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!

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.

Barbershop Mayhem

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

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


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


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


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



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



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

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

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

The Halloween Hop

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.