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 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?

The Twelve Days of Christmas

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

· Twelve cookie cleanups

· Eleven trips to toystore

· Ten tangled tree lights

· Nine bathroom visits

· Eight loads of laundry

· Seven bedtime excuses

· Six snowflake sculptures

· Five Hours of Sleep!

· Four painted pictures

· Three boys bouncing

· Two pooped parents

· And a knocked over Christmas tree.

Musical Beds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're going to have a baby

for Nikki

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1) you're going to be great parents

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

What did you do all day

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

Laundry ... the pile that never ends

I just finished 6 loads of laundry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bathtime Etiquette

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

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

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


Bathtime Etiquette

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

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.

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.)

The Sounds of Mother's Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Favorite Recipe

by

Matthew

Pancakes

Mix a lot of things like milk, water, and

strawberries in a bowl. Pour the dough in a

pan on the stove. Cook for 20 minutes. Take

a spatula and put it under the pancake. You

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

you put them on my plate.

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

Moving on to the afternoon....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Picky Eater

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mommy Olympics

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

The Bathtub Brawl

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

The Get Ready Rodeo

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

The Grocery Gallup

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

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

The Pick up Pentathalon

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Where did my memory go?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A train in my bathtub

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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