Merry Sickness to All, and to All a Rough Night

Each year my family and I spend two whole months prior to Christmas talking about how we will NOT get sick for the holiday season. And then, as our track record has proven for the last oh, 4 winters, we do.

This 2010 'Tis the Season to be Jolly was absolutely no different. Sure, four days before D-day we were rejoicing and thanking the Holy Spirit for sparing us. Two days later my brother and I were vomiting our brains out and begging to die.

Of course, this brought along a whole slew of problems. First, and foremost, how do we keep the children from getting it? It's one thing when I wake up on Christmas morning with my head half stuck to the toilet seat. It's a different story, though, when my kids can't enjoy the single most exciting morning of the entire year. My second issue: how was I going to finish putting together and wrapping the presents that I had so severely procrastinated on? I'd like to tell you that had I known I'd be feeling like this, I would have been a tad bit more proactive with wrapping... but I'd just be lying to you. Oh, and you might be thinking "What about the husband? Why can't he wrap?" Well, friends, let's just say that if I were to hand over the present wrapping to my dearest other half it would involve a lot of aluminum foil and duct tape. Nothing says "Santa's Workshop!" like some aluminum foil and duct tape...

I honestly had a moment where I contemplated lying to my children and telling them Christmas was actually two days away, not tomorrow. Then I remembered that my 5 year old had asked me every.single.day when Christmas was. He knew. He was keeping count on his Countdown to Christmas thingy he made at school. This just wasn't going to fly.

And so began Operation: DONT.GET.SICK.

I banned myself to the bedroom, too miserable to enjoy the rare peace and quiet of watching an uninterrupted movie. I couldn't even calm my stomach enough to take a quick snooze. Finally, out of absolute boredom and the need to get my mind off the tummy rumbling, I made the executive decision to ban myself to the living room couch for a bit of boob-tube. With this, of course, came the responsibility of washing my hands until they bled and breathing as little air as possible so I didn't circulate my germs. Did I mention that this was Christmas Eve? Yeah, I guess I did. My plans for a cozy night in with the Fam playing board games and stuffing ourselves with yummy snack trays just made me want to vomit more. The only thing keeping me going was the fact that my children were still well and had their usual hearty appetites.

It turns out in the end that I actually had food poisoning. Norwalk-virus to be exact. If you aren't privy to the details on that pretty little thing, let me fill you in. You can't catch it from the air. You can't catch it from drinking after someone. You can't even catch it if you are in a hot and heavy make-out session or doing x-rated things (websites with Norwalk specifics are pretty, uh, detailed?...). Nope, nope, nope. You wanna guess how you catch this particular "virus"? Poop. Yep, poop. To put it bluntly: Restaurant worker pooped during his/her shift. Proceeded to NOT wash his/her hands. Managed to carry that nice little norwalk-virus back to the kitchen. Made my chicken wrap throwing in a bit of poop particles for added flavor, and BOOM. I am now the proud new owner of millions of disgusting poop germs FROM SOMEONE ELSE'S BODY. I'm pretty sure I threw up one more time for good measure after I read this on the internet.

To make a long story short, and to spare you from the rest of the gory details, Christmas still came this year. Santa stopped by our house and left a crapload of stuff - no pun intended. The kids woke up at a reasonable time (thank you, Jesus) and they were thrilled. Oh, and my baby girl celebrated her very first Christmas. I kept it together enough to smile for the pictures and say "Oh, COOL!" to just about every present my kids opened. Sure I looked like death warmed over, but I look like that at 8 in the morning whether I'm sick or not so no one could tell the difference.

If I were to take one good thing away from this experience, it would be that I did manage to lose 7 pounds instead of gaining them during the holiday season. I guess you could say all in all it was a nice jump start to my New Year's resolution of getting off these last 15? Or maybe that's just pushing it a bit.

What's the big deal anyway?

Christmas. When you hear that word, what is the first thing you think of? C'mon. Be honest. Presents? You thought "presents" didn't you?

I'll go ahead and yank up my big girl panties and admit that it's what I used to think of. Not really for me, but more so for the kids. Well, them and the 237 relatives, friends and "I know you'll buy for me so I have to buy for you" people. Present buying simply became a chore.

Well this year we are on a REALLY tight budget. I've even contemplated making Ramen noodle soup a few nights a week if it weren't for the insane salt content. I mean there's cheap and then there's downright child abuse. So far I'm only guilty of the first. I'd like to keep it that way if possible, you know, keeping with the feel-good spirit of the season and all.

So this past Black Friday I did what 90% of the U.S. probably did. Shopped. Only this year I bought just a handful of things. I am proud to say I was guilty of being one of the lovely shoppers who kept taking things out of my cart (impulse buys as I like to call them) and putting them down where I definitely did not find them in the first place. Thanks to me there is now a princess purse set in the women's boots section and I'm pretty sure the "Puppy's First Christmas" ornament is still hanging from the "Baby's First Christmas" sleepers. Hey, same category, right? And no, I don't have a puppy. Ugh, don't even ask.

Yeah, I was good this year. I have to be. Simple as that. Unless Santa's fat ass is gonna greet me at the end of my invisible chimney with a Mastercard, the kids are getting budget gifts. Okay, in addition to the few awesome things I was able to score from an undiscovered Overstock.com gift certificate that I found in our desk drawer. To me, THAT was my Christmas present all in itself.

Now I don't want you thinking that I'm writing this just because I'm teetering on the edge of broke. Nope, nuh-uh. Not the case. If anything, being broke may have given me an "AH-HA!" moment, but I'd like to think my immeasurable magnificent-ness and brain capacity taught me to see the meaning of Christmas in a brand new, awe-inspiring light. Alright, yes. That was overboard. It's not about the presents... cue the Grinch and his heart growing 2 sizes. No, guys. It's about the PEOPLE. It's about drinking hot cocoa next to your tacky fake fireplace as your husband sits next to you pretending to watch a sappy Lifetime Christmas movie. In reality we both know he's nodding off and dreaming of sugar plums or some crap like that - but hey, he's in the room. That counts for something. It's about gathering around the tree and putting up sentimental ornaments. Stringing butt ugly half eaten popcorn strings on the branches that your kids made. Telling them their arts and crafts project of a construction paper tree looks like the one in Rockefeller Center - even though it looks more like a Charlie Brown special. And yes, displaying it proudly on the fridge for the entire month of December. Focusing on your little ones and dancing with them in the living room to the most obnoxious versions of carols you can find. Hiding a very large stash of peppermint bark and only eating it when no one is looking. Indulging in more sweets than normal because hey, it's Christmas!

It's not about the gifts. If you were to hold a gun to my head and ask me to name 3 things my kids got from Santa last year... Ha. To that, I say: pull the trigger. I can't even name the gifts I got from other people. A big apology goes out to those who are reading this and bought me something. I'm sure I still have it, I'm positive that I still love it, and I'm probably using it every single day...

Moral of the story? Eh, just read it. I promise I'll shut up after this last part and you can go back to sucking the life out of your savings and kid's college funds - no judgment on my part. So the moral: Enjoy the moments, not the things. Unfortunately it took stretching $20 for a week of groceries to teach me that. You know, I wouldn't have it any other way though. No more movies, extravagant wasteful gifts or trips to restaurants where we're really just as miserable as the kids are having to sit still for an hour. Nope, now we actually hang out together. And it's meaningful, damn it. We drive each other nuts. I mean REALLY nuts sometimes. But in the midst of everything a silly version of "Blue Christmas" will come on the radio or a decrepit rendition of "Grandma got ran over by a reindeer" will air on t.v. and we find ourselves snuggling on the couch, covered in blankets and singing along or laughing. It's awesome. So this season why don't you make an effort to DO something with someone. Don't just buy, buy, buy... or better yet, take my lead and don't buy at all! It's good for your wallet and it's great for your soul. I promise you you'll get a much better high from throwing a $5 bill in the Salvation Army bucket than you ever will giving your father another stupid jar of peanuts. Happy Holidays everyone!

The Tantrum Saga

Okay, so I will admit I am a fan of the Twilight Saga series. I've read the books, I've seen the movies (more than once) and will be a big enough woman to tell you that it takes me back to my teen years... if only for an hour or two. So what? Aren't we all entitled to a little reminiscing of our somewhat carefree days of teenhood?

Well move over Stephenie Meyers, I'm starting a new series. It's called the Tantrum Saga. Instead of starring heart throb Rob Pattinson and semi-weirdo Kristin Stewart, my saga will star my 3 children, all with varying degrees of tantrum-ness. I, ring leader of the pack, will play Kristin Stewart's Dad's role: Charlie. For those of you not in the Twilight loop, he is completely aloof, a few bricks short of a load most days and his favorite past-time is zoning out from reality - and by this I mean he has NO idea that his daughter is part of a vampire-werewolf underworld and almost dies... several times. I'm playing "Charlie" not because I think I am naturally stupid or unaware. I just WANT to be disconnected... it's what gets me through.

Riley, playing role of "Edward": This kid WANTS to be a vampire. Or a superhero. Or anything that would give him some kind of special power. He's handsome in a boyish way and is always pointing out his pointy vampire "fangs" to anyone who will look at his teeth. One moment he's charming, sweet and irresistable to all 5 - 8 year old girls within a 10 mile radius. Two minutes later with a denied request for ice cream or the news that he has to (GOD FORBID) WALK HOME!!!...and he's making strange screechy animal noises at me and flopping his body all over the floor. From Twilight to Tantrum right before my very eyes. He's too big to contain these days, so I just let him flip-flop around for awhile and ignore him... often times acting as if he's not even there until he finishes. Cue: CHARLIE. Oh, and did I mention that he's got the role reversal confusion of thinking that I can read his mind at all times? Yeah, it ain't happening kid.

Olivia, playing role of "Bella": I might be partial but I'm pretty positive my little Livy is much more beautiful than the character she portrays. Of course, I am her Mother so I realize I'm biased. Just as Bella flits from happy to sad to pissed in the span of one measly minute, so does Livy. They are both a little bi-polar. Indecisive and moody, just when you think you are their best friend they turn around have a hissy fit in your face. All you ever want to scream at either one of these chicks is "JUST MAKE UP YOUR DAMN MIND GIRL!". Naturally I would never scream that at my 2 year old, although I have contemplated screaming that at Bella through my t.v. screen. Especially in Eclipse. Anyway, I'm sorry to say that Bella does not act much older than my toddler when it comes to tantrums. They both look strange when it comes over them, faces twisting and hair flying. Even the punching scene where Bella hits Jacob the werewolf in the face - my Livy has certainly tried that more than once. I have about as much of a chance of calming Olivia down during one of these lashing out moments as Edward ever does of convincing Bella to calm the EFF down so she doesn't almost get herself killed... again.

Natalie, playing the role of one of the vampire "Newborns": If you haven't seen Eclipse yet, you're probably confused. The brief description of a "newborn" is basically a vampire that was just transformed from a human form and is now thirsty for blood and absolutely crazy out of their mind attaking everything in sight. My baby Nats is usually more interested in a nice warm bottle of milk instead of blood, but the craziness can certainly be an accurate description at times. There are episodes of what I call "Nat's ATTACK MODE" where she squeals at an ear-piercing decibel and flaps her arms at you like she's trying to fly away. Open-mouthed, she attempts to attack your face and bite you with her brand new bottom teeth. Razor sharp - they could probably draw blood just like the newborns. I wouldn't classify this as a tantrum, however, because she is usually pretty happy during her episode. She has learned though, to my dismay, that she is also capable of tantrums. Take a toy away from her and watch her 16 pound body unravel faster than Edward's cute vampire ass can run from here to the street and back (again, for those of you out of the loop - he's EXTREMELY fast among other super-human powers). Throwing her head back in the most violent way, she screams at the top of her lungs and stiffens her body. This happened just yesterday and when I tried to sit her down, she refused. Her body was like a board, not bending in any way. Amongst several repetitive body convulsion type movements she is so mad that offering her the toy back or a cookie or a check for one million dollars just pisses her off even more. My hope is that, like the newborns of Twilight, Nats will one day calm her little ass down, stop biting so much and begin to develop some sense of reasoning. Hey, stop laughing.

So that's my Tantrum Saga. It's still a work in progress and can be very overwhelming at times. I'm positive that if I just keep practicing the "Charlie" way of life, I WILL survive this - only I would certainly hope that I'm a tad more aware of my kid's shenanigans. Particularly if they were involved with a pack of blood-suckers. Otherwise my story may end with a closing scene of Edward, Bella and the Newborn waving to me as I'm carted down the street in a straight jacket.

Good morning!

What is it about mornings? It's supposed to be a time of beginning again. A new start to the day. A second leash on life.

Okay, so that's pushing it a little. I'll stop being so melodramatic.

What I can't figure out though is why people always think it's so cutesy (for lack of a better word) to call themselves a "morning person". "Oh, I'm such a morning person!" someone might squeal, a sheepish grin spreading across their face as they do a little eye roll. They think they look endearing and that we are somehow impressed. They don't and we aren't. I just want to take my finger and stick it toward my throat and make a vomit sound. Seriously? I hate mornings. Most of mine start around 6am and they stretch on for at least 8 hours. Or maybe that's just how long it takes me to find the time to get in the shower and start my day. If you are thinking I'm just being bitchy right now, I'll give you my typical morning. You be the judge.

Just falling back asleep from my 14th pacifier treasure hunt in the baby's bed, I hear it. A noise. It's nothing I could definitively describe to you. It's either a squeak from Livy or the "thud, thud, thud" of her jumping up and down in her crib as she yells for me. It could be Riley silently standing next to me as I lay sleeping and then tapping on my forehead and scaring the living shit out of me as he points toward the living room and whispers "COFFEE!". It could be my littlest munchkin, the Natters as I like to call her, making "ba ba ba ba" sounds. Either way, I know that any one of these is my signal that sleep time is over... and will continue this way for many many many many hours.

If I've learned anything, it's that once one child gets up, they all do. I don't know if they have telepathy. I don't know if there is some secret sibling signal they send out. I don't know. But it sucks. If I could take them in waves out to the living room, that'd be great. Of course, if that were possible I wouldn't find the need to log my day in the life of three trials and tribulations, now would I? So once I change the girls diapers and ask Riley to go pee at least 3 times, we venture into the living room where I immediately turn on Nick Jr. Look, I know I shouldn't be sitting them in front of the t.v., but you see, I've got something on my mind. It starts with a "C" and ends with an "E". If you don't know yet, you never will. You obviously don't have quite the addiction that I do. So while I hear loud requests coming from the couch for juice and milk and all sorts of other things, I happily hum the "Best Part of Waking Up" song in my head and wash out the coffee pot. I don't hear anything but the pouring of water, the hushed noise of scooping grinds out of the Folgers container. The aroma overtakes me and I am calm. Once loaded, I hit the "auto" button and wait. Yes, I literally stand in front of the coffee pot at the kitchen counter and wait. My husband gives me crap for pre-pouring creamer into my mug. "How do you know how much you'll need?" he asks with faint curiosity. "Oh, I know" I say in total seriousness. As soon as the beeps start I grab the handle on the pot and whip it over to my mug. My mouth salivates and I fight to keep from drooling as I fill the cup to the top. I don't even stir. I just sip. And sip. And sip. Once I am convinced there is a significant amount of caffeine flowing through my tired body I make my son his own cup of coffee (mostly milk, touch of creamer, spot of coffee) and then I do the same for my daughter. They both think I should make one for the baby, but I'm pretty positive I should hold off on that for at least another year. Giving my 2 year old coffee is bad enough. So now that we've all had our drug of choice, we move on to breakfast. I do my usual run through of every single thing I could ever possibly offer for breakfast, including more complicated things like homemade berry pancakes and french toast. Do I want to make these things? No. Do I think the kids will even say yes to these choices? Nah. I'm just amusing myself by mixing up the menu list a little because I already know what they want. Toast. One with honey. One with cinnamon sugar. Given the fact that this family prefers white bread, this particular request for basically white flour carb boats smothered with butter and sugar just doesn't seem like quality "get up and get movin'" garb if you know what I mean. But, they'll eat it, and so I give in. I promise myself when school starts it will be nothing but eggs and turkey bacon and orange juice with whole wheat toast on the side. No butter. Until then, it's just too damn early to battle with them. Our usual fight of where to eat, the living room floor or the kitchen table, quickly ends with me as the winner. Again. And the kids climb up to the table and dig in to their food. I feed the baby her yogurt and fruit because she can't fight me on it yet, and it seems like everyone has just about gotten their fill. I personally don't even think about breakfast until about 10. It's only around 7:30am. Filing back into the living room for Spongebob or Max and Ruby, I take the opportunity to clean up the kitchen and get a second cup o' joe. After that it's time to get the kids clothes on and another round of diaper changes. Interject this routine with the occassional poop blow out by the baby in her bumbo seat so it goes nicely up her back or Riley building a tower of blocks in the middle of the floor which I promptly trip over while bringing the baby a bottle... and it makes for some interesting commentary. I break up at least 3 sibling fights and make at least 93 threats when they punch and kick or say things like butt head or stupid face or shut up to each other. All this and I am still trampsing around in my mismatched oversized pajama pants and t-shirt, my hair in a knot on the top of my head, my face feeling especially gross from lack of a chance to wash it yet and my glasses slipping off my nose with each toy I reach down to pick up off the floor. God help the person who decides to come visit me before noon. I'll warn you now, I'm not putting on a bra. I'm not putting on make-up. I'm not promising my teeth will be brushed quite yet. Deal with it or call before you come... and make sure you aren't visiting for at least 4 hours. Otherwise, the call is nice but there is nothing I can do timewise about my appearance. The morning usually comes to a close right around the time Livy takes a nap. Most days that would be noon. I put her to bed and peek in on the baby to make sure she is still sleeping. She made an earlier request to slumber as soon as she threw a temper tantrum and slammed her head back into my nose. She looks peaceful so I tiptoe out to the couch. I know I should use this chance to clean myself up or do a load of laundry or some other stupid useful chore. Instead, all I can think about is crawling onto my sofa for a power nap. Just give me 30 refreshing minutes and I'll be Super Mom again. I puff up a pillow and lay it at one end, pulling a soft throw up around my neck. I smile. A HUGE smile. "Ahhhhhhhhh" I sigh. Closing my eyes I think about how great this is going to be. Riley is playing in his room and lining up lord knows what. This means he's occupied for at least an hour. I can be asleep and back up before he even comes out to ask for chocolate milk. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I feel myself slipping into perfect blackness. "Waaaaaaaaahhhhh!!!!" I shoot up into a sitting position and pull my glasses back on. "D" - double "A" -double "M" - to the mother EFFIN "N"!!!!! Damn! I trudge off the couch and back toward the baby. It's blatantly obvious that not only am I never going to be a morning person for at least the next 18 years, but I'm also most certainly NEVER going to be a nap person as well. At the rate I'm going, a "night person" isn't looking so hot either.

To be envious or not to be... is it even a question?

I am not too proud to admit it. Some days I am filled with envy. I envy the young girls with their care free attitudes and abundance of time. Their cellulite-free bodies and lack of pregnancy battle wounds. Wearing the latest fashions which usually end up being on the brink of too short or too tight, they throw their bouncy hair up into an adorable knot and toss a pair of oversized sunglasses on (as a statement, NOT to prevent wrinkles) and they look like movie stars. Our husbands can't help themselves but steal glances their way when they think we aren't looking. They are men, I've come to terms with this fact and have actually graduated into a stage of humor about it all. Particularly when my own hubs thinks one is checking him out and then they end up calling him "sir" as they excuse themselves to step around us when they walk by. A little sign of defeat flashes across his face and I actually feel bad for him. Well, for a second anyway. I know the feeling. The confusion of human nature. Wanting to feel attractive, even just for the self satisfaction of knowing you still got "it". Eventually, if I'm given the opportunity to sit and observe this particular type of girl (or even more entertaining, a group of girls) for a bit, my envy usually dwindles down to nothing more than a laugh and shake of my head. With time I see a little deeper into this life and image that I found so appealing just a minute or two ago. I soon see the insecurity, the desire to fit in, to be cool. This girl who seems to have it all is clearly dressed this way to attract attention, to be who she thinks everyone wants her to be. The envy is fleeting. It is my brain's first gut reaction. I remember this stage. Even into my very early twenties I distinctly remember. The days when fashion, staying trim and social status all seemed to dictate your life. Don't get me wrong, I was never the girl with the pricey clothes and flippant moods, flirting with every male I came across. That's not where I'm going with this. I'm just saying that on the days that I throw on something baggy and comfortable, toss my own wet mop up into a knot (which never seems to have the same appeal as that of an 18 year old's) and put my big sunglasses on to keep the crow's feet at bay, I realize that I've hit a new era of my life. I've traded all that for something much more wonderful and rewarding. I can be my true self, no pretending or false pretenses. I know who I am. I am a Mother. I am a Wife. I am a vital member of a beautiful family. Sure, my husband might look at this girl for a second and think of his younger days. Hell, I'm looking at her and am having almost the same nostalgic moment. But then he looks away and back to me in a different way, a respectful and loving look resting in his face. My kids seem to have that same look too (when I'm not asking them to clean their rooms, of course) and I am content. More than content, I feel like those girls should be envious of me.

And so it goes... start with a cry, end with a laugh.

Today started out easily enough. I actually woke fully when my alarm clock went off instead of slamming my phone against the nightstand until the beeping stopped. The baby had fallen back asleep from a very early feeding frenzy and was peacefully lying next to me on a pillow. I slipped into the bathroom to wash my face and pull on some clean clothes, brushing my teeth while simultaneously brushing my uncontrollable mop of hair. Glasses on, I tip-toed to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. The kids were being fed Lucky Charms by their Grandmother and they both seemed a little too thrilled at the idea. It may have had something to do with the handful of marshmallows in each bowl and the sugary goodness that was about to course through their tiny veins. I downed my hot coffee heaven-ness and prepared the kids for their doctor appointments. Well check-ups today. There should be no reason for fear. I, however, knew that the huge reassuring smile across my face was purely for the sake of my children. Shots would be involved. I didn't know how many. We headed out the door in a chipper mood with promises of a big prize for good behavior. Note to self: I really need to stop doing that if for nothing else but financial stability in my bank account. I'm such a sucker for these kids. Oh, and I also like to make things go as smoothly as possible. Nothing like saying "Guess what son? You are getting a shot today... BUT! You are also going to go to Kmart to pick out a FANTASTIC toy afterward!". Yup, does it every time. In any case, we made it to the office with a few minutes to spare and I tucked the kiddos away in a corner of the waiting room while I filled out endless piles of paperwork. Livy attempted several times to yank the pen out of my hand and for once I was thankful for the little chain that attached it to my clipboard. She might be able to snatch it, but only for a second. She would grab it and go running, only to discover a short second or two later that she was still running but empty handed. The pen swinging back and forth in mid air from my lap. It was quite comical, even if it was only comical to me... and no I was not embarassed when I let out a hysterical giggle and everyone stared at me while this stupid pen swung in the breeze. Before I could finish we were called back to the exam room and the kids were asked to remove shoes. Weight and height time. Yippee! Nothing too scary yet. The kids did as they were told and stood on the scale to be measured. Still pretty bland, we then moved back to the exam room. The nurse asked some questions about Riley, who was deemed the "first to go"... which honestly sounded kind of haunting at first. I realized quickly I only felt this way because I knew what was in store for him. I had not prepared him with the news of an impending shot and I was sort of regretting it at this point. I answered all of the usual questions about naps, bedtime, diet, etc. and then she moved on to Livy. I think we were kind of getting a two-for-one deal, although I was positive that wouldn't apply to the co-pay when we checked out. Either way I think I really like the idea of a co-appointment. More questions and then we are told the doctor will see us shortly. I happen to like the guy. The kids seem to as well. He came in just a minute or two later and was his usual cheery self talking about race cars and the like with Riley. Riley pulls two matchbox cars out of his pocket, a silent but incredibly proud look spreading across his face. More questions, two pairs of eyes, ears and mouths checked. Bellys squeezed and legs and feet inspected. The doctor announces that they are both healthy and gets right down to the dreaded subject of vaccines. I am holding my breath now and am watching Riley's face for the first sign of pure fear to take hold of his tiny little features. He hears that he will need a shot but it doesn't seem to phase him too much. The doctor looks at me and mouths "FOUR" and scrunches his nose. Ummmmm... what? I'm sorry, my brain immediately thinks... did you say four??!?! I realize I am talking in my head, not out of my mouth and the doctor is beginning to stare at me - me, wide eyed and not blinking or moving in the slightest. "OH. GOD." I say. Of course, this is NOT the expression that should be coming from my lips. Riley looks over and says with a more anxious tone "WHAT Mom?". Uhhhhhhh... I search for the right words as the doctor steps out. I explain to him that he is getting 4 shots but that they will only feel like a pinch. "Nah, I don't want them" he says non-chalantly like he has a choice. I tell him that these are for school and this is the most important way to make sure that he doesn't get a bad sickness around the other kids. I also finish with telling him that all of the other kids are getting these shots too, so it will be awesome to talk about it with his new friends on his first day of kindergarten. He seems to kind of like that idea. Livy, oblivious to everything, still seems to have some idea of what is transpiring. She has successfully tossed her shoes and socks at me and is yelling "Bye-Byes!! Bye-Byes!!". Little does she know that she's due for routine blood work. So, long story short the nurse we have is as always, completely awesome, and she works her magic injecting my son in his thighs with several needles while I hold his hands. He doesn't fight. He doesn't flinch. He only tears up just a tad in the corner of his eyes and grimaces. I am the most freaking proud damn mother on the entire planet and I let out a "WOOHOO! YOU DID IT!". The nurse looks at me like I'm a slight bit nuts and then smiles. Probably more for my own amusement than hers. Livy is next, seated perfectly still on my lap and the nurse takes her finger and pricks it. I am expecting the worst again and am in shock when Livy doesn't even move. She stares at the nurse collecting her blood and says "WOOK Mommy!" as little droplets are collected in a tube. Does she cry out in pain? No. Does she cry out in fear? Nope. Does she cry out because I'm holding her tightly to my body in case she goes wild? Nuh-uh. She cries because the nurse just put a band-aid over her wound to stop the bleeding and she HATES band-aids. Her temper tantrum ensues until I rip it off of her. Magically the tears stop and she lets out a laugh like she was triumphant. We are soon moving out the door, shot record in hand for Riley's school registration, and on our way to Kmart for a toy. I can feel the excitement in the air already. Oh, and I can smell the stench of Livy's dirty diaper from a mile away. In my rush to get out the door I completely forgot to pack a diaper and wipes for our trip. I make a quick judgment call that Livy will be okay while we go into the store for 10 minutes so they can get their prize. Riley reminds me that everyone will think we stink when we go in, but I quickly remind him that it's either stinky-ness and a prize or we go home. I'm sure you know which option he chose. A quick trip in and we are walking out the door with an alien watch and a barbie doll in tow. I open the car door to load in the kids and look down. DAMN. A flat tire. I thought the car felt lop-sided when I pulled into the parking space. I decide, with my very womanly brain at the moment, that it only appears to be half flat, whatever in the hell that means, and I am going to try to make it home. Thank GOD dear hubby can't read this right now. He'd be more than a little disappointed that I said that. Yes, friends, I know better. So I literally make it across the street before I decide the tire sounds too weird and the car is lurching too much to go any farther. I call AAA and request service. The current time is 10:40 am. They will be here to service my car at 11:23 am. Ummmmm... okay. I start to tell the lady that 11:23 might be a little too late over the phone because my daughter has a dirty diaper and I don't have any back-ups. I stop mid-sentence because I realize that she could give a rats ass if I was sitting in a tub of baby puke at that moment. There is nothing she can do. She sounds confused and I apologize. I tell her I don't know why I said that, I'm just stressed. I thank her for the help and tell her I will keep an eye out for the technician and his truck since I'm sitting in the middle of a parking lot. I'm sure she will discuss me with her other AAA operator pals at lunch. Oh well. What can you do... So I decide I have plenty of time to run in to the store and get some diapers and wipes and milk and a bottle. Livy is screaming by now and I know she's tired. There is no way on God's green Earth that I am going to sit here until 11:23 with her like this and continue to smell that terrible odor through the car. I hit the button for my window to air it out for a moment so that it will hopefully smell a little better in case the tech needs to get in here and the rain and drizzle comes pouring in. I quickly pull up on the auto button for the window but nothing happens. GRRRRRRRR. I swear. I cuss. I tell my car "I HATE YOU CAR" and I hiss at it. You see, if it's not my seatbelts that are broken, it's the rear tail lights. And if it's not the tail lights it's the lights on my dashboard controls that are going out. If it's not that, it's my DAMN WINDOWS. "ARRRRRGHHH!!!" I scream and yank on the button as hard as I can. Magically the window starts going up. And up. Almost there... it stops. There is an inch to go but it won't budge. Thankfully I had enough sense to park under a tree so there is only a minimal amount of rain coming in at this point. I yank Livy out of the car, put her on my hip, release Riley from his buckle and we go running. I toss the kids into a shopping cart and literally run through the grocery store like I'm on one of those shopping spree shows. I completely miss the baby aisle at one point and do a U-turn that would qualify me at the track. Wheels screeching loudly and loud "YAAAAY's!!" from the kids and we are speeding back in the other direction. I toss in a pack of diapers, a pack of wipes, a small carton of milk and a new diaper into the main part of the cart, decking Riley in the head twice. He thinks it's funny. That's only because somehow I managed to not leave a mark. I run toward the check-out line, swipe my card and bag up my groceries. Just as I walk through the exit door with plans to change Olivia's diaper and get her settled into her seat with some milk for the remainder of our wait, my phone rings. It's AAA. He is waiting by my car. Grrrrreat. I just bought all this crap for nothing. NOTHING. I tell him I am the crazy lady running through the pouring down rain in the parking lot toward him. I see him turn and wave at me. The sky is coming down in buckets now. The tech is nice enough and has already started jacking up my car. I can't put the kids in just yet he says. Alright. We huddle under the tree in our cart but it doesn't help much. Livy's blanket is over her head and Riley is squinting at me, barely noticing the water running down his face as he is more and more fascinated by this stranger changing our tire. Large loud tools all around, he says "Coooooool". The tech finishes up and directs me to toss the kids in. We look like drowned rats and my mascara is running down my cheeks. I hand him a tip and we get in. I don't even bother returning the cart. I just don't have it in me. Car started, I attempt to put my window up once again and it finally closes tightly. Off we go to Grammy's house where little Natalie is waiting. Things get uneventful for awhile, we eventually meet up with dear hubby at a restaurant for some food and somehow we manage to feed all 3 kids and ourselves in very little time with Grammy's help. Hubs decides he will take the baby home and Grammy is on her way out too. Myself, on the other hand, has just been talked into a walk around the pond in 97 degree weather at dusk. With mosquitos. To look for frogs. Yay. Both kids are so excited that there is no way I can deny them a quick walk around the pond. One kid in each hand, we exit the back of the restaurant and begin our descent to the walking trail around the pond. As I had guessed earlier, Livy only made it about a quarter of the way before she wanted to be carried, and so I picked her up and did my best to tote her along. Carrying 29lbs in that heat and humidity is no easy task. Especially when I had to stop every 2 minutes while Riley ran to the water's edge to look for another frog or reptile. We finally made the entire loop and there was a request for ice cream. Sweat is now pouring off of my face, my back, running down my arms. Sure, anything to go inside and get out of this heat. Two cups later and we sit at a little table by the indoor fountain to enjoy our tasty treat. I snap a picture of them both eating, they are just too adorable. I also did it for documentation purposes because they are both very rarely at the same table at the same time. And with that, Livy jumps down and runs over to the towers of high chairs not far from where I am sitting. She has this weird obsession with buckles. Any kind of buckles. And by any, I mean ANY. She doesn't care if it's in the baby swing, the car seat, a chair cushion, or presently, the high chair safety strap buckles. People start pointing and commenting on the little girl squatting down and clipping all of the buckles together. I don't think they quite realize just what she's doing. She's not just clipping them together. She's clipping mis-matched buckles together on literally a dozen or more highchairs. All I can picture is some poor schmuck trying to pick up a high chair and realizing it's connected to another one... 5 highchairs down. I begin to stifle my hysterical laughs and Riley stares at me. He doesn't get it. I try to explain and he says "AWWWWW! Livy. You. Are. In. TROUBLE!". I start laughing until the tears are pouring down my cheeks. I just can't stop. The more I picture my cute little girl down there creating some cruel joke for both the restaurant guests and staff alike, the more I laugh. I finally get a hold of myself when an old woman eating by herself gives me a dirty look and round up the troops to go. We make it home and with much coaxing I eventually get the kids stripped of clothes and usher them toward the shower. They are beyong sticky and gross. Livy is a tad testy, she's tired I'm sure, but she goes in with only a minimal fight. Riley, however, is in a silly mood, and is lying buck naked on my bedroom floor singing. I yell at him to get up and get in the shower. No movement. I yell again and threaten an early bed time. No movement. I threaten to take away summer camp next week. He stands up. A curious gleam in his eye, he belly laughs and screams "Mom, watch!". His little naked body starts running in a circle and he screams "See!! I'm chasing my own butt!!". The laughter from earlier in the evening is NOTHING compared to what is coming out of me now. I can't even see. My body in spasms, Riley realizes he's found a way to really get me and so he continues chasing his own butt in circles like a dog chasing his tail. He is screeching out "HEE HEE! HEE HEE!" as he gallops in a full turn over and over again. His four band-aids on his thighs a blue blur as he moves. When I finally catch my breath I tell him that he's a natural born comedian and point to the shower. He happily obeys and slides in. Who knew. I began the day with tears and fears and in just a short 12 hours I am once again with my little funny-man who is happy (and naked) as a lark. I learned that when you are dreading something terrible and are not sure how you'll pull through... the kids will never let you down when it comes to bouncing back. That, I am sure of.

Man vs. Mom

After having 3 kids that are 5 and under, I finally did the math and realized that I've spent 1,825 days of my life repeating the following scenarios. After more calculations, I've also come to realize that I have 6,570 more days of it left... and that's if they move out on the day of their 18th birthdays. Okay. You can stop laughing now.

Oh, and I want to make one more note before we begin. Although the following information below holds true for a lot of people, I do realize that there are also several fathers and husbands out there who DO chip in and help out on a regular basis. I can say for certain that I am happily married to a man who fits that bill most of the time. Of course, that doesn't mean he never has moments where I want to kill him. =)

Morning Routine

Mom: Wake up from a night riddled with at least 3 baby feedings and five lost pacifier episodes, take a 3 minute shower (making sure to shave legs and armpits because after all, you ARE a lady most days aren't you?), brush teeth, get dressed, comb hair, apply some semblance of make-up, greet the munchkins as they wake, change multiple diapers, swap out pjs for play clothes, and somehow manage to get all kids at kitchen table and/or in highchair.

Man: Wake up from restful night's sleep, sit on toilet for 20 minutes while leisurely reading magazine, take long hot shower, get dressed.

Breakfast Time

Mom: Make coffee, make bottles, make pancakes... then cereal when noses are turned up at pancakes, make juice or chocolate milk sippy cups, fight to put on bibs, keep food on table and NOT on floor, squeeze in at least half a cup of coffee... which has sat in cup and is now cold... to make day start off on right foot, eat half a bagel while cleaning up dishes, wiping faces and hands and loading dishwasher and washing pans and other misc. utensils from previous night.

Man: Drink coffee, eat, put empty bowl and spoon on counter by sink.

Work

Mom: Finish dishes, turn on movie to entertain while doing dishes, put baby in exersaucer for 5 minutes, baby screams, put baby in swing, baby screams, breastfeed baby until she falls asleep, carefully put her in bed and pray that she stays asleep for at least 30 minutes, refill sippy cups, respond to multiple snack requests because breakfast was only half eaten, get down crayons and paper, fill up water table out back, get kids shoes on, release them out the door, respond to multiple requests to "Come here!" and "Look at this!" and "I need...", apply sunscreen when sun starts to blare, refill sippy cups again, sweep floor, clean-up scattered toys throughout entire house, clear off debris from office desk and kitchen table and sort out junk mail, make doctors appointments, set up schedules for camps, set up sitters for upcoming events, check e-mail, vacuum living room, clean-up playroom, wipe down highchair and tables covered in breakfast crumbs, straighten up bathroom and clean off pee on toilet seat and floor..and tub??...from 5 year old, change 2 year olds diaper for the second time because she is stinking up the house, scrub tub from previous days mud excursion, pull all laundry together, start washing and drying, fold dry clothes, start another load, and another load... and another. Baby wakes up, feed baby again. Hold her for a few minutes and play, put her in Bumbo seat so she can watch you fold clothes. Kids want to come inside. Get towels to dry them off, clothes are gross so they must be changed. Kids covered in mud so they need to be bathed completely before setting one foot on couch. Put kids in tub, soap them down and rinse. Sit for 10 minutes while they "swim" and then yank them out to be dried again. Chase toddler through house and fight to put diaper and clothes on. Big brother puts clothes on inside out and backwards so you must threaten him to take off and fix as he screams in protest. 5 year old wants another snack. So does 2 year old. Stand in pantry for 3 solid minutes. Nobody wants anything in there. Stand in front of fridge for 3 solid minutes. Nobody wants anything in there. Back to pantry. Kids ask for candy. Offer up graham crackers and raisins instead. Some fussing but kids agree. Put them at snack table to eat, they drop raisins everywhere. You clean up, empty trash, pull out something frozen from freezer to thaw for dinner time. Make warm cup of milk, find pacifier, get 2 year old in bed for nap. Clean up toys AGAIN all while carrying baby around on your hip. Do puzzle with 5 year old. Set him up on computer for a few games on pre-school website. Feed kids lunch. Baby is fussy, feed her again and put to sleep. Drop in crib. Finish up laundry and put away in closets and drawers. Make list for grocery store and prepare another snack. Finally make the chocolate milk that has been requested 15 times in 2 minutes. Not a spec of grown-up conversation is to be had or seen anywhere in the last 9 hours.

Man: Go to office, do some work, pal around with co-workers, eat lunch in peace, put in 8 hours and get back in the car to come home.

Exercise:

Mom: PRAY that you have at least 30 minutes of uninterrupted time to get in some cardio. Jump on exercise bike, put one ear bud from MP3 player in ear and start pedaling. Other ear free in case baby wakes up. Four minutes later 5 year old wants a drink. Jump off, take ear bud out of ear and drape over bike. Get drink. Back on bike, put ear bud back in ear. A moment later 5 year old needs help with computer games, he's stuck and slamming mouse down on desk. Jump off. Forget about ear bud as it yanks you back to the bike where the MP3 player is attached. Cuss silently. Get him on the right track and back to game he was playing. Jump back on bike. Screw MP3 player, you haven't gotten past the first song anyway and toss it on the floor. Start pedaling and just start to sweat. Phone rings. Doctors office calling to confirm appointment next week. Jump off and then back on bike. 6 minutes later 5 year old is having computer issues again. Tell him to get off and watch Spongebob until I'm done. Turn on t.v. and search for Spongebob. Not on. Settle on something else after MUCH protesting. Jump back on bike. 1 minute later, 5 year old wants snack. Tell him to get it himself. He tries. He wants fruit snacks but they are too high to reach. Jump BACK OFF bike... grumbling loudly now... and go get fruitsnacks. Jump back on bike. Two complete circles of the pedals and baby cries over monitor. Swear at bike. Go get baby and feed her. Hope to jump back on and at least get to 30 minutes but realize that 5 year old already jumped on as soon as you stood up and reset your time... which you never looked at before you got up and so now you have no idea how much you've already done. Screw it.

Man: Go to gym. Get in full 30 minute workout completely uninterrupted, catch up with friend in the weight room and then head home for nice long shower.

Dinner Time

Mom: Remember to thaw something in morning so it's ready for afternoon cooking. Plan out something that at least resembles healthy and covers food groups, isn't too expensive, hope the kids will eat, and will stretch far enough to use for lunch again tomorrow or maybe even dinner. Prep and cook and cook and cook all while kids play beside you and you constantly watch them to make sure they aren't touching the stove, getting under your foot so you trip over them while draining hot pasta, and avoiding land mines of matchbox cars and baby dolls. Set table, argue with kids when they peek at what you are making and scream "I HATE THAT!". Try to keep dinner warm because husband is stuck in traffic. Kids are in meltdown because they are hungry. Pull out food for them, cut into tiny pieces on plastic plates making sure no food touches another and "contaminates" it. Get sippy cups filled. Put toddler in highchair as she tries to climb out. 5 year old sits at table and uses fork to repeatedly stab placemat. Yell at him to stop. Toddler yells at him too. They each eat 4 bites and say they are done just as I sit at table and begin feeding baby. Can't get up while baby attached to boob to get toddler out of highchair. Toddler screaming and red-faced now. I stand up and single handedly feed baby while using other arm to lift up 29 pound 2 year old and put her on floor. Pull back muscle in the process. Kids run off to play. Finish feeding baby, put her back in Bumbo seat with several chewy toys, break-up fight between toddler and 5 year old, grab plate and eat half of now freezing cold dinner before baby screams. Pick her up and rock her. Eat rest of dinner that is now so cold it's stuck to the plate.

Man: Walk in front door from work and kick off shoes in middle of hallway. Say hi to kids as he grabs plate and loads it with steaming food. Sit at table, eat.

Leaving the House

Mom: Find diaper bag because you have no idea where you left it when you got home yesterday. Find it in 2 year olds room, contents completely strewn across floor with wipes pulled out of container and stuffed through slats of crib. Clean up mess and begin assembling basics. Diapers for baby. Diapers for 2 year old. Throw wipes in a ziploc now that original container is destroyed. Search for diaper cream, throw that in too. Add an extra outfit in the bag for each child. 3 bibs, 1 burp cloth, baby food, spoon, sippy cups, formula, bottle, water, pacifiers, my wallet, cell phone, chapstick, baby toys, tissues, snacks, plastic bags for dirty diapers, sunscreen (cause you just never know!), 4 matchbox cars, and a blanket. Try to organize as best you can and throw up over your shoulder. Stagger under the weight of it and drop with a loud THUD to the floor by the front door. Make sure all kids have brushed teeth, eaten, have clean clothes on, socks on, shoes on, necessary items like blankies and armfuls of toys they just HAVE to bring, and usher toward front door. Take each child one by one to car and load into car seats while 2 year old escapes through screen door and goes running for the street... or the cat next door... or a squirrel running up a tree. Save her life for the 3rd time in one day and carry her to car to be strapped in. Get in car and begin backing out of driveway. 5 year old has to pee.

Man: Once dressed, grab wallet and keys and walk out door.

Sick Children

Mom: Begin day sick with worry as always... and then multiply that worry by 50 when you realize kids have fever, pink eye or are throwing up. Or any of the other multitude of illnesses they seem to be harboring. Take temperature and decide what meds to dispense. Get child comfortable on couch and engrossed in movie. Continue doing this for days if culprit is a virus, or call doctor if it seems like a professional opinion needed. 3 days later, no improvement. Call doctor, make appointment. Take child(ren) to doctor's office, wait in waiting room for FOREVER all while calming fussy child(ren), fill out a stack of forms, finally see doctor and constantly reassure child that "blood pressure" does NOT mean he is getting a shot and measuring his weight will NOT hurt. Doctor gives you a prescription for child(ren) after you spend more of your life savings on co-pays and you pile kids in car to rush off to pharmacy to get those meds coursing through their tiny bodies as quickly as possible. You both need the relief. Continue to administer meds for 10 days on a schedule and hope that they work. Go back to doctor's office for follow-up appointment. As you sit listening to the doctor give a clean bill of health report you feel a scratch in your throat and a slight flush of feverish warmth come over you. Yep, you know you are done for.

Man: Pats you on the back while you administer amoxicillan for the 15th time in one week which you take to mean he's happy you are playing "Nurse Mommy". He ultimately ends up catching cold from kids too and you end up being "Nurse Wifey" as well. You make chicken soup for hubby while he lays in bed and self-professes that he must be "dying" and you sigh, wipe your own nose, and walk toward the kitchen to clean up... again.

All this brings me to one question: What on Earth would we EVER do without our Mother's? =)

Dirt & Water... a Tomboy's dream

Summer is soon upon us and what would that be without a little outdoor time? Well, apparently my kids have caught on to this idea and are embracing it tenfold. Let me preface by saying my backyard is awesome. And by awesome I mean it ROCKS. It is completely fenced in with mostly grass and one corner of good ol' fashioned dirt. And rocks. Lots of rocks. Although my hubby hates the rocks. It's a lawnmower thing, you get the picture. So anyway, back to the dirt. This dirt, at least to me, seemed to be the driest most stuck to the ground and packed down dirt I've ever seen. My children, on the other hand, were clever enough to not only loosen the dirt but to also wet it down with several buckets of water... from the blow-up kiddie pool. The pool no longer serves as a functional vat of water to cool down in on those 95 degree days. No sir-ee. It is for scooping up buckets of fresh cold water and then used as a hand washing station (or entire body washing station) before coming back inside when the mosquitos start to bite. Hey, I can't complain. Better there than in my kitchen where most of the dirt and mud seems to end up. It's like a human conveyor belt of tiny tots being hosed down, stripped of nasty muddy clothing, wrapped in a towel and carried off (newborn style) to the awaiting tub. Well... almost. Things have gotten so out of hand these days that I can't even fill the tub with water until the kiddos have been placed in it and almost drowned with cup after cup of water and at least 6 shampoo-ings to the head. This always ends with about a quarter inch of grime surrounding their little feet which I must rinse down and THEN fill it up with soapy water.

Just last week I was tickled pink to see that dear hubby had put Olivia in her new dress (sneakers and knee high white socks and all... I can't expect perfection I suppose) and a nice white bow in her hair. When her hair is pulled back with those curls bouncing all around she literally looks like an angel. God I just love her sweet little face! So dress in tow, for no particular reason might I add, she is bouncing around the house like a princess. I know this will not last long so I enjoy it. She walks up to every person in sight and sort of holds her dress pleats out to her sides and does a cute little blinky thing with her eyes. This is her way of saying "Look at me, aren't I cute?". Yes, yes, Livy. You are. So this goes on for a few minutes and then she sees that her big brother is making a break for the outdoors. He's slipping on his blue crocs, which are still filthy from yesterdays excursion outside, and opening the back sliding glass door. Livy goes running. "Outside, too me too!" she says which, loosely translated, means I want to go outside too! Riley releases her through the door and off they go down the hill in our backyard toward the fence. It is here where the fun begins each day. Forget the $100 playhouse I painstakingly looked for on Craigslist (for weeks!) and the $100 play equipment with tunnels, slides, etc. that I also searched for and drove over an hour to go pick up. They were pretty cool for the first few days but now they sit, untouched by human hand. You already know what little allure the blow-up pool has... so this leaves the dirt. The dollar store buckets and shovels are a hit. So there sits my darling Livy and sweet Riley playing in tandem. From the back door all I can see are the tops of their heads moving a little as they dig. I notice that they are close to each other and that makes me happy. I love sibling affection. I also love the time this buys me to go take care of the baby and get the dishes done. I turn around to the sink while the baby babbles away in her Bumbo seat on the kitchen table. I think a full 15 minutes passes. No screaming yet so I know that playtime has not gone south just yet between brother and sister. Another 5 minutes and I walk back to the door to check on things. I still see heads, only this time Livy's hair appears a lot darker than usual. I chalk it up to the sun playing tricks with my eyes and go back to my chores. There is a knock at the sliding glass door. I see Riley mouthing something to me through the glass with a crazy look on his face. No Livy. I look down the hill. I still see her head... and I'm almost positive now that her hair really IS darker. Riley is standing with a bucket full of mud in his hand and staring at his sister. He's a little dirty and somehow always manages to wipe a good smear across his upper lip each and every time he goes down there. We call it his dirt mustache and it's truly pretty gross when he's sneezing and wiping a runny nose. I open the door a crack - certainly don't want to let him in the house like that - and he says Livy is covering herself with mud. I say that's okay, she's done it before. He shakes his head no very emphatically and says "Mom, I'm telling you it's NOT good!". Riley might be a tattle tale sometimes but I tell you this, I am really starting to love that about him. I never fear that something bad will happen and it will go unnoticed. Nope. Riley will be the first one in line to tell you in detail what happened, how it happened and most importantly WHO DID IT. "You HAVE to come see this, Mom!" he shouts. He is smiling which means it's bad, but he's loving every minute of it. Probably because he thinks someone is about to get in trouble. He was even kind enough to translate Livy's toddler back-talk to me the other day when I asked her if she needed a whack to the bum for her temper tantrum. He said he knew exactly what she said back to me: "No, Mom. I do not want my ass whooped." As if I whoop ass on a daily basis. I don't think I've ever whooped one ass... although I've definitely had moments where I wanted to. And besides, where the hell did he learn about asses being whooped in the first place?!? So anyway, I run out into the yard in my barefeet, images of my poor two year old blind from dirt in her eyes or sick from eating handfuls of it, and sprint down the hill. It's not a big hill, it just sucks when you step on the tree roots or rocks. Best to go as quickly and as light-footed as possible. I see the kids do it all the time with no trouble at all. I guess I do weigh about 100 more pounds than they do though... certainly makes for a different journey. I stumble upon Livy who I honestly wouldn't have recognized if she passed me in the street. She is no longer my pale white child. She is speckled. Almost like she were covered in black spray paint, but someone stood back just far enough that she was not completely covered. I see two shiny brown eyes popping out from all of this... this... mess. Her hair is slicked down around her face and neck, no longer bouncy and curly as it was half an hour ago. Glistening in the sun with those gorgeous highlights. Nope, it looks like something took a crap on her head and rubbed it in. Profusely. Her pretty dress is now just an apron of mud and the only thing untouched, which I still can't quite figure out, are her shoes. My guess is that perhaps when she was leaning down her dress created some sort of halo shield around them and her legs and protected them from harm. A big smile crosses her face and she holds up a handful of mashed grass and something else that I can't quite place. "Wook!" she says. This means "Look!". and she starts to trudge up the hill toward me. I do the only thing that my body can instinctively do in those few short seconds before she reaches me. I squeal and run. Riley has managed to find extreme humor in all of this and is now hysterically laughing at this spectacle. I'm pretty sure there are tears running down his face. Here is my two year old daughter chasing me down in the backyard and all I can do is scream louder every time she is within arms length of me. Finally I have to stop the shenanigans I've gotten myself into because I know it will only get worse... and all that running will deem me too tired to clean her up. Thankfully I had filled the pool earlier in the day and so the water, although cool, was not freezing at this point. I pull her dress up over her head as I threaten her. "DO. NOT. TOUCH. MOMMY" I say. She nods her head in agreement. I'm a little worried about the amount of dirt in her hair and am wondering if her skull and brain are getting oxygen at this point because the mud has seemingly clogged up everything. I know, I know, your brain doesn't need oxygen through your skin, but it seemed like a logical and quite panicked idea at the time. I try to rinse Livy off as best as I can with the pool water, but she'll only let me get so far before she's screaming "Cold! Cold!". I pick her up underneath of her arms and drag her as fast as I can, shoes and all, to the bathroom. As I undo her diaper I realize that there are pounds of dirt in there too. Her butt looks like that of a dalmation. Spotty. Water running, I strip her down as best as I can without completely destroying the bathroom and sit her down on the bare tub floor. She tries to put the drain stopper in but I stop her mid reach. This might be the usual routine but this ain't no usual body I'm washing here people. And yes, I said ain't. I wash her hair once. Followed by washing her face and the dirt out of her eyes. Follwed by washing her hair again. Followed by another hair washing. And another. And another. Yes, 5 washings later I am starting to see creamy skin poking through. There are still large chunks of matter in all directions, but I take comfort in knowing that it will come out. Eventually. After the 5th rinse Livy has had enough and wants to play. I scrub her down and then let her swim around for a bit, lining up plastic fish and Riley's superheroes along the tub ledge. When the water starts to chill she stands up and says "Mommy out!" which is my cue to grab a towel. I pull her up and then place her firmly on the bathroom rug to dry a little. As I reach down to pull the plug and let the water out I see a nice film of darkness pooling around the bubbles. It doesn't give me much hope that Olivia is squeaky clean at this point, but she's a definite improvement. The last surge of water goes down the drain and I look into the tub. Oh Lord in Heaven. It's as if we brought the backyard in. Too tired from cleaning up bare butts and backs I do what any other Mother in my situation would do. I yank hard on the shower curtain and pull it completely closed. Cleaning like that is best left to another day... and if a stranger needs to use the potty, they'll never even realize what transpired here tonight. A bit of lotion and a pair of flowered pj's later, I walk into the kitchen. Triumphant that I won the battle. A quick "tap tap tap" at the back door and I look in front of me with horror. I forgot about Riley. Crap. I slip my flip-flops on and go back out the door to tackle number two, the second culprit in the Battle of the Mud games. If I were a smart, uncaring Mother, I would dunk him in the pool. He is bigger now and it doesn't seem like a bright idea. Besides, this would most likely mean that I would also be soaked in the process. Round 2: Bath time... begin! My friends, I will have victory. Oh, and one very dirty tub.

The Runaway

I want to tell you a little story about a cute, sweet, curly haired litle girl named Olivia. Once upon a time this little darling Olivia decided she knew how to run. And run she did. She ran everywhere. She ran to her room for more toys. She ran to the kitchen for a snack. She ran in the backyard chasing baseballs that her older brother Riley tossed to her. She even ran to the laundry room when her Mommy was washing clothes to lend an extra hand. She was the best runner in the whole wide world. Oh, and the worst listener. EVER.

It doesn't matter where we go, she will run. You want to go to the grocery store, plan on running. A trip to the mall? Run. Hey, do you want to just plain ol' go running? Hell, you better plan on running further. I've used the word "run" so many times when describing her to other people that the word has lost all meaning to me. I say it like I'd say "dfljkghdvflnsdgh" because that is just about how much sense it makes to me now.

This past weekend was the big Memorial 3 day mini vacation for most everyone. We took advantage by filling our time with at least 2 events per day and a few errands or smaller trips here and there if we could muster the energy. Between the birthday parties, the regular parties, the BBQ's, going out to dinner, hanging with family and just playing outside in general, I am almost 100% positive that I said "Where is Olivia?" at LEAST 300 times. Nope, I take that back. At least 400 times. I kid you not. My child was like the frickin wind. One minute she's standing beside you holding your leg in a state of pure shyness, the next she is frolicking in the front yard of the neighbors house... 8 houses away. Perhaps it's not the running part that is so bad, but rather where she runs to. The street. Always the street. It's like a magnet for her 29 pound body. It pulls her, she gravitates. Pulls a little more, she is quickly (like almost at lightning speed) hurling her way toward that dangerous blacktop where cars are whizzing by. Forget the whole thing if you yell "Stop!" or "Danger!". She thinks that is hilarious and will, without a doubt, run faster. On Saturday of this past week I hadn't quite realized that yet. By Sunday night I was yelling "Ice cream!" or "Puppy!" and only then did I even have a 50/50 chance of her coming back. Add to that the fact that during most of these events I had the baby strapped onto me in the carrier... yeah, go ahead and laugh as you picture me sprinting down the street with her in tow. I looked like a gazelle... no wait, that would be too much of a compliment. I looked like a penguin. Holding on to the head of my precious infant to keep her from violently shaking back and forth, I was running as quickly as I could in flip-flops. Unfortunately the weight of the carrier in front of me caused me to sort of waddle back and forth and so, most times I would scream at the top of my lungs "RYAN HELP!" and scare the living daylights out of my already fear-stricken baby. Oh the trauma, I hope it's not permanent. Honest, Natalie. I was just trying to save your sister's life. So anyway, my husband found that if left to her own devices, she really will keep going. Like a bloodhound. She catches a scent and off she goes. He watched her run from the porch of my in-law's house at least 6 houses down into their cul-de-sac and not once... NOT ONCE...did she even look back. He finally ran to chase her and had to tackle her on someone's front porch. She was nothing but wild screams and flying crazy hair. Pissed that someone put a crimp in her travel plans.

The sad part is that now I find myself asking where she is even when I've just put her down for a nap, or strapped her in her highchair. It's like some mechanism has been set off in my head to periodically ask where she is to put myself at ease for the next 45 seconds before I start wondering again. Any Mother reading this will agree that there truly is no feeling like the drop of your stomach and stopping of your heart that is brought on by that split second when you don't know where your kid is. Okay, well take that feeling and multiply it by 400. That was me this past weekend. People actually started looking at me like I'd lost my mind. I couldn't enjoy myself anymore. I even had teams of people keeping an eye on her because when it was just one or two of us she'd somehow elude the situation and slip out the door. I'm not kidding! At one point she snuck out of a Little Tikes car and replaced herself with a decoy, some poor kid who'd been waiting patiently to ride in it anyway. You look down, you see a little kid in the car from the corner of your eye and you think "Good, she's still there". Look one minute later and poof! You realize it was never her all along. OH GOD. Wait for it... wait for it.... "Where is Olivia?". Some gentle souls were so used to hearing me say it that they even gave me updates on her whereabouts before I even asked. I love you guys by the way.

So the weekend was great, it truly was. I thank all of you who hosted parties and invited us. We had a great time. I can't remember much but being hysterical over where my daughter was at 90% of the time, but at least the other members of my family seemed to enjoy themselves! Me, on the other hand, I just came to the realization that I need better running shoes. Oh, and flip-flops are a major no-no.

My frustrations on paper... Really, it's nothing new.

I realize that many of you may think that the content of my blogs stem from a crabby old Mom who does nothing but complain. Okay, so maybe not quite to that extent, but I do admit that I am capable of a LOT of ranting.

Perhaps more for my own sake, than just reader's entertainment, I have decided to create my list of frustrations. I've felt them being bottled up and pushed aside for weeks, perhaps months, now... and it's time for sweet release. I'm sure many of you can relate. Or maybe at least feel sorry for me for a nanosecond before you say "Oh, get over it already!". Either way, here goes...

1. "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, MOMMY!": WHAT??? I want to scream it every time. WHAT DO YOU WANT? With each "Mommy" my blood pressure rises. My head begins to pound. My breathing speeds up. I feel my throat tighten. Ears completely ringing, I give the look of death to whichever child has a case of the "Mommies" and hope that with that one look I will get my point across. FAT CHANCE. And so, it continues.

Child: "Mommy?"
Me (calmly): Yes?"
Child (more urgent): "Mommy!"
Me (symptoms noted above becoming vaguely apparent): "What?"
Child (not even paying attention to me answering them): "Mommy!!!"
Me (OH.MY.GOD.) "WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT???????"
Child (high pitched voice, verge of ADHD): "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!!!"
Me (eyes bulging, throat grumbling, sweaty brow - voice of Satan himself): "W.H.A.T?"

Cue your child: Finally realizing you're speaking to them, they give you a confused look as they briefly glance away from the t.v. screen in your direction. Wondering why you are now screaming at them with bulging veins at your temples, they give you a blank stare before turning back to SpongeBob and completely ignoring you.

2. The Repeated Request: You all know this one. Your child wants something. They want it now. No, not 3 seconds from now. NOW! No you may not blink. No you may not breathe. No you may not finish chewing that last bite of dinner. GET. IT. FOR. ME. NOW! Once they realize that you are not buying into their attitude and demands, they ask again. And again. And again. And again. And again. I could go on for forever with the "agains". No, really. I could. Case in point, a few minutes ago my dear son wanted a ham sandwich. Yes, he just finished eating a bowl of cereal about 10 minutes ago. A rather large bowl might I add. All of a sudden he's famished... and now nothing will do but a ham sandwich with mayo and salt and pepper. Hey, he knows what he likes. I am taking a brief moment to jot down some thoughts for this blog and answer his sandwich request with a "Okay, just a second". That is simply not good enough. 14 seconds later he asks again. "Mom, are you going to get me a ham sandwich?". My reply, "Yes, I said in just a second". Silence for a whole solid minute. He can't help himself. "Mommmmmm, are you EVER going to get me a ham sandwich??!!". I turn in my swivel computer chair to stare at him. In fact, I stare him down to the point where I think he gets it. He sheepishly grins at me and continues doing his magnet book thingy on the floor in the living room. I turn back to the screen and type 4 more words... "Mommmmm....." At this point I shove back the chair across the floor and storm off to the kitchen. If I said what I wanted the neighbors might hear me and become concerned. I often wonder if they hear me when I REALLY get going. It's not often, but come on, you have to admit that our kids all cause us to go off the deep end every once in awhile. So anyway, I finally deliver the precious ham sandwich to my son at the kitchen table after I ask him to come sit down at least 7 times (God forbid I interrupt what HE is doing) and plant my butt down at the computer again to finish up a final thought. Before I can even begin to type another single solitary word I hear "Ummm... Mom? When I'm done my sandwich I want a piece of that delicious chocolate you got yesterday. Oh, and Mom? Can I have a glass of chocolate milk?". I'm serious, it never ends.

3. I need attention. I need your undivided attention. More attention please. A little more... a little more... PERFECT! No wait, maybe a little more: I think I've told you before that I must do these blogs in a 10 part process through several days in order to have the time to complete a sentence. Like, for example, right now my son is literally standing next to me as I type asking me why there are different color tootsie pops and why is it that he always gets a red one and his sister, Livy, always gets a purple one... and do I know where his paper airplanes are?? Oh, and Mom, Livy spilled some dry cereal on the floor... and Mom, ummm... can Dad build a paper airplane out of anything else besides paper? How? ::laughing hysterically all by himself now:: He says "Why would Dad even DO that??" It just goes on and on and on... and most days I find myself laughing hysterically as well because otherwise my head would EXPLODE. Laughter is the best medicine, I have always agreed with this statement. While this lovely one-sided conversation is going on, Livy (with her purple tootsie pop... why DOES she always have purple anyway??) comes over to me acting like she has something disgusting in her mouth. Spitting at some invisible object and grimacing. Oh wait, she has a hair in her mouth. It's totally interfering with her ability to finish her tootsie pop. The entire right side of her hair is plastered with stickiness to her face and has worked it's way onto her bottom lip. I pull the hair away, it's stuck like a MOTHER but she doesn't care that I'm ripping it off her cheek. Hey guys, I know! Let's give you a taste of a typical 30 minute session of my life. I'm going to switch to "Real Life Current Mode" just for you. So while I'm now ripping away hair from skin the baby is in her swing, fussing loudly. She's so tired she can't see straight. Well, at least that's how it sounds... but she won't give up. Livy drops her tootsie pop on the floor as soon as I free her hair. I tell her to pick it up, she says emphatically "NO!" and has repeated this (as we speak) at least 15 times now. Okay, Livy, I get it. You are exercising your right to be a defiant toddler. Riley, meanwhile, is running over to punch her as he screams "STOP IT!". Apparently he is the boss today. I yell at both of them that hitting is not allowed. He hits her anyway. I banish him to the playroom. Instead of retaliating on Riley, Livy just chucked the "pop" (as she likes to call it) at my face and it fell into my lap. Niiiice. It's stuck firmly to my pajama pants. I yank it off, fuzz and all, and she snatches it out of my hand with a loud "MINE!". She is asking me to follow her to my bedroom. "Mommy, c'mon!" as she does the little follow me gesture with her hand. She is attempting to climb up on my bed with her sticky lollipop. I say no way and try to distract her with another idea. Her dollhouse. Now she is back there screaming at the top of her lungs... and most probably sliming up my entire comforter with her pop. I return to the computer. The Zhu-Zhu hamster Riley got for his birthday is sitting next to me on the desk and keeps making strange noises, but these are being over taken by Livy's high pitched squeals and screams of "Mommmmmmmmmy". She is pissed at me because I won't lift her up onto my bed with her sticky pop. Still screaming. I just tried to take the lollipop and lead her to the bathroom to wash her hands so she can get up onto my bed. Nope. That's not what she wants. She doesn't know what she wants. The screaming continues. Meanwhile, I noticed on my way back to the computer a moment ago that the baby who was FINALLY asleep when I walked past her to go get Livy in my room and settle her shenanigans is now awake again because of Livy's screaming. Grrrrrreat. As I'm telling Livy that she needs to stop screaming or she's going to sit in time out, Riley walks over and tells me in detail how his tootsie pop is now small. Yep, Riley, that happens when you eat it. Oh, and he also reports that the baby is awake. Yep, Riley, that happens when your nearly 2 year old sister sits in the hallway and has a fit over NOTHING. Oh, and the screaming is still going on right now. From both her and the baby. Alright, I just picked Livy up and changed her diaper - it didn't need changing but I swear to you that it turns my kids moods around a whole 180 degrees. It's strange, I know. While I did this Riley asked me how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie pop. I'm not sure so he says "Oh I know! It's three hundred six thousand four hundred and thirty." I nod my head and tell him good job for figuring that out. I put Livy down on the floor and she begins throwing a fit. I guess my diaper changing trick isn't working today. She wants her blanket from her crib. I tell her it's not in there, it's on the couch. She doesn't believe me. I pick her up and show her. I walk her out to the couch and plop her down on top of her blanket. She giggles. I wish a blanket could make me giggle. Meanwhile, Riley has successfully flung all of his magnets from his book thingy on the floor across the room. He blames it on Livy. I just yelled at him to pick them all up before his sister swallows one and it kills her. He immediately starts gathering them. For some reason when I threaten him with the death of his sister, he reacts. You might think it's cruel, but I can't figure out how else to make him remember that the small guns and/or puzzle pieces, marbles, etc. that he leaves EVERYWHERE could choke his sister and kill her. No matter how many times I go through the house and collect up all the small stuff, there always seems to be more. As he cleans up he is already planning out the ghost lollipops he wants to make with a tootsie pop, some string and a tissue. Livy, who is in a better mood is bringing me every last plastic bug she can find in Riley's room and screams "EWW!!" as she lines them up on the computer desk. I sneak away to go pick up the baby and nurse her until she falls asleep. Just put her in her bed and am now praying that she naps for at least 20 minutes. This has nothing to do with finding a moment's peace. Ha, peace? Yeah right. I just need 20 minutes to focus on the other kids needs. PHEW! Alright, it's taken me at least an hour to type this paragraph because of all of the interruptions. I've gotten up from this chair at least two dozen times already. Although it seems like I'm just typing "nothing-ness" right now - and you are probably completely lost with where I'm going... have been... or ever will be with my point, it's a PERFECT example of the level of "needing attention" time I go through. Each and every day. They all need it. All of the time. Usually at the same time. There is simply not enough of me to go around. No matter how hard I try, the attention requests keep coming. It is in these moments I want to scream "CALGON! Take me AWAY!". Whatever in the hell that means.

Alright, so 3 frustrations for today will have to do. I honestly don't have anymore time to give you more examples and my brain can't focus at this point anyway. It's being torn in 3 different directions by 3 tiny people. And you probably aren't reading this anymore anyway... and I don't blame you. Oh, and I've just been summoned to play the crazy duck game again. I think I'm scheduled for some arts and craft time after that. By then the baby will be awake and hungry. I'm sure "Mommy Mommy Mommy" will follow as soon as I sit myself down to feed her. Oh, and lunch time is almost here. The requests for snacks and going outside and reading books and turning on a movie and "watch me!" and "look at this!" and "listen to me!" and "can I have" will all follow shortly thereafter. Sorry people, I gotta run. The only "peace" I can give at this point is "Peace out!".

OH. MY. GOD.

It happened. The dreaded thing that all Moms gossip about... only it's a story passed down from Mom to Mom because "it" only happens to other people. Well guess what my people, it happened to me. My kid crapped the bed. No, no, let me re-phrase that. She crapped and then she put it IN the bed. And then again. On the couch.

Nap time used to be a joyous ocassion. I could pay some bills, surf the net for a minute, eat something or just enjoy the "life of two" (or heck, even one!) for a bit. I'd put Livy down with a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the head and quietly exit her room. If I was lucky she'd stay down for at least 2 hours and spend another 30 minutes afterward waking up and readjusting herself to the world. Now, with the above given events, nap time has a certain stigma attached to it. Mostly fear. A lot of worry. And a little bit of denial. I fear nap time for the obvious reason. Who really wants their toddler messing around with poop? Worry because if she does, will she get sick? Where exactly will she put it? If she does get sick how will I explain to the doctor the reason why I think she's throwing up? Is that even something you would take her to the doctor's office for? I can hear the phone conversation now: "Ummm... yeah, my kid isn't feeling well... Why? Oh, you know, she ate poop again." "What the F?" I can hear the operator saying to her co-workers over lunch as she discusses my case. Denial pops in because I am somewhat in denial that this will ever happen again. It's got to be a once in a lifetime child curiousty, right? And yet, I know that if I am not careful and take several precautions, it most certainly WILL happen. Livy is just that type of child. If you had told me that Riley would do this during his toddler years I would have laughed. "Yeah... right" I would have said. He didn't get into things. There was no curious behavior about things like what may lie underneath the kitchen sink and if there was, he never took action on it. Livy not only wants to know, she wants to feel it, taste it, and see what it looks like in her hair. This goes for almost everything including toothpaste, hair gel, hand soap and muddy water out back. So anyway, on this particular day I changed her diaper for the second time that morning, put her pants back on and laid her sweet little self down in bed for a nice long nap. Fast forward almost 3 hours later and I finally hear her squeals. Not bad squeals, more like the talking to herself that she does when she first gets up. I let her go for 15 - 30 minutes because I know she needs this time to fully wake up. If I get her immediately she is cranky. Go figure. So I hear the squeals and the usual "Mommy? Ri-wee? Baby?" which means she's ready. The first thing I notice when I open her bedroom door is a stench. No concern here though. She always ends her nap with a poop. It's strange, I know, but she's like clockwork when it comes to these things. I see her head pop up from the crib, hundreds of tiny curls bouncing with the momentum and she smiles a wide toothy grin. Out comes her evil laugh. If you spend any time with Livy, you know EXACTLY what I'm talking about. Let me just follow this with a quick detail so you can better imagine this situation. The crib is positioned vertically from the door so if you walked into her room you would be looking at the foot of the crib where there are no slats. You can't see inside the crib until you are in the middle of the room and looking at it directly. In those first few miliseconds that I am in her room, I can't see anything but this head starting back at me. The next I am upon the crib and am in pure disbelief. First, my child is stark naked. Like, STARK naked. I know I didn't put her to bed this way. The most she's ever done is yank her socks off. She gets that from me. Strangled toes at bed time are restless toes all night. The next thing I notice is that all of the blankets, stuffed animals and her pillow are lying on the floor on the otherside of the head board and partially draped over a nearby stand-up floor fan. She's got a good arm. The third and most horrifying thing I notice is a brown substance all over the sheet and the crib bumper. It's also covering her pillow. Oh, and her butt and back. OH. MY. GOD. This takes the cake. This is a situation where you don't know what to say, where to look and above all else, where to start. Do I pick her up? I can't. I'll get poop all over myself. Do I try to wipe her off in the crib first? I can't, I'm too short to reach. I go running for a towel and wrap her in it. Pick her up and lay her down on the changing table. She's going to have to wait a minute. While I'm doing this she is repeating over and over again "Mommy, EWW!" which I am relieved about becase A) She realizes this is gross and B) She doesn't seem to have any on her hands which means she didn't touch it directly. At least I don't think she did. I'm still baffled by the items strewn around the room covered in poop. I don't know how she did all of this or managed to keep her hands clean in the process. I wipe her down from head to toe (a bath isn't in the stars right now, I've got too much to clean up at this point) and put her in a one piece pajama outfit with a zipper and a snap. "Now, try and get out of THIS you little booger" I tell her. Evil laugh again. This isn't looking good for me. She goes running when I put her down and I proceed to tackle the disgusting mess of a crib before me. I will spare you the details, let's just say I'm pretty sure she used everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, to wipe her butt. I strip the crib down to the bare mattress and take at least 20 disinfectant wipes to all of the slats and the mattress. I'm not taking any risks here. After about 20 minutes of pure poop hell I now have a large trash bag of linens including one stuffed bunny and one teddy bear which I promptly deliver to the laundry room. I hate this part about Mommy-hood. Just because we grew these little suckers in our bellies and popped them out doesn't mean we should have to be okay with cleaning up their doo. I don't even like to drink after my kids let alone clean up last nights digested macaroni and cheese. Sorry, a bit graphic I know. So I'm en route to the washer which you can only access by going through the kids playroom. Livy is sitting on the couch watching Monsters vs. Aliens for the 300th time this year in her nice clean pjs and doesn't even so much as give me a glance as I carry her toxic load. This is a thankless job, that I know for sure. I put as much as I can fit in the washer on hot and add a little extra detergent for good measure. I should have taken the entire bag and just tossed it, wasn't thinking that far ahead though. My brain was in shambles over this whole ordeal. I leave Liv to her movie and head to the bathroom for a good scrub in the shower. It might seem over dramatic to you, but I was just grossed out. Usually I am good for a solid 10 minutes of showering, teeth brushing and other normal every day hygiene activities before she gets back into trouble or Riley or Natty need something. Well, okay, so they usually want something the moment my big toe hits the shower floor but I can get away with 10 minutes of bliss before I actually have to act on what they need. I just finish rinsing the conditioner out of my hair when I hear Riley come into the bathroom. He rips back the shower curtain with great enthusiasm leaving me standing there under the running water staring at him like he's lost his mind. I try to cover myself... although I'm not entirely sure why. He still doesn't seem to notice nakedness thank goodness. "Mom" he says in a very dramatic filled tone of voice "Livy pooped in the playroom." You know that feeling when your brain feels like a jellyfish has wrapped itself around it and stung the ever-loving piss out of you? No? Okay, maybe it's just me... well, that's what I felt like. My brain was STUNNED. No thought process going on, none. I half fell and stumbled out of the tub, water still running, me still naked. I ran through the living room, through the kitchen and came upon the playroom. Drips of water trailing after me on the floor. There my daughter stood, naked. AGAIN. How? Why? Huh? What? Her pjs in a heap on the floor, her soiled diaper next to them. The couch, which is a cream color, now has brown spots on it. Not only the top of the cushions but the front of it as well. I wish I had gotten her on video tape. Maybe then I could have a full understanding of how this was possible. Not to mention she just pooped twice within the same hour. I don't even get dressed first. I just clean and scrub naked. Shower still running, I break out the spray bottle and attack the couch. Livy is so stunned by the non-sensical made-up words spewing out of my mouth (to replace what I REALLY wanted to scream) that she doesn't even move an inch. She just stares at her angry crazy naked Mommy who is knee-deep in a sea of rags, paper towels and more disinfectant spray. I manage to clean this up a little quicker probably because there are no blankets or pillows involved this time, thank God. I grab new clothes and a diaper for Livy. Wipe her down AGAIN and place a large towel on the couch cushions as she climbs back up. By now I am shivering and my hair has begun to dry. I run back to the shower and jump in to re-scrub all over again. As I'm rinsing myself off I go over the events of the day in my head. Scheming up new ideas on how to prevent this from happening, I think I've finally found the solution. There is only one thing I can think of to prevent my dearest Liv from ever ripping her clothes off and creating this disgusting act: DUCT TAPE. I smile to myself as I envision wrapping a nice long piece around the top of her pants (not too tight, don't worry) so that the little monster can never take her clothes off again. Much less get to her diaper. Hey, if a handyman can fix a leaky pipe with that stuff, I can most certainly fix my pooping child! It's either that or I purchase one of those diving wet suits that zips up the back. Now THAT would be perfect.

I must feel brave these days...

So I've done it. I've taken a leap and decided that, as my hubby explains, my need to get out of this house has finally exceeded my fear. Yes, yes, I have flown the nest... my 3 little chicks in tow. I made a massive discovery a few weeks back that if I take the 3 inch thick winter cover off of the baby's carseat, all 3 seats will fit in my car. It's a tight fit, sure, but hell... it fits. With this discovery came a new found sense of freedom. I can go anywhere! Well, okay, I certainly can't go at whim for a gallon of milk or a latte. They might all fit in the car, but I never said it was easy getting them in or out. It's a process, as is everything else in my life these days. Don't believe me? Let me tell you a little tale that happened this past Monday.

Over a cup of coffee my dearest Riley asks me "Where are we going today Mom?" as if we go somewhere every day and he wants our itinerary. This whole 'going in one car' thing has so perplexed my brain that it doesn't even occur to me sometimes that we can come and go as we please. "Can we go to the playground? You know, like one I've never been to before?". He always says this about everything. He loves new places, new surprises. The kid is practically jumping out of his skin to get out of here... almost as much as me. I pull up my trusty friend Google on the internet and search for "fenced in playgrounds". If you think for one minute I'm going to pack up these kids and the 300 things they require to get through the day just to go to some playground where there is a 9 out of 10 chance that I will lose at least one of them (and by that I mean LIVY) - you are kidding yourself. Nuh-uh, no way, no how. We go chain-link fence all the way baby. Extra points to those that are at least 6 feet tall so my crazy toddler doesn't try to climb over and escape. Just when I think I've discovered every park within a 50 mile radius of our house, up pops a new one called Candy Cane Park. C'mon, what kid could resist? It boasts new play equipment, ducks, horses and best of all, it's fenced in! "OMG!" I think, "We are SO there." I announce to the kids that we are going to the playground, it's time to get ready. Riley lets out a "Woohoo!" and Olivia, who I forget is catching on to new things pretty much every day says "WEE!" which is her code word for slide. Alright then. Let's get packing! Getting the kids dressed these days would seem a lot simpler with warmer weather upon us. After all, there are no more coats, hats, gloves, scarves and boots to worry about. I don't have to dress them in layers in preparation for peeling a few off if it gets too warm in a store and then putting them all back on again as we walk to the car. And if you are thinking this my friend, you are wrong. Sure, shorts and t-shirts are no big deal. It's figuring out the foot wear and covering of tender skin parts that worries me these days. First, sandals, flip flops and crocs are a huge no-no for the park. There could be wood chips. There could be stones. There might even be mud and I certainly am not going to take the time to clean out everyone's shoes at least 10 times during our visit because of this. Nope. Tennis shoes for sure. I just hope it isn't too warm. Sweaty feet = cranky kids. Really. Next time your kid cries for seemingly no reason at all, take their shoes and socks off. Voila! Happy kids. Oh, and feel their feet. It's disgusting. I hate slimey toes. The next hurdle is of course, sunscreen. Meet the spray, my new best friend. I take Riley and Olivia out onto the front porch. "Stand still and close your eyes for a minute" I tell them. I haven't done this in a bit, need to make sure I cover all areas. They are my children, after all, and the whiteness of our skin is literally blinding. No area must be left un-touched. I spray them down, spraying a nearby bee as well and promptly killing it in the process. I realize I can not spray this stuff on their faces. They'll inhale it faster than I can say "get high!" and so I threaten their lives if they move off the porch and go running at full speed for the face stick in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Before the kids have a chance to even look in another direction I am back and am attacking their little cheeks and noses. I give myself a good all-over spray too and start loading Livy in the car. Riley has to wait since the baby goes in the middle and it's just too hard to lean over him. I have a bit of a hard time getting buckles fastened and there is a lot of pulling seats back and forth and tightening and re-tightening. I also have to position the baby's seat handle and sun shade just right to keep Livy from poking the baby's eyes out. Trust me, she's tried it several times. "Baby's eyezzz" she says in a long drawn out voice as she gingerly shoves her pointer finger into her sister's iris. I run back in, gather up all of the snacks, hats, sunglasses, drinks, diapers and other general kid type things that I know we will need... and think we will need... into several bags. Into the car they go filling every last empty space in the front passenger seat and under the kids feet. The trunk is designated for my 100 pound double stroller which is so large that the wheels have to come off before it can even remotely fit. Once it's in there you might be able to throw in an umbrella or an unused shoe or something, so I don't really count it as storage anymore. Necessities in car? Check. Kids in car? Check. Me in car? Check. Directions to park we've never been to? Nope. UGH! I realize this when I've almost completely pulled out of the driveway. I pull back up to the house. Thank God I did. Amidst the mass chaos I've discovered that I forgot to close the front door. That would have been nice. Calling all neighbors to walk on in, in particular the drug dealer down the street who shoots up drugs in the large pine tree across the street. Yes, really. He does. The police have tried arresting him several times but they "lack evidence". They even wanted someone to take pictures to catch him in the act. The neighbors said this too. They told my husband this. He volunteered me. I, in turn, gave him "the look". "What?" he said in a sheepish voice "you're home all day, just snap a few pictures." Yeah, okay Ryan. In between changing 20 diapers, doing the laundry, cleaning, making lunch, playing cars and/or babies depending on who needs attention more at the moment, breastfeeding our 3 month old every 2 hours AND making an attempt to get a cup of coffee in me before a severe headache overtakes my cranium and I'm deemed useless for the day I'll just go ahead and snap a few. You can call me Bond. James Bond. Let me just pull out our 5 pound camera with the 3 pound telephoto lens and grab a few pics of the guy across the street... who probably can see me through our kitchen window. Maybe he'll try to kill me, who knows. I'll probably make the 5 o'clock news one way or another. No thanks, think I'll pass. Ryan even told this to our hippy neighbor who thought it was just great! Yeah, of course you do. He confided in Ryan after a few minutes of conversation that he "use to dabble in the stuff himself but hasn't touched it in 20 or more years". "Can't you tell?" he asks Ryan, smiling and pointing to his 16 inch pony tail going down his back. And I still can't figure out why Ryan hates neighbors... Anyway, we make our way toward the park. Of course, I pull onto the beltway since this thing is in Chevy Chase and borders D.C. The beltway is just the quickest way and path of least resistance for traffic lights, etc. I come to a dead stop. Looking ahead to one of the alert signs over the highway there is a message flashing. Can't read it from here but judging by the non-moving traffic I know it's not good. It certainly isn't saying "Wow! Traffic is great today - just wanted to wish everyone a very happy Monday!" Ha, yeah right. 20 minutes later I've inched myself close enough to make out what it says: "Accident at B/W Parkway. 3 Left lanes of I-495 CLOSED" Oh Jesus in HEAVEN. I am at exit 20. I need to get to 30. These kids are going to freak. I pray they fall asleep and looking back in my rear view I realize that Olivia already is. Bonus points to me for not giving her a nap before we left. At the time it seemed like a dangerous idea to toy with. Now it far surpasses even sliced bread. I ask Riley, my 'Updater of backseat activities' how the baby is doing. She's asleep he says. I let out a sigh of total relief. I give Riley a brief description of what is going on and tell him to keep an eye out for the accident, it should be coming up somewhere. What? Sure I feel bad for those involved, but I'm trying to entertain my children here people! I say that I wish I could just get off at the next exit but I'm not sure where that would take us. "Don't get off the road," he says, "I want to hang in there and go to the park. Don't give up Mom!". I am amazed that this just came out of his mouth. I smile and tell him I won't give up. I turn up the music to the "Blah Blah Blah" song and he asks me if this is one of my "Gazzercize" songs. By this he means Jazzercise, and yes, Riley, it is. He giggles. He loves it when he's right. Definitely his father's child. We finally make it through the mess of traffic after another 30 minutes of inching. Almost to the park, I see the sign after a few more turns and then we are parking in front of the glorious FENCED IN play area! Yay! I unload the kids and snacks, pile us all into the stroller and push us through the gate. We barely fit. It's a little unnerving that the gate doesn't close and latch. I make a mental note to watch this side of the playground because Olivia is sure to try it out at least once and she'll see this gaping hole for sure. Oh, and did I mention that there is a 10 foot wide fairly fast running stream only steps from the playground? Grrrreat, not only will she escape, but she'd drown soon after. Will have to pay extra attention today. So of course I'm hoping to get the kids fed first but my Mommy brain knows what is coming. They want to run free and try out all of this cool equipment NOW. Riley runs away first, but he can be trusted. Livy is climbing out of her seat before I can even unbuckle her. I release her and off she goes. I dump the stroller at a bench, pull the baby out in record speed and pray no one tries to steal my bag with my wallet, keys and phone as I go running to find out where Liv is. She's following Riley, we're safe for now. I can see, though, across the way, that there are two more gate entrances. Neither one is closed. In fact, they are hanging wide open. I walk the fence perimeter and close them. People look at me like I'm nuts for a moment, carrying around this tiny newborn and closing gates. I'm sure they all completely understood though when they saw a 21 month old and a 4 year old hanging off of me later on. The baby quickly tires out my already aching arms and so I strap her into the carrier. It's getting more use outdoors these days. To this I add our 8 pound camera. Yes, I brought the telephoto lens... no plans of snapping drug user photos this time though. I take some pics of the kids, adorable ones actually, and simultaneously play games with them all while Natalie hangs off of my chest. She's loving the movement. I just have to be careful to not let her get too much sun. It's blaring by now and must be at least 85 degrees or more. Riley runs off to the swings. Livy, on the other hand, after going back and forth on this bridge type thing at least 40 times, is now convinced it's the most terrifying thing in the world. She immediately sits. She cries. She screams. I try to hold her hand through the bars. You see, I'm well below where she stands and have to reach up to touch her. This scares her even more to see that I'm firmly planted on the ground and she's not. How in the world can this child go from being fearless 5 minutes ago to now being petrified of a 4 foot long platform that is completely flat and barred in on both sides and doesn't even move?? Nothing I do pleases her. Not even having her big brother come all the way back over to where we are to help her down. Nope, I must drag the baby and the camera swinging off my back up the steps, across the bridge that does move, up to more platforms of steps and over several children to get her. She wants picked up. Ain't happening. I'm already carrying enough. Picking her up would just squish the baby and possibly damage the camera. I take her hand. She screams. Everyone is looking at me. They all look like they feel bad for me, but no one is feeling sorry enough to help out. I have to drag her down. Several very long minutes later we are on the ground again and I tell her it's time for "nummies" which is lunchtime in toddler world. It's all about distraction these days. She smiles, jumps for joy and goes running toward the stroller. Wow, wish I could bounce back from trauma like that! I yell for Riley and they both crawl up onto the bench for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with goldfish crackers and juice. By now it's so dang hot that the baby is causing sweat to run down my chest onto my stomach, drenching my shirt and capris. The kids are so sweaty that I can run my hands through their hair and it stands completely on end. Gross. Riley even says he wants to go find some shade and feed the ducks that we read about. He looks really hot. Livy climbs in the stroller after a solid 3 minutes of coaxing and pulling on my part. I put the baby in the back seat and soon enough we are heading toward a small stream and bridge. We brought a bag of bread for the ducks too, there better be some. That's all I have to say. We search and search and search. Not a damn duck anywhere. I'm sweating even harder now because I'm pushing the stroller down a dirt path to nowhere. Livy is screaming, she wants out. If I did this she would most likely run full speed and leap head first off the bridge within 10 seconds of freedom. Not a good idea. I turn back around, much to Riley's dismay, and we go back to the car. He's pissed and decides to sulk by dragging a 7 foot long dead branch back toward the parking lot, dragging it over and killing every beautiful spring flower he can find. Destruction. Makes you feel better I suppose. We've only been here about an hour. It took us longer than that just to get to this place thanks to the accident on the beltway. Oh well, I see my teeny tiny car up ahead I can't wait to get in and crank up the a/c. I manage to load all stroller contents and two out of three kids back into their seats. Split the last of my water into two sippy cups for my thirsty kiddos and take a moment to feed the baby in the front. I'm not taking any chances of a screaming hungry baby if the traffic Gods decide to strike again. Sun drenched and energy zapped, the entire backseat of my car is sound asleep before I even reach the highway. I turn up some tunes and enjoy some peace, singing along and be-bopping my head just a tad. I even look over and do a quick head nod of acknowledgment to the old woman in the vehicle next to me as we wait for the light. Look at that, a fellow driver. I'm pretty dang happy at the moment and sing louder. It's a good song and I haven't listened to "my" music in what seems like years. Hey, this car ride thing isn't so bad after all. Quiet moments like this are worth every single solitary second of hell it takes to load up. Hell, I'm already thinking about where we'll go tomorrow! Look out world cuz here we come!