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!

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.

You're going to have a baby

for Nikki

The queasy tummy, desire to eat really strange foods, tiredness, hot flashes, and love affair with the bathroom wasn't enough to clue me in. No, we women nowadays, in true instant gratification fashion, aren't even content to wait until a certain biological function doesn't occur on time. We want to know, and we want to know now. For all 3 of my pregnancies, I ran out to the nearest drugstore, peed on a stick, and knew for sure .... I was having a baby!

The really super part is keeping it secret. When I discovered I was pregnant, I'd be walking down the street, and suddenly have the desire to grin at complete strangers with that, "I know something you don't know" smile I developed in 3rd grade. But the really fun part is keeping it secret from your husband. The elaborate, often amusing plans of telling him have taken on the complexity of an operations order for a D Day assault.

Of course, he does eventually notice that --it eating grin on your face, which has a tendency to clue him in. If you can keep that under control, (and if he's really busy and distracted with say, work, moving, or something else that just might take up his concentration) you're home free. The sky's the limit.

With our first baby, my husband was actually attending a training course for about three weeks following my discovery. This gave me entirely too much time to plan how to spring the announcement. Worse, was, I was living with my parents at the time, so concealing the quesy tummy, etc. demanded a great deal of my attention and creativity. Thank goodness my living quarters were in the basement.

When we were finally reunited, he was up to his eyeballs in details and things he needed to to before he could start his new job, move, and all the delightful accompanying details that go with it. I kept hinting we needed to talk, and eventually we went for a walk, at which time I mentioned there were some details we needed to iron out before he departed for Korea. Money, living arrangements, names.... Priceless.

Now, with our second baby, it was even better. Again, we were getting ready to move, starting a new job, and he had a huge race he was getting ready for (see my earlier posting, the Runner's Wife). I sprung the news on him when we were out to dinner, casually mentioning that Matthew would make a good big brother. Our fellow diners were highly amused.

With our third baby, I didn't have the energy or time to figure out anything elaborate. I found out by peeing on a stick, with my two boys (ages 1 and 4 and the time) pounding on the bathroom door, demanding to know what on earth Mommy was doing in there. My poor husband was completely surprised, as this baby wasn't entirely planned for (hey, we're type A+, what can I say). I couldn't have supressed that --it eating grin on my face even if I'd had the energy. To this day, when I have that grin plastered on my face, Josh starts feeling nervous.

But telling the husband pales in comparison to the really BIG QUESTION: "who do we tell next?" My parents? Yours? Both at the same time? I've known couples who've lain awake nights, trying to figure out which set of parents deserve to get the news first. And when you're preggers, you need all the sleep you can get. (You sure won't get any AFTER the baby comes.) And after you've tackled that monumental problem, what about siblings? aunts & uncles? cousins? grandparents? It's a nightmare for every prospective parent. And the all important, but potentially hazardous, "who do we invite into the delivery room with us?" (personally I say piss everybody off and just have your husband)

But what I loved the most is the barrage of advice that comes after the congratulations. What to eat, what not to drink, or smoke, how to sleep, what maternity clothes to buy, put your feet up, get enough exercise, stay happy.....And your mother suddenly becomes the most brilliant, saintly person in the world. Who else can advise you on absolutely everything, yet still assure you that this is your baby?

And the questions from absolute strangers once you start to "show". Personal information you would never dream of sharing with another living soul becomes conversational fodder at the check out line. When are you due? Do you know what you're having? (duh - a baby) How much weight did you gain? (none of your bleeping business) Are you going to get an epidural? (do I look like a masochist?) Are you going to breast or bottle feed? Cloth or disposable? And, my all time personal favorite, "How are you feeling?"

However, you're pregnant. I'm sorry, I know I'm going to get all sorts of hate mail for his one, but I personally never went with the "we're" pregnant. Baloney. I'm the one who's throwing up. I'm the one who's going to get swollen ankles, leg cramps, food cravings, a sore back, and stretch marks. We are having a baby, but I'm was the one who was pregnant. All he has to do is fetch whatever food you happen to want at a moment's notice, massage your back, rub your feet, put up with the mood swings, and at frequent and regular intervals, assure you how beautiful you are. Who gets the easy part, huh?

And the kid's not even here yet. Heck, the peanut's just a blip on the ultrasound at this point.

I've decided I'm going to say just two things to my brother and sister-in-law:

1) you're going to be great parents

2) do not, under any circumstances whatsoever, travel with a brand new baby on a plane for Christmas to your parents' house.

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.

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.