 2 of our children awakened at 6:14 a.m. on Sunday morning. The sigh came from me, rolling over and burrowing deeper into the covers. (Hey, it was Mother's Day, I got to sleep in.)

The slam was from our bedroom door as my husband firmly informed our 6 year old Mommy was not to be disturbed. The whine and sniffle from the other side of the door was from said 6 year old as he went to have breakfast. The jiggle at the door was from our 18 month old, who apparently didn't understand or chose not to obey Daddy's edict.

The slap was the sound of aforementioned 18 month old's pudgy hand connecting with my cheek as he clambered up into bed with me. (Why do they always come to my side?) The whoosh was when Daddy retrieved our youngest son to redirect his considerable energy into something non mommy oriented: breakfast. (Since he hasn't been nursing for quite some time now, this wasn't as difficult as it once was.)

As I snuggled deeper into the covers, a sigh escaped as the muted sounds of breakfast dishes clanking drifted to my ears. No, wait, that wasn't clinking from the kitchen. It was our middle son, with his ever present Lego train (Toby). Our 3 1/2 year old had taken advantage of Daddy's momentary distraction and traversed the length of the hallway between his room and ours with stealth worthy of a trained sniper.

The thump was his foot hitting the wooden chest at the foot of our bed as he vaulted onto the small of my back. (I have to admit, the kid's coordinated.) The groan came from me as I accepted the inevitable and swung my legs onto the floor. As I escorted our son into the kitchen to join his brothers for a celebratory Mother's Day breakfast (Fruit Loops) I was greated with yet another wonderful sound.

The sizzle was the sound of my Mother's Day pancakes being cooked to perfection by my husband. He decided to spare me our 6 year old's recipe for pancakes, as dictated to and faithfully recorded by his Kindergarten teacher:

My Favorite Recipe

by

Matthew

Pancakes

Mix a lot of things like milk, water, and

strawberries in a bowl. Pour the dough in a

pan on the stove. Cook for 20 minutes. Take

a spatula and put it under the pancake. You

flip it over. When they are flipped over and done,

you put them on my plate.

The splash was the sound of the vase containing my Mother's Day flowers being overturned as our 3 1/2 year old hurried to get his share of the Fruit Loops breakast aperatif. Teh creak was from my knews as I got out the rags and towels required to wipe up the spilled water which made a melodic drip onto the floor.

Moving on to the afternoon....

There was blessed silence as our two younger sons settled down for naps and our oldest enjoyed a book. The peace was abruptly shattered by the announcement from our doorbell that there were visitors at our door. "I'LL GET IT" came from my oldest as he pounded to the front door. A debate ensued between 3 males between the ages of 6 and 8 as to precisely what activity the trio should engage in. A decision reached, my shout in the vicinity of my departing son's ears informing him when to return home echoed through the house as he raced off on his bike.

The thump was from the baby, who woke up and requested immediate evacuation from his crib by his usual method: tossing all the contents of his crib onto the floor. This didn't used to be a problem, as the items were all soft, cuddly, light stuffed animals. But when he figured out how to detch the toys we had attached to his crib in the vain hope of keeping him occupied until a decent hour of the morning (like, say, 5:30 a.m.) the thumps got significantly louder.

The giggling was from said 18 month old as I gave him zerberts during his upholstering (diaper change). The pitter patter of little feet came from our middle child as he woke up and went in search of an other upright members of his clan. He started giggling when I got a "surprise" from the baby during his diaper change. (What is it with little boys and peeing during the 1 1/2 seconds they're not covered on the changing table?)

The general chaos which precedes all five of us getting to leave the house involved the usual shouts, scuffling, and thumps as 2 adults located socks, shoes, and other paraphernalia required when actually transporting 3 children outside of their den. We picked up the oldest and his bike on our way to our hike at a nature preserve 4 minutes from our house (I love our house). Our hike was uneventful, just the usual squish as our children located and thoroughly explored every mud puddle along the path.

The splashing started from the baths that were necessary the moment we got home. I didn't even mind mopping up the bathroom floor from that, as it was accompanied by heartfelt declarations of "Happy Mother's Day" by my adoring fans. My husband's voice reading their bedtime stories was one of the sweetest I'd ever heard, as I was stretched out on the couch. (It even beat out the sounds of him cooking, serving, and cleaning up after dinner.

But the best sound of my Mother's Day had to be the sound of three little boys breathing deeply in their sleep after a busy day of making my day happy.

As I got into bed that night, ready to drift into oblivion, the final sound of the day was a crash from the kitchen. I got up to investigate, and found that one of the pots drying in the dishrack had succumbed to gravity. The perfect end to a perfect day.

The Picky Eater

Before I had kids, I promised myself I would have children that ate what was put in front of them. By golly, I was going to prove to the world that I was a Good Parent and I had Good Children that were properly grateful for the food that was set on the table.

Well. Our first child was relatively easy. All we had to do was remind him that his dessert was dependent on his eating his green beans, and viola! The green beans disappeared with truly astonishing speed into it's assigned place (the kid's mouth). He naturally came to expect the consequences of his actions, namely, a piece of brownie, two scoops of ice cream, or some other such delicacy.

Our second child was reared, foodwise at any rate, exactly like our first. The first year of his life went smoothly, if you just ignored the pureed sweet potatoe stains on the wall opposite his high chair. But when he turned two we began to experience some difficulty. After two days of untouched meals on his plate with the resulting "no dessert" clause in the parent-child contract, we began to wonder if our parenting skills need a little brush up. A return to school, if you will.

This kid will not eat vegetables, period. He hasn't had anything remotely resembling dessert for over four months, and we still can't get him to eat anything besides bread, pancakes, or Quaker Oats Squares. And did I mention that he's lactose intolerant? So he's drinking rice milk (too much soy goes through his system like ---- through a goose) which has no protein whatsoever. I've deep fried squash which I sliced to look like french fries in an effort to get this kid to eat something that remotely possesses nutritional value. To no avail. Bread (whole wheat) and maybe french toast if I catch him when the planets are aligned correctly.

He also doesn't eat fruit or even drink juice. I've watched him turn up his nose when he found the tiniest miniscule piece of fruit I (thought) cleverly concealed in pancakes and go to bed hungry. And don't talk to me about it's a discipline problem. He didn't eat for two days once when my husband and I decided to stand our ground and just continue reheating his plate from dinner. He grew listless, yet still refused to eat spaghetti!

My husband, who is an avid runner, in desperation purchased some chocolate flavored protein power mix in a last ditch effort to get at least some muscle building nutrients into the kid. The kid actually likes it, thank goodness, but it disturbs me to think that the only way we can get any kind of nutrients into his little body is through elaborate subterfuge camouflaged by chocolate.

I took him for his well baby appointment and related our concerns to our pediatrician. (Now, in all fairness, this was a new guy, as we had just moved to the area.) He looked me dead in the eye and said, "you need to be more creative as a mother".

I didn't even slug him. I just gave him a tight little smile and asked how many children he had. He admitted he and his wife didn't have any children just yet.

If anything, my smile grew tighter and wider as I bid him good day and wrestled my children out of the examining room. On the way home, I called my mother, who reminded me of my own extended dinner table hours faced with three green beans while the rest of the family enjoyed their dessert. Revenge, she said, is best savored cold. Especially with a bowl of ice cream.

The Mommy Olympics

After years of viewing the Olympic games, I've decided there needs to be an event that middle aged women dominate. I'm contacting the Olympic Committee with a few thoughts on suggested competitive events.

The Bathtub Brawl

Timed baths for at least two children in a standard sized tub at the same time. No whirlpool or spa baths are permitted. Soap must be used for its intended purpose. Hair washing is optional, but is looked favorably upon by the judges. Points taken off for each quart of water on the floor outside of the tub. Extra points awarded for each additional child and number of toys that actually stay in the bathtub during the course of the bath.

The Get Ready Rodeo

A timed event including breakfast, teeth brushing, face washing, dressing self and children, and putting on shoes. No velcro fasteners, shoelaces only. Cold cereal can be considered breakfast. Extra points awarded for the backpack scramble and lunchbox locator. Hair brushing had to be removed as an area of judgement, as boys had an unfair advantage. At least two children for this event, one of which has to be a) in diapers, or b) in the middle of potty training.

The Grocery Gallup

For experienced mommies only. The mommy must pick up groceries for a family of five or more that will last at least one week. Extra points awarded for fresh fruits and vegetables, none for frozen pizza. Four food groups must be represented. Failure to stay within budget limitations is grounds for immediate disqualification. Contestants must be accompanied by at least one child under the age of four. Napping children do not count. One family member must be a) in diapers, or b) potty training.

Contestants will be judged on maintaining calm in the face of at least one, possibly more, whining/crying children between the ages of birth and 4 years. Expect at the very least one fellow store customer to make obnoxious remark. Extra points awarded for snappy, but not snippy, comeback. Points will be deducted for any time over 1 hour spent in the grocery store.

The Pick up Pentathalon

Contestants must be prepared to deal with car not starting at any stage in this event. Automatic disqualification for any children late to any appointment or forgotten at activity. Bonus points awarded for nursing mothers. This event is currently based on a typical weekday. Weekends are under consideration for the Winter games. No carpools allowed. Pregnant contestants are given a 30 minute head start and two nausea breaks.

First, the competing mommy must drop off at least one child at school, grade Kindergarten or above. It is raining and child must be kissed goodbye and wished a good day.
The mommy must then proceed to drop off another child at a daycare type setting or preschool. Child cannot be dropped off at the door of the facility. The mommy and child must park and walk to the assigned classroom. A third child must be held on hip during this event. For those who do not have a third child, a 25 pound egg will be assigned for your use. Any cracks in the egg will be grounds for immediate disqualification.

Once that child is safely ensconced in preschool, mommy must pick up dry cleaning, prescription at a stand alone drugstore, and purchase birthday present for upcoming birthday party.
At this point, the contestant may choose to pause to catch their breath, nurse a baby, or for a trip to Starbucks or the local liquor store for fortification. Then she must return to school to drop off lunch box that oldest child forgot.

The mommy must then pick up the child at preschool, again parking and taking baby on hip. (Those assigned eggs will face an inspection station) . Points are deducted for your kid being the last one waiting to be picked up. The mommy must admire artwork and insert child into raincoat before leaving the facility. Dashes to the car without wearing a raincoat are not allowed.
The mommy must then drop off the car for an oil change, but is permitted to take children into cramped, dirty waiting area. By the time the oil change is completed, it is time to pick up oldest child from school. Expect delays due to rain.

This event ends once child is picked up from school and is seated with seatbelt fastened. The mommy is awarded points at each station for poise, remembering dry cleaning stub, checking with the pharmacist for medicine dosage, choosing present that birthday child does not already have, and being early for pickup at school.

In the event of a tie, an additional activity will be inserted into the afternoon. This may be, but is not limited to, a) sporting event or, b) a birthday party, or c) scouting event, or d) church activity.



The Clean the House category and Completing the Laundry could not be included as competitive events. Everyone knows that's impossible.

Where did my memory go?

Why is it that I can't remember to file the taxes, yet I can remember 46 different Thomas the Tank Engine character names?

There's a whole new world just waiting to be discovered once you have children. It's a world you never even imagined was out there. From my own childhood, I have fond memories of Sesame Street. I am reading my children the same silly story about the monster at the end of the book starring Grover. But my kids not only have Sesame Street to discourse on, but also Teletubbies, Blue's Clues, and Thomas the Tank Engine.

The Teletubbies are fairly easy. There are only four of them, with whimsical names like Tinky Winky, Dipsy, La-La, and my personal favorite, Po. Blue's Clue's is pretty easy, with only two principle characters, Steve and the blue dog, coincidentally named Blue. But Thomas the Tank Engine really stretched the old brain cells, let me tell you.

There's the cheeky blue engine, named Thomas who gets into all kinds of scrapes with his friends Percy (green) and James (red). But it's insidiously tricky after that. Because then tender engines like Edward (blue), Henry (green), and Gordon (blue) enter in to really confuse you. The little numbers painted on the side are some help, but once you've got them down other buses, cars, and locomotives are continuously introduced so as to make your life hell going past the toy aisle in Target and Walmart.

But, I've done it. I've even sat with my children and watched the movies, read them the books, and colored in the Thomas the Tank Engine coloring books. I've made curtains, purchased a Thomas alarm clock, and put sheets on the little devils beds with Thomas and Friends scattered about them. T-shirts and socks, as well as underwear adorned with trains are scattered about the house. There are even Thomas the Tank Engine bathtowels, shower curtains, soapdishes and toothbrushes available for "your little Thomas fans" as the catalogs that have insidiously crept into our house proclaim. I couldn't have avoided knowing their names if I tried.

In an effort to diversify our son's interests, we would make subtle hints about Batman and Spiderman. To no avail. "Thomas is my favorite!" was his inevitable reply. He recently suggested we paint his bedroom "Thomas blue" during one trip to Home Depot. If I have to listen to Alec Baldwin narrate another DVD about the Adventures of Thomas I might have to enter an institution for the maternally insane.

Then, one day after kindergarten our son came home and told me, "Mommy, Thomas (his make believe friend) has Hot Wheels cars that run on a track".

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.