Frosty, who?

Andy the First Grader,
is a happy jolly soul.
With a love for trains and cookie dough
he also plays with his Legos.

Lukey, the Kindergartener
is sweet, so teachers say.
His parents ponder and his brothers wonder
what he’s up to every day.

There must have been some magic
in the parents that they got.
For after Matthew broke them in
nothing else could ever shock!

Josh is still running
like a crazy fool some say.
Lucky Kirsten knows he’ll bring home a rose
And put his stinky shoes away.


(To the tune of “Frosty, the Snowman”)

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.

A Trip to the Mall

I went to the mall today. Now, under former circumstances (that is pre chiildren) such a visit rarely caused me anything more than mild consternation. Maybe I got a little annoyed when it was crowded after Thanksgiving, but otherwise, a trip to the mall was accomplished with a minimum of fuss and I generally got out with what I'd intended to purchase.

Well, this trip was a little different. First of all, it was unplanned. Oh, stop yelling at me. Yes, the spontaneity is mostly gone. Yes, I always have been anal. Yes, that tendency may have been reinforced in the military. Granted, being married to a type A+ personality has rubbed off on me slightly. But trips with my three boys are usually planned with precision and with a flush bank account. This one was necessitated by the failure of Josh's car to start when it was supposed to this morning. Hubby went off to work in my car (no problem), but I was stranded at home during summer vacation (serious problem). And yes, there was an errand I HAD to do today. I had to pick up the stupid chickens. But that's another story, so I won't digress.

Got the car jump started by a dude called "Buddy" (I'm not kidding), who pulled his tow truck into our driveway with what I can only describe as finesse. The boys, still in pajamas, were entranced. Andrew said to me with an almost reverential tone, "Mommy, there's a TRUCK at our house". Buddy, himself a father (2 boys, 1 girl) gleefully alowed them to climb all over the hulking thing, while watching me hyperventilate as they swung back and forth on the hook. Fortunately the battery had enough juice to start, and three sad faces sadly waved goodbye as the tow truck left with a smiling Buddy.

So, off to Sears we went. Getting in the car isn't as insane as it used to be, now that eveyone can wipe their own hiney and get their own clothes on. But the Sears here in Huntsville, AL is unfortunately attached to a mall. My efforts to conceal our actual destination were a complete failure. I think some of my military intelligence genes passed through the uterus. I went in through an entrance towards the back, thinking I might get away with camouflaging our location. Nothing doing. The minute we entered the garage they knew precisely where we were.

While waiting in line (there's always a line when I have my kids with me) to converse with a mechanic I firmly stated to my children, in the following order:
#1: stay here
#2: do NOT touch the towers of tires that apparently pass for decor at a Sears auto center.
#3: do not yell
#4: do not TOUCH your brother

The other patrons in line stared at me (the men) while the grandma looking lady winked at me. When my turn came to speak with a mechanic, all three boys took advantage of my inattention to not follow my instructions. Any of them. Andrew made a dash for the tower of tires he'd been eyeing, Luke took off to explore the view in the waiting room, and Matthew, ostensibly to return Luke to me, broke instructions #1, #2, and #4.

I ordered my offspring back to my side in a tone which broked no argument, peppered with German words, and my evil eye look. I separated them, Matthew too my left, Andrew on my right side, with Luke 2 feet behind me. When I turned back to the service dude, a young man barely out of automotive school, he was openly grinning. After reaching an agreement on what precisely I wanted done, he smiled and said, "I think I better call my mother today and thank her. I have two brothers." The grandma lady in the waiting room snorted and merely said, "God bless you". I don't know why. I hadn't sneezed or anything.

Error #1

Due to my swift action in getting to Sears, I arrived too early. That is to say, the mall part wasn't open yet. I had another 10 minutes to keep my children occupied in a small room filled with adults containing no books, no crayons, and the Today show playing on the television. Andrew, like an angel, amused himself looking through the glass wall at the fascinating scene of cars and trucks being worked on by the aforementioned mechanics. Matthew sat next to me and every 30 seconds groaned at the inanity on the Today show (I couldn't blame him) and loudly whispering if he could change the channel. Luke, unable to bear the thought of Andrew involved in something that didn't involve him, sidled up next to his big brother and proceeded to bother him. This invoked recollections of my own childhood, where I would be minding my own business when my bored brother proceeded to annoy me, simply for lack of anything better to do.

Chidlhood memories aside, I remembered that my beloved husband had recently gifted me with a new phone (that romantic fool). The phone had email access and a screen. I quickly went to you tube and called up "The Cat in the Hat" video. Luke quickly left off annoying his brother and was entranced for the remaining 9 minues and 30 seconds we had to wait.

Error #2. Now Luke knows that Mommy's phone plays this video. I can't go anywhere anymore without him asking "Mommy, can I watch your phone?". Matthew instantly became incensed, demanding to know why he couldn't play with my phone. I gave him my special LOOK OF IMMINENT DEATH and he sulkily retreated back into his chair, muttering under his breath.

The mall finally opened, and we went through the Sears store, amused at the elderly people waiting for the garage door to open up so they could pounce on the latest sales.

Now, I don't know about you guys, but we have a definite pattern at the mall. First, we go to the play area. Andrew and Luke amuse themselves jumping around, Matthew begs for money for the neighboring arcade, and I sit down on a nearby bench. On a good day, I can make this stretch for an hour. This was not a good day. There was a playgroup of some kind that were there that morning. My two youngest children were surrounded by small babies and toddlers in the play area. It got boring dodging around the babies after 15 minutes, so we collected Matthew and decided to find some other amusement.

Second, we rode the escalators. A lot. I ignored the evil looks I got for permitting my children a dozen rides up and down the escalator. Hey, they weren't pushing, shoving, or yelling, so what is it that possesses a complete stranger to approach me and lecture me on the dangers of escalators? She was there with . . . you guessed it... two little girls. After delivering her message, she sat back, expectantly waiting for me to fall to my knees, clasp her about the ankles and thank her for her words of wisdom. I literally gave her the cold shoulder and replied, "they're fine" and ignored her until she flounced away. I got even with the little priss at the jumping place, where my kids did flips while her two little princesses gingerly bounced up and down, careful not to mess up their pinafores. A kindly gentleman added fuel to the fire when he said, "those are some fine boys you have there" as he and his silver haired spouse continued their lap around the mall. I could have kissed him.

After the jumping place, we discovered something new. In what had been the old Disney store, an enterprising woman had placed 5 inflatables, complete with a ball pit. Considering that it had been an hour and the car still wasn't done, I figured that it was well worth the cost to let the boys jump around for a bit. The proprietor was an 80 year old woman from India who spent the entire time telling me about her far flung relations around the globe. While the boys were having fun throwing brightly colored balls at one another, I heard about her 8 brothers and 3 sisters, her husband's 9 brothers and 2 sisters, her 6 sons, and the shortcomings of all her daughters in law. Luckily the timer went off announcing the end of our session before I could hear about the educational accomplishments of her 19 grandchildren. What really freaked me out is that this woman was more limber than I was. She walked around the place, scooping balls up and bending down with more energy than I can ever remember having. I want to go back sometime without the boys and ask what her secret is.

Well, now that we were back on routine, our next stop was the cookie store. I informed Matthew that no, he couldn't have the double cookie with the frosting between that would send him into a diabetic coma, and then helped Andrew and Luke make their selections. Do you have any idea how much three lousy cookies cost at the mall? My cell phone rang, and it was Sears, telling me that something was due and the belt was in bad shape and that it would cost $1900 to replace it. I felt my blood pressure rise, but managed to politely ask the man to just replace the battery, thank you very much. He tried to convince me otherwise, and I answered with " It's been two hours and I have three kids in the mall. Do you really think I want to have the $%&# belt replaced? Just give me a new battery." After a pause, he chuckled and told me he'd have my car ready in 10 minutes.

The bad part was, we had to go back up an escalator (Matthew nagged me to let him go up the elevator) and past a toy store to get back to Sears. Did I mention that Luke had broken his arm 4 days ago? He picked up a soft and cuddly Sponge Bob, gave me a devastating look, and called, "Mommy, look! Sponge Bob will make my arm feel better." A lesser woman would have caved, seeing those blue eyes and the bright yellow cast, but Germans are made of stermer stuff. I gently took it out of his hands and reminded him that he already had a sponge bob at home. He argued, but I got away with scooping him up in my arms and load of guilt on my shoulders. I barked a "no" at Matthew and Andrew and we were on our way.

When we got home everyone went to their own room to chill out. The car had a new battery, I had a headache from listening to Madonna mall music, and my wallet was $45 lighter. And I didn't even flinch when, 1 hour later, Matthew asked me, "Mommy, can we do something fun today?"

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 Parent Teacher Conference

This is such a misnomer. At the so called parent teacher conferences I've attended, the teacher talks and I occasionally get a word in edgewise. Think about it. Teacher holds all the advantages. I'm seated in a child sized chair looking up at my child's teacher. The last time I had to maneuver my rear into one of those little chairs I had flashbacks recalling my own elementary school years. When I reached 4th grade with Mrs. Hagelin, (an old school teacher who was never sick. She brought her medicine to class with her. Even the boys were aftraid of her.) I had to leave the room and splash water on my face to compose myself.

But nothing strikes fear into the hear of a child more than a parent teacher conference. What will your teacher tell your parents about you? Maybe the incident involving spitballs wasn't that smart after all. I recently had occasion to renew that fear. This time, however, I was the parent. Walking into my son's classroom, I got that same queasy feeling as when my parents went to the dreaded conference.

This one was for our Kindergartner. Back before I had kids, I promised myself I wouldn't permit myself to feel this crazy angst at my children's parent teacher conferences. I would arrive full of confidence and acceptance of any shortcomings of my child, should any be mentioned (which of course, there were).

I dressed in something other than my customary t shirt, jeans, and sneakers, actually applied makeup and put my hair to rights. That's when that little knot in my stomach started forming. We arrived at our son's classroom ready to hear how brilliant he was, and maybe he should skip 1st grade altogether due to his academic prowess.

That's not what happened. Have you seen a Kindergarten report card lately? It had been awhile for me, so my mother unearthed mine and read off some of the skills a Kindergartener needed to have to advance to 1st grade thirty years ago:

• tie shoes
• zip jacket
• knows primary colors
• plays nice with other children
• follows directions
• uses scissors
• washes hands independently

Kindergarten has changed. It is now what we learned in first grade. My son's list looked something like this:

• can copy sentences from board
• can write l, m, and first and last name
• knows phonics (always presuming already knows the alphabet)
• knows numbers from 1 to 100
• understands concept of rhyming words
• knows address
• knows telephone number
  
  

I sat there in stunned disbelief as our son's teacher explained some mysterious test called "Dibbels" required for advancement to first grade. I can't even pronounce it, much less explain what the heck it's for. Our child, who were were thinking of having tested for the gifted and talented program, apparently didn't perform very well on the "nonsense word fluency" part of the test. He kept interrupting the examiner, telling her the words weren't spelled right. (Apparently what he was supposed to do was sound out the letters of each word, to prove knowledge of phonetics.)

The other part he didn't perform particularly well on was breaking the words up into their parts. Excuse me? All this time we're teaching the kid to put the letters together to form words, and now you want to test him on breaking them up? His teacher explained that the test was to measure "the building blocks of reading". Since the child could already read, why does he need to be tested on the "building blocks". She didn't have an answer.

By the time we got home my head hurt from the description of these tests. We sent the object of these discussions off his room to play, where he promptly got out his trains and set up an intricate track involving switches, bridges, and a windmill (enhancing his fine motor skills). Then he proceeded to form a sculpture out of play doh (displaying his knowledge of primary colors) with his brothers before dinner (displaying the ability to get along with others). I wondered what the test administrators would have made of that.

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.

Third Grade Homework

This evening, as I think back to a kindler, gentler time in my life, it gives me a chance to reflect on how things change and become harder. I'm not referring to my childhood, you blockhead. I fondly recall assisting my son with his homework. That is, when he was in Kindergarten.

I mean, have you seen 3d grade homework? The kid is asking me to help him study for things I barely remember. Honestly, when was the last time someone asked you to write the dictionary pronunciation of a word? I understand and agree with the emphasis placed on correctly spelling the absurdedly complicated English language (if you want to spell a word exactly as it sounds, try German), but studying for those tests is a killer. Tears, flouncing out of the room, and tantrums are a common occurence in our house; and those are only my reactions. To watch my son wrestle with why "unfortunate" isn't spelled U-N-F-O-R-C-H-U-N-A-T is a study in empathy.


He's o.k. with the math homework most of the time. Given the fact that he has two super type A parents, this is hardly unexpected. And if I have trouble with the "if Edgar has 3 marbles and Jane has 5..." questions, there's always a load of laundry that just has to be done before Daddy gets home.


But the reading? Puh leese. First of all, the stories are mostly boring beyond belief. They're filled with almost poetic tales of children pondering the beauty of the woods and where flowers go in the winter. Similes and aphorisms abound, with a frightening mix of oxymorons in an attempt to hold what the authors must know is a kid's flagging interest.


My kid goes into the test knowing the story backwards and forwards, and he's required to answer a question that goes like this, " What do you think Charlie is thinking when he's thinking about climbing the doghouse?" He can't win. When the test comes home with his answer marked wrong, and the correct answer written in purple ink, I'm forced to admit that I would have gotten a B on the gosh darned test, too. He can read and tell us all kinds of things about sharks, trains, penguins, and a fictional character named Geronimo Stilton, but "Wings" somehow doesn't hold his interest much after the test is over.

I think I'm going to skip homework today. I paid my dues.

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.

Back to School

Two other moms in my neighborhood and I did the back to school happy dance this afternoon. We've concluded that we are the only ones who actually openly admit what the whole block is thinking. "YES! GOODBYE SUMMER! THE KIDS ARE GOING BACK TO SCHOOL AND I DON'T HAVE TO ENTERTAIN THEM ALL DAY LONG ANYMORE!" For Jacque, Sherry, and I, none of this sappy fake sadness that our babies are growing up and going off to school. I tasted my freedom last year, and man, does it taste good. Our three boys, ages 8, 5, and 3 are off to school tomorrow and I couldn't be more thrilled.

I've spent the last three months going to the library, swimming pool, playground, water park, karate, gymnastics, and to the bathroom with three boys in tow and I am ready for school. The cons don't even begin to tilt the scales when you consider the pros. For the small price of feeding, dressing, and delivering three children to school I get the holy grail of motherhood: 6 entire hours to myself.

6 hours to go for a run without stopping every 10 seconds to admire rocks, go grocery shopping in peace, take a shower without company, speak to another adult without being interrupted, read the paper, and maybe even pursue my hobby (mosaics). The possibilities are endless. And for anyone who calls me a selfish, shallow woman, I merely would like to point out that I've sacrificed myself on the altar of full time mothering for 8 years, so back off.


That's what I'm telling myself. The truth is, I'm going to be a mess tomorrow. Our middle son, Andy, is going to his first day of kindergarten.

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.

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.

From Now On...

After watching (babysitting is soooooo passe once they're past 3 years old) my neighbor's two boys this morning, I noticed a dirt trail from the door crossing the living room floor and leading to my son's bedroom, where the trail abruptly stopped. (Either the miscreant's feet had miraculously ran out of dirt to track in or it soaked into the carpet, I can't tell.)


I cheerfully (yes, cheerfully) went to get the mop to wipe up the telltale evidence of a combination of 5 little boys, 1 backyard, and 43 gallons of water. When I finished mopping up the living room floor, I figured the kitchen floor could use a little wipe down. (The kitchen floor ALWAYS could use a little wipe down.)


Now, we have 3 children, ages 7, 4, and 2, so I'm used to the various crumbs, globs, and spills in the vicinity of the kitchen table announcing to visitors what the day's breakfast menu was. But I was completely unprepared for the effect 5 children's lunch would have on my floor.


Oh, did I forget to mention I'd scrubbed the floor yesterday?


Silly me, lunch was Spiderman shaped mac 'n cheese, oranges, nuts, and juice. OK, I know it's not the healthiest lunch in the world, but it was all I could think of that all of them would eat. That, and it was the quickest food I could get to the table before my head exploded from yet another little boy asking me if lunch was ready yet.


I got the food on the table, sorted out who would sit where, broke up the fight over the Spidey cup with the crazy straw, and poured everyone's breakfast preference. I then excused myself for a much needed trip to the bathroom. (I have become my mother, I always have to pee.)


When I arrived back at the table, the three older boys (one of which is mine) were using their spoons to catapult web shaped pasta across the table at one another. The orange peels had been transformed into handcuffs (Moommy, boys don't wear bracelets), and the nuts served as cannon fodder for their straws.


The two younger boys watched with a gleeful enthusiasm I can only hope to someday emulate while viewing such a spectacle. They cheered their older brothers on, clapping their hands with delights, knocking over cups (those non spill cups are such a rip off) and spilling milk and juice everywhere.


Just as I was regaining my breath to deliver an ear shattering command to cease and desist (i.e. STOP!) the phone rang. It was my neighbor, and asked if I would please send her boys home now. She tentatively said, "I hope they haven't been too much trouble".


With complete honesty , I replied that they hadn't caused any mess that my boys weren't equally involved in. Then I mentioned that I hoped she wouldn't be mad if they came home wet.


I turned on the sprinklers and herded the boys outside. I figured that would be the easiest way to clean them up without making even more of a mess. Besides, the ants could use a snack and I didn't feel like picking pieces of Spidey out of my drain for the next two days.


As I returned to the kitchen and viewed the damage inflicted on my kitchen floor, a new Family Rule came to mind:



from now on, we're eating outside.

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).

Things I never, ever thought I'd say

This is a work in progress, periodically updated as new reports come in.

Things I never, ever thought I'd say

Give me that booger this instant!

Don't eat the flyswatter. Here, have a cookie instead.

Stop helping me clean the tub and go jump on the bed.

Please go watch TV.

Could you just wipe your own hiney, please?

No, you can't have your banana until you finish your pizza.

Get down off the kitchen cabinet. You might break my nice dishes.

Pee pee, come out!

Don't go in the water. Stay in the mud.

Don't swallow your gum. Give it to Mommy.

Next time, don't use permanent green marker to color your hands. Use the washable kind.

Who wants the last Oreo?

Whatever it is, just spit it in Mommy's hand.

Stop running around with that bucket on your foot. Put it on your head.

Don't slide off your bunk bed. Jump down.

If that happens again, hit him back.

Don't you want some candy? (This when my middle child refused to put on his Halloween costume.)