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?"

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.

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.

Notes for a New Mother

It's actually happening. You're having a baby. You're eating right, sleeping right, exercising right, and are reading all the stuff you're supposed to. The secret is out, and admit it: you're wearing maternity clothes so that no one can possibly imagine that you're just eating a wee bit too much at mealtimes.

Now comes a wonderful time in a pregnant woman's life that the books all refer to as "nesting". Personally, I think it's just the time when it actually hits you that you're going to have to make a space to put this little person who's due to arrive. Not only a space, but provide food, clothing, shelter, and entertainment.

In response to a query about whether or not she really needed all the stuff displayed at the baby store, I recently gave out the following gems of maternal experience to an expectant mother:

#1: What somebody else found to be indispensable may not be to you or your baby.

#2: A baby bathtub may not be entirely necessary (but then a very clean kitchen sink will be!)

#3: You will probably get a lot of baby blankets and cute outfits as presents. I don't know why, but when a woman who is done having children goes into the baby section of the store, all thoughts of sensible fly out of her mind and she gets the most adorable damn outfit she can find (usually also the one which is the most impractical to dress the kid in.)

#4: Grandmas are famous for blankets. I don't know why, they just are. You'll need a lot of them because the kid will spit up and pee and poop on everything at least once, if not all at the same time.

#5: Wait to get the gym, bouncer thingy, and/or swing until you're tired of holding your adorable precious baby. This may take years.

#6: Wipe warmer dries out wipes. Unless you want to stumble around at 3 o'clock in the morning looking for some with cleaning solution on them as the kid wails and flails questionable excretions all over, I suggest skipping the wipe warmer.

#7: Have one pack of size 1 diapers in the house ready for baby. Otherwise, buy as you go. Unless you want stacks of diapers that don't fit the kid stacked in your place masquerading as truly avante guard art.

#8: Shoes: personally, I bought a lot of clothes with feet in them. My children were forever losing their socks, so this was the only way I could still find them. (The socks that is, not the baby.)

#9: Despite all your best intentions to breast feed your baby, there will be a time when your boobs are really sore, she's fed, and the kid won't stop yelling. Since this will in all probability occur at 4 a.m., I suggest having a pacifier on hand. Get one of the rubber ones, not the clear silicone kind. It says "NUK" on it. Don't let anyone fool you - the kid won't get confused between you and the nuk.

#10 Bag to hold all the stuff when you do, indeed, actually leave the house. Diaper bags come in all shapes, colors, and sizes these days. Do not get the flowery or cutesy kind. This gives husband all the excuse he will ever need to not have to carry the diaper bag. Unless you want to be consistently relegated to toting the suitcase that now is part of the requirements for leaving the house, get a diaper bag with a rugged pattern to camouflage the changing pad and butt cream therein.

#11: What the hell else is your husband there for, if not to be dispatched to buy anything the baby (or you) needs RIGHT NOW? (Be careful with this one, as overuse past the first 30 days of the kid's life may cause him to suspect a lack of planning on your part.

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.

What did you do all day

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

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.

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 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".